Beneath Wandering Stars (15 page)

“Hey, Jiminy Cricket, if you're going to stay up all night wishing on shooting stars, we might as well give this a try, too.”

Seth's smile turns sheepish when he realizes I've discovered his little secret.

“Besides,” I continue, “I forget if you're supposed to walk around the church clockwise or counter-clockwise, so we can each take a direction and cover all our bases.”

Seth sighs. “Fine. Maybe I'll finally fall sleep afterwards. Oh hey, while we're on the subject of weird esoteric rituals, there's something I've been meaning to show you.”

Seth extends his hand and drops a small object into mine, still warm from being pressed inside his palm. It's a stone. The most beautiful stone I've ever seen. Its edges are jagged and it looks like hardened lava. The sparkly black rock is marbled with streaks of intense blue and flecks of gold.

“Where did you find this? The moon?”

“It's called lapis lazuli and it's mined in Afghanistan,” Seth explains. “It was with Lucas's letter. He said we should leave the stone somewhere along the way. He said we'd know the place when we saw it. Whenever that time comes, I think you should be the one to do the honors.”

The stone is heavier than it looks, but it's nothing compared to the burden pressing down on me. Lucas is in a coma. How can all these laughable little customs change that?

“Let's just start the circling process,” I suggest, “otherwise we'll both feel too ridiculous to go through with it.”

We start walking, which gives me six opportunities to study the sandstone faces of the mythical creatures etched into the church's high walls. Each time I pass Seth heading in the opposite direction, his gaze burns into mine, his eyes like two blue orbs of lapis lazuli glowing in the moonlight. Neither of us says a word, but when we've circled the church the prescribed number of times, we meet in its darkened doorway.

I light a candle and Seth grabs my other hand. His palm is still warm, even without the stone. Together, we step inside.

After Eunate, something changes. Seth and I are a team. Maybe we're even friends. We find our stride. The long days of walking get easier, and we talk a lot more than we used to.

Talking is good. Talking means I don't have to think, which means I don't have to deal with the knot at the bottom of my stomach, a knot that increases in size and degree of entanglement each day.

You wanted to kiss him.

The accusation scampers through my mind any time I stop running my mouth. Whatever happened in Eunate, blaming it on enchantment, or on a spell cast by the alignment of stars, doesn't satisfy. Maybe it was the food. Yeah, that's it. I hear
escargot
causes horrible indigestion. And according to this article I read on the Internet once, serious indigestion can cause hallucinations and other erratic behavior.

Or something.

“You're looking mighty pensive this afternoon,” Seth says as we approach the town of Santo Domingo. “What's up?”

“Nothing.” I chug what's left in my water bottle. I'm pretty sure “I've been thinking about how I no longer hate you and might even like you a little” isn't the answer Seth wants.

He smirks. “
Nothing
doesn't make a girl blush. Let me guess. Brent texted you lyrics to a lame and gushy song he wrote just for you?”

“No. And I'm not blushing. I'm hot and out of water.”

This is true. The further west on the
camino
we go, the warmer the weather gets. For the past two days, the landscape has been as dry as the layer of cracked mud on my boots. Everything around here is the color of sand. Tan road, tan tiles on all the roofs, tan fields. Seth's farmer's tan. A world of beige, except for the sky, which shines sapphire blue. The same color as Seth's eyes.

Dammit, Gabi. STOP!

Yeah, this introspection thing isn't working for me. “Hey, we haven't played your game of Twenty Questions in a while,” I suggest.

“Okay, you start.” Seth flips his baseball hat around so it's on backwards. Why this small, insignificant gesture makes my heart skip a beat, I'll never understand.

Me: “What was your worst move? The place you hated most?”

Seth: “Fort Rucker, Alabama. No Jews and lots of water moccasins.”

Seth: “Where's the best place you ever lived?”

Me: “San Antonio because of the people, Hawaii because . . . well, because it's Hawaii.”

Another mile and our questions turn a little more philosophical.

Me: “What do you think these wars will end up changing?”

Seth: “The people who fight in them.”

Me: “Why are we walking?”

Seth: “Uh, because Lucas asked us—”

Me: “No, I mean why are
any
of us walking? Ultimately speaking?”

Seth: “Because once you stop moving, stop chasing something, you die.”

One more mile and things get really serious.

Seth: “Why are you in such a hurry to go to college?”

Me: “One of us has to go or Dad will think he became a U.S. citizen for nothing.”

Seth: “But what do you really want to do? Ultimately speaking?”

Me (after a lengthy pause): “I have no idea.”

Me: “When were you most afraid over there?”

Seth (after a longer pause): “When I held Lucas in my arms until the medics arrived.”

And there we have it. Seth
was there
. I should press him for details, but the image of Seth down in the dirt, cradling my brother, is too painful to envision for long. My heart cracks in two and our conversation ends. Or at least I want it to, but Seth is on a roll.

“What do you hate most about being a military brat?” he continues.

Good. An easy way to change the subject. “You want the long list or the CliffsNotes?”

“You have
a list
?” Seth chuckles. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“It's called, ‘Things I Hate Most about Life As a Military Brat.'”

“Catchy. Let's hear it.”

I take a deep breath. “Number 1: Being
called a military brat. The nickname isn't the problem, since I know it's one of endearment. What bothers me is being thrown into a club I never asked to join. My dad was the one who signed up for the Army, but the moment the doctor at some hospital with walls the color of lima beans smacked me on the butt and said, ‘Welcome to Fort Wherever,' I was
in
, like it or not.”

Seth laughs. “Yeah, I'm surprised we don't see more recruitment posters that say, ‘U.S. Army. Enlisting infants since 1776.'”

“Number 2: That annoying question, ‘So, where are you from?' I used to get tongue-tied trying to explain that I was technically born in Fort Polk, Louisiana, but we moved to Fort Drum, New York, when I was two months old. I couldn't tell you a thing about my birthplace, other than the cockroaches are allegedly the same size as the rats. So now I opt for the simplest response: ‘Pick a place.'”

“See, that's the only good thing about my parents' divorce. My mom will never
leave her hometown again, so at least I have that as a fallback answer. Continue.”

“Number 3: Surprises. The constant changes that come with moving so much make it easy to latch on to anything remotely consistent, so even the silliest traditions start to matter when everything else descends into chaos. I like to know what to expect.”

“Note to self: never throw Gabi a surprise party.” Seth grins. “Not unless I want to get kicked in the
cojones
.”

I smile back. “I'm glad we understand each other.”

I stop in front of the huge sign. “Wow. And I thought Maryland's state motto—‘Manly deeds, womanly words,' whatever
that
means—was bad.”

Twenty Questions comes to an end when we reach the town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, in part because we're greeted by the most bizarre welcome sign I've ever seen. And I've seen plenty.

“I know, right.” Seth scans the quiet town. “Why anyone would choose a chicken as their mascot is beyond me.”

“Can I see the guidebook?”

Seth hesitates. “Do you remember what happened the last time I gave you the guidebook?”

“Yes. We met some amazing people and slept out under the stars. Now give it here.”

Seth hands over the book. I flip to the page on Santo Domingo, read the short description, and slam the cover shut. “Follow me,
por favor
.”

• • •

“You have
got
to be kidding me.”

I can't help beaming at the look of horror on Seth's face. “Surprise!”

“Gabi.” Seth swallows hard, straining to keep his voice calm in the quiet sanctuary. “Why are there chickens inside a church?”

I peer into the wrought-iron cage decorated with filigree designs, the opulent home of two white hens who stare back at us with shifty eyes. “They're here so that pilgrims will remember one of the most famous miracle stories of the
camino
.”

“Let me guess. A man who loved chickens built them a cathedral and was cured of his raving lunacy?”

“Nope. Once upon a time, long before
albergues
had subpar showers, a young pilgrim walked to Santiago with his parents and they stopped in Santo Domingo for the night. The daughter of the innkeeper propositioned the young man, but being the good Catholic boy that he was, he refused her advances. In retaliation, the scorned girl hid a silver chalice in his bag and called the authorities. Since it was the Middle Ages and theft wasn't tolerated, the poor kid was promptly executed. His parents continued walking to Santiago to pray for his soul, and on their way home they stopped at this church to say their final goodbyes. That's when they discovered that their son was still alive.”

“Dun, dun,
dun
!” Seth exclaims with fake enthusiasm.

“Hey, this is my narrative and that was
not
the decisive turning point.” I pick up a feather from the floor and tickle Seth's cheek. He squeals like a little girl, I swear.

“That's disgusting! Okay, okay. Just finish your stupid story already.”

I clear my throat. “As I was saying, the parents informed a city official of this miracle right as he was sitting down to lunch. ‘Your son is as alive as this roast chicken on my plate,' the official scoffed. And because God can't stand haters, the moment the man said these words, his roasted chicken stood up, sprouted feathers, and flew away.”

I take an exaggerated bow. “
Fin
.”

Seth glares at the two hens like they're solely responsible for the world's troubles. “And the moral of the story is: don't turn down promiscuous tavern wenches, otherwise your food will return to life and start attacking people?”

I struggle to contain my laughter as a few more pilgrims enter the church. “I don't think the roast chicken ever attacked anyone. According to the legend, these lovely ladies are her descendants.”

“Do people in your religion actually believe this stuff?” Seth asks.

I shrug. “I highly doubt revived chickens are a doctrine one must accept, but this part of the
camino
is pretty boring, so why not add a little whimsy with some local folklore?”

“But why chickens? These two ladies would peck out your eyeballs if they had the chance. Trust me on that.”

“Wow, Seth. You're a regular St. Francis of Assisi. If blessed hens who live inside a church can't defeat your irrational phobia, there's nothing more I can do for you.”

“You're right,” Seth mutters. “I'm a lost cause.”

• • •

For some reason, I've lit a lot of candles lately. Sometimes I light them in the little churches at the center of every village
.
Sometimes I put them on these pagan-ish monuments pilgrims create by stacking stones. And sometimes I leave the candles in places that have no special significance, but just seem like a spot Lucas would appreciate.

“Can I light one?” Seth asks as we're passing through a grove of olive trees outside the town of San Juan de Ortega.

“Sure.” I almost fall over in astonishment as I hand Seth half a dozen tealights so he can start his own trail for Lucas. Between the two of us, we might just set the
camino
on fire.

Speaking of getting burned, there's something I've wanted to ask Seth for a while now. The misty sunrise that started our morning walk was a taste of heaven, so now is as good a time as any to bring up the seven minutes we were supposed to spend in that eternal realm.

“Seth, remember that birthday party we both went to a few years back? The one Lucas missed because he was away at soccer camp?”

“Yeah,” Seth replies, his face deadpan.

“Why were you so repelled? Was it because I had braces then? I mean, I didn't want to kiss you either, but it wasn't as if the thought made me physically ill.”

The embarrassing words tumble out as though I am physically ill
right now
and can't control my verbal retching. I've never been one of those girls with horrible self-esteem issues, but I'm basically offering myself up on a silver platter, giving Seth the opportunity to spell out everything that's wrong with me. Every reason he refused to kiss me that day and decided Angry Birds
was far more interesting.

Seth stops walking. “It wasn't like that, Gabi.”

“Then what was it like?”

“It was, like, you were fourteen.”

“And you were sixteen. As far as I know, that's not illegal.”

“It is when it comes to your best friend's little sister.”

Ah yes, the unbreakable bro code.

“Then why didn't you just say that? Why'd you ignore me?”

After everything we've talked about and been through these past few weeks, my questions feel so incredibly
tween
, but I have to know. Brent hasn't been great at keeping in touch lately, so I'm wondering if there's a reason boys find it easy to pretend I do not exist.