Ivory Tower
by Philip HammThe white stone tower stood on the edge of open moorland at the head of a green valley full of birch and pine. A tiny stream cut its way out of the peaty tussocks, passed the foot of the tower and scrambled away down the hill, glad to be free of the windblown plateau with its withered trees and stunted grass.
Michael Hyde sat in the upper room, connected to the outside world via a large satellite dish on the roof, provided with electricity from the wind turbine on the hill, fed from the fruits of his own labour in the sheltered garden beside the stream, and content with his solitary existence.
Around the square walls of the tower thousands of books sat neatly in rows facing towards his tidy desk with its sheaves of papers stacked neatly around the leather trimmed writing pad. Hyde put another finished page to one side and smiled with satisfaction. He was only twenty-five, but he was already an expert in certain esoteric branches of knowledge. He knew where the sleeper awoke, how the strange orchid killed its prey, and why the zeppelins had attacked America. Kipps and Polly were like neighbors, and he had been in the drawing room when the time traveller returned.
He had stood on the edge of the common when the first cylinder opened. He had survived the island, the sea and the moon and was content to have done so.
A noise intruded on his peace. He looked towards the open window with its view of the river valley. It was distant at first, and sounded like the chainsaw he used to cut the logs for his firewood. It became a mechanical scream that rose to an apoplectic fit, then dropped suddenly to a choking put-put before building up again, rising and falling like fingernails down a blackboard as each rock or rut was negotiated until the noise burst out of the valley and exploded against the walls of his tower. There it skidded to a halt on the gravel and was silent.
Hyde ran to the window and looked down. A motorbike was parked on his forecourt, its wheels like the castellation around the top of his tower. Garish colors shone through the mud on its body.
Its rider, a woman clad in tight leather, was removing her carapace and shaking her long blonde locks. She looked up and saw him watching, "Hi," she said.
"Yes, it is," he replied.
"I'm lost."
"Most people are."
"I got separated from the others. Have you got a map to help me back to the road?"
He still had another chapter to write on the fall of the autocracy of Mr. Parham, but if he didn't help her she would be hanging around for hours. "I'll come down," he said reluctantly.
The spiral staircase took him through his bedroom, with its substantial four-poster bed and bedtime reading piled on the cabinets to either side, through the book-lined living room, the dining room and kitchen (more books), to the ground floor and the massive oak door, studded with iron and bolted top and bottom with a heavy bar across the middle.
He struggled with the locks, but finally the door swung open and the woman was revealed. Her fine features, close-fitting leather, and sharp, critical eyes, took him aback.
"Nice place," she said, breezing past him uninvited. "Have you got anything to drink? I'm parched."
"Upstairs," he said, pointing weakly towards the stairs.
She launched her lithe body up the steps. He followed, aware of the smooth buttocks rolling before him and the stomp of muddy boots on his clean floor. In the dining room she spent only a moment to take it all in. Then she began touching his things, lifting an ornament here, a book there, lifting the lids on his treasure boxes, putting her fingers on the polished surfaces of his furniture.
"What are all these books for?" she asked.
"Study," he replied, caught between defending his property and fetching her a drink.
She plucked his copy of Vermillion Sands from the shelf, peered at the title without interest, and then put it on top of Animal Farm, well away from its alphabetical brethren. "Why don't you use the data library like everyone else?"
"They're not all in the data library."
"I thought everything worth knowing was stored there? These are just for collecting dust."
He decided not to argue, but fetched a glass of cool spring water from the tap. But even that didn't please her.
She looked into the glass as though it contained half a pint of Agent Orange. "Haven't you got any soda?"
"No," he replied.
"I'm starving," she said, flopping down on his sofa. "Have you got anything to eat?"
"I've got some fresh vegetables from the garden."
"Haven't you got any burgers or fries?"
"Fried what?"
“Okay,” she said slowly, with a smile that suggested she was speaking to an idiot. “What about something for the microwave?”
“I don’t have a microwave.”
"Everyone has a microwave."
“Why?” he asked.
“For speed, convenience, you know, ‘modern life’…?”
"I prefer to live simply."
"But you're not that old!” She threw her arms up in despair. "You should be out there having fun, not living like a hermit."
He frowned, "What kind of 'fun'?" He had visions of springing up and down on a trampoline grinning like a fool.
"Any kind. What are you, some kind of religious nut?"
"I like to study," he said defensively. "It's what I do."
"Does it pay well?"
"Enough for my needs. But I don't do it for the money."
Ignoring the glass of water, she was off again, up the stairs to his living room, like a ferret up a drainpipe. "What have you got up here - " he heard her begin, not waiting for an answer.
She was already in the middle of the room when he reached the top. She was staring at the television that almost filled one wall, its speakers arranged like Sarsen stones around the rest of the room. "So you're not totally weird," she said. "How many channels can you get?"
He shrugged. "I've never counted them."
"You're holding out on me. This scholar stuff is worth more than you're letting on." She gave him a coy look from under the fringe of her golden curls.
Suddenly, like a ray of light through stormy clouds, he had a clear vision of the future -
With her sensuous, slippery body, she would ease her sexuality into his life; tempt him, seduce him, get him hot and frustrated. For a while he would be in heaven; that naked body next to his, exciting, passionate and he would be the king of the castle. Then changes would come, children. She would turn from temptress to tigress as she defended their right to put their sticky fingers on everything he held holy.
...And the criticism; shouldn't he get a better job or publish more popular stuff? Why was he always complaining about how much she spent on clothes, did she want him to dress in rags? So what if she did have an affair, he shouldn't be so dull...
...He would become marginalised and have to spend time walking on the moor just to get away from the noise, the contempt in her voice and the steady, mounting attacks on all he valued. The books would have to go, his study ought to be a playroom for the kids, and they should have holidays and games and friends to stay. Wouldn't it be easier if they moved back to the city...?
The sound of engines filtered into his consciousness and he realized her friends had invaded the valley. Like a swarm of bees rattling in a tin, they roared up to the tower in a cloud of choking fumes and scattered gravel. The woman ran to the window and waved. "Look at me," she shouted over the din. "I'm Rapunzel!"
He caught a glimpse of six other leather-clad harpies revving their motors, circling his forecourt, polluting the air. "You'd better go down," he said desperately. "I'll put the kettle on."
She wasn't listening but said, laughing, "Diane's just fallen off on the turn. Hey! I told you we should have got you a three-wheeler!" Like a whippet, she shot off down the stairs to join her sisters. Hyde followed her all the way to the bottom.
She ran out into the mêlée of trail-bikes and he closed the door quietly behind her, turned the key in the lock, shot the bolts, and put the bar in its place. Then he ran up the stairs, closing all the windows on his way, and sat at his desk with his fingers in his ears until the witches had all gone their way.
©Philip Hamm
Philip Hamm is a lecturer in English and History at a small college in England. Though he doesn't live in an ivory tower he aspires to one. He is also an authority on H.G. Wells, has written articles for the Times Educational Supplement as well as writing stories and novels in his spare time.