Beneath Wandering Stars

by Cowles, Ashlee;

  “Wait, I saw a picture of something like this in one of Lucas’s history books.” Seth stops to touch the wet straw. “Except that photo was of a medieval monastery in Ireland.”

  “Then we must have teleported through time and across the ocean, because that’s exactly what this place feels like. And I’m not just talking about the abrupt weather change.” I pause, straining to hear beyond the patter of rain. “Please tell me you hear the music too and I’m not losing my mind.”

  The haunting drone comes from the center of the village, which otherwise is as dead as the rest of the ghost towns we walked through today. Seth’s gaping mouth confirms that I’m not the only one who hears the distinct sounds of bagpipes and a Celtic fiddle. The eerie duet dances through the darkness, growing louder with each step we take.

  Honestly, I’m a little disappointed to discover that the wailing notes aren’t emanating from a caravan of Irish tinkers or burly Scots seated around a campfire. The reality is far less romantic. A brightly-lit gift shop appears ahead of us, and we discover that the bagpipe music is blaring from loudspeakers in its open doorway.

  “Uh, where are we?” Seth mutters.

  “Spain the last time I checked, though I’m starting to wonder.”

  We duck inside the gift shop because: a) neither of us can stand to be in the rain for one more minute, and b) if the owner of the shop is trying this hard to attract customers, we’ve got to see what this place is all about. Most of the souvenirs are Celtic-inspired knickknacks—silver jewelry twisted into knotted designs, Irish penny whistles, and jars of Galician honey so thick and black it looks more like molasses. Also, a ton of Enya CDs.

  We’re the only people here. We warm ourselves in the store’s heat for about twenty minutes, so I feel obligated to buy something. And what else does one buy in such a store but a sheep refrigerator magnet (made with local wool) that proclaims “I [Heart] Ewe”?

  A studious-looking man sits behind the cash register, absorbed in an Umberto Eco novel. The flecks of gray in his goatee suggest he’s in his forties, but when he raises his eyes and sees that he has a customer, the enthusiasm engulfing his face makes him seem younger than me.

  “Will that be all?” he asks in a dialect that barely sounds like Spanish.

  “Yes. Thank you.” If I can get the guy to talk again, maybe I’ll be able to figure out what’s up with his bizarre accent. “You own a very unique shop. This village reminds me of Ireland. Not that I’ve ever been there.”

  The shopkeeper laughs, his brogue softening a bit. “That’s because we Galicians are descendants of the ancient Celts. In fact, of the seven Celtic kingdoms, Galicia is by far the oldest, which makes us more Gaelic than the Irish and Scottish. Though don’t try to tell them that!” The animated man produces a large instrument from behind the counter. “Mira. This, señorita, is a gaita. Made from a goat’s stomach. Similar to the bagpipe, see?”

  “Ah. Interesting.” I smile and nod, but what I’m really wondering is how people came up with the disgusting idea to make musical instruments out of animal organs in the first place. I don’t want to be rude, but with Seth’s famished eyes boring into my back, I’m hoping I haven’t just invited this shopkeeper to launch into a lengthy diatribe on the seven Celtic kingdoms and why Galicia is numero uno. He’s super friendly, but the intense glimmer in his gaze also makes me question his sanity. “We had a long walk today, señor. Would you mind pointing us in the direction of the pilgrim albergue?”

  The shopkeeper’s eyes bulge behind his thick glasses. “No one told you, peregrina? All this rain has resulted in flooding on the lower level of the albergue, so an entire section of the hostel is temporarily closed off. I’m afraid the beds they do have were taken hours ago.”

  “What’s he saying?” Seth asks beside me, picking up on the sudden change in the shopkeeper’s tone. When I explain the situation, Seth’s face reddens. He gets that look guys tend to get when they’re about to punch a wall or do something equally impractical. “Awesome. This entire day is a disaster. Your turn, Gabi. What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Uh, we’re supposed to practice good OPSEC and not cause an international incident,” I say through gritted teeth. Forcing a smile, I turn back to the shopkeeper and ask about hotels in the area. Staying in one would mean breaking Dad’s supreme commandment yet again, but I’m sure even my prudish father would prefer that I not contract pneumonia from sleeping outside in the rain. Maybe.

  “The village does have one private inn. Un momento, I’ll give them a call.”

  This phone conversation takes a lot more than a minute, since it also involves an update on village news for the entire week. Seth and I are fidgeting by the time the shopkeeper hangs up. “Lo siento. I regret to inform you that the inn is also full.”

  I translate the verdict. Seth whirls around in frustration, nearly taking out a display of kitschy St. James statues with his pack in the process.

  The shopkeeper holds up both hands. “Wait! No problem! You may stay here. Tell your bad-tempered friend, peregrina, before he destroys my shop. My wife and I have room. You may stay with us.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. Stay overnight with total strangers? Not to mention a stranger who seemed odd to begin with and must be a little off if he’s willing to put us up after Seth’s latest display of camino rage. Yet the more I think about it, the more I realize my kneejerk reaction to this man’s exuberance is pretty sad. Since when did I start translating “nice and slightly eccentric stranger” into “potential serial killer”?

  “Hospitality has a long tradition on the camino,” the man explains, picking up on my anxiety. “In the medieval monasteries built along the Way of St. James, the monks used to open their home to any traveler who landed on their doorstep, whether rich or poor. Now we have the albergues to house pilgrims, but many of us locals who live along the route feel blessed when we are able to offer the same services our ancestors did so long ago. ‘Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.’” The shopkeeper smiles in a way that’s moderately creepy, but one hundred percent genuine. “Most of us have been, or will one day be, strangers in a foreign land, no?”

  “I can’t say we’re angels, but that’s very kind of you.” Because I’m the one who speaks Spanish, I get to make the call. I accept the shopkeeper’s offer before Seth even hears what it is. “Thank you. We’d love to stay.”

  Fact: there are a lot of messed-up people in this world, but there are some generous souls, too. And the more I hear about this man’s love for the camino and its traditions, the more I trust that he’s one of the good guys. Besides, at this point, any dry place will do the job.

  Our host, Rodrigo, closes up shop and guides us to the small apartment above his store. There, his equally gracious wife, Pilar, pours us bowl after bowl of steaming hot caldo Gallego. It’s the most delicious soup I’ve ever tasted, made with chorizo, potatoes, and the green leafy vegetable that seems to grow all over this province like an invasive weed. Seth has three helpings and I have two, but Pilar keeps rummaging around her kitchen like she’s got more magic in store. The petite powerhouse reminds me of my dad’s sister, Isabel, another woman who’s never satisfied until her guests have eaten their body weight in whatever she’s serving.

  “And now un postre!” Pilar sets two thick slices of cake dusted in powdered sugar before us. “This is the tarta de Santiago—a special dessert for pilgrims on the Way of St. James.”

  “I assure you, amigos, Pilar’s is the best tarta you’ll try on the entire camino,” Rodrigo insists. “It’s a secret family recipe, passed down for many generations.”

  From the ancient Celts, no doubt. I smile, amused by Rodrigo’s assertions that everything from Galicia is “the best.” It’s hard to argue with him, based on my experience so far. I’m stuffed from the soup, but every bite of this flaky almond cake makes me want another. The dessert is simple and rustic—the same characteri
stics of our hosts, the local cuisine, and this region in general. Simple, rustic, and good.

  Dad used to tell us that the neighbors he grew up with in the humid hills of Oaxaca were the most benevolent, salt-of-the-earth people he’d ever known. The kind of people who looked out for one another and fed whatever kid happened to be hanging around, no matter who that kid actually belonged to. Sometimes life on a military base can feel like that, though I can’t say I’ve ever met a couple as bighearted as Rodrigo and Pilar.

  Even the skeptical Seth seems touched. “Muchas gracias,” he repeats multiple times whenever Pilar sets down a new plate or takes one away. He’s quiet during the meal since that’s about the extent of his Spanish, but I can tell from the content look on his face that he feels safe here with these strangers. And the soldier part of him doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

  “Are you all right?” I ask later on when I’m stretched out across the sofa. Seth is tossing and turning on his air mattress on the other side of the living room.

  He stops flailing. Rain patters softly on the roof. “I’d forgotten.”

  “Forgotten what?”

  “That there are decent human beings out there.”

  I smile defiantly into the darkness. Seth is right. Turn off the news and avoid the mall during the holidays and people might surprise you. His words have me smiling myself to sleep. For the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up in the middle of the night. Not once.

  • • •

  “Bloody hell!” Seth shoots up from his mattress like a busted spring.

  Apparently in Galicia they don’t believe in alarm clocks. They believe in gaitas.

  The bagpipe music assails us from Rodrigo’s study down the hall, where the light of dawn drifts in from outside in muted grays that signify another rainy day. Galicia’s wet climate doesn’t exactly encourage us to hop out of bed, but once I smell espresso, I throw on a sweater and stumble towards the kitchen. Seth just groans loudly and attempts to smother himself with his pillow.

  “Buenas dias,” I mumble to Pilar. She’s standing at the counter juicing half a bag of oranges, her foot tapping along with the gaita music while the percolator boils on the stove. Yes, morning people are annoying, but I will not bite the hand that brews my coffee.

  Pilar returns my greeting by handing me a glass of fresh squeezed OJ, which kicks the crap out of the canned-from-concentrate stuff from back home. “You never told me, peregrina. What are your reasons for walking to Santiago?”

  I ponder this question while sipping my deliciously pulpy juice. Maybe it’s because Pilar reminds me of my Aunt Isabel, or maybe I’m still half-asleep, but I feel like I can talk to her about almost anything.

  “I’m walking for my brother, Lucas. He was badly injured a few weeks ago.” For some reason, saying the actual words stings like citrus in an open wound. “I also had a big fight with my father a while back and things haven’t been the same between us since. He’s relying on me to finish this pilgrimage for Lucas, and I’m hoping that once I do, things will return to normal.”

  Pilar smiles. “I’m afraid things never go back to normal after the camino. Look at me, eh? I walked to Santiago when I finished university, married a loveable lunatic I met along the way, and never left.”

  “You met Rodrigo as a pilgrim?” Somehow this doesn’t surprise me. “Let me guess. He serenaded you with his early morning gaita tunes?”

  “Actually, being a señorita from southern Spain, I serenaded him with my flamenco guitar.” Pilar gives me a mischievous wink. “Your reasons for walking to Santiago are very noble. I wish more pilgrims walked on behalf of loved ones, instead of for the touristic reasons more seem to cite every year.”

  “That bothers you?” My mouth starts watering as Pilar presents a plate of toast topped with blood-red tomatoes and sea salt. Seriously, the woman never quits.

  “I can’t really say it bothers me, especially when the pilgrims motivated by tourism are more likely to purchase something from Rodrigo’s shop,” Pilar replies with a wry grin. “But it makes me sad when the camino isn’t seen for what it truly is. It isn’t a hike. It’s something sacred. It’s a way to connect. Or maybe a way to reconnect. The Way isn’t about reaching a destination just to check it off the list and buy a postcard. It means so much more than that.”

  “I know, I know, and I need to find my own reason for walking it,” I reply. “I get that, but I can’t come up with one.”

  “Your own reason?” Pilar frowns. “Who told you such a silly thing?”

  I shrug. “A lot of pilgrims seem to be looking for some big existential meaning behind their journey, but I’m not on a quest of self-discovery or anything like that. I’m doing this for my brother and for my dad. That’s it.”

  “And what could be more meaningful than that?” Pilar laughs and pats my hand like she’s scolding me for stealing from the cookie jar. “Do you think pilgrims in ages past had the luxury of walking across Europe to ‘find themselves’? Of course not. They walked out of devotion to their faith and for the sake of those they loved. Your reasons for this journey are perfectly valid, peregrina. Don’t listen to anyone who tries to tell you otherwise.”

  Pilar adds a dash of pepper to the tomatoes and breakfast is served. “You know what? I always said I wanted to make the journey to Santiago on foot one more time. I almost did it a few years back, when Rodrigo and I were trying to have a child.”

  The sudden sorrow in Pilar’s eyes tells me they were not successful.

  “What I’m trying to say is that true spirituality is rarely about warm feelings of fulfillment. It’s often about duty and obedience and sacrifice. A pilgrimage must be difficult and it must involve suffering, otherwise it has no lessons to teach. Based on what I’ve witnessed all these years living along the camino, the best way this journey helps people find themselves is by teaching them to forget themselves. This is often done by learning to love your fellow travelers. After all, we’re all on the same road, mija. All walking the same way home.”

  My ears perk up at the familiar Spanish shorthand for my daughter. The rest of Pilar’s words settle down deep. I’ve never stopped to consider why anyone else might be walking this route, and that makes me feel ashamed. Maybe I’ve encountered someone recently diagnosed with cancer, or a couple having fertility problems, or a pilgrim who also has a loved one laid up in the hospital. Who knows what battle each and every person walking this route came out here to fight? I never bothered asking.

  “That’s wise advice, Señora Valente. Thank you.”

  Smiling, Pilar retrieves the coffeepot from the stove. “I’m no sage, peregrina, but in order to live with an insatiably curious man like my Rodrigo, it’s vital that I come up with a halfway decent thought from time to time.”

  As Pilar pours me a cup of coffee, the bagpipe music falls silent. Rodrigo bursts into the kitchen humming the same upbeat tune, a local newspaper, the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, and a nature book on hedgehogs in his hands. Pilar nods in her oblivious husband’s direction as he sits down for his eclectic morning reading. “See what I mean? Esta loco.”

  I slurp my café con leche and smile. “Aren’t we all?”

  Chapter 19

  The sun comes out. Maybe it’s going to be a beautiful day after all. After Pilar’s delicious breakfast, it’s time for Seth and I to say goodbye to our amazing hosts.

  Rodrigo walks us back to the camino, lifting both hands to the increasingly clear sky. “See, peregrinos? You are very fortunate. It’s rare to see sunshine in O Cebreiro in the spring. As they say on the Emerald Isle (though I believe the Irish stole it from us Galicians): May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face . . . .”

  Seth extends his hand to Rodrigo. “Thank you for everything, señor.”

  The rain has stopped, but Rodrigo’s farewell blessing makes me want to turn on the waterworks, so I quickly say goodbye before things get overly emotional.
The further we walk, the more the morning fog lifts, showcasing views too gorgeous to leave behind right away.

  “Do you mind if we stop here for a few minutes?” I ask Seth, gesturing to a low stone wall at the edge of town. The vista overlooks clover-green mountains sprinkled with yellow wildflowers. It’s the perfect spot to lay out our wet clothes from the previous day. “I’m not ready to leave this place just yet.”

  “Yeah, me neither.” Seth puts on his sunglasses, takes off his backpack, and pulls out the Iliad, stretching along the wall like a lizard. “Listen to this: ‘Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.’”

  Pinpricks dance along my skin as I join Seth on the wall. These lines really do encapsulate this entire morning. Every time I visit someplace special, someplace like O Cebreiro, I think I’ll come back one day and recreate the same sensations. But it will probably never happen, and even if it does, a moment like this isn’t an essence that can be captured in a bottle and saved for later. If our lives are our own story, the fact that we’re doomed—that the plot keeps pushing forward until we reach “The End”—makes every chapter that much more significant.

  You will never be lovelier than you are now.

  I don’t feel lovely; I feel like I need to burn all of my clothes and start from scratch. Still, the thought that seventeen could be my prime—as it surely was in ancient Greece—doesn’t leave me feeling depressed. It warms me from the inside, just like the sun’s rays warm me from the outside. Seth could have skipped this line to avoid giving me the wrong idea.

  But he didn’t.

  “You know what I realized this morning while trying to block out Rodrigo’s bagpipes?” Seth asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “We haven’t had a round of questions for quite some time.”