Beneath Wandering Stars Read online

  Home.

  That’s what we all left behind to find. And if this longing for Home is real, then maybe Lucas still exists somewhere, even if his brain and his body are no longer talking. Maybe there’s more to him than both of those things combined.

  My eyes fall to the individual shadows scattered across the floor, all blending into one massive blur of tears. Before I feel the warm wetness on my cheek, I feel Seth’s thumb wiping the tear away. He’s been watching me this entire time, staring at the tealight resting between my fingertips. The look on his face is as close as he’s ever come to a prayer, but it’s enough. It assures me Seth loves Lucas as much as I do.

  “Would anyone be willing to sing a song from his or her native land?” Greta asks, rescuing us from the weight of this overbearing stillness.

  Molly volunteers. She intones a haunting, Gaelic tune, her mournful voice rising above all of us. Then she launches into an achingly slow rendition of “Danny Boy,” which almost makes me lose it entirely. Lucas’s middle name is Daniel and my mom used to sing us this song whenever our dad was away.

  “The summer’s gone, and all the flow’rs are dying

  ’Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide.

  But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow . . . .”

  Yes, come back, I hope. Or pray. Is there really a difference? Please, Lucas, come back.

  • • •

  “That was nice. I guess.” Seth stretches out beside me in his sleeping bag, his face turned up to the night sky. “Nothing too weird or over the top.”

  I know what he means, but I wouldn’t call anything about this evening nice. Eunate is spectacular, incredible, amazing. But there’s something unsettling about it, too. Something transcendent and almost sublime. I suppose we are sleeping right next to a medieval graveyard.

  “Are you all right?” Seth asks when I don’t respond. He’s lying a decent distance away from me, his good arm resting behind his head, his eyes fixed on a net of stars.

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” I roll over, struggling to get comfortable. A brigade of chirping insects fills the fields surrounding us, and their lullaby brings me back to that murky place where memories blur into dreams.

  Cicadas. Big Red soda. Chlorine.

  I’m in sixth grade and Lucas is in seventh—our ages the first time Dad was stationed in Texas. We lived off-post and had to go to a nonmilitary school for the first time. We hated it. All the other kids had known each other since kindergarten, so they ignored us. There was also this weird division between the white kids and the Latino kids, which we’d never experienced before. Military brats are used to hanging out with everyone, no matter if you’re black, brown, or blue.

  September. Asphalt hot enough to fry an egg. All the grass in our subdivision is brown. Lucas is wearing his favorite San Antonio Spurs hat.

  On our walk home from school, Lucas got into a fight with another Latino boy who teased me for “acting too white.” I had no idea what that even meant. All I knew was that I didn’t fit in anywhere or have a single friend, which meant I spent most of the lunch period hiding out in a bathroom stall. Not my finest hour, in addition to being totally disgusting.

  “Don’t worry, Gabs. You’ll always fit with me,” Lucas said while Mom iced his black eye with the frozen pork loin she planned to cook for dinner.

  You’ll always fit with me.

  The sound of Lucas’s voice forces my eyes open. I can’t tell if the sob pressing down on my chest actually escaped my throat. The sky is silky black, the color of Lucas’s hair before the Army chopped it off. I rub my eyes and make out a murky mass above me. The Milky Way. Seth rests in the same position, like a sentinel on an all-night UFO watch.

  “How come you’re still awake?” I mumble. “Can’t sleep?”

  Seth doesn’t move his head or break his focus. “Look at all that empty space. An entirely empty universe.”

  I can’t tell if that’s meant to be reassuring, or just depressing. Either way, the thought of black holes that consume all light makes me want to disappear into my sleeping bag.

  “Have you heard the St. James legend yet? About how they found his body way back in the day?” Seth asks a few moments later.

  “Nope,” I mutter sleepily.

  “Supposedly there was this old hermit, a holy man, who lived in the woods alone about a thousand years ago. One night he heard strange music and when he looked outside, he saw a bright star shining above an empty field. But it wasn’t a normal star. This star wandered back and forth across the sky, then stopped. The hermit reported what he’d seen to the local bishop, which led to an official investigation. The Church discovered the bones of three men in the spot where the hermit saw the star come to rest. James the Apostle had been a missionary to Spain, so the Church determined that the bones belonged to him and his two disciples. That’s why they built the cathedral we’re walking to.”

  Santiago de Compostela. I never really thought about it, but it makes sense. Santiago is James in Spanish, and campus stellae means “the field of the star.”

  I turn on my side to get a good look at Seth. “Is that what you’ve been watching for? Wandering stars?”

  Seth nods, but his eyes don’t leave the sky. “So far I’ve counted three.”

  His response sends a shiver from my head to my toes, as if one of those stars falls right through me. After today’s long hike, Seth must be exhausted. He doesn’t seem like the stargazing type, so I don’t even have to ask. I already know he’s watching the heavens on behalf of my brother, wishing on all those shooting stars for Lucas. Knowing that Seth would stay awake for something so simple and silly floods me with feelings I don’t know how to name. All I know is they make me want to kiss him with an intensity normally reserved for love or hate.

  I burrow down in my sleeping bag, but there’s nowhere I can hide from this holy fear, this startling wonder, this unnerving loss of control. Like a conviction that carries all kinds of unwelcome obligations, the last thing I want is to believe the emotions running through me.

  Too bad the truth keeps existing whether we acknowledge it or not.

  I love Brent, I love Brent, I love Brent.

  The thing is, I do love Brent. At least, I think I do. And I would never betray him for the spell of a starry night, though that doesn’t make the power radiating from the sleeping bag across the way any less frightening. This isn’t just physical attraction. Hostel life is intimate, so I’ve seen Seth without a shirt on a million times, without a single spark.

  This is something much, much worse.

  Get up. Act. Don’t wait for things to happen to you. Make things happen.

  I unzip my sleeping bag and crawl over to Seth, but instead of pressing my mouth to his, I extend my hand. “Come on.”

  “What are you doing?” Seth looks up at me, a puzzled smirk on his lips.

  “I want to try something. Something one of the other pilgrims mentioned.”

  With an exaggerated groan, Seth takes my hand and climbs out of his sleeping bag. I lead him to the cobblestone path that follows the churchyard wall. The moon is so bright we can see the glistening stones without a flashlight.

  “The Argentinian woman at dinner shared another camino legend. Some pilgrims claim a healing miracle will occur if you walk around this church barefoot—three times on the inside of the wall, and then three more times on the outside. Afterwards, we’re supposed to enter the sanctuary and light a candle on the altar.”

  Seth raises a dubious eyebrow. “Seriously, Gabi?”

  “Hey, Jiminy Cricket, if you’re going to stay up all night wishing on shooting stars, we might as well give this a try, too.”

  Seth’s smile turns sheepish when he realizes I’ve discovered his little secret.

  “Besides,” I continue, “I forget if you’re supposed to walk around the church clockwise or counter-clockwise, so we can each take a direction and cover all our bases.”

  Seth sighs. “Fine. Maybe I’ll fi
nally fall sleep afterwards. Oh hey, while we’re on the subject of weird esoteric rituals, there’s something I’ve been meaning to show you.”

  Seth extends his hand and drops a small object into mine, still warm from being pressed inside his palm. It’s a stone. The most beautiful stone I’ve ever seen. Its edges are jagged and it looks like hardened lava. The sparkly black rock is marbled with streaks of intense blue and flecks of gold.

  “Where did you find this? The moon?”

  “It’s called lapis lazuli and it’s mined in Afghanistan,” Seth explains. “It was with Lucas’s letter. He said we should leave the stone somewhere along the way. He said we’d know the place when we saw it. Whenever that time comes, I think you should be the one to do the honors.”

  The stone is heavier than it looks, but it’s nothing compared to the burden pressing down on me. Lucas is in a coma. How can all these laughable little customs change that?

  “Let’s just start the circling process,” I suggest, “otherwise we’ll both feel too ridiculous to go through with it.”

  We start walking, which gives me six opportunities to study the sandstone faces of the mythical creatures etched into the church’s high walls. Each time I pass Seth heading in the opposite direction, his gaze burns into mine, his eyes like two blue orbs of lapis lazuli glowing in the moonlight. Neither of us says a word, but when we’ve circled the church the prescribed number of times, we meet in its darkened doorway.

  I light a candle and Seth grabs my other hand. His palm is still warm, even without the stone. Together, we step inside.

  Chapter 12

  After Eunate, something changes. Seth and I are a team. Maybe we’re even friends. We find our stride. The long days of walking get easier, and we talk a lot more than we used to.

  Talking is good. Talking means I don’t have to think, which means I don’t have to deal with the knot at the bottom of my stomach, a knot that increases in size and degree of entanglement each day.

  You wanted to kiss him.

  The accusation scampers through my mind any time I stop running my mouth. Whatever happened in Eunate, blaming it on enchantment, or on a spell cast by the alignment of stars, doesn’t satisfy. Maybe it was the food. Yeah, that’s it. I hear escargot causes horrible indigestion. And according to this article I read on the Internet once, serious indigestion can cause hallucinations and other erratic behavior.

  Or something.

  “You’re looking mighty pensive this afternoon,” Seth says as we approach the town of Santo Domingo. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I chug what’s left in my water bottle. I’m pretty sure “I’ve been thinking about how I no longer hate you and might even like you a little” isn’t the answer Seth wants.

  He smirks. “Nothing doesn’t make a girl blush. Let me guess. Brent texted you lyrics to a lame and gushy song he wrote just for you?”

  “No. And I’m not blushing. I’m hot and out of water.”

  This is true. The further west on the camino we go, the warmer the weather gets. For the past two days, the landscape has been as dry as the layer of cracked mud on my boots. Everything around here is the color of sand. Tan road, tan tiles on all the roofs, tan fields. Seth’s farmer’s tan. A world of beige, except for the sky, which shines sapphire blue. The same color as Seth’s eyes.

  Dammit, Gabi. STOP!

  Yeah, this introspection thing isn’t working for me. “Hey, we haven’t played your game of Twenty Questions in a while,” I suggest.

  “Okay, you start.” Seth flips his baseball hat around so it’s on backwards. Why this small, insignificant gesture makes my heart skip a beat, I’ll never understand.

  Me: “What was your worst move? The place you hated most?”

  Seth: “Fort Rucker, Alabama. No Jews and lots of water moccasins.”

  Seth: “Where’s the best place you ever lived?”

  Me: “San Antonio because of the people, Hawaii because . . . well, because it’s Hawaii.”

  Another mile and our questions turn a little more philosophical.

  Me: “What do you think these wars will end up changing?”

  Seth: “The people who fight in them.”

  Me: “Why are we walking?”

  Seth: “Uh, because Lucas asked us—”

  Me: “No, I mean why are any of us walking? Ultimately speaking?”

  Seth: “Because once you stop moving, stop chasing something, you die.”

  One more mile and things get really serious.

  Seth: “Why are you in such a hurry to go to college?”

  Me: “One of us has to go or Dad will think he became a U.S. citizen for nothing.”

  Seth: “But what do you really want to do? Ultimately speaking?”

  Me (after a lengthy pause): “I have no idea.”

  Me: “When were you most afraid over there?”

  Seth (after a longer pause): “When I held Lucas in my arms until the medics arrived.”

  And there we have it. Seth was there. I should press him for details, but the image of Seth down in the dirt, cradling my brother, is too painful to envision for long. My heart cracks in two and our conversation ends. Or at least I want it to, but Seth is on a roll.

  “What do you hate most about being a military brat?” he continues.

  Good. An easy way to change the subject. “You want the long list or the CliffsNotes?”

  “You have a list?” Seth chuckles. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  “It’s called, ‘Things I Hate Most about Life As a Military Brat.’”

  “Catchy. Let’s hear it.”

  I take a deep breath. “Number 1: Being called a military brat. The nickname isn’t the problem, since I know it’s one of endearment. What bothers me is being thrown into a club I never asked to join. My dad was the one who signed up for the Army, but the moment the doctor at some hospital with walls the color of lima beans smacked me on the butt and said, ‘Welcome to Fort Wherever,’ I was in, like it or not.”

  Seth laughs. “Yeah, I’m surprised we don’t see more recruitment posters that say, ‘U.S. Army. Enlisting infants since 1776.’”

  “Number 2: That annoying question, ‘So, where are you from?’ I used to get tongue-tied trying to explain that I was technically born in Fort Polk, Louisiana, but we moved to Fort Drum, New York, when I was two months old. I couldn’t tell you a thing about my birthplace, other than the cockroaches are allegedly the same size as the rats. So now I opt for the simplest response: ‘Pick a place.’”

  “See, that’s the only good thing about my parents’ divorce. My mom will never leave her hometown again, so at least I have that as a fallback answer. Continue.”

  “Number 3: Surprises. The constant changes that come with moving so much make it easy to latch on to anything remotely consistent, so even the silliest traditions start to matter when everything else descends into chaos. I like to know what to expect.”

  “Note to self: never throw Gabi a surprise party.” Seth grins. “Not unless I want to get kicked in the cojones.”

  I smile back. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

  Santo Domingo de la Calzada

  “Where the hen sang after being roasted”

  I stop in front of the huge sign. “Wow. And I thought Maryland’s state motto—‘Manly deeds, womanly words,’ whatever that means—was bad.”

  Twenty Questions comes to an end when we reach the town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, in part because we’re greeted by the most bizarre welcome sign I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen plenty.

  “I know, right.” Seth scans the quiet town. “Why anyone would choose a chicken as their mascot is beyond me.”

  “Can I see the guidebook?”

  Seth hesitates. “Do you remember what happened the last time I gave you the guidebook?”

  “Yes. We met some amazing people and slept out under the stars. Now give it here.”

  Seth hands over the book. I flip to the page on Santo Do
mingo, read the short description, and slam the cover shut. “Follow me, por favor.”

  • • •

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  I can’t help beaming at the look of horror on Seth’s face. “Surprise!”

  “Gabi.” Seth swallows hard, straining to keep his voice calm in the quiet sanctuary. “Why are there chickens inside a church?”

  I peer into the wrought-iron cage decorated with filigree designs, the opulent home of two white hens who stare back at us with shifty eyes. “They’re here so that pilgrims will remember one of the most famous miracle stories of the camino.”

  “Let me guess. A man who loved chickens built them a cathedral and was cured of his raving lunacy?”

  “Nope. Once upon a time, long before albergues had subpar showers, a young pilgrim walked to Santiago with his parents and they stopped in Santo Domingo for the night. The daughter of the innkeeper propositioned the young man, but being the good Catholic boy that he was, he refused her advances. In retaliation, the scorned girl hid a silver chalice in his bag and called the authorities. Since it was the Middle Ages and theft wasn’t tolerated, the poor kid was promptly executed. His parents continued walking to Santiago to pray for his soul, and on their way home they stopped at this church to say their final goodbyes. That’s when they discovered that their son was still alive.”

  “Dun, dun, dun!” Seth exclaims with fake enthusiasm.

  “Hey, this is my narrative and that was not the decisive turning point.” I pick up a feather from the floor and tickle Seth’s cheek. He squeals like a little girl, I swear.

  “That’s disgusting! Okay, okay. Just finish your stupid story already.”

  I clear my throat. “As I was saying, the parents informed a city official of this miracle right as he was sitting down to lunch. ‘Your son is as alive as this roast chicken on my plate,’ the official scoffed. And because God can’t stand haters, the moment the man said these words, his roasted chicken stood up, sprouted feathers, and flew away.”