Sonder Village

by Taylor Hobbs

  “I’m trying to do what is best for you, Remy. I’m trying to help. Let me help.”

  She deflected his patronizing remark and changed the subject. Anything to just get him to leave. “Do you need a ride back into town?”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll walk.” He spun on his heel and stalked off. Clearly their interaction hadn’t gone how he had envisioned it.

  Remy watched him disappear down the dusty road, feeling a mixture of relief and more than a little bit of regret. He’ll forgive me for this someday. He had a right to be angry and frustrated with her right now.

  She searched through her grocery bags, leaving them where they sat on the moped, except for the wine. From her purse she pulled out her trusty bottle opener and went to find a shady spot. The rest of the work today could wait. Emotional exhaustion had melted her bones, and her brain needed a break.

  This was a new tradition—every three days Remy would buy a different bottle of red wine in her never-ending search to find the magical bottle again. So far, she hadn’t had any luck, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Even though the first sip always disappointed, the rest of the bottle went down smoothly. Over the past few weeks she’d had the opportunity to try some truly spectacular vintages.

  I so deserve this, she told herself, and popped the cork. Taking swigs from the bottle, she watched the shadows lengthen and the pain in her heart began to ease. The afternoon heat lulled her into a meditative calm as she tried to forget. Her thoughts turned to the village, and while she wondered if Jack had made some good points after all, the view in front of her gradually began to shift.

  The crumbling wall at her back grew smooth and hard, and the uneven pokes into her spine disappeared. Dirt under her butt turned into soft grass. Deep ruts from wagon wheels drew the route through the village, highlighting the roads most traveled. The main house directly across from her transformed. Shutters were thrown open and sheets fluttered in the soft breeze. The front door was painted a shocking bright red.

  Remy stood up and swayed, clutching her head. How much have I had to drink?

  She stumbled farther, and rounded the corner to see the mill, astonished that the windmill was turning. The wind wafted the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery.

  It’s like a movie set. Perfectly charming, but totally empty. A ghost town that lacked anything real. Open-mouthed, Remy took it all in, amazed to see her dream for the village come to life. Her vision had been a bit more modern, but some of the details, down to the red door on the main house, were pulled from her mind’s eye. At the same time, it felt wrong. The cold quaintness of it all chilled her. She felt a shiver run down her spine.

  Look at how beautiful I can be, the village seemed to say to her. Stay with me. Be with me. Fix me.

  All thoughts of Jack and her inner turmoil disappeared as Remy wandered like an almighty being through her creation. Was this the village in its former glory? Had she created this, or was the village telling her how it wanted to be?

  Feeling more than a little spooked, Remy picked up her pace and headed for the orchard. I’m just drunk. None of this is real. A walk and some fresh air would do her good, and by the time she came back, the village would look the same as it had through sober eyes.

  Her feet remembered the path’s twists and turns to the cliff, and soon she was running. Resisting the urge to look back at the village to see if it had returned to its dilapidated state, she kept her eyes straight ahead. Part of her didn’t believe her feet would stop in time, and the other half of her urged her to go faster anyway.

  Weaving through the orchard and the underbrush, Remy blazed her trail like a wild animal. Her heart threatened to break out of her chest. An athlete, Remy was not. She swallowed back the urge to vomit as she pushed her body as far as it would go in its current state. I’m never drinking again, she promised.

  A shadowed figure stepped in front of her, and though Remy tried to put on the brakes, her momentum carried her directly into them. She slammed into a warm body at full force, and it knocked her backward. She tried to say “Ow!” but all the air had escaped her lungs.

  Dazed, she stared up through the trees at the late afternoon sunlight dappled through the leaves. Everything was spinning. She closed her eyes against the brightness, and her last thought was wishing that she could have kept running forever.

  Chapter Four

  When Remy opened her eyes again, she didn’t recognize where she was, but the headache was familiar—wine hangover. There was nothing else like it.

  Shit. What was I thinking? Remy remembered being confused and upset while drunk, and somehow she’d had the bright idea to go jogging to sober up. “I guess it worked,” she groaned, and sat up. It had probably been the combination of her exercise and her impromptu nap. But how exactly did I end up sleeping in the dirt?

  The outline of a man stepped into view. “Damn it, Jack, I told you to go away,” Remy said. Obviously, her ex-husband had gotten turned around on the singular path that led to town and ended up walking in circles around her property. The man could organize a stock portfolio in mere hours, but God forbid anyone give him a map or directions.

  “I swear to God, Jack, I’m done having this conversation.”

  “Buenas tardes, Señora,” the man said.

  Okay, not Jack. Just a strange man on my property. Don’t panic. “Who the hell are you?” Remy said. She refused to be afraid, even though the sun was about to go down, this man had knocked her out, and there was nobody else around for miles. She struggled to her knees, hoping it would make her look and feel less vulnerable than being slumped on the ground.

  The man bent down and extended a polite hand. “Lo siento,” he said. I’m sorry. The words translated themselves in Remy’s consciousness without a pause. Huh, maybe my complete Spanish immersion is starting to work. That thought gave her some comfort as she eyed his hand warily.

  It was strong and tanned, though the remnants of old cuts had left a chaotic pattern of white scars. A laborer’s hand. Her gaze followed up his arm, where he was wearing a somewhat billowy white shirt, open in a V at the chest, and a plain vest. His hair was a riot of dark curls, surrounding a lean, sun-weathered face. When Remy’s eyes finally saw his, she relaxed just a bit. His warm brown eyes held nothing but concern as they looked at her.

  “What are you doing on my property?” she asked, but took his proffered hand, and he hauled her to her feet. She swayed a bit, feeling the effects of her drunken afternoon more heavily than usual. When she felt steady enough, she let go.

  “You must have hit your head hard,” he answered. “Are you lost? Is that why you were running?” Again, Remy understood him perfectly, even though she was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.

  “I apologize for the collision,” he said, giving her a little bow of his head. “I was on my way up from my beach walk. It was my fault; my head was lost in the clouds.”

  Did he just say beach walk? “Can you show me how to get down there?”

  He tilted his head. “Simply follow the path. It is steep, but take care and you will be safe. I can escort you, if you wish.”

  “I looked and looked last time I was here, but never found a way down.”

  “Then I will show you myself,” he said. “Forgive my rudeness, I have yet to introduce myself. My name is Bieito.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bieito. I’m Remy.” She held out her hand, and Bieito seemed surprised. He took it gently in his own, but Remy gave it two firm shakes. His eyebrows shot up.

  “You are not Galician,” he said.

  “No, I’m American. I just moved here. You haven’t heard about me in town? You must be the only person who hasn’t. Apparently, I’ve been the hot gossip around here, though I can’t understand why. I’m really not that interesting, and mostly keep to myself—”

  “You speak very strangely.” Then, realizing what he had said out loud, Bieito blushed. “Pardon me. I have never met an American before. Your Spanish is very good, es
pecially for a foreigner.”

  Remy laughed. “Okay, buddy. You don’t have to suck up that much. I don’t care that you’re trespassing. I was just surprised to see you.”

  He looked confused, and Remy got the distinct impression that they weren’t on the same page, much less the same book. Her unexpected guest was too polite to try to clarify their conversation, so he gestured to the end of the trail where the trees thinned. “Come, this way. I shall walk you down to the beach. A lady like yourself should not be unaccompanied so close to sundown anyway.”

  Once the pair stood side by side on the cliff, Remy inhaled the salty smell of the bay and sighed with contentment. The breeze washed away the last of her nightmare from earlier, and the hangover loosened its grip.

  Bieito had been watching Remy’s face transform into pure joy. “I spend all day on the water, yet I still come down here to think. It is a good place to be alone,” he said.

  “You won’t mind sharing your beach with a stranger?”

  Bieito gave her a shy smile. “If it has been calling to you this much, then you belong down there as much as I do.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt when I arrived at my village! It called to me, and I couldn’t say no. It was the oddest feeling.”

  “Galicia is the place for miracles. Ask and you shall receive.”

  “That’s what I am most afraid of,” Remy muttered. “Now, where is this secret way down?”

  Much to Remy’s shock, Bieito pointed to a path carved into the cliff. It was hidden behind a boulder and began a few feet down from the edge. How did I miss that before? she wondered, peering at the treacherous descent. Driftwood poles poked up every few feet, strung with thick rope to serve as a flimsy guardrail.

  Bieito jumped down, light as a cat, and turned to look up at Remy. “I will catch you,” he said.

  “Here it goes,” she said, and stepped off the ledge. Just as he had promised, Bieito caught her waist securely and set her down, releasing her immediately when both her feet were planted. “That wasn’t so bad,” she said, smoothing her hair down and trying to appear nonchalant. Getting back up would be another story, and Remy suspected that it would include a lot of awkward scrambling.

  “Your American style—it is much easier to move around in men’s clothing, no?” Bieito observed.

  “I’m a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl,” Remy said, thinking it a bit odd that he would comment on her clothing. She knew she wasn’t as dressed up or fancy as a lot of the Spanish women she had seen out in Ortigueira. Still, her outfits didn’t stand out that much in town. There were plenty of other women who wore shorts and tennis shoes. Remy looked down at her stained work shirt and ripped jeans. Her original plan for the day had involved a lot more work with a wheelbarrow and a lot less work with her ex-husband, a wine bottle, and an unexpected 5k run. No wonder Bieito thought she was lost and most likely deranged.

  “Follow me, and watch your step,” he instructed, and started down the slope. Remy trailed after him, grateful that he kept looking back over his shoulder to check on her. He gave her a reassuring smile.

  Bieito looked like someone who spent the majority of his time outdoors, but it was difficult to discern his age. Remy suspected he had to be around her own, though. He didn’t seem like a cocky twenty-something, nor a middle-aged man who fought aches and pains as a normal part of life. There was a timeless quality about Bieito, a grace in the way he held himself. He was confident without the swagger, and seemingly polite to a fault. He didn’t seem to mind that Remy had overthrown his plans for the rest of the day. He was, in fact, eager to help her out.

  To fill the silence on their way down, Remy asked, “Do you live nearby?”

  “Yes, in the village up the hill, but I work out of the port.”

  “Porto de Espasante?” The place that Maggie had warned Remy about—rough fisherman in an industrial community. She couldn’t picture Bieito there.

  “Yes, my father, brother, and I.” He seemed strangely reluctant to talk about his work, so Remy decided to change the subject.

  “I’m an artist,” she volunteered. “Or, was. Kind of. It’s up in the air right now.”

  “An artist! Why are you not in Barcelona? Or even Madrid? Ortigueira is a strange place for one such as yourself.”

  “But it’s the place for miracles, right? And I need a miracle.”

  They finally stepped into the narrow strip of sand, their feet disappearing as they sank into the softness. Bieito offered her his arm. “I got it,” she assured him. Laughing, she kicked off her shoes and ran toward the water.

  Icy, clear waves ran over her tired feet, soothing them up to her ankles. New energy flowed through her, and Remy wanted to immerse herself completely in the water. She longed to let it float her away on its whims and be controlled only by the tides. But she would have to be satisfied with a foot baptism instead, as her toes soon grew too numb to stand it any longer. She regretfully exited the water, but as a slightly new and improved version of herself. Bieito still stood on the shore, watching Remy splash back to him. He was clutching something around his neck.

  When Remy reached him, she asked, “What’s that?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Around your neck. A cross?”

  Bieito unclenched is fingers and held a necklace out for Remy to see. It was a pure white scallop shell on a leather thong. “This is the token of the travelers on the Way of Saint James. Surely you must have seen it before?”

  That shell did look familiar, but Remy hadn’t seen it on a necklace. “All Camino travelers wear it?”

  “Most do. It shows that all roads lead to Saint James, no matter where you start. It represents the paths we choose to walk because we all have many ways of getting to the same destination. The important thing is to pick a path and see it through to the end.”

  “Where did you get yours? On the trail?”

  He smiled at her. “I picked mine up on this very beach. It called out to me.”

  Leaving Remy to contemplate his words, Bieito walked up to where the waves crashed onto the sand and picked up a floating stick. Absentmindedly, he began to sketch something on the ground. Before Remy could see what it was, saltwater erased it.

  “Do you draw, too?” Remy asked.

  Bieito shrugged. “For my own amusement, sometimes,” he confessed. He shoved the stick in Remy’s direction. “You are the artist,” he said. “Draw a picture for the sea.”

  Remy stared down at the tool in her hand, so similar to the thousands of sketch pencils she had held over the years, but it felt more foreign than it had any right to be. It was like she had suddenly lost the ability to walk.

  She tried to empty her mind to conjure up her picture, to let her hands move freely as they brought an image to life, but she still saw nothing. There was a deep emptiness inside of her, a void that she could neither bridge nor fill. “I can’t,” she said, and dropped the stick onto the ground. Turning away from Bieito so he wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes, Remy took a few deep breaths.

  I’m acting like a child. Worse, she realized, because a child can poke a stick into the sand. It shouldn’t be such a big deal! But it was a big deal, and only getting worse as the paralysis took hold of Remy more frequently. Pretty soon I will be afraid to write my name.

  “I did not mean to upset you.” Bieito’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. “It was for fun. I apologize if I put pressure—”

  Remy let out a harsh laugh. “No more than I put on myself, Bieito.” She turned to look at him, not caring that her face was now red and blotchy.

  “I will draw something to cheer you up,” he declared. “I will make you smile again!” He bowed to her gallantly and picked up the stick. “Behold, the masterpiece,” he said, and got to work. With a few quick strokes, it soon became apparent that Bieito was drawing some kind of animal. A little snout and a curly tail—

  “A pig!” It was cute, almost cartoonish.

  “I must not be as terrible as I f
eared if you can recognize it.” As soon as Bieito said that, his drawing was washed away. “The sea gives me many chances to practice.”

  Remy thought about what it would be like to have her paintings just disappear. To work for days or weeks, perfecting the color and brushstroke, only to be left with nothing at the end. What would she create if she knew it wouldn’t hang upon a wall forever? An exercise in skill without reward. Each painting would stand alone and only exist for a brief amount of time. Wouldn’t that make each piece all the more precious?

  Where would my canvases go when they disappeared? Pictures in the sand returned to the sea. Maybe her creations on canvas would dissipate back into the universe, their energy dispersed into the cosmos, like her babies had been. She liked to imagine that her paintings would join her babies somewhere.

  “I’ll try your way,” Remy finally said, hand outstretched for the stick. She stood on the waterline, ensuring that her picture would be short-lived. Closing her eyes, she searched for a good memory. She settled on her first morning after deciding to buy the village.

  With hesitant strokes, Remy sketched a small figure, what a person might look like from far away. Then with ever-increasing confidence, her strokes created a cliff-side, adding depth and dimension with broader movements. Before Remy could decide whether or not the figure in her picture was about to jump, the cold salt water hit the back of her legs, and the picture was gone.

  Remy felt a flash of irritation, and then immense joy. She looked up at Bieito with a big grin on her face. For a few successful minutes, she had lost herself in her picture. “You’re right—this is fun.”

  “Did you draw what was in your heart?”

  “I think I did.” Triumphant with her tiny breakthrough, Remy threw the stick back into the bay. That was enough for now. She also realized that this was the first time in years she had allowed anyone to see her draw. Usually she was only able to create behind closed doors. Bieito had allowed her to work in peace but was still an encouraging presence all the same.