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There is a legend, now lost to the extreme vicissitudes of time, that long ago in the area between the Azores and the continent of Portugal lay the most fertile and beautiful of lands. This was long before Portugal was yet a country, when the Lusitanians, a mysterious Celtic tribe, then inhabited the region. Some say an enormous island lay just offshore, Atlantis, if you will. Others insist that the mainland itself extended to the Azores, and that the islands are the last remains of that fair land, Lusitania. And in the midst of this paradise lived Pedro, the troubadour, who composed songs and sang like no other. Pedro had always been a large man. He was known to have a strong appetite for those things which were his particular passions: food, drink, conversation , songs and stories, natural beauty, women, laughter, and living life to its fullest. When he loved there was no stopping him—no limits, and certainly no half measures. And what he loved perhaps more than anything was the countryside, the land where he was born. From his early youth, the mountains and fields surrounding his home fascinated him. He was often seen wandering the hills and forests, the rocky outcroppings, the streams and creeks. He would seek out the oldest men and women and listen to their stories about the past, the people and the places. They told him tales about the ancient families, the history, the myths and legends of the land. And through it all, Pedro listened enraptured, drinking in every word. Then he would go wandering, singing songs, his poems—songs about this river, that hill, a valley over there, a mountain farther to the east, a beautiful girl who lived in a particular forest, or an ancient king or warrior, as if he had been taught those songs by the very places themselves. Sometimes he would be found standing beside a tree or sitting on a rock, The Last Troubadour of Lusitania Darrell Kastin 12 looking out over the view, staring so intently he wouldn’t hear anyone as they approached, even if they called his name. People said he was far away, lost in the past, that he would never become a wealthy man chasing after all his dreams of inconsequential things, things that even then were beginning to fade from memory. It was said that he knew every corner of the land, every rock and cave, every trail, the peak of every hill, as well as every ravine or gully. He knew the animals, the birds, and the properties of the plants that grew there. He knew of every hero and every villain who had passed through those parts. He knew the names of places no one else knew, old names no longer used. And as all this took place, he grew larger, with each mouthful of sweet chestnuts, grown from the soil he roamed, with every olive produced from this land that was so special, so unique to him; for he could taste the land in everything he ate or drank: every peach, plum, or pear ripened from the sunlight, the water, and the soil. He tried to show other people. “Here, see this spot, yes, right there, between these two hills, hear the wind that blows unlike any other? Hear that sound? The sound of the wind and the land, our land, our past.” But the others shook their heads. They could not see. They did not hear. They wanted that piece of land over there in order to cut the trees, or they desired a woman from a neighboring village; they wanted wealth, or children, or a larger house, or a new boat. But they heard Pedro sing and could feel the ebb and flow, the longing, the love and sadness conveyed in ways which made the women sigh and the men stop what they were doing and try to remember something they had forgotten long ago. Pedro was able to recount a story for everything, always ready to sing a song or recite a poem, to quote an old saying, a proverb, even a rhyme or riddle, as well as perform the dances and the music that were part of their history. Springs of cool, fresh water bubbled from the ground in holy, sacred places, full of spirits and magic from a time long forgotten in the past. Ghosts of the Jews of antiquity, who had sailed over from the Holy Land, of the ancient Phoenicians...

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