Priest and Priestess

It was past the hour of vigil.  The last of the priests would have said his prayers and gone to bed, but the waning moon still lingered in the eastern sky, casting soft shadows against the east wall.  El Zorro knew that even a fleeting silhouette would stand out more against the whitewashed adobe than he might have liked.  But this would be the one way into the mission that Marigál would never expect him to take—if only because this wall was so exposed.

Four or five olive trees, a few figs and a small grove of oranges grew on the other side of the road that led into the rancheria.  But the road was wide enough that the trees could neither hide him under their dark branches nor help him climb.  He would just have to be quick.

He maneuvered the stallion into place, then leaped up into a squatting position on the horse’s bare back and, in one fluid motion, jumped up, grabbed the exposed beams that protruded from the wall and braced himself between them.  Tornado disappeared almost instantly amid the shadows of the olive trees as Zorro climbed up onto the beams, then hoisted himself easily over the top of the wall and onto the slope of a red tile roof.  Keeping low, holding his scabbard so it didn’t drag over the ridges, he flattened himself against the eaves, then reached down to grab the braces of a wooden upright and slid off over the edge, lifting his feet carefully to clear the railing of the veranda.  He was in.

He stood perfectly still for several long minutes, watching for any movement, listening for the slightest sound.  Then slowly, carefully, he began to make his way past one window after another, pausing to listen, trying the occasional door.  Finally he came to a dark corridor that led back into a hallway where more of these dormitory rooms ran along the mission’s outer wall.

They would be like prison cells inside, he knew, with only small deep windows at the rear.  And right now, they would all be locked.  He didn’t know how he would be able to tell if his father or the girl were in any of them.  But somehow he suspected that Oreana would be able to sense he was out here and would find a way to signal him.   And once he found her, she would probably know where his father was being held.

The moon had risen far enough to shine down on the well in the center of the courtyard by the time he left the upper floor.  But the ground floor seemed even less promising.  No guards had been posted anywhere, and there were fewer private rooms, apart from the priests’ quarters.  On this level, nearly everything was given over to the day-to-day business of this small but almost entirely self-sustaining community: the kitchens, the pantry, the baths, the laundry, the dying vats, the big textile looms and, of course, the church.

The main church doors were not locked, and as he slid through them, he quickly ducked into the shadows just beyond the glow of the votive candles that flickered softly on a nearby table.  Moving silently up an outer aisle, past a small chapel dedicated to St. Dominic and one to the Virgin, then past the baptistery chamber, he turned before the altar.

Behind it, the images of saints, angels and the crucified Savior seemed to look down at him in low relief from the panels of the huge richly painted hardwood altarpiece as he paused quickly to kneel and cross himself.  Finally he went out past the stairs that led up to the bell tower, then ducked into another book-lined room that probably served as both a classroom and a library.  The door to an adjacent storage room was locked, but once he picked the lock and slipped inside, he found only boxes of soap and candles, bed linens, table linens, blankets, writing paper and other such supplies.

Back out in the soft fragrant night air, he leaned against one of the big stone columns of the portico that lined the courtyard, feeling uncomfortably like he had the night he searched the alcalde’s house looking for a man who had just disappeared.  Wasn’t this, too, an exercise in hubris?  Even if such magic spells were only tricks like the one Oreana had played on Zavala and Muñoz, or the one her brother had played on the guards, even if all they did was bend one’s expectations a bit, he still didn’t know how to see through them—not when they were trained on him.  He was sure he was missing something now, just as he had missed the servants’ quarters in the alcalde’s house until Silvio had brought them to his attention.  But that insight in itself didn’t help.

A sudden wave of exhaustion swept over him, and for a moment he closed his eyes only to flinch at what a dangerous thing he had just let himself do.  But then, for some reason even he couldn’t explain, he found himself heading back toward the kitchen again, quickly, silently.  Even before he got there, he knew.  It was the cellar.  Though this mission didn’t seem to devote a lot of time or space to wine making, there would be an underground cellar linked by tunnels to the caves below the tannery.  Everything he was looking for—his father, the girl and Marigál—would all be hidden underground.  And the kitchen was an obvious way in.

The big brick ovens took up most of the space in the tiny courtyard adjoining the kitchen.  Just beside them, to his right, a wooden door led inside to a room where clay furnaces were used to heat the comales and ollazas in which most of the food was cooked.  Just past the racks of dried herbs and chilies, beside the jugs of oil and shelves of cooking utensils, another door led into the pantry.

Stirring what was left of the day’s cooking fires, he lit a candle, then slipped through the door and down a narrow stone staircase where oaken barrels lined one wall.  Against the other wall, racks of bottles shivered in the flickering light.  A small wine press sat idly in one corner and, nearby, he noticed a few chairs and a table that held a big leather bound ledger.

Then, there it was: another hallway leading out the other side of the cellar.  Shielding the candle with a cupped hand, he headed into the cramped space, but he was surprised at how soon it dead-ended, leading nowhere but past a couple of windows with iron bars set deep in the thick stone walls.  Each window looked in on a tiny cell whose entrance was on the opposite side.

Clearly the most dangerous prisoners were kept here.  Food could be brought to them directly from the kitchen, left on the windowsill, but no one could get in or out of the cells this way.  The corridor that led past the cell doors probably surfaced in a more secure area inside the mission walls—one that, like the trap door in the tannery, could be easily disguised or hidden.

But what would be the most likely hiding place?  Already he had the feeling he ought to know, and he was about to return to the church when the soft echo of footsteps made him freeze.  He knew it wasn’t just the guards Marigál had stationed to wait for him at this end of the tunnel from the caves, though he was sure they were there, just past the cell doors.  He could hear a few of them snoring lightly, even before they all stirred and jerked to attention.

"Oh, Padre," said a weary voice, "we were just— "

"Of course, Private," came the disquietingly tranquil reply.  "God knows you must all be very tired by now.  Though I must say, I am glad to find you sleeping so lightly.  This outlaw Zorro, he is quite a dangerous man, you know, and I am certain he would not think twice about slitting your throats while you slept, if he got the chance."

"Sí, Padre."  There were shuffling sounds as a few of the men got to their feet.

"Perhaps you would do better to move a little farther down that way," Marigál suggested, "down where the tunnel widens out.  It is a little cooler down there, and you might be able to hide yourselves back in the shadows.  That way when Señor Zorro comes through, he might not notice you until he’s gone past you, and then you can cut off his escape."

"Sí, Padre, gracias."

Zorro nodded pensively to himself as he heard the lancers moving back down the corridor away from the cells.  He suspected that Marigál had other motives for wanting them away from here, aside from capturing him.  As he saw the flickering light of a candle cast striped shadows across the floor, he snuffed his own candle and moved back from the window of the nearest cell.  Then he heard the clank of iron and the scrape of a key in the lock.  But he may as well have been tied to a tree, as helpless as he felt.  All he could do was hold his breath.

"You are not asleep, mija."

"Did you really think I would be?" said Oreana quietly.

"And you have eaten nothing."  Marigál closed the cell door gently behind him, sweeping his cassock out of the way, then set the candle on the windowsill near a tray of food as Zorro flinched from the light.  "Surely you must be thirsty at least," Marigál added as he picked up the small carafe of wine and a glass that had been left on the tray.

"Not that thirsty."

"No?"

"You think I couldn’t smell what’s in it?"

Marigál shrugged, but his smile, though faint, looked surprisingly tender.  "If you could," he said, "then you should know it was meant only to calm your nerves."

"And to disguise the other ingredients."

"Oreana."  He pressed the smile from his lips, then shook his head.  "You look so much like your grandmother.  I knew you would."

"You will stay away from me, Señor."  She didn’t move from the cot against the near wall where she appeared to be sitting, and her voice sounded as calm and commanding as it had the night she had appeared in Diego’s room, but Zorro knew she was terrified.  He was tempted to slip out at once and go look for the other entrance, but his body didn’t want to let him move.

"So young to be so distrustful," said the priest as he poured some of the blood red wine into the glass.  "Perhaps a more private auto de fey, (1) then, eh?" he mused, taking a sip that drained half the glass, then offering her the other half.  "No?"  He lifted an eyebrow at her refusal, then finished the drink himself.  "Well . . . ."

"I know what you want," she said.

"Do you?"  He placed the glass on the tray again.  "Do you really?  If you did, I doubt you would be so reluctant to accept my friendship."

"You want more than friendship."

"But I can be very patient.  As it is I’ve waited—what?  Fifteen years for this?  Oh, I know.  You think you love Diego de la Vega, don’t you."  Folding an arm across his stomach, he cupped his chin and smiled through his knuckles.  "You would be surprised at how easily such feelings can be transferred, especially when they are so strong.  You are capable of great passion, as I knew you would be.  Of course, I had hoped to awaken it myself.  Who would have thought a young man with his reputation would turn out to be such a cad?"

"You dare speak to me of his misdeeds, Señor?"

"Well, perhaps he shouldn’t be judged too harshly.  You are quite a temptation.  Or maybe he always was a bit more of a rogue than anyone realized.  He really is el Zorro, isn’t he."  Marigál chuckled softly.  "He does have Señor Endicott completely fooled, I must say."

"Señor Endicott would be puzzled by anyone who had even a trace of gallantry."

"Oh, yes"—the priest shook his head sadly, letting his clasped hands fall open in a gesture of helplessness.  "You must forgive me.  He really can be quite self-indulgent sometimes, even if he is useful.  Mmm . . . more bruises, eh?"  Tilting his head, he squinted and started to reach for her, then caught himself as she flinched away.  "Well, I figured you could take care of yourself," he added.  "To be honest, I’m surprised he’s still alive."

"You wanted Diego to kill him, eh?  And that would have sealed his doom as well."

"Two birds with one stone," said Marigál.  "Once I take control of the de la Vega hacienda, I can hardly leave him running around free to contest the transfer, now can I?"

"So if he had killed Endicott, his skill with the blade would have been revealed.  He would have been caught and hung as Zorro, or the deed would have caught up with him some other way.  And no one would have been able to prove that you did anything to him.  Just like Urbino."

"But I didn’t do anything to Urbino.  I simply quit protecting him.  I’m sure you know even he would have agreed he got exactly what was coming to him."

"He was your friend," said Oreana thickly.  "He trusted you."

"Oh come now," said Marigál, rolling his eyes.  "You are going to have to learn not to get so attached to the once-born.  You can’t get too close to them, even if you want to.  It only frightens them.  When they start to grasp what we can— "

"Diego is not frightened—not of me, or of you."

"Then he’s a fool."  Marigál turned away, bringing his folded palms to his lips, then glancing up at the ceiling.  "You probably think he loves you too," he went on, shaking his head.  "A man like that, with his looks?  And his taste for adventure?  He wasn’t meant to stay with just one woman any more you were meant to be given to such an—amateur.  Why, he barely knows how to cast a circle.  Or do you think he would really give up Holy Mother Church for you?  To study sorcery?  To live as an outcast?  A heretic?  His family would disown him.  His father would disinherit him."

"You said there was nothing harmful in the wine," Oreana replied.  "Yet after just one taste, such poison comes from your tongue."

"Medicine often does taste bad," said Marigál, turning to face her again.  "And you—you are a priestess.  You were born to be more than the wife of some rich young hacendado, even if he does run around in some silly costume ingratiating himself to the peasants, trying to treat the merest symptoms of a disease he doesn’t begin to comprehend.

"What do you think will happen to the poor dark skinned masses when Iturbide’s government falls, as you know it must?  Mexico is teeming with wealthy well educated ambitious young criollos just like de la Vega—men whose thirst for enlightenment and disdain for tradition and has left them all nearly as remorseless and self-centered as Endicott.  Without the influence of Spain and the Spanish priests, they will not think twice about falling on these missions like a pack of hungry wolves, carving them up among themselves and their allies, making de facto slaves of the natives, impoverishing the merchant classes.  The resulting class struggle will make the insurgency look like a picnic by the sea."

"And you think you can stop this by causing more harm?  By fueling the suspicion and the mistrust between classes?  The hatred?"

"No."  Marigál, who had let his voice rise to a more passionate pitch than Zorro would have ever thought possible, now let it fade back to its usual stoic amusement.  "No," he said again.  Then, to Zorro’s amazement, taking a step toward her, he sank down on one knee.   "But together," he said, "you and I can gain control of enough land in California that we can give at least some of these natives a place where they can continue to live, a shelter from this impending storm."

Oreana took in a deep breath, and Zorro could almost feel her eyes narrowing.  "This is what you want of me?  To save the mission Indians?"

"Oh, I suppose we could just let nature take its course," Marigál added with a shrug.  "Things would all certainly even themselves out in the end.  Spring follows winter; some things die so that others might live.  But is it so terribly wrong to want to help save a few of those fragile things that otherwise might perish?"

"No, of course not.  We all do what we can."  The girl’s voice faltered just a little, and as the priest continued, Zorro began to realize how easy it might be to fall under his spell.

"All your life your aunts and your grandmother—they told you stories about me," he mused.  "But did it ever occur to you that there might be another side?  They preach tolerance and kindness, even to those who prey on the helpless.  And yet they turned me away.  Will you do the same now without even giving me a chance?  Without at least hearing me out?"

"Your actions proclaim your character, Señor.  You kidnap people.  You extort ransom— "

"I take only from the wealthy few.  Young de la Vega, for all his sympathy for the poor, do you think either he or his father would willingly agree to give back their land to those from whom it was stolen?  No—they want to help.  But they also want to remain in control.  They are the real extortionists, bleeding an endless supply of gratitude from those they help."

"And what about you?  Do you not covet their gratitude and their loyalty?  Do you not also seek to control them, to manipulate them for your own ends?"

"I would not need them if you were with me.  Oreana, don’t you see?  Together, we can change the world.  We can work miracles.  We can save so many lives."

"We have only one law, Señor.  Harm none.  This is a law you clearly do not respect, and I have no desire to share in the retribution you will face when all the harm you have done returns to you at last.  You wanted me to see what you did to that boy Alonzo del Valle.  Do you expect me now to simply ignore such an act of cruelty?"

Marigál stood up and shrugged.  "I did nothing more to him than the Jews do to their own male children," he said.

"Liar."  The girl’s voice had begun to tremble now.  "Oh, his body will heal, but did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell what you really did to him.  Where is he?  Where did you send him?"

"Away. . . ."  The word itself seemed to hang in the air like some ghastly apparition whose presence only intensified as it sank like an echo into the very walls around them, and Zorro felt himself shiver as he realized that he had already seen the truth of it.  "Oh, it was the kindest thing to do," Marigál went on.  "Considering what he had been through."

"What you put him through."

"What he put himself through, refusing to confess.  He was in a great deal of pain.  But you want to bring him back to it, don’t you.  You see?  You see how easy it is to want to do what you think is best for someone else, even though you know the suffering it will cause?"

"You twist everything around," said Oreana; "It isn’t the same thing."

Marigál smiled.  "Pato, ganso y anzarón," he said.  Then, cupping his chin thoughtfully, he added, "Tell you what.  If you want to go find him, if you can bring him back, I’ll give him to you, and you can do whatever you want with him.  Set him free.   Keep him as a pet."

"And what about Arturo?"

"Well now you know I can’t let him go—not unless you agree to join me, that is.  But I will give you some time to decide."

"And if I say no?"

"Oh, let us not dwell on such unfortunate possibilities.  Let us think about saving young del Valle, eh?  What do you say?"

Oreana said nothing, and Zorro couldn’t see her face, but it was clear from the faint grin that parted Marigál’s lips that he had read the consent in her eyes.  He reached into the fold of the sleeve of his cassock and held something out to her.

"You know what this is, I suppose," he said.  Then, in response to her continued silence, he added, "Very well, then," and returned to retrieve the carafe of wine.  Removing its stopper, he tore open the small packet and poured its contents into the carafe.  Then he swirled them around in the clear dark liquid until it grew slightly murky, and finally he poured another glass and gave it to her.  When she handed it back, Zorro winced to see that it was empty.

"You see," said Marigál, filling the glass again, "I wouldn’t put anything like this in your wine without your knowledge."  Then he raised the glass to his own lips, drained it in one gulp and set it and the carafe on the windowsill again.  "Sweet dreams," he said softly as he turned to step through the cell door.  Then he shut the door behind him and disappeared.

Outside in the hallway, Zorro felt himself shudder.  He almost didn’t dare believe what he had just witnessed.  It had crossed his mind even before the dance that Marigál might be using the girl as bait to catch Diego, but clearly he had also used Diego to catch her.  Not only had he laid out every last step of this intricate plan, but he had done so with such deadly precision that now the outlaw found himself wondering if the man hadn’t known all along he was standing here.  Maybe he even knew what Zorro had already decided he must do.

Edging closer to the window, he knew he couldn’t call to the girl or he would attract the attention of the soldiers.  Besides, if she hadn’t already succumbed to the effects of the drug, she soon would.  And even if he did return to the church, and even if he did find the other entrance to the tunnels, which he strongly suspected would be behind the main altar, and even if he were able to get her out of the cell and past the soldiers, he knew he would only be rescuing her body.

Her mind, her spirit, everything that made her who she was, would still be out wandering around somewhere in some other realm of existence he couldn’t even begin to imagine, looking for the corresponding spark of awareness that had fled the body of Alonzo del Valle.  And Marigál would be there too, stalking her.  If she didn’t agree to join him, he might not let her return.  Now there was only one way to save her—and himself.

He studied the wine carafe for a moment before he finally reached through the bars for it, thinking he must surely have lost his mind.  There wasn’t much left, but the substance Marigál had added had begun to settle in a thick concentration at the bottom.  Swirling the carafe, Zorro crossed himself and said a quick prayer, as if this were some deranged form of communion, then drank the rest of the liquid, wincing a little at the slightly bitter aftertaste.  But he had only a moment or two to savor it before he felt the dizziness beginning to overtake him.

Snuffing out the candle Marigál had left on the windowsill, he moved back into the darkest corner of the hallway, where he let himself sink to the floor in a heap of soft black silk.