Fire in Arzúa

Noite de San Xoán is a couple of days away and in Galicia that means widespread participation in the bonfire event, with as cacharelas, as lumeiras, and half a dozen more terms. Lavinia was learning about the vast lexicon that was just waiting to be a source of pride to Galicians. When she was invited to spend the afternoon and evening in Arzúa by Pilar and Daniel, she didn’t hesitate. Her friends were all going, and she knew she would learn a lot by observing and asking questions.

“Would you like to come to Arzúa with us?” Pilar asked, and when she asked, it was hard to say no. Pilar was wise, funny, full of energy, and when she suggested something, it was always a good idea to say yes. Lavinia had learned that in a few short months. Months that seemed to stretch far beyond the actual time the two had known one another.

“Of course!” was the answer, given without hesitation. 

Lavinia had reasons to be interested, but she also had reasons to be suspicious, or so she believed. The suspicion was a feeling that was by no means justified, and as usual had to be due to the lack of confidence in herself (a feeling she usually managed to hide fairly well). There was nobody she knew who had anything against her, really, and the city of Santiago de Compostela had thousands of foreigners pass through it, real or less-than-real, pilgrims. She didn’t think her being an outsider was an issue with anyone. That still didn’t stop her from the dark thought lurking in the back of her mind.

Of course Lavinia needed to learn more about the event, because the researcher in her naturally had to gather information on this new “topic.” She wasn’t about to travel forty kilometers to a place, sight unseen. As she liked to put it, she had to do her homework.

A bit later, it occured to Lavinia to see if Ruth (Matilda Anderson) had attended any such solstice events. For a brief moment she wondered: Am I trying to justify going? Trying to calm my guilty feeling at not working on my sabbatical project? 

[Narrator’s Note: For those who might not know, Ms. Anderson made several trips to Galicia in the the last half of the twenties, sent by the Hispanic Society of America to photograph Galician culture. Her photographs are widely known in Galicia, but the photographer, her work, and her travels are virtually unknown in her own country. Lavinia, Dr. Lavinia Rivers, has been awarded a sabbatical for a semester to research why Galicians have continued to honor the photographer’s work nearly a century later. She must complete her research or face the consequences when she returns to her home institution. A lot is riding on the project. Maybe more than Lavinia realizes.]

Pilar drives, concentrating on negotiating the curves in the road. It is late afternoon. They have decided to go for supper earlier than usual, because the real celebration comes after sundown. 

“What are they putting on that wall?” asks Lavinia.

“That’s the Muro da Estrela, the wall of the star,” explains Daniel. The town finds a pilgrim on her way to Santiago and they put her name on a plaque in the wall. Some say the origin of the custom is in Book V of the Codex Calixtinus and it says there that pilgrims need to be welcomed. Then she gets to light the fire.”

“The bonfire?” asked Lavinia.

“No, actually it’s the castle they’ve built. I’m not sure if it’s plywood or cardboard, but it kind of looks like plywood. It burns easily. The castle has red blocks painted on it and it’s really tall. A couple people go through an opening to the other side, set off some fireworks, then start burning the castle.”

“We won’t miss it, will we?”

“Not a chance. There’s actually an organized program, and lots of people run around in capes. There are tables with lots to eat and drink, and you get to keep your wine cup as a souvenir.”

Lavinia thought it looked like all six thousand or so Arzuans were gathered in the ample square where capes were swirling, people were licking their fingers from the fried finger food that was available on numerous tables, and children were anxiously awaiting the moment when the temporary castle was to be torched. At last the moment came and hundreds of eyes were fixed on the tall flames.

Toward the end of the conflagration, the band started up again, and the bagpipes increased the festive tone, as well as indicating that the cacharelas would soon begin. There would be at least two big ones - tall and wide - and a small one for children.

Her research couldn’thave prepared Lavinia for the event. Nothing she’d read had captured the flickering flames shining in so many eyes and the mesmerization of dozens of children. So much burning, and it was allowed to happen!

There are conxuros and lots of verses for San Xoán, tied to the summer solstice and beliefs that have not a drop of Christianity. It was hard to hear what was being said, however. Botar o meigallo… Lavinia heard Daniel saying, but didn’t catch the rest of it. She would later learn that it meant Cast a spell! Or break the spell! Two very different things.

Herbas - flowers and grasses, mostly fetched from fields - were part of the evening, but more importantly, there were seven that had to be soaked in water all night so people could wash their faces with the liquid. Adults and children. A stunningly simple, ancient, and cost-free ritual.

“We need more of them,” thought Lavinia.

The cacharelas had been lit and people were once more watching the flames. At some point the first jumper would sail over the red-gold bonfire and land safely on the other side. Everybody had to do the same, so this part could easily last an hour, or more.

What was really Lavinia’s fear? Learning new things was fine, but here it was always as a forasteira, a foreigner. She felt like a young girl, but she was not in school any longer. She was extremely self-conscious and shy, but her desire to learn was stronger than her sense that something could happen, something that was not good. It was in the air, along with all the sparks and bits of ashes.

“How can I make myself jump?” Lavinia asked herself, certain it would be dangerous to try, like happens when the ignorant foreigners get drunk and think they can participate in the running of the bulls in Pamplona. She wasn’t drunk, though, and so had no false confidence.

Lavinia didn’t know that her fears were not unfounded, that in fact she did have enemies. One of her ‘friends’ was not to be trusted - you could see it in her eyes. There was also the architect who had watched her going in and out of a certain café in Santiago and jumped to conclusions about what she was doing there. He did not want her to discover the passageway he knew about and was prepared to stop Lavinia if need be.

The woman and the architect were like a negra sombra, a dark shadow, one escaped from a poem by Rosalía de Castro. The poet’s dark shadow had never been defined, but it was always there. The presence of a negra sombra is more sensed than seen. That was Lavinia’s case as well. She couldn’t shake off the feeling.

Yet she had friends with her in Arzúa. Besides Pilar and Daniel, Fe and Dany had arrived , and there were a few familiar faces in the crowd. Apparently, the burning of a big fake castle attracted onlookers from the surrounding area. Other places just built bonfires.

Why did Lavinia fear this event in particular? For one thing, she was outside Santiago. She had no transportation of her own. Plus, just knowing the festivities were going to make the night a long one, went against the fact that it was the shortest night of the year, or almost the shortest. Lavinia found herself digging her nails into her palms. She kept turning around to see who, or what, was behind her.

At least she had dressed properly. The night breeze had picked up and the air was full of particles - dust or soot, it meant going home waiting to throw the clothes into the washing machine. Jeans and hiking shoes were perfect, especially if she got too close when trying her hand at a bonfire.

The term meigallo led her to ask: What is a meiga? A spell and a witch was what she was told, but it made no sense. This wasn’t the Day of the Dead, not Halloween. Clearly the Galicians took their meigas seriously and dealt with them year round.

Torn between being a tourist interested in jumping over flames or running before the bulls, and a traveler, Lavinia tried to figure out how to behave. She wondered if she was being superficial or truly enjoying the evening. Obviously it was more than the bad wine and great sardines. It was the human space, the community that was talking, shouting, singing, playing instruments. Lavinia told herself:

“Surely anybody had a right to enter if they played by the rules.” 

Let the flames burn the retinas, the drowsy drive home add swerves and fright to the day, spent being wind-whipped while strolling through town and selecting spots for a petisco or two, something to nibble on. 

Ultimately, Lavinia finally had to jump. When she made her first effort, she slipped while extending her legs to jump. She veered off to one side, feeling foolish, although nobody had noticed.

Scared, she still must repeat. She waited a little, and fifteen minutes later, she lined up again. Same thing. She almost slipped. She looked behind her, but saw nothing.

Determined, Lavinia lines up again, determined to be more coordinated, This time she sensed she has been pushed before she could leap.

Determined. This time it felt like she stubbed her toes in the middle of the cacharela, which would be hard to do. Still, she felt her left foot touch something solid, felt it enter the flames and reappear, unscathed. Unscathed, except for the questions that arose”

“Why am I here? Who am I? What am I trying to do? Be? I can’t be Galician. I’m a foreigner. I shouldn’t have come.”

The doubts kept coming, but something else flutters into Lavinia’s thoughts, a realization that terrifies her:

“After all these centuries, the sea still needs barandas and the continents are no closer, physically. I don’t have enough of what I need in either place. I don’t belong here, but neither do I belong there. What can I do? I can’t keep going back and forth.”

Lavinia simply needed to take a leap of faith. That was all she could do. And did. She jumped again, but this time felt unimpeded, graceful, safe. She felt lifted over the flames, not pushed, not tripped. She was unable to speak, and never did talk about what had happened.

Her friends watched her jump, floating almost, and saw her land gracefully beyond the hot coals of the cacharela. They were impressed.