It was mass. People gathered in pews, in aisles, standing, kneeling, sitting. A sight he had never imagined captured his vision. The Botafumeiro came swinging across the divide between altar and penitents, casting a thick, pungent scent with its fog of incense. The feeling of being caught up in something far outside of his control overcame him, his legs folding, bringing him down to the kneeler. For the first time, he understood all that Clair had been railing against, and why she wouldn’t give up. And he knew, in his heart, like Clair had always known, that his son still lived, in this moment, here in this place, ringing out through these voices, captured in the incense carrying centuries of human longing, and holding and letting go. He was ready. He just had to find Clair and hold her one more time.
He would keep walking, to the end. If she wasn’t there, at least he would know he had done all he could. And, he had become addicted to this walking. Each day new, opening with possibilities. To keep on had become the purpose. Not to finish.
Chapter 36
Clair
After work one day, she returned to her rock. It was January. Cold, dark. She didn’t feel alone, and she didn’t feel like dying. She sat out on the edge, looking north, towards the Costa da Morte. She fingered the red metal truck in her pocket. A dense fog bank was rolling in, blurring the mussel fishermen’s traps, the boats moored in the harbor. She felt a presence behind her. It didn’t alarm her. Pilgrims came here throughout the year, and locals were here always. This was a place to sit and look out, connect with something so much more than the moments of the day. She felt the person coming closer, recognized the energy. Heat radiated up through her belly, her heart began racing. Stunned, she turned and saw Adam. Silhouetted against the setting sun, his hair, long and unkempt, blowing away from his face, alert with recognition.
‘Clair, I found you.’
He sat next to her. His shoes were duct taped together. She laughed so hard, it hurt.
‘For God’s sake, Adam, what have you done?’
They sat together as darkness settled in and lights came up in the village.
‘Do you have a home here, Clair?’ he asked. ‘I could use a hot shower and, well, a good night’s sleep.’
* * *
The next morning, as Clair was getting ready to leave for work, she could feel Adam watching her from his place on the bed. They had lain together, close enough to feel each other’s heat, but not touching. She didn’t have a couch. The only other furniture was a single chair, a small table by the window looking out to sea, and a few large pillows scattered about on the floor. She had listened to his quiet snoring, more like snuffling, as a small creature might do rooting around in the dark. She found it oddly comforting.
‘You look wonderful, Clair. Where are you off to?’ he asked, rolling to his side, leaning on an elbow.
Her hair had grown out, curly and fine like a baby’s. Still dark brown but with streaks of gold and red, as though burnished in the Galician sun. Thin but fit, she felt stronger than she had in years. She didn’t think about the cancer. Finding a way to live with it instead of being at war, Clair felt she had made peace with it all. Looking at each day fresh and clear, she found joy in her students and music.
‘Work. I teach music at the primary school. Strings, you know.’
‘Yeah?’ he said, sitting up, the sheet falling to his waist. ‘Do you think they need a theater teacher?’
Clair looked at him, at his wiry frame, his face covered by a beard, mostly gray. This was a different Adam.
‘I’ll ask,’ she said, smiling. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’
Chapter 37
Clair and Adam
‘I need a long walk,’ Clair said, as they sat at the window, overlooking the beach at Langosteira. Warmer now, the new season’s sun bringing more and more people, both pilgrims and locals. ‘I have Semana Santa, or our spring break, free. What about you? Can you get away for a few days?’
Adam looked out at the mussel boats, thinking about his work now, farming and harvesting the shellfish. At first, he worried about their suffering, but then, talking with locals and his workmates, he was told that they were not able to escape pain so then, it stood to reason, that they couldn’t feel pain. He accepted this and found joy in the simple manual labor. There hadn’t been work for him at Clair’s school and, thinking back, he was thankful it had worked out this way. Being out on the water, spending time with these good people, bringing in a harvest that benefitted so many, felt right. His body was tired at night. His mind clear.
He and Clair would eat a simple meal, drink the local wine, walk down to the lighthouse, sit on the large, flat rocks and watch the waves move against currents and wind. It had taken them a while to feel at ease with each other. Wanting and needing, immediate. After that first awkward night together, they began to touch. At first, just a hand, finding the other’s in the dark, early hours before dawn. Hands touching became legs and feet entangling, until bodies turned to one another. Gently, his hands explored her chest, running tender fingers over the scars.
‘When did you have the port removed?’ he had asked one morning, as they lay together in the first light of day. He rubbed a hardened area over her right clavicle, where the chemotherapy infusion port had sat, creating a callous in her skin.
‘I found a clinic here that took it out. After about a week. I knew I wouldn’t go back on chemo, so why keep it in? It itched, and was a constant reminder. A foreign object that didn’t belong.’
‘And you’re OK? I mean, how do you know what the cancer is doing?’ he asked, rolling over onto his side, looking at her. A tattoo of Celtic knots chained together crossed her entire upper body, from one shoulder to the other. He could feel the scar tissue beneath but the wounds were no longer visible.
‘We have found a way to live together. I don’t try to kill it, and it doesn’t try to kill me,’ she said, throwing her long legs over the side of the bed. ‘I’m off to work.’
When Clair had returned home that day, Adam had the table spread with food, wine, and flowers.
‘I have a job,’ he had said, throwing his arms in the air.
Clair wasn’t sure how to react. She had loved her time alone now for the past two months. Did she want to share? Used to be, she would come home, drink her tea, eat whatever she had left over from lunch. Watch the horizon until dark. This was new. Required energy. Did she have it?
‘And so, what do you think this means?’ she asked, looking at the spread on her small table, which before held a single bud vase with whatever wild flower she found on her walk home from the music school.
‘I think it means that I’m staying for now. And it’s OK if you don’t want me staying with you, Clair. I understand. But I’ll be near. Close, you know.’
‘Why, Adam? Why would you do this? All of this? Walking the Camino? Being here? I don’t understand,’ Clair asked, sitting cross-legged on a pillow, under the window, looking out to sea. There was no room to pace.
‘Because I love you, Clair Mercer. And I want to be with you. Now, and for ever.’ He had sat clumsily down on the floor in front of her, taking her hands in his. ‘I’m not asking that you love me back. Or that you even want to be with me, spend time with me. It will be enough that I know I am close to you. Is that OK?’
Clair had looked at him for a long time, into his eyes, clearer now than before.
‘It’s OK, for now,’ she had said, feeling the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating from his body. Smiling, she stood, one fluid motion. ‘I’m starving. Let’s eat.’
And the days, weeks, and months passed. They found a larger house to rent, on a monthly basis. Clair played and taught music. Adam worked long, physically demanding days on the mussel boats, finding peace in the labor and community. Becoming part of the fabric of the place, their presence known to local markets, cafés, and events. They learned about th
e history of Galicia, it’s Celtic roots, and pride. Both being without strong family ties, except for Ben and Jodie, this ancient belonging captured their hearts and spirits. Spring brought rebirth, music festivals, protests against ruling Spain, and Clair felt the need to move.
‘Where to? And how far?’ he asked, sipping his strong black coffee.
‘Costa da Morte,’ she said dramatically. ‘Death Coast. To Muxía. It’s around twenty kilometers. A good day’s walk.’
‘OK, let me tell Joachim I’ll be gone for a few days and we can head out. You do want to stay overnight, yes?’
‘Yes, but let’s not plan on anything. We might want to continue on to the Camariñas. And who knows, we might just keep walking. We both have our pensions. And our jobs are, well, dispensable. My kids enjoy our music together but they can certainly take a break for a while. And I’m sure your mussels would enjoy a break too. So, let’s be pilgrims again and take it day by day.’
Adam stared at his wife, so different from the Clair he had known before. That Clair would have each step of the way planned, down to where they would stop to eat, have coffee breaks, sleep. This Clair, with her hair, now long, streaks of sunlight creating sparks of fire in the deep brown waves, was transformed.
‘So, let’s begin this new path,’ he said, standing. ‘I’ll run down to the boat to tell Joachim. Maybe you can load our packs?’
She was an expert at packing now. Just the bare essentials. Dry socks, a few toiletries, light sandals for after the walk, one change of clothing, and for her, a light dress and shawl, for evening and to sleep in, in case they did stay in an albergue. At the last moment, she took the red toy truck from its place on her bedside table, and tucked it into the inside pocket of her pack.
Their walk began at the north end of Finisterre, by the Baixar Cross, looking over and beyond the long Langosteira beach. For most of their walk, the Atlantic Ocean was visible. Long known to sailors as the Death Coast due to the number of shipwrecks throughout history. But the scenery dispelled any sense of dread or remorse for what had been lost before.
When they left the curtain of ocean to their left, they encountered gentle forest paths and rural country roads, walking through farms and villages. At the Lires estuary, they walked along the waterline, laughing and splashing each other. They discovered a rhythm to their walking, their steps synchronizing. Thinking back to their first walk together, returning to her house from the party, she remembered this about them. Time, distance, and regret had severed that connection until their steps had diverged, bifurcating their lives and leaving Devon alone, on the beach, vulnerable and defenseless. Inwardly shuddering at the recollection, she faltered. Adam felt it, reached out and took her hand. She held his, feeling the warmth and strength.
The path narrowed and he eased behind her, giving her hand a last squeeze before letting go. They stopped often, marveling at the waterfall as they crossed the Castro river. During a sudden shower, they stopped in the lee of one of the ancient hórreos, paying silent homage to both the Christian and Pagan practices that they embodied. A wayside offering water, fruit, sundry snacks and juices welcomed them. A sign, Help Yourself carried the message that they had both found representative of the Camino. They walked on until, coming out of a forested area, the ocean was once again in their sights.
Muxía, the westernmost point on the European mainland, was quiet when they arrived. Locals were enjoying a long siesta time, and the flood of pilgrims had not yet reached its maximum flow. They walked through town, out towards the zero-kilometer marking, to Land’s End. The monument to the Prestige Tanker, known as the Split, stood sentinel over all. The large flat smooth rocks invited sitting. They found a spot, down close to the water’s edge. The ocean was quiet, waves rolling in, unfurling below them. This place, long a landing for endings, and a haven for the broken. Clair felt a connection with all the troubled souls who had sat here before her, and was grateful for Adam’s solid warmth. She leaned into him.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her into him.
‘Yes, but it’s OK. I like the feeling. It reminds me I’m alive.’
They watched the waves for a while longer until a fog, so dense they felt each drop of moisture on their faces, rolled in.
‘I’m hungry,’ Adam said. ‘Thirsty, tired, stinking, and happier than I have been in a long time. How about you?’
Clair looked up at him, his eyes shining with joy.
‘Yes, to all of it,’ she answered, taking his arm as they walked towards the village. A cluster of young women stood talking, several small children gathered at their feet. A boy, around two years old, was playing with pebbles, lining them up in a circle around himself. He was dressed in a pair of blue shorts, and a red top. His hair was light brown, with wispy curls falling in front of his eyes. When he looked up, he smiled, two teeth showing through rosebud lips.
Clair stopped; her breath suspended. She felt a jolt of recognition, so strong, she wanted to grab him and hold him to her heart. A moment so dense with spirit, import, and substance collided with the past. Here he is, she knew.
Adam had begun walking away, heading towards a tapas bar just ahead on the left.
‘Wait,’ she called to him.
He turned and watched as she slipped her pack off. Her face was a portrait of wonder, as though she had discovered the secret of the universe and it was here, on this path, right now. He moved to stand closer to her.
Digging in her backpack, she pulled out the red truck. Walking up to his mother she asked her if it would be OK if she gave the boy this toy truck. She had learned enough Galician Spanish and Portuguese to be able to communicate well with locals.
‘Oh yes, gracias,’ the woman said, smiling down at her son.
Clair reached down, and laid the truck on the ground, in front of the boy.
He jumped up on his legs, clapping his hands together. Sitting back down, he began rolling the tiny truck around his pebble circle, making roaring noises. The mother smiled at Clair and Adam.
‘Clair, are you sure?’ Adam asked as they walked away, towards a café with a sign out offering tapas and queimada.
‘Oh yes, I am sure. Adam, did you see him?’ she asked, stopping and holding his arms. ‘I mean, did you really see him?’
Adam looked into her eyes, then back at the boy. He took her hands from his arms, holding them to his heart.
‘I do, Clair. I see him.’
About the Author
The Wave is Kristen’s first novel. She studied dance and literature, and spent her early career as a dance teacher, performer, and choreographer before becoming a nurse. She obtained a Master’s degree in nursing, working in psychiatry and palliative care. The Wave was inspired by her own pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago. She has taken several writing courses through Faber Academy, Curtis Brown Creative, and Professional Writing Academy. Kristen lives on the Oregon Coast with her family.
Coming Soon…
The Bluff
Prologue
Body.
That was his first thought. The way the shape was lying, limbs reaching up into the air, tangled in long, slivery ropes of kelp, strands of seaweed like hair draping over the edges. A cold January morning, silver disk of waning moon floating above the horizon. The surfer drew in a deep breath as he stood looking over the fence at the vehicle pull-out, relieved to be the first to arrive. Word would spread fast through the mostly telepathic communication system, and he had been hoping to beat the locals out to Simpson’s Reef. Surfable only about half the year, he didn’t want to share this prized spot with anyone. The wind was light, offshore, at mid-tide.
He paused, looked again. Just a log. Not realizing how tense he had been, he exhaled, laughed at himself. The barking of the harbor seals covering the small, rocky haul-out off shore about five hundred yards, mixed with the w
aves and wind, seagulls cries, pulled his thoughts back towards the ocean and anticipation of his plunge into the water. Timing was everything here.
A fine marine layer covered the horizon. This cove, only accessible at low tide, was quickly being submerged by the incoming tide. Just the right place, the right time for that clean break all the way to shore. Visualizing his long ride, he pictured himself cutting back early, so as not to crash. Scanning the cove and rocky shoreline, he planned exactly where he would enter the water.
Other debris from last night’s low tide, driftwood, sections of crab traps, and bright colored floats littered the beach. Taking care climbing down the bluff carrying his surfboard, he felt every one of his forty-eight years. As he edged closer, he caught the glint of something bright and shiny, emanating from the center of the form.
Once his feet were on firmer ground, he laid his surfboard on a flat rock. A sense of dread gripped his insides. Not wanting to admit to himself what his hammering heart was telling him, he climbed down to the cove, small white birds fleeing at his approach. Looking closer, he could see clearly. The surfer fell to his knees, doubled over. He stayed that way for moments, frozen in a state of uncertainty. A form, female, arms wrapped around the log, as in a final embrace. Long, dark hair, encrusted with shells covered her face. A round, silver medallion, like the moon, dangled from her neck.
It was up to him, he realized. Everything that happened now. He wanted to stay with her, to bring comfort, and at the same time, knew he had to go for help. His cell was up at the top of the bluff, in his truck. Not wanting to leave her alone, exposed, he laid his surfboard against the log, covering her form as best he could. Saying a promise to her that he would bring help, he climbed back up the steep, rocky incline, to the top of the bluff. Finding his phone, he dialed 911. Standing at the fence, looking down onto the cove, he could see her, still and silent, waiting for someone to take her home.
The Wave Page 23