Beneath Wandering Stars (7 page)

“Get it?” I say. “It's like that traveling gnome. You know, the one from the commercials?”

Seth just stares at the toy. Okay, so maybe it isn't genius in the sense of being highly original, but I still think Lucas would find it hilarious.

“I figure we take pictures of G.I. Joe at all the major stops along the pilgrimage route, and then show Lucas the photos once he wakes up.”

For a second Seth seems upset, like this is some sort of sacrilege, but then he holds up his phone and grins. “I can post the pics online, if you want. Make our little soldier his own Facebook profile and everything.”

Hmmm, I never actually thought about
sharing
the photos. While I'm on the
camino
I'm using Mom's international prepaid phone, which is so old and bare-bones it doesn't even have a camera. “I don't know about that. Maybe. I'm just praying Lucas won't be pissed that I took Army Ken out of his mint-condition collector's box.”

Seth studies his phone's screen, searching for a signal now that we're pulling into the final train station. He lifts the device to his ear.

“Miss your battalion buddies already?”

“Uh, no. I highly doubt Sergeant Major Santiago considers himself part of my posse.”

“Wait,
what
?” Like a cat swatting at a bird, I strike the phone from Seth's hand. It soars across the aisle, stopping to rest between Heidi's perfectly petite feet.

Seth glares at me, then gets up to retrieve his phone. The North Face model gives him her best Claudia Schiffer smile and hands it over. They exchange a few words and a flirtatious laugh before Seth returns.

“What was that
about, Gabi? This phone cost most of my tax return.”

“Sorry. I overreacted. But you
cannot
call my dad.”

“Uh, yeah, I can. He'll want to know we arrived safely.”

“It's not a good idea,” I insist. “He's got a lot going on right now. We shouldn't bother him unless we absolutely have to.”

Seth's frigid eyes lock onto mine. He's waiting for me to blink, willing me to crack. “You're lying.” He sighs, like he knows he's going to regret his next question. “Okay, Gabi. Why don't you want me to call your dad?”

I cross my arms and lean back into my seat. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I didn't think the Army trained lowly privates in interrogation tactics.”

“It's a simple question, though I suspect you've already answered it.” A sneer lurks on Seth's lips. “Your dad doesn't know you're here, does he?”

I don't respond. Instead, I stare out the window at the walled town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port, at the base of the Pyrenees mountains. The place is all cobblestone streets, red-tile roofs, and overflowing window boxes, but Seth's swelling anger manages to suffocate the quaintness.

After muttering a series of colorful words that could only be strung together by a soldier, he gets up from his seat, ready to disembark the train. “I can't believe this. Your dad is going to murder me. That's what I get for trusting the word of a high-school kid.”

The train stops and Seth hurries down the aisle with the rest of the eager crowd, but I still need to get my backpack down from the overhead storage compartment. It's so awkward and heavy that I nearly fall over trying to get the stupid thing back on.

“Thanks for the help,” I mutter at the back of Seth's head.

And who says chivalry is dead?

At least figuring out where to go next is easy. All I have to do is follow the mob of pilgrims getting off of the train. Most wear these large white scallop shells (the one from Dad's dream) around their necks or on their packs. Apparently it was worn in the Middle Ages and tells everyone you're a pilgrim. Talk about
the
original statement piece.

I weave through the crowd and catch up to Seth. “Why are you freaking out? My mom knows I'm here and she'll tell my dad soon enough. It's not like the military is going to issue a Missing Person notice for me.”

“Not for you. But they'll need one for
me
after your father buries me six feet under.” Seth's pace doesn't slow one bit. “I'm supposed to be looking out for you, not kidnapping you.”

“Looking out for me? What, like I need your protection?”

The fact that Seth sees himself as my chaperone is infuriating, but I'm momentarily distracted by the man crossing the street in front of us. He leans on a long shepherd's crook and is trailed by a border collie who herds three brown cows right down the middle of the main street. It's like we've walked onto the set of
The Sound of Music
, but Seth doesn't even notice.

“You have no idea the position you've put me in,” he seethes. “Then again, why would you? This is all a big game to you.”

“No. It's not. Chill out. My dad will come around.” At least I hope he will, though that can't happen unless Mom breaks the news in her own diplomatic way. But if
Seth
turns me in, my father will be on the next plane to Barcelona, intent on dragging my sorry butt home.

I hold up the G.I. Joe and wave it in Seth's face. “Don't worry, the Sarge will be fine once he sees our photos and realizes what we're doing for Lucas.
Lucas
, Seth. Forget about my dad. Think about Lucas.”

Seth does think. In total silence. For the next quarter of a mile.

We reach a bridge crossing a river lined with stone houses that must be hundreds of years old. Other than church bells, chirping birds, and lots of pilgrim footsteps, the town is quiet. Whenever I exhale (which, given the altitude, is often), my breath turns to mist as it mixes with the steam rising from the river.

Seth's expression isn't one of contemplative awe. He doesn't look angry anymore, just uncomfortable, like he knows he doesn't belong here. Like he has no idea
why
he's walking through a medieval village in southern France with a bunch of strangers on holiday when his best friend is in a hospital bed and the rest of his buddies are being shot at. Seth's short haircut, solid build, and busted arm draw a few curious glances from the other walkers, but his stay-away
body language makes it clear he isn't taking questions.

Where are we going? Why is he torturing me like this?
Are you going to call my dad or not?
I want to shout. Instead, I try summoning patience, which is so not my virtue.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you, okay?” We close in on the official headquarters of the
Camino de Santiago
, the place where we're supposed to pick up these pilgrim passports that enable us to stay in the cheap municipal hostels.

Please stop, please stop, please stop.

“Did you hear me?” I repeat. “I said
I'm sorry
.”

If only Seth knew the rare and precious value of these words, coming from me.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let's just get our credential.”

Hallelujah.
My heart pumps liquid relief. I speed-walk towards the pilgrim office door before Seth can change his mind.

“Hold up,” he says from behind me. “I have one condition.”

Of course he does. I turn. Slowly. “And that is?”

“You have to be honest with me from here on out. You have to give me 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 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.”