The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  “Did you drop something, or are you just resting?” asked Alejandro triumphantly.

  Alejandro rode off high in the saddle, a pruning peacock.

  Ferroq raced to his master’s side, cleaning him off as best the count would allow before helping the impatient Armand back onto his horse.

  Elena focused her binoculars and watched in horror as the servant lifted the mallet and snapped off the base with his ferociously powerful hands, cleaving it into a lethal point. He handed it to Armand, who surveyed the weapon and smiled cruelly.

  Dropping her binoculars, Elena raced across the field, closing on Alejandro as he returned to his starting position.

  “I think I like this,” reflected Alejandro with a satisfied grin. “To the winner the spoils, eh?”

  Elena did not share his good mood. She made a show of running one hand through her hair and gesturing wildly with it. “Promise me when you lose, you’ll leave us alone—”

  He interrupted her with a laugh, his gaze lighting upon the graceful arcs her hand made as she angrily sliced the air with it. The woman might as well have been holding a sword. Magnificent! “What makes you think I’ll lose?”

  “Woman’s intuition,” Elena said steadily. She had paid close attention when he performed his magic tricks and had learned that misdirection was everything. She held his attention with her furious gaze and the flamboyant movements of one hand—while her other hand steadily and silently loosened his saddle buckle.

  Alejandro’s smiling face was radiant with confidence as he spurred the great stallion ahead and charged off. Tornado’s head whipped back suspiciously and Elena’s finger flew to her lips to shush him. With a blustery snort, the stallion turned away, his gallop unbroken.

  Elena crossed the field and returned to her seat, whispering a low prayer as the game began.

  The powerful horses whipped by in a blur, sweat flying from their great bodies, muscles tensing, pistoning, their flashing hooves striking gouts of earth into the air. Armand whirled the mallet around, aiming the jagged deadly stake that had been its handle out like a spear. Alejandro overconfidently closed on his opponent, as if daring him to attempt his little trick a third time. The point sought Alejandro’s belly—and would have struck home, had the Spanish horseman’s saddle not snapped free with a sudden angry whipcrack, launching him from his stirrups, sending him beyond the spearpoint’s reach.

  Alejandro careened wildly like a blinded bird as he struck the ground. Settling in a startled heap, he looked up to see Armand gallop ahead and drive the ball home for a final goal. A whistle rent the air and the count claimed his win, Ferroq shouting wildly, Elena excitedly applauding.

  Very well, Armand. You may take the glory this time. But just wait until we play a game I actually know…

  Tornado wheeled back to the fallen rider. Alejandro’s limbs were stiff as he stood, his hands closing on the stallion’s saddle. Elena, he thought bitterly, examining her handiwork. No one else had come close enough to loosen the buckle. His face flushed scarlet and the veins in his neck stood out in livid ridges.

  Armand triumphantly trotted to him, nodding in Elena’s direction. “To the victor go the spoils.”

  Alejandro heard the soft crush of grass to his side as the stony-faced Elena approached. Armand laughed and rode off, his hand sweeping the air magnanimously—as if the audience Alejandro was about to share with his ex-wife was a gift from the count.

  “Now keep your promise and go,” ordered Elena.

  He snorted. “You cheated, so I take it back.”

  Elena shoved past him, spasms of irritation crossing her face. “Goodbye, Alejandro.”

  He grabbed her arm. She squirmed and flailed, then looked about wildly and seized on the watchful gazes of both Armand and Ferroq. Rolling her eyes, she rocked back and forth, drawing in a deep breath and exhaling before signaling them that all was well.

  Through it all, Alejandro did not let go. “What do you really know about this man, eh?”

  Elena’s eyes blazed. “I know that in all the time we were apart, a day hasn’t gone by where I wasn’t first in his thoughts!”

  In the distance, the loud clang of a church bell split the sky, the sign that Zorro was needed.

  Nothing had changed.

  “We were never meant to be together, Alejandro,” Elena said icily as she wrenched free of his softening grip.

  Alejandro looked back to her, his narrow gaze as piercing as a freshly sharpened sword. “You don’t love him. After ten years of marriage, you can’t hide the truth from me.”

  Their eyes locked. And though she tried to hide her feelings, Elena’s lie was like a powerful vise squeezing her heart.

  “Goodbye,” she whispered savagely.

  Alejandro was rooted to the spot as he watched her go to Armand, the count laughing and lightly caressing her hair, Elena smiling warmly, taking his arm…How could she be so blind?

  Or is that a question I should be asking myself? he wondered.

  Turning, he ran toward the tolling mission bell.

  From “Zorro Versus the Scallywag” A Work in Progress

  El Zorro leaped back, his boot catching the crumbling edge of the high cliff as he narrowly avoided the razor-sharp edge of the Scallywag’s scimitar.

  His face burnt red and raw by the punishing yellow orb above, his leather pants and boots gleaming, his black-and-white-striped shirt plastered to his wiry frame by his sweat, the Scallywag relentlessly advanced. The serum that had kept the Scallywag alive for two centuries was tucked behind Zorro’s waistband—and the Scallywag wanted it back.

  “Give me what is mine,” demanded the Scallywag, his scimitar slicing the air before Zorro’s face, the villain’s curly white hair and beard shimmering as boldly as his hatred. “Or my ship’s cannons will lay waste to your precious city!”

  Chapter 8

  Fray Felipe frowned as he stared down at the passage he had just written. Would a Scallywag have a fleet of ships to command? Hmmm…

  Resting his quill, Felipe gazed about his small cramped office, wondering if he might have to take another trip to the church archives to conduct further research for this tale. Amber light from the small lamp set on the corner of his cluttered desk washed over mounds of haphazardly stacked papers. His desk was such a model of disorder that no one in their right mind bothered to try and clean it, thus it was easy for him to hide the evidence of these tales in plain sight.

  An immortal scallywag to challenge the Fox, Felipe reflected. Not like the first stories I penned…

  Felipe preferred to recount Alejandro’s exploits as faithfully as possible, but his publisher assured him that these occasional forays into the fantastic would greatly increase sales of their dime novels. And so they had. But rather than venture into the realms of the mystical, Felipe added touches of scientific adventure instead. The royalties from these tales did much to feed the poor and provide shoes, books and medical care for people who might otherwise go without.

  On top of that, they were fun to write!

  Of course, Felipe had not begun chronicling Alejandro’s adventures to make money. It had started a year ago. One day, when Felipe saw that Joaquin was bored and just one step away from the temptation to commit mischief, the padre arrested his attention by telling him all about the Fox’s thrilling exploits. Felipe was confident he’d captivate Joaquin’s imagination because he had seen how the boy received any tidbit about Zorro with wide-eyed wonder—and he’d been correct. Joaquin was ravenous for more tales, and Felipe was able to draw on his personal knowledge of the Fox’s adventures making each story more robust than the last. The recounting of these stories was also a way to preserve Alejandro’s legacy for his son, in case anything happened to him during his many harrowing feats.

  Joaquin took to retelling the stories to his friends, and was doing so one day after school on the bustling streets of San Francisco when an enterprising fellow who had just come into an inheritance he was eager to invest had heard the
boy. It wasn’t long before Bartholomew Arbuthnott—who had been something of a rogue, even a conman before fate conspired to make an honest man of him—had learned from Joaquin that the padre was the true source of the tales. Arbuthnott went to Felipe and regaled him with stories of the burgeoning “dime novel” industry, slim thrilling adventures that had sold hundreds of thousands of copies. He proposed reproducing the padre’s tales for profits that would very nicely fill the church’s coffers.

  How could Felipe possibly turn down such an offer?

  Gazing beyond his open office door, Felipe looked to the sad figure of Miguel de la Cruz bending behind a pew in the spacious chapel, praying for the lord’s forgiveness. Miguel had committed what he believed to be an unpardonable act of cowardice, for he had learned of a dire threat facing one of his most honored friends hours ago, and it had taken him this long to overcome his fear for his own safety to at last come forward.

  “You could have said nothing at all,” reassured Felipe. “You are here now. That’s what matters.”

  The man had been inconsolable, convinced that his delay would bring about tragedy. Inwardly, Felipe sensed the man might be correct. Having rung the mission bell five times, Felipe had retreated to his office, immersing himself in one of his tall tales to make his wait for Alejandro pass quickly.

  At last, the mission door creaked open and urgent footfalls rang out from within the church. Setting down his work, Felipe rushed into the church to greet his friend.

  “What is it?” demanded Alejandro, his mouth tightened into a stubborn line.

  Felipe gestured at the peasant. “De la Cruz is the bartender at the tavern down the street. He says he overheard Jacob McGivens gathering his men to see Cortez.”

  McGivens, thought Alejandro. Blood surged to his fists. He knew exactly why the scarred gunman had returned.

  While Felipe ushered the penitent barkeep out the door, Alejandro whirled and swept angrily toward the statue of Mother Mary. Her hard gaze arrested his flight. He stood trembling before her, reminded that the mask and the sword of Zorro should not be taken up in anger. Falling to one knee before the statue, Alejandro humbly lowered his gaze.

  “Holy Mother, absolve me of the sin I am about to commit on behalf of my people,” prayed Alejandro. An image of his son’s livid face burst before him. “And allow Joaquin the compassion to forgive a neglectful father.”

  Footsteps echoed as the padre returned. Placing a comforting hand on Alejandro’s shoulder, Felipe told Alejandro that it was safe now, no one remained to see what must happen next.

  Alejandro remained stock-still.

  “It pains me to see you torture yourself like this,” Felipe admitted. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, you must know this.”

  “I’m supposed to pick up Joaquin,” Alejandro murmured.

  Felipe patted his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll get him,” Felipe assured him. “Don’t worry. I know he has problems at the academy, but when it comes to his studies for confirmation, he is more diligent than any boy I’ve seen. We will study together for a time, then I will take him home.”

  His confirmation…My son feels that he must be a man now because I am gone. Alejandro gazed up at the padre with eyes seared by guilt. “He’ll never forgive me.”

  “Then you must decide,” Felipe counseled him, “if Zorro doesn’t answer his call, can you forgive yourself?”

  Cortez was marked for death. Alejandro had no doubt of this.

  There really was no choice.

  Looking up at Mother Mary, Alejandro crossed himself in penitence, then moved to the back of the statue. He tapped a hidden panel in the wall there and a door opened, revealing a flight of stairs descending into a torchlit chamber. Felipe had readied the chamber for him.

  Alejandro bolted down the steps, the door swinging tightly shut behind him. The chamber sprawling before him had once been a wine cellar—wine serving as both a necessary part of the Roman Catholic mass and the table beverage of choice for the padres. Now a bigger space was used for storing wine.

  Alejandro swept past rows of empty wooden barrels and came to his second lair. Tearing off his topshirt, he pulled down his cape and costume from their pegs on the wall. From a nearby niche, Alejandro ripped open a wooden box bearing three black masks and grabbed the first that came to hand. Securing the mask in place, he felt Alejandro slipping away, and the legend taking hold. The gloves covered his hands—Zorro’s hands now. Whipping the cape over his shoulders, he sheathed his sharp sword and turned to Tornado, who had also been summoned by the church bells.

  “For the lives of our friends, our people,” he whispered, “Zorro rides again.”

  Leaping astride Tornado, Zorro spurred his trusty steed ahead. They thundered through a maze of catacombs, racing through vaulted archways until blinding sunlight burst at them as they charged hellbent-for-leather toward the desert.

  Joaquin perched on the broad front marble steps of the Alvarado Academy for Children, gnashing his teeth and attempting to make actual waves of heat—or at least fumes—rise from his flesh. He’d read about people who could do exactly that in dime novels and the thought of his father’s face when the man found his son literally blazing would serve him right. Of course, the writers of those stories also spoke of people whose eyes somehow detached from their heads and flew about moving people and objects, which Joaquin found both creepy and somewhat unlikely, so he wasn’t sure if the heat effect was actually possible or not. At the very least he could practice his gnashing, generating sounds that were certain to annoy Papi.

  Ricardo sprawled next to Joaquin, eyeing the ten-year-old strangely as low masticating sounds emanated from the upset youth. Ricardo made no comment about the odd noises. Joaquin was a hero among the inmates—students—of the academy, a freedom fighter of the highest regard. If he was going to develop eccentricities, so be it.

  A few other students passed them, whispering in reverent hushes, pointing with amazement, retelling the tale of Joaquin’s battle with Father Quintero in bold mythic broad-strokes.

  Joaquin hardly seemed interested.

  “He’ll come,” Ricardo assured his pal. “Your Papi’s a good guy, he’ll show up.”

  Footsteps echoed from down the street. Joaquin shot to his feet, his anger evaporating, immediately replaced by a forgiving burst of hope.

  Then he saw the figure on the approach.

  His heart sinking, Joaquin sighed, and slumped his head. He quickly tempered his feelings down to an angry simmering defeat as Felipe huffed and puffed through the front gates.

  Papi was not coming.

  For his part, Felipe would have preferred riding into battle alongside Alejandro instead of facing this. Then he thought of something his old teacher would say impatiently whenever Felipe began to feel sorry for himself: Get off the cross. We need the wood.

  Felipe trudged to the steps, nodding to Ricardo who scurried off. Sitting down beside Joaquin, he put one arm around the upset boy’s shoulders and whispered, “Have I ever told you the one about Zorro and the Chalice of Gold?”

  Joaquin frowned. He wasn’t some child who could be distracted from his hurt so easily. And yet…

  “Is that the one where Zorro fights ten men on the rigging of a pirate ship?” asked Joaquin, a distant light rising in his eyes.

  “Oh, no,” Felipe said, hugging the boy. “This one’s much better…”

  The vast cornfield was a sea of mustard yellow. Sunlight shimmered on the sparkling surface of the water within the wooden trough set out for the Cortez horses, while the clucking of chickens and the snorting of pigs rose from an adobe enclosure to the right of the couple’s barn.

  Blanca set the final skein of yarn that she had been dying onto the hand-cranked blocker and stepped away from the small tubes of brightly colored dyes sitting behind her family’s small clapboard farmhouse. The wind’s invisible fingers lightly rustled her lusterous hair and she was smiling with satisfaction at a job well done when a sound reached out fro
m the house. Was the baby crying? She couldn’t tell. Blanca had been uneasy the first few times her beloved boy was out of her view, her worry constant that he would cram something bad into his mouth. Or that he would fall and hurt himself. Or that he would cry and she would not be able to still his tears…

  Pounding and clanking echoed within the barn where her husband was hard at work at his forge. She turned to gaze at him, her racing thoughts suddenly growing languorous as desire moved through her. His shirt clung to his rippling muscles as he hammered away to create the tools they sold to prospectors, red hot metal glowing against his hearth. Pausing to wipe his brow, he caught her inviting smile and nodded to her. Suddenly flush with desire, Blanca wondered if it might not be time for a little break. Her niño would be fine and she had another very big boy who needed her attention.

  Best to check on my littlest darling first… she thought.

  Grinning, she crossed the yard and threaded her way through the single-room ramshackle cabin that was their home. She considered returning to her husband with some cool fruits and sparkling wine…

  Then Blanca gazed down at the baby in the crib his father had made by hand. He was sleeping soundly, a tiny angel.

  She returned to the kitchen and hesitated, deciding against the mid-day snack. Better to finish her chores and to let her husband complete his work for the day before worrying about providing her son with a playmate…

  Outside, she wandered back to the yarns she had been dyeing, her gaze fixed on her husband in the barn—and almost shrieked.

  Jacob McGivens lunged at her, grinning a deathlike wooden grin. Cupping her mouth with his smelly, unwashed hand, the ugly scarred man thrust his Bowie knife against her throat. The cold steel teased her tender skin, sending sudden stabs of terror up her spine.