Along the Milky Way

Today's goal was the village of Castrojeriz but 4 miles before appear the ruins of the 13th century Monasterio San Antón. A tiny sign, "refugio", and a yellow arrow point inside.

Littered with rubble, most walls are fallen. Francesca, host of this primitive hostel, sits at a table. There is no one else here. Abandoned for centuries, there are 12 beds in a covered alcove. No water or electricity. A thunderstorm looms.

Damaged by time and wind, the entranceway, west wall, and belltower remain. A bell chain hangs 30 feet from the ground. Francesca says it has been 300 years since the last call to prayer. I ask if she has ever thought of ringing the bell. She says it probably still works but at best it would confuse the neighbors.

Together we make a starchy pilgrim meal of rice and vegetables. Over dinner and wine and a dessert of fruity bread made by the nuns in the next village more details of this place emerge:

Antón was a 4th century Egyptian martyr. The medieval monks who chose him as their patron travel to Egypt to visit his home. They pass through the Middle East which is in the midst of the Islamic Golden Age, inventing science and math and writing. The monks return from their journey with medical books and sacks of herbs.

Here they treat what becomes known as St. Antón's Fire, caused by eating grain contaminated with ergot. Symptoms include convulsions, hallucinations, gangrene, and death. It had a notable outbreak in the US in 1692 and led to the Salem witch trials.

Thousands of sick people came here each year on the Camino. Local grain, uncontaminated by the fungus, reduces the symptoms. But more importantly the monks become masters of antibiotics and surgery. Their wine and herbs are both a powerful anesthetic as well as antibacterial wash for amputations. They advertise their prowess by hanging hundreds of severed limbs on the outer walls.

In the 16th century the Vatican eliminates many monastic orders which have become too powerful. The Order of San Antón is dissolved, members dispersed, buildings left to fall. All books, records, and knowledge lost.

Francesca leaves for her home in the village. My bed stands in what was the main entrance. Alone in the night in the dark in the doorway where for 500 years a half million raving, rotting patients crawled in to die or travel home legless strapped to the backs of their donkeys I am expecting ghosts and not happy ones.

I sleep lightly and sometime in the night I dream of ringing the bell.