Camp Damascus(51)

What that force actually is, I have no idea.

Saul and I are posted quietly, our thoughts and theories finally simmering down in separate internal dialogues. His property stretches before us in the dying light, rows and rows of vehicles laid out in various states. Some cars are infected by long tufts of yellow grass, the weeds popping up through rusty hoods, while others are kept clean and fresh for pickup.

My eyes aren’t on the cars, however.

A troop of prairie dogs has moved in, and Saul doesn’t seem to mind as these little critters make their way through his metalworks. The animals pop out from various holes in the dirt, glancing around a moment and then diving back in on some unknown prairie dog mission I can’t make heads or tails of.

Every once in a while, the creatures will approach one another and offer what can only be described as a kiss. It’s not really a kiss, of course, and serves as another example of humans assigning some greater anthropomorphic meaning to instinctual behavior. In truth, prairie dogs locking their front teeth in greeting is a way of recognizing their family units, or potential rivals, and establishing complex social networks. It’s pretty cute, though.

We project a lot of things onto other species. It’s something I’ve always known, but the less I find myself relying on spiritual explanations, the more these biological realities stick out.

“They’re just flesh and blood, like we are,” I say, thinking out loud.

Saul glances over at me. “Prairie dogs?”

“Demons,” I reply.

We sit a moment longer, letting this observation settle.

“They can drift through layers of reality,” I finally continue. “There’s a hidden biology there, and Kingdom of the Pine has learned to exploit it. They summon them here and put them to work. But how?”

“Maybe that’s where the spiritual side comes in.” He reaches over and opens the massive antique book that rests between us, its heavy binding hitting the loose shingles with a thud. I notice several pages in this section have been marked, and the one we’ve arrived on sports a glorious hand-drawn image.

“Take it,” Saul offers, prompting me to begrudgingly lift this massive volume onto my lap.

The illustration features two priests holding down a ravenous demon and wrapping an iron collar around his neck. The creature has stringy hair and stark white eyes along with a set of lengthy, now-familiar digits. Behind them is a dazzling tear that hovers in the air, a portal to another world, just like the one from my flashback.

“Where did you get this?” I ask, running my fingers gently down the ancient page.

“Remember when I told you I’d broken into three churches?” Saul replies. “One of them was … pretty important.”

I turn my attention back to the tome, unable to tear my eyes away as I continue onward. I gently flip from page to page, stopping at every marker. The next illustration is of a woman hunched over a clay bowl while a priest gently pats her on the back. A swarm of flies is erupting from her mouth and filling the basin.

“I tried to get as much information from this book as I could, but it takes forever to translate,” he explains. “Most of it seems to be in Latin.”

“Bona res est scire,” I reply, working over the text that accompanies the depiction of spewed-up flies.

I’m hoping for a concrete explanation, a step-by-step breakdown of every detail in the bizarre renderings.

Unfortunately, all I find are prayers.

“You understand Latin?” Saul gushes.

I flip deeper into the volume, my fascination and disappointment somehow growing in unison.

“Prayer for the hungry, prayer for the broken, prayer for release,” I announce. “I’ll spend some time with this, but I’ve gotta be honest: the pictures are more helpful.”

I pull out my phone and snap some photos of the massive walls of text, storing them for further study. The prayer for release shows a priest standing over a figure in shackles, confidently making some grand proclamation. The shackles around the bound man’s wrists and ankles are cracking open, offering freedom.

“I think we’re on the right track, though,” I say.

I continue through the tome, but I notice Saul watching me with great concern.

“On the right track for what?” he questions.

“To stop them,” I reply, looking up. “To expose Kingdom of the Pine and shut them down.”

Saul shakes his head.

“Not gonna happen,” he states. “It’s a lost cause. They have so much more power than you think, Darling, and their influence goes deep in this town. It’s not just an organization, or a church, or a camp; it’s a culture.”

“We’ll see,” I retort. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can’t shut the whole thing down, but I’m not gonna stop until I find her.”

“Willow?” Saul replies.

I freeze, the very mention of this name flooding me with potent memories. I see the dark-haired girl standing outside a coffee shop as it pours down rain. I see her gently running her fingers along a row of book spines. I see her strolling ahead of me on a hike into the mountains, leading the way.

“Willow,” I repeat, then swiftly push these thoughts from my conscious brain. “You knew her, too?”

Saul takes a deep breath and nods, slowing things down. He’s hesitant.