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

‘Buen Camino,’ they called, the chant becoming more than a saying. It was a confirmation of their sharing this road, this time, this life. He felt a cellular joy, a freedom never before experienced until a thought hit him like a strong north wind. What if Clair was already dead?

Walk, he thought, just keep walking. The next town, the next hostel, I’ll get there. If she is going to Santiago, I’ll find her there. I would know if she was no longer on this earth, a part of the fabric of humanity. I would, wouldn’t I?

And so, he did, over hills, through villages, snow, rain, sunshine. Meeting people who knew him only by his first name, Adam. Welcomed and accepted, sleeping on a couch with a total stranger, a woman who like him, arrived too late for a bed. They slept end to end and the comfort of her warm body soothed him to sleep.

Chapter 33

Clair

The cathedral spires were visible from the bridge, over a causeway entering into Santiago. By now, the numbers of pilgrims had picked up, even at this time of year. The energy and excitement were palpable. Several were gathered at a crossroads, where two signs pointed in a different direction, leading towards Santiago. They clustered together, speaking and gesticulating in multiple languages, asking which way to go. Clair made her best guess, and walked away from the group, keeping the sight of the spires in her mind’s eye, even as she entered another dense forest.

Without warning, the forest ended, and she was on a busy, commercial road, with large vehicles thundering past. It had been so long since she had been in a city, she was momentarily disoriented. One bright yellow arrow pointed the way across a six-lane highway. Once across, she stepped into a café for a bathroom break. After buying a bottle of water, she sat and watched as the world sped by. She felt OK. Pain had become her constant companion, and she didn’t know if it was the cancer or just wear and tear. She lived on ibuprofen and paracetamol. The local wines and strong pastries helped, she thought. She couldn’t tolerate beer or ale, a great sadness to her. She walked on, slowly now, not wanting this part of the journey to end. After Santiago would be Finisterre. That would be the end.

The sounds of voices began as a soft hum, like her bowing in the early movements of Pachelbel’s Canon. Then, as in a symphony, gaining momentum until she was there, carried along by the sounds to the entrance of the Cathedral de Compostela, home of St James, center of her universe for now. The Pilgrim’s Mass was about to begin. She walked in, genuflecting as she settled into a pew towards the back. This was the place to leave all of her suffering behind. A door to a small confessional was open to her right. She knelt in front, speaking in halting Spanish. The priest recited his prayer, taking her face in his large, rough hands and wiped her tears away. He blessed her. Eyes tearing still, she sat again in her pew, then followed the procession up to the altar to take communion. This is all I needed, she thought. Now I’m ready.

Bright lights shone against the winter darkness when she walked out of the church. The square still held gatherings of pilgrims, many overwhelmed with emotion at having arrived at their long-sought destination. A bagpipe was sounding a plaintive anthem somewhere in the near distance. Clair walked through the winding, narrow avenues, realizing she was starving and exhausted. She sat down outside a tapas bar, relishing a moment of stillness. The café was quiet this time of evening, the transition between day and night. A waiter, dark hair combed back, dressed in black pants and white shirt, offered her a plate of cheese, nuts, and potato chips. A bottle of water, still, was placed on the table. She ordered a glass of Alberiño, ensalada and tortilla. She had come to crave this simple and filling meal, which left her satiated and without the frequent digestive distress other foods often caused. Music played down the avenues, floated out of windows, cracked open to let in the cool November night air. Smoke from pipes, cigarettes, and wood stoves mixed with the sounds, creating a mixture that took her back, way back to earlier days, when her family acted like one, taking vacations in the Redwood Forest and Yosemite National Park. Her father smoked a pipe, its resonant scent lingering in the air outside the cabin door, where her mother made him go to smoke. She would stand with him, as they watched the night sky open like a crystal box full of jewels. Her mother’s radio played songs from the local station, ballads of love, loss, and the mercy at the bottom of a bottle. Clair felt her breath catch as she had a vivid flashback of Adam, smoking a cigarette. ‘The last one,’ he had said, smiling. ‘I’m quitting, for our baby.’

* * *

The walk to Finisterre was less arduous than the walk to Santiago. The path rambled through villages, over Roman bridges, and down roads running side by side with modern highways. Fewer pilgrims took this path, choosing to stay in Santiago or return to their homes having accomplished their goal. Clair enjoyed the solace. She had treated herself to a hotel room in Santiago, with her own private toilet. She had hesitated at first, worrying about the Visa card. Surely Adam was watching for its use. At this point, she decided, she didn’t care. It was almost over.

Chapter 34

Clair

The rock sat lonely among the cliffs, historian to all that had gone before and would come after. The cold, gray north Atlantic Ocean churned, casting foam onto the large flat surfaces where wild goats pranced. She had passed the zero-kilometer mark, where a few hardy souls were taking pictures, capturing the moment on