On the road to Santiago

Hills sparkle after the mists that kiss the road of the pilgrim part. It is the moon in the courtyard of the dead by night, at dawn: the dew. In the morning all prayers tumble over cobbled stones. In mourning they arise with the atonement of lost woes, found hope and ave marías: ... grazia plena, grazia plena ...

Vendors of squid and shrimp speak in raucous tones: "os tronos son o son dos ruxidos dos dragóns." The pilgrims merely drink their wine or water from flagons. They whisper soft petitions. Along old Celtic paths and roman ruins they echo wishes of ancestral bones: to Saint James, to James, to the field of stars in Santiago.

Today, we-three: Karl from Sweden, Charles from France and me. Carlos is the name I call myself; I never name my birthplace.

"So Carlos, where is the best place to rest", they ask, "Is this water safe to drink?"

I put on my best smile and share my knowledge of the centuries. Here your great-great-grand-uncle stumbled 147 years ago come March, right here at the right side of this path. And your grandmother's forefather collapsed along this way 2 centuries before. We have time to stop and visit her. If you please ... They think I tease and laugh, amused by what they think are stories. They are glad to have a pleasant simpleton as guide.

I whisper my apologies to their ancestors I meet along the way. They smile their silent answers, *Please don't be hard on them, dear sainted friend. They do not know that James still lives*.

On the paths to Santiago, I pray the pilgrims on their way.

279 words.