Turnips and a scapegoat - Chapter 6

The days in Piornal had started to feel more settled for Sebastian and Oliver, yet the village still held its secrets. The winding streets, the ancient stone walls, and the colourful murals depicting the horned character named Jarramplas had become a familiar backdrop to their daily lives, yet the mystery of the festival itself continued to intrigue them. They had heard bits and pieces about the tradition, snippets of conversation at the market, and half-told tales from the elderly villagers who smiled with knowing eyes but never quite revealed the full story.

It was only a few days before the festival when Javi invited them to his parents’ home for dinner. The invitation itself was a milestone. It meant they were becoming part of the village's fabric and they accepted without hesitation.

Javi’s parents’ home was a classic Extremaduran abode - whitewashed walls, wooden beams, and the faint, comforting smell of wood smoke lingering in the air. The couple was greeted with the warm embrace of Javi’s mother, Immaculada’s eyes sparkled with love and curiosity, and a hearty handshake from Miguel, Javi’s father, who looked every bit the part of a man rooted in his traditions.

After a meal of dishes that tasted like they had been seasoned with the very essence of the earth itself - chorizo, patatas a lo pobre, and the most succulent jamón serrano - Miguel leaned back in his chair, a nostalgic smile creeping across his weathered face. The meal was only the beginning of their evening. Javi poured more wine, the rich, red liquid gleaming in the candlelight, as his father wiped his hands and cleared his throat.

"Now," Miguel began, his voice deep and resonant, "I hear you two have been curious about Jarramplas."

Oliver and Sebastian exchanged a glance, nodding eagerly.

Miguel’s smile widened as he stood and made his way to a sturdy wooden chest in the corner of the room. With a reverence that bordered on the sacred, he opened the chest and pulled out a tattered old photo album. The leather cover was worn and cracked, the pages yellowed with age, but it was clear that this book was a treasure trove of memories.

He placed the album on the table, carefully flipping through the pages. The images were a collage of the past - sepia-toned photographs of young men dressed in the iconic Jarramplas costume, their faces hidden behind the demonic masks, their bodies padded and armoured to withstand the barrage of turnips. Some photos were blurry with movement, others captured a moment of stillness - pride in their posture, determination in their eyes.

"This," Miguel said, pointing to a photo that was more vibrant than the rest, "was me. Sixty-three years ago."

The young man in the photograph was almost unrecognisable as the elder sitting before them. The Jarramplas costume he wore back then was nothing short of splendid in its rustic charm - bright ribbons and fabrics intertwined, a mask that was both terrifying and mesmerising, horns curling ominously atop his head. The villagers surrounding him wore expressions of admiration and awe, a clear indication of the honour bestowed upon him that day.

Sebastian and Oliver were spellbound, leaning in closer as Miguel turned the pages, each photo revealing a deeper layer of the festival’s history.

Miguel spoke of the origins of Jarramplas with a voice full of emotion and pride. "Some say Jarramplas was a thief, punished for his sins. Others say he was a saint, martyred by the people he tried to save. But here, in Piornal, he is something more. He is a symbol of resilience, of the strength to endure whatever life throws at you - even if it's turnips."

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in. Miguel’s gaze turned distant as if he were reliving that day over half a century ago.

"And the day I wore that costume," he continued, "was the proudest moment of my life. I wasn’t just a boy anymore; I was Jarramplas. And for a brief time, I was part of something ancient, something that connected me to all those who had come before and all those who would come after."

As Miguel spoke, Javi’s mother excused herself from the table, to go back to the chest, returning with a large, heavy object cradled in her arms. She handed it to Miguel, who slowly unwrapped the layers of cloth, revealing the Jarramplas costume he had worn all those years ago. It was a relic, yet it held a vibrancy, a life of its own that seemed to pulse in the dimly lit room.

The fabric, though faded, still retained its intricate patterns and bright colours. The mask, with its twisted horns and menacing grin, seemed to radiate an energy that was both awe-inspiring and intimidating. The entire ensemble had an almost magical quality as if it had absorbed the spirits of all those who had worn it before.

Sebastian and Oliver couldn’t take their eyes off the costume. There was something deeply compelling about it, something that resonated with their own journey - the challenges they had faced, the fears they had confronted, and the changes they had undergone since arriving in Spain.

Miguel, noticing their fascination, placed the costume on the table. "Go on," he said, gesturing for them to touch it. "Feel the weight of it."

Sebastian reached out first, his fingers brushing against the fabric. It was heavier than he had expected, as if it carried with it the burdens of all who had donned it before him. Oliver followed suit, and as they both touched the costume, they felt an inexplicable connection - not just to the history of Jarramplas, but to the village itself, to the land, and to the people who had welcomed them with open arms.

Over wine and serrano, the stories continued, each one more captivating than the last. Miguel’s voice was rich with emotion, his eyes sparkling with memories of festivals past. He spoke of the honour of being chosen, the camaraderie of the villagers, and the sense of belonging that came from being a part of something greater than oneself.

By the time the evening drew to a close, Sebastian and Oliver were not just fascinated - they were utterly enchanted. The Jarramplas festival, which had once seemed like a curious local tradition, now felt like a vital thread woven into their new life in Piornal.

As they left the warmth of Javi’s parents’ home and stepped into the cool night air, the village felt different. Though he didn’t speak of it, Sebastian in particular knew that the Jarramplas costume, with its rustic charm and hidden power, had planted a seed of curiosity and anticipation in his heart.