Read Online Beneath Wandering Stars by Ashlee; Cowles - Free Book Online
Authors: Ashlee; Cowles
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no-bullshit answers to all my questions, no matter what I ask.”
But that makes no sense. What could Seth possibly want to know about
me
?
“Fine.”
“I’m serious, Gabi. No more BS,” he repeats, arms crossed like he’s a bouncer standing in front of an exclusive nightclub.
“Got it.”
Seth nods. “Then let’s get going.”
“First, let’s make it official.” I set G.I. Lucas down on a stone ledge for his inaugural photo in front of the
camino
logo—a golden scallop shell against a bright blue background.
Then we enter the credentialing office. Now, if the Middle Ages had its own version of the living hell that is the DMV, I’m pretty sure this was it. A lengthy procession of pilgrims wait to see
one
little old Frenchman armed with a rubber stamp. As we stand in line, multiple languages assault my ears from every direction.
Seth gives me a look that pretty much sums it up:
What are we doing here?
Finally, I’m next. With a gnarled, shaking hand, the elderly man slams his stamp down on my pilgrim’s passport like he’s squashing a ridiculously large bug. He smiles and lifts his crinkly blue eyes to mine. “
Buen camino, mon chéri
.”
I take hold of the document and suddenly this is
real
. I don’t know why I’m here, or why Seth decided not to call my dad, or what my brother even wants us to accomplish, but I am now an official pilgrim on the Way of St. James.
• • •
Nobody—not even Rick Steves—told me we’d be scaling cliffs on Day One. Most photos of the
camino
that I found online were of these long, winding roads that stretched through wheat fields and rolling vineyards, the occasional steeple of an old church reaching up to kiss a clear blue sky. Nope, none of that here. For the first few kilometers the incline is gradual, but then the road turns steep and doesn’t quit. The scenery becomes breathtaking, literally, as we approach a series of switchbacks.
To make matters worse, Seth is still pissed. His brutal pacing proves it.
As we march single-file up the mountain, I suddenly understand why so many pilgrims regard this journey as a profound spiritual experience. After all, I’m already praying, “Hail Mary, full of grace, slow this guy’s pace before he kills me.” Yet there’s no way I can ask Seth for a break so soon. That would mean showing weakness, and that’s the worst thing I can do.
We reach the next summit, where a blue and white statue of the Madonna and Child overlooks the valley behind us. The shrine is draped with wilting flowers, empty wine bottles stuffed with handwritten notes, even a few pairs of worn-out hiking boots. I approach the statue and see a hiker in a neon yellow windbreaker drop to his knees. He lights a small candle, moving his lips in a silent prayer as he sets it on the altar. Seth waits in the shade nearby, watching this display of unabashed piety like he’s observing an endangered species in the wild.
“I don’t get people who pray,” he whispers. “Doesn’t this guy realize his trail of tealights could start a forest fire?”
The mockery in Seth’s voice makes it clear he regards this behavior as an evolutionary step backwards. I’m still trying to catch my breath, so I don’t respond, but I feel the bag of candles from Mom pressing into my lower back. My father would be lighting them up like a pyromaniac if he were here, but I leave them buried at the bottom of my pack. Dad may have viewed this trek as a spiritual mission, but that doesn’t mean I need to see it that way. So the candles stay put, taking up space and adding extra weight I could do without.
“Better keep moving.” Seth turns to leave the praying pilgrim in peace.
“After you,” I mutter, prepared for another thirty minutes of gasping for air.
Before long we cross the border into Spain and ascend Lepoeder Pass, the highest point of the day. A grove of twisted beech trees coated in florescent moss provides shade for a while, until we reach a hillside
But that makes no sense. What could Seth possibly want to know about
me
?
“Fine.”
“I’m serious, Gabi. No more BS,” he repeats, arms crossed like he’s a bouncer standing in front of an exclusive nightclub.
“Got it.”
Seth nods. “Then let’s get going.”
“First, let’s make it official.” I set G.I. Lucas down on a stone ledge for his inaugural photo in front of the
camino
logo—a golden scallop shell against a bright blue background.
Then we enter the credentialing office. Now, if the Middle Ages had its own version of the living hell that is the DMV, I’m pretty sure this was it. A lengthy procession of pilgrims wait to see
one
little old Frenchman armed with a rubber stamp. As we stand in line, multiple languages assault my ears from every direction.
Seth gives me a look that pretty much sums it up:
What are we doing here?
Finally, I’m next. With a gnarled, shaking hand, the elderly man slams his stamp down on my pilgrim’s passport like he’s squashing a ridiculously large bug. He smiles and lifts his crinkly blue eyes to mine. “
Buen camino, mon chéri
.”
I take hold of the document and suddenly this is
real
. I don’t know why I’m here, or why Seth decided not to call my dad, or what my brother even wants us to accomplish, but I am now an official pilgrim on the Way of St. James.
• • •
Nobody—not even Rick Steves—told me we’d be scaling cliffs on Day One. Most photos of the
camino
that I found online were of these long, winding roads that stretched through wheat fields and rolling vineyards, the occasional steeple of an old church reaching up to kiss a clear blue sky. Nope, none of that here. For the first few kilometers the incline is gradual, but then the road turns steep and doesn’t quit. The scenery becomes breathtaking, literally, as we approach a series of switchbacks.
To make matters worse, Seth is still pissed. His brutal pacing proves it.
As we march single-file up the mountain, I suddenly understand why so many pilgrims regard this journey as a profound spiritual experience. After all, I’m already praying, “Hail Mary, full of grace, slow this guy’s pace before he kills me.” Yet there’s no way I can ask Seth for a break so soon. That would mean showing weakness, and that’s the worst thing I can do.
We reach the next summit, where a blue and white statue of the Madonna and Child overlooks the valley behind us. The shrine is draped with wilting flowers, empty wine bottles stuffed with handwritten notes, even a few pairs of worn-out hiking boots. I approach the statue and see a hiker in a neon yellow windbreaker drop to his knees. He lights a small candle, moving his lips in a silent prayer as he sets it on the altar. Seth waits in the shade nearby, watching this display of unabashed piety like he’s observing an endangered species in the wild.
“I don’t get people who pray,” he whispers. “Doesn’t this guy realize his trail of tealights could start a forest fire?”
The mockery in Seth’s voice makes it clear he regards this behavior as an evolutionary step backwards. I’m still trying to catch my breath, so I don’t respond, but I feel the bag of candles from Mom pressing into my lower back. My father would be lighting them up like a pyromaniac if he were here, but I leave them buried at the bottom of my pack. Dad may have viewed this trek as a spiritual mission, but that doesn’t mean I need to see it that way. So the candles stay put, taking up space and adding extra weight I could do without.
“Better keep moving.” Seth turns to leave the praying pilgrim in peace.
“After you,” I mutter, prepared for another thirty minutes of gasping for air.
Before long we cross the border into Spain and ascend Lepoeder Pass, the highest point of the day. A grove of twisted beech trees coated in florescent moss provides shade for a while, until we reach a hillside
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