Sacred Sierra

by Jason Webster

  ‘Vanilla essence,’ El Clossa said with a belch when I asked him. ‘And whisky – they add that to the brandy. But don’t tell anyone. Shhh. It’s the barman’s secret.’

  He’d said it so loudly everyone there had heard anyway. Up near the kitchen I saw the barman rolling his eyes. It looked as though this wasn’t the first time he’d seen El Clossa in this state.

  It was getting dark by the time we came to Sant Joan de Penyagolosa. The small sanctuary lay near the foot of the mountain, tucked in on its north side on the edge of a great Scots pine forest that stretched up towards the summit. Great column-like trees rose into the sky forming a dark, protecting canopy high above our heads. Where the road ended a group of stone buildings was visible, forming a three-sided courtyard. There were already hundreds of people there, and a similar carnival atmosphere to the one we had left at Sant Miquel de les Torrocelles, despite the inclement weather. In a pause in the rain a group of stalls had been set up, while inside an open covered area people huddled around a blaze in an inglenook fireplace. El Clossa looked at his watch.

  ‘They’ll be here soon.’

  Children were running around a dead tree near the centre of the courtyard, singing and shouting.

  ‘An ancient sacred elm,’ El Clossa said. ‘Died some years back.’

  He seemed to have sobered up quite quickly, filling us in on the history of the place. Personally I felt the carajillos were only just beginning to kick in.

  Sant Joan seemed very small and humble for such a holy place. People had mentioned it to me many times before, Concha and Marina in particular stressing its ancient origins. Was it actually a pre-Christian site? ‘Probably,’ murmured El Clossa when I asked. The present-day building, however, dated from the fourteenth century.

  We pushed through the crowds to get a better look. Inside was another, tiny courtyard, with a small chapel on one side. Seventeenth-century frescoes painted in dark tones and showing religious scenes decorated the outside walls under an overhang from a balcony running overhead. On the other side, a bar seemingly twice the size of the chapel was placed underneath guest rooms where walkers performing the pilgrimage alongside the official procession would be staying. Crude and basic, often they were booked up years in advance.

  We could barely move for the crowds, and decided to head out again in the direction from which the pilgrims would be arriving. From out in the depths of the forest, once again we heard the strange chant accompanying the silent walkers as they approached. First the horsemen, as before, then the singers, and finally, behind them, the drenched, exhausted-looking pilgrims and their guide. Salud pulled on my arm and pointed: this time they came barefoot.

  A priest in a golden robe from Vistabella came out to greet them, and the chant changed from the melancholy call of earlier to a song of celebration. Then the procession circled around the sanctuary before entering the tiny courtyard and the chapel, to pray. We edged forward to get a glimpse of what was going on inside, but it was almost impossible to squeeze through. Mass was being celebrated, by the sounds of it, and we withdrew to the bar opposite. El Clossa filled us in on what happened next.

  ‘This is where the mystery and secret at the heart of the pilgrimage lies,’ he said ominously as – thankfully – he poured himself some fizzy water out of a bottle. He paused for a moment as he swallowed, put his hand on his stomach, closed his eyes in concentration, belched, then resumed.

  ‘After mass has finished, in about half an hour, the pilgrims will be taken into a small side-room off the chapel known as the Cova, the “Cave”. There they will spend most of the night engaged in secret spiritual exercises. Branches of green pine trees and other herbs and plants from the mountain are burned in a corner to produce a heavy smoke that will induce special states of consciousness in them as they spend the entire night without sleeping, in prayer.’

  He opened his eyes wide for dramatic effect as he told us this. Bloodshot and dimmed from the hangover that seemed already to be creeping over him, there was something quite demoniacal about his appearance, while the smoke and high-volume chat coming from the patrons of the bar around us were in danger of producing unusual states of consciousness of their own. I felt certain someone somewhere in there was smoking some powerful weed, although I could scarcely credit it given the official, churchy nature of the event.

  El Clossa continued.

  ‘The details of what goes on are sketchy. They say that firstly the guide, who represents Jesus, asks forgiveness of the twelve pilgrims, or apostles. Then he washes and kisses their feet. The pilgrims then do likewise to one another. Afterwards each one is told his sins, so that they might be absolved, and then, and only then, are they told the secret – the reason for the whole pilgrimage. They are given some dinner – beans and cod, the same dish always – and then they spend the rest of the night in prayer, although no one’s really sure what happens in there. Then at dawn tomorrow, after mass, they’re given breakfast – fig bread and strong liquor – and they set off back over the mountains to Les Useres. But now they’re no longer ‘pilgrims’ but els sants – the saints. People line the streets with flowers and put leaves on the ground for them to walk over, while they hand out pieces of pa beneit – blessed bread. They finally make it back to their own village tomorrow night, but aren’t allowed to get there, according to the rule, till it’s impossible to tell a white thread from a black one. So it’s got to be completely dark, in other words.’

  I had come across this custom before: it was part of Islamic tradition, particularly during Ramadan when it signalled the end of the day’s fast.

  ‘What happens then?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s a big fiesta to celebrate their return.’

  ‘They must be tired by that point,’ Salud said.

  ‘Pilgrims have been known to stay up all night dancing,’ he said. ‘It’s a spring festival – fertility and all that.’

  ‘This secret they get told inside there,’ I said. ‘Does anyone outside know what it is? Hasn’t anyone ever spilled the beans over the centuries?’

  ‘Never,’ he said firmly. ‘They are forbidden from telling anyone, and no one has ever disobeyed. The pilgrimage has continued through wars and famine and natural disaster, and yet still they come back every spring and men in the village wait years for their chance to take part in it. And they cross the mountains come what may, exhausted, silent, stuck in a tiny room full of smoke all night, praying, not allowed to sleep, then have to do it all over again the next day. I think that’s the secret, right there – the power this has over the local people. It has carried on for years and it will carry on for years to come, and no one can explain why, or what is really happening here, or why it is such an important event. The people outside don’t want to know what the secret of the Cova is. They don’t need to know, or, rather, they need not to know. They just want to think something special and holy is taking place. That’s all it is.’

  Outside the rain had returned and was hammering the stone floor of the little courtyard between the bar and the chapel. A flock of walkers, now wearing their brightly coloured waterproofs, surged in through the door looking for shelter. Many were carrying sleeping bags and were clearly concerned about finding a dry patch of floor, somewhere to spend the night. We picked up our things, paid and headed out into the downpour. After the hot, dry winter months it couldn’t rain enough, I thought, and I imagined my trees back at the farm soaking up every drop of the precious liquid now falling finally from the sky. Whatever the pilgrims did to make this happen had worked. It seemed a shame they limited themselves to only once a year: we could do with more miracles like this.

  El Clossa had fallen asleep when we dropped him off in the village. He grunted a goodbye and scuttled off into the darkness, pulling his jacket up over his head to stay dry. Outside, the land was quietly coming to life.

  The Story of the Golden Bull

  WHEN THE MOORS were chased from these lands, abandoning their kingdoms in the face of the Chri
stian advance, they decided to hide all the treasure they had accumulated over the centuries until their eventual return. And so in the village of Xodos, they placed a hoard of gold in a secret corner of a cave on the slopes of the Eagle’s Rock, near the Marinet mountain. To make the treasure as safe as possible, an enchantment was placed on one of the King’s sons and he was left to guard the gold in the form of a giant bull.

  When the Christians eventually conquered the village, they heard the story of incredible wealth that had been spirited away to the nearby mountains, and they searched and searched for it. But no matter how hard they tried, they never found anything. Eventually, as they scoured the land, they came across an old Moor who had stayed behind after his companions had fled, and they tortured him to tell them where the treasure was hidden. With his last breath, the old Moor gave the secret away. But, he added, there was only one way to break the enchantment that protected the gold. The Christian soldiers listened eagerly.

  ‘You must take a very sharp sack needle,’ the Moor said, the life ebbing away from him, ‘and enter the cave at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve. A ferocious bull is waiting there, standing guard. When it charges at you, you must stand firm and plunge the needle into the bull’s back, right between his shoulder blades. Then, and only then, will the spell be broken and the bull will turn into a statue of gold. You must leave the cave without ever looking back, for if you do the golden bull will turn into dust before your very eyes. A moment’s bravery, and patience, will be rewarded with a lifetime of wealth.’

  And with that the Moor fell to the floor and died.

  Midsummer’s Eve was the following day, and at midnight the Christian soldiers lined up outside the cave on the slopes of the Eagle’s Rock to have their chance at winning the gold. First went the captain, with dreams of unimaginable wealth. Perhaps, he thought, with all that gold he might even become a king. So wielding a sack needle between his fingers, he stormed into the cave at the stroke of midnight and disappeared into the darkness.

  The soldiers outside waited and waited, but the captain didn’t reappear. Eventually the second in command decided to go in after him. Where his commander had failed, he thought, he would succeed. Perhaps he might become a lord with all that gold. And so, too, he vanished into the blackness of the cave.

  The soldiers outside waited and waited … and waited. But still no one came out. Some of them were beginning to grow afraid. But the sergeant stepped forward. He would go in and find the treasure. Perhaps, he thought, with all that gold, he could buy a big house and become a landowner. So with sack needle in hand he rushed into the cave … and disappeared.

  And they say there are still some men out at the entrance to the cave, waiting for their chance to challenge the bull. But to this day no one has succeeded. The story has lived on, though, and the cave can still be visited, on the slopes of the Eagle’s Rock. Perhaps one day its secrets will be revealed.

  MAY

  The Latin month Maius is called Ayar in Syriac and Khordadmah in Persian. It is made up of thirty-one days and is the last month of spring. All trees except for the fig will now need regular watering. On the first day of this month bulls are let loose to mate with cows; in the Babylonia area they leave them together like this for forty days, the first calves being born eleven months later. According to Azib, during this month people on the coast in places such as Malaga and Medina Sidonia start harvesting, while in the countryside around Cordoba, towards the end of the month, the first onions are picked. From my observations, in Seville this is the time for sowing late fennel, for eating a month later.

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

  THE BELLS FROM the cows on the other side of the valley tinkle away in a seemingly random fashion, coming and going on the easterly breeze. I pick up my binoculars and stare out towards the animals – a cow as white as snow is meandering towards an abandoned farmhouse on the opposite hillside, jumping over stone walls in search of fresh grass and herbs. It is an amazing sight – her whiteness contrasting with the dark-green vegetation surrounding her. Then, just above, I notice a black shadow: it is half hidden among the bushes, but then moves out towards the white cow. I see a huge creature with gigantic, pale horns jutting out from its forehead – a bull, the kind that tries to kill people at village fiestas, is roaming freely on the other side of the valley. The cow seems unperturbed, but I can’t help myself uttering a quiet, pensive ‘Holy shit’ as I catch sight of the beast. It doesn’t seem such a long way away.

  We’ve harvested the artichokes down near the beehives – catching them just before they got too dry. Salud prepared them in the Spanish way, stripping the outer leaves, then cutting the heart into slices and cooking them a la plancha with a little oil and salt and a few squirts of lemon juice. They were already a little too tough, but still delicious.

  I’ve been popping up every now and then to check up on the truffle trees. It seems one or two more have been wiped out since the wild boar destroyed so much of my work earlier in the year. Just the sight of it is enough to bring on sharp stomach pains. God damn those stupid animals. But I remember some of the herbal lore Arcadio has passed on and bend down to pick up some sprigs of mançanilla vera – cotton lavender. A small, greyish, unassuming plant, it pops up everywhere, and is perhaps even more common than either rosemary or thyme. Back at the house, I steep it in hot water for a few minutes; it is very soothing, and in minutes my indigestion – or whatever it is – has gone. Not that it can bring back my truffle trees …

  *

  Arcadio came up to help me harvest our first batch of honey. It seemed a miracle we could get any at all, what with having lost one colony already, and the general lack of rain limiting the amount of blossom available for the bees. But May was the traditional month for gathering honey.

  He found me lime-rendering the walls of our bedroom: a sticky, tiring business, so I was happy to be distracted for a while working on something else. I had some lumps of cow dung left over from the last time, so we grabbed them, put on our gear, and headed down to the hives. I still wasn’t entirely convinced the smoking cow dung did very much to calm the bees down: they got pretty excited – and aggressive – no matter how much I blew on them. In fact, Arcadio just gave them a couple of puffs of the stuff and then got down to opening the hive up and hauling out the frames, all gummed up with wax. At least, I thought, we could give them a proper shot of it before antagonising them, so I picked up the smoker can and blasted away, but to no visible effect. Perhaps we could try burning something a bit stronger the next time …

  Ibn al-Awam talked quite a bit about beekeeping, but I was disappointed to find he didn’t seem to have any tips on tranquillising them. Quite the reverse: he revelled in the story of how a whole army of Kurds was wiped out when the people of a town they were attacking – possibly Al-Qaria – set their bees on them. The Kurds ran away so quickly the defenders were able to raid their baggage train. Apart from that, it was interesting to note how, quoting Aristotle, he referred to the queen of a colony as a ‘king’.

  ‘Mestral blowing today,’ Arcadio said. ‘North-east wind. That’s good. They don’t like the Llevant coming in from the sea. Humidity puts them in a bad mood.’

  We pulled out three or four of the frames, leaving the remaining ones so as not to deprive the bees too much of their own stocks. As long as I had this one colony we’d be all right, although I’d heard queen bees could be sent to you through the post. Arcadio turned up his nose when I mentioned it.

  ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll find you another colony if it comes to that.’ He sniffed. ‘Bees through the post …’

  We carried the frames back up to the era to extract the honey. Arcadio had brought a big green metal tub in the back of the car – an extractor, where the frames were dropped and then spun round quickly inside like a merry-go-round, the centrifugal force pushing the honey out of the comb and down into the tub, from where it could be tapped off. He’d mentioned it before, b
ut said that for the small quantities we were going to get it wasn’t worth lifting it out of the car.

  ‘Bring me a bowl, and some pieces of linen or material,’ he said.

  We didn’t have any spare sheets, so I took him a piece of mosquito netting instead.

  ‘Will this do?’

  ‘Perfect,’ he said.

  Kneeling down, he placed the netting over the bowl, fixing it in place with some stones lying around. Then, breaking handfuls of sticky honeycomb from off the frame, he started squeezing it, the honey oozing out between his fingers and down on top of the netting. This acted as a filter, clearer, purer honey then dripping down into the bowl below.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said.

  Cautiously, I tried to copy him, grabbing pieces of the dark, strongly smelling wax from the frame, peeling it away from the wires that keyed it in, then pulping it between my hands, watching in fascination as a multi-coloured goo poured thickly down into the bowl. Apart from the light tones of the honey, there were dead bees, lumps of bright, orange pollen, and a whole host of other elements in there which I struggled to identify: royal jelly, perhaps? Propolis? What was that brown streaky stuff that seemed to be mixed in with it all?