.Madrid, 1820.
In the heat of midday, the sun hung over the house in a golden mist, slanting rays pouring past the ornamental railings, casting shadows of iron curlicues that shifted slowly across the floor like a marvelous sundial. The shadows were very black against the gold as the ladies stood on the balcony, just far enough back that they could see without being seen by those in the courtyard below.
Fair-haired Maria, the most beautiful of them all, was not afraid and leaned on the railing in full view, her golden eyes slitted against the light. Francisca, with red tinging her coiled hair, was just behind her, fluttering like a butterfly, and Idoia sat in a heap of blankets, far back in the shadows where no one could see her.
"Idoia, keep your shawls tight around you," Tía Lucia said, her heels clicking as she walked to her niece's chair to pull the blankets more securely around her. A fleeting expression of annoyance passed Idoia's face.
"If the sun grows any brighter, I shall melt," she said dryly. "I don't believe it is possible to be warmer."
Idoia had been ill for a fortnight and it was because of her, a black colt, and a young Californio, that they were sitting on the balcony now in the full heat of the sun. She had overheard it all last night…while she was supposed to be in bed recovering, she was really standing hidden in the shadows at the top of the grand staircase, watching while the dinner guests were ushered into the black and white marble entryway. She did not remember her youngest brother's University friend, the Californio; she had not seen him, but she had heard his voice ringing through the open door with the warm candlelight that threw strange shadows over the painting of her grandfather that hung in the entryway.
It had started innocently enough. Her father, Don Alberto, was telling the guests of a string of young horses he had brought into the city from his lands outside Madrid to begin their training. The work had been going as well as could be expected, except for one, a black colt, as wild as a windstorm, who thought he was a full grown stallion.
"He has had far too much time running free without a human touch. I don't know what to do with him. My trainer has not even been able to put a saddle on him."
That was when the Californio spoke for the first time. His accent was almost perfect, but there was a hint of something very far away in it that made Idoia shiver. The young man had come like other dons to study in Madrid and here he sat, at her father's table, in her father's house, looking at the other dinner guests with eyes that had seen the far side of the World.
"You mean to break him with kindness, Señor de la Vega?" Don Alberto laughed at the Californio. "Believe me, there is no man kinder to horses than my trainer, yet somehow all the conventional methods seem to fail with this horse."
"I do not mean kindness," the Californio replied. "It is a matter of gaining his trust and winning him with his own logic. I have seen fully wild horses under saddle in a little more than thirty minutes. There are other ways of breaking horses, señor."
"And how?" Don Alberto asked.
"In Alta California…we whisper to them."
Idoia knew by the tone of the Californio's voice that he was teasing her father, and in her mind, she could see her father's indignant face before her brother Roberto's voice burst out. "Father! Why not make it a wager? Say that any of us who can tame the horse can have him. Let us see what de la Vega can do, and if he fails, we will all try."
When Maria and Francisca had come up to bed afterwards, all they could speak of was the wager and the handsome young Don.
"I say Don Diego de la Vaga is the handsomest of all," Francisca said, pulling a black lace shawl over her head to peer at herself in the mirror, "Whatever else Alta California is, it does make beautiful men."
"Hush, Francisca," Idoia said, taking the shawl from her sister and folding it, "He can't help being handsome. You mustn't hold it against him."
Maria turned to look at her with a withering expression, "You do say the oddest things, sometimes, Idoia."
"She is jealous because she had not yet been introduced to him."
"I am curious, because he comes from so far away," Idoia replied firmly, turning away as the maids came into the room to help her sisters undress. Idoia, already in her night shift, slipped away to her own room; she was tired of hearing her sisters talking on and on about Roberto's university friends. They were all handsome, they all knew how to ride, fence and woo ladies…and as far as she was concerned, they all looked exactly alike. It was the single purpose of all of them to wed golden-haired Maria; she was too beautiful and too rich to pass by, and they never missed a chance to make themselves look ridiculous to gain her favor. Francisca rode on the wave of her sister's fame; Idoia preferred to read a book.
The next morning, Idoia went around the house, looking for her father; she found him at last in the library, sitting at the top of a ladder, gazing deep into a book. She looked up at him, with the heavy shawl her aunt had made her wear, waiting until he looked down and saw her.
"You ought to be resting, cariño," he said, coming down the ladder to take her hand and lead her to a chair by the window. "Did you wish to speak to me?"
"I heard about the horse…the Californio…and the wager…" she replied, sitting obediently in the chair.
"Sí…he will either impress us all, or render himself ridiculous. Many sillier things have been done in pursuit of your sister's favor."
Idoia laughed and shook her head, "Surely you would never allow a Californio to seek Maria's hand?"
"Of course not," Don Alberto replied. "He may be wealthy now, but I have it on good authority that his grandfather was an officer in the army. I would never allow my daughter to stoop so low…but he is a well-spoken caballero and I like him."
"Father…" Idoia reached out and placed her hand over her father's, "I was very much hoping…It would make me very happy if I might watch the Californio tame the horse."
"But my dear…your health…!"
Idoia was not as beautiful as her sisters…at least not in her Aunt's opinion. Her coloring was too dark, her hair too unruly, her cheekbones too high and pronounced, and her chin too stubborn, but any vulgarity that might be seen about her face, was nullified by her large, dark eyes. She turned them on her father now. He wilted.
"I will arrange it somehow," he said at last. "Now, I would like to see you resting."
"I am resting," she replied flippantly. "I am sitting in a chair." The corner of her eye crinkled with good humor, "Muchas gracias, father."
She had not counted on being forced to wear four shawls in the full heat of the sun on the day appointed for the Taming of the Horse, when the ladies had assembled on the balcony overlooking the front courtyard. Tía Lucia had insisted, however and Idoia resigned herself to the idea that she might faint from heat before the horse, or Roberto and his friends, even arrived.
Then, beyond the soft chirping of a small bird nesting in the clay tiles just above their heads, there was heard the sound of shouting, the high, heart-stopping scream of a horse and the heavily carved street-door burst open. The horse leapt into the middle of the courtyard like a black lightning bolt (which no one has seen come, but everyone is quite certain is there), turning around and around wildly, his mane and tail flying, the red velvet lining of his nostrils burning with fresh pumped blood. Don Alberto's men, who had brought the colt from outside the city, threw up their hands and went back out the street-side door, leaving the halter they had managed to put over the colt's head half slipping off his ears, the lead rope snapping around his feet. The ladies on the balcony breathed sighs of relief when they saw the black colt; the look in his white-rimmed eye was fear, not wickedness. He was not bad, only wild.
But oh! How his coat shone in the sun, first soft, than shining, like crumbling charcoal. There was not a spec of white on him, he was all blue-black and red-burned mane and red-sparked eye as he whirled around and around the courtyard, his unshod hooves muffled on the flagstones. As he reared, finally hurling away the halter, the brands on his jaw and on his hip, burned in the black coat, forever marked him as true Spanish blood. Roberto and his friends stood under the arcade, in the shadows, well back from the flying feet of the horse. As Idoia leaned forward, peering through the twisted iron-work of the balcony, she saw the Californio for the first time.
It could only be him. He was not dressed like the other dons; they wore fashionable suits of broadcloth, sober and tightly tailored. Don Diego's jacket was of dark blue stuff and heavily embroidered with flowers, his trousers were slashed to snow-white linen underneath, which only made his swagger more pronounced. He looked as though he'd blown in on a wind from Far Away as he stepped out of the shadows towards the horse, a long longeing whip in one hand.
He turned towards the balcony, bowing to the ladies…than paused in his bow; Idoia, without realizing it, had risen and was standing just behind Maria, shawls falling to the floor at her feet. Don Diego looked up with cheerful, laughing eyes, catching her gaze, as if he knew she was admiring him, and was thanking her for it. A sudden rush of heat came to Idoia's face and she stepped away again, back into the shadows.
But Don Diego had forgotten her now; he was turning to the horse, speaking in a low voice in a language no one could understand; not touching the colt's black flanks with the whip, but only snaking it around his fetlocks. With a snort of fear, the colt laid back his ears and bolted madly around the courtyard; but he could not run forever and slowly, his pace slackened. It was a dance, a beautiful, intricate dance. Every time the horse moved or backed away, Don Diego anticipated the move and backed away first, gently, never moving abruptly, his low voice both soothing and commanding. It seemed as time went on that an invisible rope extended between the young Don and the black colt, that the whip was no longer a thing of fear, but something of comfort.
With a ripple of interest, those watching began to see what was happening. The Californio was not taming the horse, not gentling him, nor being kind to him…he was making the colt understand. After about a quarter of an hour, Idoia could see realization coming over the colt. His ears were no longer pinned back, his body began to relax, his taught jaw loosened. Don Diego untying the sash from around his waist and stepping forward slowly (not directly towards the colt, but a little to the left) reached out his hand. There was the long sound of drawn breath as the colt stepped forward himself and touched the outstretched palm with an inquisitive lip.
Quickly, Don Diego looped the sash around the horse's neck, letting it slide though his fingers again as the colt snorted and jerked backwards. Again, he looped it around the colt's neck, until the white faded from the dark eyes and the ears pricked forward once more. The horse understood in that moment that, if he stopped fighting the sash, the sash would stop fighting him.
There was an enthralled silence as man and horse still perfectly still in the courtyard, the sash resting gently on the black satin neck of the colt. A murmur of voices from the balcony on the opposite side of the courtyard proved that even the servants had come out to watch. Don Diego spoke, but none on the balcony could tell what he said, until Roberto came out from under the arcade with a saddle over his arm, which he handed to the horse-tamer.
But now Don Diego knew he was drawing a crowd; he separated the saddle blanket from the saddle, then flashed one devious smile up at the balcony where the ladies stood before stepping towards the horse, the blanket outstretched before him. Like a great racehorse, rather than being unnerved by the many eyes watching him, the young Don was even better with an audience. Now it was a show and he was performing for all of them.
They watched on, spellbound by the painstaking process of fitting a simple hackamore, than saddling the horse; watched as the colt's head jerked up at the tightening of the cinch, saw the tell-tale arching of his back; watched as he kicked up his heels wildly, trying to send the saddle flying into the hard-staring midday sun. But the black colt's surprise at the saddle was short-lived and in a very few minutes, he was standing as still as a plow horse, head bent under Don Diego's hand.
Then, with the greatest gentleness, the young Don put his foot in the stirrup and in a moment, he was in the saddle.
"Surely God made man to fit a horse, and horse to fit a man," Idoia barely suppressed the awe in her voice as she stood behind Maria, gazing down at the young Don, who sat as if he had grown centaur-like from the horse's back. "They look as though they were constructed together."
Don Diego's seat was strange but good. The stirrups were unusually long and he sat very deep in the saddle, his steady weight calming the colt. He held the reins in his left hand, not pulling at the stiff hackamore, but only using them to gently touch the colt's neck as he steered him almost entirely with his legs. The colt, calm, but with ears pricked, came to a halt, breathing hard. The Don let him stand there for a few seconds before he dropped the reins and threw out his hands in a gesture no one could mistake. He had finished.
Kicking his feet out of the stirrups, he leapt to the ground. "Ha!" he exclaimed. "And what was my time, Don Alberto?"
"A hair over twenty-six minutes, Señor de la Vega," Don Alberto said peering at the watch in his extended hand, "And the horse is yours."
"Muchas gracias, señor," Don Diego replied with a graceful bow. "You are very generous; he is as fine a horse as I could ever ask for."
"Señor!"
Both Don Diego and Don Alberto looked up at golden-haired Maria resting one hand on the iron-wrought railing of the balcony. In the other hand, she held a red rose, and as Don Diego stepped forward, she tossed it. With a laugh, he caught it out of the air, and, bowing again, tucked it into his lapel.
To Be Continued...
Author's Note: Ever since my sister first read me the story with the beautiful pictures out of Walt Disney's Stories From Other Lands, I have been enthralled by the concept of Zorro. Later on we read 'The Curse of Capistrano' and eagerly watched what ever Zorro movie adaption we could find.
One thing that always troubled me was the concept of Toronado. The various adaptions and novelizations seem to be under the impression that it is possible to keep a horse in a box canyon for an extended period of time, then simply throw a saddle on him and ride the night when one feels like it. In reality, a highly schooled horse like Toronado would have required many years of intensive training before he would have been capable of the things indicated by the books and movies.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little story!
~Psyche