Blue Wolfe and Friends presents: Camp Here and There.
Episode Fifty: Finger the Blame
ROWAN
[FRANTIC, TIGHTLY-WOUND, BUT SARDONICALLY CHIPPER]
Good morning, campers. Uh. Uh. This is your… your substitute voice of reason, Rowan Chow of Magpie Moth, on breakfast duty today because Sydney is, quote, “indisposed in the astral vestibule.” I don’t—I don’t know what that means. But he left a note for someone to take over. It smells strongly like lavender.
Anyway. Welcome to another cursed goddamn chapter in our summer-long sprint toward the goddamn end of days! Breakfast is being served. Today’s menu includes cinnamon slop and burnt dodecahedrons.
[HE PAUSES. A DEEP BREATH]
[TABLE SLAP] I’m here with a critical announcement: effective immediately, all available campers are being enlisted for Shovel Club. Grab a spade, get ready to dig, and meet me at the eastern tunnel mouth I’ve made at the edge of the Battle Cabin. Reinforcement begins now. The storm is coming.
SOREN
[RUNS IN] Ignore him, children!
ROWAN
Not again! How did you get in here?
SOREN
I dug a tunnel!
ROWAN
THAT’S—no, that’s not—never mind.
SOREN
Campers of Here & There! My beautiful little bones-in-progress! Do not waste your tiny, tragic lives digging in the mud like frightened worms! The storm is not a threat. It is a threshold. It is the mouth of rebirth yawning wide to swallow us whole! Join me today, your reverend, as we construct a sacred sanctuary of revival and devotion in the field beside the volleyball net! The one with the scorch mark shaped like a screaming duck.
ROWAN
Man shut UP!
SOREN
Excuse me, sir.
Hear me, campers! Hear the call of something older than fear!
Today, beautiful day, we consecrate. We will gather the bones of the long-fallen from the Gravediggress’s sacred fields—not stolen, never, but sanctified, with reverence and intent. Each femur a pillar. Each jawbone a hymn. Each shattered rib a shard of remembrance. We will lay them in the pattern that came to me in vision, bestowed by our Mother.
At the center of this chapel, this chrysalis of the spirit, will stand the stained quartz window, built from the shards I pried from an old sundial that Jedidiah threw into the woods last year.
I melted them in a barrel of stolen campfire glass and lightning bugs, whispered to until they wept resin. I sang as it cooled. I bled on the rim to make color. It’s perfect!
And when the final stone is set—when the choir of resurrected raccoons sings the chord of Return, when we anoint the altar with the water that seeps from the old well behind Churchover Hill—then it begins.
We shall sit. We shall wait. And when the storm opens her mouth and screams through the sky like a mother in mourning, She will see what we’ve made, and She will know us. And She will kiss us clean. And we will rise again, glorious and terrible and new.
ROWAN
You’re proposing a mass resurrection event using unregulated quartz and a pile of bones we’re not legally allowed to have!
SOREN
The Gravediggress smiles upon our methods.
ROWAN
Okay. Great. Fantastic. You do your whole… bone thing. But the rest of you? Meet me at the entrance. Please. We’ve got real work to do.
SOREN
Nay! Meet me, children.
ROWAN
Remember his activities are deeply illegal.
SOREN
Delicious.
ROWAN
Right. Kids. Pick your poison.
[SHUFFLING]
[GLASS BREAKING]
SOREN
And to my followers: put on your Sundays, wear your finest. We’ll be constructing Her most excellent. And if there’s time, I may teach the choir of raccoons a madrigal.
ROWAN
YOU SAID THEY WERE WEASELS LAST WEEK!
SOREN
They’ve ascended.
ROWAN
I’m going to throw up.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
SYDNEY
Hello campers! Your regularly scheduled broadcast has returned from a deep, disparate slumber! I just took too strong a sedative last night, but it’s not a concern!
It is a staggeringly beautiful morning—sun tinting the mud gold, mist hugging the waterline, only a small, measurable influence of mildew on the air—and I am here to tell you that both Rowan and Soren are having such troubling mental health days that the camp has, as of approximately 07:10AM, split into two rival parties.
Rowan’s team has spent the morning reinforcing the eastern tunnel network with salvaged PVC pipe and “stability piles” made from pinecones, buckeyes, sweetgum pods, whirligigs, and various other fallen plant matter. There is also a rather large quantity of donated elbow grease from the frequent woodshop kids. They’ve constructed load-bearing pillars out of repurposed bedposts and cinderblocks, installed an entire sandbag wall, and are currently debating whether it’s necessary to alphabetize the emergency lanterns.
Meanwhile, Soren’s followers have completed the skeletal frame of what he is calling an ossuary basilica—assembled from a combination of field bones, decorative beads, seashells, and broken furniture from the dumpster behind that local gas station. He claims the structure will, quote, “sing Her song when the wind hits it just right.” But I am… at odds to comment on my personal feelings towards his actions. There are now three altars, two of which are smoking gently, and a fourth under construction that appears to be made entirely of stained seaglass.
At approximately 7:76 this morning, tensions escalated when Rowan attempted to reroute the breakfast line into the tunnels, quote, “to test the safety.” Soren objected, citing disruption towards his structural machinations, and his followers began rhythmically stomping, shouting verses from a hymn titled Let the Flesh Go Gently as It Wilts.
A fight broke out, things got physical, and Marisol used the industrial hose and has since declared the cafeteria a demilitarized zone in the name of peace and unity. Oh, what a sweet sentiment. We should all follow that example!
If you can’t tell, this isn’t my favorite happenstance. I should never have overslept. As I’ve previously expressed, I’m partial to supporting Rowan’s ideas, but I’ll never support unnecessary violence on our campgrounds.
But as of now, we are officially entering our Rationing era. Until further notice, all nutrients will be distributed by Medical to prevent misuse, stockpiling, or empowerment. Breakfast is a single egg, so please line up in the dining hall according to … the strength of your bestial urge for egg consumption.
Meanwhile, construction efforts continue at a concerning pace. Rowan’s team has begun installing pulley systems and floodgates. They’ve dug a secondary tunnel that now opens beneath the maintenance shed and connects, mysteriously, to an old root cellar that no one seems to have known about. Lucille quickly ordered them out of it, but now it’s a point of interest. Soren’s camp has seized one of Matthew’s giant soup pots to serve as a baptismal font, and is in the process of wiring the bell tower with something I am… sincerely hoping is legal.
There is no clear timeline for resolution. If you feel compelled to join either camp, report to Medical.
Activities are as follows:
Shovel Club meets again at 09:00AM sharp. Bring your own gloves. Extras will not be provided due to ongoing theft from Soren’s group.
All official duels, theological or otherwise, must be scheduled through Medical.
Lastly: Joshua is not Medical. Don’t listen to him.
Okay. That is all. For now.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
SYDNEY
Anyway. Welcome to lunch.
The sky is a milky caramel color. Today’s meal is a bowl of ambition and a spoonful of community mismanagement. So, chickpeas!
Uhm. Hey. Have you all gone mad? Last I checked, I’ve made our protocols very clear several times. Apocalyptic distress is traditionally handled through individual screaming into foliage. Not group construction projects with opposing eschatologies! We did have activities planned today! I was going to show you all how to knit little yarn creatures.
[SIGH] I am disturbed, especially, by the pamphlet that Soren is having his disciples print off the administration copier.
It’s twelve pages long. Single-stapled. It smells faintly of clove and a bit sour—like someone waved incense over the stack and then spilled pickling brine. The title reads: “Rise, Rise, Rise Again: A Beginner’s Guide to Cyclical Death.”
The cover features a skeletal figure, genderless and haloed, holding a raw egg cracked open in its palms. Yolk runs down its wrists into a burial urn. Behind it, in shaky pen: a mountain made of open mouths.
Each page is typeset in a different font. The introduction is in Comic Sans. The theological section is in bleeding-gothic calligraphy. One page has been overwritten so many times it’s unreadable, except for the phrase “necrotize with gratitude.” The margins are littered with vague affirmations like “You are more than your current incarnation” and “Crack the shell, reveal the meal.”
[TURNING PAGES]
The pamphlet also includes:
A recipe for “Resurrection Stew,” featuring chickpeas, fermented garlic, fennel bulbs, three kinds of vinegar, pickling brine, cream, and something which can only be referred to as “shrimp.” It says this is his father’s treasured recipe, with intense underlining.
There’s a diagram titled “Where to Place The Bones During Ritual Reassembly” which looks suspiciously like a butcher’s chart.
There’s a table of “suggested hymns,” mostly modified sea shanties. One is just the lyrics to “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” annotated with instructions to cry at the word “down.”
One page features a black-and-white photograph of a hamster skull wearing a crown of rabbit bones. Captioned: “Not necessary, but encouraged.”
Another is an activity page for younger readers where you match various spiritual ailments to their correct tea blends. Ailments include: “heart thought,” “post-death malaise,” and “premature ascension.”
The centerfold poster says “Mother Awaits” in wax pencil, ringed with photocopied lilacs, chicken feet, and dismembered hourglasses.
Page 8 is a full-page lightning diagram—hand drawn, in what looks like pressed graphite. Every bolt is labeled like a family tree, but with titles instead of names: “The One Who Chose Rain,” “My Father, Again,” and “The Long Ache Between Generations.”
One line is circled seven times and labeled “She spoke here.” Another has been crossed out so hard the page nearly tore, with a note beside it reading: “Wrong shape. Wrong God.”
There’s a human spine penciled faintly over the fractals. An arrow points to the lower vertebrae and says: “Where it broke.”
[FLIPS PAGE]
There’s a page titled “Sacred Smokes for the Pre-Departed.”
And according to Soren, incense isn’t just for scent. It’s a tool. You’re supposed to grind everything by hand while kneeling, as a connection to the Mother. The smoke is meant to unlock an “understanding of your place in the Cycle.”
Some sample blends include:
Know Her: consisting of dried yarrow, pine bark shavings, and a chunk of frankincense pulled from the back of a drawer. Must be ground using the rim of a soup can while kneeling on a towel. Burn outdoors, directly on dirt. Do not wear shoes.
Fatherbone: with bone meal, dried rosemary, powdered myrrh, and one hair plucked from your forearm. Wrap in paper towel. Press flat under a skillet for fifteen minutes. Burn while lying on your side with a cold compress behind your neck. If the fire sputters, discard and try again.
And one simply titled Fennel: with chopped fennel greens, beetroot powder, carnation, a single daffodil, and a wooden button from your own shirt. Grind in a plastic bag with a rolling pin. Light with a match held in your non-dominant hand. Sit in a chair, hands in your lap, and don’t move until the smell fades.
[PAGE TURNING]
Then we get field notes, scrawled under the heading: “Rabbit Report: Encounter #3.”
Quote, “Saw her again. Left ear still split. Eyes still wet. I hope she remembers me.”
There’s a small sketch of a rabbit stitched up. It’s labeled “my instructions.”
The final page is a full-color photo of Soren smiling beside a boiling pot of chickpea stew. The caption reads: “Everything ends, so we begin.”
[FLATLY]
So. That’s fun.
At least it’s a good recipe for chickpea stew.
[AHEM]
You may recognize Shovel Club by their wild eyes, dirtied limbs, calling cuckoos above their heads, and matching T-shirts that say “I DIG REALITY.” Those were hand-painted this morning. Thank you, Cabin Widow Spider.
They’ve already dug three new corridors, sealed off two old ones, and somehow managed to breach the underside of the Art Cabin, where they found exactly six mannequin legs and what Rowan calls a “weird worm.” There was a problem with a septic pipe. But I think we got that solved! I really hope!
Now. On the other side of the battlefield: Soren has rallied the rest of you into constructing what he refers to as Her Sanctified House of Return, or The Church.
You may recognize Team Soren by their ceremonial sashes, the small pouches of grave dirt around their necks, and the unnerving way they make eye contact without blinking. They’ve built a giant bell tower from spine segments and are currently rehearsing a four-part harmony with a choir of raccoons—three of whom, I’m pretty sure are just regular campers in fursuits. I’m not naming names, but one of them definitely borrowed my eyeliner.
Meanwhile, several neutral cabins have formed a breakaway movement known as The Fence Sitters. Their stated goal was to construct a modest wooden fence between the two camps and, quote, “Allow the situation to resolve itself through mutual understanding and moderate tone.” Unfortunately, they built it directly over a minor tunnel collapse and were quickly absorbed into the subterranean drama within minutes. They’re alright, but as it turns out: refusing to take a stance does not protect you from falling into holes.
Salem has appointed herself foreman of both teams, despite being an avid shovel club member. She now sits between both construction zones with a folding chair and a megaphone. Her current policy is: “No direct eye-gouging. Everything else is fair game.” And there is a point system, but I don’t know how it works, because she won’t tell me.
I asked why she was humoring this—-or why she wasn’t just team tunnels—-and she said, “This is more productive than actually killing each other.” I didn’t really have a counterargument to that…
And I am informed by Lucille that if this nonsense continues past sundown, someone will be reassigned to latrine duty in the sanitorium for the remainder of the camp’s session. I will not say who. But I will say they are currently using the camp bugle to “bless” weasels. She seems especially nervous about the tunnel shenanigans, but she’s not one to ruin the fun! What a great director she is, isn’t she? And she only squawked twice while yelling at me this time!
In conclusion: Lunch will last for the next thirty minutes. Then it’s back to the trenches.
Lunch is, again, chickpea stew.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
SYDNEY
Hello again, dearest campers. This is Sydney, your increasingly harrowed herald of happenings here to report at 19:07PM, and I have… updates.
[DEEP BREATH]
So! Remember how I said earlier that Shovel Club was making excellent progress on the eastern tunnels? And how Soren’s ecclesiastical construction crew had nearly completed their bone cathedral? Well, funny thing about parallel projects built on the same patch of earth—sometimes they intersect in ways nobody anticipates.
[PAPERS RUSTLING]
At approximately 16:20 this afternoon, as the sky above was settling into a toasted nutmeg, the Shovel Club excavation team—led by an overzealous trio from Cabin Magpie Moth—discovered something particularly peculiar. Behind what appeared to be a standard dirt wall, they found brick. A perplexing, clean, pristine wall of brick, minus the wet and moss growing up its face.
[PAUSE]
Behind this careful masonry was another tunnel, but one no one had seen before. Their picks rasped through the brickwork, revealing a darkness that devoured their flashlight beams. The walls, reportedly, weren’t dirt, but something slick and organic—wet stone polished to an unnatural smoothness, glistening with a film that left iridescent smears on their fingertips. From the arched ceiling hung ropy, pulsing tendrils, swaying slightly though there was no breeze, dripping a clear fluid that smelled faintly of rotting citrus.
Naturally, they went in.
[BITTER LAUGH]
They made it maybe twenty feet before their flashlights caught something at the edge of the tunnel… Lucille. Her silhouette was unmistakable—that perfect posture, those squared shoulders—but something about the way she stood…
Now, I wasn’t there, and a child’s imagination is… advanced, but according to the extremely distressed testimony of several Shovel Club members, what happened next was—well—Lucille’s face. It… unfolded? Expanded? One kid said it was like watching a paper fan open, except made of teeth and things that may have been eyes.
[CLEARS THROAT]
The children, understandably, lost their collective minds. Screaming, scrambling, clawing at the walls to get away. Some tried to dig straight up through the ceiling. Others attempted to burrow sideways into solid earth. One enterprising soul from Cabin Grasshopper actually succeeded in punching straight into a water main, which only added to the chaos.
In their panic, they destabilized the entire branch spanning a few miles out. The support beams buckled. The walls caved. And like a line of dirt dominoes, the collapse rippled upward.
[PAUSE]
Soren’s bone church was directly above the compromised section. The bell tower went first, soda cans ringing out one final, mournful note before disappearing into the earth. Then the altars. Then the baptismal font, which Matthew is particularly upset about because it was his favorite soup pot.
The stained quartz window shattered into three thousand pieces. They’re still finding shards in places shards shouldn’t be. Like in shins. And underneath fingernails. And embedded in tree bark forty feet away. And on the lakeshore… Soren is utterly distraught, and has been slowly picking up the broken fragments one by one.
[SHUFFLING PAPERS]
The good news: nobody died! There were only a few bruises, and one broken arm!
The better news: that mysterious tunnel is sealed now, so whatever Lucille was worried about is hidden behind heaps of packed dirt and debris. And you kids probably won’t find it again.
The concerning news: Lucille hasn’t been seen since the collapse. But her office door has been barricaded from the outside with what appears to be every piece of furniture in the administration building, plus some furniture that definitely wasn’t there before.
I don’t know kids. It sucks when people doubt you, but I’m not sure I really believe the whole flesh morphing thing. It was dark down there, wasn’t it?
But I am sure she was scary! Lucille can be really scary, especially when she’s mad! But hey, even if her face did open up like kid’s fortune teller, I’m sure she had a good reason, right? [LAUGHS] Who are we to judge!
[PAUSE]
Rowan and Soren have called a temporary truce. They’re currently sitting in the ruins of their respective projects, sharing a thermos of something that smells like pickling brine. They keep looking at each other and laughing, but it’s the kind of laughter that sounds a little like crying. I suppose in a way, the whole thing has brought us closer together. Though I imagine they’ll be back at eachother’s throats tomorrow…
[PAPERS RUSTLING]
Tonight’s dinner is whatever you can scavenge from the emergency pantry, because Matthew said he’s too busy grieving to cook tonight.
[PAUSE]
Before I go, a reminder: if you see any unusual tunnels, hidden passages, or architectural absurdities, please don’t explore them.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
SYDNEY
Hi, ghost recorder. It’s 25:25… return to form? I guess.
[SIGH] I’m supposed to be logging today’s injuries from our ill-fated sediment collapse. Four campers, all minor: a sprain, a few cuts, some bruising, and a broken arm. And I had to use Lucille’s phone to call a parent to ask about administering an anxiety prescription. Nothing worth writing home about. But I just have to… write it all down, and record the specifics to you.
But I can’t get the report started. I’ve been staring at the paper for an hour. I keep picking up the pen, and then putting it down again.
Lucille reminded me this morning, with a startling amount of force, that I’m behind on paperwork. Though she was… a bit aggressive, she still phrased it like concern. She’s worried about me… because she cares. It’s not like her to get on my case about this job though… I mean, the most she ever gets annoyed at me for is when I want to buy a specific brand of shampoo, and I have to bother her to special order it. She still always orders it for me though, because she cares…
Why now? I’ve worked here for years, and she’s never been this diligent. It feels like like she just wants me busy. Or maybe “useful” is the right term. She wants to know where I am and what I’m doing, if I’m still functional…
I guess I can’t say she’s wrong. I haven’t filed anything properly in… a minute. Not since… Tommy.
It happened so fast, and there was so much blood. I should have known what to do, and I didn’t. It didn’t matter. I didn’t even do a write-up. I haven’t. I couldn’t. I can’t. I keep thinking if I write it down now, it’ll bring it back. I’ll have to watch it happen all over again…
I haven’t been able to do anything properly since. I keep doing the surface work. Bandages and meds,. But I haven’t done my real job in days… Maybe longer.
And Lucille knows. The way she looks at me—it’s not disappointment exactly. She’s deciding if she needs to redirect my tasks. Take my job away, and put me somewhere I can’t hurt anything… Like Tommy… Because I’m so…
Maybe Jedidiah’s been talking to her, and that’s why she suddenly has an itch to double-check my paperwork. Geeze, and I haven’t talked to Jedidiah since….
Since yesterday.
[SILENCE]
[CHUFF] Ironic, isn’t it?
I guess I just don’t feel like a person right now. I go through the motions, but it’s like… I’m waiting for permission on what to do next.
My finger hurts…
[DOOR CREAKS]
ROWAN
Hey, Sydney
SYDNEY
Oh. [AHEM] Hi, honey.
[ROWAN WALKS IN]
SYDNEY
What can I do for you?
ROWAN
I’m uh-.. here for my next dose…
SYDNEY
Oh, right. Yeah.
[SHUFFLING] [PILLS CLACKING]
But it’s not doing much anymore is it?
ROWAN
No.
[SILENCE]
ROWAN
But… I’m… I’m…
SYDNEY
Go on.
ROWAN
I’m afraid what will happen if I stop.
SYDNEY
Mm-hm.
ROWAN
What if it is working? What if…
SYDNEY
…Would you like to sit for a moment?
[ROWAN SITS]
SYDNEY
How have you been feeling?
ROWAN
I’m scared.
SYDNEY
I know. Here, have some of my snack.
ROWAN
Croutons?
SYDNEY
Uh. I have some candy if you’d rather…
ROWAN
I’m okay, Sydney. I’m not really hungry.
[SILENCE]
ROWAN
Uhm. Okay. I’ll have one. [CRUNCH] Hey, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your birthday this year I was—uh, a little busy.
SYDNEY
Oh, that’s okay. I had Jedidiah with me.
ROWAN
Mm.
[PILLS SHUFFLING]
SYDNEY
Here, and some water. Y’know, for what it’s worth… I think you’re doing the right thing.
ROWAN
It’s all I can do.
SYDNEY
I know.
[PILL TAKING]
SYDNEY
Hey, Rowan? Can I ask you something.
ROWAN
[FINISHED DRINKING] Sure.
SYDNEY
… Why Juniper?
ROWAN
Uh—
SYDNEY
Of all people?
ROWAN
He makes me laugh.
SYDNEY
[CHUFF] All it takes, huh?
ROWAN
[DEFENSIVE] You’re one to be talking, Sydney.
SYDNEY
Okay, fair. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way I just—I mean, you could have anyone. I’m curious.
ROWAN
[SIGH] I don’t know he… he cares, I guess. [PAUSE] He’s kind to me, but not overly-nice or anything. I can tell when people treat me like that. Even just now, that look in your eyes.
SYDNEY
Oh, I’m—
ROWAN
No, it’s fine. I get it, is the thing. I know, but he just… I don’t know, he’s… steady. He doesn’t make a big deal out of it. But he still brings me water, then talks about something stupid until I laugh. And he doesn’t expect me to say thank you for it.
SYDNEY
Yeah, that sounds nice.
ROWAN
Mhm. I used to think I didn’t like him. But he kept following me around and I just… got used to his company I guess.
SYDNEY
Persistent, isn’t he?
ROWAN
When he wants to be.
SYDNEY
Kind of like some droopy-eyed pup.
ROWAN
But with everything else going on, those little things make me happy.
SYDNEY
I’m sure…
ROWAN
Mmm… Uhm. How are things going with Jedidiah?
SYDNEY
[SIGH]
ROWAN
That’s rough.
SYDNEY
I’m… misbehaving. It’s my fault.
ROWAN
[TAKEN ABACK] Is that how you see yourself?
SYDNEY
Mm.
ROWAN
You’re not a child, Sydney.
SYDNEY
I feel like one.
ROWAN
Yeah, well. I think a lot of us do.
SYDNEY
But aren’t I? I mean, I eat fuckin’ croutons… I have to ask Jedidiah’s mommy when I want to buy something. And I don’t even know… [HE HESITATES]
ROWAN
The first step is to stop thinking like you’re trapped.
SYDNEY
That’s easy for you to say.
ROWAN
It’s not.
[PAUSE]
ROWAN
You’re not going to get what you need by sitting and waiting for someone else to figure it out. Take some responsibility for yourself. You know who your friends are… Plenty of us love you, and would help you if you asked for it.
SYDNEY
Yeah… you’re right. Thanks, Rowan.
ROWAN
Yeah… Uhm, I’m gonna head back now. Thanks for letting me sit for a moment. I needed the company.
SYDNEY
No need to thank me.
ROWAN
Er, yeah. Thanks.
[WALKING]
[DOOR OPENING]
ROWAN
[HE PAUSES AT THE DOOR AND TURNS BACK] Give yourself some power, Sydney… You underestimate yourself.
[DOOR CLOSE]
SYDNEY
Huh…
[CLICK]
Today’s episode of Camp Here & There was written and directed by Blue Wolfe.
The role of Sydney Sargent was performed by Blue Wolfe.
The role of Rowan Chow was performed by Corey Wilder.
The role of Soren Baltimore was performed by Mikee Joaquin.
With original music composed by Will Wood and produced by Jonathon Maisto.
Additional music composed by Mollie Maxwell, Kyle Gabler, and Another You.
Dialogue editing by Emily Safko.
Sound design by Blue Wolfe and Another You.
And a special thanks to Patrons for making this possible!
Special thanks to Faeowynn_Ukulele, Amora, and thatwickedcatz
To join them, and to get behind-the-scenes content like bloopers, development notes, early access to episodes, interactive events, and more, visit the Patreon at patreon.com/bluewolfe.
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Thank you for listening to Camp Here & There! And remember: Tobacco poultice is a good remedy for bee stings!