Chapter 3

Asleep

These were similar, but not quite exactly the leaves she was searching for. And the sun, or now almost entire absence of it, didn't help much either, so she had to light up the lamp she brought along.

Better now. But still, it was a strange sensation. See: to the untrained eye, all of these bushes were pretty much the same, some greener than others, perhaps. Lucía's grandma had indeed trained her, but she'd spent a long time un-training herself, trying to forget it all, just focusing on the fruits and vegetables she could pick up and sell at the market. Now she was fishing pieces of knowledge out of a soup of scrambled memories inside her head. They were in there, somewhere… along with the image of her abuela, her long, white braids and bony hands, the way they rummaged through the branches and picked up a bunch of leaves that looked just like-

"This!"

She snatched a good amount and made a bundle of them in her skirt, then rushed back to the cabin.

He was right where she'd left him, with the blackish poultice on his arm wound that was a mix of the devil's ointment thing with a couple other roots, plus turmeric and garlic (really). There was something different, though.

She knelt by his side, still protecting the precious harvest with one hand; the other one, she placed it on his forehead to confirm what she already knew: the fever was still there, and worse than before. Not only was his head on fire, but he was shivering and shaking and mumbling stuff in his semiconscious sleep.

"I'm not saying the remedy on your arm is bad. Because it's not, it's pretty good." Mortar and pestle, strainer, leaves, everything was put to work: "But if you don't drink this as well, it won't do you any good."

The smell that whirled up brought back more memories of her abuela, which were quickly pushed away by the few scattered and agitated words she could decipher in his ramble: something about gunpowder, a carriage, California's fate and, if she heard well, an eagle or as he called it: El Águila.

"You have a lot of secrets, don't you?" a little more grinding and it'd be good to go: "But you're only mortal, like the rest of us. We can be gone at any day. But not today, honey." A cup, some hot water, Lucía's somber expression: "I hope."

She added a special syrup to the mixture and sniffed it off:

"Oh yes, I remember that smell of burnt leather. Very well, sir, time for your prescription, and I don't want to see you making faces."

Sitting down on the floor, by his side, she propped his head up a bit with one hand:

When the liquid first touched his lips, he grimaced and mostly spat it out.

"I told you, no faces! Come on…" She had to opt for extreme measures: "ZORRO!" she yelled. He parted his eyes just a tiny bit, not really seeing anything at all: "Drink this, NOW." That's what her abuela used to do when people got stubborn with a treatment: instead of being all nice and sweet, the answer was to treat them (whether they be children or elderly, rich or poor, common folk or Zorro) like a Comandante would treat the lowest of lancers.

It had always worked, but not this time. This man was obstinate even in his delirious feverish state and wouldn't gulp down the brew; he was actually making a mess, good thing she'd prepared a lot.

"You're a difficult one, aren't you? Jesus!"

Another approach, then:

"But Zorro, listen to me, listen, listen." He was sweating more profusely than before; he had to drink it, and he had to drink it now: "Listen." She said in his ear, this time in a low voice: "I need your help. I need your help so bad. I'm in danger." Crazily enough, he seemed to calm down a little in his trembles, to be somehow paying attention from behind the blazing temperature that separated him from reality: "I'm in so much danger and only you can help me. And the way to help me, to save my life, is to drink this. Will you?" He was still breathing hard, but Lucía recognized the signs of obliging. "Don't let me die, Zorro, please. Save me, drink this… there we go."

He drank until the last drop and didn't complain once.

Medicine wise, she'd done all she could for the moment. In about two hours they'd have to repeat some of the procedures. But now, there were other things to deal with.

How many people would want to do this? This man had earnt so many enemies, they'd all give away a fortune to be in her shoes right this instant. Even the townspeople would want to, just out of curiosity: who was Zorro? Several identities had been suggested over the three or four years since he first started showing up, but nothing conclusive. And of all people, it'd be her the one to…

She brought the lamp closer: still shuddering, but at least the talking had mostly stopped; only an occasional groan escaped his mouth.

"You do know I have to do it, right?"

That didn't make her feel any less of an intruder. Zorro, the infamous Zorro was… in her hands? Wasn't that weird. Wasn't this the weirdest day ever.

Close to the right cheekbone, the scissors started to cut the black fabric. One snip, two snips. It'd be off by the third one.

And snip.

She pulled the mask away.

And stared.

In an instant, everything fell into place, just like the pieces had been there for ages waiting to be put together one day.

She remembered seeing him at the market every now and then, and how he once paid for the groceries of an old lady who didn't have enough money.

She remembered he would frequently be seen with Sargent García and would go to the barracks for one reason or the other. Talk about keeping your enemies close.

She remembered he'd been accused of being el Zorro once, which caused the entire town to talk about it for days, but it was all soon dismissed.

She remembered he had arrived to Los Angeles from Spain, when was it?, three, yes, maybe four years ago… right around the time the masked outlaw started showing up and God, wasn't it so clear now?

Enough of a low profile not to bring attention to himself; right in the center of everything to be a part of it all. He'd always been living in her peripheral vision, never in the focus point but distinct enough for her to know of his existence.

Not a vaquero, like many people guessed, not a merchant or a rebellious soldier, like others thought. People fairly say the right answer is usually the simplest: don Diego de la Vega, from one of the richest, if not the richest family in California.

"So. It's you…" she whispered, getting closer, assimilating it all: his dark eyebrows and each little hair of them, the profile of his nose against the faint light, his mustache and how it lined his lips, pursed in the middle of who knows what heat induced vision inside his head. He'd frown just a bit from time to time and his eyelids would quiver; maybe he was fencing in his sleep against that Águila of his nightmares.

With clean cloths and some fresh water, Lucía started cleaning up his face, wiping off the blood gently and thoroughly.

"I don't know what to tell you right now. Now that I know you are Zorro, I mean. Do you mind if I call you don Diego, even in your costume… or what's left of it? What about just Diego? Do you mind…? I didn't think so."

Before this day, had she ever heard his voice. Maybe from the distance or as he spoke to other people, she couldn't remember.

"You're looking way better now. Even handsome. Very handsome. I'd never really say this out loud, certainly not to your face, so don't mind me. Just don't tell anyone and I won't tell anyone that you are… who you are."

The head wound poultice needed a bandage, so she took care of that the best she could. In spite of the medicine and the decrease in the shivering, he was still burning up: cool compresses on the forehead should help.

So then she got some blankets and made herself a little comfy bed besides her patient. It was now up to him and his body to fight off that infection and that fever.

All there was to do for the next couple hours, until it was tea time again, was lie down and stare at him.

So she did.

(…)

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