“You sound a little dry, amigo,” said Señor Zorro. “Let me give you some water!”
Zorro’s boot sent him stumbling off the plank, and he shrieked as he plummeted into the air. He slapped heavily against the rushing water below and was swept away.
The next two sprang onto the landing as Zorro darted to the ladder and climbed still higher, the lock box clamped under one arm. They followed him. The first was a small, lithe man with a mop of curly black hair and a snake tattoo covering half his face. He was climbing with the skill of a Chinese acrobat. With him was a taller man with mocha skin, a Moor whose scarf had come undone about his neck, revealing the heavy scars of a near-lynching. They were on Zorro quickly. Making his way along the top tier, Snakeface slipped on a pair of brass knuckles as the Moor snapped a dangling wood strut from the closest support beam and brought it to bear with a deep otherworldly laugh.
Golden light sped across the length of Zorro’s blade as the masked man smiled at his new opponents. “Before we get started, do both of you know how to swim?”
The thugs attacked! The tattooed acrobat danced and feinted, diving past Zorro, landing in a roll and quickly springing up on the other side of him. Snakeface’s boot snapped back with a kick aimed at Zorro’s leg that was meant to cripple him. Zorro darted forward just in time, but the move drove him squarely into the Moor’s reach. The heavy wood bar swung high, but Zorro ducked beneath it and scrambled around him, the masked man’s blade streaking across the Moor’s cheek to carve a “Z” into his flesh. Now both men rushed in at once, Zorro’s blade attacking furiously, keeping them at bay.
A voice called from below. “And I heard, as it were, the voice of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, come and see…”
McGivens had recovered—and was on his way.
Zorro heard crackling and felt the boards beneath him tremble and strain. The sword-strokes employed when he played his little game of tic-tac-toe in the already weathered and weakened wood were about to do their job. The streaking swordsmanship that had sliced through much of the rigging would also help.
The bellowing from below resumed: “And I saw, and beheld, a horse that was red: and power given to him that sat thereupon to take peace from the Earth, and that they should kill one another; and there was given to him a great sword!”
“He talks a lot,” observed Zorro as he allowed the Moor to close in on him, the giant’s heavy foot smashing down on the weakened planks.
Zorro stepped back and nodded in farewell as the wood split beneath the weight of his opponent’s thundering feet, the rear half of the planks breaking away and tilting down sharply toward the second level. Snakeface and the Moor slid back, off balance, finding themselves on a steep diagonal. Screeching in rage, they were spilled off the swaying scaffolding, landing in the churning waters below.
Two heavy splashes came as Zorro whirled on the jagged half-walk. Jacob McGivens’s fist crashed into his face, sending him stumbling back to the brink, the lock box loosening from his grasp, and skidding toward the precipice while his sword flew from him and sailed to the ground.
“Recognize those words, ya damn heathen?” asked McGivens breathlessly. “Book of Revelations, the Apocalypse. Take heed now, y’hear? The end-time’s coming for y’all—”
Zorro’s fist whipped out while McGivens danced away with surprising agility. In a single fluid movement, the scarred man whipped the tails of his frockcoat back and drew a gleaming Bowie knife. The weapon had a thick, sharp blade with a curved and probing half-moon edge—perfect for gutting game. With an animal’s bellow, McGivens drove himself at Zorro, their bodies smashing together.
They fell, Zorro’s back striking the edge of the planks he had ruined earlier, McGivens’s weight pressing down on him as they grappled. The wood beneath them splintering and shattering, they dropped together. The scaffolding shuddered and flew apart under the attack and both men plummeted off the second tier, dropping like dead weight to the final landing.
As both men scrambled to their knees McGivens’s blade swept down from on high, racing at Zorro’s face. Zorro’s hand clamped on McGivens’s wrist, holding back the blade. Debris dropped around them, smashing into the wood expanse with jarring, explosive force. Teeth clenched, Zorro struggled to his feet. McGivens matched him as he pressed the blade closer to the strap securing Zorro’s mask.
Alejandro de la Vega, the man beneath the mask, felt the icy chill of fear racing along his spine. If his mask was lost, and his identity exposed, his beloved family would pay the ultimate price.
The knife edged closer—and ripped through the strap!
Alejandro felt the mask start to slip. Mustering his strength, he threw all his weight into a low punch that doubled McGivens over and sent the surprised, staggering man crashing back. The mask flew from his face and Alejandro grasped for it, but a sudden gust closed over it. The light stretch of fabric whipped away and Alejandro heard McGivens rising. The planks creaked beneath Alejandro, pressing so hard against his boots that they nearly lifted him off his feet.
Desperation seized Alejandro as he drew his whip and cracked it high, one end striking the tip of the single towering oak support from which much of the ruined scaffolding now dangled. The sound made McGivens start, and Alejandro seized on his distraction, yanking hard on the tethered whip, the momentum hauling him high off his feet. The plank that had pressed against his boots snapped up like a seesaw, smacking into McGivens’s face with a bone crunching snap, the gunman’s teeth spraying into the air as he flew off the scaffold.
Alejandro swung down to a spot only a few feet from where he had been, his enemy’s bloody teeth clattering to his feet in a light staccato rain as the man splashed to the harsh water below. He scanned the area for signs of the other three men who’d been with McGivens, but they seemed to have fled.
Tearing a shred of black cloth from his sleeve, he drew his dagger across the fabric and sliced eyeholes from the cloth. Tying the makeshift mask in place, Zorro scooped the lock box under his arm, burst into a run and let out a loud whistle.
As he raced back to the road, his trusty steed, Tornado, galloped toward him from the dense forest. Recovering his blade, Zorro swung over Tornado’s flank, landing perfectly in the saddle.
“Over the hill to the governor’s mansion!” cried Zorro. He lurched forward, expecting a great burst of speed from the powerful horse.
The stallion was a statue. Haughty, indignant, immobile.
Zorro rustled the reins. “I said, over the hill to the governor’s mansion!”
Tornado yawned.
Sighing, Zorro repeated the command. This time, in Spanish.
“Sobre la colina a la mansion del gobernador,” muttered Zorro.
Tornado suddenly rocketed ahead, Zorro grabbing his reins and lunging forward in the saddle to avoid being thrown.
The masked man grimaced as they galloped on. “We have to work on your English.”
Had he lingered but a moment longer, he might have spotted two dark hats rising from the brush. A pair of men in neatly pressed dark suits watched him go, one tall, the other shorter. They exchanged happy smiles as they strode purposefully to the scene of the great Zorro’s latest battle.
Zorro rounded the gates to the governor’s mansion, a song of triumph rising in his heart. His spirits soared as he took in the sea of murmuring faces before him. Many had gathered in the hopes of hearing the governor speak the long-coveted words of liberation. Zorro was amazed by the bold diversity reflected in the people gathered here. The rich crowded in with the poor, the young brushed up against the elderly, and men and women of all races beamed at him.
He saw elegantly dressed Californios in flashy jackets with tight-fitting trousers split at the knees and expensive sequined shoes standing shoulder-to-shoulder with peasants in drab, homespun clothing. Native Americans in frilly poplin-beaded jackets with colored patchwork stripes crowded in beside Chinese women in salmon-pink silk dresses. Caucasian farmers in worn-out overalls
clasped the hands of African-American gentlemen in neatly pressed navy suits. Prim women wearing mantalets drew near peasants in panchos as their hero rode near.
“Zorro!” chanted the crowd as they pushed open the gates en masse and stood to either side to let their hero through. “Mira, El Zorro!”
Alejandro smiled as he passed through the high wrought-iron gates. Indeed, they should look upon him. The Fox had used all his wiles to reach this place and the offering he bore might change all their lives.
Ahead lay the governor’s massive thirty-room mansion, a rambling bone-white Victorian sprawl of gables and columned stone archways and eaves with a wide shady front porch for lolling away the afternoons. Streaks of fading sunlight slanted down and bathed the uniformed figures waiting on the front steps. As the people followed him, Zorro fixed his gaze on the shorter of the two men, quickly taking in Bennet Riley’s fancy dress. The white-haired man presented himself proudly, gripping the lapels of his dark blue uniform. His high white collar closed around his throat and the round golden buttons and bright yellow-fringed epaulets glimmered in the sun’s deepening rays. In honor of this momentous day, governor Bennet Riley had worn his Brigadier-General uniform. The governor’s aide was tall, dark-haired and brutally handsome. Zorro had the sense that even though this younger man’s expression was aloof, he was keenly aware of everything around him and stood ready to spring at the slightest hint of danger. The aide’s gaze flickered to Zorro’s sword as the man surveyed the masked stranger for signs of other weapons.
Shivers ran down the governor’s back as Zorro drew near, the lock box under one arm. The crowd gathered around the horseman.
“What happened?” asked Governor Riley. “Where are my men?”
“They were held up, Governor,” said Zorro as he dismounted. “I offered my help.”
Zorro held out the lock box. The older man tugged at his sleeves and accepted the masked man’s gift. Riley’s large, strong, callused hands—the hands of a soldier—worked the latch. He withdrew the tally certificate and passed the box to his aide. Zorro felt a band of excitement tighten around his stomach as the governor quickly examined the certificate, his bushy white muttonchops rising with his widening smile.
“Citizens of San Mateo,” cried the governor brandishing the certificate, “today you have voted to join the Union as a free state!”
A deafening roar of cheers exploded from the crowd. “Libertad!” they cried. “Viva California! Viva America!”
Zorro’s heart soared as he turned to his people, his hands also raised in victory.
“But this is only the beginning,” added the governor with his own triumphant roar. “In three months time, every vote from every pueblo across California will be counted. And it is my hope that we will finally call ourselves…Americans!”
Joyous cries burst from the people. Sombreros flew high, slapping against bowlers and beaver hats.
“El Estado de California!” cried a peasant.
“Fraternidad!” responded a Californio.
Yes, brotherhood, thought Zorro. Now and always, my friends. Brotherhood for all among the great state of California.
“The people owe you their freedom,” said the governor, offering his hand to the masked man.
Zorro lowered his gaze and submitted to the other man’s powerful grip. Their gazes locked and Zorro’s eyes shone with pleasure as he declared, “I accept no debts from the people, Governor…I’m one of them.”
With a gracious bow, Zorro drew away from the governor and leaped onto Tornado’s back. His sword flew from its scabbard and pierced the heavens, his cape billowing behind him.
The cheering crowd parted again, and Zorro waved once more as he kicked Tornado’s flanks. Together they blazed toward the gates—and the future.
In his heart, the man behind the mask, the keeper of the legend, had only one thought.
Elena. Elena, Mi Amor, this is not real—not until I share it with you.
As he rode into the sunset, the face of his beloved burned brightly in his thoughts.
Dusk spread across the sky in angry bands of fiery orange and bold defiant amethyst as night pressed down on Hacienda de la Vega. Rose trellises stole across the luminous and inviting mustard yellow walls of the two-story-high manse, and towering emerald trees pressed near its elegant balustrades and bold high trim. Alejandro’s home was a great, sprawling place of arched entrances leading to gracious arcades. These outdoor terraces in turn opened to spacious parlors and bedrooms and wide echoing hallways within.
Zorro led Tornado through a shallow pond a mile south of the hacienda, his gaze fixed beyond the lush rolling greens of the sumptuous countryside to the rising rooftops of San Francisco and the shimmering sea beyond. One quick brush with the mad low-lying branches of a leaning redwood and they disappeared into a hidden, heavily shadowed crevasse boring down into an unassuming hillock.
Descending through the darkness along a well-traveled but twisting and turning path, the pair soon emerged in a shimmering silver grotto. A layer of moss clung to the ceiling, providing the ethereal, otherworldly illumination. The soft glow fell upon Zorro’s weapons cabinet, his dusty library, and the intriguing stretch of stone and wood rises used for training.
In the privacy of his lair, Alejandro removed the mask of Zorro—and for an instant the world became a shadow of its former self—and so did Alejandro. Without it, he was only a man, not the cherished legend. He sometimes missed the great city of Los Angeles, where he had first learned to be El Zorro. But in recent years, he had come to understand that although the desire for freedom burned in the hearts of his people throughout all of California, the true revolutionary spark needed to bring about lasting change lived here.
The moment of reflection passed and he came back to himself.
Alejandro closed Tornado in his stall and drew a sugar cube from his pocket. The stallion devoured the treat and stared at him expectantly. When the look achieved nothing, Tornado whinnied for more, adding a breezy sigh and a questioning grunt for good measure.
“Eh, eh,” Alejandro put in reproachfully as he scooped up a ripe carrot and fed it to the stallion instead, “your saddle’s getting a little tight, amigo.”
Patting his mount’s heaving flank, Alejandro walked away. A whisk of air kissed his ear and he jumped as the carrot sailed past his head and struck the wall.
Alejandro might have continued the tomfoolery with the willful Tornado, but a rustling in the shadows seized his attention. He whirled to the doorway, one gloved hand reaching for his blade.
A soft tumble of stone heralded the steady sweep of a delicate, sandaled foot that playfully poked its toes into the doorway. A woman followed, her luscious silhouette swaying as she sauntered into view. Alejandro’s breath caught as the light cascaded about the contours of her beautiful face. She was—and always would be—the most beautiful woman alive.
He would have said her name, but her loveliness robbed him of voice.
Elena de la Vega came to him. He surged toward her, his bold and questing hands blazing across the lush fabric of her stunning peach-colored off-the-shoulder dress and kneading her lean muscled form, then striking upward to caress her long silken black hair which held her favorite flower. The dark smoky reaches of her mahogany eyes captivated him, and he hungrily caressed her smooth bronze skin. Her scarlet lips parted and he hauled her to him roughly, crushing their bodies together, gazing at her for one more tantalizing moment before kissing her deeply. His mind went to another place, all thought and reason lost.
Finally, Elena drew back. She gently slid one of the flowers from her hair, a cherished romania, inhaled its sweet scent, and presented it as a token of her devotion. Alejandro received it greedily.
“Tell me we won…’’urged Elena in a breathy rush. “Tell me we’re free.”
The look in her eyes set his blood on fire. All things were possible, all long-denied promises on the trembling brink of fulfillment.
“We’re free,” w
hispered Alejandro.
She wrapped her arms around him, her laughter mixing greedily with her tears.
From Joaquin’s Confessions
Zorro, Zorro, I have seen El Zorro!
It was all I could think about. I ran the whole way home, forgetting about the pain in my ankle and knees, the joy in my heart making me laugh and sing.
What’s that you say, Padre? Yes, it is true, I may have stopped once or twice to tell people of my adventure. All right, yes, it was after dark when I reached our hacienda, so maybe it was more like a dozen people I told. But I helped Zorro, you know?
Want to see my sling? Its aim is true and—
Ah, what apple? That apple, yes? I will pay for it, Padre, and apologize, but…
I saw Zorro!
And when I got home, I saw something almost as amazing. It was Mama and Papi. They were before the fire, Mama in a beautiful dress the color of deepest amethyst with her favorite flowers in her hair, Papi all in black and looking as dashing as Zorro himself! They laughed, they sang, they danced to music only they could hear. I think they had forgotten about me! With Mama, that never happens, believe me.
It was wonderful. They must have heard, they must have known that Zorro protected the will of the people, that we had voted and our voice had been heard.
Libertad! Viva California! Viva America!
I heard soft footfalls from further down the hall. It was one of the servants, I think, mi amigo Gregorio. I wanted to run to him, to tell him I had seen El Zorro, but I knew Mama and Papi would hear me, and something inside me told me I would regret it if I interrupted them. This was a perfect moment.
I found dinner in the kitchen, then slipped again into the night.
As I sought adventure of my own beyond the moonlit land outside our hacienda, I had the strangest thoughts about El Zorro. They say he has been many men…that he could be anyone, anyone at all.
The Legend of Zorro Page 4