Camp damascus, p.19
Camp Damascus, page 19
I nod, crinkling up my nose a bit. “I usually write out talking points for social events, but I don’t know where to start,” I explain.
Saul’s initial reaction of shock is quick and instinctual, but he catches himself, immediately shifting into bemused acceptance. “Okay, sure,” he offers. “No luck?”
I shake my head.
I shouldn’t be too hard on myself, really. After a brief email to Willow in which I assured her it was now safe to meet, she agreed on a time and a place—this evening, at a bookstore one town over. Looks like I’ve set into motion what could be the most important conversation of my life.
No pressure.
“I usually come up with three talking points, maybe five. Just facts I can discuss or questions I can ask,” I explain. “This meeting is pretty specific, though. First, I’ll probably tell her about the demon’s weakness against fire, which I can then connect to a greater historical conspiracy from the Christian church. Did you know there’s a painting from 1495 called The Holy Family with the Mayfly? Albrecht Dürur is the painter, and it—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Saul interjects, raising his hand to cut me off. “I can see why you’re having a hard time. Can I give you some advice?”
I nod.
“You’re coming at this from the wrong angle, Darling.”
I take a beat. He’s right, but I’m not sure what to do about it. “Help me,” I implore.
Saul laughs. “When’s the last time you saw Willow?”
“A few months ago. The night of my wreck,” I reply. “It wasn’t great.”
He nods. “Let’s treat this more like a date and less like you’re teaching a history class.”
“So … nix the questions?” I translate, preparing to lose the notecard.
Saul immediately shakes his head. “The card is your thing, Darling. Never be ashamed of the card. Let’s just brainstorm some date topics.”
My friend takes a seat on the hood next to me and starts mulling over options.
* * *
I’d imagined what this moment would feel like, predicted all the ways it would change me, but now that I’m actually here I’m mostly shocked by the emotional dullness.
I yearn to be fully open, but deep down I’m too frightened to expose my heart like that—terrified I’ve come all this way to learn it was a fool’s errand.
Maybe memories are all I’ll ever have.
I’m standing outside a bookstore, checking in with myself before making the leap and heading through the door, but now that I’m here the nervous tension I’d expected is nowhere to be found.
I’m numb.
Standing out here by some shop I don’t remember patronizing, in a small town I don’t remember visiting, I might as well be one of the demons. Phasing through the world. Barely here.
But everything changes when I push through the door.
I’m immediately greeted by a wave of emotional warmth and the scent of old books, an innate sense of relief wrapping its arms around me. The emotions come on so swiftly that it’s arresting, stopping me in my tracks as I stand in the doorway and take in my surroundings.
The shop is large for Lebka Rock, this neighboring hamlet just outside the county line, and I’m impressed by the stacks and stacks of books that stretch deeper into the belly of the building. We’re on the bottom floor of some historical structure, likely the tallest establishment in this whole town with a whopping two stories.
An older man behind the counter looks up and smiles.
“Oh, hey” is all he says.
“Hi,” I reply. “Where’s your science and nature section?”
The man behind the counter gives me a confused look, then shrugs and cocks his head to the left.
I follow his gesture, creeping deeper into the stacks. Though it’s nothing short of a paperback labyrinth, it’s amazing how cozy this place feels. I could easily get lost in here, but I’m not entirely sure I’d mind. The only pang of unease I feel is when I creep past the religious studies section, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf with various offerings from Pete Bend. Several fresh copies of Craftsman Soul are stacked high and ready for the taking, while new and used selections from his back catalog cover the rest. I note the title of a particularly thick tome, a two-word reminder of the Camp Damascus catchphrase: Love Right.
Eventually, my journey into this glorious maze comes to an end.
I stumble upon a small corner nook, the kind of place where you might pull down a novel to check out the first few pages, then look up to realize an hour’s gone by. There are two chairs tucked away back here, and in one of them a familiar vision is waiting.
Willow Crogall is sitting quietly, a beguiling young woman with chin-length raven hair and dark eyes. She’s wearing a black jean jacket, tightly fitted over a charcoal tee.
Our gazes meet and, unlike last time, neither one of us turns away. We don’t feel conflicted about our paths crossing, or sense nauseated fear at the pit of our stomachs over what might happen next. Willow, to her credit, is a big part of this greatly altered reaction. She could’ve easily ignored my email.
This meeting is not a decision to be taken lightly, more than just a rekindled romance. For Willow and me this situation was life or death, right up until the very moment my tethered creature collapsed to the dirt in a scorched heap. For all Willow knows, I’m just pretending our problems have been solved, meeting up with a long-lost love despite the demon that still clings to my back.
But that’s not the case, and I’m thankful Willow has given me a chance to prove it.
Still, she’s apprehensive. I want to erupt in a moment of catharsis, wrapping my arms around her in a warm hug, but despite this strangely familiar location and her willingness to meet up, the tension remains.
“You really killed him?” Willow immediately asks. “My demon?”
“He’s gone,” I reply.
“You’re sure?” Willow’s lip trembles slightly.
“He’s … pretty dead,” I say, recalling the billowing flames and the creature in the back of my car, thrashing about as he cooked alive.
“And yours?”
I nod. “Also dead.”
She hesitates, just as nervous as I was when I realized our shackles might finally be broken. Willow looks away for a moment.
“You haven’t seen him for a while, have you?” I continue, already knowing the answer.
Willow shakes her head, finally turning her gaze back to mine. Tears are welling up in her eyes, the emotions within struggling to rip forth as she valiantly holds them at bay.
“Do you know where we are?” she asks.
The question is surprising, taking me slightly off guard.
“I … don’t know,” I reply. “Lebka Books?”
Her eyes stay fixed on mine.
“Do you know where we are?” Willow repeats, only this time there’s a strange desperation in her tone. She’s begging me to answer, pleading for me to get this right.
I give it a moment, allow the space to permeate me. I take note of the worn wooden shelves, the soft acoustic guitar ballad ringing out from a radio at the front counter. I close my eyes, wondering what it is about this place that resonates so deep, then suddenly pop them open.
“This is where we met,” I reply with startling confidence.
Willow finally breaks, launching from her chair and marching toward me. She wraps her arms around my body, pulling me close and embracing me in a way that is strangely heartbreaking—a bittersweet juxtaposition of how good it feels and how long it’s been. We stay like this for an exceptionally long time, rocking from side to side in the hidden bookstore nook as we simply exist in each other’s presence.
In all my memories and all my dreams, it was never this good.
Eventually, the two of us pull away from each other, staring eye to eye as we consider what happens next. I feel a deep and powerful compulsion to kiss her, and I can tell she feels the same, but for some reason we hesitate.
We’ve got some catching up to do, and although we have quite a history together, there are still plenty of things to relearn before diving back in.
Instead of kissing, we untangle and drop into the chairs.
Willow’s camera is sitting between us on a small table, held tight in a sharp leather case. She extracts it, lifts it up and snaps a picture of me, then puts the device away.
“I’ve been taking a lot of photos,” she explains. “When you lose your memory for long enough, you start to think about capturing the little moments more often. It makes me feel better knowing the things I shoot won’t disappear.”
“Not this time,” I confirm.
It takes a moment, but eventually the incredible weight of the statement washes over me. We sit in silence a moment longer, taking it all in.
“Did you write notes for this?” Willow suddenly asks, a knowing grin creeping its way across her face.
“You know about that?” I blurt, fighting back a deep surge of embarrassment.
“I know all kinds of things about you,” Willow replies, laughing, then suddenly realizing how uneasy this moment has made me. “It’s okay. We’ve brainstormed topics together.”
This does, in fact, make me feel better.
“Can I see?” Willow implores.
“The notecard?”
Willow nods.
I pull a folded-up card from my pocket and hand it over, watching as she opens it and reads quietly to herself. I watch her expression shift from amusement to adoration to deep introspection.
“It’s dumb,” I say.
Willow shakes her head, then hands the notecard back.
“My name’s Willow Crogall,” she starts. “Legally speaking, it’s Magdalene Crogall, but let’s keep that between us. The first time I told you this, you never mentioned it again, so I trust you. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m a Gemini, which doesn’t matter because I don’t believe in astrology. My favorite dessert is cinnamon rolls, and my favorite movie is The Thing. You’ve never seen it, but one time you sat through it with your headphones on and an open book in your lap, because you knew it meant a lot to me. You looked up once during the dog transformation scene and never looked up again. One time, on a mission trip to Las Vegas, I snuck into the Great Britannica Casino and a drunk guy gave me a $100 chip, but I was too scared to collect the cash so now I keep it in my bedside table. I’ve been living on my own since a fight with my parents three years ago.”
I’m listening intently, legitimately thankful for this rapid-fire format.
“My folks were still supporting me while I did online courses, until they found out about us and cut me off,” Willow continues. “They wouldn’t help with rent unless I spent some time at Camp Damascus. That was the deal.” She hesitates a moment, wrestling with some deep internal wound.
Willow’s lip trembles slightly as emotions well up, then subside.
“I didn’t take it seriously,” she reveals, her monologue drifting to a stop.
I fold up the notecard and slip it back into my pocket. “I … don’t remember any of that,” I admit. “I remember other things, though.”
Willow smiles. “Maybe we can fill in the blanks together.”
She reaches out and places her hand over mine.
“Let’s leave,” Willow blurts. “If we’re together, what the hell does it matter? We won. You killed two fucking demons. How badass is that? The story is over and there’s a happy ending!”
I take a deep breath, mulling over her suggestion in my mind. It’s a wonderful thought, a dream scenario ripe for the taking. I want so badly to just reach out and grab it, to accept Willow’s offer and hit the road, never looking back and forgetting these horrible people ever existed. By now I’m no stranger to temptation, and this is my most potent temptation yet.
But I just can’t do it.
“That sounds really nice,” I gush, “but there’s something I’ve gotta do.”
Willow’s expression drops. “Oh god,” she sighs. “After all this time, you’re so different but you’re so … you.”
“There are people at that camp who need our help,” I reply. “This season, and the next season, and the next season. We can’t just let it keep happening.”
“We literally can,” Willow retorts.
“It’s dangerous, and it’s stupid. You don’t have to help me, and I wouldn’t expect it. All I’m asking is that you wait for me to finish what I started.”
“I’ve been waiting a pretty long fucking time,” Willow replies, getting emotional again.
“I know,” I admit. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I’ve been waiting, too, but we have to help those kids.”
Willow is silent, listening.
“I spent a lot of time doing work for Kingdom of the Pine,” I explain. “I ran donation projects and brought in money for the church. I thought I was helping people, and in some ways I probably was, but I was also funding some pretty horrific stuff. Namely demonic conversion therapy.”
“You had no way of knowing,” Willow replies sympathetically.
“Actually, I did have a way of knowing,” I continue. “I should’ve been paying more attention, but that’s not the point. The point is, I was doing all these things because God said it was right. My whole life, that was always the motivation, but is that real genuine good? Is something righteous if you’re doing it because you’re worried about getting punished if you decline?”
Willow is nodding along. She knows where I’m going with this, and it’s clearly something she’s thought about, too.
“I wanna do something good,” I continue. “Not out of fear of punishment, or because someone else told me it was the right thing. I wanna do something good for goodness’ sake. I know I don’t have to help those kids; I’ve got no obligation and it would be a hell of a lot easier to just skip town with you. The fact that I don’t have to do any of this is exactly why I’m going back to that camp.”
Based on the way she shut down our previous meeting, I get the feeling Willow knows exactly what I’m talking about. She’s been running from her own truth for a long time, and while that’s easy enough with a demon on your heels, the moment you get to slow down is a double-edged sword.
It’s also the moment you’ve gotta confront what you’ve left behind.
“I’ll help,” she finally replies.
“Wait, what?”
Willow nods, then says it again with a little more confidence, as though she’s still convincing herself. “I’ll help,” she affirms, nodding along. “What’s the plan?”
I hesitate, slightly embarrassed by the brutal simplicity of it all. “We’re gonna break in and smash that machine,” I finally declare. “They can’t tether any demons if there’s no way to summon them in the first place.”
“Where’s the machine?” she asks.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I reply, “but I know how to find out.”
* * *
Willow’s choice to leave her apartment and join Saul and me at the farmhouse is an easy one. She’s aimless out here, and while this little studio brings back a surge of wonderful memories for me, I can tell it has gradually evolved into a place of great pain for her, a wound she’s yet to let heal.
Her place is located directly above Lebka Books, a store she claims brings people from miles around, thanks to their unique finds and impressive selection of used paperbacks.
Willow opens the door of her apartment and pushes inside, immediately getting to work as she stuffs things into a large duffel bag. I follow behind to discover another familiar location in need of filling in, the abstract world of my memories suddenly faced with the intricate detail of reality.
I’ve laughed and cried here, even tried to dance, but as I stroll to the middle of this small rectangular room I finally get to exist.
As Willow maneuvers around me, gathering various all-black pieces of clothing and cramming them into her bag, I allow my eyes to drift across every square inch of this space.
Her bed is stuffed into one corner, well-made but so overwhelmed with massive, cozy blankets that it will always appear slightly disheveled. The wall next to it is absolutely covered in photographs, the images ranging in size from tiny, white-rimmed Polaroids to a few enormous posters. The subjects vary, featuring glorious Big Sky landscapes or discarded cigarette butts, but the grainy style remains consistent.
“You took all of these,” I announce, framing the question as an awkward statement.
“Yep,” Willow replies from across the room, still going about her business. “That’s a little different from the last time you were here.”
My gaze drifts to the other side of the room, a wall that immediately causes an innate pang of discomfort to wash through my frame. A large, extra-wide bookshelf runs from floor to ceiling, taking up most of the space save for a small portion of the wall that remains exposed. This exposed wall is where a framed poster is hung, featuring an eerie yellow symbol that I’ve never seen before.
The shelves are covered in strange paraphernalia. A skeletal rat sits under glass next to an assortment of pinned beetles. Jars and bottles are lined up next to this, organized and filled with crafty ingredients, and a collection of black books line the shelf under that. A turtle shell and a taxidermied bat call the next row home.
Everything about this display screams occult, a subject I certainly don’t care much about these days, but it still rings some malignant Christian alarm deep within me.
Be cool.
“Pagan stuff,” I offer, mustering up the most casual and convincing nod I can. “Awesome.”
Willow stops packing, glancing over at me in confusion. “What?”
I nod at the shelf. “You’re into witchcraft.”
Willow cocks her head to the side.
“You don’t remember dating a witch?” she asks.
She holds this expression as long as she possibly can, until she finally can’t hold back any longer and erupts in a fit of laughter.
“I’m just fucking with you. I like nature,” she replies, “but I don’t believe in … well, anything.”
