Dreamscape: Saving Alex (35 page)

Kirstin Pulioff is a storyteller at heart. Born and raised in Southern
California, she moved to the Pacific Northwest to follow her dreams and
graduated from Oregon State University with a degree in Forest Management.
Happily married and a mother of two, she lives in the foothills of Colorado.
When she’s not writing an adventure, she’s busy living one.

Website:
www.kirstinpulioff.com

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KirstinPulioffAuthor

Twitter:
@KirstinPulioff

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Author & Book Page

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Kirstin Pulioff

Published Works

Middle Grade

The Princess Madeline
series

The
Escape of Princess Madeline

The
Battle for Princess Madeline

The
Dragon and Princess Madeline

The
Princess Madeline Trilogy

Young Adult

Dreamscape: Saving Alex

Short Stories

The
Ivory Tower

Boone’s
Journey

I stopped counting
and opened my eyes. Silence magnified the shuffling of leaves and the harsh caws
of the crows.

“Ready or not, here
I come,” I boomed, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out in
the overgrown underbrush, just shades of greens, splashed with the occasional
bright red dots of the salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my olive
green leggings, worn thin around the knees, and scratchy burlap tunic, I
smiled. I blended into the forest perfectly, a ghost among the neglected trees.
With a quick crack of my fingers and a tug on my ponytail, I began.

“You’d better have
a good hiding spot this time,” I taunted, hobbling away from my starting point.
One step in and already Christine had an advantage. I leaned against the
nearest tree and shook out my left boot, watching as small pebbles poured out.
The tattered shoes matched my flimsy clothes, and I knew that would not be the
last advantage my friend would get.

Soft strands of
sunlight fell on me through the partially cleared canopy, reminding me of
autumn’s quick advance. The cold season’s bitter winds might wreak havoc on
their camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor a mosaic
of colors. Leaves discarded by the maple trees crunched beneath me as I began
my search. I quickly altered my steps, slipping my toes beneath the curled tips
of the leaves, minimizing the noise as I ran.

I had learned small
nuances like that over the years. I also knew, looking at the leaves falling
around me, that even though fall had just begun, winter would be close behind,
restricting us to the camp. Winters were severe here, and nearly as soon as the
leaves changed colors and fell, snow trespassed.

Today would be one
of our last trips out here.

Maybe that’s why I
slowed my steps, letting the game play out moments longer than usual. Whenever
Christine hid, game over quickly followed. But not today. Not when the brief
splashes of sun through the trees still warmed my arms. I wanted to push the
limits and extend the game, even if it meant losing a bit of my pride.

It was the only
thing I really had, and rarely would I freely give it up. In fact, the only
times I did lose were on occasions like this, when something more enticing
dangled in front of me. In this case, a fond memory to warm me through the
bitter cold months. I would do almost anything for a respite from those long
months. Even lose.

Not obviously lose
though; no one appreciated pity. Technique was involved. I slowed my steps,
pretending to miss the broken branches marking the edges of the game trails,
and hid my smile at the blur running away at the edge of my vision. I could
lose, but not enough for Christine to sense the deception. That would devastate
her, and devastating her would ruin me.

Manipulation was
commonplace for me in the orphanage, but I had learned early on that it didn’t
work on her. She prided herself on honesty and integrity, and expected me to
follow suit. In camp we didn’t have much but our word, she cautioned. So, I
became good at pretending. So good that sometimes Mrs. Booker, the orphanage
caretaker, shot strange looks at me in the evenings if I forgot to drop the
act. Just like Christine, Mrs. Booker had an ability to sense the manipulation,
only she called it bullshit and slapped it out of me if it lasted too long. It
had happened so many times that now I referred to them as love taps. And Mrs.
Booker sure loved me.

This time I didn’t have
to fake too much. My scrappy leather boots needed repair, and even though I had
already dumped out a pile of pebbles, new sharper rocks took their place, jabbing
my feet as I climbed through the woody debris. I pressed on, tucking my hands
into the cuffs of my sleeves. The further into the forest I went, the darker
and more oppressive the weather turned.

“Come out, come
out,” I teased, cursing silently that my breath showed in the cold. If
Christine saw that, she’d jump out of her hiding spot, common sense getting the
better of her. I felt the end of the game encroach. It was the same here as it
was in camp—things I had no control over dictated my moves.

That leash of
control tightened around my neck like a noose, suffocating me before I even
knew what was coming. That noose had a name though, and the closer it came to
winter, the more frequently it tugged against me. The camp, the regulations…
the factory. The large, oppressive building at the edge of camp where the women
disappeared daily, only to be spat out at night, worn and tired. Our age had
kept us safe, but now, at sixteen, our time had come. And even though I had
become a pro at skipping school, the factory was different. Only a lucky few
had been able to escape its clutches. Promoted out, they called it. But even I
knew I wasn’t the promotion type. I had to enjoy these last gasps of freedom.

I ignored my
clouding breath and trudged forward, hoping my enthusiasm would keep Christine
from bailing too soon. We had played this game for years, revising it as we
went along, upping the stakes. This time, everything was laid on the line, much
more than pride or a pouch of paint.

“You can’t hide
forever,” I goaded, my smile reaching through my words. I slid gracefully
through the game trails, mimicking the smooth movements of the deer, weaving
neatly between brambles, dormant hives, and traps. In my haste, I missed the
darker patches of mud and gasped as the cold guck sloshed through the hole in
the bottom of my boots, sending shivers down my spine. I jerked my head up at
the surprising misstep, and caught her gaze. Fear flashed in her eyes before
she turned and became a blur of red at the edge of my vision.

I had caught her.
My fingers deftly unclasped the steel container tied to my belt as I kept a
watchful eye on the swaying branches in the distance. Carefully pulling out a
small bag, I smiled and rolled the coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I
tossed the package between my hands, careful not to squeeze and break it.

Training my ears to
the forest, I heard the trampling of bushes, skittering of animals, and a loud
thump as she fell. I smiled. Christine had been my friend for years, and
despite her natural grace, she lost all delicacy of movement at the first sign
of danger.

Slow and
deliberate, my steps announced my approach. I couldn’t stretch it any longer.
The air filled with the crunching of leaves, shuffling of rocks, and cawing of
the crows. Then I sped up. Over the rocks and around the trunks, my mind hummed
with triumph, my heart beating a tempo for the victory song. The shades of
green blurred as I narrowed in on my target.

Belly down on the
ground, Christine looked up from beneath a crumpled cranberry sweater covered
with broken branches and patches of dirt. A pang of guilt touched me as I lobbed
the ball of paint. It didn’t last long.

“Got you!” I
exclaimed. The bag popped and gold paint coated Christine’s back. Her cranberry
sweater resembled corroded rust, and small dots of yellow speckled her tangled
auburn hair.

I jumped down, half-expecting
to be ambushed. Nothing happened. I tilted my head, questioning the silence.
“Christine?” I asked, poking her from behind.

Christine slowly
twisted around, her blue eyes wide in terror.

“What is it? What’s
wrong?” I creaked, scanning the forest.

Christine’s jaw
trembled. Pushing herself up, she pointed back into the woods.

Nothing seemed odd
or out of place. I took a quick inventory of our surroundings – the grayish
brown bark of the old cedar trees, spindly trunks of the maples, bright
berries, and a white trunk. My gaze immediately jumped back to the white. Birch
trees didn’t grow in our forest.

I looked up slowly,
following the white trunk with my eyes until recognition unfurled. “The ivory
tower,” I breathed.

“We have to go,”
Christine whispered behind me.

Now it was my turn
to freeze. I barely felt the insistent tugging on the cuff of my shirt.

I had never been
this close to the edge of camp before. We had run the small stretch of woods in
the back of the camp near the orphanage for years, but never ventured to the
outer boundaries. I focused on the barbed wire camouflaged into the stacked
brambles and woody debris. Rust and moss grew around the sharp teeth of the
corroded metal. And beyond it, what I’d taken for a white trunk revealed itself
to be the brick base of a tower.

The skillful, tidy
stacks of bricks had worn over the years. White paint flecked off the sides. I
saw exposed gaps in the dilapidated mortar. At the top, the tower widened. A
row of shattered windows looked out behind, toward the camp. Squinting, I
glimpsed writing on the dangling threshold marker. Faded charcoal letters
described the tower with one word.

“Restricted,” I
whispered, my breath clouding the air. Christine’s cold fingers pulled against
my sweater as I moved closer.

“Simone, this isn’t
safe,” she urged, pulling more insistently. “We shouldn’t be this close to the
edge.” Christine’s words fell on deaf ears. I was captivated.

She tugged again,
drawing me away from the discovery. Twisting around, I shot her an annoyed look
and brushed the bangs out of my eyes. “What?” I demanded.

“I want to go,” she
whined, tears brimming at the edge of her eyes.

I looked at my terrified
friend, and back to the tower, searing the image into my mind. A new sensation
gripped me, a seductive blend of fear and curiosity. In sixteen years here at
camp, I had never felt that rush. I didn’t want it to end.

“Simone,” she
insisted.

I relented with a
sigh, feeling the lure of the tower break.

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