the wayfairer

The timeworn tower-clock approaches midnight, illuminated by a drowsy March moon that watches in silence as the Spanish city burns below.

I snake through dark, blood-soaked cobblestone lanes, following in the footsteps of Romans, Moors, and Christians as I maneuver through a surging mob, hunting for the source of fire. Above my head, conspiring whispers of Valencian flags beckon me forward to the crowded plaza, saturated with reports of explosions and peppered with the smell of roasted chestnuts, gasoline and sweat.

Tonight, at the hands of its citizens, the birthplace of popes and kings, Valencia burns again, as it has for centuries. This age-old celebration of spring, welcoming in the new by igniting the past, has evolved from burning simple wooden piles of discarded objects into torching elaborate displays of artisanship that represent each neighborhood.

The narrow passageway spills into an opening where I shake off the ghost-filled shadows. The barrio residents, identified by their matching red jackets, proudly survey the crowd. Witnesses of all ages hover behind barriers isolating the unlit martyrs, while, with bone-colored rope, experienced hands bind a red, winged demon with child-like features.

As the flame is lowered to the fuse, even the flags still in anticipation. Pleading eyes of the sacrifice bulge with fear as he perches atop a rock in a vain attempt to escape the searing flicker of the fiery tongue.

The fiend suddenly combusts, propelling a deafening blast through the air. Gaping mouths on illuminated faces howl with delight and the ancient stone walls, ordinarily strong and unmoved, echo the emotional cry. A deep, soulful voice thunders out in melodious song, but the guttural roar drowns it out as the blaze consumes the banquet of wood and papier-mache.

I tear my eyes from the seductive sway of the flame, coming to rest upon the community’s smallest, yet most prominent, representative. Swimming in rich fabrics embroidered with gold thread, the young fallera stands motionless against the modern backdrop of camera flashes. In the firelight, tears flee her eyes, each drop clinging desperately to the curve of her cheek before falling in resignation upon the proud sash guarding her heart; a sentimental farewell to an extension of herself, whose embodiment sheltered memories of friendships forged and ancestral bonds strengthened over months of preparation.

Across the city, billowing towers of smoke triumphantly rise, declaring their victories with a scattering of ash across the star-filled canvas. The air, heavy with smoke and lingering recollections, rises and disperses, taking the exhausted celebrants with it.

Returning to the shadows, I glance back at the young girl. Her tears have dried, absorbed by empathetic kisses, and the heat of the fire has been replaced by the warm glow of familial intimacy. A smile crosses my face at the realization that there is more than merely ash left behind. Though the cinders bear witness to Valencia’s destruction, something remains unconsumed each year the city burns; something unseen and unknown to the casual spectator:

the true spirit of Las Fallas.