Ignatius’ junior high school was a squat, rectangular, brick building on a hill. Ignatius usually arrived early, because his father dropped him off on his way to work, so while he waited for school to start he would go to his homeroom, sit at his desk, and study. He would be there reading as classmates trickled in, hanging up their coats, jabbing at each other, playing tag around the desks, tossing paper airplanes at each other, and making a general ruckus until the homeroom teacher arrived. He did his best not to be distracted. Often he could only pretend to study, while praying that Homer Nelson and Danny Walsh would leave him alone until attendance was called.

Ignatius had always been one of the best students at his school, though he always thought of himself as never doing more than what was asked of him. Math was simple and logical, in all circumstances only requiring one to apply a set of clearly defined rules to the variables. At best it was like a puzzle. English was more interesting because of its many exceptions to the rules, but essentially the same. History seemed merely a tedious recitation of long-gone happenings. American history, in particular, seemed boring and impertinent in comparison to the sacred history he had learned in Sunday School, and everything that happened in America after the revolution a pale shadow of the glories of European civilization. Only Science aroused in Ignatius some spark of real interest, seeming to approach the study of the divine.

Ignatius’ seventh grade Chemistry teacher, Mr. Rook, had been like a professor of magic, presiding over a series of intriguing magical transformations attempted by his classroom of inept apprentices. He hovered constantly over the shoulders of his pupils either nodding approvingly and muttering “Good, good. Now write down your results,” or shouting “No, no! Is that what I asked you to do?” Ignatius had proven a good apprentice, and got an A. But in eighth grade, Ignatius graduated to Biology, and that seemed the true initiation into the mysteries.

Mr. Papus the biology teacher was indifferent and acerbic, seeming to doubt whether his students were worthy of the knowledge he would impart to them. But he got Ignatius’ attention when on the first day of class he announced, “There is only one God in science, and that is Reason.” Mr. Papus was a fanatical proponent of the Theory of Evolution, and not some watered down version of it in which everything else seemed to evolve but man. Some of Ignatius’ classmates made fun of Mr. Papus with a little chant accompanied by an appropriate dance they’d learned somewhere (maybe passed down by generations of students):

First he was a fishy, swimmin’ in the sea
Then he was a monkey, swingin’ in a tree
Now he’s Mr. Papus with a Ph.D.

Rumor had it that certain parents had complained about him and tried to get their children excused from his class. Some had even tried to have him removed. But Minnesota was not Tennessee, and Mr. Papus would not be another John T. Scopes.

Mr. Papus seemed unphased by the whiff of controversy that swirled about him. His God was his rock and shelter. He covered the theory of evolution during the first week of class, and on the first day he would lay out his philosophy in all its grandeur. The goal of science was not to pander to prejudice, but to explain facts. As much as it would comfort us to believe in a magical all-powerful God who created the world in seven days, the facts don’t square with that theory, so science must look elsewhere. The geological record tells of a world millions of years old and of life increasingly alien and primitive the further back we search, with no sign of man extending much farther back than the present era. One must conclude that man is only the latest in innumerable permutations in a great chain of life, whose sole end was perpetually to renew itself. That was all. Modern geneticists were already beginning to unlock the mechanisms by which life evolved from one form into another. Modern physicists would some day, he predicted, be able to explain the origins of the cosmos, and then it would be possible to dispense altogether with God, the lazy man’s explanation of the unknown.

The way in which Papus dispassionately presided over the sacrifice on the dissection plate of countless innocent worms, grasshoppers, frogs, and fetal pigs seemed to prove his superiority. “Animals are machines, whose sole aim is to survive and reproduce,” he said, “so let us open them up and see how they work.” The first time he said this, Ignatius wanted to challenge him, but he couldn’t quite summon up the courage. Mr. Papus was very clever with words, and Ignatius couldn’t think of just how he wanted to say it until after the opportunity was long past. But Ignatius would mull over the arguments at night on his pillow, rehearsing how he would make this arrogant and short-sighted man finally see the truth, or at least as much of the truth as Ignatius thought he could tell.

The opportunity presented itself again, when it came time to dissect the fetal pigs. At the beginning of class, Mr. Papus made a little speech about the science of classification, and how the study of anatomical structures allowed scientists to group species on the evolutionary family tree. The class had had the opportunity already to look at representatives of three major groups: worms representing invertebrates, grasshoppers representing arthropods, and frogs representing amphibians. “Pay attention, pupils!” he said, rapping Ralph Becker’s desk with his pointer, “Today we will have an opportunity to look at an organism that, in comparison to the other species we have examined, is a close cousin to man.”

Ignatius raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Wick? Do you have a question?”

“No, not a question, a statement.” Ignatius’ voice faltered a bit.

“Ah. Very well, enlighten us with your statement.”

“Our bodies might have similar structures to these pigs,” he said, wishing he could steady his voice, “but there’s nothing we can learn about man from studying the innards of any animal, because man has a soul. That’s what makes us unique.”

There were a few nervous snickers. Mr. Papus sighed. “That is an interesting statement, but I fail to see what it has to do with science, and this is a science class. If you wish to make statements in this forum, I shall require you to offer hard evidence to back up what you claim. Do you wish to offer evidence of the existence of man’s soul?”

“There is evidence,” Ignatius replied. He hesitated. He weighed his options.

“Please, I’m quite anxious to hear,” replied Mr. Papus, “because if you manage to pass this class and go on to study biology at some institution more eminent than this high school, you may have an opportunity to dissect a human. I assure you that you will not find anything approaching a soul, unless by soul you mean a larger and more complex brain.”

“There is evidence,” continued Ignatius, “But I can’t tell you about it.”

The classroom was filling with snickers by now, slowly growing into a roar of laughter. Mr. Papus waved his hand dismissively. “Very well. Since you have nothing of scientific value to discuss, let’s continue. But feel free to let me know if you ever feel you can tell us about it. I and your classmates will be very eager to hear all about it. And now for your pigs…”

In the hallway after class, Ignatius received a vicious swat to the back of his head. He turned to see Homer Nelson and his shadow Danny Walsh leering down at him. “I can’t tell you about it!” they jeered.

Ignatius retreated after that. There was obviously no point in trying to argue with Papus. But as the year drew to a close, word began to spread, as it did every year among the eighth grade, about Mr. Papus’ final exam, and from what he heard, Ignatius knew he could not avoid a final clash. The word in the hallways and lunch rooms was that the test was impossibly hard. The multiple choice portion was two hundred questions randomly pulled from obscure sections of their enormous text book. The questions were different every year, so there was no way to get the answers from a big brother or big sister who had already taken the exam. There was also an essay part, but it was easy. There was only one question and, unlike the multiple choice portion, it was the same every year. You had to give all the proofs that the theory of evolution was true. Rumor had it that if you gave Papus what he wanted – just a regurgitation of his first week’s lectures – you got an easy A on that portion. But if you didn’t give him what he wanted, he failed you.

Ignatius’ heart sank. As far as he was concerned, the multiple choice part was the easy part. Unlike most of his classmates, he had read and understood the text and he was good at those kinds of tests. It was the essay portion he would find almost impossible. The Truth was bigger and more important than passing or failing an exam. Ignatius could not give Papus what he wanted to hear and be done with it. He could not in good conscience write that the theory of evolution was true and then sign his name to the top of the page, no matter what the proofs were.

He hoped the rumors were false, but they were confirmed the week before the final exam, when Mr. Papus made the announcement himself from the classroom pulpit: the final exam would consist of two hundred multiple choice questions pulled from the text, and a single essay question, which he wrote on the chalkboard: “Explain how the theory of evolution is the best explanation of the nature of life, drawing on evidence from paleontology, comparative anatomy, and genetics.”

“In case you need help with this, class,” Papus tapped his fingers on the pulpit impatiently, “you should find all the answers you need in your notes from my first week’s lecture.”

“Aw, shit! I forgot to take notes that week!” Ralph Becker moaned just loud enough for half the class to hear, sending up a chorus of snickers.

“Aw shit indeed, Mr. Becker,” smiled Papus wryly, “Class is dismissed.”

Ignatius had asked Samael, “Why is this happening to me?”

“Just be true to your conscience,” Samael had replied, “There is a reason why you are in this place at this time.”

“Can I be true to my conscience and still give Mr. Papus what he wants?”

“If your heart does not condemn you, then neither does God.”

In his final exam, Ignatius gave Mr. Papus “what he wanted,” except that at the end of his essay, he added: “While there are superficial proofs from the visible world that the theory of evolution is the best explanation of the nature of life, there are profounder proofs from the unseen world that all life owes its existence and its allegiance to God. Whether or not animals are machines whose sole aim is to survive and reproduce, man has an eternal soul. I know this to be true, though I cannot tell you how I know it. But you should know it too, because your eternal soul has a conscience that will condemn you if it does not give allegiance to its creator! Please listen to your conscience, Mr. Papus.”

On the last day of class, Mr. Papus placed each student’s exam face down on his or her desk, and each student, some showing trepidation, some feigning nonchalance, turned it over. Ignatius turned his over and saw a red “C -” with a circle around it at the top. With a few trenchant comments expressing doubt that anyone in his class had learned anything, but that in any event it was not him they would have to prove themselves to any more, he dismissed the class. As a stream of students began to pour out the door into the hallway, on their way to summer freedom, Ignatius slowly folded his exam in half and walked to the front of the room, where Mr. Papus had put his glasses on, sat down at his desk, and had begun to flip through the pages of some immense textbook. Ignatius stood in front of his desk for some time without being acknowledged.

“Why did you give me a ‘C -’?” he finally asked, “I got one hundred ninety-six of your two hundred questions right, and I gave you what you wanted on your essay question.”

Mr. Papus closed his book and looked piercingly up at Ignatius. “Because you got one hundred ninety-six out of two hundred questions right on the multiple choice portion, I did not fail you. Not one student in all my years of teaching has done that well on a Biology exam, so congratulations, Mr. Wick. But you did not give me what I wanted on your final essay question. In case you have forgotten, this is a science class. I wanted science, unclouded by soft-minded hocus pocus. If you can’t distinguish between science and the rest, you deserved to fail. And better for you to learn that here and now in a junior high school classroom than later when your life depends on it. You have potential, Ignatius. You’re one of the best students I’ve ever had. I hate to see that kind of potential wasted on devout trumpery.”

“You don’t understand,” said Ignatius, “There is evidence. You just haven’t seen it.”

“What evidence?” Mr. Papus’ voice rose, and for the first time he seemed truly exasperated. “You keep talking about evidence, and there is none. Do you live in a fantasy world?”

“There is evidence, I’ve seen them.”

“What? Seen what?”

“I’ve seen spirits, souls of the dead.”

“Have you really?”

“Yes, Mr. Papus. I know they’re real.”

Mr. Papus drew a deep breath, and let it out with a long, painful sigh. Shaking his head, he said, “Ignatius, I can’t help you. Your grade is final. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”

“Mr. Papus!”

“That’s it, Ignatius. Close the door on your way out.” Mr. Papus opened his book again and looked down and Ignatius knew this conversation was over.

Ignatius slowly picked up his knapsack and walked out of the classroom, pulling the door shut behind him. He had gone a few paces down the hall when he was startled by a sudden movement and a noise, and a vicious slap to the back of the head.

“BOO!”

He turned to see Homer Nelson and Danny Walsh.

“We heard ya in there,” said Homer with a sadistic grin.

“You ‘fraid o’ ghosts?” drooled Danny.

Ignatius tried walking away, but Homer, who was easily twice Ignatius’ weight and strength, pulled him back and shoved him against the locker-lined wall. Ignatius tried calling out “Mr. Pa...,” but Homer clamped his hand over Ignatius’ mouth, banging the back of his head sharply against the metal locker. The “kwang!” of the impact echoed down the empty corridor.

Homer shoved his body up against Ignatius, his face in Ignatius’ face. “This is between you and us.”

Ignatius tried wriggling out, but Homer kept him pinned against the wall, and that was when Ignatius bit Homer’s hand, as hard as he could.

“Ow!” shouted Homer, “You little faggot!” He punched Ignatius in the stomach, hard. Ignatius wobbled and fell to the ground. Homer leaned over and punched him in the stomach again, even harder, and then punched him in the face. Danny started kicking him in the back, on the tailbone. Ignatius screamed out for help, and then the bullies ran.

Ignatius lay there alone, for what seemed like forever. No doors ever opened. No one ever came to help. He felt nauseous. He gently checked his injuries. There was no blood, but there would definitely be bruises. He sat up, and then, stiffly, stood up. Then he slowly walked down the corridor, out the front door, down the steps, and down the lonely hill without looking back.