Beneath Wandering Stars (23 page)

Not exactly the kind of refuge where you'd expect to find two thieves.

A door to the right of the altar opens and a robed priest steps out, dragging the two boys behind him. By the ears. He pauses to bow before the altar, pulling the boys' heads down with him in involuntary reverence, before approaching me.

“I believe these two took something that belongs to you,” the priest grumbles. The boys remain silent, but they wriggle beneath the balding man's grasp, their big brown eyes locked on me. “
Elias, Javier. Dónde está?
”

Elias and Javier must be about ten or eleven. They start arguing, each blaming the other for what happened, until the irritated priest snaps, “
Alto!
Mirad a la chica.
”

Both boys turn to me, surprised when I ask them in Spanish, “Can I please have the toy back? It's very special to me.”

“You mean G.I. Joe?” one of the boys replies, his smug smirk giving him away as the instigator. He shrugs. “
Lo siento
. Haven't seen him.”

“Javier!” The priest squeezes the haughty boy's ear and threatens to call their parents, which has his timid friend turning Judas in no time. The quieter boy points to one of the church's side chapels.

“Over there,
padre
!” Elias cries. “Javier hid it over there. We were going to give it back,
padre
. I promise.”

“The only promise I want to hear after this blatant act of theft is that I'll be seeing you both in Confession this week.” Without warning, the priest's tone turns gentle and he releases his grip. “Now. What do you say to the
pobre peregrina
you've tortured with your cruel tricks?”

“
Lo siento
. Sorry,” the boys mutter in unison before racing down the aisle and out the door. All I can say is they better keep moving while Seth is down for the count.

“Little demons, the pair of them,” the priest mutters, a playful glimmer in his eye. “But with grace and a lot of prayers, they'll turn out all right.”

“Thanks for your help, father. Though I'm not sure you needed to be so hard on them.”

“Unruly children
want
someone to be hard on them. There is freedom in self-discipline, for those ruled by their desires soon become slaves to them. Sometimes firmness is the only way boys like that know someone cares. Cares enough to hold them accountable for their actions. And boys like that soon become men.” The priest smiles, which makes him seem less crotchety. “
Venga
. Let us go rescue our brave hostage.”

I join him in the side chapel, where G.I. Lucas stands on the little altar before a row of vigil candles, smack dab in the middle of the Blessed Virgin and St. James. It's a slightly sacrilegious—not to mention slightly hilarious—sight.

“
Madre de Dios
.” The priest snorts out a laugh. “
Que ridiculo
.”

My buried chuckle never makes it out of me. That's because this mixture of camouflage and sanctity is a stark reminder of that September night when millions of Americans lit candles to remember those who met their end in smoke and tragedy.

Maybe that's what this tealight thing is all about. Maybe it isn't about bargaining with God or trying to buy an answer to a prayer. It's about remembering a person, a soul. The silent flicker of the flame embodies what it means to
wait
, to endure, to be a dogged ember in a pile of coal, refusing to crumble to ash.

“It is a bit of a contradiction,” I finally say. “A soldier up there with the saints.”

“We are all called to be saints,” the priest replies, turning from the altar to a stained-glass window featuring the Spanish mystic, Teresa of Avila. “That sweet little boy, Elias. Once I asked him what made a person a saint, and he told me something very profound. He pointed to this window and said without hesitation, ‘A saint is someone who lets the light shine through.'”

I think of Matteo's frequent pearls of wisdom and smile. “From the mouths of babes.”

The priest smiles back. “You are a pilgrim, no? Then surely you've learned that your journey is nothing but one massive contradiction.”

I pull out a candle and light it with one already on the altar. “What do you mean?”

“Many pilgrims walk the
camino
in search of solitude, but find themselves connecting with other people in deeper ways than they ever thought possible. Some walk it for recreation and are surprised to find religion, whereas others looking for a supernatural experience end up realizing how earthbound they are.” The old man lifts his hand and makes the sign of the cross in the air. “
Sí
, it's all about the contradictions, the crossroads. That's where life's gritty, messy, wonderful truths are waiting to be found.”

I survey the statue of St. James, dressed like a medieval pilgrim with his staff and scallop shell. For some reason, the face of Becky Anderson, a childhood friend from my years in the Bible Belt, comes to mind. One time, after seeing Grandma Guadalupe's impressive collection of saint figurines, a very concerned Becky informed me that my family was going to hell for idolatry. A few weeks later, we encountered my
abuela
on her knees in the middle of the living room, praying the rosary with a nun on TV. The final straw was the time we walked into the kitchen for an after-school snack and were greeted by an iconic image in loose, leathery skin.
Abuela
likes to iron Dad's uniforms wearing nothing but her bra and underwear, since the heat of the iron makes her “
tengo mucho calor, Gabrielita
.”

After that, traumatized Becky wasn't allowed to come over anymore. That's when I knew we Santiagos were different. That not all families asked St. Anthony to help them find their keys.

“So why pray to saints at all?” I ask the priest. “They're just people.”

Yeah,
dead
people.

The priest's grin tells me this is one of his all-time favorite theological questions. “Tell me,
niña,
when faced with a serious problem, what do many people ask their friends to do for them? Send up a kind word to heaven on their behalf, no? It's the same with the saints. They
are
just people, but perhaps they have a better perspective than we have down here.”

The priest points down the aisle to the open door the boys left ajar. A thick beam of sunlight cuts through the shadows at the back of the church, and specks of sparkling dust float in its wake. “The road out there is long and full of trials. It can't hurt to call on friends who have already walked the way.”

“I guess that makes sense.” I reach for G.I. Lucas and prepare to hit that road myself, only this talkative father isn't quite finished with his homily.

“Never forget,
niña
. The brightest lights are often so dazzling that it's hard to look at them for long. That's because the lights aren't meant to be adored; they're meant to illuminate. To point beyond themselves.”

“Thanks, father.” By this point, I have no idea what he's talking about.

“What's his name?” the esoteric cleric asks as I turn to leave.

I pause. “Who?”

He points to the toy in my hands. “The light that symbol represents. The bright boy who's had many people in his life who were hard on him because they cared.”

I don't understand how this stranger can know all that just from looking at a crumpled photo taped to an action figure's face, but it assures me there are things in this world that cannot be rationally explained.

“
Lucas,
” I reply.
“
Su nombre es Lucas
.”

By the time our G.I. Lucas rescue mission is complete, it's raining again, but because it's so late in the afternoon, we have no choice but to put on our rain gear and continue walking.

“Do you think he'll follow us the rest of the way to Santiago?” I look down at the cat with the angry face and the relentless purr. He's been walking with us for a good mile. We reach a stone bridge and the feline jumps onto the ledge, arching his back and demanding to be petted. Aggressively.

“Hey, as traveling companions go, he's far easier to please than you.” Seth winks, then stops to run his hand along the cat's damp back. The purring escalates.

I laugh. “Who knew a guy afraid of chickens would be so enamored with cats.”

“Cats kill chickens, my friend. Which is why they're awesome.”

This bridge must be the end of the kitty's turf, because he refuses to cross it. You'd have thought Seth was saying goodbye to his favorite childhood pet, based on the way he strokes the matted thing for a good five minutes before I drag him to the other side.

I can't help smiling at the pitiful expression on his face. “You are full of surprises, Russo. Is that an itty-bitty tear I see in the corner of your wittle eye?”

“You're pushing it, Santiago.” Grinning, Seth gives me a gentle shove, right into a puddle. “Do I need to repeat the muddy lesson in respect I gave you a few hours ago?”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I'm not stupid enough to challenge a proven war criminal twice.”

I'm joking of course, but Seth flinches like I've slapped him across the face. Then it's radio silence for the next four miles.

Our destination is a mountaintop village that's supposed to have the most amazing views on the entire
camino
, but thanks to all the unexpected stops today, the sun is long gone by the time we get close. We pull out our headlamps and continue climbing into the darkness.

The mountain air smells of woodstove fires, fresh rain, and manure—a pungent mixture I'll forever associate with this place. As we enter the village, my headlamp light passes over a stone hut shaped like a beehive—our first clue that O Cebreiro is something special. The round cottage has a thatched roof and low doorway that gives it a distinct hobbit-hole vibe.

“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.”