Turnips and a scapegoat - Chapter 7

Sebastian had never been one for obsession. He was the kind of man who floated through life, letting the current take him wherever it pleased. But since that dinner at Javi's parents’ house, something had changed. The weight of that old Jarramplas costume, the stories, the history - it had all lodged itself deep in his mind like a splinter that refused to be removed. The once cheerful, easygoing man found himself consumed by thoughts of the festival. He could hardly work, his freelance marketing jobs ignored, his English lessons delivered with a distracted air. His solace, as always, was the bottle.

The day of the festival dawned crisp and cold, the first hints of autumn creeping into the air. Piornal was already stirring, its streets filling with the hum of anticipation. But Oliver woke to find the bed beside him empty. Sebastian was nowhere to be found.

Oliver searched the flat, his worry deepening with every empty room. The unease grew as he realised Sebastian hadn’t come home the night before. After asking around, he learned Sebastian had been out all night with some friends from Cabrero, another village nearby, drinking until the early hours. Concern weighed on him, but with the festival looming, he had little time to dwell on it. The Jarramplas was a big deal - something they had both been looking forward to. But where the hell was Sebastian?

Sebastian, meanwhile, was stumbling back into Piornal, bleary-eyed and reeking of alcohol. His head was buzzing - not just from the night’s excesses, but from a restless energy he couldn’t shake. As he passed Javier’s parents’ house, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Without thinking, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

The house was quiet, the air thick with the smell of old wood and memories. And there, on the side where they had seen it days before, was the Jarramplas costume. It called to him like a siren, the tattered fabric whispering of ancient rituals, of power and transformation. He knew he shouldn’t - God, he knew how much it meant to them, to Javier’s family - but the pull was irresistible.

Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the frustration of feeling like an outsider, of his work failing, of the creeping dread that maybe, just maybe, they had made a terrible mistake in coming here. Or maybe it was something deeper - a need to connect with the village, to prove to himself that he belonged. Without another thought, he slid the costume over his head. The mask was heavy, almost oppressive, but it felt... right. As if it had been waiting for him.

Sebastian glanced at himself in the mirror, half-expecting the costume to change him, to make him into something else. But there he was - still Sebastian, just dressed in the clothes of a legend. A spark of mischief lit in his eyes. Why not have a little fun with this? He could scare the living daylights out of Oliver, then sneak the costume back before anyone noticed. It was harmless, really.

He stepped out into the street, the mask making the world around him feel distant and muffled. The villagers were out in force, gathered in the square, their excitement palpable. He moved through the throng, searching for Oliver, trying to contain his nervous energy. But as he approached the square, a strange thing happened. The crowd spotted him - or rather, the Jarramplas - and erupted into cheers.

At first, Sebastian was confused. But then it hit him: they thought he was part of the festival, a second Jarramplas! He tried to back away, but the crowd surged forward, pressing him into the centre of the square. Panic bubbled in his chest as he realised the real Jarramplas was also about to appear. This wasn’t part of the plan - his plan, anyway.

Before he could escape, the turnips began to fly.

The first one caught him by surprise, striking his chest with a dull thud. Then another hit his arm, and another. The crowd was relentless, the turnips coming at him from all directions. For a moment, fear gripped him. What had he done? He was a fraud, an imposter in a sacred role, and now he was being punished for it.

But then something strange happened. As the turnips continued to pelt him, a different sensation began to take hold. The fear melted away, replaced by a peculiar sense of calm. The blows that should have hurt only seemed to fuel a growing energy within him, each thud a drumbeat in a rhythm he didn’t know he knew.

The world around him blurred, the faces of the villagers merging into a single, shifting mass. It was as if he was outside himself, watching as the turnips stripped away more than just his physical self. They tore at his doubts, his insecurities, his fears of failure. He felt... lighter. Freer. Each turnip that struck him was a challenge, and with each challenge, he felt something old and worn inside him breaking away.

Was this what Jarramplas felt? This strange liberation through pain, this transcendence through chaos? The mask, once suffocating, now seemed to breathe with him, the fabric of the costume becoming a second skin. Sebastian wasn’t just wearing it - he was becoming it. The heavy weight of his old life, his doubts, his missteps, was being peeled away with every blow.

He could barely see through the narrow slits of the mask, his vision a blur of movement and colour. Somewhere in the chaos, he thought he caught a glimpse of Oliver, standing at the edge of the crowd. But it was impossible to focus, the mask distorting everything, turning the world into a swirling kaleidoscope of noise and sensation. The turnips kept coming, and with each one, Sebastian felt his connection to the village deepen. He wasn’t just a foreigner here; he was part of something ancient, something that transcended language and culture.

Oliver’s expression darkened when he recognised Sebastian’s trainers under the costume and he realised what Sebastian had done. To take the costume - their friends’ sacred relic - and make a mockery of it, even as a joke, was beyond what Oliver could tolerate. He felt a surge of anger, of betrayal.

At that moment, something snapped. Oliver reached down, grabbed a turnip from the ground, and with a surprising force, hurled it straight at Sebastian. If anyone had the right to punish this fool, it was him.

The real Jarramplas pushed his way through the throng and led half the crowd to a different area as they realised they had been pelting the wrong person.

By the time the barrage began to slow, Sebastian was in a state of high elation. He felt invincible like he had passed some great test. He had faced the village’s wrath and emerged not just unscathed, but reborn. As he pulled off the mask, the cool air hit his flushed face, and he looked around at the cheering crowd, expecting to see joy reflected back at him. But instead, he was met with a mix of emotions - curiosity, confusion, and something else he couldn’t quite place.

He scanned the crowd for Oliver, eager to share his triumph, but when he finally spotted him, the look on his partner’s face wasn’t one of admiration or pride. It was something far colder. Oliver stood rigid, his jaw clenched, a turnip still in his hand. But Sebastian didn’t see this as a sign of anger or betrayal. He thought perhaps Oliver was just overwhelmed by the spectacle, maybe even proud of how deeply Sebastian had thrown himself into the tradition.

As the villagers began to disperse, murmuring among themselves about what had just happened, Sebastian felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Miguel, Javi’s father, the man who had once worn the very costume Sebastian had just inhabited. There was a mix of emotions in Miguel’s eyes - irritation, confusion, but just maybe a hint of amusement.

"¡Cabron! How the hell did you come to be wearing my old costume?” Miguel asked, in a gruff angry voice.

Sebastian was at a loss. Guilt and fear written across his face. 

Miguel’s voice softened and he put his arm around him. “You’ve made quite the impression” and he laughed. “What’s done is done.” 

Sebastian felt a huge sense of relief. “You won’t believe this, but it was a total accident.” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

Miguel nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “You’ve certainly done something... unexpected.”

The news spread quickly. By evening, word of the foreigner who had dared to take on the role of Jarramplas had reached beyond Piornal, making its way to the local news and even national outlets. Some saw Sebastian’s actions as a reinvigoration of the old tradition, a fresh take that brought new energy to the festival. Most were less charitable, viewing it as an act of ignorance or even disrespect - a foreigner who didn’t understand the significance of what he had done.

But Sebastian, still glowing from his epiphany, brushed off the controversy. For the first time in his life, he felt truly alive, unburdened by the expectations and fears that had always held him back. The village, the festival, the turnips - everything had conspired to peel away his old self, revealing something raw and real beneath. He was free.

Oliver, however, saw things differently. The man he had known, the man he had shared dreams and plans with, seemed to have disappeared, replaced by someone he no longer recognised. Sebastian’s reckless behaviour, his complete disregard for the sanctity of the costume, had shattered something in Oliver. The warmth, the bond they had shared, now felt like a distant memory, replaced by a cold, hard wall of resentment and confusion.

A couple of nights later, as Sebastian was teaching English at someone’s house, Oliver packed his things. He had always been the careful one, the planner, the one who made sure things were done right. But now, standing in their small rented flat, he realised that he couldn’t live with this new version of Sebastian - this man who seemed to care more about some fleeting sense of freedom than about their relationship, about them.

Their last few nights together they had slept separately. Oliver had made sure that his schedule and Sebastian’s would mean they would mostly miss each other whilst he mulled over what to do and in the end, he realised that however Sebastian spun it, it wouldn’t change what he had done. It didn’t matter if the rest of the world forgave him, Oliver couldn’t. 

When Sebastian returned he found the flat eerily quiet. At first, he didn’t notice the absence of Oliver’s things. It wasn’t until he saw the note on the table that the reality of what had happened began to sink in.

“Seb,

I don’t know who you are anymore. I’m sorry, but I can’t be part of this.

—Oliver”

Sebastian read the note over and over, his mind struggling to process the words. He had thought they were on this journey together, that they were discovering this new life side by side. But now, it seemed, they had been on different paths all along.

There was a knock at the door, and when Sebastian opened it, he found Miguel and Immaculada standing there, their faces full of concern.

“We wanted to make sure you were alright and recovering from your bruises,” Immaculada said gently.

Sebastian nodded, his voice starting to croak. “I... I’m fine. Just... a lot has happened today.” He took a breath and began to sob uncontrollably. 

Immaculada stepped forward and took his hand, her warmth cutting through the numbness that had settled over him. “Sebastian, you’ve brought something new to this village, something very different. But change is never easy, and not everyone will want to accept what you did.”

Miguel nodded in agreement. “What you did at the festival... It was mad, but it also showed courage. jajaja ¡Qué cojones tienes!”.

Sebastian looked down at the note in his hand, feeling a pang of sadness that cut through his earlier euphoria. He wasn’t going to tell them that Oliver had just left him. He had wanted to belong, to be part of something bigger than himself, but in the process, he had lost something he hadn’t even realised he was taking for granted. He bit his lip and mustered a smile for his two guests.

Sighing deeply, he folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. “I think I’m just starting to figure out what that responsibility means.”

Miguel and Immaculada exchanged a glance. They could see that Sebastian was at a crossroads, though they didn’t know the full story.

“Stay true to yourself, Sebastian,” Miguel said finally. “But don’t forget the people who have stood by you along the way.”

As they left, Sebastian stood alone in the flat, the weight of that week’s events pressing down on him. He knew he had changed, that he had found something in himself that he hadn’t known existed. But now, as he looked around the empty room, he questioned the cost.