Chapter 6
Written
Four weeks at the Fernandez household went by faster than she'd expected. Most of the time she'd be by doña Cristina's side, who was gradually and steadily feeling better; on her little free time, she'd walk around the rancho or listen to one of the kids play the harp. But no matter what she was doing, there was something subjacent, right below the surface: the sound of his voice, the times she saw don Diego on the street or at the market, without really seeing him. His dark hair, his hands, his body and his presence in her little house, that time el Zorro stormed into the crowded square on his black horse and saved some vaquero from being hung, then disappeared just as he'd arrived, in a instant and leaving everyone in awe, including herself. His lips, how close they'd been, the note in her pocket at all times: Green Eyes.
She was in the middle of her fourth daydream that morning when the carriage pulled over: the cabin was already out there.
"I hope I don't have to see you again, Justiniano" she dropped the usual physician or healer good-bye.
"Likewise, señorita."
Her things at the doorstep, waving farewell to the coachman, that clearing where Tornado had been grazing while its owner… she had to smile sadly at the fact that everything seemed to take her back to him.
It was time to stop. There was no use for this thing she felt and certainly no purpose. Soon it'd just be a nice memory of an unexpected… visitor.
Her resolution lasted the time it took to open the door and find about half a dozen sheets of paper that had been slid right under. Each of them had a written note.
(…)
Before
First, there was only pain and darkness: one followed by the other, the former tangling up with the latter, the two of them suffocating his reasoning and senses.
That lasted ages. It almost felt like death itself.
Was it death? Had it caught him at last, after outsmarting it so many times?
Nothing.
And then, something. A fog or a blur and in the center, two eyes of green… but he had to go, he had to warn the soldiers, he had to run and get his sword and get into the fight and dodge bullets and roll on the floor and disappear. Disappear in darkness again, until once again, the aching took the shape of a live flame in his brain. The world fell up and rose down, it couldn't be, he had to do something, he always did something, he was never at the mercy of fate, he had to be the one calling the shots. Not this time. The fire in his head wouldn't allow him to form a coherent idea besides those that revolved around pain, pangs of pain here and there, everywhere. He had to leave, he'd just get on Tornado, where was it? Bernardo would get it for him. And there were the green pupils one more time, where did they come from? He didn't think he'd go to heaven, so the only logical option was: from hell.
(…)
It was coming in and out of an obscure tomb after that. He remembered fragments of wordless thoughts that popped up and vanished just as quickly. Later, something that took form very slowly, like particles in a gust of wind that would regroup after the tempest: a voice coming from a million miles away, traversing the blackness and the boiling ache. He knew that they were meant for him, those words that made no sense but were a constant hum he hung on to. And after a while, he knew it: the voice belonged to the green eyes. He could see them sometimes, not very often, they were most likely a fantasy or a hallucination of his throbbing mind.
(…)
Something called his still numb attention. It had no shape, he couldn't tell if it was a vision or a sound, maybe a shift in the air.
There it was again, it was… an echo: a thud, a thump or a knock. Then the sweet voice and without notice, he finally emerged from the underwater nothing he had been submerged in, where everything was muffled and viscous, to the surface. He tried to focus on something, but there were mostly shadows; real shadows, at least, not the ones from his own nightmares. There was another voice somewhere, steps, so he looked in that direction. There was someone too and it clicked, at last, that she was the owner of the voice and the eyes.
His lips parted and remained motionless in the first letter of a word. Over there, half hidden by a door or a cupboard or a wall, despite the darkness, he discerned a bare back and long, wavy hair falling over it; clothes being removed, the contour of a waist and a hip, fabric fitting into place.
Fortunately, he anticipated her turning to glance at him a fraction of a second earlier, so he shut his eyes again right on time.
Not a bad way to wake up, after all.
He was way too aware of the world around now, taking in every little thing: the texture of the blanket, her steps that approached, her hands rummaging through his hair doing… what? Then in his arm…
There was some pain, but nothing compared to how it was before.
"If you wake up while I'm gone, you're the absolute worst… that'd be better than not waking up at all, though."
Indeed, it was her voice, but now he could make out what she was saying. And he realized… funny how things were acquiring their distinct outlines one at a time; he realized she was tending to his wounds…
His wounds!
The memories poured back inside his brain as if from a recently opened box, all at once: the gun powder, the fight, el Águila, that man they murdered-
"I'll be back in no time."
She stepped away. A door was locked. Silence took over.
Diego opened his eyes once more, everything spinning around when he sat up, hunger clutching his stomach, but that wasn't nearly as unexpected as finding himself with no shirt or mask on.
Of all of the realizations of this strange awakening, this one hit him the most: she'd seen his face. She knew who Zorro was.
(…)
Still recovering from his wounds or not, el Zorro had a lot of work to do if he wanted to make up for that unsolicited absence of leave.
He hadn't forgotten, though. As soon as he had a free afternoon, he headed to the little cabin that had been his infirmary. One side of the roof was close from collapsing, incredible it hadn't yet.
After knocking for a while, it was pretty clear no one would answer.
Same story the next day, but this time, he left something behind:
"Los Angeles, August 15th, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
Please accept my sincere greetings. As you see, I have been fortunate enough to learn your name. Nevertheless, I have not had the same luck in finding you home. I will continue trying, if you do not mind, as the last thing I wish is my gratefulness to be solely in the form of ink blots on paper.
Until we meet again, then, hopefully.
Yours respectfully,
D."
(…)
"Los Angeles, August 18th, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
I must say you are a very talented lady, as I am living proof of: everything that was broken feels more restored with each day. I hope I can have the honor of telling you this in person.
Yours respectfully,
D."
(…)
"Los Angeles, August 23rd, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
At the risk of seeming repetitive, I would like to let you know I visited the door of your home once again this morning.
It is definitely a risk I am willing to take.
Yours respectfully,
D."
(…)
"Los Angeles, August 25th, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
Did you know the tree in front of your house grows the best oranges in the world? Of course you do. I keep taking from your generosity. Will you let me thank you?
Yours respectfully,
D."
(…)
"Los Angeles, August 29th, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
Those days I abused your hospitality are mostly blank in my memory. Last night, however, I remembered something: you, telling me to fight, to stay with you, to follow your voice.
I have been following it for a while now. Will I get to hear it again?
Yours respectfully,
D."
(…)
"Los Angeles, September 4th, 1823.
Dear Señorita Lucía:
It is a fine day today and I am capable of seeing it because of you. I know some debts can never be repaid in full. That is my case. I am here nonetheless, unsuccessfully attempting to.
Yours respectfully,
D."
(…)
Note: I gotta admit it's always more difficult for me to write from the point of view of men; let alone, Diego's. It's probably one of the first times I do it, I hope it kinda works. I did enjoy writing the little letters! Let's see what happens next, I have the main idea on how this story will continue, but there's this other idea yanking at me from another side, so maybe I could use that as well. We'll see. Thanks for reading!