As Clair sat, enjoying the sounds of laughter, talk, and strangers becoming friends, she found herself looking at the faces, seeing how each individual carried so many stories written in their expressions, lines of history etched in the eyes, along the jaw, and mouth. One face caught her attention. He was looking at her. Eyes so dark, wide set, and open, without a trace of guile or cunning. Only curiosity and kindness shone through. She quickly looked away.
‘We’ll be going now,’ Bridget said. ‘Do you want to walk with us? We’re going to stay in Pontevedra tonight, in a hotel. We’re too old for the albergues. Sharing a toilet is not my thing. And good God, snoring in six languages! Hard enough to share with this brute.’ She playfully nudged Joe, who stood six five to her five two.
‘How far to Pontevedra?’ Clair asked. She had the pilgrim app on her smartphone but rarely used it, preferring to follow the way markers, and leave her itinerary up to chance. But it was getting late, and she didn’t want to sleep on the floor, as she had at her last hostel, sharing a thick wool rug with a big furry sheepdog.
‘Only eight more kilometers,’ Bridget said. ‘But, you know, we’re in our seventies and like to settle in before dark. And looking around, in this part of the world, dark comes early this time of year.’
‘I think I’ll stay a bit longer, rest my feet,’ Clair replied, stretching out on the bench seat Joe had just vacated, enjoying the heat from his body. ‘I made a booking at an albergue so I’m OK for tonight. Hope to see you on the path tomorrow. Buen Camino.’
‘Buen Camino,’ Bridget said as she walked away, looking back over her shoulder, as Joe loped along beside her.
Clair was sipping a glass of cold Alberiño wine, looking out over a grape orchard, dotted with sheep grazing, chickens pecking, and flowers blooming all along the rows. The sky was blue now, without a hint of the dark clouds that had followed her and sometimes poured rain down upon her as she walked up through the forest. She leaned back against the side of the walled garage, allowing a deep feeling of being where she should be overtaking her doubts, guilt over leaving without telling her family, and surprisingly, thoughts of Jet bubbled up into her consciousness. Without hesitation, she opened her phone, finding Jet’s contact information, opened a message and texted.
Jet, I’m OK. Don’t worry. I’m doing what I have to do. I’ll call once I’m settled. Don’t try to reach me, wherever I am today, I won’t be there tomorrow. I’m sending the same text to Adam, Ben and Jodie, so you don’t have to try to call or message them. I’m well. Be well too.
And then she turned her phone off again. She didn’t want to have to deal with responses, just now. Looking around again, she noticed the young man walking towards her. Tall and gangly, long dark hair pulled back into a neat bun, he looked both impossibly young and yet had a certain maturity and wisdom in his grace. He smiled as he sat down. Holding out his hand, he said, ‘Hello, I’m Miguel. I’ve noticed you are a solo pilgrim. How far have you walked today?’
‘Hi, I’m Clair,’ she said. ‘Today, not so far. I’m going on to Pontevedra, then I’m not sure. I sort of take it day by day.’
‘Do you know about the Variante Espiritual? It is the most beautiful way, if you have the time.’
‘Oh, I have all the time in the world. Please, tell me about it.’
* * *
The next day, after breakfast at the hostel in Pontevedra, she met Miguel and they set off on the road to Armenteria, the spiritual variant of the Camino de Santiago. They fell into an easy rhythm, seeing other pilgrims, sharing Buen Caminos. The way took them through the village of Combarro, where they decided to stay a night. There wasn’t an albergue but a café rented rooms. There was only one available. Clair had long lost her sense of privacy and felt no hesitation at undressing down to her camisole and underwear, before climbing into a narrow, single bed. She glanced to see him remove his shirt and jeans, and looked away quickly when she realized he wasn’t wearing any underwear. The other bed was angled at an L shape so that their heads almost touched.
‘So, tell me, Clair Mercer, what brings you on this pilgrimage, alone?’
‘I am walking to Finisterre,’ she said. ‘What about you?’
‘No reason. Just the act of walking by itself answers many questions I have, about how to make sense of this world. It is a path through the chaos.’
‘And have you found your answers?’ she asked, feeling heat from the top of his head radiate to her.
‘It isn’t about finding, I don’t think. It is about seeking.’
* * *
The next morning, they set off for Vilanova de Arousa. There was an unseasonal heatwave, temperatures climbing into the seventies. Sweaty, they stopped at a small stream running along rocks, water so clear you could see the ancient markings of centuries flowing over them. Miguel sat, stripped off his shoes, socks, and clothes, wading out into the cold water.
‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in, Clair. It’s refreshing.’
She stood, taking off her own clothing, and toed her way into the icy waters. She felt his eyes on her. Closing her own, she breathed in the sensation of being free, of choosing to do this, and plunged into a deep area, letting the water surround her, feeling the rocks slide across her bottom. Coming up, laughing, she saw he was standing still, watching. His eyes held a look of such deep compassion, she almost wept. Beginning to shiver, she hurried back onto the bank, her clothes warmed by the sun.
‘Don’t dress right away,’ he called. ‘Make sure you’re all dry. Dampness can cause blisters and inflammation.’
‘How do you know so much?’ Clair asked him, once he had returned to the bank, his face turned towards the sun.
‘I walk, that’s what I do.’
She felt her breath catch in her heart. Those were Michael’s words, almost exactly. But this man, almost a boy, isn’t the Michael she met on the plane. She felt him looking at her.
‘You are beautiful, Clair. Don’t try to hide your beauty, or mask your suffering. We all live to suffer, and to help others heal from their suffering.’
Miguel looked long at the river, as they sat on the bank. Clair was uneasy at first, feeling like she shouldn’t be doing this, he was too young. But what was she doing, really? There was nothing sexual about this encounter. They were two beings, coming together, to share moments, and that was all. But that was so much.
He waved his hand at the river, swirling, eddying, and rippling down towards the ocean.
‘Life, like waves, river or ocean, moves in swells and patterns, sometimes thought to come in sets of seven. Myth or fact, no one knows for sure. The wind in storms comes in intervals, gusts and flurries. It is wind that creates swells, the more consistent winds creating the swell, not the higher impact gusts. These swells will bond together, in sets, in order to conserve energy for their vast journey over oceans. Whether sets of seven or more, that isn’t scientific. What is known is that for each of us, we find our breaking point. Turbulence precedes transformation. The moment we crash onto shore or up against a rock. But the wave doesn’t cease to exist, it returns to water. And so we continue on as well.
Chapter 32
Adam
Adam hadn’t really thought about the distances, or the steps. He had seen the route as a driver, someone who could cross vast geographical spaces with a foot on the pedal, or better yet, sitting in a seat on an airplane. This walking, this moment by moment life, was hard. That morning at breakfast, sitting at the communal table, drinking dark, strong coffee and eating eggs fried in butter, thick bread smeared with sweet jam, cheese, and dried apricots, he had heard two men sitting next to him talking about how it was only another 500 kilometers. He was astounded. He opened his phone, downloaded a map of the area, and seeing where he was and where he had yet to go, he felt dizzy. Good God, he thought, what in the name of reason have I done? This will take over a month. It w
ill be December, winter. And there’s no way around, too late to go back. I have to keep on.
No one had seen Clair. None of the hostels he had stayed at, or cafés, tapas bars, even churches. He had stopped asking. Now, he was on this path for himself, to survive. Up and moving at dawn, he set off, finding an easy pace now, his arms swinging, modulating his breathing so that each step was a breath. Climbing was getting easier. He found a rhythm for that as well, stepping up first right, then bringing up the left. He sang, quoted entire sections of plays. He thought seldom about home, his classes, students. A sight stopped him in his tracks. A house, standing alone in a field, one tree to its side. He threw his arms up into the air, dancing around in circles singing ‘La Donna È Mobile’ from Verdi. A group of pilgrims walked around him, smiling and waving.
‘Buen Camino,’ they called, the chant becoming more than a saying. It was a confirmation of their sharing this road, this time, this life. He felt a cellular joy, a freedom never before experienced until a thought hit him like a strong north wind. What if Clair was already dead?
Walk, he thought, just keep walking. The next town, the next hostel, I’ll get there. If she is going to Santiago, I’ll find her there. I would know if she was no longer on this earth, a part of the fabric of humanity. I would, wouldn’t I?
And so, he did, over hills, through villages, snow, rain, sunshine. Meeting people who knew him only by his first name, Adam. Welcomed and accepted, sleeping on a couch with a total stranger, a woman who like him, arrived too late for a bed. They slept end to end and the comfort of her warm body soothed him to sleep.
Chapter 33
Clair
The cathedral spires were visible from the bridge, over a causeway entering into Santiago. By now, the numbers of pilgrims had picked up, even at this time of year. The energy and excitement were palpable. Several were gathered at a crossroads, where two signs pointed in a different direction, leading towards Santiago. They clustered together, speaking and gesticulating in multiple languages, asking which way to go. Clair made her best guess, and walked away from the group, keeping the sight of the spires in her mind’s eye, even as she entered another dense forest.
Without warning, the forest ended, and she was on a busy, commercial road, with large vehicles thundering past. It had been so long since she had been in a city, she was momentarily disoriented. One bright yellow arrow pointed the way across a six-lane highway. Once across, she stepped into a café for a bathroom break. After buying a bottle of water, she sat and watched as the world sped by. She felt OK. Pain had become her constant companion, and she didn’t know if it was the cancer or just wear and tear. She lived on ibuprofen and paracetamol. The local wines and strong pastries helped, she thought. She couldn’t tolerate beer or ale, a great sadness to her. She walked on, slowly now, not wanting this part of the journey to end. After Santiago would be Finisterre. That would be the end.
The sounds of voices began as a soft hum, like her bowing in the early movements of Pachelbel’s Canon. Then, as in a symphony, gaining momentum until she was there, carried along by the sounds to the entrance of the Cathedral de Compostela, home of St James, center of her universe for now. The Pilgrim’s Mass was about to begin. She walked in, genuflecting as she settled into a pew towards the back. This was the place to leave all of her suffering behind. A door to a small confessional was open to her right. She knelt in front, speaking in halting Spanish. The priest recited his prayer, taking her face in his large, rough hands and wiped her tears away. He blessed her. Eyes tearing still, she sat again in her pew, then followed the procession up to the altar to take communion. This is all I needed, she thought. Now I’m ready.
Bright lights shone against the winter darkness when she walked out of the church. The square still held gatherings of pilgrims, many overwhelmed with emotion at having arrived at their long-sought destination. A bagpipe was sounding a plaintive anthem somewhere in the near distance. Clair walked through the winding, narrow avenues, realizing she was starving and exhausted. She sat down outside a tapas bar, relishing a moment of stillness. The café was quiet this time of evening, the transition between day and night. A waiter, dark hair combed back, dressed in black pants and white shirt, offered her a plate of cheese, nuts, and potato chips. A bottle of water, still, was placed on the table. She ordered a glass of Alberiño, ensalada and tortilla. She had come to crave this simple and filling meal, which left her satiated and without the frequent digestive distress other foods often caused. Music played down the avenues, floated out of windows, cracked open to let in the cool November night air. Smoke from pipes, cigarettes, and wood stoves mixed with the sounds, creating a mixture that took her back, way back to earlier days, when her family acted like one, taking vacations in the Redwood Forest and Yosemite National Park. Her father smoked a pipe, its resonant scent lingering in the air outside the cabin door, where her mother made him go to smoke. She would stand with him, as they watched the night sky open like a crystal box full of jewels. Her mother’s radio played songs from the local station, ballads of love, loss, and the mercy at the bottom of a bottle. Clair felt her breath catch as she had a vivid flashback of Adam, smoking a cigarette. ‘The last one,’ he had said, smiling. ‘I’m quitting, for our baby.’
* * *
The walk to Finisterre was less arduous than the walk to Santiago. The path rambled through villages, over Roman bridges, and down roads running side by side with modern highways. Fewer pilgrims took this path, choosing to stay in Santiago or return to their homes having accomplished their goal. Clair enjoyed the solace. She had treated herself to a hotel room in Santiago, with her own private toilet. She had hesitated at first, worrying about the Visa card. Surely Adam was watching for its use. At this point, she decided, she didn’t care. It was almost over.
Chapter 34
Clair
The rock sat lonely among the cliffs, historian to all that had gone before and would come after. The cold, gray north Atlantic Ocean churned, casting foam onto the large flat surfaces where wild goats pranced. She had passed the zero-kilometer mark, where a few hardy souls were taking pictures, capturing the moment on film, thinking this feeling of triumph would last for ever. How little they knew, she thought, smiling inwardly. Nothing is for ever in this material world, but if we open ourselves, we can find a way through to the place where everything meets. She was here now. Devon’s end of the world. She sat down, laying her pack beside her. How good it felt to take it off. She rolled her aching shoulders, feeling the ever-constant prickle of nerves regenerating in her severed breasts. How funny, she thought. Even as I am dying, my individual cells are continuing to act as though this body of theirs will live for ever. She held in her hand the small red truck. Carried all these miles, days, through every chemo session, under her pillow at night. This truck, holding his tiny handprint, had been her token. Kept her going. Now it can go too. We are here together my love. But not right now. Now, I need a meal and sleep. Walking towards the village, she saw a small café, and heard children’s voices. Entering she found it mostly empty, two women behind the counter, three children riding tricycles, around and around the middle of the room.
Smiling as she entered, she sat, enjoying the sounds of children. The youngest of the two women came over.
‘What would you like? I am sorry for the noise, my children,’ she said, but she smiled broadly.
‘Not a problem for me,’ Clair replied. ‘I enjoy seeing and hearing them. I’ll have an ensalada and tortilla. Gracias.’
The meal was fresh. She could see an older woman cooking behind the short counter. After finishing her simple meal, she walked along the marine boardwalk, until she came to a small building, in which she heard strains of strings, violin, cello, and maybe a viola or perhaps an indigenous instrument. Looking through a window, she saw a middle-aged man, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and dark gray tie, holding lessons for a class of young people, between the a
ges of six and maybe fourteen, she thought. She wandered in. On the wall, a sign advertising for a part-time music instructor caught her attention.
‘Hello, I’m Clair Mercer,’ she said to the music tutor after his class had dispersed. ‘I see you’re advertising for help?’
‘Dr Martin De Los Santos,’ he said, bowing from the waist. ‘I am, yes,’ he said in clear accented English. ‘Do you play?’
‘Yes, I play cello. And I know other strings – violin, viola, guitar – well enough to mentor.’
‘Estupendo! How soon can you start?’
* * *
She found a small room to rent monthly, and began her new job. Each morning at eleven, she walked the three kilometers to the music school. First the very young ones, three to five, brought in by grandmothers, dressed in black. Then in the afternoons, the older children, sullen and unwilling. It became her mission in life to inspire them to love music. She found popular sheet music for strings. She played Bob Dylan’s Desire CD so they could hear the electric violin. And it began to work.
Chapter 35
Adam
The cathedral wasn’t what he had been expecting. Something more akin to the great Oz. The square in front was buzzing with youth protesting for a free Galiza. Amazed at this transformation from forests, farms, villages, miles and miles of step by lonely step, he was blinded by the light of so much activity. A hotel stood off to the left. He wanted to spend one night in a bed, luxuriate in a long hot bath. He could snore as much as he needed to without being shushed by a strange voice. Over six weeks on the road, he felt fit. His body taut from the daily walking, his mind calm. People flooded into the cathedral. He held back. What would I have to offer? he wondered. What would I give? Maybe just a look inside. To see the art, the architecture. Remembering his experience in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, he was afraid he had set the gods against him.
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