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

about the Variante Espiritual? It is the most beautiful way, if you have the time.’

‘Oh, I have all the time in the world. Please, tell me about it.’

* * *

The next day, after breakfast at the hostel in Pontevedra, she met Miguel and they set off on the road to Armenteria, the spiritual variant of the Camino de Santiago. They fell into an easy rhythm, seeing other pilgrims, sharing Buen Caminos. The way took them through the village of Combarro, where they decided to stay a night. There wasn’t an albergue but a café rented rooms. There was only one available. Clair had long lost her sense of privacy and felt no hesitation at undressing down to her camisole and underwear, before climbing into a narrow, single bed. She glanced to see him remove his shirt and jeans, and looked away quickly when she realized he wasn’t wearing any underwear. The other bed was angled at an L shape so that their heads almost touched.

‘So, tell me, Clair Mercer, what brings you on this pilgrimage, alone?’

‘I am walking to Finisterre,’ she said. ‘What about you?’

‘No reason. Just the act of walking by itself answers many questions I have, about how to make sense of this world. It is a path through the chaos.’

‘And have you found your answers?’ she asked, feeling heat from the top of his head radiate to her.

‘It isn’t about finding, I don’t think. It is about seeking.’

* * *

The next morning, they set off for Vilanova de Arousa. There was an unseasonal heatwave, temperatures climbing into the seventies. Sweaty, they stopped at a small stream running along rocks, water so clear you could see the ancient markings of centuries flowing over them. Miguel sat, stripped off his shoes, socks, and clothes, wading out into the cold water.

‘Ah,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in, Clair. It’s refreshing.’

She stood, taking off her own clothing, and toed her way into the icy waters. She felt his eyes on her. Closing her own, she breathed in the sensation of being free, of choosing to do this, and plunged into a deep area, letting the water surround her, feeling the rocks slide across her bottom. Coming up, laughing, she saw he was standing still, watching. His eyes held a look of such deep compassion, she almost wept. Beginning to shiver, she hurried back onto the bank, her clothes warmed by the sun.

‘Don’t dress right away,’ he called. ‘Make sure you’re all dry. Dampness can cause blisters and inflammation.’

‘How do you know so much?’ Clair asked him, once he had returned to the bank, his face turned towards the sun.

‘I walk, that’s what I do.’

She felt her breath catch in her heart. Those were Michael’s words, almost exactly. But this man, almost a boy, isn’t the Michael she met on the plane. She felt him looking at her.

‘You are beautiful, Clair. Don’t try to hide your beauty, or mask your suffering. We all live to suffer, and to help others heal from their suffering.’

Miguel looked long at the river, as they sat on the bank. Clair was uneasy at first, feeling like she shouldn’t be doing this, he was too young. But what was she doing, really? There was nothing sexual about this encounter. They were two beings, coming together, to share moments, and that was all. But that was so much.

He waved his hand at the river, swirling, eddying, and rippling down towards the ocean.

‘Life, like waves, river or ocean, moves in swells and patterns, sometimes thought to come in sets of seven. Myth or fact, no one knows for sure. The wind in storms comes in intervals, gusts and flurries. It is wind that creates swells, the more consistent winds creating the swell, not the higher impact gusts. These swells will bond together, in sets, in order to conserve energy for their vast journey over oceans. Whether sets of seven or more, that isn’t scientific. What is known is that for each of us, we find our breaking point. Turbulence precedes transformation. The moment we crash onto shore or up against a rock. But the wave doesn’t cease to exist, it returns to water. And so we continue on as well.

Chapter 32

Adam

Adam hadn’t really thought about the distances, or the steps. He had seen the route as a driver, someone who could cross vast geographical spaces with a foot on the pedal, or better yet, sitting in a seat on an airplane. This walking, this moment by moment life, was hard. That morning at breakfast, sitting at the communal table, drinking dark, strong coffee and eating eggs fried in butter, thick bread smeared with sweet jam, cheese, and dried apricots, he had heard two men sitting next to him talking about how it was only another 500 kilometers. He was astounded. He opened his phone, downloaded a map of the area, and seeing where he was and where he had yet to go, he felt dizzy. Good God, he thought, what in the name of reason have I done? This will take over a month. It will be December, winter. And there’s no way around, too late to go back. I have to keep on.

No one had seen Clair. None of the hostels he had stayed at, or cafés, tapas bars, even churches. He had stopped asking. Now, he was on this path for himself, to survive. Up and moving at dawn, he set off, finding an easy pace now, his arms swinging, modulating his breathing so that each step was a breath. Climbing was getting easier. He found a rhythm for that as well, stepping up first right, then bringing up the left. He sang, quoted entire sections of plays. He thought seldom about home, his classes, students. A sight stopped him in his tracks. A house, standing alone in a field, one tree to its side. He threw his arms up into the air, dancing around in circles singing ‘La Donna È Mobile’ from Verdi. A group of pilgrims walked