Beneath Wandering Stars

by Cowles, Ashlee;

  I can tell Seth wants to press me for details, but he doesn’t. “Yeah, I know that game. My dad thinks I’m a failure, too. You’re right about Lucas, though. He’s good at building bridges between people.” Seth passes me the last piece of chocolate, his smile fading. “Sorry you got stuck with me instead.”

  Our fingers touch as I take the chocolate, and the warmth that accompanies it makes me realize I’m not sorry. Of course I wish Lucas was here, but this trek is fast revealing there’s more to Seth Russo than I ever thought possible. When he offers up more than sarcastic one-liners, I actually like talking to him. He gets the life I’ve lived because it’s his life, too.

  Sometimes, he almost seems to get me.

  • • •

  “How is he?” I practically shout, that way Mom can hear me over crunching footsteps on dry ground. It’s weird using a cell phone while walking a stretch of the camino paved with ancient stones from the Roman road. “Has anything changed?”

  “The doctors don’t think so, but I swear I saw Lucas’s eyelashes flutter. Hasn’t he always had the most beautiful eyelashes? So thick and dark, they can’t help but make a girl jealous,” Mom replies with a sad chuckle. “Where are you now? Getting close to Santiago yet?”

  “Only seven hundred and thirty-five kilometers to go,” I grumble, watching Seth study our guidebook like it contains a map to the Holy Grail. “We’re near a town called Puente la Reina. It’s beautiful here with everything in bloom.”

  Neither of us mention my dad, so I hope things didn’t go south between my parents once Mom told him she let me go. They don’t have the option of a civil war, not when Lucas’s condition demands that our household establish a more perfect union to “establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity.”

  That’s right, my father—the proudest immigrant you’ll ever meet—made me memorize the Preamble to the United States Constitution. At age five.

  “Take your allergy medicine, Gabriela. And don’t forget to say prayers for your brother. You’ve been lighting the candles I gave you, right?”

  I’m not quick to supply an affirmative. So far I’ve lit one candle, which I placed in the almond grove where we had our picnic when Seth wasn’t looking. Even so, it felt ridiculous to be doing something that has no basis in scientific fact.

  Candles don’t cure people, doctors cure people.

  “Gabi.” Mom’s tone is surprisingly stern. “Unless you walk this road with your heart’s intention in the right place, it won’t matter. You have to believe with every step that Lucas will get better. With every step.”

  Great. Not her, too. My mother has never been quite as religious as my dad, but for years we all went to church because that’s what El Jefe demanded. After Dad got back from his last deployment, I started putting up a fight about going, which resulted in my father not speaking to me most Sundays. Mom seemed to support my freedom of choice in this matter, which is why it’s so strange that she’s buying into Dad’s ritualistic nonsense all of a sudden.

  “I’ll try, Mom. I promise I’ll try.”

  For the rest of our walk into Puente la Reina, I keep my eyes alert for a good place to light a candle. We pass a small church made of bricks the color of sand. A stork guards the bell tower from its giant nest, and beneath the sanctuary’s arched doorway rests an old woman dressed in rags. I nod a greeting in her direction, and she responds with a placid grin that reveals her few remaining teeth. I look down. The poor woman has no legs beneath her kneecaps. She’s holding a dirty cardboard sign that reads: Rezo por limosna. Prayers in exchange for alms.

  If there’s any justice in the cosmos, then this woman’s pleas have a far better chance at getting through than mine do. I can feel Seth watching me from a safe distance as I remove one of the tealights from my pack, approach the woman, and drop a few euro coins into her basket.

  “Por mi hermano.” I hand her the candle, along with the one and only prayer I have in me. “Wake up, Lucas. Please. Wake up.”

  Chapter 10

  G.I. Lucas is about to get tipsy.

  We wait in a long line of pilgrims in front of a monastery winery called Bodegas Irache, positioned along the camino near the town of Estella. At the end of the line there’s a stone wall and a statue of a medieval pilgrim, but this isn’t some touristy photo op. Right below the sculpture sits a fountain with one spout labeled agua and the other labeled vino. Now tell me, where else but Spain can you find free wine being pumped out of a wall on the side of the road?

  It’s almost our turn. The man in front of us leans over to sip the red wine flowing freely from the fountain. I can tell from his long brown cassock that he’s some kind of monk. A Franciscan, I think, if the Name That Saint flashcards from my catechism days actually did their job. The monk wears simple Jesus sandals and travels with nothing but a walking stick and a small leather satchel, just like the peregrinos of old.

  “Con pan y vino se hace el camino. El camino de la vida!” he exclaims, raising his hands to the sky, as if miraculously revived by this fountain of youth.

  “Uh, what did that Jedi master say?” Seth whispers in my ear.

  All the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “With bread and wine you can walk the way. The way of life,” I quickly translate before approaching the fountain.

  First, I position G.I. Lucas so it looks like he’s taking a nice big gulp, and Seth snaps the photograph. Then we take another picture of him below the fountain’s sign, which states:

  Pilgrim, if you wish to arrive at Santiago full of strength and vitality,

  have a drink of this great wine and make a toast to happiness.

  “This bodega must give away a ton of wine each day. That’s super generous.”

  “Or it’s a super smart way to take advantage of a unique marketing campaign,” Seth replies.

  “Says the guy who filled his entire water bottle with wine when the sign clearly states that pilgrims may help themselves to a glass, but should drink in moderation.” I shake my head. “And I thought I was cynical.”

  “Hey, I never said I wasn’t an opportunist myself.” Seth takes a swig from his water/wine bottle. “Besides, they don’t call it the vino camino for nothing.”

  “I’ve never heard it called that before,” I reply with a chuckle.

  “Okay, I call it that.” Seth’s grin showcases a row of purple teeth. “Maybe I even made the phrase up. It’s possible I am just that clever.”

  “And humble.” I tuck G.I. Lucas back into my pack. “You’re on your way to becoming the vino camino’s poster child, that’s for sure. Do you usually drink this much?”

  “What do you mean, this much?” Seth’s posture stiffens. “You’ve never seen me falling down drunk, have you? I’m up before you every morning, aren’t I?”

  I hold up both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. It was just a question.”

  “Yeah, well, ease up on the offensive. I didn’t have a single sip of alcohol the entire time I was in Afghanistan, so yes, I like to have a drink every now and then. Especially while I’m in Europe, given that our great nation has determined I’m not yet responsible enough to order a beer, but I’m sure as hell old enough to die for its sake.”

  My, my, somebody needs a siesta. You never know what you’re going to get with Seth. Most of the time he’s fine, but say one wrong thing and the rest of the day is shot. True, he’s never been passed out drunk, but Seth likes to have more than “a drink every now and then.” And I’m starting to worry. I’m worried about the wounds all that alcohol is meant to sterilize.

  “Can I see the guidebook for a minute?” Seth asks. “We should be getting close to the turnoff for this detour I want to take.”

  “Go for it.” I hand him the book and he flips through it while we walk. Suddenly, his feet stop shuffling.

  “Oh. Crap.”

  “What’s wrong?”
<
br />   “We already passed it.” Seth runs a hand over his shaved head, his face twisted in distress. “The place Lucas wanted to visit more than any other stop on the camino, and we walked right past the turnoff. I am such an idiot! I must have mixed up Eunate with Estella. The detour was all the way back near Puente la Reina.”

  I grab the guidebook, opened to a page that features a glossy photograph of Iglesia de Santa Maria de Eunate, this small, octagon-shaped building. “It says this church was built in 1170 by the Knights Templar.”

  “Exactly. That’s why Lucas wanted to see it. The Knights Templar were mentioned in those books Lucas was reading about warriors in ages past. He’d gotten way interested in the military orders of the Middle Ages, especially knights who swore to protect pilgrims from thieves and bandits on the open road.”

  Tears blur my vision, so I pretend I’m reading the historical description beneath the photo and blink them away. My poor, idealistic brother. Lucas was searching for a code of chivalry in a world that hardly knows what words like “gallantry” even mean anymore.

  “We have to go back,” Seth says, point-blank.

  “And backtrack over twenty kilometers? That’s insane. We’ll never make it to Santiago in two weeks if we do that!”

  “Then we’ll have to take a longer bus ride to make up the lost time. Pilgrims only need to walk the last hundred kilometers to get the Compostela certificate, and Eunate was the one place your brother specifically mentioned in his letter. We have to take a photo of G.I. Lucas there, and you need to light a candle.”

  There was never anything rational about Lucas’s request to begin with, but I’m amazed by the way the ceremonial has taken over; how there are suddenly things we must do in order to make this journey “count.” Seth has never taken an interest in my candle collection, so he must really mean it. Besides, he’s right. It’s what Lucas would want. “Fine, let’s go back.”

  “For real?” Seth stutters when I make an abrupt about-face. “You’re not going to put up a fight or tell me how impractical I’m being?”

  I shrug. “This journey is about Lucas, not us.”

  “Cheers to that.” Seth lifts his bottle and gives me a sly grin. “At least going back the way we came means we can stop for a free refill.”

  • • •

  By the time we make it to Lorca—an additional ten kilometers on top of the twenty we already walked today—my feet feel like they’re going to disintegrate into a pile of dust. Vineyard views surround us in every direction, and the evening breeze smells like thyme and wild oregano (which really makes me want to order a pizza). Too bad Seth and I are both hating life, and consequently hating each other.

  “I told you to air out your socks or you’d open your blisters again,” Seth accuses as we hobble towards a roadside bar for a much-needed break.

  “Hey, this little detour was your idea.”

  “Yeah, well, if you hadn’t flipped out and decided you needed to control the map, I would have known to make the detour,” he snaps back.

  “Seriously? I’m the control freak? You’re the one who’s too good to talk to any of the pilgrims we meet, seeing how that might cut into our ridiculous walking pace.”

  “You’re really childish, you know that?”

  I point to the bar’s low doorway. “Careful, your gigantic head might not fit inside.”

  “Screw you.”

  “You wish.”

  “Hardly.”

  Yep, there’s nothing like a little loss of control to bring out the best in two control freaks. We sit down at a plastic table covered in red Coca-Cola logos, order said sodas, and proceed to engage in a “I hope you die a slow and painful death” glaring showdown. Correction, I’m drinking a Coke. Seth claims he doesn’t touch the stuff, so he orders—you guessed it—a beer.

  “Since when are you a health freak?” I ask between sips of effervescent, teeth-rotting goodness.

  “I’m not. That sugar water is just particularly lethal.”

  I take another swig and look around. The little hole-in-the-wall is packed. Strangers often share tables in Europe, so I’m not surprised when a man dressed in work boots and dirty overalls sits down with us. Based on his clothing, he must be a farmer who lives nearby.

  “Buenas tardes,” the man grunts before digging into his meal—an aromatic stew made of pork and large white beans. The farmer turns to me after a few minutes of tense silence. “Why the long faces, peregrinos? Saint James hasn’t been good to you?”

  “We misread our map,” I explain in Spanish. “Now we’re falling behind schedule.”

  “You Americans are so funny. Always in a rush to get to the finish line, but the camino is not a race.” The farmer’s tan face breaks into a smile beneath his thick mustache, creating cracks in skin as parched as the dirt along this section of road. The wrinkled tributaries streaming out from his eyes are deep enough to carry tears through the dusty terrain of his cheeks, but I doubt this man ever cries. He has the hardened face of one who’s worked outdoors his entire life—a face similar to the photographs I’ve seen of my abuelo, who toiled from dawn to dusk to feed his family, never leaving his region of Mexico once. “So you want to see la Iglesia de Santa Maria de Eunate, eh? Si, it is a special place. My farm isn’t far from there. Venga, I’ll give you a ride.”

  I translate the stranger’s offer. As first Seth is resistant—you know, since he’s such a trusting bleeding heart and all—but then he realizes our other options are few and my busted feet won’t carry me much further. We decide to adopt the camino spirit by having faith that this man is, in fact, a farmer and not a leader of a terrorist cell hiding out in the Spanish countryside.

  We pay for our drinks and follow the stranger outside to his old, rusty pickup truck. He gestures towards the flatbed in the back, already occupied by several cages of chickens, along with an obese goat.

  “Well, Russo, I think it’s safe to say our driver’s story pans out.” I toss my backpack into the flatbed and climb aboard. “He’s definitely a farmer.”

  “Ugh. I hate chickens,” Seth grumbles. “My mom has a ton of them on her property in New Hampshire. They’re disgusting, evil animals.”

  “Sounds like someone was attacked by a rooster as a child and never got over it.”

  A tickling sensation travels along the top of my head. I glance back and see that Señor Goat has decided my braid makes for a tasty afternoon snack. The joke’s on him—I haven’t washed my hair in four days, though I suppose goats will chew on anything.

  Our new farmer friend roars with laughter as he closes up the flatbed. “Mira! Sancho Panza te gustas!”

  “Si, we’re best buds.” I pull my braid out of the slobbering beast’s mouth and turn to Seth—unflinching, immovable Seth, sitting across from me, scowling. What’s got his panties in such a bunch?

  “At least one of my traveling companions appreciates my company,” I say, squirting my water bottle in Seth’s direction. The chickens in the cage behind him detonate an explosion of squawks and flapping wings. Seth shoots across the truck so fast you’d have thought the flightless birds were a band of insurgents.

  “What the hell, Gabi? I just told you I hate chickens!”

  “Yes.” I smile as Seth cowers against me in the corner of the truck. “You did.”

  • • •

  We reach Eunate at sunset. I had no idea “slight detour” meant a venture into the middle of freaking nowhere, but that’s exactly where we are, surrounded by fields fading to a thousand shades of blue beneath the blitz of twilight. The cloudless sky goes from bright cobalt to dusky lavender. It’s going to be a Van Gogh kind of starry night.

  The truck slows as we approach an octagonal structure. It sits alone in a golden field, the stout bell tower rising from its center like a lone stargazer waiting for the curtain to rise on tonight’s performance. An unfinished cloister walk surrounds the small church, its tan stones blending in with the neighboring sea of wheat.

  We jump
down from the truck. A gust of wind laced with burning charcoal blows back my hair, which is already a tangled mess from the open air ride. Silence wraps around us like warm sheets fresh from the dryer. I look at Seth; Seth looks at me. We’re struck dumb by the magic of this place. As the truck’s taillights disappear down the road, I rip my eyes from the Templar chapel and take in the rest of our surroundings.

  “Where, exactly, are we supposed to spend the night?” I ask, attempting to mask the rising panic in my voice. Other than the chapel itself, there are very few signs of civilization.

  “The guidebook says there’s an albergue not far from the church.” Seth turns in a circle, taking in every angle of this place. “Look, there it is over there, beneath those trees. It’s getting late, so we should check in right away if we want to snag beds.”

  The pile of dirty boots on the albergue’s front porch makes me think a modern version of Chaucer’s pilgrim brigade had the same idea. I have a sinking feeling, and it goes beyond having to wait in line for the shower.

  A young woman finally responds to our persistent knocking. She greets us in Spanish, but she doesn’t look Spanish. “Buenas tardes.”

  “Hi. We’re interested in two beds for the night,” I reply in English.

  “I’m so sorry, but we run a very small albergue and it’s already full,” the woman explains. “A few people over capacity, in fact. Several pilgrims will be sleeping on the floor as it is.”

  A man—the innkeeper’s husband, I’m guessing—steps up behind her and points to the periwinkle sky. They both speak flawless English, but their accents sound like a song. “Looks like it’s going to be a mild night. You’re welcome to camp in the churchyard, that way you can use the hostel showers and take your meals with us. Dinner will be served in half an hour.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “That sounds great.”

  This is a lie—sleeping on the cold ground is never great. But a warm shower and dinner after walking all day sounds fantastic, and we’ll still have time to take our coveted G.I. Lucas photos before it gets too dark.