Author: Ivor Starkey

Black smears in a blue dark, moving slowly but not idly, sweeping their way forward. The hot smell of fruit, vegetation, reproduction, biology, a warmth that reaches up to the canopy and the murmuring stars beyond. The forest. A deer stands to attention, neck taut and pulsating, her fragile legs threatening to shatter into a run at any moment. The moon is half full and is glimpsed between milky clouds, lucid patches of Paradise. Badgers dart into the hedges, bats shriek overhead, and the owl keeps its totalitarian watch. Underneath it all, running along the ley lines and secret paths that belong to the gods, is the threat of the immense bear, of the wolf. The warning is passed on, from tree to tree. The whole ecosystem knows. 

These smears – which, in their movement and blood and eyes, are actually persons – are following the way which leads into the hills and beyond, into the expectant mountains. Gravel, elderflower bushes and brambles. On the right side the path tumbles away into a valley of undergrowth and roots and boulders. From the depths the crackling of running water reaches their ears. The entire night is wet and humid, and it fills the vision of these figures with a heavy dew. Just over the peaks that surround them the land flattens out into the Sea and the lonely city. 

They pass, one by one, under a break in the canopy, where the Moon’s white tresses fall and diffuse in a glorious haze. The light reveals these figures to be not just persons but men, the freest men in the world. Each wears his alpargatas, is dressed in overalls, clutches a rifle in his hands. They lope uphill with the soft pad of rope-soled shoes on stone. These are a small tribe of fourteen young braves, pushing forward with their packs and helmets strapped over their shoulders. 

A short whistle. The first couple of figures halt, spin round in confusion. They squeeze the metal and wood of their guns in a spasm of unease. 

A quick bark and a flurry of conversation loaded with blasphemous swear words – me cago en la hostia. They’ve gone too far. Back down the road, fifty metres taken at a jog, packs bouncing. Another whistle, and now there is a ray of artificial, queasy light, lancing through the night.

 Like an epiphany, like a hammer-blow, they realise they’ve found the checkpoint. It stands to their left: two eucalyptus trees rising erect like silver spears. Between their trunks is a trail, nothing more than squashed leaves and brambles, climbing up and over the ridge. Impossible to find, had they not been told what to look out for. The torch light is extinguished. 

“Upwards. Quick. Con prisa” says the whistler. A moment of hesitation – do they obey? – before the group steps forward, funnelling into single file. 

Through the woods now, gathering pace, following the track, eyes straining as they pursue the luminous thread up into the hills. The idleness of before has vanished: as the gradient increases, they break into a run, leaping over brown boulders. Coming out from the treeline, the brilliant lights of the valley can be seen, golden continents and archipelagos. To the North, the direction of the Sea, the glacial form of cloud, rolling along with its impossible lightness. Enemy territory, yet entirely theirs. The land is their property by virtue of them loving it. It is they, this war band, who is in the hills tonight. Only them. 

They are Maquis, Anarchists, atheists, Reds, Communists, degenerates. They cut telegram wires, bomb railway lines, kidnap and torture loyal Francoist troops. Some of these men had been there, during the first days of the war, for the church burnings, the disinterment of saints, the rape of nuns. 

The crest of the hill is flat and full of gorse, a great plateau that would shimmer rust red and dark brown during the heat of the day.  It is a barren Martian landscape, that, despite its hostility, is now made milky and smooth under the lunar glow. The band of warriors is still leaping along – there is no time to waste now. Sometimes enemy patrols come up to this summit, to watch for firelight on the horizon or the flash of gunshots. In each of their minds was the nightmarish vision of a blue-shirted officer stepping out from behind the blood-coloured stones and crying “halt!”. 

No time to waste. 

Somewhere out there, either in the forest or in the villages or in his barracks or in the port over the hills was the enemy. The fascists, the idolators, the cultists of Mammon and his ever-moving machines. Was there not constant motion enough in the nighttime breeze through the eucalypti, in the hum of the streams, or in the divine singing amongst the stars? The idle slither of tanks and trucks can never compare to the gnashing of horses, or the stomping of bulls. Enough of the false cult of the automobile: young, mesomorphic bodies grow fat and flaccid in the driver’s seat. The propagandists down in the village church speak of the Church and Tradition, but up in the hills this band is embodying the oldest tradition of all, that of young men in Nature. They are fully immersed in their species-kind, their own Dharma. 

But now they stumble to a stop, breathing heavily amongst the brambles and great mounds of stone. To their right, the plateau gently slips into a pale waste of gorges and immense pillars. Just visible, just slightly further on, is a cairn, bearing a wire cross, phosphorescent in the moonlight. Here. They are on the summit of The Shield, the crest of the Meseta, the jutting fist of Iberia. Only a few years before a great battle had been fought on these slopes, as Italian legionaries – Mussolini’s bloodhounds – had turned their mechanical hands on the Spanish people. 

One of the men steps forwards, flicking on his torch and dropping to his hands and knees. After a short scramble he finds the hidden marker –

 a red and black blotch on the underside of a stone – before calling to his comrades. This is the place, surrounded by the blue night and the stars and bathed in the Moon. Surely not much further now. 

A backwards scramble down the steep hillside, hands tearing on pebbles and scraps of flint. The guerrillas are now amongst the gorges, great crests of stone, rippled and undulating.

“We can speak freely.” One of the men said, and despite the ease this freedom instilled in the group, one couldn’t help but lament the loss of the old silence. The fascist patrols, as of yet, had not made it this far. The gorges denied their caterpillar treads.  Of course, with time, they would transport engineers and men out to these wastes and build roads of asphalt to carry their disabled bodies. 

The band caught their breath a moment, stood in loose circle, broad chests flickering and shuddering under their overalls. 

“How much longer to the cave?”  came another voice, heavy with smokers’ phlegm. The journey across country had not been easy. 

“It’s just up this path. Where there is the form of two camels kissing”. In the brightness of nighttime, one could just make out the speaker’s tall and lanky frame, his narrow and flat face. These features revealed him to be fully Pasiego, full-blooded descendant of the exiled Jews who, persecuted and harassed by the triumphant Catholic Kings, had fled north to dwell amongst mountain pastures. 

To be captain by title was forbidden amongst these men, but he was captain by knowledge, by experience, by commitment to the pure and fresh idea of freedom. 

“Get yourselves together, chavales. We can’t let ourselves be caught out by Dawn,”

Yet daylight was still inconceivable in the minds of man and beast. The Moon hung low in the nighttime bowl of the sky and could be seen between the white archways and columns of the gorge. Dry and yellow grass crunched underneath their feet. A small stream was hissing away, tumbling from its spring high amongst the stone. Despite the exhaustion that fell upon their eyes and legs they consoled themselves with the knowledge that they were more manly than the blue-shirted crusaders, who were at this moment asleep and unaware of the damage that had been done against them this very night. 

The ravine sloped away to the right. Above, towering above their heads, was the final sign. White enamel pillars and gorge twisted and rose, becoming sloped faces, powerful chests, distinctive humps. The kissing camels in the stone, surely recognised first by a homesick Moor, añorando su patria Africana. It was with a quiet salute that the partisans marched underneath this colossal landmark. 

“Here, shine the torch.” El Pasiego said. A moment, and then a spear of light flashed through the dark. It struck the walls of the ravine, revealing the opening. Above the gateway, in black runic letters, the blazing aphorism of Spanish freedom: No Pasarán. The command was not intended for them, but for those who had turned foreign guns and planes on their own nation, who had bent the glory and pleasures of culture into the shape of a steel gauntlet. 

“Enter. This is the place.” He gestured to the two men stood closest to him. “Look for wood”.

Led by the artificial beam of yellow light, they entered the cave. Despite being surrounded by the detritus of a primordial rock fall, there were great sheets of stone that served as steps. Each was three times the height of a man in its width. The humidity and breeze and blueness of the Spanish night was pace by pace replaced with the neutral horizon of the underworld. Peeling back the lives of their ancestors, generation by generation, civilisation by civilisation, a faint image in their collective memory. Each man felt as if he was entering the original womb. 

The entrance widened out into a great cavern, impossibly big, the size of several hangars. The roof was wet, and so was the floor and the walls. Sometimes, during periods of heavy rain, they knew that the nearby river flooded and diverted and came crashing through the cave. Stalactites dripped and lit up in a blaze as the torch passed over. The group stood in quivering silence, waiting for the firewood. Somewhere deep, deep in the cave, hacia lo más profundo, came a dripping, a slap against black rock. The torch leaped across the cavern walls, revealing its battlements, turrets, the vast gate in front of them that led further down into the labyrinthine pit. 

“How long till we get a fire going?” came a voice, with no face to put it to.

“Five minutes. They shouldn’t be long.” El Pasiego responded. 

Another man spoke: “The last group should have left supplies. Ammunition, food, igual han dejado un guitarra”.  The speaker started to move, as if to go look for the instrument. 

“We’ll look when the fire is alight. No sense in scrambling about in the dark,” came the chiding voice of their chieftain. The speaker stopped himself. 

From the entrance came the sound of hurried footsteps on earth and gravel and stone, growing louder now, joined by the rustling of low whispers. The rustling stopped suddenly.

“Do you mind giving us some light?” 

“Put the torch on them” El Pasiego said, and the yellow beam came searing over rock and stalactite and stalagmite and black stream, to reveal the two men, both with arms full of wood. Their faces were brown and unshaven and very, very young. 

They came down the great steps and dropped their loads in front of the others. 

“Will it burn?” 

“Should do. The others had left it under shelter, and lleva muchos meses sin llover”  

The logs proved dry enough, and the youths went back outside, into the night, to find brush and twigs for kindling. Twenty minutes later – El Pasiego kept count on his watch – and the first orange flames were seen rising. With the light came the revealing of faces and the reflection of eyes. The flames grew stronger and more confident, sweeping upwards in a rush. 

After a brief search the supplies left by the previous Maquis band were found under a great blue sheet. Food, ammunition, grenades, chocolate. Guitarrista quickly found his guitar and began to play, the steel strings vibrating through the cave and beyond. Some of the men took out sleeping mats and blankets that they’d carried with them in their packs, and lay down, face upwards, towards that immense stone roof above them. El Pasiego did likewise, telling the others to wake him if there were any problems. 

“What’s this?” One of the men, even taller and lankier than El Pasiego, held up a blue, thick book. On the cover, inscribed in great golden letters, it read The Book of Mormon. 

“Pass it to me,” their chief said, reaching out a calloused hand from the warm rolls of his blanket. But he had no English and couldn’t decipher the gilded code. He passed it on to another. “Toma, Carlos, what is it?” 

Carlos, who had worked in the docks, had some English, mostly from getting into fights with members of the Merchant Navy. He translated the cover. 

“The book of what?” 

“I think it’s a Bible. But it’s not like ours,” Carlos was flicking through the flimsy, thin pages and trying to make out the tiny script. “It’s American”

This was not unsurprising. Although the International Brigades were by then a frenzied and glorious memory, there were still a few Anglo-Saxon stragglers to be found across the Peninsula. 

“Protestant?” 

“I think so. There’s not a word of Latin,” 

Guitarrista stopped playing. He sat there on a flat stool of rock, guitar laying at an angle across his knee. 

“I met a Protestant once. He was preaching in Barcelona, just a couple of weeks after the start of the war,” 

Although con sueño, the group was paying attention. Carlos was preparing himself for bed. Guitarrista continued:

“So I’m in the square, can’t remember which one – maybe near Saint Felip Neri?” 

“What you doing in the square?”  comes a voice, quiet as if it was from far away. 

“I’m having una jarra after a day in the factory.”

“Didn’t we shoot some priests there?” came another voice, yet more quiet and distant. A moment of confusion and horror. 

“What?”  El Pasiego said. Sleep was not coming to him as easy as it should.  

The voice spoke again, this time louder and more forceful.

“I said: Didn’t we Anarchists shoot some priests in that square? Saint Felip Neri?” 

El Pasiego sat up, staring past the fire.

“Who is it that is speaking, gilipollas?” 

Gilipollas told him his name. 

“Eduardo what? That shooting didn’t happen, you hear me? It’s a Francoist lie! It was a fascist bomb that did it, me oyes? Cabrón”. 

Gilipollas didn’t respond, but shrunk back further into his bedding, regañado.

“Please continue, Guitarrista” El Pasiego lay back down again, hands behind his head as he lay face upwards, eyes foaming. 

Guitarrista cleared his throat. His fingers had been playing with the tuning keys in nervousness, twisting the strings to extraordinary tightness and then letting them sag. 

“Right. I’m in the plaza, and this sunburnt guiri approaches me and goes on about the personality of Jesus and such like. I think he was with the Brigades. American” 

“And what did you say to him?”

“I told him I didn’t believe in the True God, so why should I believe in his?” 

Thundering silence, apart from the gushing of the fire. There was a heady smell of smoke, but there must have been a natural chimney somewhere above for the smoke dissipated and their eyes didn’t hurt. Several of the men are now asleep, El Pasiego amongst them. He slept, still on his back, the padded roll of his sleeping bag rising and falling softly with his breath. 

“Reminds me of one time at university,” 

“Which of you is talking?” Carlos said. 

“I’m Miguel.” It was one of the youths who had gone for firewood earlier. 

“Come here then. Move closer,” 

After a sigh Miguel threw off his sheets, scooped them up, and threw them down next to Carlos, who was sat up, swaddled in his sleeping bag. Guitarrista was still sat on his hard stool, guitar leaning on his shoulder.  

“Miguel. Where do you study?”  The young man is close enough to the fire so that the others can fully see his face, the stubble on the jaw and neck, the scar across the nose which frames his brown eyes. 

“Salamanca. Philology. I’ve been there two years now. But my family is from Madrid,” 

“Cigarette?” Guitarrista had taken out his matches and was lighting up. 

Miguel murmured affirmation and took one from the proffered packet. 

“Carlos, cigarette?” 

“Of course” Carlos shuffled forwards, still tucked in, to grab it between thumb and forefinger. 

“Match?” The trio passed around the box. 

After a couple of heavy drags little rivers of white smoke were running through the air. 

“What was that story then?” Carlos said. 

“Are we the only ones awake?” Miguel was looking at his comrades, tumbados. 

“Yes. Venga, the story, Miguel,” 

“Oh yes. It was the last term of the year, thirty-six, and I was finishing up on my studies and exams and such,” He took a couple of long puffs. “But they had a couple of debates on, about philosophy and theology and things like that,” 

Another drag. The cigarette was blazing gold. 

“And although I was behind I went to one, between a priest and some professor from Madrid, I can’t remember either of their names. And at one point they were arguing about God and the Church, and the professor cracks a big smile and says ‘” Thank Christ and all His saints, I’m an atheist’. I thought it was quite funny,” 

Carlos, smoking, propping himself up with an elbow, nods.

“Not bad,” 

Guitarrista puts the guitar down, flat on the cavern floor. Gilipollas was snoring. 

“How was the rest of the debate? Good?” 

“It was interesting. I think they’re both dead now though. They got the professor, and we got the priest. He was a Falangist. Passed on what he’d heard in confession.” 

“You can never trust a priest.” Guitarrista’s voice took on a tone of quiet and pure decorum.  “Marx was right. About the entrails,” 

Carlos sat up suddenly. 

“May he rot in Hell,” 

“Who? Marx?” 

“No. The sacrilegious priest.”

The others nodded, puffing away. They would be up, conversing until dawn, or hasta el cuerpo aguante. 

The whole world: fire, sleeping men, the night outside that was throwing its arms open to morning, all of the beauty and vitality of the sky and forest. Spain seemed to bow its head in hallowed Amen. 

Ivor Starkey. Ivor is an undergraduate studying Modern Languages at the University of Bristol. Last year, he came first place in the Roger Scruton Legacy Foundation’s Essay Contest in the 6th form category.