Beneath Wandering Stars (11 page)

“What made you want to walk to Santiago?” It's a dangerous can of worms and I already suspect this lady's answer will have something to do with shifting energy fields, but I ask in an attempt to avoid more probing questions about Lucas.

Harmony snorts out a laugh. “Oh, I'm afraid my story is one massive cliché. Recently divorced woman seeks adventures abroad in a foreign land as a way of dealing with midlife crisis, and hopefully meets younger men while she's at it.” Harmony studies Seth with animated eyebrows. “Men such as that fine specimen up ahead, though he looks a little
too
young. And probably a little too gladiatorial for my liking.”

“Trust me, he's too gladiatorial for most people's liking.”

“The
camino
may change that. It tends to give us what we
need
, not necessarily what we want. Though that's the way of the Universe in general, isn't it?”

Yeah, I'm sure a nice blow to the skull was
exactly
what Lucas was missing.

“Sure,” I reply, hoping that will be the end of her New Age nonsense. But no.

“I see the
camino
as an opportunity to ask the Universe one big question that takes many miles to answer. My question is, where do I go from here?” Harmony twists her torso so she's looking right at me as we walk, which is kind of creepy, I don't care how much yoga you do. “And you, Gabi? What will your question be?”

“I don't have a question. I'm walking the
camino
for my brother. He's hurt and—”

“No!” Little Mary Kim pumps her fist into the air, her docile demeanor Viet Cong–intense all of a sudden. “Walk for other people okay, but also have own reason. Must have own reason!”

“
Por qué
estas hacienda el camino
?” Julia repeats in Spanish.

Wow, talk about a cohesive team strike. I look out over the ridge to our right, where a row of giant wind turbines whip through the air, generating electricity for all of Pamplona. Beyond their white blades, the indigo peaks of the Pyrenees fade into the distance, a reminder of how far Seth and I have already come. Watching the prongs slice through the clear blue sky makes me wonder what's moving me. Where's my motivation coming from? Why am I on the
camino
? Not my brother's reason, or Seth's reason, but
my
reason?

All I get as an answer is a surge of anger. Why do I need a reason at all? Frodo didn't leave the Shire to “find himself.” Odysseus wasn't wandering the Mediterranean because his desk job sucked and he needed an adventure. None of the heroes in the stories I love left home because they
wanted
to, but because they
had
to. Maybe everyone else on the
camino
is here on some profound personal quest, but a spiritual search is a luxury I can't afford. I'm walking for my brother, and to make my dad proud. That's it.

And that's enough.

• • •

“All right, Seth, my turn. Why did you join the military?”

My strategy is to start out slow. We've stopped to rest on a sea of fallen almond blossoms. It's the perfect place to pin Seth with my query of the day, since neither of us is in a hurry to leave this magical spot anytime soon. I strip off my shoes and socks and stretch out beneath the almond trees, eager to soak up the warm sun on what looks like a bed of snow.

“And your answer can't be that it's a family tradition. You've got to have your
own
reason.” Even if I don't believe it, Harmony's appeal to narcissism seems to work when you want to get people talking.

“Serving in the military because it's a family tradition
is
my own reason.” Seth slices a fresh baguette with his pocket knife. We've agreed to more picnics because eating in restaurants is rapidly burning through my funds. Today's
menú del dia
is tomato and manchego cheese sandwiches, anchovy-stuffed olives (a Spanish staple), and a bar of Swiss chocolate for dessert.

“My grandfather lived on an American post in Germany right after WWII because his father was stationed there during the Nuremberg trials. He even witnessed a few.”

“Really? That must have been so bizarre.”

Seth nods and passes me a sandwich. “My great-grandfather was in one of the first units to liberate the concentration camps. Even he didn't realize how horrible they were until he saw Buchenwald with his own eyes. After that, he requested to stay in Germany for as long as possible.”

“But why would he
want
to stay? He was Jewish, right? You'd think Germany would be the last place he'd request to be stationed.”

Seth shrugs. “I guess he felt a duty to all the survivors he encountered in the camps, and he wanted to witness the trials to see that justice was done. So he stayed.”

“And all the men in your family have served in the Army ever since?”

“Every generation.” Seth slowly picks the white petals off an almond flower, one by one. “I don't do it because I have to. I do it because I want to.”

I set my baguette down in the grass and a brigade of ants scurry towards it like a wall that must be sieged. Suddenly, I'm not so hungry anymore. This whole time I thought Seth convinced my brother to enlist because he wanted to drag a friend along while he fulfilled some silly tradition, but his reasons go much deeper than that.

“Don't be fooled into thinking it's
all
about honor. I have other motives, too.” Seth hesitates, like he isn't sure he should tell me. “I don't think I could ever live a civilian life after growing up a brat. Some people see needing the military structure as a sign of weakness, but what's the alternative? Working in a cubicle like a dog so you can own a big house in the 'burbs full of crap you don't have time to enjoy? It seems so pointless. Like a merry-go-round of empty promises you get stuck on your entire life.”

Seth is afraid. This tough, tightlipped guy is terrified of one specific thing and he fears it more than pain, more than death, more than anything else—and that's a life without purpose, without meaning.

“Maybe,” I reply, “but the military can't be the only option. Couldn't you find some kind of do-gooder job out there in the real world?”

Seth shrugs again and passes the chocolate. “The military is as real as it gets. In the Army, we're all on the same page. Sure, it's the most hierarchical institution there is, but everyone is working towards the same goal, supporting the same mission. You'll see when you get to college. There are a lot of entitled little punks out there. No one knows how to commit to anything greater than King Ego, and pretty soon the whole thing is going to implode.”

Now there's a glass half-full picture for you. I've met my fair share of jerks in the military too, not to mention every other walk of life, but I don't want Seth to launch into a doomsday lecture about how America's finest hour is behind her thanks to texting and Instagram. It's too peaceful here, eating chocolate beneath almond trees, listening to the breeze playing with the dog tags attached to Seth's pack.

As I twist blades of grass into little knots, I study Seth out of the corner of my eye. He's lying on his back, head resting on his pack, eyes turned towards the cotton-ball clouds. Each day he seems a little more tranquil and less weary, even though our bodies are taking a beating. Most of the time Seth's muteness feels like a bandage keeping his rage from spilling out, but sometimes his silence emanates strength. A strength that's almost electric.

This is one of those times.

“What about all these people walking the
camino
?” I ask when the tingling sensation traveling up my skin becomes too much. “It's not like they're doing this trek to get ahead in life. Most of the pilgrims I've met seem like decent people. Eccentric, but decent.”

“That's because they're trying to live awake, trying to see what's out there, what's real.” Seth pauses and sits up. “It's weird . . . .”

“What's weird?”

“How the
camino
is beautiful the way war can be beautiful.”

“War beautiful? Yeah, that is weird.”

“I know, but how often do we live in the
immediate
present? Not via social media? Not tied down to a to-do list?” Seth asks.

“Not often, I guess.”

“And it only gets worse as you get older,” Seth says, like he's got twenty years on me instead of two. “But in war, every second is
now
. Visceral. The buddy beside you could be gone in an instant. The past and future don't matter. That's what makes war beautiful—even addictive. Walking the
camino
is kind of like that, too. I never minded our PT ruck marches because that's what walking
does
. It slows down time and makes you see everything, including all that's broken.”

Seth's tone makes me think he includes himself on that list of broken things. I just wish I knew why. But by now I also know that pushing him will shut down our conversation faster than screaming “Bomb!” in the middle of a crowded military base.

“Maybe that's why Lucas thought this walk would be a good way to get me and my dad talking again.” A small part of me is frustrated that Lucas's plan didn't work out, though most of me is relieved that Dad isn't here. Dealing with my brother's situation
and
my father's perpetual disappointment doesn't sound like a good time. Then again, maybe the difference between a pilgrimage and a vacation is that a “good time” isn't the goal.

Seth looks intrigued. “What happened with your dad?”

I'm surprised Lucas never told him about the Fort Sam incident that left a black mark on my permanent record (if such a thing even exists). My brother's discretion makes me miss him even more, but I'm not about to share an embarrassing story that would only give Seth one more thing to tease me about. If he's going to keep his secrets, then I can keep mine.

“Let's just say I'm currently at the top of Sergeant Major Santiago's
scheize
list.”

I can tell Seth wants to press me for details, but he doesn't. “Yeah, I know that game. My dad thinks I'm a failure, too. You're right about Lucas, though. He's good at building bridges between people.” Seth passes me the last piece of chocolate, his smile fading. “Sorry you got stuck with me instead.”

Our fingers touch as I take the chocolate, and the warmth that accompanies it makes me realize I'm not sorry. Of course I wish Lucas was here, but this trek is fast revealing there's more to Seth Russo than I ever thought possible. When he offers up more than sarcastic one-liners, I actually like talking to him. He gets the life I've lived because it's his life, too.

Sometimes, he almost seems to get me.

• • •

“How is he?” I practically shout, that way Mom can hear me over crunching footsteps on dry ground. It's weird using a cell phone while walking a stretch of the
camino
paved with ancient stones from the Roman road. “Has anything changed?”

“The doctors don't think so, but I swear I saw Lucas's eyelashes flutter. Hasn't he always had the most beautiful eyelashes? So thick and dark, they can't help but make a girl jealous,” Mom replies with a sad chuckle. “Where are you now? Getting close to Santiago yet?”

“Only seven hundred and thirty-five kilometers to go,” I grumble, watching Seth study our guidebook like it contains a map to the Holy Grail. “We're near a town called Puente la Reina. It's beautiful here with everything in bloom.”

Neither of us mention my dad, so I hope things didn't go south between my parents once Mom told him she let me go. They don't have the option of a civil war, not when Lucas's condition demands that our household establish a more perfect union to “establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity.”

That's right, my father—the proudest immigrant you'll ever meet—made me memorize the Preamble to the United States Constitution. At age five.

“Take your allergy medicine, Gabriela. And don't forget to say prayers for your brother. You've been lighting the candles I gave you, right?”

I'm not quick to supply an affirmative. So far I've lit
one
candle, which I placed in the almond grove where we had our picnic when Seth wasn't looking. Even so, it felt ridiculous to be doing something that has no basis in scientific fact.

Candles don't cure people, doctors cure people.

“Gabi.” Mom's tone is surprisingly stern. “Unless you walk this road with your heart's intention in the right place, it won't matter. You have to believe with every step that Lucas will get better. With
every
step
.”

Great. Not her, too. My mother has never been quite as religious as my dad, but for years we all went to church because that's what
El Jefe
demanded. After Dad got back from his last deployment, I started putting up a fight about going, which resulted in my father not speaking to me most Sundays. Mom seemed to support my freedom of choice in this matter, which is why it's so strange that she's buying into Dad's ritualistic nonsense all of a sudden.

“I'll try, Mom. I promise I'll try.”

For the rest of our walk into Puente la Reina, I keep my eyes alert for a good place to light a candle. We pass a small church made of bricks the color of sand. A stork guards the bell tower from its giant nest, and beneath the sanctuary's arched doorway rests an old woman dressed in rags. I nod a greeting in her direction, and she responds with a placid grin that reveals her few remaining teeth. I look down. The poor woman has no legs beneath her kneecaps. She's holding a dirty cardboard sign that reads:
Rezo por limosna
. Prayers in exchange for alms.