The Legend of Zorro

by Scott Ciencin

  Once they had traded places again, Zorro made himself comfortable and watched his enemy.

  McGivens ignored the fallen men, clearly not caring if they were alive or dead, his attention rooted to the heavy crates. He trudged toward them, exhausted and frustrated, and did not see the taut rope Zorro had strung like a tripwire until his boot struck it. McGivens yelped in surprise and stumbled as an explosion roared, the barrels of his Henry Repeater—wedged between a pair of heavy rocks—burning brightly as the rope squeezed the weapons’ triggers. The blast severed the emergency cable holding the hovering platform in place. The scarred gunman hurled himself out of the way of the howling rain of explosive debris as the platform crashed down, flattening the rest of the shipment with the crackling report of heavy thunder. But two of his men were not so lucky, the machinery smashed down on them, crushing them like flies.

  Zorro whistled as the trembling McGivens drew himself up from the sand and craned his head upward. Peering down at the killer, Zorro raised his hat in a mocking salute and strolled off, grinning at the thought of the murderous glare McGivens was surely sending his way.

  He quickly reached the rendezvous, the humid wind rustling amidst the bluffs as he crested the hill and found Joaquin sitting beneath the shelter of a towering tree, wincing at a small cut on his arm while Tornado stood vigil beside him. Spotting a fallen twig, Zorro snapped it under his boot. The boy whirled and Zorro nodded to him without breaking stride. He strode to the stallion, flipped open a pouch on Tornado’s saddle, and placed the bar of soap inside. Removing a flask and a patch of bandaging gauze, he turned to face his son.

  “I—I can’t believe it’s you!” Joaquin stammered excitedly. “You’re really Zorro!”

  Alejandro tended to his son’s arm, flinching when the boy flinched, the fabric of his mask burning against his skin. His heart ached with yearning. He wanted to tell Joaquin that he was Zorro more than he wanted anything else—but it was a selfish desire.

  “M-hmmm,” Zorro grumbled. If he said too much, his son might recognize his voice.

  “I mean—whoa!” Joaquin cried as Zorro cleaned his wounded then wrapped the bandage tight.

  Zorro stepped away from the boy, his ministrations at an end. He went to Tornado and placed the flask and the gauze he had not used in the saddle pouch. When he looked back, Joaquin was studying him expectantly.

  “You gonna say something, or what?” the lad asked, disappointment creeping into his tone.

  You don’t know how much I want to, thought Alejandro. Then it came to him. What was Joaquin doing here, anyway?

  Alejandro’s hand rose and brushed against the mask of Zorro. He was the keeper of a great legacy, one he could not betray that had been born in spirit in his homeland of Spain.

  Wait, yes…Spain!

  Proudly, Zorro whirled and proclaimed in his native tongue, “Let’s speak Spanish, the language of our fathers.”

  Joaquin stared at him—and saw only the legend. Only Zorro. Alejandro never spoke Spanish around his son. It was the perfect cover, the ideal solution.

  “My mom won’t believe it,” he said, his wide eyes brimming with excitement and pride.

  Alejandro felt as if a dagger hewn from ice had slipped between his ribs. “It would be better if you didn’t tell your mother about this.”

  Joaquin’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why not?”

  “I’m the one asking the questions,” said Zorro, his smile beaming with confidence. “Now, why aren’t you at school?”

  “The man with the scar on his face, I knew he was up to something,” Joaquin revealed. In moments, he had told the entire story. Eyes sparkling, Joaquin yelped, “You really showed that sonofabitch—”

  Zorro lightly slapped Joaquin’s arm. “Watch your mouth, eh? This isn’t a game, your father would have a heart attack if he saw what happened here.”

  Joaquin frowned. “No he wouldn’t, he doesn’t care…yesterday he forgot about me.”

  Alejandro froze, wondering if his guilt shone through his mask. “I don’t think he forgot, niño…what you have to understand is—”

  Joaquin bolted to his feet and rushed to Zorro, waiting desperately for an answer.

  “Nothing,” Alejandro relented. “Your father should’ve been there. Next time he will be.”

  “How do you know?” asked Joaquin.

  “I know,” Alejandro assured him powerfully. “I know. I promise.”

  Joaquin surged ahead, wrapping his arms around Zorro’s back, hugging him as tightly as he could. “Gracias, Zorro,” murmured Joaquin.

  Alejandro’s hands wavered over his son’s head, his back—then closed over the boy. In that moment, Alejandro’s heart soared. He felt as if his spirit had been borne aloft by this simple gesture and he was dizzy, invigorated with happiness. Joaquin’s love was his at last.

  A sudden lancing pain burned within him.

  No, thought Alejandro, it is Señor Zorro he loves. If only I could tell him the truth!

  Joaquin tensed and began to pull away, as if he knew that something had changed. Alejandro’s arms tightened around Joaquin’s small frame as he crushed the boy close, unwilling to let this moment end so quickly.

  A day will come, Alejandro vowed, when I will never have to let go again.

  For now, that would be enough.

  From the Confessions of Joaquin de la Vega

  I am never changing out of these clothes again so long as I live. That’s it.

  What’s that you say, padre? Bathing? No, bathing’s not likely. Food? Sleep? Ha-ha, you’re very funny. You have to understand: I rode on Tornado. I fought side-by-side with Señor Zorro. Okay, okay, don’t look at me like that. I was about to get my butt whipped and he saved me. But there was a fight and I was there, so it counts for something.

  Maybe I am muy loco, but what does that matter? Señor Zorro, he came for me. He remembered my courage on Election Day, and now, he watches over me. And maybe if I can show him how much good I can do, he’ll bring me a mask of my own before long!

  Ah…

  If only I could talk to my mama about this. But she never seems to want to hear anything about Señor Zorro. It makes no sense to me. And she is gone so much lately, I’m just left off by myself…

  Yes, you’re right, I spend a lot of time with Ricardo and my other friends, it’s not all mama’s fault. What? Go right home, wait for her, find something we can talk about, just spend some time together? I suppose that is a smart idea, especially before she hears from Father Quintero that I ran off during the class trip. That’s not going to make her happy at first, and I am sorry about that, but I know she’ll be proud of me in the end for helping Señor Zorro…

  I mean—what boy doesn’t want to make his mama happy, eh?

  Gotta run, padre!

  Chapter 11

  An ornate chandelier radiating a warm comforting bronze glow peered down at the mission library’s long central table where the excited Felipe poured over tome after tome written in Latin, while Alejandro rummaged among the stacks for any volume that might contain the strange symbol he had glimpsed. Felipe’s long fingers scratched an itch upon his belly. Alejandro smiled, well aware that it was the tattered scarlet silk sash wound about the padre’s waist beneath his habit that was once again irritating his skin. Felipe was, after all, a “Mexican Franciscan” who’d been born in the saddle. It wasn’t that long ago that he went out on moonlit rides with the younger men of the mission, lassoing grizzlies and chasing deer across the plains. The sash was a reminder of those exuberant days.

  Gazing about the copper-gilded room, Alejandro was always amazed at how cluttered and untidy Felipe kept this place. High teetering stacks of books reached from floor to ceiling next to the overflowing shelves, while slow moving clouds of dust drifted through the air and sluggishly attempted to creep down his throat whenever he drew a breath. The rot of old pulp was cloying, and spiders nested near the ceiling.

  All that aside, this chamber was a mystery, b
ecause while it showed all the outward signs of neglect, the stacks always displayed different titles, and the scrolls moved from table to table…It was as if a scholar or scribe used this place for an engrossing, ongoing research project but wanted few to be aware of his efforts.

  Ah, well, Alejandro mused, gazing at Felipe. You have kept my secrets, Padre. You’re certainly entitled to a few of your own.

  With a cry of triumph, Felipe jumped up from the table. He grasped a heavy tome and hauled it from a high shelf. Whipping it around, he slammed it on the closest table, kicking up even more dust. Alejandro lowered his candle close to the book’s cover and read its title: “Enemies of the Church.”

  “And they are many,” said Felipe gravely. “Now let us see if we can find the right one.”

  Pulling up a chair, Felipe perched before the volume and flipped it open. He rifled through the pages, growling in frustration at how long it was taking him to find the symbol Alejandro had described.

  “I haven’t read this since my seminary training…’’Felipe admitted sheepishly. Tensing, he flattened the book open to reveal a yellow crinkled page marred by a blood red rendering of a serpent twisting about the globe.

  Alejandro glanced at the page and nodded at the ornate engraving. “That’s it.”

  While Felipe skimmed the text below the drawing, Alejandro paced behind him, contemplating the bar of soap he had stolen from McGivens. “It makes no sense—the explosion was like hell on earth. I thought the shipment would explain why, and all I find is this.”

  Fray Felipe urgently tapped the page with the bizarre and disturbing marking. “You’re sure this was the symbol on the crate?”

  Nodding, Alejandro read over the padre’s shoulder. “ ‘Orbis Unum’?”

  Felipe sighed with frustration. “Latin. It means ‘One World.’ It represents the Knights of Aragon, an ancient brotherhood who ruled over Europe in secrecy since the crusades.”

  Alejandro started in surprise. “You are telling me…that Armand is a knight?”

  Felipe sifted through the pages, studying drawings of fearsome men wearing grotesque masks over their armor as they committed wholesale slaughter amidst blazing battlefields. Some wore the crosses of crusaders.

  “More than a knight,” Felipe explained. His eyes fixed in a squint, he read on. “They’re a brotherhood of assassins responsible for overthrowing and controlling some of the most powerful kingdoms in Europe.” He set his expression gravely. “If they’ve come to America, they’re here for one reason only…to destroy it.” Silence ominously stretched between them.

  Both men exchanged confused glances. Together they cried, “With soap?”

  Golden sunlight danced along the symphony conductor’s baton as the musicians seated on the boardwalk before him triumphantly exploded with Schumann’s Fantasie in A minor for Piano and Orchestra. Clarinets and flutes, timpani, cymbals and violins accompanied the passionate performance of the wild-haired Austrian pianist whose lightning-quick hands ravaged the keys, bringing excited gasps from the dozens of women seated in the audience—and low chortles of delight from the gentlemen accompanying them.

  Children played under rows of hanging lanterns, a few chasing one another past a sign that read, “Symphony by the Sea—A Free Concert for the People.” A row of open tents looked out from the rear of the crowd, the highest-ranking members of Californian society seated here to enjoy the shade as well as the cool sea breezes as the symphony played on. The rear façades of hotels and other businesses stood on a right angle to the tents. Many of their occupants peered down at the concert from second floor vantages.

  “When you invited me to the symphony, you didn’t tell me you were sponsoring it,” Elena said, clasping her hands together excitedly from her seat within the most well-appointed tent of them all. “I’m impressed.”

  Sitting beside her, Armand attempted to shrug off the compliment, but his generous smile revealed that he was pleased. “In Europe, the fine arts are enjoyed by everyone, regardless of means.” He gestured at the pianist. “Leopold de Meyer. Magnificent, wouldn’t you say? He carries notices from critics no less esteemed than Longfellow himself, who said, ‘The lion-pianist from Vienna, who when he plays, seems to be dipping his hands into liquid music, and shaking the notes off the ends of his fingers like drops of water.’ Who am I to disagree with such an appraisal?”

  Elena’s smile grew even brighter. “Speaking of great poets, I also wanted to thank you for your letter to Emerson. If he could extend his lecture tour and speak here—seeing what is happening in California during his stay—I know it would help the cause of my people.”

  “Then it is equally important to me.” He took her hand in both of his.

  A glint of light flashed across her face. Squinting, she looked up for the source and spotted it immediately: a nearby hotel window had just been cracked open, the blazing sunlight reflecting off the glass.

  Elena’s breath quickened. Harrigan and Pike peered down from the open hotel window. At precisely the same moment, they smiled and tipped their hats to Elena.

  Wretches, she thought, anger overcoming her surprise.

  She composed herself instantly and looked away from her watchers, refusing to let Armand observe her distress. Fortunately, an attendant in a burgundy jacket chose that moment to enter the tent and lean in close to Armand.

  “Señor, a message has been left for you at the harbor kiosk,” announced the attendant.

  The faint worry lines creasing Armand’s rugged cheeks deepened. He shrugged in confusion, then rose as he nodded to his beloved. “Forgive me, darling, I won’t be a moment.”

  The minute he had gone, Elena shot a look at the hotel window. Harrigan and Pike hadn’t moved, though their false smiles had faded.

  The tent flap behind Elena rustled. Tensing, Elena slid her hand down, reaching for a thin silver dagger strapped to her thigh. She’d seen the way Ferroq had been staring at her this morning, and had no intention of allowing him to threaten her without consequence.

  “Don’t turn around,” demanded a familiar voice.

  Elena’s eyes widened suddenly, her hand darting back from her weapon. Alejandro was here—and her “handlers” could see it all. “Get out of here, Alejandro.”

  A low growl of frustration rumbled behind her. “Listen to me,” Alejandro pleaded, “there’s no time, you’re in danger if you stay with Armand.”

  “I’m in danger if I don’t,” explained Elena. “So are you, now go!”

  He did not leave. “There’s a reason you’re not talking to me, what is it?”

  The veins in her neck stood out in livid ridges. “I’m telling you to go now!” But even as she said it, she knew he would not budge.

  She gazed in the distance, wondering what Armand was doing—and how long she had before he returned.

  This had better be important, thought Armand as he stalked toward the white paneled kiosk sporting the banner that read, “Hospitality.” Two young men barely old enough to shave stood within it, one grinning at an attractive young Spanish woman with a red rose in her hair. The other, an olive-skinned youth with long hair framing his face and a mariachi guitar resting next to him, immediately snapped to attention, handing Armand an envelope.

  “Thank you,” said Armand. He tore open the envelope and withdrew a card. His face went dark as he stared at it, then shifted his gaze back to the young man who had delivered the envelope. “Who gave this to you?”

  “A man,” the youth murmured, suddenly alarmed by the intensity burning in his guest’s eyes. “Tall, dark-haired, well-dressed.”

  “You didn’t recognize him?”

  Shaking his head, the youth said, “Honestly, he could have been anyone…Anyone at all.”

  “What are you involved in?” demanded Alejandro.

  Elena’s temple suddenly throbbed. Sighing, she allowed her long fingers to caress the area, but the gesture did little to relieve the unbelievable pressure thrusting down on her. “Trust me, I�
��m begging you—”

  Alejandro gripped her shoulder. “Whatever Armand’s making in that vineyard, it isn’t wine. If we don’t find out what it is tonight, it’ll be too late—”

  Elena’s hands balled into fists as she craned her neck and peered over her shoulder at him. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He recoiled as if he had been shot, his eyebrows flying up, his look of astonishment quickly replaced by a look of frustration, as if he were talking to a stubborn child, not an equal.

  A scowl played across Elena’s darkly beautiful face. Of course you believe you know exactly what is best for everyone. You always do.

  Alejandro jerked back his hand, as if stung by the venom in her gaze. “Oh yes I do, I’m going to the vineyard—with or without you.”

  Applause suddenly swelled from the audience as the symphony’s final notes were played. Elena looked around and her back arched as she sensed her companion approaching. Her nerves suddenly screaming, she hissed, “Armand’s coming back! Go!”

  She heard Alejandro mutter a curse in Spanish, then whip away into the shadows.

  The tent’s flap rustled moments later and Armand appeared, his eyes dark with frustration.

  Elena’s heart skipped a beat. Had he seen Alejandro? She smiled up at him with a calm she did not feel. “Is everything all right?” asked Elena, her dark eyes suddenly filled with concern. “You look upset.”

  Armand hesitated—then delivered a forced smile along with a gentlemanly flourish of his hands. “Disappointed. That I missed the finale.”

  Ferroq appeared behind him. “The carriage is waiting,” Ferroq said flatly.

  “After you, my dear,” urged Armand.

  Smiling, Elena glanced up to the window where Harrigan and Pike had stood seconds ago, but nothing remained of them. Her heart in her throat, Elena left the tent.