by Kevin Craig
The three of us—Bastien, Diego, and I—are going out for a walk around town in about two minutes. I’m in the lobby waiting for them.
Gil and Meagan are here, too, blowing their gaskets. Greg and Claire still haven’t shown up. It’s dark out, everyone’s already eaten, and they’re still no-shows. Gil is pacing like a wild animal in a cage. He keeps going out in the street and coming back in to say, “No, not yet,” to Meagan. Each time he does it, she looks more pissed off.
I would not want to be Greg or Claire right now.
“Where in the name of hell have you been? What happened? Did you get lost?” Gil practically shrieks when Claire comes slinking into the albergue with Greg at her back.
I put my journal away in my small bag and prepare to make a quick exit. I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.
When I look up at Claire, her face is a mess, like she’s been crying for hours. “It’s my fault.” She stands in the middle of the lobby, shoulders slumped, as though she’s prepared to accept whatever punishment Gil decides to give her.
“Can I go upstairs and get out of these clothes now? My job here is done,” Greg says. He says it like he’s had enough of everything.
Gil looks too angry to move. Or speak. Like he’s afraid of what he might say. He stands in the center of the lobby shaking his head.
“I think you better stay put, young man,” Meagan says. She bolts from the chair she’s been attempting to sit in while obsessively tapping her feet and compulsively checking the time on her phone. “I think the two of you owe us an explanation for your lateness.”
“It has nothing to do with me. Can I be excused, please? I really need a shower, Meags.”
“Greg. I said no. You’re not going anywhere until you guys tell me where you were. Sit.” Meagan points to the chair she just abandoned.
“I didn’t let anything bad happen to her. I brought her here, didn’t I? I’m so sick of this. It’s just like back home with Robbie. I save the day, and no one appreciates it. I don’t know why I even bother.”
“Sit,” Meagan repeats.
Greg growls, makes his way over to the chair, tosses his backpack to the floor, and plunks himself down. He folds his arms and gives Meagan a dirty look. “Happy?”
Meagan says, “No, Greg. Not really.”
Gil doesn’t open his mouth. I think his head might explode if he does. He was never this mad when he was freaking out about my constant swearing.
Bastien and Diego come clomping downstairs, unaware they’re entering a battle zone. Everyone’s frozen in this diorama of a family on the verge of destruction.
I smile at them, and the three of us make our way to the door before anyone else moves or says another word. We somehow cut through the tension in the room and escape into the cool night air.
“That was intense,” I say once we’re free. “What took you guys so long?”
“Sorry, ma petite. I was telling to Diego the story of the scared souls on the monastère mural.”
“Did he tell you his face is on that wall?”
“Ha ha. Yes. Oui. The murals, they are the stories of the life of St. Benedict. It might be his death in the picture of Diego. I am old, Shania. I cannot remember like before, but the boy in the mural? Maybe he points to the dying saint?”
“Cool,” I say. I’m not surprised Bastien knows. “So. Where are we going?”
“Just through the town and then over by the river. Where we saw that fence with the scallop shells,” Diego says.
“Sounds good.”
“Aye. We walk and we walk all the day long. And then we come out at night and we walk some more.”
“It seems strange not hearing your walking stick, Bastien. You left it in your room?”
“It is on another journey.” He smiles and winks at me as we make our way across the road and walk past the massive monastery.
“Huh?” Diego says. “Did you lose it?”
“I gave it to a woman. She needs the click-click-click more than me, yes? In Lusío, with the path that went down, down.” He holds his hand out with his fingers pointing to the ground, like he’s signing downhill. “Diego falls down the up, and Maria, she falls down the down.”
“Are you kidding me,” I say. “You made another rescue today? Are you some kind of Camino superhero, Bastien?”
“Ha ha. We all rescue each other on the Camino, Shania.”
“What are you walking for, Bastien?” Diego asks after a moment of silence passes between us. The emotion in his voice is so strong, it’s obvious this is something he’s been pondering. His desperation is palpable in his clenched jaw.
We reach the scallop shell fencing and stop. The river is below us, and the soft rushing sound of the current is soothing to the ear.
“Well. The last Camino, maybe it was to take the soul of my daughter with me to Santiago. To Finisterre, the end of the world. And, later? Muxia.”
I rest a hand on Bastien’s shoulder. This man who is so good to everyone. He’s had so much damn death. “Your daughter?”
“She die. Very sick. She had cancer. Before my wife became ill.”
“I’m so sorry, Bastien.” Diego pats Bastien’s hand, which rests on the top of the iron fencing.
“It was several years ago. Four.” He looks off into the darkness of the water below, as though he could conjure a past where his daughter was still alive. “I took her only in my heart on that walk to Compostela.”
“That’s so sweet.” I have no other words.
“As my wife’s heart is dying, and I sit by her bed and I watch her fade, fade, fade—she becomes a ghost in her body—I dream only of the Camino. Of taking her in the same way together we take our Chloe. I dream only of the people, and the trees, and the mountains, and the yellow arrows to point the way to the cathedral and St. James. Of the click, click, click of the sticks, yes?”
He smiles but it’s a smile that holds the deepest sadness ever. I think back to the day I was dragged here kicking and screaming and I imagine him yearning for the same thing I would have sold my soul to get out of.
“I only want to complete this way to Compostela. I am very tired. If I can help only a boy who falls at my feet in the mud or a woman who struggles to reach the bottom of the hill, that is enough for now. I take my wife with me. I carry her here.”
Bastien pats his chest, but not where his heart is… more in the center. We fall into silence while we ponder his words. I feel guilty for almost missing out on this because I hated the idea so much I tried to take the punishment instead. Thank God my father wouldn’t allow it.
“I didn’t know why I walked,” Diego says. “Because I was bad? But then I thought, no, that’s only why I got here. Not why I walk. I think we’re all walking away from something or toward something. Maybe, some of us, even both.”
Diego surprises us by putting a hand on the fence and springing himself up and over it. His legs swing in the air, and he lands effortlessly on the grassy incline on the other side.
“Now I know. I have my abuelita with me.” He turns to us and he looks slightly mad, with this crazy smile and tears welling up in his eyes. He pounds the middle of his own chest.
Then he turns toward the river, steps down to the bank, and jumps in. Clothes and all.
“Diego,” I stage-whisper scream. He’s lost it.
“Ha ha ha. Leave him be. Leave him be. It is safe. The river won’t take him here, Shania. It is little, little.”
Then Bastien looks me in the eye and winks before he struggles impossibly to get himself over the same short fence Diego hurdled with ease.
“We go?” he whispers when he finally manages to get himself down on the other side. He is completely spent, but he still turns and makes his way down to the water. I must be crazy, because I follow them.
Chapter 33 — Troy Sinclair
If the other night was any indication, things are beginning to get real on this Camino de Santiago.
Our not-so-little group walked past the one-hundred-mile marker yesterday, on our way to Morgade. After Claire and Greg’s little stunt the night before, it’s amazing we all made it to that marker alive. It felt like we were prisoners all the way there. Gil was even strict with Kei until he realized he should probably tone it down a bit.
Try taking a selfie with nine of your closest friends, especially when half of them aren’t speaking because they’re pissed off at one another. We had to kneel and lean in all together against the stumpy little mile marker. It wasn’t easy. Thank God for my Kei and his lifesaving selfie stick. There was a line of peregrinos waiting to get that shot too. It’s probably the most popular mile marker on the whole Camino.
Anyway, we finally arrived in Morgade yesterday as the sun was about to set. It was our longest day. Almost twenty-five kilometers. And, though we were herded together under the watchful eye of our angry shepherd, Gil, and his faithful sidekick, Meagan, I talked to no one but Kei. Which was okay by me.
When Claire attempted to butt in and bribe us with a fresh bag of Skittles, I shut her down.
The albergue was gorgeous, and Kei and I fell in love with it. We imagined ourselves living there and growing old together. It was all stone and wood and precious, with butter yellow walls and quilts. We kept to ourselves to avoid the drama.
I keep thinking about the disappointment I’m going to feel once we reach Compostela. The more excited the others get, the more desperate I feel. It’s ridiculous. I can’t imagine not having Kei’s face in my life.
We’ve walked all morning, and the sun is beginning to scorch. I swear, it’s getting hotter every day. Kei and I set out early, but we were the only ones allowed to break from the group. I think Gil trusts me the most of our group of hooligans. After yesterday, I’m just glad to be rid of them all for a bit. A guy needs to breathe.
“The guidebook says they took the church apart brick by brick, numbered each and every brick, carried them up the big hill, and put it all back together again,” Kei says while I’m busy watching my feet walking down this ridiculously steep hill. “Do you think that’s true? It says they literally moved the town up the hill.”
“You should watch where you’re going. You’re going to kill yourself.”
“Nah,” he says, lifting our interlocked hands. “I have complete faith that you’ll steer me away from danger.”
“You probably shouldn’t,” I say. But he’s done the same thing for me several times. “I don’t know about the church, but you’re totally missing this.”
I point off to the right where this huge bridge has come into view. A small town stretches up and away from the water on the other side. We’re far above it, looking down upon it. It’s a postcard.
“Wow,” Kei says. He stuffs his guidebook back into his backpack. We keep walking, taking in the amazing views of the approaching town as we go.
The closer we get to the river, the more the steep road down to it swerves and curves. We lose sight of the town several times as it disappears through the trees.
We pass several peregrinos who zigzag from one side of the road to the other to cut down the angle of the incline and save their feet.
“Wanna try that?” Kei suggests after it’s obvious we’re the only ones not zigzagging.
“Nah,” I say. “Let’s just run. More time to ourselves once we get there.”
“If we fall on the way down, I’m suing you for malfeasance.”
“Big word. Such an American concept.” We laugh and continue on our self-destructive path to the bridge in the distance.
* * *
The plan today is for all ten of us to have a picnic just beyond Portomarin, the town on the other side of the bridge.
Kei and I stop at a grocery and pick up some crackers, Twizzlers, and beef jerky. And a can of sardines. Our contribution to the picnic. The Twizzlers are Kei’s idea. He’s not allowed to have junk food back home. His dentist father.
We’re sitting on some steps beside the Church of San Xoán—the church that was moved brick by brick up the hill before they flooded the valley—when everyone comes walking up from the bottom of town. Claire, Shania, and Greg are first to appear, followed by Meagan and Bastien. A few minutes later, Manny, Diego, and Gil arrive. They all wave.
I point to the store with one hand and lift my bag of picnic food with the other. “We’re all ready.”
“Awesome,” Meagan says. “We’ll be right out.”
After they all have their purchases and have taken the necessary cathedral shots, we start out of town.
“Anything happen we should know about?” Gil asks as he comes up alongside me and Kei.
“Nope. Smooth sailing. Thanks for letting us take off early.”
“Not a problem, my man. I trust you.” He smiles but raises a finger. “Unless and until you give me a reason not to, that is.”
“Thanks. Good ole reliable Troy. That’s what they call me back home.”
“Nothing wrong with being reliable,” he says, before dropping back to fall into step with Meagan.
Soon we cross a small footbridge over another part of the river. The road winds uphill right away. It’s almost nostalgic when I hear Greg moan and complain from somewhere behind us. I look at Kei, and we laugh. So much for our earlier peace and quiet.
Chapter 34 — Diego Nelson
“And at the top of this world, we give thanks for Portomarin,” Bastien says. He waves an arm in the direction we came from. “To Troy’s sardines, to this big sky above, and to the large hawk who circles us. Our spirit guide on this day of our journey, maybe.”
Bastien holds his plastic cup up to the bird, and we all copy him.
“Amen,” he says. We join him. It is one of the rare occasions Gil and Meagan have allowed us all to have a taste of wine. After the toast, we dig into the pile of food spread out between us.
We sit in the long grass beside the path, directly at the top of the enormous hill we just climbed. The sand of the path is almost orange. The sides of my hiking boots have taken on the color. Almost all of us are in our stocking feet, and our shoes are piled on the path. Claire is barefoot, and her feet are almost as orange as the sand.
“This is the best food I ever tasted,” Shania says. Pretty much everyone agrees.
In the quiet that follows, we devour the bizarre mix of food. Everyone just grabbed stuff at the grocery, so we have so many random things to pick from.
When Gil and Meagan clear everything away, sorting piles of trash and leftovers, Claire stands up. She gulps down her cup of wine and clears her throat.
“I have something I want to say to everyone. I have an apology to make. Can we have today’s group meeting now? But can Kei and Bastien stay for this one?” She looks to Troy and keeps his gaze while she continues to speak.
Gil nods for her to continue.
“I’ve been a little… messed up lately. Back at Samos I ruined Greg’s day by dragging him into my drama. And I sort of dragged everyone else into it too.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Claire,” Troy says. Dude sounds almost angry, though. “We all have our own crap to deal with.”
“I’m serious. I need to talk about this. It’s why I’m here. It’s why I feel this ache that just won’t go away.” She pounds her chest and breaks down a little. She’s tryna keep it together, but I don’t know.
“Sweetie,” Troy says. He stands up, goes to her side, and guides her down to the ground. They sit cross-legged, and Troy says, “Okay. I got you. Say what you need to say.” He keeps one hand on her shoulder.
“Thanks, Troy.”
He nods and pats her shoulder. My Troyboy is in his element now, mothering Claire through it.
“Back home I fe
el like I’m disappearing. I’m not allowed to be who I am, and it’s wearing me down. It has worn me down. I’m afraid if I go back, I’ll vanish completely. And I know I’ve been so miserable here and bringing everyone down, but it’s because I love it here. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but I keep missing it as it happens. What’s that word Bastien said a thousand years ago? Saudade?
“I’m dying of saudade. For this place. For being able to feel like myself. For casting a shadow here. My heart races when I think about going home. That’s why I keep thinking of just leaving this path and disappearing into Spain, into Europe. Into the world. You guys are the only thing keeping me from doing it.
“I feel crazy. Like I’m being pulled in two directions.” Claire stops to take a breath, and Bastien hands her a handkerchief from his pocket. She blows her nose and wipes tears from her eyes. “Thank you.”
“What’s wrong, Claire?” Shania asks. “If your parents are anything like mine, I get how you’d feel invisible.”
“It’s not that, Shania. It’s not invisible. I think I could deal with that.”
“What is it, then?”
“Guys. I’m not sure we should be talking about this,” Gil says. “Maybe we can just graciously accept Claire’s apology, finish picking up, and be on our way.”
“No, Gil. I want to say it out loud. I want to get it out.”
Gil has this look on his face. He’s worried for Claire, but there’s more to it. I don’t know if he’s comfortable with how personal things are getting. He gets up and reaches for the bag of garbage.
“Gil,” Meagan says softly, almost imperceptibly. She raises a hand and nods at the ground beside her. Gil takes the hint and sits back down.
“My parents are strict conservatives and extremely religious,” Claire says. “Like, they live for their church; they’re nuts. I’m pretty sure you all know I’m gay. I talk about my girlfriend, Zoe, whenever I can because I miss her so much.” She pulls a bag of Skittles from her pocket. “I eat these things like crack just to feel closer to Zoe because back home we use them to communicate. We devised a secret language between us where Skittles are our vocabulary. Because we need to be a secret. I need to get out of that oppression, out of that house, or else…”