Author's note: as you can tell by the category, this fic is based on the 90's tv show Zorro, A New World, starring Duncan Regehr and Juan Diego Botto. Knowledge of those particular characters and plots is not necessary to enjoy this story, however; only knowledge of the basic Zorro tropes.
Update 19 Jan 2019: If you received notice of an update to this story, it's because I just inserted a short new chapter 13 with a new scene that's been rattling around in my head. I've also added some small polishes in many other chapters, especially the last two.
Archivist's Note: The following text file is the translation into modern American English from the original Early California Mexican Spanish of a hand-written, leather-bound volume found within the vast archives of the Familia de la Vega, which were bequeathed to the UCLA Library by Margareta de la Vega on her death eight years ago as I write this. The volume, catalogued as AQS-DLV-06833-WH8, is bound in black leather, with unmarked covers, and the title (which we have kept) hand-written on the inside front cover. It was apparently written by two individuals based on the handwriting: the main author, and a few added editorial notes with the initials "CdlV", assumed to be the author's mentioned granddaughter, Catarina de la Vega, who also apparently added the chapter numbers (possibly simply wherever the author had paused). While some efforts have been made to authenticate the story therein, as records from the period are nearly nonexistent, nothing has yet been established with any certainty. We are hopeful that, as the cataloguing continues, we might discover such authenticating documents, or at least the companion volume mentioned, the journal of Don Diego de la Vega.
The Library is indebted to Juan Carlos Garcia and James Terrell for this translation, made as part of their Master's Theses in Spanish and Early California History respectively. All names and some titles have been left in the original Spanish, as well as certain other words, deemed either common enough to be known, or with a specific meaning that is not easily translatable. A few have English translations in brackets after them. All other details, including the occasional editor's notes, are left precisely as they are in the original.
Jeremy Haskell, Chief Archivist
University of California. Los Angeles
June 18th, 2010
One
My name is Felipe Marco de la Vega. I have had other names, but I will tell them as I go. If you are family, reading this, perhaps you already know some of them. If my brother, Don Diego, were here, he would slap the back of my head for not writing Don Felipe, but in all these years I have never become accustomed to that title. I prefer Capitán – at least I earned that one.
I do not know exactly when or where I was born, or exactly how old I was on the day my life changed forever. I still have only a handful of memories from that day and before, and they returned later, as you will see. But I do know when and where that day was. The date no longer matters to anyone now living, which is only me. And the place, the old pueblo of Marenga, is almost forgotten even by the people of the new pueblo just to the south, its adobe walls, no longer protected by tile roofs, slowly melting to nothing in the sometimes rains. And almost no one knows the story, unless they read the two plaques in the church in Nueva Marenga and ask the elders there about them.
After all, it was only a tiny local uprising. Some farmers, having enough of being rodeoed by absent landowners, made some noise and set some fires, and killed some hidalgos, until a company from the Army of New Spain under Colonel Miguel Jesus de Villanueva Marques was sent to put them down. After fruitlessly chasing them around the countryside for a few weeks, the colonel decided to end it and take out his frustration by leveling an entire town – the town of Marenga, with all its inhabitants. Every man, woman, and child within the town on the day in question, living there or passing through, was murdered by cannon fire, then heavy artillery, then rifle and even pistol fire. All but one: me. I was the only survivor, a child of perhaps seven. I know all these facts because I found them out, years later.
How did I survive? My parents put me into a chest or barrel, and hid me in the middle of the wagon they were frantically pulling out of town. How do I know this, if I have no clear memories? Because to this day, I am terrified of small, enclosed places. Do not lock me in a closet, my grandchildren, or I will die of a heart attack or go screaming loco in minutes. I would add: do not bury me in a casket, but I will not care by then. Just do not discuss it in front of me. Even writing this makes me sweat.
When everyone was dead, and all was silence again, the army left, riding away in triumph, and apparently I crept out of my hiding place during the night. And the next day a young man of just eighteen came riding through, on his way from Mexico City where he had been attending school, going back to his home in Alta California: the man who would become my brother, Don Diego de la Vega. He found me, he said, sitting on a pile of rubble in the cratered field beside the destroyed town, where the heaviest bombardment – and the main massacre – had taken place, staring blankly into space. I was perhaps seven or eight years old. I could neither speak, nor hear, nor remember anything. Much later, when we could communicate, he told me he believed I had somehow done that to myself so I would not remember the massacre. Because of everything that has happened to me since, I believe he was right.
He took me home with him, to his family's hacienda outside of the pueblo of Los Angeles in Alta California, and presented me to his father (his only living close family), Don Alejandro de la Vega. My first true clear memory is of meeting Don Alejandro, the man I would also come to call Father, for the first time. We were standing in the entry of the hacienda while the two of them talked. I was completely bewildered and frightened, not understanding a single thing. And then this man, dignified and handsome with his white hair, looked down at me and smiled kindly, got stiffly down on one knee, and gathered me into his arms. And for the first time, I felt safe.
I have been asked, how do I know it was the first time if I have no memories from before? Because I knew then that the feeling was new, even though I couldn't identify it. I just knew it was good, and I wanted more, I wanted it never to end. I was afraid to do anything that would end it. This is important later. I have never, ever, forgotten that moment, or that feeling. This is one of the few things in my early life that I am certain of.
So they took me in, and I slowly came to understand some things. I knew nothing. I was like a newborn infant in a boy's body. But I learned again to dress myself properly, and behave like a human being, and understood some simple hand signs, and began to do some simple tasks around the hacienda. I was something in between a servant and a son, never certain of my true place. I understood that I was missing some ability, was aware that others communicated differently from me, but never quite grasped how.
And then Don Diego went away. It was a long time before I understood where and why: he had gone to Salamanca in Old Spain to study at the University there. All I knew was that he was gone, and it frightened me again. What if I did something that made me go away? Where would I go? How would I live?
It was a few weeks later that the first miracle happened. I woke up one morning able to hear again. Of course, I didn't understand – at ALL – what was happening. All I knew was suddenly my head was filled with something I couldn't escape, couldn't turn off, couldn't comprehend. It frightened me so badly that I ran out of the hacienda and up into the hills, running for miles to try to outrun whatever it was. But of course I couldn't. It wasn't until I had stopped, exhausted, and was sitting catching my breath, when I happened to knock over some small rocks. I saw the rocks move, and heard them – and suddenly something fell into place in my brain, perhaps some body memory returned, and I realized I was hearing sounds. I remembered – no, not remembered, I knew – what it was. I stayed in the hills for a few weeks, becoming accustomed to hearing, eating what I could find, sleeping in a cave, until some of Don Alejandro's men found me and took me back home.
I didn't tell Don Alejandro why I had left, or that I could hear. I'm not entirely sure, even now, why. Part of it was that fear of doing something that would send me away, that would lose the feeling of safety. Part of it was knowing, somehow, that if others knew I could hear, they would expect other things, too, things I could not do or give. I later realized that those other things were speech. For although my brain had unlocked my hearing, it hadn't unlocked my mouth. I could not speak for many years to come.
Another part was that, although I could hear, and realized that people were using the sounds of their mouths that I could not make to communicate, I still could not understand them. I literally did not know what anyone was saying. So I pretended that I still could not hear, and learned. I slowly began to put together sounds and meanings, and learned to understand what they said. To this day, although I have been able to speak for many years, I sometimes speak simply or badly, like a child. Don Diego once asked me what I thought in those years before I learned Spanish. The truth is, I do not really know. It wasn't in words, and I have no words to describe it. Think of an idea or an action, without using words, and there you have it. But one other effect is important to know – from all those months and years of listening so hard, I have very sharp hearing, sharper than most.
And then one bright summer day some three years later, Don Diego came home. By then I understood enough to follow most things. I even had some small grasp of how big the world was, how far away he had been, and what he had been doing. And he caught me out, when I unguardedly reacted to hearing an animal when he was there. He decided to keep my secret for his own reasons. But he did try to teach me some things over the next few years, to make up for my lack of schooling. I learned to read and write a little, and do sums, and something about the world, or at least our part of it. He was hampered for lack of time, so busy with other things, and continuing to hide my hearing, as well.
I will not go into the tales of his grand adventures during those years as the masked rider known as Zorro – he already did so in his own journal. If you have not read it, grandchildren, ask Paulo's sons where it is – I do not know who keeps it. [Ed note: strike if published – CdlV] But I remember them well, and the people, and the excitement and fear. And, very often, hard and dangerous work, as I was the only other person who knew his secret, and I helped him conceal it, even from Father and Doña Victoria in the pueblo, whom he loved.
Ah, Victoria. I remember her so clearly from those days, full of fire and strength, and fierce determination to live, and to do what was right. She had to have all those things, or she would never have survived what was to come. But that is for later. What I remember best about her then is how she treated me. When others would glance at me and glance away, not knowing how to act around a deaf and mute boy, she always stopped and looked directly at me, and smiled, just for me. And she would speak a little slowly, because I had learned a little to read lips, and used what signs she knew, and made sure I understood her. In short, she treated me like a a human being, the only one other than Don Diego and Don Alejandro to do so, and I loved her for it. And I remembered it always, and used it. To this day, whenever I am speaking with anyone, especially someone who is hurt or troubled, I stop, look at them, maybe touch their arm or shoulder, and listen. I cannot help it, and I learned it from Victoria. (And yes, I was half in love with her, too – but you are not reading this to hear about a young boy's sundreams, nor will I tell them. Let them lie forgotten in the long ago.)
But the happiest moment of my young life was the day Don Diego announced that he planned to adopt me, to make me officially a member of the family. It crashed an hour later, when Don Alejandro began an argument with Diego about which of them would do it. Don Alejandro insisted that he wanted to adopt me, to be my father, and Diego would be my brother. He won that argument, and turned to me with a smile, but at that moment, I couldn't stand the lies. I motioned to Diego I was sorry, then turned to Don Alejandro – to Father – and pointed to my ear and nodded. He understood immediately. "You can hear? Truly?"
I tried to explain why I had hidden it, all those reasons from before, but they rang hollow. I didn't give away Diego's secret. In the end, Father said he understood, and forgave me. He even began working on drawing up the papers to make the adoption legal. And I began thinking of them as my father and brother from that day.
But I was writing of Diego. During that same time, I knew he was reaching the end of his rope, as they say. The long separation from Victoria, with no end in sight, the continued lies to Father, and knowing of Father's barely-concealed contempt for the half of a man that he was pretending to be, all were wearing him to the bone. Many times I found him with his head in his hands in despair, and wondered how much longer he might be able to go on. It certainly looked as though his enemy, the tyrant alcalde Ignacio de Soto, would outlast him.
And he did.