Self indulgence; Tales of the Alhambra
May. 6th, 2005 02:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootI am so relieved at being able to forget my civic duties for the next five years.
Now I just want to go somewhere beautiful/create fantasies in my head. My love is playing on the PC next to me, so I can't really concentrate. Instead, I am going to let my mind wander.
This is a shot of the Alhambra, the castle overlooking my mother's home city, Granada:
http://ergodic.ugr.es/jmarro/images/alhambra.jpg
The palace and of course the mountains behind it are haunted and spellbound; Washington Irving's book,Tales of The Alhambra describes all the stories with far more charm than I ever could, but here is a tiny one, the tale of the last moorish king of Granada, Boabdil, el rey chico, the boy king.
Boabdil, prince and heir to the moorish kingdom of Granada, was a mild and gentle boy. His father though a great hero was a madman prone to fits of rage, and often attacked his little son. His mother, a converted Christian princess by the moorish appelation of Aixa, was strong and kind and defended the boy against his father, hiding him or helping him escape as need be.
His father died and Boabdil became king. By then the Reconquista had begun, and the two great Christian monarchs, Ferdinand the Fox and Isabella the Lion, were taking it all back. Andalusia, specifically the Kingdom of Granada, was the last to fall; but Granada did not fall through fighting. No, the two monarchs negotiated with cunning and with strength, and Boabdil caved into their demands.
You see those mountains behind the palace? Boabdil and his glittering retinue left along the mountain passes; up there is a point called, 'The Last Sigh of the Moor,' and here it was that Boabdil looked back at all he was surrendering, and wept. Then his mother, mighty Aixa looked at her son and said; 'Yes. Weep like a woman, over that which you could not defend like a man.' And the boy king's tears fell a thousand times more bitter.
History barely records what happened to the boy king; some dim little tracts suggest he died in Barbary fighting another king's battles, but the old stories of Granada will tell you otherwise.
He never left those mountains. He and his court disapeared into the enchanted caves and underground gardens, and there they have been seen sleeping til the last day. On St John's eve they ride out, and some call them fine and beautiful, mohammedan magicians and knights, fair enchantresses and great guardians, and of course, Boabdil himself, whose beauty has grown beyond measure in his eternal subterranean refuge, though still the tears shine in his eyes. They are diamonds when they fall to earth,indeed, the whole cavalcade is possessed of extraordinary treasures and magics. Others say that they are surrounded by imps and hobgoblins worthy of All Hallows Eve, and when they ride the hills, beware or they will make you join them.
Curiously, it was recorded that once, the great inquisitor was seen riding out among their number over the mountains at midnight. People could not understand it; why would such a pious personage be with the infernal? He died not long after the sighting or just before it, I can barely recall. But the sighting was believed and all were puzzled by the holy man and his unholy company...
There are so many tales, less prone to the dull claims of history and more pure fairy story; these are of enchanted princesses and wily magicians, of night-mares and spectral hounds, of magical underworlds and of course, of limitless treasure. But I cannot repeat the tales with Irving's skill, and can only recommend him as a formidable enchanter in his own right.
When my mother used to take me to the Alhambra, she took me via a gate of two arches, one above the other. On one was a hand, on the other, a key. It is said that when the hand reaches out and takes the key, all the enchantments and secrets of the Alhambra and surrounding mountains will be revealed, and more besides; for that day will be the end of the world.
Now I just want to go somewhere beautiful/create fantasies in my head. My love is playing on the PC next to me, so I can't really concentrate. Instead, I am going to let my mind wander.
This is a shot of the Alhambra, the castle overlooking my mother's home city, Granada:
http://ergodic.ugr.es/jmarro/images/alhambra.jpg
The palace and of course the mountains behind it are haunted and spellbound; Washington Irving's book,Tales of The Alhambra describes all the stories with far more charm than I ever could, but here is a tiny one, the tale of the last moorish king of Granada, Boabdil, el rey chico, the boy king.
Boabdil, prince and heir to the moorish kingdom of Granada, was a mild and gentle boy. His father though a great hero was a madman prone to fits of rage, and often attacked his little son. His mother, a converted Christian princess by the moorish appelation of Aixa, was strong and kind and defended the boy against his father, hiding him or helping him escape as need be.
His father died and Boabdil became king. By then the Reconquista had begun, and the two great Christian monarchs, Ferdinand the Fox and Isabella the Lion, were taking it all back. Andalusia, specifically the Kingdom of Granada, was the last to fall; but Granada did not fall through fighting. No, the two monarchs negotiated with cunning and with strength, and Boabdil caved into their demands.
You see those mountains behind the palace? Boabdil and his glittering retinue left along the mountain passes; up there is a point called, 'The Last Sigh of the Moor,' and here it was that Boabdil looked back at all he was surrendering, and wept. Then his mother, mighty Aixa looked at her son and said; 'Yes. Weep like a woman, over that which you could not defend like a man.' And the boy king's tears fell a thousand times more bitter.
History barely records what happened to the boy king; some dim little tracts suggest he died in Barbary fighting another king's battles, but the old stories of Granada will tell you otherwise.
He never left those mountains. He and his court disapeared into the enchanted caves and underground gardens, and there they have been seen sleeping til the last day. On St John's eve they ride out, and some call them fine and beautiful, mohammedan magicians and knights, fair enchantresses and great guardians, and of course, Boabdil himself, whose beauty has grown beyond measure in his eternal subterranean refuge, though still the tears shine in his eyes. They are diamonds when they fall to earth,indeed, the whole cavalcade is possessed of extraordinary treasures and magics. Others say that they are surrounded by imps and hobgoblins worthy of All Hallows Eve, and when they ride the hills, beware or they will make you join them.
Curiously, it was recorded that once, the great inquisitor was seen riding out among their number over the mountains at midnight. People could not understand it; why would such a pious personage be with the infernal? He died not long after the sighting or just before it, I can barely recall. But the sighting was believed and all were puzzled by the holy man and his unholy company...
There are so many tales, less prone to the dull claims of history and more pure fairy story; these are of enchanted princesses and wily magicians, of night-mares and spectral hounds, of magical underworlds and of course, of limitless treasure. But I cannot repeat the tales with Irving's skill, and can only recommend him as a formidable enchanter in his own right.
When my mother used to take me to the Alhambra, she took me via a gate of two arches, one above the other. On one was a hand, on the other, a key. It is said that when the hand reaches out and takes the key, all the enchantments and secrets of the Alhambra and surrounding mountains will be revealed, and more besides; for that day will be the end of the world.
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