Beneath Wandering Stars

by Cowles, Ashlee;

  “Yeah, I guess. What’s your point?”

  “Well, seeing how you’re so damn inquisitive, at each place we stop along the camino, I’ll give you an answer to a different question. You can ask me anything, just not about what happened downrange. That has to wait for Santiago. Maybe by the time we get there, I’ll have thought through things more. Maybe I’ll know how to explain what happened.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Seth’s fist tightens around his fork. He’s on the verge of rage, an emotion I have a knack for inciting. “What don’t you get, Gabi? I can’t talk about something I haven’t even processed myself. Lying on a couch sharing feelings all day doesn’t work for everybody.”

  What I get is that Seth is on his way to getting seriously drunk. “Fine. What do I have to do in return?”

  “The same. Give me honest answers to anything I ask.”

  I take a bite of stew and burn my tongue. If I were to be honest right now, I’d say I’m flattered that Seth cares to know anything about me at all. I assumed he saw me as his buddy’s little sister. Someone he got stuck babysitting. A kid, as he so frequently likes to remind me despite my repeated objections. “Okay, what do you want to know first?”

  “Why are you with that whiny emo boyfriend of yours?” Seth asks without missing a beat. He smirks and shoves more fried potatoes into his mouth.

  “Brent isn’t emo. Which isn’t even a thing anymore, by the way. Wait—is that how Lucas described him?”

  Seth wipes his face with a napkin and leans back in his chair, still smirking up a storm. “Is that your final question for the evening?”

  “Heck no. When I ask my question, you’ll know. I want dirt.”

  “Sorry, babe. I’m Mr. Clean.”

  Again, I seriously doubt that. The hard glint of steel that never leaves Seth’s gaze assures me he’s more complicated than he is clean, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

  “Lucas never talked about Brent much, but he didn’t seem to like the guy either. The truth is, I perused your Facebook page before we left Germany, and I swear I saw a photo where the dude was wearing eyeliner.” Seth winks. “Not to mention skintight jeans that revealed parts of a man no self-respecting young lady should ever see.”

  “So he likes his jeans tight. I’ll give you that, but Brent does not wear eyeliner.” With my fork, I launch one of my potatoes at Seth’s chest, which results in snooty glares from an older couple seated nearby. “Why were you stalking my profile to begin with? Creeper.”

  Seth flicks the smashed potato off his shirt and shrugs. “Surrogate big brother duties.”

  At the mention of Lucas being out of commission, the banter between us falls flat. I’m almost touched that Seth cares enough about Lucas—and maybe even about me—to keep an eye on the guy I’m dating, but it’s annoying how they’ve both misjudged Brent big time. That’s how soldiers tend to be with nonmilitary types. When it comes to red-blooded manliness, no one outside their tribe can ever measure up.

  Seth’s face breaks into a slightly sloshed smile. “Ah, you’re a sneaky one. I asked you the question, and you turned it around and interrogated me. Perhaps we’ll make a secret agent out of you yet, my young Padawan.”

  “Have no fear, the U.S. government can’t afford me. Once my eighteen years of involuntary service are up, I’m out. As for your initial question: I’m with Brent because he makes me laugh, because he’s artistic, because he has talents that don’t involve disassembling semiautomatic weapons in under a minute. We’ve been together for almost two years.”

  “And that’s enough of a reason to go to college with him? To give up on the once-in-a-lifetime experience of being an independent young woman striking out on her own, armed with nothing but a portable shower caddy and bunny-rabbit dorm slippers?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “What, like you did when you joined the Army all by yourself? Oh wait. You couldn’t cut the cord, so you asked my brother to sign up with you.”

  It can get intense when Seth and I go back and forth like this, but the lightning bolt of self-loathing that flashes through his eyes tells me I’ve gone too far. Seth gets up from his seat, even though I’m not finished eating yet. This time he doesn’t offer to pay.

  “It’s getting late. I’ll see you back at the albergue. We’ll start out at sunup.”

  It’s only when Seth disappears into the dusky shadows that I realize I never got to ask him my question. Maybe that’s what he had in mind all along.

  Chapter 9

  Seth wasn’t kidding about the early start.

  “Ugh, it’s still dark outside,” I moan when he shines his LED flashlight in my face. The stupid thing is so bright it feels like I’m having a close encounter with a UFO.

  “We’ve got to walk thirty K today. Look at all the other people leaving.”

  I peer over the bars of my top bunk. Right now there’s a lot of shuffling going on. Pilgrims roll up sleeping bags and stuff laundry into their packs, but there’s a common trait that unites these early risers. “Seth, they’re German! Germans are always the first ones out the door. It’s like this pilgrimage is a new way to conquer the world.”

  “Funny. Now get up.”

  “Seriously. Look at the flag patches on their packs.” I point out examples to support my case. “Swede. German. Finnish. These are Northern peoples. I come from the Southern Hemisphere, where we honor the concept of siesta and the health benefits of sleep in general.”

  “You’re only half Mexican.”

  “And you’re only half Jewish, but we both like to claim our more exotic sides.”

  Seth is smiling now, but that doesn’t stop him from whacking me on the head with a pillow. “For real. Up and at ’em, soldier.”

  We’re out the door in fifteen minutes flat. Before I have a chance to down my first café of the morning, I’m accosted by a trio of lady pilgrims who materialize out of the predawn mist.

  Their leader pulls up alongside me like a police car. Flashing a toothy grin, she points to the action figure attached to my pack. “Oh, I must hear the story behind this.”

  The woman’s silver hair hangs down her back in a thick braid. Add to that a smattering of amber jewelry plus a billowing skirt, and I’m guessing she’s a recovering flower child who recently slipped out of remission. This seems to be a common theme among North American pilgrims over the age of forty-five.

  “It’s a tribute to my brother,” I reply. Yep, this could be bad. I hadn’t considered that G.I. Lucas might serve as an inconvenient conversation starter. “He’s a soldier.”

  The woman gasps as though I’ve discovered the cure for some rare disease. “What a wonderful idea! I’m a pacifist, but those boys need us to focus all our positive energy on finding a peaceful solution to this conflict.”

  Yeah, I’m sure al-Qaeda members practice the Law of Attraction and tap into the power of positive thinking on a regular basis. It’s probably part of the terrorist training manual.

  Hippie lady holds out her hand. “I’m Harmony Jones from Vancouver, BC. And these are my traveling companions for as long as the camino wills it: Mary Kim Nguyen from Vietnam and Julia Ribeiro from Brazil.”

  The older Vietnamese woman wears a wide-brimmed floppy hat and white knee socks beneath her sandals. A dozen rosaries hang from her pack, so I’m going to go out on a limb and assume she’s walking the camino for religious reasons. Next to her is the smiley girl from Brazil. Minus her nose ring—which my father would rip from my nostril without hesitation—Julia and I could be sisters with our dark, curly hair, light eyes, and café con leche complexion. Based on the bottle of Campari stuffed into the side pocket of her pack, she must be walking the camino for “cultural” reasons, if by culture we mean a nonstop party.

  “Nice to meet you all.” I look down the road and see that Seth has sped up, leaving a considerable gap between us. Thanks a lot, comrade.

  “Julia and Mary Kim only speak bits of English, but we communicate in ot
her ways. Through the language of common humanity,” Harmony explains, beaming like a common light bulb. “Having such quiet companions works out well when the only sound you want to hear is the crunch of the camino beneath your feet.”

  “What made you want to walk to Santiago?” It’s a dangerous can of worms and I already suspect this lady’s answer will have something to do with shifting energy fields, but I ask in an attempt to avoid more probing questions about Lucas.

  Harmony snorts out a laugh. “Oh, I’m afraid my story is one massive cliché. Recently divorced woman seeks adventures abroad in a foreign land as a way of dealing with midlife crisis, and hopefully meets younger men while she’s at it.” Harmony studies Seth with animated eyebrows. “Men such as that fine specimen up ahead, though he looks a little too young. And probably a little too gladiatorial for my liking.”

  “Trust me, he’s too gladiatorial for most people’s liking.”

  “The camino may change that. It tends to give us what we need, not necessarily what we want. Though that’s the way of the Universe in general, isn’t it?”

  Yeah, I’m sure a nice blow to the skull was exactly what Lucas was missing.

  “Sure,” I reply, hoping that will be the end of her New Age nonsense. But no.

  “I see the camino as an opportunity to ask the Universe one big question that takes many miles to answer. My question is, where do I go from here?” Harmony twists her torso so she’s looking right at me as we walk, which is kind of creepy, I don’t care how much yoga you do. “And you, Gabi? What will your question be?”

  “I don’t have a question. I’m walking the camino for my brother. He’s hurt and—”

  “No!” Little Mary Kim pumps her fist into the air, her docile demeanor Viet Cong–intense all of a sudden. “Walk for other people okay, but also have own reason. Must have own reason!”

  “Por qué estas hacienda el camino?” Julia repeats in Spanish.

  Wow, talk about a cohesive team strike. I look out over the ridge to our right, where a row of giant wind turbines whip through the air, generating electricity for all of Pamplona. Beyond their white blades, the indigo peaks of the Pyrenees fade into the distance, a reminder of how far Seth and I have already come. Watching the prongs slice through the clear blue sky makes me wonder what’s moving me. Where’s my motivation coming from? Why am I on the camino? Not my brother’s reason, or Seth’s reason, but my reason?

  All I get as an answer is a surge of anger. Why do I need a reason at all? Frodo didn’t leave the Shire to “find himself.” Odysseus wasn’t wandering the Mediterranean because his desk job sucked and he needed an adventure. None of the heroes in the stories I love left home because they wanted to, but because they had to. Maybe everyone else on the camino is here on some profound personal quest, but a spiritual search is a luxury I can’t afford. I’m walking for my brother, and to make my dad proud. That’s it.

  And that’s enough.

  • • •

  “All right, Seth, my turn. Why did you join the military?”

  My strategy is to start out slow. We’ve stopped to rest on a sea of fallen almond blossoms. It’s the perfect place to pin Seth with my query of the day, since neither of us is in a hurry to leave this magical spot anytime soon. I strip off my shoes and socks and stretch out beneath the almond trees, eager to soak up the warm sun on what looks like a bed of snow.

  “And your answer can’t be that it’s a family tradition. You’ve got to have your own reason.” Even if I don’t believe it, Harmony’s appeal to narcissism seems to work when you want to get people talking.

  “Serving in the military because it’s a family tradition is my own reason.” Seth slices a fresh baguette with his pocket knife. We’ve agreed to more picnics because eating in restaurants is rapidly burning through my funds. Today’s menú del dia is tomato and manchego cheese sandwiches, anchovy-stuffed olives (a Spanish staple), and a bar of Swiss chocolate for dessert.

  “My grandfather lived on an American post in Germany right after WWII because his father was stationed there during the Nuremberg trials. He even witnessed a few.”

  “Really? That must have been so bizarre.”

  Seth nods and passes me a sandwich. “My great-grandfather was in one of the first units to liberate the concentration camps. Even he didn’t realize how horrible they were until he saw Buchenwald with his own eyes. After that, he requested to stay in Germany for as long as possible.”

  “But why would he want to stay? He was Jewish, right? You’d think Germany would be the last place he’d request to be stationed.”

  Seth shrugs. “I guess he felt a duty to all the survivors he encountered in the camps, and he wanted to witness the trials to see that justice was done. So he stayed.”

  “And all the men in your family have served in the Army ever since?”

  “Every generation.” Seth slowly picks the white petals off an almond flower, one by one. “I don’t do it because I have to. I do it because I want to.”

  I set my baguette down in the grass and a brigade of ants scurry towards it like a wall that must be sieged. Suddenly, I’m not so hungry anymore. This whole time I thought Seth convinced my brother to enlist because he wanted to drag a friend along while he fulfilled some silly tradition, but his reasons go much deeper than that.

  “Don’t be fooled into thinking it’s all about honor. I have other motives, too.” Seth hesitates, like he isn’t sure he should tell me. “I don’t think I could ever live a civilian life after growing up a brat. Some people see needing the military structure as a sign of weakness, but what’s the alternative? Working in a cubicle like a dog so you can own a big house in the ’burbs full of crap you don’t have time to enjoy? It seems so pointless. Like a merry-go-round of empty promises you get stuck on your entire life.”

  Seth is afraid. This tough, tightlipped guy is terrified of one specific thing and he fears it more than pain, more than death, more than anything else—and that’s a life without purpose, without meaning.

  “Maybe,” I reply, “but the military can’t be the only option. Couldn’t you find some kind of do-gooder job out there in the real world?”

  Seth shrugs again and passes the chocolate. “The military is as real as it gets. In the Army, we’re all on the same page. Sure, it’s the most hierarchical institution there is, but everyone is working towards the same goal, supporting the same mission. You’ll see when you get to college. There are a lot of entitled little punks out there. No one knows how to commit to anything greater than King Ego, and pretty soon the whole thing is going to implode.”

  Now there’s a glass half-full picture for you. I’ve met my fair share of jerks in the military too, not to mention every other walk of life, but I don’t want Seth to launch into a doomsday lecture about how America’s finest hour is behind her thanks to texting and Instagram. It’s too peaceful here, eating chocolate beneath almond trees, listening to the breeze playing with the dog tags attached to Seth’s pack.

  As I twist blades of grass into little knots, I study Seth out of the corner of my eye. He’s lying on his back, head resting on his pack, eyes turned towards the cotton-ball clouds. Each day he seems a little more tranquil and less weary, even though our bodies are taking a beating. Most of the time Seth’s muteness feels like a bandage keeping his rage from spilling out, but sometimes his silence emanates strength. A strength that’s almost electric.

  This is one of those times.

  “What about all these people walking the camino?” I ask when the tingling sensation traveling up my skin becomes too much. “It’s not like they’re doing this trek to get ahead in life. Most of the pilgrims I’ve met seem like decent people. Eccentric, but decent.”

  “That’s because they’re trying to live awake, trying to see what’s out there, what’s real.” Seth pauses and sits up. “It’s weird . . . .”

  “What’s weird?”

  “How the camino is beautiful the way war can be beautiful.”
r />   “War beautiful? Yeah, that is weird.”

  “I know, but how often do we live in the immediate present? Not via social media? Not tied down to a to-do list?” Seth asks.

  “Not often, I guess.”

  “And it only gets worse as you get older,” Seth says, like he’s got twenty years on me instead of two. “But in war, every second is now. Visceral. The buddy beside you could be gone in an instant. The past and future don’t matter. That’s what makes war beautiful—even addictive. Walking the camino is kind of like that, too. I never minded our PT ruck marches because that’s what walking does. It slows down time and makes you see everything, including all that’s broken.”

  Seth’s tone makes me think he includes himself on that list of broken things. I just wish I knew why. But by now I also know that pushing him will shut down our conversation faster than screaming “Bomb!” in the middle of a crowded military base.

  “Maybe that’s why Lucas thought this walk would be a good way to get me and my dad talking again.” A small part of me is frustrated that Lucas’s plan didn’t work out, though most of me is relieved that Dad isn’t here. Dealing with my brother’s situation and my father’s perpetual disappointment doesn’t sound like a good time. Then again, maybe the difference between a pilgrimage and a vacation is that a “good time” isn’t the goal.

  Seth looks intrigued. “What happened with your dad?”

  I’m surprised Lucas never told him about the Fort Sam incident that left a black mark on my permanent record (if such a thing even exists). My brother’s discretion makes me miss him even more, but I’m not about to share an embarrassing story that would only give Seth one more thing to tease me about. If he’s going to keep his secrets, then I can keep mine.

  “Let’s just say I’m currently at the top of Sergeant Major Santiago’s scheize list.”