When we left Toledo, we rode for a couple of
hours and then stopped because Alpin wanted to have a snack. Then we rode a
couple of hours more and reached Escalona, where Alpin lunched on false rabbit
in garlic sauce and false hares with rice among other local specialties. For
dessert we had cortadillos, which I thought were an Andalusian sweet, but which
there turned out to be some here too, and very good. We also had lots of fruit,
and that was good too. We picniced right next to the banks of the Alberche
river, under the shade of a tree that turned out to be no ordinary peach tree.
As we ate, two damsels appeared before us. One rose out of the ground like a
blade of grass. The other dropped from the branches of the tree like a ripe
fruit. There was no way of telling which was prettier, because although the
second seemed to look it, suddenly the first would become more attractive. And
viceversa. Though both greeted us, only the first spoke to us. The second would
make faces behind the first, as if mocking her.
“This,” said the first damsel, “is the famous
Tree of Truth and Falsehood. But you probably know that. That´s why you chose
to sit under it, no?”
“We had no idea,” I said. “Is it about to
tumble down?”
“It doesn’t do that anymore,” said the maiden
smiling. “Now we only tell its tale to those that do not know it.”
In case anyone doesn’t know it, this was a
tree that Truth and Falsehood shared. Falsehood persuaded Truth to accept the
roots as her share, saying they were the best part of the tree because they
sustained it. Falsehood kept for herself the branches, the flowers and the
fruits and the shade the tree gave. Truth, having no fruit to feed on, ended up
munching on the roots. Until the tree suddenly collapsed.
“That is a silly story,” sentenced Alpin. “Tell
us a better one.”
“We do not know another, but here comes Patronio,
who knows a few.”
“Why,” I said with surprise, “I never thought
I would meet this gentleman in Escalona. Nor anywhere either. But it is an
honour.”
Don Patronio approached us and asked us if we
were friends of Don Quijote. Don Alonso had been there the day before and had
told him we would be coming. Don Patronio had been able to tell us from other
pilgrims, firstly because of the caparison on my horse, which is light green
with a pattern of three hares leaping in a meadow of a darker green. That is
what my name, Arley, means, hare meadow. Next he had been able to recognize us
beyond any kind of doubt for he had spotted Frostina, Alpin’s enormous fridge.
She made our identities unmistakeable.
Patronio barely gave me a look, so fixed were
his eyes on Alpin, who seemed to have him fascinated. I think in his mind he
was brewing up a cautionary tale about my friend. Of course, anyone who for the
first time sees Alpin eating becomes stupefied. Alpin did not hesitate to ask
him to tell us a story or two and I invited him to partake of our meal.
“But
will there be enough?” Don Patronio asked me sotto voce.
“Yes, yes. Our food problem has been
miraculously solved.”
Patronio told us three stories. Only the third
was to the liking of Alpin, who took, in my opinion too great an interest in
it.
It was the tale that is about a man loaded
with precious stones who, when about to cross a river, choses to drown rather than
give any of these up.
“You are from here, aren’t you, Patronio?
Well that stone-carrying weakling surely was from here too. My instinct tells me he drowned right here, in
this very spot of this very river.”
To everyone’s surprise, Alpin pushed aside
the tray of cortadillos he had not finished eating, removed his shoes and leapt
into the river.
“That treasure could still be here. Arley,
you see that huge boulder over there in the water? Lift it. Maybe the treasure
is lying beneath it.”
“Yeah, right,” I said. What with all the
riding in the countryside and my allergy to dust and pollen I was dying to
practice the ancient sport of hoisting boulders.
“You are being stupid and a spoilsport. And
selfish, because you don’t want me to find a treasure. If you won’t lift the
rock, tie it to a horse and have it hauled.”
“Yeah, right,” I repeated. “That’s what the
horses are for. There’s no way we will do that. They have enough bearing up
with us. They just might up and leave for home, abandoning us out here if you
try to get them to do that. They have rights. Ours is a free world, Alpin.”
“Well, then you go dive through the rock and see what
there is below. You are better at walking through walls than I am.”
Finally and as usual, I gave in and ended up
in the water, pretending to help Alpin find the treasure. The truth is that the
water washed away all the dust and the pollen from without and within me, doing
me a lot of good. By the time Alpin was tired of swimming about, the sun was
about to set. I sat on the large rock I had moved through to watch the sunset.
A great number of carp and barble fish came up from below and surrounded the
rock, perhaps to watch the sun set too, because they did nothing aggresive to
me.
“Where are you going to sleep tonight?” asked
Patronio.
“It looks like on this rock,” I answered.
“You can
sleep at the ghost of the constable’s castle. I can arrange that for you.”
And he
did, and we did, and we thanked him.
Next morning, we resumed our journey. The mules asked me if they could stop to say hi to the Bulls of Guisando, and we did and were later all happy to have done this, because the bulls turned out to be very nice creatures, truly lovable, I can say. In our world, all four wear their horns proudly and tell you all about what they have seen passing by the spot they are stuck at since the Iron Age. These bulls know a lot, and even if they refuse to wander off to learn more, their tales are very interesting to hear. Alpin complained that he was sick of marzipan and began to gobble up box after box of St. Theresa of Avila’s sugary egg yolks. The bulls, astonished at this sight, suggested a contest. It would be Alpin against all four bulls, and to see who could eat more sugary egg yolks. When Alpin won, eating more than all four bulls together, the bulls accepted their defeat very gamely and said they would never forget him and would tell everyone who passed by what a portent Alpin was. Alpin felt flattered. Not everyone appreciated his special talent. Before we left, the bulls stamped our passports with a very cute seal that showed all four of them standing like blocks of stone out there in their hill.
We continued our journey following a road
that is called the bear’s path, and somehow reached the Adaja river. The truth
was that by this time I didn’t even really know where I was, but running into
water is always a good sign. We stopped to have lunch by the Adaja. After that,
we made it to the Castle of Arévalo, where I had meant for us to spend the
night, for it is now a sort of inn for supernatural beings, like many other
castles. But it turned out that the human zone of the castle has something to
do with a ministry of agriculture or some kind of human foodstuffs and I
chickened thinking that there might be some kind of overloping between both
zones and Alpin might get into contact with the mortals’ food and I got
everyone out of there and headed for the Castle of la Mota, where we arrived very late.
There to our surprise, we ran into an incredible phantom. It was Alpin who recognized this solitary ghost, that was both blood and mudstained and looked as if it had been pierced all over with lances.
“You are the bloke that said Caesar or bust.
I’ll bet you are! From the way you look, I suppose it was bust. Do I suppose
correctly or are you always a mess?”
Caesar Borgia had returned to this castle to
fetch something he had left behind. He was alone, and looked as messed up as I
have already said he did. Because on the one hand I felt sorry for him, and because
on the other hand he gave Alpin such a bloodcurling look that could only mean
immediate trouble, I very amiably invited the man to have dinner with us.
“Everyone has a bad day now and again,” I
said. “End it with a nice meal. I invite you to dinner. The food will be very
good. See for yourself.”
I admit I was a little afraid to have to dine
with a Borgia, but since the food was ours, I felt nothing bad would happen.
Caesar was probably hungry, because he accepted. Vinny and little Dolphus spent
the whole dinner with their eyes nailed on the rings Caesar wore. These were
several, all large and showy, with splendid stones that did not succed in
hiding the fact that the rings were hinged. But, Alpin’s impertinent comment
aside, this ghost had no reason to want to poison us. Alpin fortunately paid no
further attention to him and just concentrated on the food, so all went well.
Caesar explained that when he was alive he was rather rash and over impulsive
but that now that he was a ghost he thought twice before making a move. He said
his stress and anxiety had diminished and he was more likely to take
matters in stride. Not everyone can say they have had dinner with such a ghost.
And he even said he would return the invitation if we ever dropped by Rome. We
shall see.
The next morning we parted somewhat late for
Benavente, but even so managed to reach the church of St. Mary of Azogue in
time to see the noon sun illuminate the belly of the lovely image of Our Lady
of the Annunciation. As to what Alpin ate in Benavente, roasted red peppers
were what he ate the most of, and also faux frog legs. And he also had tons of
doughnuts, shutdatdoor doughnuts, angelfood doughnuts, Virgin’s bouquet
doughnuts, all these he devoured. I have to admit the rest of us also stuffed
ourselves shamelessly on cister tart, with its almond filling and its cherries
and sweet, sugary threaded egg and cinnamon and syrup.
After lunch, we left Benavente and noticed
how the countryside began to change, growing greener and greener as we
advanced. We rode all the way to Santa Marta de Tera, where we stopped to
salute another famous image, the oldest known image of St. James in the guise
of a pilgrim. We were very happy when we saw it, with souls uplifted and all,
for it meant that we were truly advancing towards our goal.
We moved ahead and reached Río Negro, the
black river, and stopped to picnic between bushes and brambles. Alpin again
tasted local specialties, among them rice with mushrooms and fruit salads.
These were enthusiastically prepared by Cebollo, the Big Onion Fairy, owner of The Big
Onion Fairy Inn. Cebollo was on the look out for us, and as soon as his spies told
him we were by the river, came to us with tons of food instead of a shotgun. He and Finisterre
Finfish became friends when they were kids, because the Onion Fairy had
run away from home to haunt smugglers’ caves and live the life of a pirate in
Galicia. Our friends had warned Cebollo we were coming, and he was obsessed
with the idea of meeting the phenomenal Alpin. We spent the night at the Big Onion
Inn, and the next morning, aside from a free grand breakfast, we got our
passports stamped with a seal that had a monstruos onion on it. And since
Cebollo was very brave, or better said, temerarious and recklessly daring, he
promised to invite Alpin to a cauldron of onion soup cooked according to the
Burgalese recipe of his girlfriend’s grandma if Alpin ever passed by this inn
again.
The next day, we reached Puebla de Sanabria.
Its castle has a mortal museum that is very nice to visit, and there is a
second museum there with a mortal zone and a supernatural zone. This is the
museum of Giants and Bigheads. In case you are wondering what giants and
bigheads are, they are costumes with masks used in many folk festivals in parts
of Spain. People disguised as giants use stilts under their costumes, and those
that turn into bigheads don gigantic, often grotesque masks that cover their
heads entirely. These people then go dancing in the streets. The mortal zone of
the museum had a fine selection of these costumes and masks, and the
supernatural zone had ítems created by supernatural beings as well as the
ghosts of costumes and masks created by humans that had made it to a better
life.
And after lunching next to the Tera river,
where Alpin stuffed himself on beans and cabbage and mushrooms and baked apples
and rice pudding brown from overdoses of cinnamon, all these washed down by
stupendous apple cider, we resumed our journey with the intention of entering
triumphantly into Galicia.
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