Sacred Sierra

by Jason Webster

  *

  Arcadio is coming round more regularly, popping over for an hour or so every few days. We are slowly getting used to each other, and he’s beginning to teach me the names of some of the trees here. He only knows them in Valencian, so I have to look up the Castilian and English names once he’s gone (and sometimes the Latin, while I’m at it). Slowly, very slowly, I feel the land is becoming less of a nameless, mysterious wilderness. But as is so often the case, the more I pick up, the more I realise how much there is to learn; knowledge, when it comes, only does so in small, less than satisfactory, bursts. I have bought a few books on plants and wildlife to help me along, but I find I can pick up a huge amount just by wandering around with Arcadio for half an hour. The mountainside is home to several types of oak tree, it appears: the ordinary type, such as the one overhanging the patio, and holm oaks, or holly oaks, which are evergreen and very well suited to the Mediterranean climate. They have small, round, prickly leaves, like holly, and were used for making ships, according to Arcadio. I told him I’m interested in planting trees, in trying to recover something of the forests that grew here before the fire. He mentioned the pine trees that had previously covered these hillsides.

  ‘But planting more pines is like planting matches,’ he said. ‘Burn like buggery. Better off with more oaks. Harder, denser wood – not that you’ll ever get to see them fully grown in your lifetime, though,’ he laughed. ‘Perhaps not even your children. Grandchildren maybe.’

  *

  There was hardly a sound. The street lights had been switched off and a hush fell on the crowd as it huddled around the edge of the village square, waiting. I saw a gap at the top of one of the wooden scaffolds nearby and climbed up to watch next to a couple of teenage boys with wild, energised looks.

  ‘Ahora viene,’ they said as I lifted myself up beside them. ‘It’s coming.’

  A single light was now shining down on the empty stage below, while in the middle of the sawdust-covered floor a small metal cage, just big enough to accommodate possibly two people inside had been erected. It was painted red, but large ugly scratches up and down the thick, solid bars bore witness to the hammering it had received on previous occasions. Doubtless it had saved countless lives over the years.

  Some of the boys on the other side of the square were already breaking away from the relative safety of similar cages lining the edge in anticipation of the spectacle to begin. Naked from the waist up, they held their T-shirts in one hand and darted sharply in and out, as though practising their moves for when the moment came, with cheers of encouragement from their friends and girlfriends behind them. For a second I wondered about going in myself, feeling the intense thrill of mortal danger, but held back: I would wait and see how my body reacted once the bull finally appeared: which would be the stronger emotion – excitement or chilling fear?

  ‘Are you going to go down?’ I asked the boys beside me.

  ‘Claro – of course.’

  It was, I told myself, a teenagers’ thing, not something someone in his late thirties should be getting involved in. Until I saw a man clearly the other side of fifty suddenly dash out of his cage and back in again, just as the young boys were doing, his paunch bouncing like a medicine ball above the thin leather belt holding up his trousers.

  September had drawn to a close and the village was celebrating the feast of its patron saint, the Archangel Michael, marking the end of the harvest period. The centre had been cut off and fenced in for the big event. Our first proper month on the farm had ended, but already it felt as if we had been there far longer. I was confident we could manage with what we had taken on, but had niggling doubts nonetheless. The problem with steep learning curves, I thought as I looked out at the ring, was exactly that – they were steep.

  At that moment the bull charged suddenly into the square, catching us all unawares. There was a scream and a surge in the noise of the crowd as it darted out from a side road into the open. It was smaller than the half-tonne animals used in professional bullfights, but it had the same dull, deadly expression, the same powerful body that could toss a grown man high into the air, and the same smell of dung, sweat and blood about it. What was different, though, was the presence of great torches on the end of each horn above his head, their fiery light illuminating the bull’s face and reflecting from his black, empty eyes. A bou embolat – a ‘fireball bull’. It was the most terrifying sight: in the heart of the blackened night here was this ancient symbol of fertility, like the sun bursting out in a proud, violent blaze looking for new blood to help irrigate the barren land.

  Memories of what I’d read about the ancient symbolism of bulls and bullfighting flew from my mind as the creature started crashing wildly about the square, enraged by the flames bursting from the ends of its horns, and by the young men buzzing around it like flies. I stood transfixed on the scaffold as it was quickly surrounded by six or seven of them darting and dodging in front of it and then flying back as fast as their legs could carry them to the safety of the cages. Two boys were already inside the central cage, leaning out and waving their T-shirts at the bull, trying to catch its attention, and then whipping their bodies back as it turned sharply and charged at them. CRACK – the bull’s head crashed against the heavy steel bars and for a moment one of the torches got entangled round it. There was another scream as the crowd realised the bull was caught and would almost certainly bring the cage crashing to the floor with its incredible strength, before, with a jerk, it set itself free and started hurtling again through the crowd.

  There was a sudden collective intake of breath as its golden horns brushed inches away from a young lad, arching his back as far as he could from danger as he sped towards the barriers. An ancient, sobbing fear masked his face as he ran, distorting his features into a harrowing grimace, only for a great smile to break out once he’d dodged his would-be killer and rejoined his group. Within seconds he was back in the ring, but this time making doubly sure, I noticed, to keep his distance.

  After watching for a time, the teenagers beside me were now preparing to climb down the scaffold to get inside the square themselves.

  ‘What do you think of the bull?’ I asked them as they started swinging their legs over the top.

  ‘Watch him on the right,’ the eldest one said. ‘He pulls round quickly to the right once he’s finished his charge.’

  My legs didn’t move, frozen. I watched as the boys descended.

  The bull tossed and whipped its head from side to side as they leapt into the square and started to run in parallel towards the other side. The flames were sickeningly close to their exposed skin and I stared, not wanting to see, as the elder boy pushed away at the fire with the T-shirt in his hand. With a ducking motion he was quickly inside the cage and safe, but I saw him hold up the cloth to his friends: it was smoking; they laughed. The man with the beer gut, however, was standing on his own in a corner of the square, egging the bull on with loud, hoarse shouts, to come and charge at him. It seemed suicidal. For a long while the bull ignored him, more preoccupied with the swift, eye-catching movement of the youths than the heavy ranting of the older man behind. But a lull came unexpectedly, and in that moment the bull turned swiftly on the spot, pawed at the ground and charged full-speed at him. The space the man had put himself in was virtually a trap, with a wall cutting him off on the left, and only a small gap for him to escape on the right. He stood for a second, arms outstretched as though daring the beast to impale him, and then threw himself in a dive towards his one exit point. But the bull seemed to anticipate him, and as soon as the man was dashing towards the safety of the cages, he pulled his head round, checked his run, and in a flash was beating the man’s bare back with his forehead. The man fell to the floor, the bull scraping with his flaming horns at his prostrate body lying in a pile in the dirt by one of the cages. The light from the torches on the bull’s horns lit up the faces of the villagers inside, their expressions frantic as those closest tried to pull the man’s bod
y towards them. I felt my body go cold, unable to look away.

  Some boys from the other cages ran out and tried to draw the bull’s attention away from the man on the floor. For a moment he seemed to ignore them, then with a start lifted his head from his victim and started charging at his new tormentors. No sooner had he moved away than the fat man was on his feet, as though nothing had happened, and was running like a terrified toddler into the nearest cage. I gave a thankful sigh. Miraculously it looked as though he was all right: after a few concerned words from the people around him, he was now back at the front of the cage, shouting abuse at the bull. There didn’t appear to be a scratch on him.

  I climbed down the scaffold and walked away from the crowd, my feet scuffing the gritty soil underneath. For a second I looked back, as though searching for a reason for not hanging around and giving it a go. The flames from the bull’s horns were flashing through the silhouettes of the people pressed inside the protective cages. I was glad that this festival still seemed to be alive and strong up here, but personally I’d seen enough: the image of the fire-beast had been engraved on my mind for good.

  I found Salud chatting to Mariajo, the forty-year-old village punk who ran the grocer’s store. Like the rest of the villagers, Mariajo was virtually legless.

  ‘Did you have a go?’ Mariajo asked with a smile. I shook my head. ‘You’re better off,’ she said. ‘It’s for young boys and old men, all that. They’re crazy – bojos. It’s as if they need to prove they’re men. Can’t understand it.’

  Salud nodded vigorously.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of challenges of our own to deal with up on the mountain,’ she said squeezing my arm and leading me away. ‘You don’t want any of that.’

  The sound of the crowd and the screams from the bull-running gradually faded as we walked away from the square, an enveloping silence seeming to flow from the narrow, empty houses lining the streets.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Salud said as we headed towards the car. ‘Living up here on the mountain …’ She paused.

  ‘If we get through this, if we’re still together in a year’s time,’ she said. ‘Maybe we should … get married.’

  The Story of Mig Cul Cagat

  ONCE UPON A time, in a mas not far from here, there lived half a chicken called Mig Cul Cagat. None of the masovers knew who he belonged to, as he appeared one day as if from nowhere. But they gave him food and let him live with the rest of the chickens. One day, as he was picking around the era, Mig Cul Cagat came across something hard and shiny on the ground. He blew on it and saw that he’d found a coin.

  ‘Aha!’ he thought as soon as he realised what it was. ‘With this I can go and marry the King’s daughter.’

  And without a second’s thought he left the mas and set off to the royal palace to seek his fortune.

  As he was walking along the road he came across a great ants’ nest, blocking his way.

  ‘Where are you going, Mig Cul Cagat?’ the ants asked him.

  ‘I’m off to the palace, to marry the King’s daughter,’ he replied.

  ‘Only if we let you pass!’ cried the ants.

  But Mig Cul Cagat wasn’t going to let them get in his way.

  ‘Ants!’ he said. ‘Climb up into my backside.’

  And as if by magic, all the ants suddenly found themselves inside the half-chicken.

  Mig Cul Cagat carried along his way, until he came across a big hammer.

  ‘Where are you going, Mig Cul Cagat?’ asked the hammer.

  ‘I’m off to marry the King’s daughter,’ he replied.

  ‘Only if I let you pass!’ said the hammer.

  But Mig Cul Cagat simply said: ‘Hammer, get into my backside.’

  And so it did.

  Mig Cul Cagat carried along the road, and soon he was getting close to the capital city, and the home of the King. But in order to get there he had to cross a river.

  ‘Where are you going, Mig Cul Cagat?’ asked the river.

  ‘I’m going to the palace to marry the King’s daughter,’ he replied.

  ‘Only if I let you pass!’ said the river.

  And Mig Cul Cagat said: ‘River, climb up into my backside.’ And the river disappeared inside him and he walked across and into the city.

  Now when he reached the King’s palace he knocked on the door and a guard appeared.

  ‘Where are you going, Mig Cul Cagat?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to marry the King’s daughter,’ Mig Cul Cagat replied.

  The guard went to tell the King. But the King just laughed and ordered that the half-chicken be thrown in jail for his insolence. And he had a vast amount of food placed in the dungeon with him.

  ‘You can only have my daughter if you can eat all that food before dawn,’ the King said.

  When the King and guard had both gone, the chicken called to the ants.

  ‘O ants! Come out, come out. There’s work to do.’

  And the ants climbed out of his backside and Mig Cul Cagat told them what had happened.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the ants. ‘We’ll fix it.’

  And they set about eating all the food that had been put in the dungeon, and by morning it had all gone.

  The King was furious when the guard told him the news.

  ‘You can only marry my daughter,’ he cried, ‘if you break out of the dungeon.’

  But when he had gone, Mig Cul Cagat called out: ‘O hammer! Come out, come out. There’s work to do.’

  And the hammer came out of his backside and Mig Cul Cagat told him what had happened. So the hammer started bashing the dungeon door, and within a few moments had broken it down and Mig Cul Cagat was able to walk free.

  Now the King saw the half-chicken walking around the yard, and decided to finish him off once and for all. He ordered the guard to grab Mig Cul Cagat, saying: ‘Light a fire. We’re going to use this chicken to make a paella!’

  So they tied Mig Cul Cagat down and they placed him in a huge paella pan on top of a burning fire.

  But Mig Cul Cagat called out: ‘O river! Come out, come out. There’s work to do.’

  And the river came out of his backside and doused the flames and saved him.

  By now the King realised there was nothing he could do, and so he finally allowed Mig Cul Cagat to marry the princess. The wedding was held straightaway, and all the ladies of court cried tears of sadness as they saw the newly-wed princess walking back down the aisle with half a chicken as her groom.

  That night, when the couple retired to their bedchamber, the princess started stroking Mig Cul Cagat, for although she had hoped for a better husband, she was not unkind. But as her fingers passed through his feathers she felt something unusual. Looking closer she saw that it was the end of a needle, a needle of gold. Mig Cul Cagat said nothing, and so she pulled at it and suddenly there was a bang. A bright blue flame filled the room, and where there had once been half a chicken, there now stood the handsomest young man. The princess gave a cry.

  ‘Do not fear,’ said the young man. ‘For I am in fact a prince, and you have broken the charm that was placed on me. And I am still your husband, if you will have me.’

  The princess fell in love and threw herself into the prince’s arms.

  And they lived happily ever after.

  OCTOBER

  October, as it is called in Latin, is known as Tishrin al-Awal in Syriac and is the first month of the year for the Syrians; the Persians call it Abanmah. In this month the cold grows stronger and sheep, which are now full with milk, suckle their young. This is the time for gathering fennel seeds, anis, onions, saffron, violets and pistachios. Green olives for pickling are also harvested now, before they become full of oil and start turning yellow. It is said that wood cut after the third of this month will not become infested with woodworm.

  Ibn al-Awam, Kitab al-Falaha, The Book of Agriculture, 12th century

  OCTOBER CAME, LIKE a new spring after the half-life of summer. The hillside was awash with co
lour as the gorse bushes burst into bright yellow bloom, quickly followed by the pale blue of the rosemary flowers and the deep mauve of the bruc, a kind of heather. The birdsong seemed to grow louder and last longer through the day rather than passing a lull and silence during the hottest hours. But still, although it was usually one of the wettest months, it refused to rain. Pale blue skies stretched endlessly out over the valley, the temperatures regularly reaching the mid-twenties in the afternoon. The oak by the house, one of the few deciduous trees on our land, refused point blank to give any sign that autumn was in the air, its leaves lush and green as though it were the beginning of May. Pleasant though it was, there was something abnormal about it, as though by taking so much time the change in season was coiling itself like a spring: when it finally came it would be let off like a gun.

  The new flowers had brought an influx of bees. Salud, never happy with insects of any kind, was frantic at the invasion but I was fascinated by them, watching as they buzzed around the garden and darted in and out of the house through the open windows. They were honeybees, I was certain, which meant that not far from us there must be some hives. Sorting through some of the wreckage of the other masos nearby I’d come across one item that looked very much like an old hive of some sort: pieces of thick cork bark tied together to form a kind of cylinder. It was bent out of shape now, but if I was right about what it was, it suggested beekeeping had been a traditional activity up here.

  I couldn’t remember how far bees would fly to collect nectar, but it couldn’t be more than a few miles. One clue came from the way the bees would always get stuck on the east window – one we rarely opened – when they entered the kitchen. It was as if they knew that ‘east’ meant home. Wherever the hives were, I reasoned, they must be in that direction.

  One afternoon I decided to go down and investigate, heading over the terrace fields and towards the dirt track that led to Arcadio’s almond groves. It was another hot day and I was wearing just an old pair of holey jeans and a T-shirt. A straw hat kept the worst of the sun’s intense rays from the top of my head.