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Authors: Ashlee; Cowles
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covered in the kind of grass found on a golf course. A few sheep dart across the trail in front of me, which explains the exceptional lawn-care service. My feet slow when I approach an overlook showcasing emerald peaks from every angle. The road descends into a valley filled with golden mist as the sun begins to set. Seth, far ahead of me by now, all but disappears into the sea of orange sherbet clouds.
“This isn’t a race, Russo!” I shout across the valley. Seth climbed this mountain like it was nothing, and now he’s descending it even faster. He’s punishing me, and he’s enjoying every sociopathic second. “Whatever, dude. I’m stopping.”
My feet throb like someone went to town on them with meat tenderizer. The familiar burn promises fat, oozy blisters on the back of my heels, so I sit on a boulder and take off my boots. Sure enough, two spots of raw, pink flesh peek out from my woolen socks.
Awesome. What a great first day!
It doesn’t help that Seth makes it look so easy with his firm soldier calves and his stiff soldier stature. Even with his immobilized arm, Seth’s movements drip with arrogance and his gaze remains fixed ahead on his goal. I spend the rest of our descent into Roncesvalles boring my eyes into the soldier’s rigid, too-good-to-stop-and-smell-the-roses back, hoping he can feel every shard I throw at him.
“Did you know this place is famous for Charlemagne’s conquest in the year 778? We’re right near the spot where his prized general, Roland, was killed,” Seth announces casually when I catch up to him at the village entrance. He sits on the side of the road with his nose buried in his guidebook, like he just finished up a nice evening stroll.
Seriously. I want to kill him.
“Thanks for the random trivia,” I mutter, sucking down oxygen .
Maybe Roncesvalles was a hopping town back in the eighth century, but there isn’t much happening here now. From what I can tell, pilgrims make up most of the population. They’re all walking towards the same building, which looks like an old monastery. Or a morgue. My aching body, longing for an eternal rest, almost hopes for the latter.
“My trivia is more relevant than you think. You know how Roland died? Charlemagne’s army was ambushed by a band of Saracens who had invaded this part of the Pyrenees.” Seth shuts his book and stands. “Which proves that some things never change.”
“Uh, better fact-check your guidebook. See that plaque back there? You know, the one you were in too much of a hurry to stop and read? It said most historians now believe the ambush was by a guerilla army of Basques, the native people from this part of Spain. So your stereotyping can take that.”
Seth bites the inside of his cheek. “Funny you should think so highly of the people responsible for your brother’s injuries. If you’d been there, Gabi, you would have—”
“Funny you should think so highly of people at all,” I interrupt. “We’ve been killing each other since the dawn of time. Over race, religion, whatever. Humans have never needed much of an excuse.
That’s
what never changes.”
I survey the small mountain town, wishing the Basques had the entrepreneurial foresight to open a drive-through KFC. “Take me, for instance. I’m starving and if someone waved a juicy drumstick in front of my nose, I might just attempt murder to get it. That’s how the world works. When it comes to survival, the ruthless will always win. Or have you never seen a single zombie apocalypse movie?”
Seth’s glare turns to pity as he shakes his head. “For the record, kiddo, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His retort is real and it stings, but I’m too worn out to give it much thought. We enter the
albergue
. A bored attendant waits to stamp our pilgrim passports before showing us to a large room with a vaulted ceiling and stone walls, lined with approximately fifty bunk beds, half of them already taken. Looks like we will
“This isn’t a race, Russo!” I shout across the valley. Seth climbed this mountain like it was nothing, and now he’s descending it even faster. He’s punishing me, and he’s enjoying every sociopathic second. “Whatever, dude. I’m stopping.”
My feet throb like someone went to town on them with meat tenderizer. The familiar burn promises fat, oozy blisters on the back of my heels, so I sit on a boulder and take off my boots. Sure enough, two spots of raw, pink flesh peek out from my woolen socks.
Awesome. What a great first day!
It doesn’t help that Seth makes it look so easy with his firm soldier calves and his stiff soldier stature. Even with his immobilized arm, Seth’s movements drip with arrogance and his gaze remains fixed ahead on his goal. I spend the rest of our descent into Roncesvalles boring my eyes into the soldier’s rigid, too-good-to-stop-and-smell-the-roses back, hoping he can feel every shard I throw at him.
“Did you know this place is famous for Charlemagne’s conquest in the year 778? We’re right near the spot where his prized general, Roland, was killed,” Seth announces casually when I catch up to him at the village entrance. He sits on the side of the road with his nose buried in his guidebook, like he just finished up a nice evening stroll.
Seriously. I want to kill him.
“Thanks for the random trivia,” I mutter, sucking down oxygen .
Maybe Roncesvalles was a hopping town back in the eighth century, but there isn’t much happening here now. From what I can tell, pilgrims make up most of the population. They’re all walking towards the same building, which looks like an old monastery. Or a morgue. My aching body, longing for an eternal rest, almost hopes for the latter.
“My trivia is more relevant than you think. You know how Roland died? Charlemagne’s army was ambushed by a band of Saracens who had invaded this part of the Pyrenees.” Seth shuts his book and stands. “Which proves that some things never change.”
“Uh, better fact-check your guidebook. See that plaque back there? You know, the one you were in too much of a hurry to stop and read? It said most historians now believe the ambush was by a guerilla army of Basques, the native people from this part of Spain. So your stereotyping can take that.”
Seth bites the inside of his cheek. “Funny you should think so highly of the people responsible for your brother’s injuries. If you’d been there, Gabi, you would have—”
“Funny you should think so highly of people at all,” I interrupt. “We’ve been killing each other since the dawn of time. Over race, religion, whatever. Humans have never needed much of an excuse.
That’s
what never changes.”
I survey the small mountain town, wishing the Basques had the entrepreneurial foresight to open a drive-through KFC. “Take me, for instance. I’m starving and if someone waved a juicy drumstick in front of my nose, I might just attempt murder to get it. That’s how the world works. When it comes to survival, the ruthless will always win. Or have you never seen a single zombie apocalypse movie?”
Seth’s glare turns to pity as he shakes his head. “For the record, kiddo, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His retort is real and it stings, but I’m too worn out to give it much thought. We enter the
albergue
. A bored attendant waits to stamp our pilgrim passports before showing us to a large room with a vaulted ceiling and stone walls, lined with approximately fifty bunk beds, half of them already taken. Looks like we will
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