La Locura

Excerpt from "The Servants of Gods", Ecks Ridgehead's as yet unpublished first novel.

The island of La Locura is a pinprick on the Atlantic, a pimple on Neptune’s great wide belly half a day by boat south and west of Portugal that thoughtlessly interrupts the smooth, lazy flow of the Gulf Stream. Like Gibraltar, Ceuta and Formosa it is a tiny relic from a colonial past, a golden age of empire and expansion that was ultimately doomed to overreach itself and shrink back inwards, the ebb of this tide of empire leaving behind these small isolated outposts stranded like shells on a beach. Until the sixteenth century it had lain untouched, unnamed even, as merchants and explorers sailed past its ethereal haze on their way to the Cape of Good Hope and the Spice Islands. Magellan, Vasco de Gama and Bartolomeu Dias all passed by its translucent white sands as they sailed through the Pillars of Hercules and out into history.

In the aftermath of the failed attack on England by the Spanish Armada in 1588, however, the island gained strategic importance in the eyes of Felipe II of Spain, who had grown worried about Spain’s vulnerability, and had begun to reassess his defensive priorities. He decided that the positioning of this insignificant speck on his crumpled map of the near Atlantic would make it perfect for an observational outpost, and so he sent a small expeditionary force out through the straits of Gibraltar and claimed it for Spain. No other European powers resisted this act of dominion. Few, if any, even noticed.

Felipe had a high tower constructed out of stone on the peak in its centre, from which a keen-eyed observer could see for miles out to sea in all directions, and he stationed a number of swift vessels in a small harbour, poised to race for mainland Spain at the first sight of an enemy galleon. The king was very pleased with his idea but behind closed doors his courtiers sniggered, as geography and the technology of the day meant that the scheme was fatally flawed. Spain, like most European countries of the time, had spies in virtually every other country of interest to her, who would report on the comings and goings of her enemies; should England be preparing any kind of navy, the spy would simply jump onto a ship and sail across the channel to France before riding to Spain. This was much quicker (and far less perilous) than waiting for the invasion fleet to cross the Bay of Biscay and round Portugal en route to the Straits of Gibraltar where they would be spotted by the watchmen on the island, by which time there would be precious little time to prepare for the attack. Felipe was nonetheless immensely proud of his outpost, and named his island lookout El Ojo del Rey – the King’s Eye.

Felipe III, who ascended to the throne on his father’s death in 1598, realised astutely that the island was actually of little or no real strategic importance, and eventually recalled to the mainland the troops stationed there. The small community that had sprung up around them remained, however, along with some of the military personnel who had realised that living on this island idyll was infinitely better than fighting the French or the Dutch or the English and had subsequently deserted. All told, the island had been used as a lookout for less than ten years, and in all that time the keen eyes of the tower had merely watched idly as merchant vessels had slouched their way in and out of the Mediterranean. Not once had it been called upon to warn mother Spain of an impending attack on the kingdom, not once had it espied the masts of an enemy flotilla creeping over the horizon. So, shortly after Felipe II died and the troops were recalled, it dawned upon the islanders that the outpost had just been one great royal lapse of reason, and laconically began to refer to their island haven as La Locura del Rey – “the King’s Folly” – and eventually just La Locura.