Beltane

The silvery glow of the full moon filtered in through the heavy lace curtains of his bedroom window, etching dark, intricate patterns across the smooth oak floor.  As a soft breeze pushed the curtains aside, Diego rolled over, away from the window, and buried his face in his arm.  Then, after a moment, he turned to lie on his back again.  Finally he sat up and ran a hand through his dark, tousled hair, pushing it off his forehead.

The floorboards felt cool on his bare feet as he walked out onto the balcony.  Outside, the moon nestled like a jewel amid a few billowy clouds on a faded indigo backdrop.  Huge and round, it cast sharp black shadows across the landscape, making the night seem almost as bright as day.  Only the brightest stars twinkled here and there, and the air smelled of moist earth, the green sap of cottonwoods and, blowing in from somewhere, a hint of night blooming jasmine and wild roses.  It must be nearly midnight, he thought.  Yet he felt strangely energized, his body full of an elastic tension that left him restless, unable to fully relax his muscles.

He winced as he thought of Oreana and how he had tried to avoid her these past few days, ever since that afternoon in the sala when she had told him about the pagan festival of Beltane—today.  All day, he had wondered if she really meant to ride to the lake, but she hadn’t seemed to take much interest in anything.  Her appetite had dwindled; he didn’t think she had eaten a thing since yesterday.  Nor had she gone riding, and she hadn’t played the piano again since he had left her sitting there.

Clearly she must have been hurt by his rejection.  But what did she expect?  If their religions really did divide them, then why should he keep reaching for the forbidden fruit, torturing himself with longing for what he could never have?  And if she didn’t understand what that was like, well, what did he expect?  She would hardly be the first woman not to be tortured with longing for him.  She would simply be the first one who knew he was Zorro.

He sighed heavily, leaning on the balcony’s railing, remembering the night Zorro had caught her outside behind the stables.  It seemed so long ago.  The sky had been like velvet—no moon at all.  Yet she hadn’t been the least bit afraid out there, even on foot.

Then, the chill of an instant realization crept up his spine and left him standing straight again.  Cursing himself, he spun around and headed back inside, tossing his night shirt on the bed as he dashed around it to the big wardrobe on the other side.  Quickly he put on a black shirt and a pair of black pants and boots, then slid out into the darkness of the veranda and down the stairs.  But by the time he reached the stables, he was not at all surprised to find her horse was missing.

Coming back inside, he slipped silently into the passage behind the bookcase in his father’s library, then up the old stone staircase to the secret room behind his bedroom.  Surely she realized that there might be bears or wolves, or even big cats out there this time of night.  Or maybe she hadn’t even gone to the lake.  Maybe she had some other crazy plan to go into town and confront Marigál.

It was that possibility, more than any other, that made him decide to tie the black silk mask across his face, and to put a loaded pistol into the sash beneath his cape, before fastening his saber to his side and heading down into the cave where Tornado was stabled.

As he set down the small hurricane lantern and slipped inside the stall, the horse nickered softly, then nuzzled him as he ran a hand across the sleek hide to smooth the way for a saddle blanket.  "Sí, mi amigo," he said softly as he stuck the curb bit into the horse’s mouth, drawing the bridle over his ears.  "It looks like neither of us may get any sleep tonight."

Then he carefully cinched the saddle and ran a hand down each of the long powerful legs, lifting each foot to check for stones and for shoes that might come loose, though he was sure Bernardo did the same thing every day.  "But you don’t care, do you, mi compañero," he added as he swung up into the saddle.  "You like being out on nights like this, eh?"

As if in answer to the question, Tornado snorted and shook his head.  And as Zorro pulled the brim of his black felt hat down a little tighter over his eyes and headed out into the moonlight, he had to admit that he, too, felt better.  For an instant he almost hoped she had gone after Marigál.  That way, maybe they could finally bring this whole conspiracy out in the open where he could deal with it directly and get it over with, one way or another.

The lake collected rainwater and spring runoff from the distant hills.  Large trees—laurel, sycamore, willow, alder and cottonwood—hugged the shoreline, leaving only a few small grassy open spaces along its banks.  But there was one spot in particular where he used to sit on warm afternoons to dry off after a swim and where, when he was very young, his mother used to sit and read to him.  This was where he found the palomino grazing contentedly.

The animal hadn’t been saddled or even bridled, really.  The only piece of tack he wore was a length of horsehair rope tied loosely around his neck behind the ears, then wrapped with a quick half hitch around his muzzle.  The end had been draped over his withers and tied into his own mane, leaving him essentially free to graze, or even to run away, should the need arise, though he seemed quite happy where he was.  When Tornado came within a few strides of him, his head came up and his ears shot forward as he flared his nostrils.  But then he only moved off a few paces and went back to grazing.

Zorro quickly folded his horse’s reins into a loose overhand knot and shoved them up onto Tornado’s neck so that he, too, could lower his head.  Then both he and the animal melted quietly into the black shadows along the bank.  This, after all, was where he had first learned to hide in shadows.  After his mother’s death, he had been afraid of the dark for a while.  But one day, it had come to him that the most dangerous creature he had ever actually seen lurking in it was himself, and from then on, he had felt safe, even comfortable in it, as he did now, in the shadow of a tall willow with rough black bark.

A breeze passed through the treetops like a living creature, making the leaves glisten.  Crickets chirped and frogs croaked.  Then, something strange began to happen.  After a moment, it seemed as if the harder he listened, the quieter things got until, finally, all that remained was the memory of his own soft breath and the echo of his own hard pulse.

The sense that something was out there did not, in itself, surprise him.  He had expected to see at least a few deer and one determined girl.  But this particular something felt more like an absence than a presence.  It seemed to soak up, not just sound, but substance, like a rift in human awareness.  The moonlight etched each blade of grass and glistened in the ripples of the lake, giving the whole scene an otherworldly glow, as if this were no longer the spot he knew from childhood, but, instead, a land where children went when fairy changelings were left in their places.

He seemed to remember having seen something break the surface of the water a moment ago.  But when it surfaced again near the bank, another moment or two went by before his eyes finally told him what he was seeing.  She rose to her full height in the thigh-deep water, gathering her long hair in her hands, pushing it back off her face.  Then she bent to grab the thick wet mass and wring the water out.  He couldn’t tell if she really wasn’t making any noise, or if it was just that he was too numb to hear it.  Pausing to shake her head, she ran her fingers lightly through the strands of hair to dry them out.

On the bank, she froze for a moment, like a nude marble statue in the moonlight.  Then she knelt down beside a white puddle of silk lying on the bank—her white chemise, he assumed—and retrieved a small knife from the pocket.  Its blade glinted in the moonlight as she rose and turned to face north.  When she spoke, the language sounded oddly familiar yet altogether unintelligible, except for what he recognized as the names of a few bright stars—Regulus, Antares, Aldebaran, Fomalhaut.

As she turned to face each compass point, the story of Artemis and Actaeon flickered through his mind, and a synergistic blend of fear and fascination rose from the pit of his stomach.  He knew now why she hadn’t wanted him here.  This was truly something older and more alien to his own culture than he could ever have imagined.

Facing the lake again, she held the little knife to her heart and gazed at the reflection of the moon until, as she raised her arms, her whole body took on its silvery glow.  Then, though he knew he couldn’t have taken his eyes off her even if he had wanted to, suddenly, she seemed to simply melt into thin air.

Dimly, he recognized the trance-like quality of the state of mind he was in, though being in it seemed almost to preclude being aware of it.  It left you concentrating so hard on certain things to the exclusion of all others that you didn’t even notice what was missing until everything returned.  He knew he had felt this way before, especially when she was near, but now the feeling was more intense, like being deep underwater, and he wasn’t sure he could even find the surface.  The tension in his muscles and the hammering of his heart were the only things that didn’t feel dreamlike.

Then, as if in slow motion, he turned to see her step out from behind the huge willow.  The dark shadows played gently across her body, blending with soft blotches of dappled light.  One of them struck what he saw was a necklace, a single strand of small orange and black beads, which was all she was wearing.  Then she drew the large black lace shawl around herself, and he felt more than heard her voice as she spoke to him.

"Welcome to my circle, Señor Zorro."  His first impulse was to ask her who she was.  But then he forced himself to stand up straight and nodded politely.

"Your servant, Señorita—though I did not anticipate a welcome.  And I did not mean to make you violate an oath.  I was merely concerned for your safety.  You have my apologies."

She smiled, and a reassuring tenderness appeared in her eyes.  "I have broken no promises," she said.  "The gods have brought you here, not I.  And even if I were in the habit of questioning their judgment—which I am not—I would still be glad you have come."

His eyes narrowed.  "Did you—know I would?"

She shook her head.  "It was too much to hope for."

Zorro tried very hard not to look down from her face.  Though draped in the dark lace shawl, she was still far from being dressed.  Yet once again, he got the distinct impression, just as he had the night he found her out behind the stables, that, like a child, she simply didn't realize the effect her body would have on a man.  And that, more than her body itself, was what suddenly melted his apprehensions and left him flooded, again, with all the protective feelings and the desires that Diego’s wounded pride had sought to exorcize.

He unfastened his cape and slipped it around her shoulders.  Then he nodded at the pile of clothing she had left on the bank.  "If you would care to put on something a little bit warmer," he said, "then perhaps we ought to discuss these hopes of yours."

As she clutched the inside of the cape to draw it around herself, she let the shawl drop in a puddle of lace at her feet and stepped out of it.  "I am not cold," she said, "and I did not come here to discuss anything.  But maybe you wouldn’t mind putting those things aside," she added, glancing at the saber and the pistol.  "This is sacred space; we will be safe here."

Somehow he knew she was right, and he took off the weapons and laid them at the base of the tree.  Then, thinking he may as well, he slipped off the gloves and the mask and set them aside also.  "But you know," he added, "there are still predators that roam this countryside at night."

"We are not in that world anymore," she said, motioning to the grassy spot on the bank near her clothes.  "We are between the worlds.  This is why you feel strange; you are not used to it."  As he followed her out into the brilliant moonlight, he found himself thinking that everything she said made a great deal of sense, just the way things often did in dreams.

"So what did you come out here to do?" he asked.

"I am here to honor the holy mother and the father of all living, and to ask them to help me find my brother."  She sat down on the grass and motioned him to sit beside her.  As he sat, he realized that some things still made more sense than others.

"So you do worship a him as well as a her?"

"Well, of course."  An odd mix of shyness and amusement flickered across her face as she looked out over the water.  "Only the celibate priests would believe that either a mother or a father could bring forth life without love."

"But you still pray to the Virgin."

"The goddess takes many forms and has many names.  María is only one of them.  She has her place.  But we do not worship her alone.  She is merely the potential for new life."

"I see."  As he watched her, he thought her sense of being between worlds seemed especially fitting in his case, since he wasn’t really sure what role he was supposed to play here—Diego or Zorro—though at the moment it was clearer than usual that they were both just roles.  "And how can these gods help you find your brother?" he said.

Oreana drew the cape a little tighter around her, as though she really were cold after all, and said, "By giving me the gift of the sight.  I will seek a vision."  Suddenly, he, too, felt a chill.

"This was what you told me was too dangerous.  Wasn’t it." When she didn’t answer, he remembered something else.  "And you were going to break your word to me, no?  You promised not to put yourself in any danger without talking to me about it first."

"I did talk to you," she said.  "Besides, I didn’t say it would be dangerous for me.  I have had some training.  My aunts— "

He rolled his eyes and shook his head.  "And did your aunts also train the Jesuits how to argue?"

She looked down, smiling a little.  Then the smile faded.  "I am sorry," she said, "but I will do this.  I am prepared.  And I will be safer with you here.  But if you disapprove, you should go."

"How could I possibly leave you here?" he said wryly.  Then he sighed.  "What must we do?"

She reached into the pocket of the gown beside her, pulling out a small silver box with an ornate lid, about the size and shape of a snuff box.  "This," she said, "is an ointment made from a mixture of sacred herbs that will help open the portals of awareness.  I must be anointed with it."

"What is it?"  As she removed the lid and the pungent aroma reached him, he thought that he recognized the scent of at least one plant.  "It smells like estramonio," he said, "what the Indians call toloache. They used to use it in their rituals.  It makes the cattle go crazy."

"That is a related plant," she said.  "This one grows here too, in poor soil, but the flowers are much larger.  It is called daturina sagrada, or some also say trompetas de ángeles.  And there are other ingredients, but this is mild.  My aunts are very good with such potions, though they no longer need them."  As she stood up, she held out the box to him.  "One usually begins with the feet," she said, "and then with the back of the knees—places where the blood is nearest the surface of the skin.  There are words, but they are not as important as— "

He stood up to face her and started to take her by the shoulders, as much as anything to keep her covered, but then he found that he didn’t dare touch her.  "I do not think you know what you’re asking," he said.

She looked down.  "What must you think of me?  I must seem terribly immodest.  But, you see, among my people, we— "

"No, no . . . ."  He shook his head.  "It is just that— "

She looked up at him and started to bring her hand to his cheek, but then she stopped, as if she couldn’t bring herself to touch him either.  Instead, she said, "It is all right.  I will do it."  Then she turned her back to him, kneeling down.  He couldn’t tell exactly where or how much of the potion she applied, but when she stood up, he thought he, too, could feel the energy that rose up with her from the earth, like a column of light.  Then she turned to face him again, her eyes shining with it.

"What do we do now?" he said.

"Now we raise power."

"And how do we do that?"

"There are many ways," she said.  "One can chant, or dance, or sing.  I can teach you, or— "  She broke off as though something were caught in her throat, and as she looked up at him, he saw that she was trembling so hard he might have thought she was freezing.  But the look in her eyes said something else.  "There is another way," she said at last, lifting the palm of her hand up toward him as she had before.  As he raised his own hand to mirror hers, he realized that he was shaking almost as hard as she was.  He winced painfully as their fingers met.  Then he knew he simply couldn’t bear this anymore.

Her kiss felt like the breath of life itself, whispering his name, shuddering helplessly against his lips.  Blood pounded through his veins like a molten river of fire, sweeping away everything but its own fluid insistence.  As she pulled him down on the cool grass, her fingers fumbled over his own with the front of his shirt, then ran gently over his bare shoulders as he threw the shirt aside.

With an urgency far more immediate than he had felt putting them on, he bent to take off the boots as she grappled with the cinturón at his waist, then ran her fingers down inside the pants as he struggled to get them off.  For a moment, he almost didn’t know what to do next.  Then it came to him.  As he reached for her, her thighs rose up against his hips like the smooth slender columns of an ancient temple, her fingers seeking out the most intimate parts of him, guiding him to its entrance.

At first he felt a slight resistance, but then she jerked and something gave, and then he was inside her, moving gently at first, then harder, caressing her savagely, the way a lion might caress a gazelle.  For a moment, he felt a trace of horror at what he was doing, but soon his rational mind seemed to melt away, and he knew he was no more in control of this than he was of a tidal wave.

Nor was she.  A look of pure awe welled up in her eyes as she tried to say something that never quite came out.  Her fingers etched the rigid muscles of his back, then traced the trembling outline of his lips as he gritted his teeth in the exquisite agony of this most primal act of worship.  Then she began to thrust even harder against him, drawing him even deeper into her—though, given the way she looked at him, she may as well have been pleading for her very life—or for his—or for both, since both her own life force and his seemed to be flowing together now into one overwhelming pool of dazzling radiant energy that welled up in the center of her circle until finally it exploded, and the circle itself became a living, pulsing star.