Day 13

The moon sits tall in the night sky with dark scars covering her face. She hangs above the undulating mountains, providing just enough light to grant form to the blades of grass and wildflowers in the meadows next to our camp.

We are at El Jabali Blanco tonight. A light breeze finds its way through my layers and there’s a chill on my body that’s the aftermath of all those 30 degree nights. Leaves tussle in the trees either side of our pitch, and campers walk back and forth from the washrooms before settling for sleep. 

I’ve thought about the road leading to our campsite a few times this evening. From the N260, turn left and pass over the river. But before that, there’s a fascinating building, labeled Avenue de Jesus. The building is a grand old ruin. From the far side of the river, you can stare out and see the once majestic symmetry of her construction. Now, ivy spirals up the cracked walls and tangles into the collapsing balcony, and if you count across, you’ll find four windows, repeated across four floors. 

Higher up, it appears that once a tree had fallen and caused the roof to cave in. She looks unstable, and one day her old framework will surely fall down the banks and crash into the river. For now, she’s supported by questionable foundations and a wealth of overgrown trees and shrubs.

“Wiggy, let’s take a look,” I said as we walked to the supermercado for supplies that afternoon.

“Look? Just look at it,” Wiggy said with a serious expression. 

At the road facing front, there are various deterrents and barricades, but none of them fulfill their intended purpose. Up the faded white steps and entrance porch, you can walk straight in through the absent front doors. The walls are old and damp, the bricks and plaster decay, and into the hall, there’s a vast crack that cuts into the concrete framework. 

“We can walk straight in, but we shouldn’t,” Wiggy said quietly, looking at the cracks. 

The old ruin is a place that the town’s youths probably visit at twilight. On the walls near the entrance, graffiti tags have been sprayed by rushed hands. I imagine the youths excited and filled with adrenalin while vandalising the poor old ruin. The ruin is greatly displeased by such human interactions and I imagine she’s now resigned to letting her mortar crumble above heads and floorboard creak below feet to scare trespassers off. And maybe if we’d dared enter further, a floor support would have been sacrificed, to let a leg slip and snap as a warning.

Wiggy entered first and the sun changed to shadow on his skin as he slipped through the threshold. I watched from outside and could feel the place waking up. An inanimate soul in reproach. I was scared of her but curious to discover more about her past. Wiggy decided it was time to leave, but I lingered on the threshold, then quietly edged further in. 

Her crumbled plaster lay thick on the floor in puzzle pieces and dust. Mold and mildew soaked into her walls, which retained faint traces of their teal and azul pigments from decades past. I took slow and balanced steps and felt hyper-sensitive of the weight and placement of my body. To my left was a bedroom, two bare and rusted metal bedframes were buried into the floor. To my right, the corridor extended to a room in which the plaster from the ceiling and floor had fallen through. I craned my neck to peek at the darkness in the room below. 

The majority of the household items had been removed, in fact, the place was sparse with only the larger items remaining. Yet, at the far side of the room with no ceiling or floor, a strange object remained in the corner. I strained to get a better view. It was an old harp frame. Perched on the broken beams, its wood looked faded and rotten, but its strings remained attached. How marvelous. 

A car sped by outside, I bowed my head and said my thanks, my apologies, and my condolences. Over the river, heading back to camp, we noticed a plaque with information about a waterwheel that was still turning upriver from us. We stopped to look. Near the plaque, an old man was leaning against the railing. He stared across the river at the ruin but had become agitated and started humming as we approached. The afternoon sun was hot and bright, we took to the shade that the plague had created, but this old man was covered in its light. He wore a once-white shirt, with a thin black pinstripe, he was short and had tanned orange skin and thin black hair swept back across his head. His shoulders curled and he stood cradled into himself, with long, wrinkled fingers that gripped the rail.

Uncertainly, I smiled and nodded. Hola, I pronounced quietly. But this only agitated him further, his humming increased and slowly he released himself from the railing and began hobbling across the bridge. A few minutes passed, Wiggy translated the water wheel plaque, while I concernedly watched the disturbed old man. At the end of Avenue de Jesus, he turned left and dissolved into the shade of the old ruin.

It’s late now, and I wear an extra layer under our sleeping quilt. The cricket’s mating chorus sounds coarse tonight, as their cords work crudely against the drop in temperature. I test my blood sugar, take my nighttime injection, and place a kiss on Wiggy’s temple. He lays his head down and within minutes his exhalations slow to little whiffs of breath. I close my eyes and focus on the pace of his gentle breathing and those chilly crickets. Then under these familiar rhythms, another sound comes into audio. Distant and musical harp strings.