As we climb from the car I’m immediately bathed in a palpable sense of unease. The air shift is sudden, washing me in the damp coolness of the night, but it’s not just the natural feeling of the forest that’s getting under my skin.
Something is just different about this place, whether it’s a mental trick I’m playing on myself or some strange unknowable phenomenon. We’ve barely touched the edge of the congregation’s property and I can already sense its psychic weight.
There’s no such thing as psychic weight, I remind myself.
“Everyone good?” I ask, pulling out a plastic angel mask and placing it over my face.
My friends nod, following my lead and donning masks of their own.
“Want me to say a prayer?” I joke.
This prompts a chuckle from Willow, but Saul is not impressed.
“Lord, guide us with your hand,” Saul murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “You are my war club, my weapon for battle—with you I shatter nations, with you I destroy kingdoms.”
While the power of prayer no longer moves me, Saul’s inclusion of Jeremiah 51:20 is admirably fitting.
Willow is less impressed. “Let’s fuck this duck. Amen.”
As the three of us begin our trek into the darkness of the lush woods, I can hear Saul behind me, still mumbling a plea for spiritual protection under his breath.
We creep silently through the forest, eyes darting from side to side as we hike into the wilds. It’s disorienting at first, but eventually we begin to notice the soft lights of Camp Damascus slipping through trees in the distance.
At this late hour, the radiance is much less pronounced than it might usually be. It’s nothing more than a dim glow, small lights around important walkways and structures offering just enough illumination to satisfy the Montana fire and safety code.
These lights also serve as great directional markers.
Soon enough, the trees begin to thin out for a view of the first flagpole from my vision. There’s no safety lighting on the large metal needle protruding from the canopy, but the moon casts everything with just enough silver glow to make out a faint shape as our eyes continue adjusting.
I’m still struggling to gather my bearings, but the longer we travel, the more I find myself tapping into something more powerful than the map Saul and Willow so diligently prepared. There’s a compass hidden deep within me, a transcendent path buried under the ever-present mental fog.
Being here in person, however, is causing the fog to lift.
We pass the first clearing, sneaking along the outer edge and avoiding the main camp facilities. From here I can just barely make out the ominous croaking of frogs as it drifts from the nearby lake, their nightly drone filling the air.
The woods fall away in an abrupt change of scenery, revealing a small clearing lit by nothing more than the celestial bodies above. There’s a path leading to and from this rectangular opening in the forest.
At one end of the clearing an assortment of haybales are stacked, creating square, segmented walls about five feet tall. A large paper target is affixed to each bale in circular red-and-black displays. A bullseye lies at the center of each, and this section of the paper is ripped and torn from multiple arrow piercings.
We’ve stumbled upon the range.
The three of us waste no time crossing this open area, uninterested in the technicalities of the Camp Damascus archery program. Unfortunately, reaching the halfway point triggers an unexpected sound from the forest before us.
I halt in my tracks, the noise so loud that even Saul can hear it through his blaring headphones. The three of us freeze in place, not entirely sure how to react to the unexpected commotion.
Saul’s music stops.
My eyes quickly scan the dark cluster of trees, the hammer of my heart thrusting raw adrenaline through clenched muscles and veins.
Another rustle from the darkness.
Staff members just seeing us would immediately put this mission in jeopardy, not only tonight, but for every night that follows. We’ve gone straight to the source, maintaining the advantage of surprise, but the moment our presence is noticed that edge comes crumbling down.
Of course, this is also predicated on the idea that we can outrun—or outfight—whoever finds us, and this staff is likely well-versed in hunting down runaways.
Another rustle causes my body to clench even tighter, a coil seconds away from popping off and launching me back the way we came.
Suddenly, an enormous stag emerges from the ferns, its antlers regal and sharp. The majestic animal pauses before us, motionless under the light of the moon.
We gaze quietly at each other, each species appreciating the moment, but when the creature continues trotting on its way I can’t help noticing something strange hanging from its hind leg. The shape is unexpected, looking like a deflated balloon, but with nothing more than a brief glimpse through the shadows it’s impossible to tell what it is.
The deer disappears, but not before stumbling slightly, its antlers knocking awkwardly against a tree.
“Did anyone else see that?” I whisper, swatting away a single fly that buzzes around my head. I glance at the others, who offer silent nods, but by then my only focus is on the figure standing behind them.
“Oh frick,” I blurt, staggering back in a moment of shock. My voice is much too loud, but the utterance happens with such instinctual force that I can’t possibly regulate my volume.
Saul and Willow turn abruptly, equally startled as we maneuver away from what I can now see is a camper with a compound bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. He can’t be older than sixteen, sporting shaggy brown hair and a vacant, slack-jawed expression.
“Hey,” the boy mutters, his voice matching the despondence on his face. “Is archery starting?”
We’re backed against the hay bales now, not quite ready to run but feeling deeply uneasy about the spacey demeanor of this armed teen.
It’s the middle of the night, certainly not time for archery.
“Probably not” is all I can think to say.
The boy’s eyes dart to me and he raises the bow slightly, an expression of startled fright taking over. “Oh!” he blurts, pulled from a trance into some bizarre waking nightmare.
I immediately reach up and pull off my angel mask, hoping this might quell the camper’s apprehension. It seems to work, but his arrow remains notched.
“What’s your name?” I ask, keeping my tone as soft and even as possible.
He scrunches his face up, thinking hard. At first the lack of an immediate answer seems mildly amusing to him, but his good-natured expression quickly melts into worry and confusion.
“Did you bring me here?” he asks, his voice wavering as panic sets in. He grips the bow even tighter now, prompting me to raise my hand in a gesture of peace.
“No,” I say. “Not at all.”
Willow pulls off her mask and steps up next to me, offering her silent support.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” I ask the camper.
For a moment the haze of confusion breaks and he seems perfectly cogent. The simplicity of this question has struck something deep within him, momentarily flipping a switch.
His eyes well up with tears that glisten in the moonlight. The camper’s parade of emotions has finally settled on a horrible frown of agony and regret. He nods along in confirmation, apparently so consumed with these blooming feelings he can barely find the words.