Beneath Wandering Stars (18 page)

Then Jens starts philosophizing, as the wasted are wont to do. As I half-listen to him babble on about how Ikea is destroying Europe the same way Walmart is destroying America, I keep my eye on Katja. She's stopped in front of the cathedral to talk to a dark-haired girl about our age. The brunette hands her something small and walks away.

Great. I tried not to judge these two by their hipster-hobo, riding-the-trains look, but I
really
hope Katja and Jens aren't into drugs because I don't need that kind of trouble on top of everything else. Between my overbearing father and those terrifyingly effective anti-meth ads, I'm already scared straight. Not to mention that trouble with the law could end Dad's career and result in federal government agents on my family's collective behind.

A mistake I've already made once.

We catch up to Katja, who looks sleepy and all danced out. She hands each of us a tealight. “That friendly girl said we were welcome to light a candle in the cathedral. It sounds like there's some sort of music event going on inside.”

“Let's go,” I reply, relieved. Not only because Katja gave me a little candle instead of a little baggie of mysterious white powder, but because I suddenly have an intense desire to feel closer to Lucas through the simple act of lighting one.

Stars. Sleeping bags. Sanctuaries.

Thinking about my
camino
ritual brings to mind Seth's face, washed in the moonlight of Eunate. I squash the association like a roach beneath my shoe.

Traitor.

“Earth to Gabi. Come in, Gabi.”

I look up from the candle in my palm. Jens is waiting by the cathedral entrance. His slightly plastered grin is lopsided and goofy, but in the most adorable, genuine way possible.

“I must have heard that NASA line in American movies a hundred times, but I've never had the chance to use it,” Jens says, holding out his arm for me to take.

We follow the soft acoustic strumming of “Stairway to Heaven,” and enter a space unlike anything I've ever seen. There are candles
everywhere
—hundreds, maybe even thousands, of tiny, flickering tealights. The soaring ceiling pulls our eyes skyward. My chest tightens as the empty space above us swallows up my breath. During the day, this cathedral was dominated by camera-flashing tourists, but by night it radiates a beauty that almost hurts. A beauty that can't be fully absorbed, only admired at a distance.

A few kids sit in pews by the altar, where the guitarist strums his gypsy-inspired melodies. Others sit on the ground, talking quietly in clusters. This cathedral could easily be the lawn of any university campus, only with giant stone pillars instead of trees. There's even a group of kids playing Hacky Sack in a far corner.

It's almost two in the morning.

“What
is
this place?” I whisper. Whatever it is, it's warm and inviting and I love it.

“The girl who gave me the candle said this is part of a movement that started back in Germany,” Katja explains with pride. “Young people in the city were bothered that their cathedrals, once the centers of urban life, had become little more than tourist attractions. A group of university students in Cologne decided their cathedral should be a house of refuge once again, especially at night when young people need a place to talk about important things that are hard to discuss in a noisy bar. The bishops agreed to open up cathedrals across Europe a few evenings each month—not for an official service or anything, but just for a contemplative space. For a reminder that sacred places still exist.”

The sea of serene faces before me, representing almost every nationality under the sun, convinces me this space is most definitely that. “So what's with all the candles?”

“That's how they get the word out. Once you've lit one—for yourself, for someone you love, or to remember someone who has died—you're supposed to take the peace that comes from that small act and pass it on to someone in the street.”

I love everything about it. I love that this wonder of the world isn't sitting empty all night, but is still used as a communal meeting place. I love that there are hundreds of twinkling tealights, each one representing the soul of another human being. “And the clergy don't mind?”

“Guess not.” Katja nods towards a row of confessionals. The intimidating, old-fashioned kind made of shiny wood. A bearded priest sits out front, talking to a group of kids our age. Most have black stamps on the back of their hands from nightclubs, just like us. I watch as a kid with a green Mohawk and full arm-sleeve tattoos approaches the priest. The cleric nods along as the guy talks with animated gestures, almost like he's angry. Without saying a word, the priest places his hand on the young man's forehead, as if imparting a blessing.

I turn to see Jens's reaction, but he's wandered off. I spot him lying in the middle of the transept with outstretched arms, looking straight up at the vaulted ceiling.

“That must be quite a trip,” I whisper to Katja. “If I lie down, I'll get the spins for sure.”

“My brother says there's a reason German monks brewed beer. Hops have a natural calming effect that puts your mind in the right mood for contemplation.” Katja grins and gestures to a stone bench in a shadowy corner. We brighten the space by setting our candles on the windowsill next to a statue of St. Francis, who's holding a bunch of baby animals as per usual. The quivering flames make the darkened colors of the stained glass flicker across Katja's cheeks. She seems completely sober now.

“So what's your brother's deal?” There's something about Jens I can't put my finger on. I've wanted to ask Katja about it all night, so I'm glad I finally have her alone.

She flashes me another serene smile. “Jens is different. Special.”

I knew it. I could have sworn I felt a spark between us, but I also got the sense that maybe I wasn't his type. “Special how?”

“Those monks I mentioned? Jens is thinking about becoming one.” Katja states this fact like it's the most normal thing in the world. “That's why we're here. We're walking the
camino
to find out if he has a vocation.”

I almost choke. “Come again?”

This is
so
not
the explanation I expected.

To start, I didn't think guys in this day and age even considered such a thing. And while Jens may be deep, he doesn't seem especially devout. Although this does explain why he only let his flirtation go so far.

I release a defeated sigh. “Well, I can tell you one thing. Those dreads will have to go. If my grandmother was here, she'd grab scissors and do the honors herself.”

Katja laughs. “He hasn't decided yet, but there's been a monk or priest in our family for every generation going back a hundred years, so Jens is trying to figure out if the next one might be him.” A peaceful expression—the expression of someone who knows exactly who she is and what she stands for—settles on Katja's face. She passes her hand over our candles, like she longs to feel the heat.

“So is your pilgrimage similar to how the Amish send their kids out to party for a year before they decide if they really want to be Amish?” I ask, hoping my question isn't offensive.

“Kind of. We needed to get out on our own. See the world for what it is. Figure out who we are and who we're meant to be. Learn to love people who are difficult to love, which tends to be the people closest to us. People like brothers.”

Her eyes shining with a hope I've witnessed in very few people, Katja leans back against a wall built hundreds of years before we were born. A wall that will likely be here hundreds of years after we're both dead. “In the end, isn't that why we're all here?”

“
Café con leche
,” I groan to the barista behind the counter. He responds to my demand for this last of the legal stimulants with a cocked eyebrow and a knowing smirk. I'm not hung over, but I didn't get much sleep, which means I feel (and look) like Death.

Katja throws back her espresso. “What time are you hitting the road?”

“I need to take the first bus out or I'll lose an entire day of walking,” I say, stirring three packets of raw sugar into my coffee. I can already tell it's going to be a three-packet kind of day.

Pilgrim purists that they are, my friends will continue on foot, which means we won't cross paths again until Germany. After we finish our coffees, we say our
auf wiedersehen
s. Jens turns about six shades of pink when I wish him good luck figuring out if he has “the call,” before casually suggesting that he give me a ring if he ends up choosing girls over God.

Apparently Death-Warmed-Over Gabi is also Extra-Bold, No-Filter Gabi.

Speaking of higher authorities, when I board the bus, my father calls. I hesitate to answer. He hasn't called me once, but I can't imagine Dad would want to chat unless it was about something serious. That leaves two options: really good news or really bad news. I'd rather choose Door Number Three: not knowing either way. The other paths are too final.

As the phone vibrates in my hand, a lump forms in my throat. My eyes fix on the blur of the passing scenery, which is orange, dusty, and flat.

The dreaded
meseta
.

I answer on the final ring. “Hi, Dad. What's up? Has Lucas improved?”

My chipper words pour out like a tidal wave of optimism I have yet to feel.

“
Nada
, Gabi. No changes.”

Dad's frigid words harden into an uncomfortable silence. The acidic coffee sloshing around my empty stomach starts to eat it. That lump is now stuck, as though I inhaled a handful of the copper dirt lining the
camino
. It feels like every swallow for the rest of my life will be like forcing down a mouthful of saltine crackers without any water.

“Dad, I never meant to—”

“I don't want to talk about that right now, Gabriela.
You
are not my main concern. Not when we have more important matters to discuss.”

“What happened?” My question comes out as a croak. If Dad isn't calling to chew me out for disobeying direct orders yet again, that means a major decision is about to be made, and Mom is too torn up to dial the phone.

I didn't want to know the outcome, but I already do. The words slam against me like a blow to the head:
life support
. “How much longer . . . .”

“His condition is worsening. The doctors think Lucas may be slipping into a vegetative state.” My father's voice cracks. I can practically hear the tears sliding down his face. “Once that happens, there's only a slight chance he'll come out of it. And if I have to deploy suddenly, I can't leave your mother to deal with this alone.”

“What are you saying? You'd actually consider taking him off life support?” I don't hide my disbelief. Dad has always made it clear that he's firmly against anything that threatens the sanctity of life. “Can you even
do
that?”

“Allowing nature to take its course isn't the same thing as assisted suicide,
mija
.” Dad sighs deeply into the phone. “We're not at that point yet, but if nothing changes and the doctors tell us Lucas is gone, brain dead . . .
no se
. How can we ever know for certain what it is that makes a person truly alive?”

I can see this is a moral gray area, but why in the world is my father sharing his dilemma with
me
?

“Lucas isn't gone yet. He's still here; I know he is!” I'm blubbering now, displaying the ugly cry for all the world to see. Other passengers on the bus stare, but I couldn't care less.

“Calm yourself, Gabi. We're not making any decisions yet. But I thought you should know, seeing how you're an adult who can handle the realities of life on her own.” Dad's words drip with resignation and resentment, not with the unshakable faith I'm used to.

Why is he doing this? When I told Dad he should trust me more, I meant I should have a later curfew and be able to get my own car, not be involved in determining my brother's end-of-life status.

Fine. If my father wants me to cast my vote, here it is: “I swear, Dad. If you take Lucas off life support before I get home, I will never forgive you.”

With that, I hang up the phone, but my hands won't stop shaking for the next five minutes. My father never mentioned Seth, which means the jerk hasn't tried calling my parents to let them know we got separated. That also means he's still trying to find me, though Seth should be kilometers ahead of me by now.

The bus drops me off in Astorga, a decent-sized city with a lot of concrete. I stop for my second coffee and a
mantecada
(this spongy, orange cake thing that looks like a flattened muffin), but I can hardly choke it down thanks to my resident throat lump. Once the city sprawl is behind me, I pass through a landscape of undulating hillsides, manicured Merlot vines, and wildflower carpets the
camino
cuts in half.

None of it matters. I might as well be walking through the movie set of an apocalyptic wasteland, through a painting drained of all pigment. All I see is ugliness and death. Not a natural world that is perfectly ordered, but a natural world that is chaotic and cruel.

An army of ants devouring a baby bird fallen from its nest.

A hawk dive-bombing a field in search of unsuspecting prey.

A trail of litter that proves we humans are nothing but highly evolved parasites.

Then there are the allegations, the constant reminders that I'm as much of a beast as the rest. Accusations about how I used to tease Lucas for his stutter, not to mention the countless promises I made to him that I promptly broke. We were solid until I joined Lucas in high school. Somehow I ended up in the semi-popular crowd, whereas Lucas remained on the fringe like usual. He could have moved up the food chain if he actually cared, but he didn't. What kills me is there were many times I
did
care.