Pilgrim

The sun lit her skin on fire.  Her throat was like sandpaper.  Dirty sweat stung her eyes.  And her feet?  Her feet hurt bad.  The ache on the outside contradicted the deadness on the inside.  This was not a good day.  And tomorrow probably wouldn’t be any better.

What had the nun said?  No.  She hadn’t said anything.  Just handed her a little slip of paper.  She pulled it out and looked at it:

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

Emily dropped her pack to the ground.  Weary.  Sore.  It was at least two more miles to the next waystation, and she wasn’t sure her blisters could take it.  She slumped against a tragically scraggly tree, trying to center the leaves between that big, bright ball of death and her throbbing head, and wondered for the four thousandth time why she was doing this.

Was she running from her past?  No job.  An abusive, asshole ex.  Fickle friends who’d left her high and dry (mostly high), just because she’d fucked them over.  She’d brought it on herself with her poor choices.  She picked up her pack and left the relative protection of the anemic alder.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

A fellow backpacker came loping up behind her.  Abelardo had a late start, and was probably the last of the day from the previous checkpoint.  Grey, but vigorous, he was faster than she, but slowed his pace to flirt for a moment, like only an older man can.  Then he sped ahead, but not before suggesting they share a saboso postre at the next stop.

Was she hoping to find something new?  Hoping to find herself?  Hoping that by leaving everything and everyone behind, she would be able to strip down and strip away all of the baggage and garbage and grime?

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

She pulled out her water.  Just a few gulps to go.  She took a sip, then left the rest.  She couldn’t be sure how much further she had to trek.  It was easy to misjudge the distances.  And sometimes a traveler could reach the next checkpoint, only to find there was no water there.  Better to save a little, just in case.

She should have listened to her father.  He’d warned her.  And that last phone call…  She could still go back.  He’d welcome her with open arms.  But could she let herself?  Her pride was the only thing she had left.  Seemed silly to tie her happiness to her self- respect, especially at this point, but she felt like it was the pin holding everything in place.  Without it, did she even know who she was?

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

She should have reached the waystation by now.  Had she taken a wrong turn?  Or was it just a little further?  Thirsty.  She pulled out the canteen and opened it, then thought better of it.  She slowed her stride a bit, trying to think things through.  Had she missed a turn?  Should she retrace her steps?  The wrong decision could be disaster.

Wrong decisions.  Her life was filled with wrong decisions.  But on the Camino, a bad call could literally cost your life.  Nobody behind her.  Nobody looking for her.  Nobody but her, all alone, on the trail.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

A memory resonated in her fat head.  Double leg.  Somebody had said something about this being a double leg.  The term hadn’t registered with her at the time, but it was glaring at her now.  Double leg.  Okay.  She was sure she’d hiked further than a single leg, but how much further?  Didn’t matter.  She had to keep going until she got there.

She was crying.  Why was she crying?  Thinking about her mom.  Thinking about her sister.  Thinking about her sister’s tiny hugs.  Thinking about sleeping in her old bed.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

Something on the trail.  No.  Someone on the trail.  Abelardo, the flirt.  He was just lying there, glassy-eyed.  He tried to talk, but only mumbled and murmured.  What should she do?  She could try to go ahead and send back help, but the sun was baking his brain.  He might not last.  She pulled out her water and pressed it to his lips.

Her water.  The last of it.  Good thing she’d saved it.  

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”

The last half mile was the hardest.  Abelardo limped along, using her for support, for a while.  But by the end, she was practically dragging him.  When she got close, some other hikers saw them.  She heard a couple of shouts, but couldn’t even put her head up to look.  Then, hands, helping the man.  Hands, taking her pack.  Hands, helping her forward.

She was awake now.  Listening.  Most were asleep, although she could hear a couple of folks at the fire.  She thought.  She felt.  Today was a good day.  Maybe tomorrow could be a good day, too.

“Blessed are you, pilgrim, when your pack is emptying of things and your heart does not know where to hang so many emotions.”