The Old Enclave

Eileen stood before the bricked-up archway. It was flanked by two crumbling marble figurines set on stone plinths, one with its broken-off head resting between its feet.

When the Lower City was still open to the sky, this place was probably important. Eileen was willing to bet that it still was.

She'd been searching for the Old Enclave since she was first cast out of the Upper City as a teenager. Some said it was a myth, but she believed in the stories that spoke of a place in the Lower where decent folk could be safe and free.

She thought she'd met people from the Enclave in the slums of the Lower, but when she'd asked them how to gain entry, their answers had always been useless, and often rude.

"Read a book, kid." a man had told her, gruffly, then refused to say another word.

"Tch! Be more humble, child." one old woman had rasped, before hurrying away.

"Sorry," a younger man had said with a smirk, leering at her body in passing, "But you've got to be a real head-turner, to get in there..."

Now, as she looked up at the ancient edifice with the words "Public Library" still faintly visible above the arch, she thought she finally understood. The Lower was a place for all outcasts, some mere misfits like her, some violent and dangerous.

But the Enclave was only for the wise.

Eileen knelt down before the broken statue and placed her hands on its fallen head. Her heart skipped a beat, as she confirmed her suspicion: the broken-off head was fixed to the plinth.

So instead of lifting it, she turned it.

And then, with a soft grinding of stone upon stone, the brickwork in the archway began to part.

[WC: 297]