Beautiful Mine (Beautiful Rivers #1)
Read Beautiful Mine (Beautiful Rivers #1) Online
Authors: J.L. White
Published by Velvet Rose Books
Amazon Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2016 J.L. White
ISBN 978-1-945261-05-3
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.
Beautiful Mine
by J.L. White
I try to be thorough with my research, but sometimes the story demands that I exercise my literary license and bend the confines of reality. If you ever plan a trip to Santiago, be advised that the regular schedule for the Botafumeiro is slightly different than what you’ll see here. If you’re not going to Santiago, zip on over to YouTube and watch the ceremony that way. Cuz it’s hella awesome.
Also, people who walk the Camino talk in terms of kilometers, not miles, but I’ve kept it all in miles here for the benefit of any American readers who might be metric-system challenged. You’re welcome.
Whitney
I’ve met a lot of people on the Camino del Santiago over the past thirteen days. Some I’ve loved, and some I’ve merely tolerated, but this is the first time I’ve wanted to punch anyone in the nose.
I’m not the punching type, either, just so you know. I’m pretty even-keeled and have never even slapped a guy on the face, but
oooooh
these idiots behind me!
I’ve been walking along a lovely path overhung with trees that often opens up to views of fields and eucalyptus forests, and this group has been slowly catching up. At first, when I’d hear their occasional burst of laughter far behind me, I just figured they were a lively bunch. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve met all types on this trip, and the lively ones have kind of been my favorites. They’re the ones that pull me out of my shell and remind me that I’m only twenty-five, and not the old lady I sometimes feel like.
But if you’re going to do something like walk the Camino del Santiago, you should probably try not to be an asshole.
In case you don’t know, the Camino is that famous five-hundred-mile pilgrimage that cuts across Spain and ends at the cathedral in Santiago de Compestola. It was a popular religious pilgrimage during the Middle Ages, fell into a bit of a lull, then enjoyed a resurgence back in the 1980s. There’s even that movie with Martin Sheen,
The Way,
where he walks the Camino and takes the ashes of his dead son along with him.
These days, something like 200,000 pilgrims come from all over the world to walk or bike one of the half dozen paths to Santiago. They might be doing it for spiritual reasons, or they might want a physical challenge, or they might be feeling a little lost or wounded by life and hoping this will help them gain clarity or healing.
As for me, I’m here partly because I’m struggling with my current life path. It’s true. I’ve been working as a placement specialist at the San Francisco office of the Kendrick Refugee Outreach Center since my senior year of college—so five years now—and I’ve been so focused on my job that it’s rare these days for me to go hang with some girlfriends. Don’t even get me started on my love life. (Non-existent, for the record.)
But part of me came because I just...
wanted
to.
I first heard about the Way in high school. We watched a documentary on it and I was fascinated. I really wanted to go, but deep inside I thought, “I’ll never do that. Not really.”
Then in college I stumbled across a book written by a man who’d walked it. I devoured every page, then went online and found some more books and read those too. I wanted it even more. But I thought the same thing, “I’ll never
really
do it.”
I mean, hundreds of miles across Spain. On
foot.
Who does that for real?
A few months ago, on one of my dark days, I came across a blog about the Camino—how to prepare, what to expect, which path to take. This time I thought, “I
need
that.”
So I put in for the vacation time my boss had been nagging me about (I’d let my weeks expire two years in a row) and started making plans.
Like, serious, for real, I’m actually-going-to-fly-to-Spain-and-walk-for-weeks plans. Just doing things like buying my backpack and booking my flights were invigorating. I didn’t have time to walk the whole thing—plenty of people only do sections of it—but I was able to take three weeks off work and that was good enough for my purposes.
After days of no work, no pressure, no internet, and nothing to do but walk and think and take in this incredible country, I feel like a woman reborn. The Camino has reminded me that I’m a whole person with her own life to live.
Honestly, that’s something I forgot.
And I’ve never been so daring. I’m not a shrinking violet or anything, but people, I flew my ass to Spain and have spent the last thirteen days walking 177 miles. I’ve stayed in twelve different hostels with anywhere from twenty to a hundred other sleeping, snoring, farting strangers.
I have thirteen stamps in my Pilgrim Passport, which I’ll turn in at the Pilgrim’s Office in Santiago for my certificate of completion.
I’ve seen old Medieval villages, bustling Spanish cities, public faucets that dispense wine instead of water, and just yesterday I saw a tiny, old woman who looked straight out of the last century as she drove her band of cattle up the Camino pathway.
I ate my first Camino meal while talking with a man from Switzerland who’s walking to commemorate his wife who passed away last year, a middle-aged couple from Germany who are walking the Camino for the
third
time, and a guy who I think is from Nigeria but I’m not sure because he didn’t speak English and I don’t speak Nigerian.
I’m now Facebook friends with Maggie from Ireland (who I keep running into), and Roy from Tennessee (who keeps running into me).
I heartlessly dumped several pounds from my pack on the third day, discovering I really could survive without a powder compact, swimsuit, UV water sterilizer, or a compass. I think I’ve dumped a few pounds from my ass, too, because my shorts are a lot looser around the hips than they were when I started.
I’ve mastered the ninja art of blister care. (I’ve only had three minor blisters this whole trip, so yeah, ninja.)
I’ve walked past a field of bobbing sunflowers with not another soul in sight. Sometimes the Camino is crowded, and other times it’s like you’re the only pilgrim on it.
Oh, and I get to call myself a pilgrim.
Ninja pilgrim. That’s me.
It’s been incredible. But the asshole guys behind me are kind of killing my Camino mojo.
I glance back and see this group of four is exclusively male, all around my age, and (I think) all American. This is such a rare sight among the potpourri of international travelers on the Camino, I can only assume they’re on this journey together.
After spending the last couple of miles slowly catching up, they’re close enough behind that I can hear their conversation. I won’t subject you to the details, but I feel badly for any female who’s ever dated a single one of them. In between bouts of obnoxious laughter, they’re comparing notes about how many girls they’ve laid, how many cherries they’ve popped, and who’s had the most girls at one time.
If it weren’t for the pilgrims about a quarter mile behind us on the path, I’d be scared to be around a group of men like this by myself. As it is, I’m just pissed.
I’m tempted to spin around and give them a few choice words, but that doesn’t seem in the spirit of the Way, so instead I step to the side and kneel down to re-lace my hiking boot. It doesn’t need it, of course. I just want them to pass me. I’m not going to listen to this juvenile prattle anymore.
But I do give a hearty scowl (a ninja scowl!) to the two who look at me when they go by (the other two are sniggering too heartily to notice me). One guy who looks at me has a cocky, amused smirk on his face. The other guy isn’t smiling or snickering, and when he meets my eye it takes a tiny bit of wind out of my scowl.
Rather than go into a long explanation about it, I’ll just tell you straight out. This dude is hot. Like, crazy hot. He’s got these brilliant blue eyes and soft scruff all over his angled jawline. He’s wearing a navy shirt, and has broad shoulders and tanned, muscular arms. He’s not one of those beefcake guys, but has that masculine, athletic build that’s so sexy. One strong hand is gripping a wooden walking stick. I’ve never been one to get all excited about a man’s hands, but his are mighty fine.
Okay, yeah, his hotness took the wind out of my scowling sails, I admit, but I can’t help that I’m female. Any straight woman on the planet would soften at the sight of such male perfection. It’s written into our biological code. But I mentally give myself a shake and get a hold of myself quick enough to scowl deeper. And do you know what he does before he looks away?
He
grins
at me!
Cocky bastard.
I focus on re-lacing my boot, until they pass, then glance up and let my eyes land on the guy in the navy shirt. Or rather, I’m looking at his impressively small backpack.
Okay, okay, I’m not looking at the pack. I’m taking full advantage of the fact that his pack stops just above the world’s most perfect ass. Wouldn’t you look, too?
But he’s still a cocky bastard.
Good thing I’ll never see
him
again.
By the time I reach Arca, my stop for the evening, I’ve run into Maggie from Ireland again, and after complaining about the guys I saw, I’m feeling better. Maggie is around my age, with intense green eyes and bright red curly hair she wears pulled into a ponytail. (Ponytails are pretty standard here, what with no hairdryers and all; I wear my long, dark hair up as well, pulled through the back of my baseball cap.)
Maggie is doing the Camino alone, like me. Over the past several days, we’ve walked together a few times and become friends, but our pace is different so we keep saying goodbye only to run into each other again later. We’ve figured out that even though she walks faster than I do, she takes more breaks and lingers for lunch longer.
We’re on the last leg of our walking for the day, both planning to stop here in Arca for the night, so we decide to find a hostel and get dinner together.
In addition to the big cities it passes through, the Camino frequently goes through some sort of little village that offers sleeping accommodations for pilgrims. There are sometimes hotels, but always hostels, which can sleep anywhere from a few dozen to more than a hundred pilgrims, mostly in co-ed dorms. The mattresses are almost universally thin and plain, but the rooms vary considerably. You might get a small room with four single beds, or be in a massive room crammed with bunkbeds.
One place even had triple-decker beds! I was lucky to get the bottom that time. The top mattress was close enough to the ceiling that the occupants of the top bunks had to perform some pretty interesting acrobatics to get in and out. Meanwhile, the whole thing’s shaking and rattling. I was just glad the beds above me didn’t come crashing down.
Apparently, right now there are more pilgrims than this town can accommodate. Since pilgrims only have to walk the last sixty-two miles to get a certificate, the Camino has been more and more crowded the closer I’ve come to Santiago, but it’s reached new heights here in Arca. Maggie and I lucked out and secured our beds (next to one another, in a room with eighteen other beds), but when we came back from dinner we heard the city is full up.
After we deposit our packs on our beds, we drift over to the window to look out into the rear courtyard. Sure enough, there are six pilgrims with their packs, preparing to sleep under the stars.
I’d read about things like this happening sometimes, but it’s the first I’ve seen it myself. I tense up a bit when I notice who’s out there: the group of obnoxious guys I ran into earlier. Well, three of the four, anyway. Navy Shirt is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s using the restroom. I don’t know. There are two other men out there as well, both much older, and one lone woman. She’s in her early thirties, I’d guess, with brown hair in a short bob.
“I’d hate to be
that
lass,” Maggie says in her slight Irish brogue. “All alone with those men.”
“Yeah,” I say, “and those guys there are the ones I was telling you about.”
“Which?” She leans closer to the glass.
I point them out and Maggie
tsks.
Even her
tsking
has an accent.
“I don’t know if I’d feel safe with those guys.” I turn away from the window and toward my bed. “I wonder if—” but the sight of something stops me.
Navy Shirt is sitting on the edge of the bed on the other side of Maggie’s. His pack is on the ground next to him, his walking stick leaning against the bed’s metal footboard. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, strong hands laced loosely together, and he’s looking right at me with those stunning blue eyes.
There’s no cocky grin though. In fact, he’s not smiling one bit and there’s not a trace of arrogance. He has a thoughtful look on his face.
I’m startled by the sight of him, and frown before looking away. I grab my pack and start digging around.