I had heard, of course, of people who talked to plants. But not, as far as I could remember, of plants that talked to people. Various alarm bells started ringing, but I decided to ignore them: it was too soon to start passing judgement.
‘What are they saying?’
He looked at me and grinned, the grin eventually turning into a chuckle and a laugh. I felt he was examining me in some way. He bent down to pick up the brandy bottle from the floor, then leaned over and poured me some more. Sitting back in his chair, he gave me a fixed stare.
‘The plants,’ he said, ‘the animals, and the stones and the fountains, are all telling the cuentos de la tierra – the earth-stories that spring from the land itself.’
Part IV
Fire
The Story of the Horse’s Leap
JUST SOUTH OF the little town of Llucena you’ll find a curious ravine, its vertical walls seemingly cut with a knife from the mountain through which it flows. These sheer limestone opposing cliff-faces, dropping over a hundred feet down to a rocky, dry riverbed, act as a gateway between the coastal flatlands and the inland mountains: from here on a clear day you can see the Mediterranean flashing deep blue out to the east, while behind you to the north-west the peak of Penyagolosa pierces the sky.
The ravine is known as the Salt del Cavall – the Horse’s Leap – and the story goes that it was formed quite suddenly – as if by magic – many, many years ago. At that time a fierce battle was taking place nearby, the Moors on one side, the Christians on the other. Now as everyone knows, St James the Apostle often used to appear miraculously to help the Christians in their struggles against the Moors, and for that reason he is called Matamoros – the Moor-slayer. But on this day, despite the holy saint’s presence, the Moors were too strong and they were beating the Christian army. The Christians, realising the fight was over, took to their horses and fled the battlefield, the enemy in hot pursuit. St James and a handful of knights tried to defend the retreating troops at the rearguard, but again the Moors’ numbers were too great.
Finally, seeing that all was lost, St James spurred on his white horse and led the Moorish army away from the Christians. Closer and closer they drew behind him, until they almost caught up with him and dragged him down. But just when it seemed his horse could gallop no further, the apostle struck the ground with his staff and an enormous gorge appeared beneath him, stretching far down into the depths of the earth. His horse made a final leap into the air and landed clear of the ravine, but the Moors following close behind were all lost as they fell to their deaths at the bottom.
And they say that if you look carefully enough, on the top of the ravine you may find the footprint of the white horse’s hooves, imprinted in the ground as it leapt into the air and carried the saint to safety.
JUNE
Now comes the season called summer, which is made up of three months, the first of which is known as Junius in Latin, Haziran in Syriac and Tirmah in Persian. It is made up of thirty days. This is the month when the days stop growing longer and the nights shorter, and start going into reverse. It is also the time of the festival of Al-Ansara [Pentecost]. It is said that whatever is sown or cut on this day will not be infected with weevils. During the middle of the month, wheat is to be sown and sheep are sheared. Afterwards the males are placed with the females – and the same is done with the goats – for mating. Finally, all the measures we mentioned for the month of May can be applied in June as well.
Ibn al-Awam, Kitab al-Falaha, The Book of Agriculture, 12th century
IT’S WARMING UP now, and we’ve stopped lighting fires at night, sitting out on the patio instead and watching the waxing moon slowly cross the sky from left to right. All this night-time heat, however, has its downside: a remarkably loud crunching sound is coming from the beams of our new roof. It seems that we are infested with woodworm.
Or at least I’m hoping it’s woodworm and not termites. All I can imagine is that during the short time the beams were lying down on the mountainside after the storm, something got inside them and is now feasting on them, and enjoying the warmer nights to do so. The noise they make is unbelievable as the grain of the wood gets pulped in their nasty little jaws. When I spoke to a man in the village about how to deal with it he could barely believe we could actually hear them. ‘You must have very good ears,’ he said. Perhaps woodworm always make the same noise; you just need the silence of the mountain to notice.
Anyway, I now have several tins of expensive and highly deadly liquid to brush on to the beams. It was either that or some toxic smoke bomb which would have meant blocking all the windows and doors and then letting it off before leaving the house for about a week. We’ll see if this works. I was gladdened to find what looks like a tiny woodworm hole while applying a first exploratory coat. Termites, according to everyone I’ve spoken to, are much harder to kill. Perhaps in a week or so, when I’ve finished, we might be able to have dinner in peace again.
*
‘I don’t like it when people ask me how I am,’ Faustino said. ‘It always makes me wonder, Which part of me do you mean?’
After I’d found his mas up on the slopes of Penyagolosa, I’d been going back every so often, perhaps once a week, sometimes on my own, sometimes with Salud, who had immediately warmed to him. He preferred visitors during the week, leaving the weekends free to spend with his wife – when he was ‘off-duty’ as a hermit, as he put it. We’d go up just to spend time there: always taking something along – some food or some bottles of wine; and we’d end up chatting and drinking out on his patio, watching the sun drift slowly away and the first stars start to appear. He’d shown me a way of reaching his place by driving on a dirt track that wrapped around the hillside and entered the deep, dark forest: it would no longer be necessary to climb our mountainside and trek for hours across the fields on foot to go and see him.
And so we’d sit, and he would talk; sometimes the stories poured from him like rain, perhaps three or four in a row, while I listened, making the odd note, trying to remember them as best I could. Then on other occasions he wouldn’t tell any, or just the odd anecdote, preferring instead to talk about people and places from the local area, as though filling me in on all that I needed to know about the mountainous world we had moved into.
‘It’s about reading the land,’ he kept saying. Se trata de leer el terreno.
And I’d nod, as though I understood, although never quite sure if I did.
We’d sit down, either outside on the leather sofa on the patio, or else inside by the fire, Faustino wrapping himself in his patchwork blanket on the occasional cooler evening as he eased himself down beside his long-haired cat. He’d roll a cigarette, and then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, start telling a story.
‘San Vincente Ferrer is one of the most important figures in this area – a local saint, born in Valencia in the fourteenth century; they said he could speak in tongues, and that he performed endless miracles in his journeys around Spain and Europe preaching the gospel. Perhaps the most incredible of these was when he was staying with a family in the town of Morella. The mother was holding a baby in her arms while she was making broth for their guest that evening. But as she was stirring, the baby fell into the cauldron and was boiled to death. The poor mother was distraught, but San Vincente simply dipped his hand into the liquid, fished out the baby, gave him a shake, and within moments he was alive again and screaming like any healthy child, without a scratch or burn on him. Or so says the story.
‘These lands had only recently been conquered from the Moors then, and there were plenty of Muslims and Jews still living in these parts. Often Vincente would arrive in a town just as a pogrom against the local Jewish community had started, but, by use of his miracles, he was always able to bring the violence and killing to an end, and in thanks the Jews flocked to him and begged to be converted. Some say it was Vincente himself who organised the pogroms beforehand, and that his “miracle” was simply to call his thu
gs off. But no matter: people at the time thought he was the real thing.
‘His fame spread; he rose high in the church ranks. The Angel of the Apocalypse, they called him, as one of his main arguments for conversion was the imminent threat of Armageddon. This was the time of the great Schism of the West and the last of the Avignon Popes. Vincente was great friends with our own Avignon Pope, Papa Luna, who lived down on the coast at Peñíscola, but the two eventually fell out. That’s when Vincente went on his travels again, preaching the end of the world. He died at Vannes, in Brittany, shortly after. But he’s a local saint: there’s barely a village or town in the area that doesn’t boast a spot somewhere where San Vincente Ferrer came and preached.
‘This story about him is one of my favourites:
‘San Vincente was making his way down to the sea to catch a boat to France, where he was due to meet his friend, Papa Luna – I’ll tell you more about him later. It was a nice sunny day and after a few miles San Vincente saw a plume of smoke rising up from a nearby wood. There, in a clearing, he found a charcoal-burner.
‘The two men greeted each other and San Vincente asked: “Tell me” – for although his day’s work miracle-making was finished he still had time and energy for some preaching – “have you heard of Jesus?”
‘“Oh yes,” said the charcoal-burner.
‘“And do you pray to him every day?” asked the saint.
‘“Yes, indeed,” said the charcoal-burner, and he quoted the prayer he repeated at bedtime: “Oh Lord Jesus, may I never worship you, and ever offend you.”
‘San Vincente was horrified. “My child,” he said, “you’ve got it the wrong way round. It should be: ‘May I ever worship you and never offend you’.”
‘“Oh, I see,” said the charcoal-burner. And he scratched his head. “Could you say it again for me?”
San Vincente did as he was asked.
‘“… Ever worship … never offend,” repeated the charcoal-burner after him.
‘“Say it like that every day,” said the saint, “and your soul shall be saved.”
‘And San Vincente went on his way, following the path to the sea where he was due to catch his boat.
‘Now a few minutes after he had gone, the charcoal-burner started thinking about what the stranger had told him. But he couldn’t remember the right words for the prayer.
‘“Oh no!” he cried. “I’m almost certain to get it wrong again. I must run after the man and get him to tell me how it went.”
‘And he set off down the mountain after San Vincente. But by the time he reached the coast, the saint’s ship was already far out to sea. So the charcoal-burner simply took off over the waves, running as swiftly as he could over the surface of the water. “Stop, stop, come back!” he shouted.
‘A few minutes later the sailors on board San Vincente’s ship began to hear the sound of someone’s voice behind them. They turned round to look and were amazed when they saw the figure of the charcoal-burner chasing after them, skipping over the waves as though they were rocks and stones.
‘“I must talk to the holy man!” cried the charcoal-burner.
‘The ship’s crew were used to San Vincente himself carrying out miracles, but they’d never seen anything like this, so they called the saint out on deck to see what was happening. Just as San Vincente appeared, the charcoal-burner ran up to the ship.
‘“Oh, kind sir,” he called out when he saw him. “You must help me. I can’t remember how the prayer went. Could you say it to me again once more?”
‘But San Vincente, seeing how the charcoal-burner stood there on the water, leaned over and said, “It’s all right, brother. Carry on as you were saying it before. I can see no harm will come to you.”
‘“I see,” said the charcoal-burner. “Goodbye.” And with that he turned round and ran straight back across the waves towards the shore. And before long he was back in his clearing in the forest and working his furnace once again. And he carried on saying the prayer as he always had done until the day he died.’
*
This morning, as I was stepping into the old part of the house, something on the chain curtain hanging over the door to keep flies out caught my eye. Stopping to check, I found myself looking at a praying mantis, perfectly camouflaged. I’ve seen them about in the garden a few times, bright green as they crawl around the undergrowth at the base of the fig trees, or occasionally the odd light-brown one, perhaps in an area of dry grass. But this one was a perfect silvery metallic grey, blending in seamlessly with the chains on which it had decided to rest. It was only because it was sticking out a little from the chains themselves that I managed to see it.
There is something disturbing and fascinating about these insects: long and leaf-like, they seem so fragile, awkward almost, with those unwieldy front legs, until you imagine them devouring their sexual partners with bloodthirsty skill and speed: those huge globular eyes scouring the area around for yet more prey. I stood at a respectful distance for a while, watching, waiting to see if it would move. But it looked settled in its new environment, the silver sheen it had taken on making it a perfect trap for any unsuspecting spider crawling around the doorway. I wasn’t quite sure what to tell Salud: that a natural predator of all the insects that made her life a misery up here had just arrived? Or that this predator itself was probably going to scare the bejesus out of her? Best not to say anything, I think. The chances are it’s so well camouflaged she won’t even see it anyway.
The land is gradually falling asleep around us as the heat increases. Summer is almost like a negative image of winter here – the plants, trees and animals all seem as though in suspended animation, waiting for the worst to come and go, longing for the cool of autumn, for a last burst of life before the frosts arrive. There are few flowers left, except for the occasional flash of colour from the oleanders down on the valley floor – Arcadio says they were used traditionally to cure scorpion stings: cuttings were tied around the affected area to prevent the poison spreading.
The onions have come up well, and we have been using them in our cooking. Occasionally they taste a little of soap, probably from the drainage water we used to irrigate them. Still, no matter: they’re our onions, which is what counts. Beside them, the lettuces have sprouted well and the few that haven’t already been eaten are about to start bolting. They have a rich flavour, like iron. I should have planted more. Next time.
Perhaps with a proper watering system some of the deadness of summer could be alleviated, but the sun is so intense, and the air so dry I wonder how effective it could be. I’ve thought of planting potatoes some day, but they would need a good flooding of water to grow properly. I’ve probably done things the wrong way round – planting first, then thinking about how to water everything after. Still, irrigation can be the next stage. But I have my doubts: there may be too much land for our little spring to be able to cope: I doubt if it produces more than a thousand litres a day. Perhaps we can set something up for next summer. For now, like the rest of the world around us, we seem to be sliding into our own form of heat-induced hibernation.
*
‘You mentioned Papa Luna,’ I said. ‘San Vincente’s friend. Who was he exactly?’
A cloud of smoke billowed from his lungs as Faustino exhaled, the cigarette glowing between his swollen fingers. From his lap, his white cat opened her eyes and looked at me, her yellow irises slashed with black, shining pupils.
‘Round here Papa Luna is greatly loved, perhaps even more than San Vincente,’ he said. ‘Our very own pope, besieged down on the coast, defying the rest of the known world, outliving all his enemies, refusing to give in to the pressures of all the kings and dukes and lords of Europe. A very stubborn, and a very Spanish pope. You know the expression seguir en sus trece?’
I nodded. It was an idiomatic phrase that meant something like ‘to stick to your guns’.
‘Comes from Papa Luna, see? He was Pope Benedict XIII, in the early fifteenth century, and he ref
used to give up his position. Once a pope, always a pope was how he felt about it. So he “stuck to his thirteen”, there in exile in his castle down in Peñíscola.’
I had been a couple of times to Peñíscola, towards the northern end of the Castellón coastline: the town that had served as the city of Valencia in the shooting of the Charlton Heston classic El Cid. It was a perfect fortress, perched on a village-sized lump of rock jutting out into the Mediterranean, with only a tiny strip linking it to the mainland. Once a magnificent site, with splendid castellated walls and fine stone Gothic buildings, today it has been all but destroyed by the mass tourism beast, the beachfronts on either side of this peculiar little peninsula now awash with holiday flats and hotels. The old town itself, meanwhile, is flooded with shops selling beachballs and suntan lotion, with fast-food joints offering ‘Papa Luna’ pizzas and hamburgers with ‘Knights Templar’ ketchup.
‘Papa Luna was from Aragon originally,’ Faustino said, ‘and was a descendant of the last Moorish kings of Mallorca, but as he lived out his last – and most important – days round here the usual regional prejudices are put aside and he has been embraced as a local. He became head of the Church during the times of the Great Schism of the West from 1378 to 1417, when several men were competing for the title of pope. Papa Luna was one of the Avignon line of popes – and effectively the last. He’s remembered for many things: laying the foundations of a united Spain, ordering the building of Saragossa cathedral, and establishing the University of St Andrew in Scotland. Some Scottish students in Paris who supported his cause wanted a place of their own to study, you see, away from the politics of the Sorbonne. Scotland stayed loyal to him until close to the end, but eventually followed the rest of Europe in declaring him “anti-pope” and joining the other side. Only Peñíscola and the local area refused to betray him.
Sacred Sierra Page 27
