Beneath Wandering Stars

by Cowles, Ashlee;

  “Yeah, we are so not married,” I reiterate.

  “Could have fooled me with that proficient bickering.” Bob chuckles and removes a bag of sunflower seeds from his shirt pocket. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time for you two.”

  Time for what? To kill each other in new and creative ways?

  “Hell, I’ve been on the camino so long, I can’t tell how old anyone is anymore. Younger than me, that’s for sure.” Bob cracks a few sunflower seeds with his teeth, spitting the shells into his empty beer bottle. It’s gross and endearing at the same time.

  “How long have you been walking?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’ve come back every spring for the past seven years.”

  “You just keep walking the same route?” Seth asks before swooping in on the last chunk of goat cheese. “Aren’t there any good hikes back in Australia?”

  Bob laughs. “It’s hard to explain, but there’s something special about this road and the people who walk it. It isn’t even the most beautiful hike out there, though there are parts that will take your breath away. But of all the treks I’ve done, the camino is the most surreal. It’s like everything is orchestrated—every stop, every person you meet. Just wait, she’ll steal your heart. You’ll see.” Bob lowers his feet from the chair and slaps both thighs. “Well, kids, it’s been fun, but I’ve got old friends to visit and you two have a lovers’ squabble to resolve. See you around.”

  Before either of us can correct him on our relationship status, Bob saunters off to find his drinking buddies from pilgrimages past.

  Once he’s gone, I’m attacked by a killer yawn. “Ready to turn in?”

  “What are we, eighty?” Seth snickers. “It’s nine o’clock. That old guy puts us to shame.”

  “Give me a break, okay? I don’t usually walk fifteen miles in one day. Besides, I’m sure Bob did enough shrooms in the sixties to kill the parts of his brain most perceptive to physical pain.” I get up from my chair and rub my full belly. “I, on the other hand, am sore, sleepy, and stuffed with more honey than Winnie the Pooh. It’s bedtime.”

  Smiling, Seth tosses a stack of euros onto the table. “Okay, grandma. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Una oveja, dos ovejas . . . .

  Nope, still can’t sleep. I’ve tried counting sheep in English and in Spanish, but neither method is effective. Studying the cracks in the ceiling doesn’t work either. I’m exhausted, but there are snores coming at me from every direction. The most annoying octave, by far, is the bellowing baritone in the next row. It doesn’t help that my bed keeps shaking every two minutes, thanks to Seth tossing and turning below. I hear him click on his LED flashlight. Its blue glow appears along the wall by my head.

  Rolling onto my stomach, I press my face to the crack between the mattress and the wall. Seth is reading the Iliad. He’s got this pensive look on his face—like he isn’t reading the book for fun, but because he’s searching for something.

  That, kiddo, I can’t tell you.

  What’s Seth hiding? Why won’t he tell me what he knows about Lucas? And why does he keep calling me “kiddo” when I’ve told him how much I hate it? All I can figure is Seth thinks he’s protecting my feminine virtue by not disclosing the harsh realities of war. That thought makes me furious, which in turn makes me thrash around on my poor excuse for a mattress like a baby seal stuck in a fishing net.

  “Easy there, squeaky,” Seth whispers from below.

  “Can’t get comfortable.” I bury my face in my lumpy pillow, but it doesn’t matter. I can still smell the potpourri of human sweat and hear Darth Vader breathing next door.

  To make matters worse, a rude latecomer decides now is the perfect time to check in to the already packed joint. Naturally, this latecomer chooses the empty bunk next to mine.

  The empty bed pressed right up against mine.

  I should have seen this coming. Do I even need to say it?

  The straggler is Bob. Pissed drunk, senior citizen, Aussie Bob. He shakes the entire structure as he climbs onto the top bunk and barely has his sleeping bag unrolled before he does a face plant into it. The old guy is literally inches away from me. He releases a hearty belch before adding his tenor to the chorus of snores.

  Move over, Darth. This old guy produces the most guttural, “oh my God what is that poor animal dying?” noise I have ever heard.

  “Enough!” Seth shoots out from his lower bunk, even more distressed by Bob’s imitation of a water buffalo than I am. “Come on, Gabi. Get your things. We’re going.”

  “Are you crazy?” I hiss, which receives several annoyed shhhs in response. “Where will we go? We can’t just leave in the middle of the night!”

  “Want to bet?” Seth almost has his sleeping bag rolled up, so there’s no use arguing with him. Besides, it’s not like I want to lie here wide awake while Bob serenades me until sunup.

  I gather my things and chase Seth into the dark night. The sky is an inkspill sea filled with a million starships. There’s no more sweat. No more feet. The altitude strips the air of all smells. I’d forgotten what mountain skies are like—how they make you feel insignificant and infinite at the same time. But now is not the moment to get caught up in their spell. Seth is far down the road in front of me, like usual, walking towards the edge of town.

  I break into a jog. “Seth, wait! What is up with you?”

  “Too many people,” he says in a hushed voice. “I’ll never be able to sleep in that open warehouse. It’s too . . . vulnerable.”

  “You do realize we aren’t at war, right? I thought pilgrimages were supposed to be about seeing the best in humanity.” I’m annoyed at being dragged out of a warm bed, but I also see Seth’s point. Deployments don’t exactly turn a guy into a free spirit. War is not how carefree, friend-of-the-world Bobs are born.

  Seth heads to the entrance of the only hotel in town, though if you ask me, the place looks more like a barn. I wait outside while he checks to see if there’s any room at the inn.

  He returns with a single key. “Don’t worry, it’s on me. They only had one room left, so we’ll have to share. After twenty-four hours of nonstop travel, I really need to sleep tonight. Trust me, you don’t want to be around if I don’t.”

  Oh, goodie. Sharing a hotel room with Seth is one more thing I can add to the list of reasons my father is going to kill me when I get home. Not that I’m concerned Seth will try something sleazy. He’s made it clear he views our arrangement the same way I do: as a functional part of fulfilling Lucas’s plan.

  We enter a room that smells like mold and cigarettes. It has an orange shag carpet, tacky floral wallpaper, and a cube television from the 1980s. None of these outdated amenities concern me. What concerns me is the one double bed.

  “Relax, Santiago. You think I don’t know that your dad and brother would have me hung, drawn, and quartered if they ever found out we shared a sleeping surface?” Seth drops his bag, grabs the thin outer comforter off of the bed, and slumps to the floor below the only window. “Besides, I’m an old-fashioned gentleman. If you couldn’t tell.”

  “Riiight. I’m sure your string of one-night stands can all attest to that.”

  To be honest, I know nothing about Seth’s romance record, though my instincts tell me he isn’t steady boyfriend material. I climb into the bed fully clothed and turn out the light. “Are you sure a stained carpet that's been around since Nixon is worth the extra money? I thought you said you needed a good night’s rest.”

  “After sleeping in sand for six months, the floor will be fine, so long as you aren’t one of those deceptively pretty girls who snores like an ogre.”

  I laugh. Extra loud, to cover up the fact that Seth just called me pretty and I have no idea what to do with that. “As far as I know, I’m a silent sleeper.”

  “Good. Can you pass me a pillow?”

  I toss one in Seth’s direction and he goes quiet, but his breathing doesn’t get any heavier. The charged silence keeps his cas
ual compliment ringing in my ears.

  “For your information, I’ve never had a one-night anything,” Seth says after a few minutes. “Though I’m flattered you think there are ladies who’d be willing.”

  “Uh, it wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

  “Well then, neither was my ogre comparison.”

  I snort out another laugh. “I can’t believe Lucas told you that.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Don’t play dumb. Lucas always teases me about having giant feet for a girl my size. It’s his favorite insult, so I’m practically immune to it by now.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you wear green toenail polish. In honor of your people.”

  I shoot up in bed and hurl another pillow at Seth’s head. He releases an exaggerated grunt, but I can feel him smiling in the darkness.

  “I really miss him,” I say after an eternal minute.

  “I know. So do I.”

  And with that, I’m ready for lights out. I don’t want to think and I don’t want to feel. The room’s many shades of orange blend to black as I pass into that hazy realm of half-dreams, somewhere between consciousness and sleep. Childhood snapshots pass through my mind like images on a projector screen. One moment in particular stands out. That’s because most Americans remember exactly where they were on September 11, just like most Americans a generation prior remember where they were when JFK was assassinated, or when Pearl Harbor was bombed a generation before that.

  I remember, too.

  • • •

  “C-H-E-N-A. Chena?”

  “That’s right, mija. Chena Hot Springs. The best place in Alaska to see the northern lights,” Dad said as he drove our station wagon through a dark forest that never seemed to end.

  I tried showing Lucas the spot on the map, but he was too busy looking out the window, watching for colored lights and wandering stars in the predawn sky. In the rearview mirror, I watched Dad’s eyes shift from the road to the clock on the dash.

  “Wait,” I said as he reached for the dial. “Odysseus is about to blind the Cyclops.”

  “Just for a minute, mija. I’ll go back to your story, but I need to check the news.”

  With a sigh, I returned to my map. Army dads always needed to check the news. That’s because sometimes, the news sent them halfway around the world.

  Today was one of those times.

  “It’ll be okay, Gabi,” Lucas said when the woman on the radio told us about the towers.

  Dad pulled over and got out of the car to make a phone call to his superior. While he was gone, Lucas climbed into the backseat with me—one hand clutching his G.I. Joe while the other gripped my clammy fingers.

  “We’ve got to go home!” I cried. “We’ve got to get home right now.”

  “Don’t be scared, Gabs. Odysseus made it home. We will, too.”

  I stared at my brother through my tears. Lucas spoke with so much certainty that I could hardly glimpse the fear hiding behind the mossy color of his eyes.

  The crumbling buildings weren’t what frightened us most. The men who flew the planes into them didn’t scare us either. What we were afraid of was war, because a war would change our family, change our world. Change everything.

  I stared out the rain-sprinkled window at my father. “Daddy’s going away, isn’t he?”

  Lucas nodded. A lonely silence stretched between us like the vast Alaskan wilderness, and somehow I knew my brother had made a decision.

  “Heroes always have to leave the ones they love,” he said, eyes glued to the chunk of camouflaged plastic in his hand. “That’s what a hero is.”

  Then Lucas pressed the play button to continue our story.

  Chapter 8

  Seriously, you’re hiking through Spain with some G.I. you hardly know?! What the hell, Gabi??? You failed to mention that little detail.

  My fingertips hesitate over the keyboard. We’re in Pamplona, the largest city on the camino so far. I entered the first Internet café I could find to chat with Brent. This “café” consists of a cramped room stuffed with a few PCs that are five years too old, plus a vending machine. Thankfully, the Europop music on the radio is almost drowned out by the hum of a large fan pointed at the front desk, occupied by an even larger woman with an impressive unibrow. Wi-Fi costs two euros for ten minutos and the clock in the corner of my screen is counting down, which makes explaining my situation to Brent feel even more urgent.

  He’s not a stranger, I type back, which is only partly true, since Seth is so distant most days he practically feels like one.

  He’s my brother’s best friend. My parents think he’s a saint.

  Whatever. You should have told me. I don’t like the idea of you backpacking through Europe with some shell-shocked soldier. How’d you like it if I went on a three-week camping trip with another girl?

  He has a point, but I didn’t even think about Seth when Brent offered to buy my plane ticket. Besides, this isn’t a normal situation. This is about my brother, who’s fighting for his life. Brent’s tone makes my blood boil, and my heavy typing proves it.

  It’s not like I’m on vacation. This walk is for Lucas. That’s it! We’ve been apart for half a year, Brent. If I wanted to cheat on you, I could have done it a long time ago.

  Brent doesn’t reply for almost a minute.

  Maybe you have, he finally writes. How would I know?

  The growl rising up inside me must become audible, because a chat box from Seth pops up in the corner of my screen.

  Trouble in paradise?

  Seth sits at a desktop across the café, giving me his signature holier-than-thou smirk.

  “You have no idea,” I say out loud before telling Brent where he can shove his self-centered attitude. For months I’ve been the perfect girlfriend, to the point of making no new friends so Brent wouldn’t worry about what I was doing on weekends or who I was with. He’s the one who still goes to parties and has flocks of half-naked groupies following his shows.

  Ditch the boyfriend, Santiago, Seth types. It’s time to move forward.

  I assume he’s talking about the camino, so I tell Brent I’ll e-mail him later before sending my response to Seth.

  Yes, sir, drill sergeant, sir.

  • • •

  “Why are you reading the Iliad again? It’s not like you’re in school.”

  My question is kind of random. We should be sitting here in silence, mouths gaping at the amazing scenery. The outdoor restaurant is sheltered from the setting sun by a trellis of flowering grape leaves. As the orange globe disappears behind Pamplona’s walls, the sky glows like it’s smeared with crushed chalk the color of a pink rose. Something about the coolness that settles in with the dusk makes me bold enough to take another stab at getting Seth to come clean. This time, I have enough sense to start out slow.

  “I’m reading it because it’s the greatest war epic ever written,” Seth replies, confused that I have to ask. “Ever heard of the Trojan War?”

  “You mean it was an actual war? Huh, and all this time I thought it was a campaign to combat the STDs sweeping college campuses across America.”

  Humor tends to be the best attack against an impenetrable fortress, but Seth is immune. He stares at me like I’m an imbecile, so I release an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, Seth, I’ve heard of the Trojan War. Though I have to say, I liked the Odyssey a lot more.”

  “That’s because you’re a wanderer, not a warrior.”

  Interesting. Could that be the logic behind Lucas’s gifts?

  “Okay, warrior. Tell me how you sustained your wounds.” Though I’m pretty sure I know how he sustained his wounds, since I’ve seen facial scars like his before. “An IED?”

  Seth downs the rest of his beer, his third in under an hour. “You never quit, do you? What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ is getting lost in translation?”

  “The part that involves my brother, which I have a right to know about.”

  “A right? You have a r
ight?”

  Yeah, I shouldn’t have said that.

  “What’s with people these days thinking they have a right to everything simply because they exist?” Seth’s brow furrows into an even deeper scowl as he waves over our server to order another adult beverage. This time it’s hard liquor. Not an evening has passed on the camino without Seth having a drink or two, but tonight he’s really on a roll.

  “Fine, maybe I don’t have a right to anything, but you should talk to someone about what happened over there. My dad says one of the most challenging things about soldiers suffering from PTSD is they don’t feel like they can talk about it.”

  “First of all, I don’t have PTSD,” Seth snaps. “Why do people automatically assume that every pissed off soldier has a disorder? Maybe war just makes people pissed off.”

  “Okay, fair enough—”

  “But even if I was struggling with something,” Seth continues, “it’s no wonder soldiers don’t want to spill their guts when people like you either treat us like wounded puppies, or like some anonymous nobody. We’re all the same, right? Just your standard issue G.I. Joe. Trained killers who come back damaged and need to be drugged ASAP.”

  “I never said any of those things.”

  “You didn’t have to. Just know that there are a lot of different reasons guys come home from war changed, and not all of them have a convenient acronym. Sometimes it’s because of what we did. Sometimes it’s because of what we didn’t do.” Seth throws back his shot and wipes his mouth on his sling. “All right, kiddo, I’ll make a deal with you.”

  Our meals arrive before he has the chance. The waiter sets down a hearty stew of tender meat chunks soaked in a red, oily sauce that smells amazing. Because we’re in Pamplona, I ordered rabo de toro—tail of the bull.

  “Muchas gracias.” The food smells glorious and I’m starving, but I return my attention to Seth. “If we keep eating like this, I’m going to burn through my money quick. But back to this deal. What do you propose?”

  Also a meat and potatoes person, Seth digs into his tortilla Española and the largest steak I’ve ever seen outside of Texas. “Pilgrimage, the camino, it’s supposed to be this big metaphor, right? One of those ‘life is about the journey, not the destination’ kind of things.”