“Is Carlos Alcazar the bully we were so afraid of when we were boys?” Diego asked. “The same, my son. His character has gone from bad to worse; he is a despot and a coward. His cousin Lolita, on the other hand, is a saint.
The girl used to go with me to the prison to take medicine, food, and blankets to the prisoners, but unfortunately she has no influence over Carlos.“
“I remember Lolita. The Pulido family is noble and virtuous.
Francisco, Lolita’s brother, studied in Madrid. We corresponded a few times when I was in Barcelona,“ said Diego. ”Well, the fact is that Don Alejandro’s situation is very grave. You are his only hope, you must do something quickly,“ concluded Father Mendoza. For a long time Diego had been pacing around the room, trying to control his indignation. From his chair, Bernardo followed the conversation with his eyes fixed on his brother, sending him mental messages. Diego’s first impulse had been to seek Moncada out and challenge him to a duel, but a look from Bernardo made him understand that these circumstances demanded more cleverness than valor; this was a mission for Zorro, and he would have to carry it out with a cool head. Diego pulled out a lace handkerchief, sighed, and wiped his forehead with an affected gesture. ”I will go to Monterey to speak with the governor. He is a friend of my father,“ he proposed. ”I already did that, Diego. When Don Alejandro was arrested, I spoke personally with the governor, but he told me that he had no authority over Moncada. And he didn’t listen to me when I suggested he find out why so many prisoners die in El Diablo,“ the missionary added. ”Then I will have to go to Mexico to see the viceroy.“
“But that will take months!” Padre Mendoza objected. It was difficult for the priest to believe that the bold young boy, whom he had brought into the world with his own hands and had watched grow up, had turned out to be a dandy. Spain had softened his brain and his muscles; it was embarrassing. He had prayed that Diego would return in time to save his father, and the answer to his prayers was this fop with a lace handkerchief. He could barely hide his scorn. Isabel and Nuria were advised that dinner was ready, and the four of them sat down at the table. An Indian woman brought a large clay bowl of maize soup and a few pieces of boiled beef as hard and tasteless as shoe leather. There was no bread, no wine, no vegetables, not even any coffee, the one vice Padre Mendoza allowed himself. They were eating in silence when they heard horses and voices in the courtyard, and moments later a group of uniformed men burst into the room, led by Rafael Moncada. “Excellency! What a surprise,” Diego exclaimed, not rising. “I have just been informed of your arrival,” Moncada replied, looking around for Juliana. “We are here, as we promised in Barcelona, Senor Moncada. May we know how you escaped from the secret chamber?” Isabel asked sarcastically. “Where is your sister?” Moncada interrupted. “Oh, she is in New Orleans. I have the pleasure of informing you that Juliana is happily married.”
“Married! That cannot be! To whom?” the dashed suitor cried. “To a wealthy and handsome man of business who bewitched her at first sight,” Isabel explained with the most innocent expression in the world. Rafael Moncada pounded the table and clamped his lips together to hold back a string of curses. He could not believe that Juliana had slipped out of his hands yet again. He had crossed half the world, left his post at court, and put his career on hold for her. He was so furious at that instant that he could have strangled her with his own hands. Diego took advantage of the pause to approach a fat and sweating sergeant who was looking at him with the eyes of a pet hound. “Garcia?” he asked. “Don Diego de la Vega you recognize me what an honor!” the fat sergeant murmured with pleasure. “Why would I not? The unmistakable Garcia!” Diego exclaimed, embracing him. That inappropriate demonstration of affection between Diego and his own sergeant briefly distracted Moncada. “I would like to use this opportunity to inquire about my father, Excellency,” said Diego. “He is a traitor and will be punished as such,” Moncada replied, spitting out each word. “Traitor? No one can say that about Senor de la Vega, Excellency!” An anguished Garcia stepped in. “You are new to this land, you do not know people. But I was born here and I can tell you that the de la Vega family is the most honorable and distinguished in all California.”
“Silence, Garcia! No one asked your opinion!” Moncada interrupted, shooting him an icy glance. Immediately he barked an order, and the sweating sergeant had no choice but to salute, clicking his heels, and lead his men outside. At the door he hesitated and, turning toward Diego, made a gesture of ineffectiveness, which his old friend responded to with a wink of complicity. “May I remind you that my father, Don Alejandro de la Vega, is a Spanish hidalgo, the hero of many battles in the service of the king.
Only a Spanish tribunal is authorized to judge him.“
“His case will be reviewed by the pertinent authorities in Mexico City.
In the meantime, your father is well guarded in a place where he cannot continue to conspire against Spain.“
“The trial will take years, and Don Alejandro is an old man,” Padre Mendoza interceded. “He cannot stay in El Diablo.”
“Before he violated the law, de la Vega must have thought about the fact that he was risking the loss of his liberty and his wealth. By his imprudent actions, the old man condemned his family to poverty,” Moncada replied in an insulting tone. Diego’s right hand grasped his sword, but Bernardo caught his arm and held him back, to remind him of the need to be patient. Moncada suggested that Diego find a way to earn a living, now that he did not have his father’s fortune, and with that turned and went out after his men. Padre Mendoza gave Diego a comradely pat on the back and repeated his offer of hospitality. Life was austere and difficult at the mission, he said, they lacked the comforts to which they were accustomed, but at least they would have a roof over their heads. Isabel smiled. “Thank you, Padre. One day I will tell you all the things that have happened to us following the death of my poor father.
You will learn that we walked across Spain, lived with Gypsies, and were kidnapped by pirates. More than once our lives were saved by a miracle. As for lack of comforts, I assure you, we are well used to that.“
“And beginning tomorrow morning, Padre, I shall take charge of the kitchen, because you eat worse than if we were at war,” Nuria added in a critical tone. “The mission is very poor,” Padre Mendoza apologized. “With the same ingredients and a little more invention, we will eat like normal people,” Nuria replied. That night when everyone else was sleeping, Diego and Bernardo crept out of their rooms, took a pair of horses, and without stopping to saddle up, galloped off in the direction of the Indian caves where they had so often played in their childhood. They had decided that the first thing they should do would be to get Alejandro de la Vega out of prison and take him to a safe place where Moncada and Alcazar could not find him; then would come the difficult task of clearing his name of the charge of treason. This was the week of both of their birthdays: they had been born exactly twenty years ago. It seemed to Diego that this was a very important moment in their lives, and he wanted to celebrate it in some special way, so he had proposed to his milk brother that they go to the caves. It was also true that if the tunnel that joined them to the de la Vega hacienda had not been blocked by earthquakes, they might be able to spy on Rafael Moncada. Diego scarcely recognized the terrain, but Bernardo led him unhesitatingly to the entrance hidden by thick brush. Once inside, they lighted a candle and made their way through the labyrinth of passageways to the main cavern, breathing mouthfuls of the indescribable underground smell that they had liked so much as boys. Diego remembered the fateful day his house was attacked by pirates and he had hidden here with his wounded mother. The smells of that moment came rushing back: a combination of blood, sweat, fear, and the dark fragrance of the earth. Everything was just as they had left it, from the bows and arrows, candles, and pots of honey they had stored there five years before even the medicine wheel that they had laid out with stones when they aspired to okahue. Diego lighted the circular altar with a pair of torches and in the center placed the packet he had brought, wrapped in dark cloth and tied with string. “Brother, I have waited for this moment a long time. We are twenty years old, and we both are prepared for what I am going to propose,” he announced to Bernardo with unusual solemnity. “Do you remember the virtues of okahue} Honor, justice, respect, dignity, and courage. I have tried to live my life by those virtues, and I know they have guided yours.” In the red splendor of the torches, Diego untied the packet, which contained a complete array of Zorro’s identifying pants, shirt, cape, boots, hat, and mask, and handed it to Bernardo. “I want Zorro to be the foundation of my life, Bernardo. I will dedicate myself to fighting for justice, and I invite you to come with me. Together we will multiply into a thousand, confusing our enemies.
There will be two Zorros, you and I, but we will never be seen together.“ Diego’s tone was so serious that for once Bernardo was not tempted to answer with a jest. He realized that his milk brother had thought about this long and hard. It was not an impulse born of his father’s misfortune; the black disguise that he had brought back from his journey proved that. The young Indian removed his trousers and, as solemn as Diego, put on the pieces of the disguise, one by one, until he was a replica of Zorro. Then Diego pulled the sword he had bought in Cuba from its sheath and offered it to Bernardo with both hands. ”I swear to defend the weak and to fight for justice!“ Diego exclaimed. Bernardo took the sword and in an inaudible whisper repeated his brother’s words. The two young men cautiously opened the secret door of the fireplace in the grand salon, finding that in spite of the years it still slid noiselessly on its track. They had kept the metal oiled, and apparently five years later it was still smooth. The huge logs were the same as always, though now covered with a thick layer of dust. No one had lighted that fire since Diego left. And the rest of the room had not changed: the furniture Alejandro de la Vega had bought in Mexico to please his wife, the huge chandelier with its hundred and fifty candles, the wood table and upholstered chairs, the same pretentious paintings. Everything was the same, but to them it seemed that the house was smaller and more dismal than they remembered. A patina of neglect had taken the shine off everything; a funereal silence hung in the air, and a stale and unpleasant smell had seeped into the walls. The brothers slipped like cats down corridors badly lighted by a few lanterns. Once there had been an aged servant whose only task was to see that there was light; he slept by day and spent the night keeping an eye on the candles and oil lamps. They wondered if that old man and the other elderly servants were still on the hacienda staff, or if Moncada had replaced them with his own men. At that hour even the dogs were resting and only one man was standing guard in the main patio; his weapon was slung over his shoulder, and he was fighting to keep his eyes open. The intruders located the soldiers’ quarters, where they counted twelve hammocks hung at differing heights, some above others, although only eight were occupied. Another room contained an arsenal of firearms, gunpowder, and swords. They dared not explore any more for fear of being caught, but through a half-open door they glimpsed Rafael Moncada writing or entering accounts in the library. Diego choked back a cry of rage when he saw his enemy sitting in his father’s chair, using his paper and his ink. Bernardo elbowed him and motioned they should go, that their exploration was getting dangerous. They silently slipped out the way they had come in, after blowing thick dust from the fireplace to cover their tracks. They were back at the mission by dawn, an hour when Diego felt for the first time the fatigue that had accumulated since they disembarked the day before. He fell into bed and slept until late the next morning, when Bernardo waked him to say that the horses were ready. It had been his idea to go see Toypurnia and ask for her help in rescuing Alejandro de la Vega. They did not see Padre Mendoza, whom he had left early to go to Los Angeles, but Nuria served them a hearty breakfast of beans, rice, and fried eggs. Isabel came to the table with her hair pulled back into a braid, wearing a riding skirt and a blue linen blouse like the ones the neophytes wore in the mission, and announced that she was going with them; she wanted to meet Diego’s mother and see what an Indian village was like. ”In that case, I will have to come, too,“ grumbled Nuria, to whom the idea of a long ride on horseback in this land of barbarians was less than enticing. ”No. Padre Mendoza needs you here,“ Isabel replied, giving her a consoling kiss. ”We will be back soon.“ The three young people rode off on the best palomino horses in the mission, leading another loaded with supplies. They would have to ride all day, camp at night beneath the stars, and start up into the mountains the next morning. To elude soldiers, the tribe had moved as far away as possible, and often shifted their camp, but Bernardo knew where it was. Isabel, who had learned to ride astride long ago, followed her two friends without complaint. At their first stop, which they made to cool off in a creek and to share the lunch Nuria had prepared, she realized how saddle-sore she was. Diego made fun of her because she was walking like a duck, but Bernardo gave her one of White Owl’s herbal pomades to rub on her aching thighs. The next day at noon Bernardo pointed to some markings on the trees that indicated the tribe was near; that was how they advised other Indians when they changed location. Instants later they were met by two nearly naked men with war paint and ready bows, who lowered their weapons when they recognized Bernardo and came forward to greet him. After Bernardo had introduced his companions, the Indians led them through the trees to the village, a cluster of wretched straw huts animated by a few roving dogs. The Indians whistled, and within minutes the inhabitants of that phantasm al village materialized from out of nowhere; they were a pathetic group, some naked and others in rags. With horror Diego recognized his grandmother, White Owl, and his mother. It took him a few seconds to recover from his anguish at seeing them so impoverished and to leap from his horse and run to embrace them. He had forgotten how poor the Indians were, but he had not forgotten his grandmother’s scent of smoke and herbs. It went straight to his heart, as did the new aroma of his mother. Regina had smelled of milk soap and flower cologne. Toypurnia smelled of sage and sweat. ”Diego, how you have grown,“ his mother murmured. Toypurnia spoke to him in the Indian tongue, the first sounds Diego had heard in his infancy, and which he had not forgotten. In that language they could be affectionate; in Spanish they would have spoken formally, without touching. The first language was for sentiments, the second for ideas. Toypurnia’s callused hands patted her son, his arms, chest, and neck, recognizing him, measuring him, frightened by the changes. Then it was his grandmother’s turn to welcome him. White Owl lifted his hair to study his ears, as if that were the one way she could be sure it was he. Diego laughed happily and, taking her by the waist, lifted her high off the ground. She weighed almost nothing it was like picking up a child but beneath the rags and rabbit skins, Diego could feel her hard, sinewy body: pure wood. She was not as old or as fragile as she had at first seemed. Bernardo had eyes only for Lightin-the-Night and his son, little Diego, a boy of five, the color and hardness of a brick, with dark, dark eyes and his mother’s laugh; he was naked, and carried a miniature bow and arrows. Diego, who had known Lightin-the-Night as a child when he visited his grandmother, through Bernardo’s telepathic references, and from a letter from Padre Mendoza, was struck by her beauty. Beside her and his son, Bernardo seemed a different man; he grew taller, and his face glowed. After the first euphoria of the meeting, Diego remembered to introduce Isabel, who had watched from a short distance. From the stories Diego had told her about his mother and grandmother, she had imagined figures of epic proportions, paintings in which the conquistadors are portrayed in gleaming armor and the indigenous Americans are represented as demigods wearing feathers. These skinny, uncombed, dirty women did not remotely resemble the paintings in the museums, but they had the same dignity. She could not communicate with the grandmother, but within a few minutes she felt comfortable with Toypurnia. She intended to visit her often, as she knew she could learn a great deal from that strange and wise woman. I want to be that indomitable, she thought. And Toypurnia liked the young Spanish girl with the wandering eye. She thought it must indicate an ability to see what others cannot see. Of the tribe, a large group of children, women, and old men remained, but there were only five hunters, who had to go farther and farther for game because the whites had divided up the land and defended it with guns. Sometimes hunger forced them to steal cattle, but if they were caught, they paid with lashings or the gallows. Most Indian men were now to be found working on the ranches. The clan of White Owl andToypurnia had chosen freedom, with all its risks. They had no problem with warrior tribes, thanks to the two women’s reputation as shamans and healers. If any stranger came to the camp, it was to ask for counsel and medicines, which they paid for with food and skins. They had survived, but ever since Rafael Moncada and Carlos Alcazar had begun to arrest their young men, they had not been able to stay in one place. The nomadic life had brought an end to their fields of maize and other grains; they had to be content with mushrooms and wild fruit, fish, and meat when they could get it. Bernardo and Lightin-the-Night brought the gift they had for Diego: a black steed with large, intelligent eyes. It was Tornado, the motherless colt that Bernardo had encountered during his initiation rite seven years before and that Lightin-the-Night had tamed and taught to obey to whistles. He was of noble breed, a splendid companion. Diego stroked the animal’s nose and burrowed his head into his long mane, repeating, ”Tornado… Tornado… Tornado…“