LEGENDS. SANTO DOMINGO’S CHICKENS.
“It came to pass that quite a while back, even before the year 1,000 AD, a German couple accompanied by their son Hugonell were engaged on a pilgrimage to the already famous shrine of Saint James in the town of Compostela. Arriving in the town of Santo Domingo de la Calzada, an important scale in their two thousand plus kilometer journey they decided to spend the night in the comfort of an inn. Unfortunately for him the couple’s son was a very handsome fellow and the daughter of the innkeeper fell hopelessly in lust for him. But. But engaged in such a Holy undertaking and in the company of his parents the boy refused her advances. Furious at being turned down the girl hid some silver artifacts, either silver plate or candle sticks, we are not sure, in the young man’s rucksack where it was found next morning by the alguaciles, or cops, sent in pursuit on the road by the rejected girl. With such strong evidence the boy was summarily tried and hanged, to the great distress of his parents who, with nothing better to do, carried on with their pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela where they, upon arrival, prayed fervently to the Saint for the soul of their beloved son.
It also came to pass that when they reached again the town of Santo Domingo on their way back to Germany they found their son still hanging from the scaffold but miraculously brought back to life by the Saint. Saint James, that is, not the other one. They then rushed to tell the Mayor of the town the good news and plead his innocence anew. The Mayor, about to have supper with his friends was not inclined to believe it and responded: “That boy is as alive as these two roast chickens we are about to eat” upon which words the fowls sprang back to life, grew feathers and started to crow”
Well, I get the story a thousand years later in Madrid from my friend Carlos who is offering me to stay in his his apartment in Santo Domingo de la Calzada while I am doing some work in the wine region of La Rioja.
“Do you believe this rubbish?” I ask him.
At which Carlos has a good think, takes a slow sip from his Orujo aperitif, relaxes back into his chair and slowly commences:
“Two friends are having some drinks together when one says to the other: I have to go and give an informal talk about my safari adventures and, you know how it is, there is always some hacker who challenges the truth in everything he hears, so it would be great if you could come and support me, say that you were there with me”
To which the friend agrees and when in the reunion the intrepid hunter tells the assembly of the time he was charged by a lion he assures them that it was true.
“I saw it. I was with him”
So what happened next? “I pulled the trigger of my rifle from quite a distance off but it jammed”
Great gasp from the audience “What happened next?”
“Well, I always carry a Dirty Harry .44 revolver for such emergencies so I brought it out and pressed the trigger. I then realized that I hadn’t loaded it in the morning”
Even greater gasp from the audience. “Come on, man, you are making this up”
“It is all true, I assure you, I was there with him”
“But what happened next? What about the lion?”
“Well, the lion was so close by then that I could smell his fetid breath and I pulled out my trusty Bowie knife to plunge it straight into his heart. But he was too close, he knocked it out of my hand”
The supporting friend is getting increasingly nervous about the direction the tale is taking but faithfully assures the by now totally incredulous audience that it is all true, he was there.
“And you are still here, alive, please explain how” says the chorus.
“When I saw his jaws wide open inches from my face I simply plunged my arm inside his mouth, grabbed hold of his tail and turned him inside out with one tremendous pull”
A great silence greets this last statement and everybody in the room looks at the good friend for confirmation. But he only shrugs his shoulders and says:
“Sorry, I had left by then”
When I am done laughing I ask Carlos what the connection is with the story of the chickens and he responds:
“Well, it’s the same, really, I wasn’t there. Can’t tell if it is true.
True or false it was taken very seriously at the time as I discover when walking around the town of Santo Domingo I reach the Cathedral and I am told about the chicken coop inside where two live chickens have been kept for the last ten centuries to commemorate the event. There is an entrance fee of 4 Euros, though, which annoys me, and no photography is allowed inside, so I don’t go in.
Two years later I am staying with Carlos and his wife Marisa in Santo Domingo when I bring back the subject. Marisa declares the story to be as true as “feasibly possible” as she spent her childhood in the village of Gallinero, which translates into “chicken coop”.
They were the suppliers of the feed for the Cathedral chickens. The plot thickens as she tells me that this great privilege was conferred unto her village in exchange for having the Saint’s relics transferred to their church after the original chapel near Santo Domingo fell into ruin. What Saint, I ask, Santo Domingo? “No, no, no. San Cosme and San Damian. I think there is a hip bone from San Cosme, as for Damian I don’t know” So much for the conception that everybody stayed put in the Dark Ages, that one basically died in the same place where he was born. Unless some war or Crusade got in the way. These two saints were apparently “morisco” doctors, that is Moors converted to Christianity, which points to a date close to 1500 AD when the Catholic Kings gave the Moors remaining in Spain the choice of converting to Christianity or being deported or … well, whatever. Must find out more about them.
The reason why the village of Gallinero no longer supplies the feed for the chickens is simple: there are only eight inhabitants left there, maybe less by the time you read this.
My wife is hugely amused by the story (there are few Saints in her country, South Africa) and notices when walking past the Cathedral that a choir from my birthplace, Alicante, is going to sing in the evening service. As it is a normal service for the congregation I finally get to see the chickens. And hear good singing. For free.
Chickens are pretty, white, and noisy at times. There is a picture of the hanging scene under them and a piece of wood from the original scaffold above. I distrust it as much as I would a piece of wood from the original Cross of which it is rumored there are so many that one could build a bridge from Dublin to New York.
The choir, predictably, sings exclusively in Valencian which I think is a bit rude towards our hosts, but is a typical attitude of many members of our Spanish separatist movements, be it Catalan, Valencian, Basque or Galician. No harm done, I think, not very different from having the Mass sang in Latin!
Coming out of the Cathedral Marisa has a good laugh: “So in the end your entrance fee was paid by the chickens themselves!”
