In the Beginning, a zorro fanfic

IN THE BEGINNING

by KathyG.

In this pre-Zorro sequel to "War Orphan," can Don Diego de la Vega of Los Angeles find a home for a very young Felipe, who was recently orphaned?

Don Diego de la Vega wiped the sweat off his face with his snow-white linen handkerchief. As he stuffed it back into the inside pocket of his navy-blue fine woolen charro jacket, he glanced at the barren California desert surrounding him. He then gazed down at the little Mexican peasant boy leaning against Diego's knee and sucking his index finger.

It was a hot Monday afternoon in early November, 1815, and Don Diego and his English tutor, who had educated him since he was seven years old, were returning to the hacienda of Diego's father, Don Alejandro, from a long trip. Don Alejandro de la Vega was one of the wealthiest, most influential caballeros in California. He owned a beautiful, elegant hacienda two miles west of Los Angeles, and his fruitful land consisted of thousands of acres. Don Diego, his only son, was in his early twenties.

Diego sighed. It's been three months, now, since I first found Felipe. I wish he could hear and speak; then it wouldn't be so difficult to find him a home. He shook his head sadly.

Don Diego leaned sideways and touched Felipe's hand; the little boy looked up. "Amigo, you're a big boy, now. Take your finger out of your mouth, por favor."

With evident reluctance, Felipe complied; Don Diego patted his shoulder and leaned back against the boulder. He opened the book he was reading, but visions of the events of the last few months blocked his view of the words on the pages.

Don Diego and his cousin, Don Rafael, had traveled to Guadalajara the previous spring, to say good-bye to Diego's dying uncle on behalf of his father, who was sick at the time. Diego's tutor, Jonathan Spencer, and one of Don Alejandro's servants, Jose, had accompanied the two young caballeros. Diego, Rafael, and Señor Spencer had stayed for the gentleman's funeral and the reading of the will.

When it was all over, Diego and his tutor had returned to California; Don Rafael had stayed temporarily in Guadalajara, to aid and comfort his widowed mother and elder brother. On the trip back north, Diego and Señor Spencer had run into one of the last battles of the revolution. The violent quivering of the ground caused by the cannon blasts had tipped the supply wagon on its side and damaged one of its wheels.

Three days later, after the wheel had been repaired, Don Diego and Señor Spencer had resumed their journey. An hour after leaving the scene, they had found the seven-year-old boy crouching alone under a tree six miles from the battle site, surrounded by dead soldiers, lost and terrified and grief-stricken. He had been resting his head on his right hand, and he had not looked up when the two gentlemen had called to him.

Don Diego had dismounted and strode toward the child, his spurs jingling in the breeze; as Diego had stood before the boy, staring down at him with deep sadness, the little boy had lifted his head and gazed up at the caballero, his brown eyes filled with deep pain and terror. Diego had bent over and gently picked up the child, then carried him toward the supply wagon and its waiting driver.

Felipe and his parents had been caught in the battle's crossfire, Diego knew. Virtually every revolutionary soldier, and all the peasants who had tried to flee to safety, had been killed during that battle. Diego was quite sure that an exploding cannonball had killed Felipe's parents, too.

It's a miracle that Felipe wasn't killed with his parents, Diego thought, shuddering as he remembered. Guardian angels must protect this child. But, oh, why didn't they protect his mother and father, too? He sighed. I'll never know. And neither will Felipe, I'm sure. He let his mind wander back to that terrible time.

A month later, Diego, his driver, Señor Spencer, and Felipe had entered California; outside of San Diego, Don Diego had written a letter to his father to explain the situation so his father wouldn't worry about him. For the next two months, Diego and Señor Spencer had journeyed throughout the territory, trying, without success, to find Felipe a home. Los Angeles was their last stop.

Don Diego couldn't stop worrying, now. He just had to find Felipe someone to care for him! He gazed sadly down at the boy, who was now toying with the wooden rosary bequeathed to him by his late mother. Diego patted his shoulder again and ran his hand over Felipe's brown hair.

"I promise you, Felipe," Diego said. "I will find you a home! You will not be homeless when my father and I are done with you; I promise you that."

Felipe didn't look up. Don Diego hadn't expected him to. Felipe was so deaf, he couldn't hear even the loudest noise; nor could he utter a sound. During their travels together, Don Diego had taught him to read lips, and Felipe had developed a sign language of his own. Now, Don Diego was determined to find the boy a home with someone who would love him and take good care of him.

"Diego." A hand gently rested on Diego's shoulder; Diego swiveled his hand to find his tutor kneeling behind him in his tan tailcoat and gray velvet vest. "It's time to go."

Diego nodded agreement. He glanced down at his shiny gold timepiece. "Yes. It is." He inserted the timepiece into his vest pocket, then gently shook Felipe by the shoulder. "Come, amigo. Let's go."

He hoisted the boy up and lifted him into the wagon. The servant climbed onto the driver's seat and chirruped to the horses. Diego and Señor Spencer mounted their horses and rode alongside. Felipe rode in the wagon, surrounded by Don Diego and Señor Spencer's possessions.

Two hours later, the group entered the pueblo de Los Angeles. "Don Diego! Señor Spencer!" a familiar female voice called. As the two gentlemen dismounted in front of the mission church, Victoria Escalante, who was seventeen years old, rushed toward them, her bright-red skirt swishing.

"Señorita!" Diego kissed the young innkeeper's hand, and Señor Spencer bowed. "How good to see you! How is my father?" Don Diego touched her elbow.

"He's fine." Victoria smiled. "He misses you very much, though. He will be so glad to see you, Don Diego!"

"As will I, to see him." Don Diego chuckled. "I wrote him two months ago, to tell him I couldn't come home, yet."

"I know. He showed me the letter." Victoria frowned. "Did you find the little boy a home?"

Diego sighed and shook his head. "Not yet. He's waiting in the wagon. I'm taking him to the padre to ask his help."

He marched to the wagon and lifted Felipe out. Holding the boy on his hip, Don Diego carried him to Victoria. "Victoria, may I introduce Felipe? What his last name is, I don't know."

He turned to Felipe and smiled affectionately. "Felipe, this is my good friend, Señorita Victoria Escalante. She owns the tavern over there." He pointed at a large, whitewashed, two-story building that stood kitty-corner to the church and the blacksmith shop.

Victoria smiled tenderly. She stroked the boy's forehead and caressed his cheek. "Hello, Felipe," she said, kindly. The shy boy smiled wanly. "Can he read lips?" Victoria asked Diego.

"He can, now." Don Diego smiled at the boy. "He couldn't, when I found him. Señor Spencer and I taught him how." He set Felipe down. "Well, señorita, I must take Felipe inside to meet Padre Bernardo. Do you wish to come with us?"

Victoria smiled. "Certainly."

"I'll wait outside with the driver," Señor Spencer told Diego.

Don Diego, Victoria, and Felipe entered the sanctuary. "Well, well! If it isn't Don Diego de la Vega, my lost lamb." The elderly priest smiled as he lumbered down the aisle toward the group and embraced Diego. He smiled at Victoria and glanced down at Felipe with a puzzled expression.

Don Diego chuckled. "Not lost, Padre Bernardo. Just out of touch for a time." He glanced down at Felipe and sighed. "If you want a lost lamb, Padre, I have brought you one."

"Oh, yes." Padre Bernardo shook his head. "The little boy you wrote your father about. He showed me your letter. So, you never found him a home?" Diego shook his head.

"Padre, would you be willing to give Felipe a home?" he asked. "He desperately needs one, and no one else will take him."

"Doubtless, people are frightened off by his deafness." Don Diego nodded. "I thought so." Padre Bernardo smiled at Felipe and chucked his chin, coaxing a shy smile out of the boy. "Handsome boy. And, if I may judge by the rosary he`s wearing, brought up to be a good Catholic by someone. He's seven years old, you say?" Diego nodded again.

The padre sighed and raised his hand to finger his own rosary. "Ordinarily, Diego, I would say yes. But the revolution has created so many orphans, lately, that my mission is full to overflowing. As it is, I have to find apprenticeships for half the children I've taken in, because I can't house them all. I hate to be discouraging, my son, but you're going to find it a hard task to place this child with anyone."

Victoria shook her head and pursed her lips. "He has to try, Padre!" she protested. "We can't just abandon Felipe in the street; he's too little to take care of himself."

The priest nodded agreement. "You're right, Victoria. The effort must be made, no matter what the chances are. And I firmly believe that God will take care of Felipe. He has a very special plan for this child's life; I sense it. The Lord will find this boy a home somewhere, with someone."

"Yes." Diego nodded.

"In the meantime," Padre Bernardo said, "I will keep the boy temporarily while you and your father make inquiries. And rest assured I will pray for your success."

"Thank you, Padre." Don Diego smiled gratefully. "My father and I will need your prayers. As will this little fellow."

The priest smiled approvingly and rested a hand on Diego's shoulder. "You are a man of compassion, Diego, and so is your father. I know the Lord will bless your efforts."

Diego smiled back, then knelt to Felipe's eye level. "Felipe, amigo, Padre Bernardo is going to look after you while my father and I find you a good home. My father is a kind, good man; he will help me. Don't you worry about a thing. We will find someone to love you and raise you." He hugged Felipe tightly, then left the church.

Don Diego and Señor Spencer rode two miles toward the west. Minutes later, as Señor Spencer, having greeted Don Alejandro, left with the driver to oversee the unpacking of their luggage, Diego and his father hugged each other tightly in the hacienda's front garden. "Diego, my son! I've missed you so!" Alejandro said.

Diego smiled ruefully. "You're going to miss me still more, when I leave for Madrid University next summer."

"Yes." Don Alejandro sighed, then smiled and squared his shoulders. "But I`ll be thinking every day of the education you'll be getting and the new experiences you'll be having. Did your uncle send me any messages before he died?"

"Yes, he did. There's a letter from him in my saddlebag. And he bequeathed you some of his possessions, too, and some more to Rafael. They're in the wagon with my things and Señor Spencer's."

"I'll send a vaquero to Santa Barbara, first thing in the morning, to take your cousin the inheritance your uncle left him. Rafael stopped here last month, on his way back to his rancho. His grief runs deep, poor boy, and so does mine." Don Alejandro sighed. "Your uncle was a fine man, Diego. It's so hard for me to lose him, and even harder for Rafael."

"I know." Diego touched his father's arm sympathetically, then straightened his cravat. "Father, there's something we need to discuss."

Don Alejandro knit his eyebrows. He inserted his thumbs in his vest pockets. "It`s the boy you wrote me about, isn't it?" Diego nodded. "You haven't found him a home, yet?"

Diego shook his head, and sighed. "Señor Spencer and I have taken Felipe to every pueblo, every mission, and every orphanage in California. The churches and orphanages are all overcrowded; they have no room for another child, least of all a deaf one. None of the poor families want to accept the responsibility of raising Felipe, not even for the stipend I offered them." He grimaced.

Don Alejandro shook his head. "It won't be any easier here, son. If you saw Padre Bernardo, I'm sure he told you about the overcrowded conditions here at the mission."

Diego nodded. "He's agreed to keep Felipe until we find him a home, but he can't offer the boy a permanent home at the church. Father, I've got to help Felipe!" With a sigh, Don Diego rubbed his neck and pursed his lips.

Don Alejandro touched his son's arm. "Then you and I will just have to find him a home, won't we? We'll start looking tomorrow morning, after I give orders regarding Rafael's share of the inheritance." Diego nodded gratefully.

"In the meantime, son, I'll order the servants to prepare your bath and make you something to eat. You must be tired and hungry after that long, fruitless search."

The next morning, after breakfast, the de la Vegas mounted their horses. "Diego, why don't you visit my tenants while I enlist the help of the alcalde and the caballeros? With their help, we can cover more ground and hopefully find someone who will take care of Felipe in, more quickly."

"Excellent idea." Don Diego smiled. "I hope to have good news for you, tonight."

"And I, for you. Vaya con Dios."

Don Diego waved to his father and rode north, sitting up straight in the saddle as he had been taught. For the rest of the day, he visited one tenant farm after another, with no success. At each farm, he explained Felipe's predicament and described the boy in the most positive terms. Each farmer, though sympathetic, declined to take the boy in.

Late that afternoon, Diego rode to the last of his father's tenant farms. "Hola, Don Diego!" The stoop-shouldered farmer waved and laid down his rake. "What brings you here?"

Don Diego dismounted and patted his horse's neck. "Why don't we go inside, Señor Garcia, and I'll tell you about it?"

Inside the one-room adobe hut, Diego and Pablo Garcia sat down on benches at the rough wooden table. While Pablo's wife, Maria, stirred some stew in the fireplace, Don Diego told the Garcias all about Felipe.

When Don Diego had finished, he leaned back and sighed. Silently, he prayed that the Garcias would agree to take Felipe in. Pablo and Maria gazed at each other for a long moment, and frowned.

Don Diego shifted position on the hard, unyielding bench and glanced at Pablo`s rough, callused hands. He then gazed at the Garcias` poor belongings and at the rough, crude hut, itself, that they lived in. He looked at the fireplace on the wall facing the door, and then at the two narrow bunk beds built into the right wall. The only light came from the fireplace and the door; the hut had no windows, lamps, or candles. Their only animals, he knew, consisted of two goats, a pig, a burro, and some chickens. A sweaty smell, caused by a day's hard work in the hot sun, emanated from Pablo's clothes and his skin, and from Maria's.

How hard Pablo works! Diego thought. How hard any poor farmer works, just to make ends meet! I'm certain Felipe and his family worked just as hard as Pablo and Maria Garcia, just to survive. Diego stifled a sigh. If only a farmer would take him in, at least Felipe would reside in the milieu he's accustomed to.

At last, Pablo sighed. "Well, señor, we could sure use a boy to help me with the chores. We don't have any children, as you know. The one you told us about sounds good, and I'm sure he'd work hard. But-" He paused, knitting his eyebrows. "I'm just not sure, Don Diego. I just don't know. A deaf-mute boy-" He broke off again and shook his head.

Pablo glanced at his wife and rose to his feet. "We'll go to the mission and meet him," he finally said. "I need to see the padre, anyway; we missed confession, last Saturday. But I promise nothing, señor."

Don Diego stood up and shook the peasant's hand. "Understood. But I will make a promise to you-if you and Maria decide to take Felipe in, my father will give you a regular stipend to cover the expense of raising him."

"A what?" Pablo frowned, puzzled.

"A stipend. An allotment of money." He paused. "For Felipe's living expenses."

"Oh." Pablo nodded and smiled. "Gracias." He glanced at his wife. "Are you ready, Maria?"

"Si."

"I'll hitch up the hay cart." Pablo strode out the door, his woven leather sandals clomping on the rough stone-tile floor. Maria took the pot off the fire and grabbed her black woolen prayer shawl.

A half-hour later, the Garcias stopped in front of the mission. "Whoa," Pablo ordered his burro, jerking the reins. The donkey halted.

Don Diego tied his horse to the hitching post and led the Garcias inside. They found Padre Bernardo kneeling at the side altar in the back of the sanctuary, praying silently.

"Padre, I've found a couple who may give Felipe a home," Diego said, as the priest rose to his feet and made the sign of the cross.

"I said we'd meet the boy, Padre," Pablo said. "I can't promise we'll take him, though."

The priest smiled. "I take it you want to meet the boy before you make up your mind, then. Shall I bring him into my study?"

"Si, after you hear our confession," Maria said. "We didn't make it in, last Saturday."

ZZZZZ

Felipe sat slumped against the rough adobe wall, with his legs crossed Indian-style, and stared down at the stones that stuck out of the bare ground, here and there. He had spent much of the day doing some chores assigned by the priest; he had then spent an hour playing with Señorita Escalante, who had come to visit him. Now, she was back at the tavern, and he was relaxing. He wondered if Don Diego and Don Alejandro would find anyone here in Los Angeles who would want him.

Can that man I saw in the plaza-Don Alejandro-really help me? he wondered. Can Don Diego?

Early that morning, Felipe had leaned against the rough wooden picket fence that stuck out from the side of the mission building, watching the market vendors in the plaza setting up their displays. As Felipe had watched, suddenly, a silver-haired gentleman astride a white horse had ridden past him. As Felipe had stared up at him, the gentleman had dismounted in front of the tavern and handed the reins of his horse to a peasant while the gentleman spoke to another caballero who had immediately greeted him.

The caballero had stood tall and straight, squaring his shoulders and inserting his thumbs into his satin vest pockets while speaking. He had worn a long, grayish-blue coat that hung below his hips, a shiny blue satin vest, a white silk cravat, and a fine, snow-white linen shirt similar to Don Diego's and Señor Spencer's. A coal-black top hat had rested on his head. Try as he did, Felipe had not been able to understand what the two men were saying, because they had not turned their faces in his direction, thus permitting him to read their lips.

A tap on the shoulder had startled the little boy; he had whirled to find Padre Bernardo standing behind him. The priest had knelt and pointed at the silver-haired gentleman. "Felipe," the padre had said, "that elderly caballero with the silver hair is Don Diego's father, Don Alejandro de la Vega."

Felipe had gaped at the gentleman, as he had spoken to several caballeros, glanced down at his gold timepiece, and led them inside the tavern. Felipe had then turned back to the priest.

"Don Alejandro is a friend of the King and one of the richest and most important caballeros in all California," Padre Bernardo said. "And more importantly, he is a true Christian and a kind, good man.

"Everyone loves him and respects him; his word carries much weight in Los Angeles. If anyone can help you, Felipe, he can."

I sure hope so, Felipe thought, as he remembered that earlier moment. He sighed. I want my mamá and papá. I miss 'em. Why'd they have to die? It's not fair! He inserted his index finger into his mouth and sucked it.

Felipe thought about the day of that horrible battle. It had been a terrifying day. So awful!...

The citizens of the Pueblo de San Miguel de Bajio, Felipe's home village in central Mexico, had been evacuated by their alcalde weeks before, because the revolution had been headed directly toward them. The peons had been split into several groups and had been sent to different locations; Felipe and his family had been sent north with some other peasants. He and his parents had been safe enough in the pueblo where they'd been sent, until the government soldiers came to fight the revolutionaries. A two-week siege had followed.

Hours after the battle started at dawn of that fateful morning, Felipe's mother, Consuela, handed Felipe her rosary as distant cannonballs exploded. "Take care of my rosary, Felipe," she ordered. Her voice shook; she took a deep breath. "It's yours, now."

The hay underneath crackled as Felipe rose to a kneeling position to take the rosary. His father, Juan, who was standing in the doorway of the barn where they'd been staying, paid no attention to his wife or son. He was too busy watching for the soldiers, as he been doing every day since the siege had started.

Consuela knelt to look at her son full in the face. "Mi madre gave it to me when she died, and her mother gave it to her. Now I'm givin` it to you. Pray with it every day, just like I taught you. When you die, give it to your own child."

They paused to listen to the gunshots and explosions. She patted his face with a rough, workworn hand. "It belongs to you now, son, so take good care of it. Whatever happens to you, go to church and be a good boy. Promise?"

Felipe's voice trembled. "I-I promise, Mommy." Why was his mother talking like that?

The next explosion sounded louder. The government soldiers were getting closer. Felipe shivered.

His mother sat down and hugged him tightly. Hay crackled underneath her. "Just remember, son; God loves you, and He will take care of you. Remember that!" She rocked him and crooned to him as he tried to ignore the increasingly louder noises of battle. The other peasants surrounding Felipe and his mother alternately sat silently and prayed.

Half an hour later, the battle raged inside the village where they had taken refuge. All the peons hurriedly gathered their belongings and fled the pueblo. Felipe and his parents packed all their possessions inside a pushcart. His mother hastily draped her shoulders with a yellow woolen shawl, and his father put on his homemade, gray felt sombrero. Juan then lifted Felipe and set him inside the pushcart. "Hold tight!" he ordered. "Don't move!"

As the peons rushed out of the village, soldiers surrounded them, fighting. Rifle shots and musket shots, cannon blasts, shouts, and terrified screams echoed in Felipe's ears. Thick clouds of dust from the cannon blasts blocked his vision. He clutched the side of the cart and stared ahead. Please, God, protect us! he prayed silently.

Suddenly, the cart halted. The other peasants rushed on ahead as Consuela darted past Felipe to the front end of the cart. "Consuela, you pull on that end!" Juan ordered. "I'll push it from behind. We got to get this cart loose!"

As Felipe watched and gripped the bars of the right side, his parents pushed and pulled. "Mommy!" Felipe cried, just before the cart began to creep forward.

Consuela rushed back to the handles and helped her husband push them. Suddenly, an earsplitting cannon blast exploded in Felipe's ears and jolted the ground violently; he soared through the air and landed on his head. The terrified boy screamed as he fell; pain exploded in his head as he struck the ground.

The next thing Felipe knew, he was lying on his face, grass tickling his nose. Absolute silence surrounded him. The two bundles containing his family's possessions pressed his back, pinning him down. His head throbbed.

He raised his aching head and clutched it in his right hand. The sides of the cart lay up-ended on the ground; it had been overturned.

Mamá? Felipe thought. Papá? Where are they? The boy winced. Ow! My head hurts!

He looked around. Several feet from his head, his father lay facedown in the grass, his felt hat lying askew. Where was Felipe's mother? He just had to find out!

Gritting his teeth, Felipe rose to his elbows and knees; shaking his body sideways, he shoved the bundles to one side. He crept out from underneath the overturned pushcart. His mother lay sprawled on her side at the other end of the cart. Felipe crawled toward her and shook her elbow.

"Mommy," he tried to say; nothing came out. "Mommy," he mouthed again, as he shook her a second time. No sound came from his mouth.

Fear gripped Felipe's heart. He clutched his throat. "Mommy," he mouthed again. His throat did not vibrate as it usually did when he spoke.

I can't talk! he thought. Mommy's dead! Papá's dead!

He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Dead peons and soldiers lay in the grass and surrounded him. He could see no one alive in any direction he looked. He was alone. All alone.

Desperately, in an attempt to gain someone's attention, he tried unsuccessfully to scream, wincing as his head throbbed. He then clapped his hands. No one came; there was no answering shout. He clapped again. This time, he noticed that the sound his hands usually made when slapped together was totally absent. He stared down at his hands and clapped again; there was no clapping sound.

No! he thought. It's not true. It's not! His hands shook; he swallowed a lump in his throat.

Felipe wandered away from the dead bodies and found a fist-sized rock. He picked it up and hurled it at a nearby tree. It bounced off the trunk and landed in the grass. The thuds he had expected to hear did not reach his ears.

I can't hear! he thought. I can't talk; I can't hear!

Panic seized the boy as he finally realized the trouble he was in. He collapsed on the ground and wept profuse, heavy, yet silent, sobs...

Felipe came to himself with a start. He touched his face and found tears streaking his cheeks. He rocked back and forth, head bowed, trying to shove the memory out of reach. He didn't want to remember that awful day, or the three days that had followed, during which he had wandered the desert, lost and frightened. It hurt too badly!

Felipe gazed at the barren ground that stretched past the pueblo gate toward the horizon. Everything's so-so-bare here! he thought, grimacing. So ugly! He grimaced again and ran his fingers along the thongs of his woven leather sandals.

Leaning back against the church wall, Felipe thought about his gentle, kind, and devout mother. How she would sit on her knees, grinding corn...making dye out of herbs and stones...weaving and dyeing cloth outside...and sewing the family's clothes. How she had prayed her rosary at the family altar every night, and taught her son to do the same. So different from his father, who Felipe had feared and resented, yet yearned to please.

Juan had worked hard to support his family, and he had protected his wife and son whenever danger threatened. Yet, he had been so boorish, so overbearing, so quick-tempered, so difficult to please, so tyrannical, and such a harsh disciplinarian. And he had drunk so much pulque, he had gotten drunk every night. He had never joined his family in prayer, nor had he ever gone to confession or Mass with his wife and son except at Easter. How different he had been from Don Diego!

Felipe remembered one particular summer evening, a year before the revolution had forced them to evacuate...

Felipe, then six, had just finished his helping his father weed the corn patch; soon, it would be time to milk the she-goat and do the barn chores. For now, his father was resting on a straw mat inside the one-room wattle-and-daub hut.

The sleeping mats, made of reeds, were stacked in one corner, ready to roll out at bedtime. The small, thin sitting mats lay on the hard-packed dirt floor here and there. Since the hut had no candles, windows, lamps, or fireplace, the only light came through the narrow entrance. At night, a lit torch would hang outside next to the doorway.

Felipe's mother was preparing some cornmeal to make some tortillas for supper. The family burro was grazing outside, munching on grass. The burro and the two goats were the family's only animals.

As the boy sat outside, petting one of the goats and watching the now-orange sun sink toward the horizon, his mother stepped out through the hut's narrow entrance.

"Felipe!" she called. "Bring me some wood, son; I've got to make supper."

"Si, Mommy!"

Felipe leaped to his feet and darted toward the woodpile. He gathered several pieces of wood and lugged them toward the hut; their rough bark pressed his homespun cotton shirt against his chest. As he stepped through the hut's entrance, he tripped and fell; the wood scattered everywhere.

Swearing, his father jumped up from his straw mat and grabbed Felipe by the ear. "Santa Maria, you stupid, careless boy, can't you do nothin` right?!" he shouted.

He clouted Felipe on the back of the head. The blow stung. "Ow!" Felipe cried.

"Now, you pick up every stick of wood you dropped, and put 'em in the firepit!" His father stormed outside.

Tears trickled down the boy's cheeks as, snuffling, he picked up the pieces of wood and carried them toward the right-hand corner of the hut. The firepit rested in that corner, on the hard-packed dirt floor. Twice a day, his mother knelt there to make the tortillas, refried beans, and pepper sauce the family ate for its meals.

Felipe carefully arranged the wood inside the firepit. Even as he struggled not to cry, he knew he had been lucky. His father might have dragged him to the barn and whipped him with the leather strap. He had done just that on countless occasions...

A hand shook Felipe's shoulder, startling him out of his reverie. The boy looked up to find Padre Bernardo's kind face gazing down into his.

"Felipe," the padre said, carefully enunciating his words so Felipe would be able to understand them. "Felipe, amigo, you've got some visitors in my study. Don Diego has brought a couple here to meet you." He helped Felipe to his feet.

The priest frowned in concern and knelt down to Felipe's eye-level. "You`ve been crying." Felipe nodded.

Padre Bernardo smiled tenderly and gently hugged him for a long moment. He rested his hands on Felipe's shoulders. "Why don't we pray?" he suggested. Felipe nodded. "Let's bow our heads."

Felipe did as he was told. For a few moments, he asked God to help him find a home and to make him feel better. When he and the priest had finished, the kind padre made the sign of the cross over Felipe's forehead. He then led Felipe inside and toward the priest's office.

Maybe, these people`ll want me! Felipe thought, as he raced ahead of the priest. A minute later, he stepped into the priest's study.

Don Diego leaned against the wall as Felipe and Padre Bernardo entered; Diego stepped forward. "Hola," he greeted Felipe, ruffling the boy's brown hair. Felipe smiled a shy greeting.

Don Diego nodded to his left. A stoop-shouldered man wearing a white, homespun cotton shirt, a dark-brown woolen poncho, a straw sombrero, and a pair of leather sandals stepped forward, followed by a woman wearing a green woolen skirt and a blue cotton blouse. A black woolen prayer shawl draped her shoulders.

"You must be Felipe." The woman smiled; Felipe nodded. "My name is Maria Garcia; this is my husband, Pablo. We live on a farm. Don Diego's father, Don Alejandro, is our landlord."

"How old are you, Felipe?" The farmer knelt as he spoke. Felipe counted his fingers and held up seven.

The farmer rose to his feet and gazed down at Felipe for a long moment, puzzled. "He understood me," he told Don Diego and the priest. Padre Bernardo nodded and brushed back his gray hair. "How did he?" Pablo glanced at Don Diego as he spoke; following his lead, so did Felipe.

"He's learned to read lips," Don Diego explained.

The priest patted Felipe's shoulder; Felipe gazed up at him. "Felipe is a good boy," Padre Bernardo assured the farmer, as the priest fingered his beads. "Quite obedient, well-behaved, and smart. And a good worker." He smiled proudly at Felipe and put his arm around the boy's shoulders.

Felipe glanced back at Señor Garcia. He crossed his fingers and prayed silently as the farmer leaned against the priest's desk. Please, God, make him take me! He sniffed. He smells just like mi papá and Godfather Lopez!

At last, Pablo turned around and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Don Diego. It would not work. The boy is too young, and my wife and I don't know how to raise a deaf child. I need an older boy. One who can hear."

As the meaning of the words Felipe had just visually deciphered sank in, he felt crushed. A heavy stone seemed to settle in his stomach. Nobody wanted him! Nobody!

Pablo and Maria walked out without saying a word. Don Diego slumped his shoulders and shook his head. The priest pursed his lips and stared at the floor. Felipe trudged toward the desk and rested his head down on it. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

A hand rested on his shoulder. As Felipe raised his head, Don Diego removed his fine linen handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped the boy's face. The clean, spicy scent of the don's clothes wafted toward Felipe's nose, comforting him.

"Felipe, listen to me." Don Diego stuffed the handkerchief back inside his jacket pocket. He glanced down at his gold timepiece, then gazed at Felipe. "We will find a home for you, no matter what! I promise you that. When I go home, I'll tell my father what happened here. If he hasn't found a place for you either, he and I will form a plan of action."

Diego knelt and clasped Felipe to his chest. "Don't give up, amigo," he said. "I haven't."

Felipe nodded reluctantly. Can he help me? he wondered. How's Don Diego gonna find me a home when no one even wants me?

"Don't give up," Don Diego repeated. "You will have someone to love you and take care of you. You have my solemn promise on that." Felipe nodded again. Don Diego smiled tenderly and kissed Felipe's soft cheek; he rose to his feet and left the study. Padre Bernardo put his arm around Felipe's shoulders and hugged the boy to his side.

ZZZZZ

As Don Diego rode home, he felt heavy-hearted. He wasn't at all confident that he would be able to keep his promise to Felipe.

At the hacienda, Diego turned over his horse to a groom and trudged into the house. In the library, he found his father leaning against one of the bookcases, adjusting his silk cravat.

"No luck, either, son?" Don Alejandro asked. Diego shook his head. "Neither did I. I never knew a child to be so difficult to place!"

Diego sank onto the couch. The satin-brocade mattress sagged beneath him. "Father, unless someone takes him soon, Felipe's going to be homeless."

Don Alejandro grimaced. "Don't worry, son; we won't let that happen!"

"Do you have any ideas?"

Don Alejandro shook his head. "Not yet. If you think of anything, Diego, I'm open to suggestions." He sat down in a silk-brocade chair next to his ivory chess set.

For the next several minutes, the two caballeros sat silently, thinking. Leaning back against the couch, Diego tried to think of someone he and his father hadn't already approached. No one came to mind.

"Father," he said, at last, "the only way Felipe will have a home is to work for a caballero as an indentured servant. I can think of no other solution."

Don Alejandro sat silently for a moment longer. "I confess, Diego, that neither can I." He sighed. "It would have to be a kind, good caballero, for I do not intend to turn the boy over to anyone who would mistreat or exploit him."

"Neither do I. But who would be willing to hire him and give him the loving care and upbringing he needs?"

Don Alejandro shrugged. "I'll have to start making inquiries, to find out."

An idea suddenly sprang into Don Diego's head. He beamed. His father stared at him curiously.

"You have somebody in mind, son?"

"Yes, Father. You."

Don Alejandro straightened up, sputtered, and stared at Diego. "What are you saying?!"

"I'm saying, Father, that I can think of no caballero I would entrust Felipe to but you. You are kind and good; I know you would put his welfare first. And I would help you raise him. Felipe knows me and trusts me."

"Diego, have you forgotten you're going to Madrid, next summer?" Don Alejandro reminded him. "For four to five years, the burden of raising Felipe would rest solely on my shoulders. That's a big job, son."

Don Diego pondered that for a moment, then nodded. "That is true. But look at it this way. You won't miss me quite so much if you have more than ranch work and town meetings and parties to keep you occupied."

Diego smiled. "Felipe would not be a torment to you, Father; I promise you that. He's a sweet, gentle, lovable boy. He's a good boy, and intelligent. He does what he's told, and the good padre has told me he's a good worker. Moreover, he`s devout. His late mother raised him to attend church and pray regularly, and she bequeathed her rosary to him just before she died with his father. He never misses a day without saying his prayers."

"How do you know all that?"

"Felipe told me. With sign language. As for his prayer habits, Señor Spencer and I both witnessed that over a three-month period. Felipe takes seriously his late mother's dying injunction to use his rosary faithfully and to bequeath it to his own children, someday."

Don Diego paused and leaned forward. He clenched his hands. "Father, I just don`t have the heart to tell that child we were unable to find him a home. I promised him that we would, and that we would not fail him." He gazed at his father imploringly.

Don Alejandro smiled wearily. "I don't blame you, Diego, and I certainly understand your concern for the boy. Moreover, our Christianity is no good unless it moves us to meet people's needs. Too many people have turned the boy down, as it is."

He stood up. "All right, son, you've convinced me. I could use a good houseboy anyway, and from what you've told me, Felipe will suit just fine. We'll go see the padre, tomorrow, and make the arrangements."

Diego exulted. "Father, if I were ten years younger, I'd give you a bear hug for this!"

Don Alejandro chuckled. "Well, why don't you give me one anyway? I could use a good hug."

Don Diego strode toward his father and wrapped his arms around the older man. Don Alejandro clasped his son to his chest.

The next day, following the siesta hour, the de la Vegas rode to town, dressed in their best. Don Alejandro wore the same outfit he'd worn the day before: his grayish-blue frock coat, a blue satin vest, and underneath, a snow-white silk shirt; a coal-black silk cravat encircled his collar. Don Diego wore over his fine linen shirt a yellowish-beige charro jacket, a dark-brown velvet vest, and a brown silk cravat. Both gentlemen had dabbed men's cologne on their faces.

A gentle, cool breeze brushed Diego's cheeks and mussed his black hair, as he rode with his father toward the pueblo gate. Inside the church, the de la Vegas found the padre chatting with Victoria in one of the pews.

"Don Alejandro! Diego!" The priest rose to his feet. "Have you found a home for the boy, yet?"

Victoria stood up as the padre spoke. She wore a black satin prayer shawl draped around her head and shoulders. The de la Vegas smiled at her in greeting.

Turning his attention back to Padre Bernardo, Don Diego shook his head. "We couldn't find anyone to take him, Padre; we both tried. But my father and I have a different idea in mind, if you approve."

"Si?" The priest raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Don Alejandro nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. "I wish to hire Felipe as an indentured servant," he explained. "To serve Diego and myself as a houseboy."

Victoria squealed with joy and pressed her hands together. "Don Alejandro, that is so good of you!"

Padre Bernardo agreed. "If I know you, Alejandro, you and Diego will take good care of the boy. Before I can approve your idea, though, I must seek God's guidance. Why don't you wait here?" The de la Vegas agreed.

For the next hour, Victoria sat with the de la Vegas in the front pew and waited. Don Diego and Don Alejandro each told Victoria about their efforts to find a family for Felipe. Then, Diego described his travels throughout California and his vain efforts to find someone who would agree to raise Felipe.

Last, Victoria described her babysitting sessions with Felipe during his stay at the mission, and the tour of the tavern she had given the boy during siesta that day. As she finished her account, Padre Bernardo returned.

The de la Vegas and Victoria rose to their feet. The priest stood silently. Don Diego swallowed as he waited.

"Gentlemen," the priest said, "my assistant priest joined me in my study, and together we prayed for light, asking God's guidance in this very important matter."

He paused again. "I speak as your priest, Alejandro: it is the will of God that you hire Felipe as an indentured servant. And it is His will that you and Diego take good care of the boy, and raise him 'in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.` He will be a ward of the church until he's of legal age, but he will be in your custody until he's twenty-five."

Don Diego relaxed. He and his father smiled broadly; Victoria beamed.

Padre Bernardo smiled back. "Well, Don Alejandro, do you wish to meet Felipe first, or do you wish to go ahead and fill out the paperwork?"

"Let's complete the paperwork first, then I'll meet him."

After the formal arrangements had been made in the priest's office, the padre sent a servant to find Felipe. "It won't take long," he promised. "While we wait for him, do you have any questions?"

Don Alejandro nodded. "Do you know if Felipe has had his first communion, yet? And does he truly know how to pray the rosary?"

"In answer to your second question, yes, he does. In answer to your first question, he tells me he has." The priest paused. "But just to make sure about the latter, I`m going to give him a second communion and call it his first. I will have to prepare him first, of course, if you will be good enough to bring him in. And if you don`t object, gentlemen, I'd like Felipe to serve as one of my altar boys."

"Of course." Don Alejandro smiled. "One other thing. Do you know if Felipe can read or write?"

Padre Bernardo frowned. "No, he can't, Alejandro. He doesn't even know the alphabet. He can count to ten on his fingers, but he can neither read numbers nor add and subtract. And from what he told me, his parents couldn't, either. I found all that out, yesterday evening."

Don Alejandro frowned at Diego, who grimaced in response. Diego knew what his father was thinking: this was not good news! Don Diego and his tutor, of course, had already known for some time.

"A deaf-mute boy with no reading, writing, spelling, or math skills is at a considerable disadvantage in life," Don Alejandro commented, shaking his head. "Padre, would you be willing to enroll Felipe in the mission school?"

The padre grimaced and shook his own head. "My teacher doesn't know how to teach deaf children, Don Alejandro, and neither do I."

Don Alejandro glanced at Diego and nodded. "Then, I'll have to do it. Starting next summer, when Diego leaves for Madrid. Without the ability to take in information via speaking and hearing, Felipe's good mind will suffer if he doesn't receive an education."

The priest nodded approvingly, and Diego and Victoria smiled. Before the padre could say anything, Felipe trotted into the room.

Don Diego smiled at the boy affectionately. His father rose to his feet, squared his shoulders, and inserted his thumbs into his satin vest pockets. "Felipe, this is my father," Don Diego said. "Don Alejandro Sebastian de la Vega. Father, this is Felipe."

Felipe gazed up at the silver-haired gentleman. Don Alejandro approached Felipe, knelt, and smiled at him tenderly. "Diego has told me quite a bit about you, amigo," he said. "He's told me what a fine boy you are, and I certainly believe it."

Felipe smiled shyly and glanced down at his sandals. Don Alejandro lifted him up and carried him to a chair. He seated Felipe in his lap and wrapped his arms around the little boy, who nestled against him. The fragrant, spicy smell of men's cologne wafted toward the boy's nose, along with the sweet fragrance of soap.

"Felipe," he said, "my son, Diego, and I could not find anyone to take you in; we tried very hard. But we've come up with a different idea. Do you know what a servant is?" Felipe nodded, but looked uncertain.

"A servant is a person who does tasks for another person. For money," Don Alejandro explained. "Diego and I have quite a few servants, and they all serve us faithfully." He explained to Felipe the functions of several of the de la Vegas` servants-the butler, housekeeper, maids, cook, valets, carriage driver, houseman, gardeners, etc.

He brushed Felipe's hair out of his eyes. "Felipe, starting tomorrow afternoon, you're going to be one of our servants, too. A houseboy. Until you're twenty-five years old, you're going to live at our hacienda and work for Diego and me. And we're going to pay you money for your work and take good care of you."

For the next several minutes, Felipe jut sat there, evidently trying to take it all in. The little boy then asked, via gestures, if he would be a member of anyone's family at the hacienda.

Don Alejandro shook his head. "I'm afraid not, my boy. No one has volunteered to let you join their family, not even my servants, ranch hands, or tenant farmers. You won't be a member of my family, either. You'll eat in the kitchen with the other servants, and for the next few years, you'll sleep in one of the adobe huts where most of the servants sleep. But you'll be just as loved by Diego and me, and just as well-cared for, as if you were still with your own mother and father."

He smiled at Victoria. "And you'll have a good friend in Señorita Escalante. She`s a good friend of ours, and she loves children. She's an orphan, too, just like you, so she knows what you're going through."

Felipe slid off Don Alejandro's lap and approached Victoria. She hugged him tenderly and kissed his soft cheek. "Felipe, I hope you'll come to the tavern and see me regularly. And I'll come to the hacienda to visit you, as often as possible. If we're going to be friends, I want to see you as often as possible." Felipe smiled and nodded, then glanced questioningly at his new patróns.

The de la Vegas smiled and nodded their consent. "I see no reason not to bring him to the tavern to see you," Don Diego said.

The priest approached Felipe and tapped his shoulder. When Felipe turned around, Padre Bernardo knelt before him. "Felipe, this is God's will," the padre said. "I know, because when the de la Vegas approached me with their request to hire you, Padre Ramon and I met in here to seek God's guidance. We always seek God's will in cases like this."

The padre paused. "And one other thing. Until you're a grown man, you will be a ward of the church. As the head of the mission, I am now your legal guardian. I will supply your clothes, and you'll spend your holidays and days-off here."

Felipe stared at him, evidently puzzled by the priest's last remark.

Padre Bernardo chuckled. "Well, amigo, a servant gets a day off twice a month, to do as he pleases. And once a year, he gets a month-long holiday." He paused. "Now, since you're the church's legal ward, you'll take your turn serving at the church altar. As one of my altar boys." Felipe nodded acquiescence.

The de la Vegas stood up. "You'll bring Felipe to our hacienda, tomorrow?" Don Diego asked the priest.

"Yes," the priest assured him. "I'll bring him after siesta, and bring you some clothes for him."

"Then we'll get things ready for his arrival," Don Alejandro said. He knelt down and hugged Felipe. "Adios, Felipe. Diego and I will see you tomorrow afternoon."

He rose to his feet and patted Felipe's cheek; Diego hugged the boy. "You're going to love my father's hacienda," he whispered. Felipe smiled and nodded.

Victoria kissed Felipe's forehead. "I have to go back to the tavern, Felipe. Adios." Felipe smiled and hugged her.

As Don Diego followed his father out of the church, he fought to contain his excitement. He could hardly wait for the next day to arrive. I swear, he promised himself. I promise you, Felipe, you'll never be fatherless as long as I live. He mounted his horse and followed his father out of town.