The Señorita Makes a Choice

He was surprised at how quickly he could recreate in his mind’s eye the images of the ancient temple.  The fire under the cauldron burned cheerfully in the twilight, and now he thought he could even see once more the letters that had been carved into the hearth stones, inlaid with precious metal and gems: green jade, onyx, topaz, amber, red coral, garnet and some clear purple stone he didn’t know, then lapis and iridescent mother-of-pearl.

For a moment as he paced around the circle, he found himself so caught up in the beauty of the hearth that he had to blink and shake his head to free himself from its spell.  Then, as he returned to the place where the girl had disappeared between the perimeter stones, midway between the eastern and the northern gates, he let his fingers come to rest again on the rough sandstone, thinking how well he remembered its texture, even though he had never actually felt it before with his own fingers.  Technically, it didn’t even exist in the physical world.

He wondered if he might still be under the influence of some drug, though he didn’t see how.  He couldn’t recall when he had last eaten or drunk anything besides a cup of water he himself had poured from a big clay water jar in the kitchen.  Perhaps a trace of Magaña’s poison still lingered in his system.

But however one explained it, this vision felt like something he could control at will, bringing it in or out of focus—almost like being absorbed in the pages of a story, though he knew that, past a certain point, this story would absorb him completely, just as it had absorbed Alonzo del Valle.  It would turn so vivid that it would become real, leaving the world he knew as reality to fade and be forgotten like a dream.

He didn’t know if Doña Evelia had the same sense he did of actually being in the temple, but suddenly he understood it was her ability to concentrate that gave him what control he had.  Then he also understood she wouldn’t come here.  She would keep her mind focused on this ancient place of power, but she would stay in the physical world, holding onto the fragile cord that anchored him to it.

Gazing into the shadows beyond the ring stones, out to the line of trees that marked the edge of the nearby forest, Diego recalled how he had felt before, finding himself alone, on foot, in the middle of nowhere.  Then, taking a deep breath, he slipped between the uprights and, without looking back, headed up the path in the direction the girl had gone.

The soft hoot of an owl sent shivers up his spine, but as he entered the gloomy forest, the moonlight filtered down through the tree branches, lighting a narrow path that led up a hill.  As he climbed, he tried not to think about what sort of creatures might be stalking him even now—wolves, cats, or perhaps something even worse, some mythical beast he couldn’t even begin to imagine, a dragon, or some other fantastical chimera.

Instead he tried to think about Toledo, to recall what it was like.  He had only seen it once or twice, though it was just a hard day’s ride south of Madrid.  Even coming from Alcalá de Henares, it was only a bit farther than Los Angeles to Capistrano, and certainly not as far as Santa Barbara.  He had gone there once to see the works of el Greco and then again one Christmas to visit some distant cousins on his mother’s side.  But why else would one go there, he thought, except to get away from the glamour and intrigue of court?

Surely, the narrow winding streets and the quaint medieval architecture could hardly compare with the broad boulevards, the gardens, the museums and the countless shops of Madrid that catered to the throng of wealthy aristocrats who had built palaces there to be near the King.  And then there was all the night life of the Spanish court, the dancing, the music, the sheer variety of entertainments and diversions.

By contrast, Toledo seemed aloof and uninviting, an ancient stronghold built on high ground, surrounded on three sides by a deep river gorge and on the fourth by a thick outer wall.  A huge gothic cathedral marked the center of town and, at the highest point, the ancient Moorish fortress, a big square block with a tower at each corner.  Oh, yes, of course, it did have windows, too . . . .

Rolling his eyes, he could almost see himself climbing up along the narrow streets, through the semicircular cluster of big old houses that surrounded the fortress—and this, he knew, was the right way to get to the particular house he was looking for.  Now if he could just recall what the garden had looked like.  He paused for a moment to catch his breath and to see if he could visualize the fountain in the center of the courtyard or remember the kinds of herbs that had been growing in the flowerbeds around it.  Then, behind him, he heard a chilling sound.

It might not have been the one sound he had dreaded most, but it was almost certainly among the top two or three—the soft whine, then the deep, barely audible growl.  The rustling of the leaves in the underbrush just off the path on either side of him told him it was no use trying to run.  He was already surrounded.  Slowly, he turned around to see the moonlight reflected in the amber glow of the animal’s eyes.  It crouched low, baring its teeth, the hair bristling on its back.  Not even a sword or a pistol, if he had had them, would have saved him now.

Closing his eyes, he tried to blot out the image, but this time it wouldn’t go away.  Still, he knew this wasn’t just an ordinary wolf.  Like everything else on the astral plane, it meant something.  Carefully, he tried to start breathing again.

"What do you want?" he said at last, as if it weren’t already obvious.

He knew he didn’t really expect any answer, so the one he got startled him even more than the ominous growl.  It was a soft, throaty chuckle.  As the human shape stepped out onto the path from behind a nearby tree, the animal cringed like a frightened pup.  And he had no idea why he, too, should feel such terror at the sight of a feeble-looking old woman.  She looked no different from any other of the countless old women he had seen, shoulders stooped, face wrinkled and sagging, hands trembling to maintain their grip on a rough hewn walking stick.  But he knew she was the epitome of every terrifying fairytale witch that had ever haunted his childhood nightmares.  "I want no more than you were willing to give the others," she said.

"What others?"  Diego knew he was trembling now, but somehow he didn’t think he could be blamed.  The crone narrowed her eyes.

"You know who I am," she said.

He found himself nodding, though he didn’t know why.  "You—mean to kill me."

"Ha!"—her explosive giggle made even the wolf recoil.  "As if you wouldn’t die for the girl.  Or for la mamá, no?  Wouldn’t you have done anything to save her?  But you have no love for me, have you, hero, even though I have just saved you."  Turning to the wolf, she shooed it off like a naughty child.  "Veti, veti, veti . . . .  You have more affection for them," she added, nodding at the shadows to his left, in the direction the beast and its accomplices had gone.

"Gracias," he said, still feeling a little faint.

"Oh it is nothing," she shrugged.  "Really."  She seemed barely able to keep a straight face.

"Nonetheless, you have my gratitude.  But—how might I be of service to you, Señora?"

"Señorita."  She pursed her lips to stifle another laugh, then rolled her eyes.  "That depends on just how grateful you are, eh?"  He felt his whole face jolt a little before he could catch himself, but her tone was unmistakably flirtatious, and she knew at once she had shocked him, much to her own amusement.  "Oh, do not worry," she laughed.  "I would not ask you to make that great a sacrifice.  I know how I look to you."

"But, Señorita— "  Flustered, he started to insist that she really didn’t look all that repulsive, but then, realizing that gallantry would only get him into deeper trouble, he added simply, "what do you want from me?"

"Your life."

"I–uh . . . thought you said— "

"I did not say I wanted your death.  That is what they want."

Motioning off in the direction the wolves had gone, she added, "Oh, do not worry; they are still out there.  They follow you around wherever you go.  They’re always there, stalking you—and do not try to tell me you’re surprised," she added, seeing his reaction.  "You have felt them before, breathing down your neck.  You enjoy their company, eh?  Though you know how hungry they are."

Diego took a deep breath.  "So you want me . . . not to die?"

The woman squinted at him disdainfully.  "You will die, whatever else happens.  I have just postponed your death a little.  Though if you wish, I can postpone it a little longer.  You might live a long time."

He lifted his brows into a helpless shrug.  "But–uh . . . who wouldn’t wish for such a thing?"

The old woman snorted.  "Only one so young could ask such a foolish question."  Her hand still trembling as she clutched the walking stick, she moved with an effort that made him think he really ought to help her, except for the almost menacing sense of dignity and determination he felt coming from her.  As she came within a few steps of him, she raised a finger in warning.  "Consider carefully, hero.  They"—she nodded after the wolves—"they will give you a quick death, a clean and painless death, a death of the sort that would suit a warrior.  The death I offer you might not be so heroic.

"First you will notice the little things—the pain in your shoulder, the crick in your back, the lines in your face.  Then the chills in winter, the fever, the sickness.  Your body will wither.  Your keen eyes, your keen mind—they will fade."  Looking him up and down, she added, "You are handsome now, but before long your hair will turn grey like mine, and your hands, too, will not be so steady.  Try wielding a sword then."

"But—surely there are some . . . benefits to growing old?"  Diego knew he was trying more to be tactful now than honest.  "There would be the company of your friends, your family?  Your children?  What good are all the sacrifices—what good is fame and glory—if you never live long enough to enjoy any of the things you have fought for?"

"Well, of course, that is what I would say," the woman shrugged.  "But others would tell you it is better not to see your friends and relatives grow old and die, better not to grow feeble and helpless.  How will it feel, hero, when you are no longer able to help anyone, even yourself?  How will it feel when you become a burden, even on your own children?"

Letting his gaze drift, Diego studied the darkness.  "This is not a choice most people get to make, is it," he said.

"Most people are not so reckless with their lives, eh?"  She nodded, mirroring his shrug as if to acknowledge the admission.  "But you—like all heros, you make this choice every day, and it never stays made.  Not until that one final time.  Maybe this time."

"But to fear death is to court it," Diego protested, knowing that he had a point.  "Besides, death does teach you to value life—no?—to appreciate what you have."

"And what do you have, hero?" she replied easily.  "Is it really all you want?  If you fear life, you may as well be dead.  No, this time—this time—just once, you must choose me."

"I see."  Diego took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.  "And if I do not?"

The old woman lifted an eyebrow and glanced off into the shadows.  "Then I will give you back to them.  If you have learned anything at all from the girl, and if you hurry, you might just be able to make it back to the physical plane in one piece."

"And what about her?"

"She will die."

"Magaña—he has her, you know."

"I know."

"And you don’t care?"

"She has her own choice to make," the woman snapped.  "With or without your help.  Your choice is before you, and if you do not pay my price, you will never find her.  You are not worthy of her.  And you will never pass this way again.  After all, it is my house you seek, is it not?"

She smiled a tiny self satisfied smile, knowing just by the look he felt spreading across his face that she had shocked him again.  In fact, he was nothing short of stunned.  Squinting, he tried to get a closer look at her in the moonlight.  Then he swallowed hard.

"Señorita Antigua," he said.

"Oreana," she nodded, then chuckled softly.  "The resemblance is no longer so easy to see, eh?  But I was younger once.  You remember, do you not, the face of la virgin in the chapel of la Señora in the cathedral in Toledo.  You came there, not so long ago.  The artisan who made that image—he was . . . a close friend of mine."

"You. . . ."  For a moment, he felt his head start to spin again.

"One day she too will grow old," said the woman gently.  "Will you love her then, hero, when she looks . . . like this?"  As she lifted the palm of her hand up toward him, he thought he saw her lips tremble a little.  And suddenly he understood how it might be possible to love her—even to want her, just as she was, to draw her into his arms and to hold her, to care for her.  He closed his eyes, then caught the cold bony fingers and brought them to his lips.

"Yes," he said.  "Yes."

"Then go to her."  As she spoke, the woman nodded up the path behind him, and when he turned, he realized that it was now a warm sunny afternoon, and the path had become a narrow city street lined with big old houses.  Already, he knew the one he wanted.  The iron gate that led into its inner courtyard was locked, but he had no trouble getting it open.  It creaked, then parted at his touch.

Inside, his feet echoed softly on the smooth polished tile.  He noticed a servant with an armload of laundry and instinctively ducked into a nearby hall before she saw him, even though he wasn’t sure anyone could see him now.  Then, to his right, the jagged shadow of another iron gate slashed across a sunlit archway, and he headed for it.  It creaked open, seemingly of its own accord.  Then a hauntingly familiar voice asked him to come inside.  Please.

Magaña stood just a few long strides away, near a stone bench under the edge of the arched portico where Alonzo del Valle had been sitting.  Now Oreana sat there, gazing wistfully into space.  A delicate stream of water trickled down from an urn cradled in the arms of a marble siren who perched on the edge of the fountain’s upper pool, dipping the curve of her tail fin into the liquid that played a sparkling toccata as it spilled over the scalloped rim and into a larger pool below, where a dozen or so large carp flashed like streaks of liquid gold in the sunlight.

Oreana’s bruises and scratches had all disappeared, and her long hair flowed as freely as water over her shoulders and down her back in golden waves.  She looked like a fairy princess in a gossamer gown of pale lavender fashioned after the empire style that had been so popular during the reign of Bonaparte.  Bands of beaded lace and satin ribbons trimmed the neck and bodice, and a delicate garland of flowers crowned her head.  Around her throat, he saw the same single strand of amber and jet beads she had worn that night by the lake.

"Diego."  She looked up at him with a mixture of surprise, tenderness and alarm, but overall she seemed just a bit too serene, perhaps even apathetic somehow, as though the mere thought of getting to her feet made her tired.  "You should not have come here," she said.

"She is right," Magaña added with a sigh.  "Now, I fear, you’ll have to stay a while."

"I do appreciate your hospitality," said Diego politely, "but neither of us will be staying long."  He headed for the girl, then planted his feet as Magaña moved sideways into his path, and he was about to take the man by the front of his cassock and shove him out of the way, when he suddenly he felt a sensation so strange he couldn’t even have been sure it was physical, as if the sorcerer had grabbed of some part of him he didn’t even know existed and was now in the process of wrenching, not just the breath, but the very soul out of him.

"She belongs to me now," he said, "and this time you won’t find either of us again."

Diego felt himself being backed into one of the stone columns and secured there, though he had no idea how.  He felt chilled, suddenly, but at the same time strangely numb.  His mind felt dizzy.  "You see?" said Magaña, raising a solicitous brow.  "You cannot just come in here and muscle your way around.  And now, mi buen," he added—and this time Diego was quite certain of where the man had grabbed him—"now, you will learn the price of your arrogance."

Gritting his teeth, he tried to breathe through the pain.  "Oreana— "

"She can’t help you now," said Magaña, watching Diego’s eyes as carefully as if he were a surgeon setting a fracture.  Then he let go and turned to walk casually out onto one of the stone pathways dividing the flowerbeds, pausing, finally, in front of a plant that grew not far from the girl.  She gasped as she watched him draw a dagger from the sleeve of his cassock and squat down to pick through the dark foliage.  At last, he clipped a twig and held it up for her to see.

"You like playing with spiders," he said, smiling faintly.  "Perhaps you would like to tell him a little bit about this one.  No?"  When she hesitated he turned back to Diego with a shrug.

"It comes from the farthest ends of the earth—a gift from some grateful English sailors who once managed, miraculously I assure you, to escape the Inquisition. (1)  It was reputed to be the most poisonous insect in the world," he added, getting to his feet.  "Not that its venom will kill you quickly.  That one in the blacksmith’s shop," he confided as he came to stand before Diego again—"that one was a mere earthly spider, not like this.  This one can poison the very soul."

"You promised not to kill him," Oreana protested.

"Oh my dear child, I have no intention of killing him," Magaña assured her.  "If he dies, it will be only because he doesn’t really want to live—because he’s convinced himself that, without you, life would be too painful. But I don’t think that is the case.  Is it," he added, turning back to face Diego again, scrutinizing him carefully.  "No, you don’t want to die, do you.  Not even to save her.  Nor do you have to.  All you have to do is break the cord that binds you to her—oh, and to that column, by the way.  That is the only thing holding you there.  Your feelings for her."

Magaña let this information sink in as he walked casually around the column, studying his victim up and down.  Diego tried to move, but he felt frozen to the spot, not as if he were bound, but more as if he were paralyzed.  He almost couldn’t catch his breath, even when Magaña came to stand in front of him again, then reached down with one hand and, with an ashen smile, began loosening the cinturón at his waist.

"The initial bite is quite painful," he said.  "But then it gets worse, once the venom spreads."

Oreana finally got to her feet.  "You said you would break the link," she insisted.

He shrugged.  "I never said it would be painless—not for either of you.  Besides, don’t you see, he must break it himself.  He must want to leave you.  Otherwise, he will never heal, never be as he was before.  Is that what you want?"

"No . . . ."  Tears ran down her cheeks.

"Then what am I to do?" said Magaña, carefully adjusting his grip on the twig as he gathered the hem of Diego’s shirt and unfastened the buttons, one by one.  Then, gingerly, as if he were lighting a fire with a piece of kindling, he released the creature onto the soft white ruffles.

Diego felt its feathery steps as it crept out of the folds of linen and onto his skin.  He thought it might not bite him if he just kept quiet, and he had already made up his mind not to give Magaña the satisfaction of hearing him cry out, even if it did.  But the pain was so intense, when it came, that for a moment he didn’t know if he had succeeded or not, or even where he was, or who he was, or what he was doing here.

He had heard that the sting of a certain jellyfish was so painful it could stop a man’s heart almost instantly, and this didn’t seem quite that bad.  But it was certainly worse than any insect bite he could ever have imagined, and, as Magaña had said, the pain didn’t fade, even after what seemed like something just short of forever.  It only mellowed and ripened into an agony that left him barely able to think of anything except making it stop.  His heart raced.  His eyes stung.  Soon he was nauseous, his whole body drenched in sweat.

"You see, this species doesn’t really need any excuse to bite," he thought he heard Magaña saying.  "And often it will bite more than once or twice.  No earthly doctor will be able to diagnose or treat you—let alone cure you, and not even Doña Evelia can break your bonds.  You alone can do that.  Just stop loving the girl," he smiled, "and all of this will go away.  Like a bad dream."

Diego could scarcely remember the word "no," but somehow he thought he heard himself say it.  Then he thought he heard Oreana pleading with him, or with Magaña, or maybe with the two of them, and he tried to focus on her voice.  "Do you really want to die?" he asked her.  "If you do, then I will try to leave—to forget you, if I can.  But do not say you are doing it for me.  Do not make me live with that, please."

"You mustn’t go near him," said Magaña.  "You will only make things harder—on him and yourself."  But his voice sounded just edgy enough to let Diego know that his own words had had an effect.  Then, all at once, he understood what Doña Evelia had really been trying to tell him, and what the old woman had been trying to tell him, too.  He and the girl really did have the same lesson to learn.

"You are still afraid, aren’t you," he said through gritted teeth.  Because of what happened to you.  Long ago—something painful.  Made you unable to lead . . . a normal life.  So you learned to put the needs of others ahead of your own.  To worship heroism.  And that way, you never had to risk having a real flesh-and-blood man in your life.  Not just some hero you could love from afar, but—a mortal man, with weaknesses.  Needs.  One who would clutter up your life with children, housework.  Cigar smoke.  One who would . . . want you.  Then leave you alone all night, to worry if he would ever return."

"And what about you?" she sobbed.  "Are you not also afraid of love?  Do you really want a flesh-and-blood woman to clutter up your life—one who will wait up for you and worry and get in your way, whose very existence will make you more vulnerable?  Wouldn’t you really prefer to go right on loving a memory, a beautiful dream of what might have been?"

Diego bit his lip to keep from crying out as he gathered his breath again.  "I might have said yes before we met," he winced.  "But then, someone showed me that reality can be beautiful, too.  It does not have to be so bad.  Sometimes there can be such—delight, don’t you think?  You said you would rather return to that world than go to heaven.  Was that just an excuse not to marry a Catholic—or did you mean it?  Please, Oreana.  Stop trying to save me.  I want you to live."

"Even if we cannot live together?  Even if we cause each other pain?"

"Yes."

"And didn’t you come here to save me?"

"I came here," Diego winced, "to save myself.  I cannot save you.  Only you can do that.  But if you do come back with me now, I swear I will not turn away from you again."

Diego wasn’t entirely sure what happened next.  He only knew that, with the caress of her hand the pain vanished, and as he took her in his arms and found her lips, everything else vanished too in a bright burst of light.  He held her until her eyes fluttered open on him, shining like the warm rays of the morning sun that poured in through the mission windows, like the first dawn of creation.