Confessions

My son, this is all very troubling," said Padre Felipe.  "You know, we rescued this man from Señor Marigál just last Sunday, and only yesterday I buried the servant of this other one.  Now you tell me he was one of Marigál’s accomplices.  Do the de la Vegas know this?"

"I had intended to introduce them to Don Guillermo today," said Zorro, shaking his head, "but I had no idea he would be capable of this.  He seemed like such a kind man."

"Even kind men can become cruel when they are so mistreated."  Padre Felipe waved him toward the darkening corridor, leaving the two corpses lying side by side in the mortuary.  "I will see they are buried," he added.  "But you and I alone will know who they are—for now."

"Gracias, Padre," said Zorro as the priest led him up the hall toward the rectory.  Stepping through his door, he lit a few more candles, then motioned toward a chair.

"Please, sit down," he said.  "Will you not stay and have a glass of wine with me?"

"I cannot, Padre.  I still have much to do this evening."

"All the more reason, then, to pause and gather one’s wits," Padre Felipe smiled, retrieving a small decanter from a nearby shelf.  "You know, I was wondering. . . ."

Zorro couldn’t help but return the smile.  He sat down, finally, at the small table as the priest set two glasses of wine on it. "What was that?" he asked.

"Don Urbino’s intended—Señorita Venancio?  Did she know of his involvement in all of this?  She too seemed like such a gentle person, and innocent, somehow.  In a way she made me think of my Indians.  You know, the Gabrioleños are inherently a very spiritual people, and once they learn the truth about God, they are fiercely devout.  But she also seemed as if she had not been raised in the Church but had converted to it later in life."

As the padre sat down at the table across from him, Zorro thought very hard about how to reply.  Finally he shrugged.  "Well, she was born in Spain, and Spain has been Catholic for at least three hundred years.  I do not know what else she would be.  But, yes, she did know what he was doing, and she was trying to convince him of the error of his ways."

"I am not surprised."  The priest took a small sip of wine.  "Will you tell her of this?"

"I think she may already have guessed."

"Ah, that will be very difficult, then, losing both the servant and the husband—almost on two successive days."

Zorro nodded, then rose from the chair and went to gaze out the window at the gathering twilight.  After leaving Reyes and Garcia, he had returned to the cave to gather some blankets, ropes and a pack horse with which to transport the bodies.  But he hadn’t paused to explain much beyond the obvious, even to Bernardo.  And he certainly hadn’t wanted to risk getting stuck in the house by putting in an appearance as Diego, even for the sake of reassuring his father that he hadn’t contracted the plague—which would probably be the assumption, since why else would he have suddenly left their uncommonly beautiful and anxious guest alone in the courtyard on such a fine spring afternoon?

And beyond that, now he was also beginning to realize that he didn’t want to see the look on her face when she heard that he hadn’t been able to protect their only witness, or to keep him from murdering the man who was not just her future husband, but their only link to her brother.

"It is good she is staying with the de la Vegas," said the priest.

"Yes, I believe she will be welcome there—and safe, at least for now."

"Would she be in any danger from Señor Marigál?" Padre Felipe raised an eyebrow, then narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.  "She could always stay here at the mission."

"I don’t think she will be in any more danger than anyone else who knows of Marigál’s activities," said Zorro, letting his gaze drift back to the wine glasses and the crystal decanter sitting on the white lace tablecloth.  Then he added, "But that does include you, Padre.  Even the mission itself may not be safe."

The older man’s eyes widened.  Then he sat back in his chair, frowning.  "You say this man is claiming his authorization from the Inquisition in Mexico City?  Why, this is just nonsense.  No Catholic priest would dare to behave this way, even a Dominican."  Padre Felipe crossed himself and added a quick "may God forgive me" as he got to his feet.

"Even the worst inquisitors do not sneak around this way behind people’s backs," he added, turning and waving his arm toward the space just behind him, as though to shoo away the devil.  "There are procedures.  At the very least, he must present his credentials to the local parish priests and arrange for the reading of an edict of faith—if not an edict of grace.  People must be given the chance to confess and be reconciled to the church before they can be denounced by others."

Zorro pursed his lips and squinted pensively.  Seldom had he seen this otherwise peaceful man get worked up enough to start pacing the floor.  "You know," he said, "I don’t think that in my whole life I have ever even seen an inquisitor.  And I have been to Madrid," he added carefully, not wanting to reveal any more of his background than he had to.  "In fact, wasn’t the Inquisition in Spain dissolved a few years ago?"

Padre Felipe nodded.  "Even before that, it was dissolved by Bonaparte.  Oh, once he was driven out, the King reinstated it, but finally the liberals forced him to dissolve it again.  I suspect that Iturbide will probably dissolve the Inquisition in New Spain as well, if he hasn’t already done so.  All it has really done for the past ten or twelve years is punish the insurgents anyway."

"The insurgent priest Morelos. . . ."

"Sí, he was excommunicated and given over to the civil authorities," said Padre Felipe wearily.  "But no one was tortured," he snapped, "not like what we saw.  No priest would stoop to such a thing.  Even when torture was used, the inquisitor himself did not inflict it.  It was administered only by an officer of the secular courts.  Even now, they seem much more inclined to make use of it than the Church ever was."

"Padre. . . ." Zorro brought a gloved hand to his chin, knowing he would have to choose his words carefully.  "You and I have been friends a long time, no?  And I believe you know that my respect for the Church is genuine.  But even priests are only human.  Are you certain that this man could not have any official authority?"

The priest’s eyes had been fairly glittering with anger. Now as his gaze fell, their brilliance faded.  "You yourself say you have never seen an inquisitor," he said.  "I find it much more likely that this man is simply intimidating people with the fear of something that by now most of them know only from the horrible stories they’ve read.  Not that there were no abuses." He sighed and sat down, then took another slow sip of wine.

"Women were burned alive," said Zorro quietly.  "For nothing more than living in the same pueblo where a child had died, or for having a cow that gave more milk.  And in this country, the superstitious belief in sorcery is even more common than in Spain."

"I fear that is true," the priest nodded.  "And since it is still a heresy not to believe in witches, you will not hear me calling it a superstitious belief—at least not front of anyone I don’t know and trust," he added, glancing up sideways under a crisply raised brow.  "Though let us just say that I would need more evidence than I have ever seen assembled in order to conclude that anyone had actually practiced witchcraft.  Perhaps that seems like no more than an expedient way to avoid confronting the problem ," he added.  "But then, not everyone has your courage."

"Courage," the outlaw smiled faintly, "It has been called other things."

"It does not matter what you call it," the priest replied.  "What matters is the result.  But that, unfortunately, is also the case with Señor Marigál.  For it matters less whether he really does have the authority of the Church than whether Capitan Acevedo thinks he does.  If that is the case, you are right.  We could all be in grave danger."

Zorro nodded, but then his smile widened into a grin.  "We may have to appeal to a higher authority, eh?"

"I believe I know of One," said Padre Felipe, glancing up toward the ceiling.  "And let me make a few other inquiries as well.  Don Guillermo said his son was taken from a rancho near the Mission Dolores.  My old friend Padre Arcilio is there.  He may know something.  Meanwhile, do you intend, now, to tell the de la Vegas of the danger they are in?"

Zorro returned to the table and, with a sigh, bent to rest the heels of his black gloved hands on its edge.  "What would you suggest, Padre?  Should I tell them they are being stalked like cattle, but that, because of my own poor judgment, I cannot even drive the wolf away until after he makes another kill?  If you were the de la Vegas, would you wish to live in dread of something that might happen either tomorrow or the next day or not at all?"

"I see your point."  Padre Felipe pursed his lips, sipped his wine and nodded thoughtfully.  "Don Alejandro would be sick with worry.  He dotes on that young man. But if the wolf sees that his victims have been warned, he might just decide—"

"To slip away and find easier quarry?"  Zorro straightened himself up to his full height and turned away, shaking his head in frustration.  "Yes, this is precisely what I do not want him to do.  If he moves on, he will find other victims.  But I will be even less able to protect them, unless I can figure out who they are and gain their trust.  No, I must catch him here—now.  This time."

"Of course."  The priest set down his glass; then, resting his elbows on the table, he brought the palms of his hands together, knotting his fingers.  Then he looked up and added, "But I wonder what young Diego de la Vega would think if he knew of your plan to use him as bait."

Zorro let his eyes connect with those of his host.  Then his gaze faltered as he realized that he didn’t actually know what Diego thought of this plan.  Until this very moment, he hadn’t really known that this was indeed what he intended to do.  And it was a plan with some obvious drawbacks, of course.  But it also enjoyed a few positive features—not the least of which was a pretty big element of surprise.  "You are right, Padre," he said at last.  "De la Vega and I will have to consider this matter carefully.  And I assure you I will do nothing without his consent."

"You should also tell him what has really happened to Don Urbino."  The priest unlaced his fingers and leaned back in his chair.  "That way, at least the poor woman will have someone who knows what she’s going through.  No doubt she regrets having to impose any further on the de la Vegas, and she may even feel some guilt over the death of the man."

Zorro took in a deep breath and held it for a moment, looking sideways at the padre.  "Why would you say that?" he asked.

"It is often the case.  Just call it a hunch," the priest replied. "When we are withstanding such trials, our pride often convinces us that there are things we could have done to prevent them, even though, realistically, they were not in our hands, but God’s."

Zorro smiled faintly.  This was something else he hadn’t thought of until just now.  But it made sense.  She had tried to warn the man, after all, and while she had done as much to save him as anyone could, it was possible that she herself didn’t think so.  But he knew the priest hadn’t really been talking just about her, either.  He picked up the glass of wine, took a sip and said, "Gracias, Padre."  Then, adjusting the brim of his hat, he turned to go.  "Ádios."

"La paz del Señor sea contigo, mijo," said Padre Felipe as his masked guest disappeared out the door and into the gathering darkness. "Via con Dios."

The last traces of pink and gold were just starting to fade in the west, and the moon, near its first quarter, high off the southern horizon, had barely begun its westward descent by the time Diego finally emerged from his room to look at it from the veranda.  After a moment, he drew his robe a little tighter around him, tousled his hair a bit and headed downstairs where he heard the muted voices of his father and Oreana coming from the sala.  As weary as he was, he knew he would have no trouble convincing his father he had been ill.  But he had also been more than a bit relieved when Bernardo told him that Oreana had done a masterful job covering for him, even though the servant couldn’t quite explain how.

"Well, I don’t think one can do a great deal of reading without somehow being changed by it," Oreana was saying.  "But then again, books have been my companions, like siblings, ever since I was small.  I cannot imagine what I would have been like without them."

Diego didn’t have to hear his father’s reply to guess that he himself was the main topic of conversation—and probably had been all afternoon.  "I see your point," said Alejandro.  "But my son also got the best education we could provide for him here in California.  And, frankly, he didn’t always seem to find such fascination in studying."

She smiled.  "Neither did I, when it was something I didn’t like. I hated piano lessons, until I gained the skill to play music I found exciting.  Maybe there is always such a threshold one must cross.  You yourself know a lot about making wine, no?  But I doubt that this is the kind of skill a boy would take much delight in."

"That is true," said his father.  "One learns to take satisfaction in a job well done.  But what is actually achieved by the study of literature?"

Oreana frowned thoughtfully.  "There have been many answers to that question," she said.  Diego almost hated to interrupt her, since he could see his father was making a genuine attempt to understand, and he himself was curious what she would say.

Finally she nodded and went on.  "Do you recall the story you told me this afternoon, about Diego when he was twelve?  You said he challenged a man who was beating a servant, and he probably would have gotten a beating himself if he hadn’t tricked the man into turning his whip on the blacksmith’s brother?"

Alejandro nodded, chuckling.  Diego hadn’t realized that his father had been so amused by that incident, even though he hadn’t really seemed angry at the time.

"Such stories are not unique to your family," she said.  "Think of David fighting the Philistine giant, or the exploits of El Cid, or even the stories they tell around here, about the outlaw Zorro. Multiplied a million times, over a thousand years, such stories take on lives of their own.  They tell us who we are and who we may become.  Our children reenact them.  This," she said, resting her hand on a nearby book, "this is a tool of magic that we can use to slip between worlds, into other worlds, and to communicate with the dead."

Diego smiled watching his father react to her somewhat fanciful version of this argument, knowing it would take the old man a moment or two, but probably no more, to sift through the metaphor and to start asking what good such an Orphic journey would serve, unless one brought something back to this world. One did have to live in this world, after all.  "Buenos noches, Father, Señorita," he said at last, wishing he didn’t have to be the one to bring them back to it now.

"Diego."  His father rose instantly.  "How are you, my boy?"

"Much better, gracias."  He strode into the room, grabbed the back of a nearby chair and brought it closer to where they had been sitting near the fireplace.  "But it sounds as if I have been missing some good conversation.  I had no idea, Father, that you were so interested in philosophy."

Alejandro looked away with a gruff, noncommittal shrug, then smiled in spite of himself.  "Are you hungry?" he asked.

Diego nodded.  "Actually, I am," he said as he realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

"What did I tell you," said Oreana.

"It does seem that you were correct, my dear," his father replied.

"Well, when there is no fever and no cough or soreness, then—"

As Diego looked down at her, Oreana broke off her sentence abruptly, already catching in his eyes the answer to her biggest question.  She stiffened slightly, but otherwise her face didn’t change.  Finally she looked away, blinking hard, as Alejandro said, "Please sit down, son.  I will go see if I can find the cook."

"I can do that, Father."

"No, no."  His father placed a hand on his shoulder and motioned toward the chair again.  "I will go.  You need to rebuild your strength."  Then he headed for the kitchen.

"I am sorry," said Diego quietly as he sat down beside her.

She winced.  "Who was it?"

"Guillermo del Valle.  The man I rescued from jail.  He also is dead."

She saw at once the implications of this news, and her eyes widened, but then her face got hard and distant.  "I will need to stay here for a few more days," she said.  "Then I will take a room at the inn.  When Señor Marigál finds out I am there, you must—"

"No, that won’t work," said Diego, frowning thoughtfully as he leaned forward and laced his fingers between his knees.  "Marigál has no reason not to kill you.  You know too much."

"Then you will have him arrested for my murder.  Or I for his."

The sudden bitterness in her words was so unexpected that, for a moment, he didn’t quite hear it.  "And how will that help us find the hostages?" he said, a little bewildered.

"Without Urbino, I may not be of any use to you in that regard anyway," she said.

"Any use?  Oreana . . . ."  He turned to her, eyes narrowing.  Clearly, the priest had been right.  She did feel guilty, and she was just as angry at herself as he had been at himself earlier, not only for having been unable to prevent Urbino’s death, but for further endangering her hosts.  And now she meant to atone—with her life.  "Are you serious?" he said.  "I cannot let you to do this."

Her eyes flashed up at him.  "You cannot stop me."

"I have another plan.  We will discuss it tomorrow."

"No, not tomorrow."  She rose to her feet.

"Marigál does not need to know anything that has happened today," he explained, getting to his feet as well.  "As long as Urbino’s servant thinks—"

"Silvio is already growing suspicious."

"Then we will find a way to reassure him."  Diego fixed her with his eyes.  "Listen, Señorita.  Now you are the one who is overplaying your hand.  You will gain nothing by being arrogant. You are going to need my help, so be gracious enough to accept it."

Her eyes softened, then flooded with tears again.  "Of course, you are right," she said.  "I am not thinking clearly.  Poor Urbino."  She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, trying to keep the sobs from wrenching her whole body.  Every instinct he had told him to take her in his arms, but he knew his father might return any moment.  Then she managed to regain a tenacious composure.

"Very well," she said, "the first thing I must ask of you is that, tomorrow, you convince your father and Silvio that I have been taken ill, probably by the same sort of fatigue that afflicted you today.  It won’t be difficult.  Everyone will be busy with cattle."

"Will you be all right?"

She nodded.  "I just need some time alone.  To come to terms with what has happened."

He nodded—"Of course"—though he wasn’t entirely sure he knew how anyone could come to terms with something like this in a mere twenty-four hours.

"Then, on Sunday," she went on, "you will take me to the mission, and we will discuss your plan.  You did take Urbino to the mission, no?"  Then, seeing the answer on his face, she turned to head for the door just as Alejandro returned, the cook trailing behind him with a plate of food.  "Oh, my dear," he said, "are you retiring so early?"

As she turned to him, her gracious smile returned, though, watching her closely, Diego could see it was far from effortless.  "Please forgive me, Don Alejandro," she said, "but I really am quite tired, suddenly.  I have enjoyed our conversation very much."

"I too have found it most enjoyable, he said, then added, "I certainly hope you aren’t falling ill.  Marbella—"  He looked around for the girl.

"I gave her permission to retire for the evening," Oreana explained.  "She has her lessons to learn, and I think I can find my own way to bed."

Alejandro smiled warmly.  "Very well, then," he said, "buenas noches."  Diego felt the old man’s affectionate gaze carefully following both of them as he stepped ahead of her to open the door.  But once she had slipped past him into the soft dappled shadows of the courtyard, she turned, and her eyes beckoned him to follow.

"Be careful," he said, stepping outside. "Those stairs are not well lit."  But he scarcely got the words out before she caught his arm and pulled him toward her, then stood looking up at him, searching his face as if she thought he might somehow be able to help her make sense of all the conflicting feelings that were flooding through her now.  And under the circumstances, most of them seemed quite understandable—grief mixed with gratitude, a dash of anger, a whisper of fear.  But for a moment, he thought he saw at least a trace of one other feeling he understood all too well, though he wasn’t especially proud of it.  In fact, he was at once chagrined, a little shocked, and secretly gratified to see it in her eyes.

Gently he caressed the fingers that still knotted in his sleeve. Then he realized how truly alone she was now.  She had lost the one old servant woman whose friendship she had managed to win—as well as the self-absorbed fiancée who, despite his flaws, really had loved her.  She had even lost the parents who, desperate to free their only son, had coldly bartered her life for the boy’s.  And now, here he was, just as Padre Felipe had said, the only other person who knew what she had been through.  Suddenly he winced as if to spit out the cynical notion that she wanted anything more than his friendship, since he was, at the moment, unable to give her even that.

"Diego . . . ."  His name sounded painful on her lips.

"Oreana," he began, "I cannot tell you how much I wish I could—"

Tears came running down her cheeks despite all she could do.  "I know," she nodded.  "I will never forget your kindness, or your courage."

As she backed away from him, it was all he could do to let her hand slip away.  "You sound as if you are saying good-bye."

"Perhaps," she said, pausing at the foot of the stairs.  "I do not know."  And as she turned and ran away, he longed to follow her and insist on an explanation, though for some reason, he feared her answer would make entirely too much sense.

"Are you all right, my son?"  Alejandro stood silhouetted for a moment in the doorway; then he came out, looking worried.  "If you are still feeling faint, I will send for the doctor.  You must come in and have something to eat.  Why, look, you’re shaking. Have you taken a chill?"

"No, Father, I—"

"Well, come inside, boy."

At least she had been thinking clearly enough to invent an alternative explanation for these symptoms, he thought as he followed his father toward the door.  He was especially grateful for another way to explain the shiver of apprehension that pierced him when he noticed that Urbino’s servant Silvio was now standing quietly in the shadows of the arched alcove beneath the stairs, right outside the entrance to the sala.

"Oh, Silvio," said Alejandro.  "Did Crescencia find you a place to sleep with the stable hands?"

"Sí, Patrón."  The man glanced up for a moment, his clear green eyes flashing.  Then he let his gaze fall slowly back down toward his feet.

"And you had something to eat?"

"Sí, Patrón."

"Then that will be all for tonight.  Tomorrow you might find it interesting to ride out and watch the vaqueros at work.  It never hurts to pick up some new skills, eh?"

The servant nodded, and as he turned to leave, Diego saw nothing in his expression to indicate how long he had been standing there.  But it didn’t matter.  Tomorrow, Bernardo and Zorro were going to have to find a way not to lose sight of him, even for an instant.