Sacred Sierra (36 page)

‘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 thugs 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 refused 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.

‘It wasn’t as though the other popes claiming the title were particularly holier than him. One of his rivals in Rome, Pope John XXIII – not the recent one; this one dates back six hundred years – was actually deposed for murder, rape, sodomy and incest, among other things. Oh, yes, piracy as well, I think was the other one. No, it’s just that in their attempts to resolve the question of having two – and sometimes even three – popes at the same time, the only solution anyone could come up with was for them all to stand down and for a new one to be named in their place. But Papa Luna – his real name was Pedro de Luna, of the Luna family – just didn’t think a Church Council had the power to make a pope resign, and so he refused to go. At first he had a good number of supporters – half of Europe was on his side. But the years passed and little by little his patronage shrank, till even his friend San Vincente Ferrer – not a saint yet, you understand; that bit came later – a man Papa Luna had saved from the Inquisition years before by burning the papers that incriminated him, turned against him and made unpleasant predictions about children one day playing football with his head for his obstinacy. There was a great argument between them in Perpignan and Papa Luna left in a huff. He jumped aboard his boat to set sail in the middle of a storm. The captain of the ship was reluctant to draw anchor, fearing they might sink. “If indeed I am the true pope,” Papa Luna told him, “then the sky will clear and we will be able to sail unhindered.” And so it was: the storm broke, the sun came out, and Papa Luna sailed straight down the coast to Peñíscola, a hideout that had been given to him some years before by the Knights of Montesa.

‘And there he stayed, safe from attack, defying the rest of the world which, in his view, had come under the sway of heresy. He was the real pope, and while he was there, Peñíscola was the centre of orthodoxy.
Noah’s
Ark, he described it as. Others might call him the anti-pope, and accuse him of being a magician – they said he kept two demons in a little box: the God of the Winds and the Revealer of Hidden Treasure; he only needed one more, the Prince of Sedition, and the Vatican would be his. But Papa Luna refused to give in, or even die, to help the dispute. There were attempts on his life, but always, as if by a miracle, he was saved. Once, some attendants in the pay of Pope Martin V’s legate gave him some sweets laced with arsenic. Papa Luna took one bite of them and was immediately sick, his guardian angel forcing him to vomit out the toxins before they could do him any harm.