He already knows the answer, but he’s unwilling to accept it.
“Because God didn’t paint those,” I reply. “The church did. People did. You know why Eve snacked on an apple in the garden of Eden? Because the Hebrew and Greek text said fruit, but the Latin translation for apple was a pun with the word evil. When St. Jerome translated it, he added the pun as a little joke, and now look at every Eden depiction. All of history altered by one guy’s little translation gag.”
“That’s a tiny shift, not the exact opposite thing,” Saul retorts. “If demons thrive in cold and fear the heat, why make a switch? Revelation 20:15, and whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire.”
“You ever hear that story about the Vikings discovering Iceland and Greenland, then switching the names to keep the lush beauty of Iceland for themselves?” I ask.
Saul nods.
“There’s your answer. It’s all about control,” I continue. “It always has been.”
This point seems to hit my friend the hardest. He’s reeling from the implication, working it over in his mind as his expression evolves from doubt to dread.
“I’ll see Willow again,” I announce with confidence. “Safely. I know there’s someone you want to see again, too.”
“Yeah” is all that Saul can manage to reply, his voice trembling with emotion now.
I stand, minding the rickety roof under my feet, and place my hand on his shoulder. I can feel a profane eruption bubbling up within me and I push into it, refusing to silence myself. It might seem like a silly thing to care about, but it’s not. This is my voice.
“Let’s do something about it,” I proclaim. “Frick Camp Damascus.”
* * *
On the 14th of September, 1321, Dante Alighieri died in exile. He was called a lot of things—poet, artist, philosopher—but at the time his most prominent label was heretic. He was such a threat to the church that, eight years after his burial, Cardinal Bertrand du Pouget demanded the man’s bones be dug up and burned at the stake.
Ask any historian how he died and they’ll answer malaria, but history is written by the victors, and arsenic poisoning wasn’t quite as easy to spot in the fourteenth century.
I’ve never read Dante’s Inferno, which is strictly banned in the Darling household, but after spending the last two weeks researching all things hellish with Saul, I know the poem pretty well.
In this early epic poem, the bottom layer of hell is described as freezing cold, an icy lake where Satan dwells.
This characterization didn’t stick around, and look where it got Dante.
The last two weeks have been a blur of planning and scheming, Saul and I putting our heads together and manifesting something so much more than the sum of our parts. There’s a madness to our focus, a parallel drive to prove ourselves in the face of a world that’s cast us out.
I barely notice when the day of my high school graduation comes and goes without fanfare.
These days, my afternoons are spent helping Saul in his workshop.
Sometimes I’m a hands-on assistant, covered in oil and grease. We’re both smart and curious, but Saul’s engineering brain is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I can certainly keep up, but there’s a depth to his mechanical knowledge that I’ll simply never possess.
Other times, I’ll do nothing but sit nearby with my nose buried in Saul’s pilfered spiritual texts, memorizing the prayers and keeping my host company. At this point in my self-extraction from the church, my religious curiosity is entirely clinical, but the information is important to understand as we determine what comes next.
Saying our enthusiasm is based on some kind of cathartic revenge would be disingenuous.
The true drive behind every twisting screw and buzzing saw, every turned page and highlighted text, is simple and breathtakingly obvious. It’s the motivation behind nearly every epic journey since the beginning of time: love.
There are people tucked away in the back of our minds who mean everything to us, and while Camp Damascus made a promise to carve them out like a tumor, this guarantee was misguided. The church makes the same assurance to all parents who abandon their sons and daughters in this terrible place, claiming they’ll fix something broken.
But they’re wrong.
I’m living, breathing proof these “conversions” are all smoke and mirrors, the outward appearance of change over something that’s internally immutable. Nobody who’s graduated the Camp Damascus program is ex-gay, they’re just even more tormented than before. They’ve been frightened and threatened into submission, a tactic that’s been used against queer people for centuries.
The only difference is that now these threats have been outsourced.
In a darkly hilarious way it all makes perfect sense, the natural culmination of a philosophy that has colored my life for twenty years. Prophet Cobel taught us God wants his followers to thrive and win, that humility is important but it certainly doesn’t supersede progress and growth.
Born of the Industrial Revolution, Kingdom of the Pine is very clear: when it comes to spreading God’s love, you do what needs to be done.
According to the congregation, my sin outweighs any discomfort about demonic collaboration, and while this might seem like impossible mental gymnastics to outsiders, it makes perfect sense to me.
It’s hardly the worst thing organized religion has come up with.
While I used to consume religious canon in a state of mystery and wonder, I now find myself utterly shocked that I ever believed a word of it.
Saul, on the other hand, claims he’s closer to God than ever.
“You should come with me today,” he says, setting down his tools and turning away from the workbench.
The wall behind Saul is covered in angular pipes and various machine parts, contraptions dangling from chains like some bizarre modern art experiment. This is its own kind of chapel.
“No thanks,” I reply shortly.
“Today’s the main event,” Saul presses. “Gonna need all the support we can get.”
I shake my head in utter shock, amazed the man can carry on like this despite everything Kingdom of the Pine has done to him. Saul is wonderful, and over the last few weeks of working together it has grown even clearer why we were friends in the first place. However, his continued dedication to the Lord is truly bizarre.
Between that and his taste in music, Saul is one of the most unusual Christians I’ve ever met.
“I’m fine,” I state flatly, the same reply I give every Sunday afternoon before Saul makes his trek to a service at the tiny nondenominational church nearby.
We’re far enough outside the county line that I’m not worried about anyone from Kingdom of the Pine showing up, but getting recognized isn’t my biggest concern. My biggest concern is losing myself again.
“All good,” Saul replies with a shrug. “I’ll be back in an hour and a half, and then we can get started.”
Saul hesitates, giving me one last chance to change my mind before finally removing his work gloves and tossing them onto a nearby bench. He strolls past, leaving me standing alone at the heart of his workshop.
I find myself suddenly awash in the heavy silence of this enormous metal structure. Moments later, the requisite eruption of sound from Saul’s car stereo fills the void.