Farther Along Camino de Santiago

Four weeks in, as a petition for absolution, I hiked, occasionally encountering other pilgrims as we weaved France’s verdant, wooded, hilly paths of Camino de Santiago. With booted feet and hiking shorts, using a stiff staff for balance on rocky patches, I embraced the penance of carrying my weighty backpack where a Saint James’s attribute scallop shell dangled like a tiny spinnaker speeding my journey. I trekked The Way of St. James, traveling town by town, church by church for the spiritual renewal of the experience.

Not your thing?

Or do you want to come along?

I’m Vincent.

I detoured to explore a cave. Descending like a setting Sun into a rock fissure, I entered an inky blackness. My torch illuminated various wall prehistoric paintings – animal depictions, and a testimony to my ancestor’s existence. He’d spit mouthfuls of gritty red clay over his splayed fingers creating an image on a rock wall. I placed my hand over his twenty-five-thousand-year-old “signature” as a gesture of human solidarity. Where did we come from? Where are we going?

I was headed toward Rocamadour, a medieval town chiseled into the limestone cliff like a bas-relief, framed by the mist of a drizzly day. For centuries her Black Madonna granted miracles, and I had a request.

A stone arch framed a cobblestone pedestrian lane flanked by gray-brown stone structures – shops, cafes, and boutique hotels. Sitting at an outdoor table of a café, a woman with blazing blue eyes accentuated by red hair and a powder blue veil smiled at me. I stopped short. She had an aura, and some opportunities would be a sin to miss. “Bon jour,” I said. “May I join you?”

“Bon jour.” She gestured toward the other wicker seat at the small round table.

I dropped my backpack beside the chair. “I’m Vincent.”

“Marie. Enchante.”

“You speak English?”

“A little.”

When a French person says, “a little,” they’re likely able to recite the Gettysburg Address. When an American tells you he can speak some French, he’s tripped up after Bon jour.

“You’re an American?” she asked.

“Worse,” I said smiling. “Texan.”

“Ah. An independent minded person.”

“That’s what we tell ourselves. You live in Rocamadour?”

She mused. “Among other places.”

I couldn’t say exactly why, but this woman gave me a rare sense of wellbeing. “May I buy you a coffee or something else to drink?”

“Merci. Not for me.”

When the vested waiter arrived, I ordered a petit coffee for myself.

She said, “I can see by your scallop shell that you’re on a pilgrimage. What are you seeking?”

“Absolution.”

“You need forgiveness?”

“I found life easier to handle staying anesthetized. Drugs were fun until my behavior traumatized the people I loved. I’ve gotten clean, but they’re gone, and I can’t make amends, so I undertook this journey.”

She nodded. “Anyone can fall victim to pain. A guilty conscience is the tariff for existing, and suffering is intrinsic to being human.” She held me with cobalt eyes. “Do you believe God will forgive your sins?”

“Somebody needs to.” I squirmed a bit, changing the subject. “Outside Rocamadour, I entered a prehistoric cave. Pitch black, I couldn’t see past my eyeballs. Yet an ancient man using a flickering grease lamp risked serious injury or encountering a bear to create images and leave a handprint as documentation of his presence.”

“Ego?”

“I don’t know.”

She said, “Perhaps he made his own religious trek, entering the mysterious underworld.”

“Something drove him to overcome his fear of the unknown.”

“Human anxiousness stems from those times, surrounded by danger. Yet, you must take risks to grow. Even if this life isn’t all you have.”

I pondered her point.

She continued. “You’re somewhat ill at ease, travelling from Texas, beyond your comfort zone. You showed the courage to embrace adventure.”

“I suppose we endure to prove our worth.”

She tilted her head. “Will you petition the Black Madonna?”

I hesitated to open up. Just the thought depressed me. But something about her told me she wasn’t, like most people, just being polite. She really wanted to know. “Three guys mugged Chris, a friend of mine. One of them cracked his skull with a tire iron, putting him in a coma.” I felt exhausted by the revelation.

“How horrible.”

“He awoke in a hospital bed without the use of his legs and had trouble forming words.”

“He must’ve panicked.”

“A severe brain injury. He may never recover.”

Her eyes welled. I was surprised to see such empathy for someone she didn’t know. Made her attractive far beyond her physical beauty.

“He feels he can’t continue in school and no woman will be interested in saddling themselves with a disabled person. He fights his hate for the attackers.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I grimaced. “The cops grabbed the three guys, but a judge released them without bail. He couldn’t make a positive identification, and they never faced trial.”

“Earthly justice is often inadequate.”

“He doesn’t understand why God would dispatch thugs to ruin his life. He’s hurt and angry. He’s lost faith. The powerlessness of dependency is causing him to give up.”

“Without God,” she sighed, “there’s no hope for justice.” She paused before saying, “What will you ask of the Madonna?”

“Have him recover. Take him out of his depression before he drowns his sadness in a bottle of opioids.”

She nodded, and we sat for a few moments in silence. She excused herself, I presumed for the Ladies Room.

I’d long finished my coffee, and she hadn’t returned. I cursed myself for being so forthcoming about my sins and about Chris having been paralyzed. I scoffed at the way I’d made a first impression. No wonder she disappeared. Who wants to be around a guy who tells depressing stories. I huffed, then called the waiter over to pay my bill.

When he arrived, I asked in my bad French, “Did you happen to see where the woman I was with went?”

As he made change, he gave me an odd look, probably because I mangled the French pronunciation. I repeated my question in English.

“Monsieur,” he said, looking slightly peeved, “I understood you the first time. What woman did you mean?”

I thought he was digging at me. “The woman dressed in a blue veil. The redhead with those gorgeous eyes. She sat here when you served me coffee.”

His look turned skeptical. “You sat alone. There was no woman here.” He walked away.

My mouth opened and closed. I sat back in bewilderment. Was I hallucinating? Did something gaseous in that prehistoric cave trigger the DTs from my drug-sodden days?

To clear my head, I decided to ascend the 216 steps to the Notre Dame sanctuary and the Black Madonna.

About halfway up, the thought occurred to me that, perhaps, I’d already made my petition. I checked my watch and quickened my pace. If I moved fast, it wouldn’t be too late to phone Chris in the States.

Joe Giordano was born in Brooklyn. He and his wife Jane now live in Texas. Joe’s stories have appeared in more than one hundred magazines including The Saturday Evening Post, and Shenandoah, and his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember. His novels include, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, and the Anthony Provati thriller series: Appointment with ISIL, Drone Strike, and The Art of Revenge.