Beneath Wandering Stars (19 page)

Times I chose
them
—people whose faces I can hardly picture now—over him.

What about the night before his deployment? Remember that?

The reproachful question stops me dead in my tracks. What the hell
is
that? I hear a rattling in the bushes to my left, but I'm pretty sure rattlesnakes aren't native to Spain.

Do I remember the night before Lucas's deployment? Of course I do. It's easy to recall moments when you sucked at life on an epic scale. I'd been out with Brent and lost track of time,
again
, which meant I was an hour late for Lucas's farewell dinner. He shrugged it off like it was no big deal because that's how Lucas is—gracious, forgiving, generous—but for the next five miles, all I can think about is how I could have had
one more hour
with my brother.

Now I'd trade all my months with Brent for one more minute.

The road descends and my thoughts spiral down with it, until I'm in full on ranting and raving mode. “It isn't fair!” I scream across the valley.

My cry bounces off the rock walls and slams back into me, as hot and oppressive as the afternoon sun beating down on my bare shoulders.

You're right. Life isn't fair. Get used to it.

“But why Lucas? He was perfect! What's the point of trying to be good, of following rules, obeying orders? Things get screwed up regardless!”

Yes, I'm talking to myself like a crazy person, but it brings relief like nothing on this pilgrimage has so far. Not last night's binge session, not all the candles in all the pretty sanctuaries, not the array of nice people I've met with their “Kumbaya”
outlooks on life.

A bend in the road leads to a pilgrim shrine made of stacked stones. Without a second thought, I smash it to pieces. Karate kick it, actually. With the foot I use for crossing soccer balls, which isn't the smartest move, since my big toe starts bleeding through my sock.

This journey is starting to involve a lot more pain than it's worth. How like life.

I pick up one of the toppled stones and carry it to a small grotto in the distance. The shallow cave is filled with colorful flowers planted in clay pots, along with a collection of random saint statues. I'm no good at softball, but I'm tempted to use the stone in my hand for pitching practice. Rage pumps through my arteries and Dad's nickname rings truer than ever: I am a bull who sees nothing but a world painted red.

Do it. Do it!
screams the sinister voice that keeps following me.

No, Gabriela,
says another.

While the angel and devil on my shoulders battle it out, something inside me stays my trembling hand. I drop the rock and pull out a candle, muttering as I light the match, “See? I'm playing the game. It's a really
stupid
game, but I'm doing it.”

And I'll do whatever it takes to keep Lucas with us. I will pray, do penance, and petition whatever deity requires it. Jehovah, Allah, Thor the frickin' god of thunder—I don't know or much care who I'm talking to anymore.

I just want my brother back.

Reluctantly, I set Lucas's candle in front of some local saint I've never heard of. The guy probably doesn't get as many intercession requests as the A-list of saints, so I'm sure he needs something useful to do. Well, now he has a task.

What do you say, Gabi?

This voice belongs to my mother. Another memory flashes across my mind. When I was eight, right before I made my First Communion, I was anxious about memorizing all the right prayers. I'll never forget what my mom said as she secured the lace veil
abuela
sent from Mexico over my mass of unmanageable curls.

“Prayers are like good manners, Gabriela,” Mom announced in her classic Army wife style. “There are really only two you need to remember:
please
and
thank you
.”

“Please, please,
please
,” I pray now with everything I've got.

• • •

My next stop is Rabanal del Camino. From there the dirt road takes an even steeper turn skywards, and a hand-painted road sign tells me I'm about to climb to the highest point of the entire
pilgrimage trail. Awesome. If I'd known that, I'd have stayed on the bus a few more hours.

Push through the pain, mija.

That's Dad's favorite mantra. It used to serve as the film score for our trio treks, not to mention the ten-mile jogs we'd take when Lucas and I trained hard for soccer. It's legit advice, given the euphoria most athletes experience once they push past their breaking point. Too bad my limit should have shattered miles ago. Or kilometers. Whatever.

It smells like rain. Sure enough, it starts sprinkling as a massive cloud swallows up the road in front of me. I pull out my headlamp and put on my waterproof gear. There was only one poncho in stock at the BX and it was bright pink—my least favorite color—so I'm sure I look like a giant Easter egg.

The sky darkens. I can only see a few yards in front of me, and that's with the headlamp. One wrong step and I'm sliding down a precipice. One wrong turn and I might wander into the forest and lose the path entirely. No one would find me for days. If ever.

Then my parents would have two children to mourn.

Aaaannd
now I'm hyperventilating. That sad image is enough of a reason to stay alive.

I reach for the tiny rosary around G.I. Lucas's neck. I don't pray it, but it's enough to feel the beads between my fingers as I steady my breathing. Soon I notice a trail of periwinkle flowers growing alongside the road. The five-pointed petals look like little stars, and this fills me with a strange reassurance. So long as I keep my eyes fixed to this purple path, I won't end up in a proverbial ditch somewhere. I'll be okay. I'll make it.

That reminds me. Hippie Harmony said some people believe the
camino
lies directly below the Milky Way, the “pathway to the gods” in multiple mythologies. She claimed the
camino
radiates a special energy due to the stars above it, which is why so many people are drawn to this path specifically. Now, Harmony also claimed she was an inhabitant of the lost city of Atlantis and a gazelle on the Serengeti in her former lives, but the trail of amethyst stars gives me a shred of hope that someone up there is watching out for me.

The dense fog dissipates, revealing another hiker in the distance. I should be relieved, but the heavy atmosphere surrounding this person fails to rise with the mist. At first the pilgrim looks like another Easter egg in a blue poncho, but as I get closer, I make out the distinct image of a woman on her knees. It's hard to tell how old she is because I can't see a single feature of her face, but her weeping sends a shiver through me.

This isn't just a good cry with a pint of ice cream. These are loud, uncontrolled sobs—the kind people only indulge in when they think they're alone.

The woman, her poncho flapping in the wind, bends over before what looks like a giant telephone pole sticking out of a mountain of stones. My plan is to pass by her quickly so she can mourn in peace, but then I notice that the rock pile is manmade.

This is the Cruz de Ferro, one of the most popular stops on the entire pilgrimage. Pilgrims leave their mark here in the form of a rock brought from wherever they started. That's why Lucas gave Seth the crazy blue stone from Afghanistan. That's where this journey truly
began.

Seth told me lapis lazuli was a prized mineral during the Renaissance because artists used it to create a deep blue pigment that drew the eye to the most important person in the painting, most often the Virgin Mary.

If this pilgrimage is my masterpiece, then Lucas is the focal point.

I reach into my pocket, but a part of me doesn't want to let go of the stone. I've grown accustomed to its weight, to its rough edges and smooth center, to the sapphire swirls that make it feel like a souvenir from outer space. It's too beautiful to part with.

The sad woman sees me approaching, so she heads down the other side of the rock heap. Her weeping goes with her, leaving behind a harsh wind that harbors her pain and pierces my heart like a sword. I want to know what this woman left behind as her offering, so I climb to the top, to the very spot where she stood.

Photographs, handwritten notes, and torn pieces of clothing cover the thick pole, secured to the beam with tattered rope, fishing wire, and rusted staples (seriously, who carries a stapler on the
camino
?). The random mess makes it impossible to determine the source of the woman's grief, given that her problems blend in with everyone else's agony.

It makes me wonder if my family's situation is all that unfair or even excessive. Maybe it's just life. Normal. A painful part of the journey that must be pushed through.

I unclench my fist and drop the lapis lazuli onto the pile—a brilliant blue beacon in a world of granite. Thousands of stones sit beneath my feet and each one tells a different story. Each one proclaims the truth that there isn't a person on earth who has escaped suffering and loss, the mandatory prerequisites of love.

I descend to the base of the rock pile, and my eyes climb back to the top. Lucas's stone is still shining, and it's the brightest of them all.

The sun returns beyond the Cruz de Ferro, right when the road drops into a valley of snow-white broom and Spanish lavender. I don't see any other pilgrims until I reach an old Roman bridge at the entrance to the town of Molinaseca, where a woman rests in the middle of the stone arch. She stares into the glass mirror below like she's having a conversation with her own reflection, but lifts her chin when I approach. My eyes travel from her shiny black hair to her swollen belly.

Really now. Who walks the
camino
pregnant?

“What part of the pilgrimage was that for you?” the woman asks. She's wearing a cornflower-blue skirt, not an ugly poncho, so I can't tell if this is the same woman I saw weeping. Something tells me it is, but right now her face is the kind of calm made for playing poker. The woman's accent and almond eyes make me think she's Middle Eastern, but her ageless expression gives nothing else away.

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean.” I slip off my pack to give my aching shoulders a break.

“A friend once told me there are three stages to every pilgrimage. The first battle is purely physical, because all you can think about is the pain. Then comes the
meseta
—a period when our bodies grow stronger, but the flat landscape grows boring and our spirits are assaulted by regrets we didn't even know we had.”

“Yeah, I skipped most of the actual
meseta
, but I've figuratively been there and done that.” I take a few gulps from my water bottle. “What's the third
stage?”

“The third stage is when our hard outer shell is shed and our true desires are revealed, something that can only happen when you begin to forget yourself entirely. Only then will you feel at home in your own skin. When you accept that this journey, with all its ups and downs, is not an accident.” Smiling, the woman rubs her belly bump. “Or so I hear.”

“Are you really walking the
camino
like
that
? All alone?”

By which I mean,
Uh, do you really want to risk giving birth behind a bush?

“Oh, I'm hardly walking alone.” She pats her stomach again, her face glowing with a radiance I've never seen in anyone. “None of us are.”

This woman reeks of tranquility. If that was really her weeping by the cross, how did her grief transform into such calm? I want to ask her so many things, but before I can say another word, she waves goodbye and crosses the bridge, disappearing below the dip on the other side.

I grab my stuff and start to follow, but by the time I get my pack back on, she's gone. The fastest waddling pregnant woman ever.

Something brushes against my feet. I look down at the piece of windblown paper sticking to my hiking boot. The neon green flier reads:

Not possible.
I brace myself against the solid bridge. It can't be him. It
isn't
him. The description is too vague. This poor pilgrim could be anyone.

So why can't I stand up without the support of stone?

Guilt. That's why. It's one of the heaviest things on this planet and right now it's threatening to crush my bones to dust. The fog, the mist. It was stupid to walk through that alone. Maybe Seth walked through it, too. Maybe he fell off a cliff and bled out or died from exposure before anyone could do a thing about it.

All because of me. All because I left him.

“Don't be stupid.” I force myself upright. Seth has military dog tags, so of course he's identifiable. Unless he took them off. No, stop being paranoid. It isn't him.

Regardless, I think I need a drink.

Molinaseca's town center is tiny, so I step into the first bar I come across. Sweat pours down the back of my neck, and my throat burns with thirst. I push through a wall of people, searching for an open seat at the bar. A surge of shouts tells me this afternoon crowd has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the soccer game playing on the flat-screen TV.

I find a stool and order a soda, which comes with a complimentary
tapa
—a terra cotta bowl of green olives and potato chips. Good, I could use the extra salt. A few seats down, two guys are in the midst of a debate that's escalating into an argument. The stockier guy has a broad, pancake face and pale, bulging eyes. His companion's sharp features are striking against his olive skin, shaded by whiskers that suggest laziness, not a disheveled look he intended. Based on their accents, the first guy is English and the second is French. Or maybe Belgian. They're squabbling over which team is better: France's FC Lyon or England's Arsenal.