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

Clair

The way was more difficult than she had imagined. Grateful for her good shoes, jacket, and poncho, she felt the rain fall on her head, heard it drip from the tall, sweet smelling eucalyptus and pine trees as she walked through the dense coastal forest. She had paralleled the coast for many kilometers, then veered inland. At once, captured by the rich scents of dense trees, earth, and that ethereal something that passes between all living things, she walked, looking towards the skyline, enjoying the sway and music of the limbs as they rubbed together like lovers. Catching herself stumbling over old flagstones mired in the damp path, she kept her eyes down, knowing a fall could be disastrous. Her bones were weakened by the chemotherapy and now, with metastasis, she was at higher risk for pathologic fractures. Slow, and steady, she coached herself, like the story about the tortoise and the hare Devon loved for her to read. Be the tortoise, she told herself. One step at a time.

The path wound steadily uphill, the forest growing thicker until suddenly a stream ran by, the yellow arrows pointing to an old wooden bridge. Crossing the stream, she found herself in a small village, where a local family had set up an impromptu café. They offered food, water, beer, wine, and toilet facilities in their home. Several pilgrims were sitting inside an open garage, where a fire pit glowed brightly. Coats, ponchos, even shoes and socks lined the walls of the garage. Clair sauntered through the doorway, not sure of her place. Immediately, several people waved her over, motioned to the hooks on the wall. An older man, smiling broadly, came up to her, speaking in Spanish and making hand signals towards displays of food and drink.

I must look like something the cat dragged in, she thought, but then, so does everyone else. Grateful to take off her wet outer garments, she dug in her backpack for a pair of fresh socks. Her feet, bright red, toenails blue, stung with heat and tingling, as she gently massaged them before putting on dry socks. The relief was sensual.

Joining a table where she recognized a couple, Bridget and Joe from Dublin, she had met on the path that morning, she helped herself to a slice of the local tortilla, a mix of eggs, potatoes and onion, giving herself over to the experience of being part of this confluence of beings, not needing to speak, or even listen. It was enough. For now.

As Clair sat, enjoying the sounds of laughter, talk, and strangers becoming friends, she found herself looking at the faces, seeing how each individual carried so many stories written in their expressions, lines of history etched in the eyes, along the jaw, and mouth. One face caught her attention. He was looking at her. Eyes so dark, wide set, and open, without a trace of guile or cunning. Only curiosity and kindness shone through. She quickly looked away.

‘We’ll be going now,’ Bridget said. ‘Do you want to walk with us? We’re going to stay in Pontevedra tonight, in a hotel. We’re too old for the albergues. Sharing a toilet is not my thing. And good God, snoring in six languages! Hard enough to share with this brute.’ She playfully nudged Joe, who stood six five to her five two.

‘How far to Pontevedra?’ Clair asked. She had the pilgrim app on her smartphone but rarely used it, preferring to follow the way markers, and leave her itinerary up to chance. But it was getting late, and she didn’t want to sleep on the floor, as she had at her last hostel, sharing a thick wool rug with a big furry sheepdog.

‘Only eight more kilometers,’ Bridget said. ‘But, you know, we’re in our seventies and like to settle in before dark. And looking around, in this part of the world, dark comes early this time of year.’

‘I think I’ll stay a bit longer, rest my feet,’ Clair replied, stretching out on the bench seat Joe had just vacated, enjoying the heat from his body. ‘I made a booking at an albergue so I’m OK for tonight. Hope to see you on the path tomorrow. Buen Camino.’

‘Buen Camino,’ Bridget said as she walked away, looking back over her shoulder, as Joe loped along beside her.

Clair was sipping a glass of cold Alberiño wine, looking out over a grape orchard, dotted with sheep grazing, chickens pecking, and flowers blooming all along the rows. The sky was blue now, without a hint of the dark clouds that had followed her and sometimes poured rain down upon her as she walked up through the forest. She leaned back against the side of the walled garage, allowing a deep feeling of being where she should be overtaking her doubts, guilt over leaving without telling her family, and surprisingly, thoughts of Jet bubbled up into her consciousness. Without hesitation, she opened her phone, finding Jet’s contact information, opened a message and texted.

Jet, I’m OK. Don’t worry. I’m doing what I have to do. I’ll call once I’m settled. Don’t try to reach me, wherever I am today, I won’t be there tomorrow. I’m sending the same text to Adam, Ben and Jodie, so you don’t have to try to call or message them. I’m well. Be well too.

And then she turned her phone off again. She didn’t want to have to deal with responses, just now. Looking around again, she noticed the young man walking towards her. Tall and gangly, long dark hair pulled back into a neat bun, he looked both impossibly young and yet had a certain maturity and wisdom in his grace. He smiled as he sat down. Holding out his hand, he said, ‘Hello, I’m Miguel. I’ve noticed you are a solo pilgrim. How far have you walked today?’

‘Hi, I’m Clair,’ she said. ‘Today, not so far. I’m going on to Pontevedra, then I’m not sure. I sort of take it day by day.’

‘Do you know