The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  “Blanca?” he called.

  There was no reply. Still looking down, he saw a shadow stretch across the floor as a man silently rose behind him, aiming a gun at his back.

  McGivens!

  Inside the barn, Zorro raced to Blanca. She took her son gladly, even as smoke and flames roiled around them. He covered her with his cape and forced her into a crouched position, keeping her face low to prevent the smoke from searing her lungs. But the fires raged in every quarter, the barn a burning tomb with ceiling timbers straining and falling everywhere. Sobbing softly, Blanca whispered the names of her husband and son. Alejandro shuddered, visions of Elena and Joaquin exploding in his thoughts.

  There was no way out—but Alejandro would not accept that. Zorro would not—could not—accept that.

  Striving to find a way to save himself, the mother and child, Alejandro gasped as he heard heavy hooves stampeding outside—then Tornado burst through the flames, rounding in front of him and rearing up with a valiant cry. Springing to his feet, Zorro hurled Blanca onto the stallion’s saddle, climbed on after her, and spurred Tornado forward.

  The stallion needed no urging. Flaming timbers rained down around them as the ceiling collapsed. Tornado charged at the side wall, weakened wood panels cracking and exploding beneath his powerful hooves. The mighty horse’s momentum carried them through the choking wall of smoke and flame into the wide-open vista of clean clear air and rich blue sky.

  “I take back every nasty thing I ever said about you,” Zorro whispered with a laugh, patting the stallion’s neck while making a mental note to stock the horse’s stall with sugar cubes and tequila.

  Tornado carried Zorro and Blanca and the baby around to the rear porch of the rancho. Though Blanca was still gasping great lungfuls of air, her chest burning, her throat raw and eyes filled with sharp stinging tears, she cried out with relief when she saw her husband stumble from the house. She leaped from Tornado and ran for him—

  Guillermo crumpled like a rag doll, a hideous patch of crimson blotting his back. Screaming, Blanca raced to her fallen husband and gently turned him over, terrified by the choking sounds he made as he struggled to take another breath. Her husband was the strongest man she had known, but now he was as helpless as their newborn.

  This is my fault, Blanca thought wildly, my sin brought this on us. I killed a man. Not a devil, a man, and for this—

  “Mi Amor…’’ whispered her husband.

  Her entire body quavering and heaving with sobs, Blanca set her son down and desperately pressed her hands over the grotesque wound in Guillermo’s back, as if she might staunch the flow of blood, but it was no use. She was dimly aware of Zorro standing nearby, his gaze locking with that of Guillermo.

  A grateful smile eased across Guillermo’s face as death took him. Blanca buried her head in his chest, her raking sobs wrenched from the depths of her soul.

  Zorro heard galloping hooves dwindling in the distance and spun to see McGivens riding away down the long dirt road. He wanted nothing more in the world than to call Tornado and chase the killer down, to make him pay in blood for his crimes this day, but some of McGivens’s posse was probably still alive, and he couldn’t risk leaving Blanca alone to face them.

  I will have you, Alejandro vowed as the flames before him rose to match the fiery anger in his heart. For the murder of my friend, I will see you dead.

  Votive candles flickered as Alejandro burst into the mission, trailing a gust of wind. He threw his face up at the ceiling of the empty church.

  “What are you trying to tell me, eh?” cried Alejandro. “No matter what choice I make, it’s the wrong one! I’ve failed everyone I ever loved—my wife…my son…and now the people too? What do you want from me?”

  His words echoed throughout the church. Silence met them.

  His rage finally ebbing, Alejandro fell to his knees before the candles. Tortured with regret, he spoke quietly now, desperately. “Help me…I have always listened to my heart, and it speaks to me now of a great darkness. I fear Guillermo Cortez was only the beginning, and that Elena’s in great danger. So I beg you: give me the courage…the strength…to wear this mask a little longer. Allow Zorro one last ride…and I will let him go forever. I swear it on my soul.”

  A wind rushed into the church, whipping about Alejandro like a frigid cloak, its invisible fingers brushing the candle flames and fanning their flames higher before it retreated.

  Hanging his head, Alejandro lost himself in prayer.

  Chapter 9

  The dark crimson hues of dusk seeped in through the open doors of the second floor veranda and stole across the scowling face of Elena de la Vega as she sat alone at her desk, her quill angrily slashing at the small sheet of parchment before her. Her temper flared hotter with every word she wrote: DINNER AT ARMAND’S. EXPECT CONTACT TONIGHT.

  Setting down the quill, she rolled the note into a small scroll, her hand closing on it as if it were the throat of the wretched little man who would soon be reading it. Controlling herself, she eased the pressure of her grip and rose to stroll to the veranda, where a birdcage swayed in the light evening breeze, its metal chain rattling softly, like a whisper, a sigh…Within the cage, a pigeon waited silently, cocking his head one way, then another, as he watched Elena open the metal door and reach in to draw him out. She slipped the scroll through a tiny silver band on his foot and studied the quiet bird that had only recently come to live at Hacienda de la Vega.

  “Pajarito mio…’’ she whispered sadly. “We’re both living in a cage.”

  Stepping back, she released the pigeon, her fear and rage threatening to consume her.

  She spent the next hour preparing, eating practically a full meal in advance so that she could behave in the manner of the women of Armand’s country and merely pick at the offerings on her plate. Then she dressed, attended to household matters, and gave orders to the staff to keep Joaquin entertained and out of trouble.

  Night fell upon the land as her carriage traced the arduous route upland to Armand’s hacienda, the driver narrowly skirting ditches and potholes while bouncing over a wealth of heavy cobblestones. The interior of the convenience swayed so greatly that Elena felt as though she were in a child’s cradle, though without a gentle touch. The carriage roiled, tumbled and seethed as a boat might on open seas. Elena had to struggle to keep from becoming reacquainted with her early dinner.

  A chorus of low, menacing growls burst from nightmarish black hounds chained to the old tree near the front gates as Armand’s servants allowed the carriage inside. Elena studied the beasts as the carriage rode on, her gaze locking on their clearly malevolent eyes. They fell silent—as if marking her. Elena shuddered and quickly shifted her gaze from the beasts.

  Her driver took her to the main door, where Armand stood with Colonel Beauregard. The men shook hands and shared a quiet laugh as they drew near, Armand holding out his hand to help Elena from the carriage.

  She smiled and fawned, falling perfectly into character. The performance had never come harder than it did this night, because now when she looked at Armand, all she could see was the frighteningly flat expression he wore seconds before he tried to murder Alejandro earlier today.

  No, she chided herself. Pretend you’re back in school. Think of that autumn afternoon when it actually seemed possible to fall in love this man—just before his family called him home…

  A great light danced in Armand’s eyes as he gazed upon her loveliness. “You arrived just in time, darling. The colonel was about to leave.”

  “Not on my account, I hope,” Elena said politely.

  The colonel tipped his hat to Armand’s beautiful guest. “Nothing would please me more than the pleasure of your company, my dear, but I have other pressing matters to tend to.”

  Elena noted the look Armand and the colonel shared, then cast her gaze on the stars shining down at them.

  “Goodnight,” Armand said quietly.

  The colonel said his farewells and
departed, his assistant rounding a corner and greeting him with both men’s horses. Armand appeared somewhat moody until the colonel trotted off and was safely out the main gates.

  “What were you chatting about?” asked Elena.

  Armand shrugged, clearly hesitant to burden Elena with his concerns. Studying her lovely dusky face, he took in her strength and resolve—and smiled in defeat. “His talk of civil war the other night troubled me…’’Armand conceded, gazing deeply into her eyes. “I counseled him that any lasting union requires patience, nurturing…” He took her hand and kissed it gently, his lips warm upon her cool flesh. “And mutual respect.”

  He led her inside. They strolled along without speaking, their familiarity providing a comfort and ease to their time together. His hacienda was magnificently furnished in the style of the French Empire, rich mahogany chairs, tables and paneling accentuated by bold gilded brass, with occasional flourishes featuring Egyptian, Greek and military motifs. Soon they passed under a Gothic-style archway and up ahead, an ornately decorated door swung open and Ferroq appeared, slipping a telegram into his shirt. He locked the door, then gestured to Armand.

  “Master, a word?” requested the bald, dark-suited Ferroq, humbly averting his eyes.

  Armand turned to Elena and gingerly took her hand. “Please excuse me a moment.”

  She delivered her most dazzling smile and playfully brushed him away, letting him know that she had little interest in his boring business dealings. Armand and Ferroq wandered a dozen yards down the hall as Elena turned to a gold-framed mirror and pretended to adjust her hair while discreetly spying on them. After a moment, Armand nodded a quick approval to his servant then bounded back to his beloved.

  “My apologies,” Armand said suavely, “business never ends.”

  Elena beamed with wonder as she surveyed her surroundings. “The carving on the archway is beautiful.” She casually nodded toward the passage through which Ferroq had appeared. Innocently, she asked, “What’s through that door?”

  “A private chapel. Piety is a long-standing tradition in my family,” Armand explained. He waved his hand dismissively, as if brushing aside something unimportant. “I’d show it to you, but dinner’s waiting.”

  As they strolled on, Elena glanced back at the door, determined to find out what lurked behind it.

  Dinner was magnificent, the pheasant so expertly prepared that Elena forgot about her upset stomach from the ride and the meal she had previously eaten before departing for Armand’s and devoured every morsel. When she was done, she still had an appetite for more. An image wrenched its way into her thoughts: Alejandro wolfing down one course after another at the dinner table as she teased him about the way he was always eating—though he never put on a pound. She wondered if the stress of leading a double life was responsible for his monstrous appetite and accelerated metabolism. If you ever do give up being Zorro, all those pounds you’ve been cheating will catch up to you and your friends will need a wheelcart to take you around in…

  “That was absolutely delicious,” cried Elena.

  Armand gestured for a pair of patiently waiting servants to approach. “Yes. And now…”

  Two women drew near. Elena smiled warmly at the young Yvette, a pale-skinned, petite, dark-haired beauty so demure it was almost painful to spend time in her presence. Quaking slightly under the watchful eye of the elder, thin-featured and severe Marie, the head housekeeper, Yvette handed Armand a cigar. Marie drew close to Elena, an oak box held low in her cupped hands as if it contained something the housekeeper found repugnant.

  The scent of tobacco wafted up from the box, tickling Elena’s nose.

  “I’m sorry, Marie,” refused Elena politely, “I don’t smoke…”

  Armand hesitated, his face awash with confusion as Marie opened the box, revealing the pipe Armand had purchased for her in the market.

  “Unless it’s my pipe, of course,” said Elena, her smile suddenly breathtaking. “You remembered, how thoughtful.” She slipped the pipe in her pocket. “Though I should let my stomach settle first.”

  Armand waved his hand, dismissing the servants. Both retreated to the hall, closing the door behind them.

  “Just as well,” said Armand, “I’ve wanted to tell you something all night.” He hesitated, gathering his courage. In a rush, he went on, “Elena, when I first saw you at the academy, the other boys said you were the most beautiful woman on the Iberian continent. They called you ‘La Flor de Andalusia’…and I thought, I’ll never be lucky enough to share my life with a woman as…’’

  Suddenly he was lost, his words faltering, his emotions overtaking him. Elena had never seen him look more vulnerable.

  “This is going on a bit, isn’t it?” he asked, embarrassed.

  “A little,” she said sweetly.

  Armand straightened. “I want to ask you something. Something I should’ve asked ten years ago…”

  Her smile faltered. He’s going to propose!

  “Before you do, my love, answer me one question,” begged Elena quickly.

  Armand was lost in her eyes. Huskily, he said, “Of course, whatever your heart desires…”

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Elena asked quickly.

  Armand’s brow furrowed in surprise.

  She turned away, smiling demurely. “All your flattery’s making me blush, I’d like to powder my cheeks.”

  “Of course,” Armand said graciously, one hand indicating the door. “It’s down the hall.”

  Smiling, Elena brushed his cheek with her hand and swept toward the door, the reflection of her befuddled paramour staring back at her from a mirror hung on the wall.

  In moments she was in the hallway alone. Elena crept down the corridor, careful to ensure that she was unobserved. She threaded her way to the chapel door, her hand sliding into her hair to withdraw a silver hairpin. Her lustrous tendrils fell in sumptuous waves and she whipped her head to one side as she bent before the lock, working the pin into its steely depths. She heard tumblers fall, felt the resistance of the locked door gradually give—then started as a floorboard down the hall suddenly creaked. Her heart leaping into her throat, Elena palmed the hairpin and spun to her feet as Ferroq rounded the corner, his walrus-like mustache twitching as he glared at her.

  Elena batted her eyelashes and broadly fanned her bosom with her fluttering gloved hand. “Oh, I’m so glad I ran into you. I’m terribly lost.” She smiled disarmingly. “Would you show me back to the dining room, please?”

  Ferroq hesitated, not bothering to conceal his loathing. “This way.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Elena graciously. “I can see how indispensable you are to Armand.”

  “I am his devoted servant,” Ferroq reminded her as they padded back to the dining room. “And would give my life to protect him from any man—or woman—who seeks to betray him.”

  Elena was well aware of Ferroq’s suspicions. He treated her as if she were Madame Verdulak, a social climbing predator with whom Elena had “crossed swords” long before coming to America.

  The dining room now in sight, Elena no longer needed a guide. She smiled inwardly as inspiration struck. He’s worried that I’m some greedy, money-grubbing witch? Good. Let him think that of me. It is far better than the truth.

  Drawing on the vast reserves of anger welling within her, Elena spun on Ferroq, her smoldering eyes scouring his face as she pressed herself so close to the startled man that she barely had to speak above a whisper. “Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you,” hissed Elena, “I may soon be the lady of this house. So start exercising some respect when you talk to me, is that clear?”

  With a nasty, superior smile, she turned her back on Armand’s servant and strutted to the dining room. She didn’t need eyes in the back of her head to feel Ferroq’s dark gaze boring down upon her, threatening to incinerate her in the flames of his fury.

  Zorro gently drew up Tornado’s reins as a patch of moonlight spilled across the damp grass of the
front courtyard outside Armand’s well-lit hacienda. Determined to remain hidden, he silently dismounted from the stallion, avoiding the light at all costs. Patting Tornado’s flank, he whispered a command, then turned away as he heard the stallion quietly trace a path to a deeply shadowed spot beneath an old and towering redwood.

  So, Count Armand, we shall see what we shall see… thought Zorro as he crept across the grounds. He drew close to a low window gleaming with warm amber firelight. Peering inside, he spied a well-appointed parlor in which Ferroq—Armand’s watch dog—gestured Jacob McGivens to an antique chair.

  Zorro excitedly rubbed his hands together. I knew it!

  McGivens had hinted that he served a power far greater than the association of railroad barons. Armand must also be mixed up in this business.

  Armand, if I learn you had a hand in the death of my friend, then you will suffer the same fate as your scarred lunatic hired hand…If not worse.

  Reaching for the window, Zorro tried to raise it a crack, but it wouldn’t budge. Locked. If he remained here, he would hear none of what transpired between these men—and he wanted to hear every damning word that was spoken. A side door beckoned. Springing from his place of hiding, Zorro darted back as the grass hissed with the crushing sounds of heavy running paws and the air suddenly came alive with the sound of maddened breathing. Two monstrous faces twisted in murderous frenzy leaped into the slants of golden light streaking from the window behind the masked man. Spittle flew from maws crammed with razor sharp teeth. Crimson eyes gleamed insanely with the desire to maul, tear, rend—

  The mastiffs yelped as the chains attached to their collars pulled taut at their coiled muscles, savagely yanking them back and away from Zorro, whose sword now gleamed in the moonlight. Zorro lowered his weapon, relief flooding him as he eased around the growling beasts.