MOONSTONE MONDAY-SPECIAL CLIFFHANGER FICTION!!!
Usually Moonstone Monday and ALL PULP give you previously published stories from MOONSTONE in CLIFFHANGER FICTION! This week, though, we share with you a COMPLETE tale from the upcoming MOONSTONE anthology MORE TALES OF ZORRO! This story, and the others featured in the collection, star that sword wielding masked hero of California and the Early West! And remember, go to http://www.moonstonebooks.com/ when the book debuts in the next 2-4 weeks and order your copy as soon as its available! And pick up the first MOONSTONE collection of Zorro tales while you wait!
Letter from Guadalajara
The Story of CapitánMonastario
by Keith R.A. DeCandido
Capitán Enriqué Sanchez Monastario loathed Spring.
One of the few things he liked about his assignment to this appalling
desert wasteland of Alta California was that, he imagined, he could escape his
twin weaknesses to damp and pollen. However, he did not reckon with the settlement’s
wealthier denizens (of which he was one, of course) having large
gardens filled with flowers both local and transplanted from the motherland.
And so for one week out of every year, generally around late March, the
flowers would bloom, the landscape would grow pretty, and Monastario was
not permitted to breathe.
The pounding in his head was only made worse by the arrival of his second,
Sergeant Garcia. “Er, Capitán?”
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Er, well, you see, Capitán—the mail has arrived.”
Glancing out the window of his well-appointed office, Monastario saw
that the sun was at its zenith. “It is midday, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the mail always arrives at midday on
Wednesday, yes?”
“Well, yes, sir, but—”
Monastario let out a long sigh that quickly modulated into a snarl.
“Sergeant, at present I feel as if my skull has been filled end to end with gunpowder,
waiting only a lit fuse that it might explode. The mere act of inhalation
causes me misery on a scale that would make a leper weep. You would
therefore be well to explain, and quickly, why you have gone to the effort of
carrying your corpulent form all the way to my office simply to inform me
that an event that happens at this time every week has, in fact, happened at this
time this week.”
Garcia shifted his great weight back and forth from one foot to the other,
an action that made the rotund officer look as if he’d teeter over at any minute.
“Ah, well, sir, you see, there are two letters here for you that I thought required
your immediate attention. One is from General de la Nueva in Santa
Barbara.”
Another verbal skewering of the sergeant died on Monastario’s lips. De
la Nueva was the one whose signature adorned the bottom of orders that sent
him to the Pueblo of Los Angeles almost a year ago—and was also the recipient
of the letter Monastario had sent to Santa Barbara a fortnight ago.
“And the other?” he asked, rubbing his temples in a failed attempt to get them
to stop throbbing.
“There is no name, but it comes from Guadalajara.”
Monastario’s hands dropped to his desk, and he looked up at Garcia.
“Guadalajara…” He shook his head, an action he immediately regretted, and
asked, “Sergeant, is the J in the city name adorned with an unusual flourish,
and is it dotted with an X?”
As Monastario watched, Garcia’s face took on several expressions at
once, no doubt borne of the confusion engendered both by the capitán’s asking
of the question, and of the fact that the answer was apparently “yes.”
“How did you know, Capitán?”
Returning to the rubbing of his temples, Monastario said, “Read me the
letter from the general.”
“Sir?”
“The request was clear, was it not, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“You haven’t lost your facility for Spanish in the past minute, have you?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then read the letter, if you please.”
“But, sir—I am not fit to see such documents!”
Monastario smiled bitterly. “Please, Sergeant, do not sell yourself short.
The list of things for which you are not fit is a lengthy one, and one I would
be happy to enumerate in detail were I in better health. In fact, I would grant
‘being a sergeant’ primacy on that list. Nonetheless, I am currently suffering
from pain in my head that would stop a bull in its tracks, and attempting to
decipher the general’s secretary’s hand will only exacerbate an already mis-
18
MORE TALES OF ZORRO
erable situation. I therefore, as your commanding officer, hereby give you
leave to read the general’s letter aloud to me.”
Garcia cleared his throat several times before finally saying, “Yes, sir, of
course, sir.” Fumbling with the envelope with his pudgy fingers—to the point
where Monastario was tempted to loan the sergeant his own dagger, and only
didn’t for fear of Garcia slicing open a vein and making a mess in his office—
Garcia eventually managed to tear it open and liberate the one-page item inside.
Unfolding the paper, he opened his mouth to speak, but Monastario, recalling
Garcia’s literal-minded tendencies, quickly said, “Skip to the important
part, please, Sergeant.”
Hesitating, Garcia said, “So you don’t wish me to inquire as to your
health?”
Monastario snorted, an action that felt as if it expanded his nose to the size
of Garcia. He spit some phlegm into the spittoon next to his desk, and then
said, “Correct.”
Again, Garcia cleared his throat. “‘Regarding your request for a transfer,
Capitán, I’m afraid that approving the request is, of course, out of the question,
and I am surprised that you would even have the effrontery to ask.’”
This time Garcia’s clearing of the throat had nothing to do with preparing to
speak. “Is the capitán sure that—”
“Go on,” Monastario said through clenched teeth.
“But, sir, I don’t think it’s right that I should see this—”
Slamming a fist on his wooden desk, Monastario bellowed, “Sergeant, the
only consideration I have ever given to what you think is to comment on the
extreme rarity of such an event. Go on.”
“Yes, sir. ‘You were told the conditions under which your term at your
current post would end. Those conditions have yet to be met. Until they are,
you shall remain assigned there. The subject is closed.’ Er, then he wishes
you well, signs it, and, ah, and whatnot.”
“I see.” Monastario leaned back in his chair.
Garcia stammered. “I’m, ah—I’m sorry sir.”
“Well, Sergeant, I must thank you—after all, my life is a quagmire of
misery, and my one hope has just been dashed. But that’s all right, because
Sergeant Demetrio López Garcia has pity for me! That makes everything better!”
19
LETTER FROM GUADALAJARA
“Sir—”
Cutting off yet another pathetic exhortation, the capitán said, “Set that, and
the other letter, on my desk.”
“Er, uh—yes, sir.”
As Garcia moved to do so, Monastario added, “Unless King Ferdinand
himself enters the compound, I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day.”
“Yes, sir. Uh—what about Zorro?”
“What about Zorro?”
“What if he enters the compound? Should I disturb you, then?”
Giving Garcia as foul-tempered a look as he could manage—which was
quite considerable at present—Monastario said, “Not then, either. If Zorro
comes today, he can have me.”
After Garcia’s hasty departure, Monastario slowly rose to his feet. His
reaction to the flowers made him somewhat dizzy, so he had to steady his
stance for a moment before continuing to the ornate wooden cabinet.
Like virtually everything in this office, it was scarred with the triplesword-
slash pattern in the shape of a letter Z that the Fox tended to leave behind
before departing a room. There were so many of those scars among the
furnishings that Monastario barely noticed them anymore.
Fishing a key from his uniform pocket, he unlocked the small door on the
cabinet’s bottom left-most corner, swinging it open to reveal a cubbyhole that
could hold far more than its actual contents: a thick-bottomed clear bottle of
an equally clear liquid that sat alone in the center of the cubbyhole.
He had yet to crack open the Tequila since he brought it here from his last
post.
But he suspected he would need to imbibe some—if not all—of it before
he worked up the strength to actually read the second letter.
Monastario took a glass from the sideboard where he kept the drinks he
was willing to share with the superior officers, Dons, high-ranking priests,
and others of equal or greater station who visited his office and then poured
himself some of the Mexican liquor.
The memories prompted by the lovely, intense odor that emanated from
the bottle were almost palpable…
20
MORE TALES OF ZORRO
…you’re eight years old, riding with your older brothers Pablo and Juan, your
older sister María Esperanza, and Mother and Father to a dinner party. The
carriage passes a building that looks horribly damaged.
Ever inquisitive, you ask, “What happened to that building?”
Pablo looks down on you, as Pablo always does to everyone except for
Father. “It burned, stupid!”
Out of habit more than rebuke, Mother says, “Pablo, don’t speak to
Quiqué that way!”
Father adds, “That house belonged to the del Gados. Both the owner and
his two sons died in the fire, which is why it still stands empty a year later.”
“I don’t understand,” you say honestly.
“Of course you don’t,” Pablo says.
“Shut up, Pablo!” Juan says.
“You shut up, Juancito!”
You ignore your brothers and look out the carriage window again. You see
children wearing too little clothing and covered in too much dirt. They seem
to be searching for something in the building. “Why are those children there?”
Father sighs. “Who knows why the peasants do as they do? Perhaps they
think they can find money there.”
“Peasants don’t have money?”
“No, stupid,” Pablo says, expectedly.
“God is very careful, Quiqué,” Father says before anyone can castigate
Pablo again. “He only gives money to those who are able to handle it. People
who are born poor are born such because God knows that money would
cause them evil.”
“I see,” you say, even though you really don’t…
…you sneak out to the building a week later. It’s easy: the house staff is too
busy trying to break up Pablo and Juan’s endless quarrelling, and to cater to
María Esperanza’s every whim, so no one ever pays attention to the littlest
one.
When you arrive, there are three young boys there again. You’re not sure
if they’re the same ones, but they look similar enough. They are wearing
21
LETTER FROM GUADALAJARA
clothes that are in just dreadful condition, their hair is a mess, they’re filthy,
some of them have no shoes, and they’re all so—so skinny. You’re appalled.
“Who are you?” one of them asks.
“My name is Enriqué. What’s yours?”
Another one cuts off the first one. “We’re not supposed to talk to you.”
This confuses you. “Why not?”
“You’re one of the upper classes. If we talk to you, we’ll get whipped.”
“That’s crazy!” you say, meaning it. “Why are you in this building? You
could get hurt!”
“If we’re lucky we’ll find some money—or something we can sell. If we
do, then we can eat today.”
You gulp in shock at that. Eat “today”? Your eight years has never contained
a day that didn’t have at least three meals. “All you need is money in
order to eat?”
“Yes,” the boy says slowly.
Reaching into your pocket, you pull out some coins. You’re not sure how
much—sums were never your strong suit—but it’s an amount you can spare
easily.
The boys’ eyes all go wide. You realize that they’ve never seen this much
money before. “Go ahead,” you say as they hesitate. “Take it. You need it
more than I do.”
Eventually, they grab hungrily at the coins…
…you make regular trips to the house after that. Each time you go, you bring
more coins. Each time you go, there are more boys. You can’t bring enough
coins for everyone.
They start to get angry.
One time, you go, and you’ve only been able to scrape together a small
pile of coins—but there are a dozen boys at the burned-out building, and one
of them is bigger than Father.
The big one says, “That’s all you got?”
“I—I’m sorry, I just—”
Turning to another boy, the big one says, “You said he had money.”
22
MORE TALES OF ZORRO
“He does. He’s probably holding out on us.”
“Filthy traitor, leading us on!”
“Yeah, just like all the other rich people—trying to make us look stupid!”
Before you know what’s happening, the boys are all yelling at you, and
the big one starts to hit you. In eight years of life, your only direct experience
with violence has been the occasional spanking as a baby—until now. The
boy hits you and there’s blood and the pain is just awful…
…Father is yelling at you while the doctor treats your injuries. “What were
you thinking, Quiqué? Did I not tell you that God wishes the peasants to be
poor? If He wished otherwise, He would have made them be born of our
class.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Father.”
“Your heart was in the right place, Quiqué, but you cannot simply give to
the poor. If you do, they will only ask for more until you have nothing—and
then they turn on you like the beasts they are.”
“It wasn’t all of them,” you insist. After all, the first three boys were nice.
“It was just the one!”
After the doctor is done, Father takes you into the city to find the boy in
question. It’s not as difficult as you think at first, since this boy is so much bigger
than the others, and he makes no effort to hide himself.
When the soldiers seize him at Father’s orders, the large boy does not
deny what he has done. “He provoked me!” the large boy insists. “I was just
defending myself!”
You watch the boy get whipped fifty times, see him break down into tears
by the tenth lash, and you enjoy watching him suffer as you did…
…you revel in the melodious laugh of Marisela de los Santos as you walk
through her family’s beautiful garden in Guadalajara. You’re even willing to
suffer the stuffing-up of your nose that results from being among the blooming
flowers, only so you can hear that laugh again.
23
LETTER FROM GUADALAJARA
“I must return to the house,” she says, clutching the parasol that shields
her porcelain features from the violence of the sun. “Thank you, Quiqué, for
the company.”
You kiss her white-gloved hand the way your tutors instructed you, and
then watch her navigate slowly through the garden back to the house, casting
several glances behind her.
“That’s a fine form you cut in that uniform, Quiqué,” comes a voice from
behind you.
You wince as you turn to face Pablo. At seventeen, only two people call
you “Quiqué.” From Marisela it’s an endearment; from Pablo, it’s an unsubtle
reminder of which of you is Father’s eldest, and therefore his heir.
As the third son, your only option is the military, where you are placed in
the officer corps immediately. Your training will begin soon, but you already
have been issued the uniform of a cadet.
The compliment on how you look in that uniform is a rare one from
Pablo, so you thank him. Of course, such an occasion often precedes a favor.
“I was wondering, Quiqué, what you think of Señorita de los Santos as a
wife?”
Your eyes go wide; your stomach starts to churn like mad. There is nothing,
nothing that would please you more than to make this angel yours.
But before you can reply, Pablo continues: “I can think of no one better
suited to be my bride, can you?”
And then you realize—this is why the Monastarios and the de los Santoses
have spent so much time together of late. The intention was to merge the
families’ fortunes through a union between Father’s oldest son and the de los
Santos’s only daughter.
Marisela will never be yours…
…Padre Esteban has been very generous in allowing you to see Marisela in
the days leading up to the wedding. It is difficult to arrange meetings—she is
awash in preparations for marriage to Pablo, and you are enmeshed in officer
training—but with the help of the priest, you are able to steal precious
time with your lady love.
24
MORE TALES OF ZORRO
You try to thank the priest, but he insists on no payment. “It is enough,”
he says, “to see two young people who adore each other be allowed to express
themselves as God intends.”
But one day, you arrive to find, not only Esteban, but Pablo and Father—
and Governor-Intendant Roque Abarca himself! You make a half-hearted attempt
to explain your presence at the mission, knowing that the truth will
result in punishment of some sort. Possibly death.
Somehow, they believe you when you say you have a private message for
the priest from a friend of his stationed at the training camp, and you are able
to steal a moment.
“What is happening?” you ask.
“What do you mean?” Esteban asks.
“Why did you not get word to me that I could not visit Marisela?”
Esteban draws himself up to his full height. “My good man, are you insinuating
that I would allow you to see Señorita de los Santos, a woman affianced
to your brother, in secret? I am a man of God, sir!”
Glancing behind to make sure that no one comes running at the sound of
Esteban’s bellowing, you whisper, “Please! You said that we should be allowed—”
“The only thing I will allow, sir, is your departure from my church. And
never set foot here again, if you know what is good for you.”
As you leave, you hear the priest apologize to the governor and your family,
and then he asks the governor what, precisely, the arrangements for the delivery
of the gold will be…
…your career proceeds at the pace of a snail. Padre Esteban is Bishop Esteban
now, and he has the governor’s ear. So does Pablo, who inherited Father’s
lands and titles upon the latter’s death, and proceeded to invest and
increase his power, soon becoming Don Pablo Sanchez Monastario.
You don’t know for sure, of course, but so many promotions are blocked,
and so many opportunities are given to lesser officers—lesser in skill, lesser
in breeding—that you cannot believe that there isn’t an invisible hand or two
guiding your misery.
25
LETTER FROM GUADALAJARA
Especially since you are the consummate soldier. Every order you are
given, you follow to the letter. Every commander you are assigned to, you
pledge your loyalty to, and that loyalty is rewarded every time. Every rule,
every regulation, you follow religiously, even such comparatively inconsequential
minutiae as grooming. Your commendations pile up to as great a
height as your turned-down promotions.
Don Pablo never speaks to you again after that day at the church, leading
you to believe that Esteban’s outraged words did carry to the front as you
feared.
Only one thing keeps you sane. Once a year, in springtime, when the
flowers bloom, you receive a letter from the former de los Santos estate—now
one of many Monastario holdings—in Guadalajara.
The first year, the letter comes with a box that contains a bottle of liquor
from a city called Tequila, not far from Guadalajara. You swear not to drink
it until the proper occasion presents itself.
And then you are invited to share a meal with General de la Nueva.
“We have a problem in Los Angeles,” he explains while devouring a
bloody steak with his gloved hands. “An outlaw who continues to defy the
King’s law. He styles himself the Fox.”
You are stunned. “Zorro? I thought him a legend, like the Weeping
Woman or the Seven Cities of Gold.”
“Rest assured, Capitán, he is real. And your job is to stop him. He has already
brought disgrace to both the military and the governor’s office. You
will be made military commander of the pueblo and its outlying territories, but
those duties will be secondary to this: Zorro must be stopped at all costs, by
any means.”
“I will report immediately,” you say without hesitation. From what you’ve
heard, Zorro is a blight upon Spain, a creature who defies the rightful dictates
of law—both God’s and man’s. True, you’d not believed those stories, but
neither do you doubt the general’s word. Besides, if you are the one to stop
the Fox, perhaps that would finally allow you to come out from under the
thumb of your brother and the bishop.
And so you proceed at first light to your new post…
26
MORE TALES OF ZORRO
“Wake up!”
Letting out a gasp, Monastario lifted his head from the desk. Instinctively,
his hand reached for his sword.
Even as his hand closed over the hilt, the weapon still lodged in the scabbard
attached to his belt, the capitán realized that Zorro was in his office—and
that he’d been asleep for some time.
He quickly looked about the office. It had grown dark—Garcia had disobeyed
orders long enough to have the lanterns in the office lit, which Monastario
was willing to forgive—and most of the Tequila was gone. His headache
was even worse. And drool was dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“Whatever it is you want, Zorro,” Monastario said blearily as he wiped
the drool with the back of his glove, “may we please proceed ahead to the part
where you make me look a fool, deface my furniture, and leave via the window?”
“Why have you done this, Capitán?”
“Done what?”
“Do not pretend ignorance!” the outlaw shouted.
“I am not pretending, sir!” Monastario shouted right back. “I have been
alone in this room since midday—as Garcia is my witness.” He knew that, for
reasons passing understanding, Zorro trusted the fat sergeant’s word, even
though the Fox tormented Garcia as much as he did anyone and everyone in
authority.
Zorro seemed to consider this. “Perhaps you are innocent.”
“Hah!” Monastario rose unsteadily to his feet, resting his hands on the surface
of his desk to hold himself upright. “What do you know of innocent and
guilty, Zorro? Those are terms of law, and you have placed yourself outside
it.”
“Perhaps, but I do so for the greater good.”
“Whose greater good, I wonder? Do you know that a military commander
of a settlement of this size usually has three times the manpower? I do not, because
of you. My superiors view it as a waste of resources. And yet, in addition
to having to clean up yourmesses, I must also perform my usual duties.”
“Such as making yourself richer?”
Monastario did not take the bait. “Such as preserving the security of the
pueblo. Such as maintaining order in the settlement. It was my soldiers who
fixed the bridge that was destroyed in those rains last month.”
27
LETTER FROM GUADALAJARA
“And the Dons who paid for it.”
Now Monastario did take the bait. “Your sarcasm notwithstanding, sir, our
superiors in fact do encourage us to make ourselves richer. However, they do
discourage us from using our own capital to finance endeavors of the state.
If the military’s own funds cannot provide—as indeed they could not last
month—then we look outside. That is what the Dons are for.”
Finally, the capitán felt confident enough in his stability—if not his sobriety—
to stand upright without help from the desk. “But then,” he continued,
“you know that. You are one of the Dons. Oh,” he added quickly, “I do
not know which, but it was clear from the first weeks after I arrived that you
were one of them.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve seen you smile, sir,” Monastario said. “Only a man of breeding and
station has such fine teeth. For that matter, only a well-fed man could do what
you do so skillfully, and your well-cared-for mustache is one that is primarily
seen on the upper classes. Also? The only part of you I can see is your smirk—
and only a Don smirks quite like that.” The capitán did not add that Don Pablo
had the same smirk.
“You are perhaps smarter than I gave you credit for, Capitán,” Zorro said
with a small bow.
“I could hardly be stupider than you give me credit for, sir.”
“Then I must ask you, Capitán—how can you perform the acts you perform?
Surely a man of your intelligence knows that what you do is wrong.”
Monastario shook his head. “What I do is wrong? By whose standard?
You see, I am a soldier—my duty is to follow the orders of my superiors. If I
shirk that duty, then what I do is wrong.”
“Even if those orders are immoral?”
Now Monastario leaned his head back and roared with laughter—loud
enough that it made his own headache worse, but he no longer cared.
“I amuse you, Capitán?”
“Very much so, actually,” he said, getting himself under control. “Do you
know what my primary orders are at this post? To stop you. All other matters
are secondary, including protection of and security for the settlement. The
only right thing for me to do, sir, is stop you by any means necessary. You see,
Zorro, while anonymity frees you, my rank shackles me. I can do naught but
follow the orders I am given, for if I do not, my fate will well and truly be
28
MORE TALES OF ZORRO
29
LETTER FROM GUADALAJARA
sealed.”
“No matter how many peasants or men of God get in the way of you following
those instructions?”
Again Monastario laughed, but it was a bitter one. “Believe me when I
tell you that the welfare of vermin is not listed among my responsibilities.”
“The peasants are human beings, created in God’s image like everyone
else, and they do not deserve—”
Monastario interrupted. “More proof that you are a Don, sir. Only a Don
could be that ignorant. I know peasants quite well, Zorro, and they deserve
neither consideration nor compassion. And I’d sooner give it to them than
any so-called men of God.”
“It is ironic,” Zorro said, shaking his head with apparent pity—an emotion
that Monastario no more wanted from the Fox than he did from Garcia.
“What is?”
Zorro stared at Monastario. The capitán supposed it might have been an
intense stare, but the mask that covered the top of the Fox’s face served its purpose
well, reducing the effectiveness of the outlaw’s glare. But then, if Monastario
could see Zorro’s eyes clearly enough for the glower to have full effect,
he would also see enough of his eyes to perhaps identify him.
“You see, Capitán,” Zorro said, “I had retired. Capitán Ramon was dead,
the governor had returned to Spain in disgrace. Zorro was no more. I only
came back out of retirement because of your arrival.”
A multitude of emotions washed over Monastario, breaking on his mind
like so many waves. Anger, laughter, amazement, bitterness… General de la
Nueva mentioned nothing about Zorro retiring—but then, how does anyone
know for sure that a mysterious, anonymous figure who only appears for brief
intervals is gone?
“I cannot leave until you are gone, yet my being gone is the only way to
be rid of you.” Monastario snatched the thick glass that had the last sip of
Tequila. “God, it seems, has a greater sense of humor than even I imagined.”
He slugged down the last of his drink. It burned as it travelled down his throat.
“Enough. I would like to go to bed. Kindly leave.”
The capitán could see one of Zorro’s eyebrows rise from the motion on
his mask. “You will not try to thwart me?”
“Not today. Consider it a gift.”
“What is the occasion, Capitán?”
“An anniversary.” Monastario sat back down in his chair.
Holding up his rapier, Zorro said, “Very well, Capitán. Until next time.”
Zorro cast about the office for several moments. Monastario was used to
this—he was looking for something to leave his mark upon.
But after a moment, he looked back at the capitán.
Then he put the rapier’s tip to his own forehead in salute. “Good night!”
And, for the first time since his arrival in this sand-choked hole of hell,
Monastario saw the Fox leave his office without defacing a single item.
Once Zorro was gone, Monastario looked down at his desk.
The letter from the general had been dampened by Monastario’s drool,
causing a blot upon General de la Nueva’s signature.
Monastario found that he could live with that.
He took hold of the envelope and held it to his nose, wondering what he
would smell were his nose functioning properly. As he did so, he imagined
that he heard a melodious laugh.
Reaching for his belt, he unholstered the dagger he’d been issued. Gently,
he sliced open the envelope and took the letter out from inside it.
As always, it was three pages long. Marisela never wrote more or less
than that.
As always, it began with the words, “Dear Quiqué.”
And for one hour on one day in the Spring, Capitán Enriqué Sanchez
Monastario knew joy.
