Camp damascus, p.8
Camp Damascus, page 8
“But why are they paying to go after him?” I press, growing more and more heated by the second. “Martina’s not a member of the congregation. Why is Kingdom of the Pine even involved?”
“Are you against charitable work now?” my therapist questions.
“It’s just…” I start, even more overwhelmed than before. I want to loudly exclaim that none of this makes any sense, that the two sides of my personality are threatening to tear me in half. I don’t say this, however, instead focusing on my next question, the one that’s been hacking through the stitches of my aching heart like butter.
“Have you ever heard the name Pachid before?” I ask.
Dr. Smith hesitates, the moment so slight that it barely registers. He’s been working a long time because he’s darn good at his job, but I’m beginning to wonder what Dr. Smith’s job actually is.
“I think I might’ve heard that name before,” he finally admits, sifting through the depths of his memory bank. “One of the minor demons, right?”
My heart skips a beat.
“So you’ve read Abramelin the Mage?” I continue. “Because Pachid isn’t anywhere in the Bible, only an obscure text from fifteenth-century France.”
“I read all kinds of spiritual texts,” Dr. Smith admits. “It’s part of my job, Rose. What’s your point?”
“I mean, I understand being familiar with some random nonfiction bestseller by a pastor who gave a TED Talk, but Abramelin the Mage? Kingdom of the Pine considers his work to be, and I quote, ‘an occult abomination of lies and sin,’” I say. “Why are you reading that book if nobody else is allowed to? More importantly, why are you suddenly telling me it’s canon?”
“Why are you reading it?” he asks. “You’re filling your mind with these satanic diatribes, then you wonder why your guilt has manifested as imaginary demons?”
“My guilt?” I shout. “Over what?”
“Over sin!” Dr. Smith bellows, finally losing his cool as his face turns red and he lunges forward in his chair, unleashing the words like a holy tidal wave. “Over temptation! I read these books because it is my duty to God, Rose. Do you understand? These texts are not meant for the impressionable minds of curious little girls who think they understand the world but know absolutely nothing!”
His intensity is so suffocating that I finally pull back, unable to withstand the torrential rage of the man before me.
When Dr. Smith finishes seething he takes a moment to pull himself together, removing his glasses and wiping them off before returning them to the bridge of his nose. The man straightens his tie a bit, then clears his throat.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, returning to his usual soft-spoken demeanor. “This is just … difficult for me to see. Listen, Rose, I understand it’s your nature to question these things, but I think it’s time you started looking at the actual facts and accepting the reality of this situation.”
“That’s what I’m finally doing,” I inform him.
“Are you, though?” Dr. Smith counters. “Because, here’s the thing: it’s been two weeks since the murder, and during that time these demonic visions of yours have fully disappeared, isn’t that right?”
I nod.
“Maybe that’s because you’ve realized temptation just isn’t worth it,” my therapist offers.
I narrow my eyes, not quite sure I understand the meaning behind this.
Dr. Smith smiles. “Think about it,” he continues with a nod. “Consider what you can do to walk in the footsteps of Jesus, because blaming all this on Pachid isn’t going to fly. Your sin is real, but she is not.”
My body abruptly freezes.
“What?” is all I can think to reply, barely able to keep my voice from quaking as it tumbles from between my lips.
“Your sin is real, but she is not,” Dr. Smith firmly repeats.
“Who?”
“Pachid,” he confirms.
It feels as though the air has been sucked from this room, all of reality upended by a single statement.
After learning that name, I dove headfirst into my research, secretly pouring over volumes of biblical lore and far-reaching occult theories that would likely give my parents a heart attack if they had any idea what I was doing. Thankfully, these days I’m expected to mourn in deep thought and prayer, providing the perfect cover to let the most obsessive parts of my curiosity run wild.
I’ve moved on from fun facts about death.
At this point, it’s my sincere belief I’ve read every scholarly work on Pachid in existence.
And Pachid, like most demons, is always described as a man.
Your sin is real, but she is not.
Dr. Smith’s words repeat in my mind, washing through me as a vision of the pale woman emerges from the darkest recesses of my subconscious.
Regardless of how much research I do on these occult forces, I’ll never understand them completely. They are powers well beyond my mortal understanding, which I’ll gladly admit. For all I know, demons present themselves in various ways to different people, or change their physical manifestation over time.
But why, for the love of all that is holy, would Dr. Smith say she?
Unless he knows.
“Rose?” He breaks through my mental haze.
“Yeah?” I reply, refocusing my eyes on his.
“I’m gonna do something I don’t normally do,” he continues.
Dr. Smith stands up and walks over to a large iron cabinet at the corner of his office, the safe built into his wall like a bank vault. He bends over and enters a three-number combination, struggling to cover it up with his left hand and doing an absolutely terrible job.
11, 14, 15.
There’s a hollow metallic clang as the lock pops open and Dr. Smith reaches within. He pulls forth a small bottle of pills, bringing them over and placing them in my hand.
“While I don’t condone your flirtation with science over faith, I’m more worried about treating you than winning any sort of ideological battle,” my therapist explains. “This is an antianxiety medication. If you feel like you need to calm down, take one of these.”
I nod, gazing at the small white bottle.
The label indicates it’s a drug called Cebocap, a powerful substance that’s been used to treat all kinds of ailments in one form or another since the beginning of time. This particular version is made from lactose, something most folks coming in here would never realize because they don’t constantly devour seemingly random information like I do.
These are sugar pills, from the Latin word meaning “to please.”
It’s a placebo.
“I think that’s all the time we have for today,” Dr. Smith announces, ambling back toward the door of his office and opening it for me. “That was a difficult session, but I think we made a lot of progress.”
“I think so, too.” I climb to my feet. “I’m gonna focus on stamping out temptation instead of making excuses.”
“That’s great to hear,” my therapist replies, placing his hand on my shoulder, making my skin crawl. “I’ll see you in two days, Rose.”
I leave, Dr. Smith closing the door behind me, then make my way down the hallway before heading up into an empty church outreach center. It’s late, the shadows stretching like long fingers as the sky blooms above them in glorious purple and orange. Objectively speaking, it’s a breathtaking display, but my mind is humming along too fast to pay much attention.
Head spinning, I make my way out into the parking lot. There’s so much to unpack that it feels as though I might fall over, my legs threatening to buckle under me at any moment.
One thing’s for sure, I’m in no condition to drive.
Still, I climb into my car and sit for a moment, allowing this anxiety to pump through me in the hope that it might run its course and fade away. I start running through my finger patterns, counting them down over and over again, but the solace this typically provides me comes on muted and slow.
It’s not working because another pattern keeps getting in the way.
11, 14, 15.
This is likely a cheeky reference to Numbers. I cannot carry all these people by myself; the burden is too heavy for me. If this is how you are going to treat me, please go ahead and kill me—if I have found favor in your eyes—and do not let me face my own ruin.
Therapist humor?
It could theoretically connect to any volume in the Bible. I consider Second Corinthians.
And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light. It is not surprising, then, if his servants also masquerade as servants of righteousness. Their end will be what their actions deserve.
Who knows if there’s any real connection to be made here. After all, this combination of digits could easily be nothing more than Dr. Smith’s three favorite football players, but lately I’ve been enjoying this feeling of trusting my instincts.
Not some abstract cosmic faith, but my own instincts.
This recognition sends another shockwave through my body.
It’s getting dark, and I should be heading home, but right now going home to my parents feels like a bridge too far. Instead, I pull out into the unknown.
I turn on the radio and start driving, allowing the road to lead me wherever it desires.
Righteous, thundering drums flood the vehicle as a slippery vocal line begins to croon across the top, rhythmic and precisely tuned.
I used to love this song, a rousing pop-rock anthem that could just as easily be about letting Jesus into your heart as letting someone into your bed. I try focusing on the former interpretation, but by the time they start belting out “fill me with your love, spill your grace into me,” I have to turn it off.
It feels like I’m seeing through everything.
The car plunges into silence once more, my only soundtrack now the soft hum of asphalt under tires.
I’ve always been wise for my age, and part of that wisdom came from having a profound sense of who I was and what I liked. I understood my place in the world: I was a daughter, an American, a member of the congregation. I played soccer and loved brownies. I was curious and full of joy. I was excited to try new things and I had a past, present, and very specific future laid out for me. I was committed to the Lord.
Some of those things are still true, of course, but as more and more of my characteristics fall into question, I find myself testing the relevance of them all. What happens when every identity marker slips away?
Do you disappear?
I glance down at my hands as they grip the steering wheel, double-checking that the appendages haven’t faded into mist.
Still here.
On the passenger seat, my phone buzzes. It’s my father calling, likely wondering how my session with Dr. Smith went and worried about where I am. A brief moment of panic vibrates through me as I recognize that I’ve already been gone for way too long, but the anxiety is swiftly quelled as I reconnect with my own needs.
Not the needs of my parents.
Not the needs of the church.
Not even the needs of God.
I reach out and dismiss the call.
* * *
My body is on autopilot as I drive into the blossoming sunset. I’m off the main highway now, twisting and turning through a generously forested region on the county line. This place is familiar, but not in any specific way, just a strange aching memory that seems to hang over everything.
Soon enough, I arrive at a small hillside park, this modest view offering a nice enough glimpse of some trees and a winding creek that slices through its lush green field. There’s a playground to the left, and half a basketball court to the right, both of which are being used while the citizens of Neverton fight valiantly against the looming nightfall.
I pull into the parking lot and stop, a bizarre surge of déjà vu pulsing through my body.
Climbing out, I take a deep breath of the cool evening air, smelling the sweet pine of the forest around me. I’ve lived in Neverton all my life, and I still can’t get over this glorious landscape I’ve been blessed with.
Who blessed you? comes a deep and powerful voice from the back of my mind.
I don’t know.
I walk to the front of my car and perch on the hood, pulling my legs up as I sit and watch the happy people below me going about their business. Out on the open field some Kingdom of the Pine members throw a Frisbee back and forth, hoping to get a few more tosses in before heading home in the dark.
Gradually, my gaze drifts from one side of this park to the other, taking in the whole scene as indigo hues gradually leak into the purple above, swelling and overtaking the last ounces of light in this vast Montana sky.
The scent of pine inhabits my nostrils, carried on the gentle breeze that tickles my skin.
Eventually, my eyes come to rest on a young woman in the grass nearby, her eyes transfixed by the same glorious sunset as she leans back on her elbows and gazes skyward. There’s a blanket laid out below her and a bottle of beer held loose in her hand, a bold move in Neverton even on the distant edge of town. Jet black hair tops her head in a short, chin-length cut, this stark color matching her equally dark sweater and torn charcoal jeans. She looks to be around my age, but I don’t recognize her from the congregation, or from school.
She must be a nonbeliever.
An old film camera sits to this stranger’s left, suggesting she’s come here on a photographic expedition.
Somehow feeling my gaze against the side of her head, the figure turns and glances over at me. The two of us freeze clumsily, our brains struggling to keep up with the visceral reaction of our bodies.
I’ve seen her before, not in any concrete sense, but in the abstract depths of my mind. This girl has haunted my imagination, and there’s no mistaking that stunning face with huge features and deep, soulful eyes. She was lurking in the back of my mind at the party, and before that I saw her in the living room when Pachid made her frightening house call.
While I’ve been seeing visions of this stranger for quite some time, I never knew what to make of them. I could never be sure they’d manifested from any connection to reality.
Now, I know the truth.
This mysterious young woman turns her gaze back toward the sunset, avoiding eye contact and attempting to act natural. She’s pretty good at it, but the subtle tension of her body language quickly gives her away.
I gaze out at the dying light of the day, then back at the stranger, struggling with how to approach this situation. Maybe she really is a random girl who wanted to catch the sunset and would rather not be pestered.
Still, I’ve gotta find out for myself. Of all the qualities that may or may not survive my currently transforming identity, nosiness is still one of them.
I hop off the hood of my car and start walking over, hoping to find a balance between casual stroll and confident stride that only makes me breathtakingly awkward. I’m sure the girl senses me at this point, but she refuses to offer a glance of acknowledgment.
I stop next to her, not quite sure where to begin.
“Hey. Do I know you from somewhere?” I finally ask.
She doesn’t even look up. “I don’t think so.”
“Really?” I press onward. “You look super familiar. You’re not a member of the congregation, are you?”
She scoffs at this suggestion. “No.”
My heart hammers away as my mind struggles to connect the dots, this mystery a little more difficult to parse than I’d expected. I briefly consider turning around and leaving it be, but with one final surge of desperation I take my shot.
“Mind if I sit down?” I ask, affixing the mask of a cool, confident young woman. “I was watching the sunset from my car, but it’s a little uncomfortable.”
“Yes, I fucking mind!” the stranger snaps, whipping toward me in a flare of anger and frustration.
The second I see her face up close, however, everything changes. I recognize this girl immediately and deeply; she is absolutely the one who has been haunting my dreams and clouding my mind with strange, passionate visions. Up until now this connection has been strong but abstract, a tug in my subconscious that I couldn’t fully comprehend.
Now, however, there’s nothing abstract about it.
Suddenly, entirely new visions are erupting through the depths of my mind, glimpses of some other life that’s been lurking in the shadows far too long. I witness an endless ocean of the past, memories cascading over one another like crashing waves. I see a birthday cupcake with a single shimmering candle. I see a movie night. I see a chance meeting in a bookstore. I gaze deep into her eyes, knowing that I’ve seen them thousands of times even if I don’t understand how.
She’s crying, tears spilling down her cheeks as she stares back at me with fury, defeat, and aching sorrow.
“Leave me alone,” the mysterious girl growls. “I don’t fucking know you!”
“I’m sorry,” I flounder, backing away. “I just … You seem so familiar.”
“I don’t fucking know you!” she repeats, even louder this time.
The gang playing Frisbee nearby halts abruptly, glancing over at us with concern.
Not knowing what else to do, I turn and make my escape back toward the car. My whole body is shaking from the adrenaline of this conflict, an avalanche of brand-new emotions filling me to the brim with no release in sight.
When I reach the vehicle I open the door and throw myself inside, slamming it behind me and erupting in a fit of tears. My body is quaking, not just from the emotions throttling my senses but thanks to the chill that has suddenly enveloped my form. I’m freezing cold, as though I’ve found myself trapped in some invisible icebox.
My hands trembling, I reach out and start the car, blasting the heat and still finding myself without a shred of relief.
Maybe leaving the old me behind wasn’t such a good idea, I suddenly realize. Maybe this is just a taste of what happens when you turn your back on God.
I glance over to discover the girl has gathered her blanket, camera, and beer before disappearing into the gloaming. The whole park has plunged into relative darkness, stars flickering to life above me in a river of spilt glitter.
