Ignacio's Impatience
Zorro walked through to Ignacio's office after the weekly training session, and grinned a little at Ignacio.
"I must admit, they are getting better these days. I am finally getting a little sweaty. Several privates may grow to be very promising…"
"Are you still trying to make the sergeant a swordsman, Zorro?"
"He has style." Zorro laughed a little. "He has spirit. If he lost a bit of weight, the man may actually gain a few skills."
"Does he even have any promise?"
"He's a friend. Do you know how many times he saved my life? More than once, you would have shot me at close range, but he prevented it. He is a brave man, for all his bumbling ways - a credit to Los Angeles. He wants to be a swordsman. I can humour the man."
"Yes."
Ignacio moved restlessly in his office. "Diego, I am leaving Los Angeles. Tomorrow. I am going to visit Armand and Marcela. It has been a while since I've seen them. I can do some banking while I am in Monterey. I can keep my eyes open for Gushing Stream."
"I am waiting until the time is safest," Zorro said softly.
"You do that. Zorro is a much better protector than I am. I can't wait anymore."
Zorro was silent. He nodded.
"Don't do anything foolish, Ignacio."
"Zorro. My life has been a foolish mess since the day I was born," Ignacio said softly. "How can I not do something foolish…?"
Zzzz
Ignacio left Mendoza as acting Alcalde for the few days he hoped to be away. Zorro had the man's back, as he always had in the past, and Ignacio was confident that the pueblo was safe in their hands for the time being. He felt like a mother hen, finally worrying about the people he should have worried about since becoming the Alcalde in the first place.
He took an unknown horse, so that Gushing Stream would not be frightened away from him if she saw him in the street. Diego helped him rub ash through his hair and beard to make it greyer, and at Diego's insistence, he attached an eye patch over his left eye. He removed it almost immediately.
"Alcalde, the eye patch will take practice," Diego said with a sigh. "I'm really not sure about this at all, Ignacio."
"I have to do this, Diego. I have to," he replied softly.
"I doubt this will work. You can't even keep it straight in your head, can you?"
"Diego, I will do whatever it takes to see her."
"It doesn't sound very promising, Alcalde. You should develop a limp and use a stick too," Diego said with a sigh.
Zzz
Ignacio ended up buying a complete set of clothes from a small business owner as he came across the man on the way to church. He gave him money, and swopped clothes with the bewildered man, going behind a bush to change. The other man stared in wonder at both the money and the fine clothes that he had just been handed. He shrugged and enjoyed the feel of fine cotton, instead of scratchy second rate material against his skin. The money was twice the amount the clothes were actually worth, and as he played with the coins in his hand, he decided not to question or comment and just accept it as a gift from God.
Ignacio was having the opposite problem. The clothes were faintly familiar, especially their discomfort level. He was a man used to fine clothes, and the best that he could afford was quite good. The poor quality of material was fine enough for a small business owner of moderate means, but it was scratchy, tattered, and was wearing very thin in some places. He resisted the urge to tidy himself in any way, or to wriggle in the unfamiliar clothes, and tried not to draw attention to himself as he made his way into the bustling city of Monterey.
He sniffed at his sleeve. It hadn't been cleaned for a long time, and the man he had bought it off probably hadn't cleaned it. He only wore it on Sundays probably and removed it straight after church. He probably didn't realise it smelt of fish and onions, since everything in his environment smelt the same. He sighed. He could remember that smell from his childhood, as he had sat and complained and wished for more from life. His father had hated the complaining, and had punished him whenever he heard the whining. His mother had urged him to keep trying and never accepting second best of himself. She had urged him to do better, even as a small child. He had just forgotten her soft voice and her encouraging words.
The clothes were perfect for searching for Gushing Stream. She could hardly recognise him in the rags he was wearing, if he did manage to bump into her. In such a large place, where would he start looking?
It was Sunday. Most people would be going to church. Gushing Stream definitely would go to a church. The problem was which church? There were several in Monterey.
He picked the church closest to where Armand and Marcela lived. It would probably the church she was used to, one that she had accompanied Marcela to in happier times.
He entered the large, imposing church and sat on a pew towards the back, where the poorest of the poor sat to listen to the sermons read out in Latin. He liked the fact that in their church in Los Angeles, the sermons were in everyday language so the people could at least understand what was being said. He had enjoyed some of Padre Benitez sermons in the past, and that was the only reason he went every Sunday, especially after Gushing Stream left town.
He tried to look as downtrodden as he could. He hoped he would be invisible to the rest of the congregation in the church. If he stood out, she might recognise him and run away again. Invisibility had always been a bad feeling in the past, when he had been young and idealistic. He had assumed God had no interest in how rich or powerful you were, only if your heart was pure. Rich and powerful people protected and paid for the church, and it was an importance for the church body. He had wanted to be accepted, and cared for, as he had read in the bible and expected. He had been lectured about having wrong expectations, and that he should stay away from things he did not understand. He had been reminded not to concern himself with the bible and its mysteries. So he had.
He had hated to feel invisible, and he had whined and complained about it. His father took exception as he always did, and he had earned himself a slap for insolence and complaining about his lot. Now he hoped he could still imagine a bit of invisibility, as he noticed Armand and his sister enter the church, from the much more ornate doors near the front. He glanced at the floor, as Marcela scanned the crowd as if looking for someone, hiding his distinctive blue eyes.
He hoped he hadn't completely forgotten to behave like a peon. It was going to come in handy right now, if anyone else entered that might recognise him.
There was a soft, hesitant movement near him and he realised it was her. Gushing Stream was almost touching him, and she wanted him to move over slightly to let her sit on the pew with him. She was dressed in similar quality clothes, with a shawl over her head as custom dictated. Her clothes were deep black cotton, and she was obviously dressed as a widow.
He moved slightly over, giving her just enough room to sit. Her skirts brushed against his trousers, but it was no matter for either of them. She thanked in her perfect English accent.
Her voice was weaker than he remembered, and she seemed to shiver a little. A widow was allowed to be pregnant, although it was still frowned upon a little. He wondered how he would be able to tell.
She was paler than he remembered, almost white skinned instead of the reddish brown tinge.
"Senora?" He said, keeping his voice husky. "Are you quite well?"
She turned to look at him, and he was grateful that the ashes covered his skin and hair. No recognition appeared in her eyes.
Her smile was worth more than emeralds, almost taking his breath away. Her face was painfully thin, he realised with a touch of horror.
"I am quite alright, Senor," she murmured in perfect upper class Spanish, responding to his slip into his native tongue.
He watched her turn her face to watch the altar and listen to the liturgies read out in Latin. She bowed her head to pray, but he didn't. He took the opportunity to glance down at her abdomen. Was it swollen in any way? He couldn't be sure.
When she rose to her feet, he noticed the weariness in her whole body. Her hands rested on the back of the pew in front of her as if to steady her shaky balance.
She sighed and closed her eyes. Ignacio reacted almost immediately with a hand already heading to her waist as she sunk down into a faint. He caught her properly within seconds, with a fluid movement, and placed her on her pew, resting her head on his lap.
Someone turned to look at them, shushing them for noise, and he shrugged. He would be glad to get back to his own pueblo where people actually cared about one another. He stroked her hair from her face. It was no longer silky or soft to his touch. Her hands were cold and thin and her arms were bony. He rested a gentle hand on her abdomen. It was the only part of her that wasn't painfully thin.
He knew now, without a doubt. She was carrying his child. Somehow it was killing her.
She stirred and he moved the hand, pretending it had never been on her stomach area.
"Where am I?" She murmured. He resisted the urge to reassure her that he was there and that she would be fine. That she would never lose him. She glanced around slowly. "Oh, yes. Church."
"When was the last time you ate, Senora?" He asked softly.
"I help with the soup kitchen…" She said.
"When was the last time you ate?" He repeated. He knew others in need always came before herself. She shrugged and he glanced at the crowd of people leaving church.
"You are a poor widow, Senora. Where do you eat? Where do you sleep?" He had a feeling it wasn't anywhere safe or warm. He glanced around the church building, taking in its coldness and its finery. Already a warmly dressed priest was coming over to see them on their way.
"There is a workhouse. I don't want to go there. They will take my child. I have no money, no husband…" She glanced up at his eyes. "I will die before I go there. My child will die with me." Her words were so determined; Ignacio felt his blood freeze for a moment. His beloved was already half way there, he realised. She had given up hope. She would not survive if he did nothing.