The Wave by Kristen Crusoe (smallest ebook reader txt) 📕

of Devon, Adam, their home, flashed through her mind, like spikes of sunshine through a dense cloud, illuminating her situation. Clair remembered a photo she had seen in a travel magazine, somewhere in Spain, of a house, standing on its own, on top of a gentle hill. All around it was space and light. In the distance, a hammock of wind-shaped trees leaned into each other, offering solace, but the house stood alone. She felt like that house. Except that she was on the move. She would hold her trees, Adam, Devon, close to her and open space for knowing and remembering them, and how they were. As she moved further away from the physical place where they were last together, she experienced a feeling of joy, almost as resistance to the expectation of sorrow, loneliness, and grief. It felt good to be here, alone, but holding their images and energy in her heart. In a place where she could not lose them again. Safe now. Whole.

To her surprise, the man from the plane was at the ticket counter for Iberia when she arrived at the terminal. She recognized his broad back, slightly hunched as though having spent a lifetime ducking under low ceilings. Taking her place in line for pre-flight check-in, she noticed a shell hanging from his backpack. When he turned away from the counter, he caught her eye, and smiled broadly, as though enjoying having played a trick on her.

The waiting area was packed with travelers, many animated, excited to be on their way. Families with small children clustered around a play area. Clair joined them, sitting off to the side but close enough to be able to see and hear their laughter and delight, some tears and cries of fatigue and weariness.

‘To be happy as a child, for no reason other than being alive in this moment, that is a gift, yes?’

Clair turned to see the man, she must learn his name, taking the seat beside her, that playful smile on his face, eyes shining with delight.

‘You,’ she said, shaking her head in surprise. ‘Are you on this flight to Porto as well?’

‘Yes, apparently I am. My original ticket was for Lisbon but seems I have been re-routed. Maybe it is kismet, or fate, that we travel together. You can tell me your story. We are bound together now for a few hours while we wait. Let’s enjoy our time.’

Clair laughed at his eagerness to befriend her. She thought she must look a mess but he was so much older, she didn’t think he was coming on to her in a sexual way. He seemed genuine in his simple human desire for company.

‘First, tell me about the shell hanging from your backpack. Is it a clam shell?’

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘A scallop. The symbol for the Camino de Santiago. Pilgrims wear the shell to identify themselves when walking.’

‘Why?’ Clair asked, her head tilted to the side to better see the shell dangling from his pack, on the floor in front of him. There was a symbol of a stylized cross painted in red on its curved outside.

‘A long story and one you will learn as you go. It means different things to different people.’

‘So, are you going on to Spain too now, or are you getting off when we land in Porto?’ Clair asked, feeling like she was grilling him, as she did her doctoral students taking their oral exams. She didn’t care, she wanted to know. And he seemed unbothered, even eager for her questions.

‘I haven’t decided.’

Clair looked at him with skepticism. ‘So, you just fly around the world, changing your destination en route?’

‘Sometimes, yes, that is what I do.’

‘I think there is a good story here, Mr. And what is your name?’ she asked, leaning forward in her seat.

The play area had cleared out, parents shepherding children towards seats, food stalls, and gathering in corners with blankets and sleeping bags laid out for sleep.

‘My name is Michael Kraft and I am going to get a coffee. May I bring you one, Miss, Mrs?’ he asked in return.

‘Clair Mercer,’ she said simply. ‘And yes, I would love a coffee, black please. Thanks so much. I will tend your pack.’

She watched him walk away, that slight hunch but head held high. He moved through the crowds easily, like a breeze passing through a field of wheat. People turned and shifted to make room, or looked up if he brushed them as he passed. Returning with the coffees, earnest in his purpose, his stride long and direct, she felt a tremble in her heart. Wondering if it was the chemotoxicity she had been warned about causing heart dysrhythmias. Maybe it was hunger, fatigue, all of these or an anticipation at hearing his story and spending time with this man. She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around herself, settling in for a long night’s passage.

‘What would you like to know?’ he asked, crossing one long leg over the other. She noticed his shoes, well-made leather, scuffed, and worn but with a good sole.

‘When did you walk your first Camino?’ she asked. ‘And why?’

Michael squinted his eyes, looking into the distance, past the crowds, the overhead signs, the vendors, and shops.

‘My first official Camino de Santiago began in 1972, when I was twenty years old, but I guess you could say my real journey began the year before. When I first learned about and experienced the mysteries of mescaline. I was a seeker and in the practice of sacred peyote, found a way to explore my inner consciousness. I found too much, too soon, and was not able to contain the power, to make the alchemical shift from base corporal elements to gold, or pure transmutation. I imagined I was transcending reality but in truth, I was distorting it. And it distorted me. That wouldn’t have been so bad except I took another with me. My girlfriend, a slight girl, easily deceived. She believed she could fly