Camp Damascus
Chuck Tingle
1
LEAP OF FAITH
“You’ve got no shadow,” Martina informs me, gazing down at my feet and then shifting her eyes back up to mine.
I check, and sure enough my friend is largely correct. Thanks to the afternoon sun hanging directly overhead, it appears my shadow has mostly disappeared. It’s a subtle observation, a phenomenon you’d never really notice unless you were looking for it, and yet Martina has pointed it out with an excited grin.
Of course, closer examination would reveal that my shadow, while small, is still there. Hawai’i is the only state where your shadows do completely disappear, and this rare event only happens twice a year. It’s called Lahaina Noon.
I don’t say this, though.
I think to ask why Martina is so excited about her flawed discovery, one that immediately falls apart after the slightest direct inspection, but I quickly realize I don’t have to. I too notice the little things Martina does, logging every tiny quirk of the world regardless of whether anyone else finds it worthy of comment. There are so many beautiful pieces in God’s grand puzzle, and you can miss them if you’re not careful.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I offer.
“Like Peter Pan,” Martina continues, the smile curling wider across her overwhelmingly freckled face.
With anyone else, this unhinged friendliness might signal a touch of sarcasm lurking somewhere behind their large green eyes, but I know better. At least, I hope I do.
I nod along, smiling happily despite suddenly finding myself in the pop culture deep end with little understanding of what she’s talking about. I’ve never read the book, nor seen any films related to this antique story with questionable motives. There’s enchantment involved, so I know enough to stay far, far away.
For a brief moment I consider telling Martina she shouldn’t read that stuff, that the only magic she needs is the love of Christ, but I hesitate.
I’ve had these conversations before, and even in a town as God-fearing as Neverton, there are only so many who want to hear it. Most Christian folks are friendly enough, but the second you start rubbing their faces in these little indiscretions they bristle.
The last thing I want to do is make Martina bristle.
“Did you have to read that freshman year?” she asks, clearly noting the pained expression on my face I’m so desperately struggling to avoid.
I shake my head. “No,” I reply flatly, rejecting explanation.
The truth is, I do remember Peter Pan being assigned in English class, and I remember the reports that accompanied this classic secular tale from James Matthew Barrie. I could easily tell you where the author was born （Scotland）， how he died （pneumonia）， or even let you in on the fact that he killed off an equally profane and godless character, Sherlock Holmes, in a noncanonical short story well before Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ever had the chance.
These facts about the author create a window into his work, not a door. It’s a window I’ve never crawled through.
Intentionally.
“Weren’t you in my class?” Martina continues. “I thought everyone read it.”
Once again, I’m put to the test, reaching the familiar crossroads of how forthcoming I think I should be.
I love Jesus, I really do, but Jesus would want me to be cool. He’d want Martina to think I’m cool.
Kingdom of the Pine was founded on a bedrock of practicality, after all.
Which brings me back to this conversation, and the sudden realization I’ve been standing in silence for way too long. I need an answer that will appease both a fellow student and the good Lord above, struggling to walk the razor’s edge between the truth of my deeply held convictions and the relaxed sheen of a perfectly normal girl.
Not all Kingdom Kids are weird.
“I didn’t think … I mean…” I fumble, struggling to craft an excuse and coming up short as my mind tumbles and churns. “My parents didn’t want me reading it,” I finally reply, submitting the truth and letting the chips fall where they may. “Magic, you know?”
Martina’s already enormous green eyes widen in shock. “Wait, really?” she blurts.
Her expression is not what I expected, flooded by sudden excitement and genuine interest. I now realize she might be impressed by this moral objection, and my mind begins to race as I wonder if she’s proud of me.
Well, not prideful but … something like that.
I’ve known Martina for a very long time, although we’ve only recently started talking in a meaningful way. Could she have similar convictions? Could this be the start of the deep, authentic friendship I’ve been hoping for?
“That’s fucked up,” Martina finally continues, immediately prompting me to pump the proverbial brakes on my enthusiasm. “That’s way fucked up, Rose. I’m sorry your parents are so crazy.”
I can’t help nodding along, the muscles of my neck taking on a life of their own.
“Yeah,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Way … messed up. Parents, right?”
The second these words leave my lips I feel the deep ache of regret, a guilty pang that shoots down my spine as a sinful reminder. God’s watchful eye has noticed.
Martina smiles, though, and suddenly this regret is met with something else, a surge of joy that counteracts the holy venom like ANAVIP through the bloodstream of some poor soul who crossed a Pentecostal pit viper.
I’ve gotta pull back on the snake handling.
“Alright. See you at the bottom,” Martina says.
My friend promptly turns and breaks into a run, sprinting with her bare feet across the short, rocky runway. It’s as though the frozen universe has started rolling on again, the rustle of the trees and the splash of water far, far below filling my ears.
The other kids who’ve gathered around these cliffs watch in amazement, their hair wet and stringy as towels drape across them for a fleeting moment of dryness before the next brave leap. Everyone here is used to jumpers taking their time for a big show, standing at the edge of the cliff for a good while and gazing down as though considering their surrender. Of course, once they’ve gotten to the rocky ledge they rarely back down, and everyone watching knows this. It’s all part of the performance, a temporary ringmaster gathering as many eyes as possible before rushing to the edge and hurling themselves over. They tumble down into the cool water below with a mighty splash, followed by excited cheers from their temporary but adoring fans.
Martina doesn’t need any of that.
“Fuck!” she cries out as she springs from the rocks, her body rocketing forward while arms and legs continue pumping in the air. I can see the exact point that gravity catches hold of her body, gripping tight and then yanking downward in a sharp change of trajectory that would make Newton proud.
I lose sight of Martina’s long strawberry curls as she drops, but I’m too frightened to rush to the edge and witness her plummet. Seconds after disappearing from view there’s a loud splash, followed by a joyful eruption from the crowd. Their applause carries out through the forest around us, washing through the trees like audible water.
Carefully, I creep to the edge and stare down into the swimming hole that lies below, the dark water still rippling from Martina’s plunge. A few sunbathers lay out on the shore nearby in various states of undress, many of them less covered up than I’m comfortable with, and a handful of swimmers float at the outer rim of this dazzling natural pool.