To: The Guy Williams Friendslist
The Continuation of My Adventure
Episode 8: Once Upon a Dream
In the morning, I rode out, leaving without letting Aunt Inez or anyone know where I was going. I didn’t think to, as usual, and Magdalena liked that. I thought about our different worlds and how the simplest things I do are great freedoms in her world. Remember, as I adapted to her mind, she was adapting to mine, and I could feel her steady astonishment.
At the stable, a series of stable boys silently saddled a horse, helped me mount, and led me out into the rear courtyard. I thought about how easy it was to get used to ignoring these people who did things for you, so I went about my usual overdoing of “thank you’s, well, “gracias”, which I say anytime anyone does something for me. I’m one of those people who say “thank you” after someone says “thank you” to me. A dear friend of mine, an old wise fellow who looks like Santa Claus, finally blew up in exasperation and shouted, “Why don’t you say ‘you’re welcome’? Why don’t you accept that you are giving me something, and I say ‘thank you’?” Yes, and don’t you think that –
Oh, ok. I heard that. You want me to go on with the story.
All right, you’re welcome!
So I headed down the road, trying to sort my mind out. When you have two active minds spinning, there is a lot of sorting to do. But the country calmed me, and the cool morning air was head clearing.
Had Diego do la Vega in fact serenaded me last night? Or was it some fantasy, some fanfiction story, I’d just sat up with? You know how it goes. You create a world that at first seems charming and fun, but it soon enough becomes more real than reality, even more real than the Zorro TV episodes themselves, which turn into fodder for your feeding frenzy. You are your story. It is reality, life, the meaning of the universe.
Even if you don’t write the stories, you live them. You get caught up in the imaginative world, caught between your imaginings and those of a creative group in the 1950s. We all take off, creating separate worlds, altering a line here, a reason there, a subtlety in places so that the sum of it all becomes our creation, our separate Zorro that constantly changes and never stays still.
Yes, yes. OK. The story.
You’re welcome.
Besides, this was no story. I was riding in California, and looking around as if it were all new: The graceful green hills with their low, luxurious trees, the oaks and elms cropping up, and the fields with the workers.
I let the horse forage and walked through the field bordered by large oaks. Here, a path meandered down through the trees. It was quite pleasant. The path leveled out to a delightful wood with a stream running through it, the water running pretty low, as it was the beginning of summer. Following the stream, I came to an open clearing, and more rocks and boulders. I noticed that the ground was growing increasingly rocky, and there were more egregious tree roots sticking up. These were from several large, thick willow trees with low lying branches.
My heart was beating harder. Why? What was I close to? What?
Ah. I figured it out.
I hurried over to where the branches were the thickest and the trees camouflaged the clump of rocks.
I pushed. Nothing, just a rock wall.
This is impossible, I thought. But why could that mean anything? Impossible things, as Celeste Holm once sang, are happening every day. I pushed more branches. Nothing. I worked my way though, ducking when the branches pushed back.
They yielded. I pushed through and found myself entering Zorro’s secret cave. Well, not so secret! All of you know about it.
I know that we were shown that the entrance to the cave is really in pieces, film wise. But that’s not how I found it. I found it the way we know it. How did I know it was Zorro’s cave? Why, because Tornado stood there, gazing at me with a casualness that was funny, and when I appeared, he gave little snort, and he backed away, but he nodded with energy.
“Easy, Tornado,” I said, softly. “Easy, boy.” I went over to pat his nodding snout. He seemed happy to see me.
“Could I have your autograph?” I asked. He nodded. I said, “Your father was not a baboon.” He snorted. I hugged his delightful snout, and he didn’t seem to mind. It was as if I could hear him thinking: When you’re me, you have to put up with an adoring public. All right. I was in Tornado’s cave, and Tornado didn’t mind. What would happen, I wondered, if Zorro came down? Or Bernardo? And if they encountered Magdalena? I’d best get out of there.
Somewhere in the dim echo chamber of time and space, I heard a “NOOO!” of protest. Well, what was that? Could it be you, dear Friends? Where have you been? You sure can shout. Or, perhaps, it was my imagination.
For how could I be here, in Zorro’s cave and not go up the secret passage? What sort of Zorro fan would I be if I didn’t do that? And if I got caught, I’d just have to say I blundered on it. Blundered on it! It’s not near the road and covered with trees and boulders. How could anyone blunder on it? Well, still, that is better than the excuse that I knew it was there because I saw it on TV.
I preferred being undiscovered. Let’s hope Zorro didn’t have an emergency to ride to now. Besides, it was morning. Out of the NIGHT when the FULL MOON-- after all. I was desperately curious. Wouldn’t it be fun to tell you all (ok, Keliana, y’all) I had been through the secret passage? Ah, y’all give me courage. What I won’t do to be able to post such things as, “I was going through the secret passage the other day…”
It was cold and damp and the footing was uneven as I worked my way through. The ceiling was also low. Diego would have to crouch and watch out for his head. Without light, it was difficult, but I had some expectation of stone steps and walls. I felt my way up the steps carefully, stumbling only once in the difficult circle (a little narrower than on TV), and banging my elbow. I thought of the Broadway show, Nine. Antonio Bandaras looks up, and these women all come down this great circular stair, and they go up and down and up. All in high heels. I don’t know how they do it. They would do well in Zorro’s secret passage.
At the top of the circular stairs, I paused, uncertain. The brick and stone walls grew further apart. The stairs circled on up. I could go up to the bedroom, but voices – I heard Diego’s voice – and I thought, Alejandro’s muted voice as well. As I drew closer, I could make out a few words. “About time” and “Magdalena.”
Where was the little plug in the wall? I felt for it and while I did, I pressed my ear to the wall. Ah, there was the plug! I pulled it out, and then, I could hear pretty well.
Diego was saying, “…not resisting anyone. I just would like to resolve these issues myself. I am the one whose life you want to change.”
Alejandro sounded his usual impatient self. “Most decidedly, young man. I want very much to change your life. This is not your choice as you seem to think. This choice involves the whole family and its future. Diego, in these last months since you have come back home, I can scarcely believe what has come over you.”
“I am who I am, Father.”
Something slammed down. “Do not be blasphemous!” shouted Alejandro. “I do not object to your love of books. Your inquisitive nature is admirable. But you are my oldest son. You, Diego. Six years was long enough away, and we had this trouble here. I have a rancho to manage. You must acknowledge your responsibility as the oldest son. You must learn to take over from me. You must have the gumption to fight for the de la Vega legacy. You must have an investment in our land, our cattle, and our future.”
I heard what I thought was a growing irritation in Diego’s voice. “Marrying Magdalena would help me attain such goals, Father?”
Marrying Magdalena? Hearing him say that sent me into some confusion. Was I Magdalena? Or was it the voice in my head?
“I did not know that by marrying someone I could improve my judgment of cattle.”
There was something else in his voice I had not heard except in the briefest of scenes. I tried to peek again. I saw an arm tossed lazily over a chair arm. That was it. In his voice, I heard a lassitude and indifference in his tone, very different from the way he had behaved at the lake. I was listening to the masked Diego.
For Diego, too, wears a mask – he takes it off only when he is alone with Bernardo. But in public, he projects a weariness with orthodox responsibility. Except – when he was with me at the lake, he did not reveal this lassitude at all.
A raspy voiced Alejandro grew more exasperated. “Your sense of humor and propriety diminishes with all the time you spend lolling around in the tavern with that wretched low life, Sergeant Garcia and his friends, and those young men gambling their fathers’ fortunes away: Ramon and Miguel.”
“ I do not gamble,” said Diego, firmly.
“No, you sit around and make up songs on your guitar. Diego, I must see more ambition in you. Was I wrong that you are attracted to Senorita Montez?”
"No, Father,” said Diego, softly.
I thought I might burst through the bookshelf and cry out, “Diego, I am here!” But what such a scheme had in drama, it lacked in sense.
“Then why,” pressed Alejandro, “why do I feel as if I am forcing this marriage down your throat?”
“Give the young lady a chance to get used to being here,” said Diego.
I thought – he was so eager yesterday. Why did he resist the idea of marrying me now?
“You sit back in the game of love,” said Alejandro. “That is how you lost Rosarita.”
I heard his shrug. “She preferred someone else to me. Those are the fortunes of war.”
“War!” cried Alejandro. “You need two sides fighting to have a war. Diego, I know that Rosarita came back with eyes only for you, but you would not fight for her. A girl likes to be championed. Fought for. She wants to know that she is important to the man who wins her and proves his worthiness, and also, his ability to protect her and her children. Senorita Montez is extraordinarily beautiful and charming, and she was courted by powerful men. I thought she brought out a little more spark in you.”
I think I did, too.
I wasn’t doing it now, obviously.
Diego yawned. “Perhaps, Father. But can you give us a little more time?”
“Time!” he shouted. “Francisco and I have drawn up the agreement. It is done. You must move on this.”
“It does not matter how I feel? Or how she feels?”
There was a silence. I was confused. Didn’t he want me? What was going on with him? I didn't even think that it made no sense for Diego to marry me, I mean, considering the reality that I had been born way over one hundred years after he had been.
“All right,” said Alejandro. “In one week, your engagement will be announced. Court the lady, and propose to her. What I am afraid of, Diego, is that she will find another more to her liking, just as Rosarita did.”
“It is a new century,” said Diego. “That is her right. Father.”
Alejandro snorted. “I cannot understand you. A beautiful woman, right here for the taking.”
More right here than he knew.
“Father,” said Diego, “I was hoping to finish a poem before dinner. With your permission.”
“Let me not stand in the way of a new poem,” said Alejandro, his sarcasm dripping heavily. “Go. Please.”
I heard Diego leaving the library. I heard Alejandro throw something across the room.
I thought – that Diego did not even sound like Diego.
I had to go upstairs, keep risking discovery. I made my way up the next level of stairs, very slowly, hugging the brick wall and holding onto my skirts. Even though I knew where the stairs headed, I was still astounded to find myself in the room where Diego became Zorro, right by his bedroom. I was trembling so hard that I could hardly make sense of my own surroundings. A shimmer across the room. It was Zorro’s costume, or the cape at least, on a hook, right there. Zorro’s cape. Oh, now I know how that wretched little man from Spain felt. Well, perhaps not. But I wanted to drape that cape around myself.
A door slammed. A rough, angry stride.
Did this room have a peephole? I couldn’t remember. My brain raced through the episodes, went blank. What I wouldn’t give for a laptop and my email. To: GWFriendslist. Urgent. Is there a peephole from the secret passage into Diego’s room?
“What is wrong?” I heard Diego shouting, but then he got quieter.
Wait! Was that an answer? Diego DID use a little plug – I remembered that he’d peeked through it in the episode in which his father was injured and in which the soldiers were running all around the casa. The “Here’s to the Soldiers of the King” episode.
Oh, no, don’t let me get started on that song.
I found the plug, pulled it.
“Father and Don Francisco have me engaged to the Senorita Montez.”
I waited a bit, wishing I could see Bernardo “talking.”
“I know,” Diego said. “Such a fate, eh?” He laughed. ‘She is the most beautiful, entrancing, enchanting girl I have ever met.”
Oh, Diego…Could you put that in writing? This was certainly a different Diego than I’d just heard from.
“What would I do for her – sail to the ends of the earth for her, fight a million dragons for her, but—“
Something slammed. The de la Vega men liked to slam.
“Bernardo, how can I make any commitment to her or anyone? You know my life. Once Ortega was banished, I thought I might settle down – but now, with this Eagle conspiracy, Zorro needs to be free. I have to figure out what is happening and why. No one else seems to see that there is anything awry. I think it is more dangerous, more insidious than ever. Do you know – it is that rascal Zorro who steals women from me, and it is why Diego cannot be a bold caballero with them. Oh, but today, Bernardo. Ah.” I heard a noise that I couldn’t place – then I realized he had fallen back on his bed and let out a cry.
“And now he will steal the one woman I would end him for. She is extraordinary, Bernardo! She does not lecture me, either. She is fascinating. I know, Diego deserves the lectures. Deeayyygo!!”
I had to laugh. He said it as well as Jill did.
“But I do not deserve such lectures. Why, it’s as if Magdalena knows who I am when she looks at me. She has such deep feelings and such intelligence. Of course, intelligent men pursued her – or spread tales to keep her for themselves. I have heard that she preferred a vaquero to Senor Varga. Ha. I certainly could not fault her for that!”
He laughed. He made another throaty, disgusted sound.
Meanwhile, I was also absorbing information. Ortega had been the first commandante.
True or false Ortega? And had Magdalena really been courted by Varga? Ugh. “Do the people really need Zorro? Is it good to deceive my father and everyone I love? Bernardo, I cannot take a wife or a fiancé or even love someone. Oh, stop looking as if I could. You know it is impossible. I am romantic enough to want to tell her everything about me, but I could not do that. If she loved me, offered her life to me, trusted her happiness to me, how cruel could I be – putting my life in danger without her knowing and understanding? And how could I tell her? Bernardo, the one who is most likely to be hurt in all this is Magdalena.”
He was right. And, oddly enough, I had the same sort of problem. I had my own Zorro game. I could not marry him, being who I was and bound at some point, to go back to my own time. I never knew when that would happen. Magdalena, you may be stuck with me. She Who Was Magdalena was very quiet.
I could not listen any more. I worked my way down the stairs and hurried past Tornado, without stopping, pushing through the branches. I hurried away from the cave and up the hill, running running to clear my brain. But I stopped when I heard voices. A man and a woman.
I thought I recognized them.
I made my way up to where my horse was and I saw two people walking along the road, their backs to me. A woman and a soldier.
“Good morning,” I called.
The two turned toward me. Why –
“Magdalena!” The woman ran toward me, embraced me, the soldier following, smiling. “But-“ I said, confused.
When I stepped back, I realized who they were. Capitan Toledano and his wife Raquel.
And Raquel, excuse the expression, had an eagle feather in her cap.
She was just as beautiful as we all remember her. And she returned the compliment to me.
Although Toledano beat her to it. He was gracious, bowing toward me. When he spoke, it was with that same high-pitched twang we know. “My dear, how good to see you again. You have grown more beautiful since we last saw you in Mexico City.”
“I think she looks different, Arturo,” Raquel said.
She always sounded so flirtatious, I thought.
“I hope that my skin takes to California as well,” she said.
“When did you get here?” I asked.
“Goodness, we have been here for months,” said Raquel. “You are the one who just got here!”
I wondered what good Bill Cotter’s book would do here anyway. Now wait. Magdalena came between commandantes, didn’t she? Then there was Ortega and then Toledano. Right? I couldn’t quite remember. But I knew that Raquel and Magdalena had never shared an episode.
Then, again, both had been women who worked for the Eagle. Perhaps I was getting the Reader’s Digest Condensed Book version.
“I thought you knew,” Raquel was saying. “Ever since that stupid Ortega got himself arrested, we have been here. I warn you. It really is dreadfully dull here. However, there are a few handsome caballeros to please the eye and of course, our work makes life interesting. You have something to show me? A new style?”
I was pretty sure I knew what she meant. All right, that made two, unless Arturo was in on this, against character.
“Not with me, of course,” I said.
Raquel smiled. “May we call on you soon?”
“Please do,” I said.
“How silly of me. I forgot. I have a letter from that dear Christina for you. She sent it to me, for some reason, to give to you. It is in my saddlebag, because we had half a notion to ride to your father’s house and see you. Do get it for me, Arturo.”
I wondered who Christina was. “I miss that poor dear,” seemed safe to say.
Raquel laughed as if we shared a secret. “Being married, it is very difficult to snag a caballero and bring him around to the Eagle. You will have a better chance. They are all love starved here.”
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“You! You could lure ten at once!”
“Or,” I said, “one good one.”
“One or ten, it does not matter, as you are already spoken for.”
What was that? What? Was I turning to stone?
“Thank you, dear,” said Raquel, taking the letter from Arturo, who said, “We must be getting back. I need to be at the cuartel. Will you ride with us, señorita?”
“Please,” said Raquel, who really seemed happy to see me.
I couldn’t bear to do that. “No, thank you. I have been content exploring on my own.” But what about being spoken for?
“Without a duenna,” said the capitan. “Señorita , if something should happen to you, I would not forgive myself.”
“Oh, I am very close to home,” I said.
Raquel shook her head. “Arturo, she is always independent. And so bold. Well, do come visit me very soon. I live in that dreadful pueblo, in the cuartel. At least, Arturo is there. And I have a room at the inn.” She took Arturo’s arm and leaned over it, possessively. At the moment, I wondered what she saw in him. He certainly was her slave.
“Thank you for the letter,” I said.
I watched them ride off, Raquel’s laughter fading into the trees. If Arturo only knew. But what was this letter? Who was this Christina?
As soon as I tore open the seal and began reading it, I knew that Christina was a lie. This was from my “spoken for.”
“My dearest,
You have been away from my sight only a few days and I already am morose. Only my devotion to duty keeps me moving though the day, that and the drawing I had made of you at my bedside
. I agonize over sending you alone to do such dangerous work. I fear that the Viceroy believes something is afoot and will try to hurt me by hurting you first. Please be careful. There are spies everywhere. California’s treasures are desired by many groups, including those sad and pathetic caballeros who believe that Spain will last forever, or that she is still a world power.
When I do come to Los Angeles, we will not be able to acknowledge our love at first, or that we even know each other, much less our betrothal. You must be alluring to the young men, and I must do my duty. When we are victorious, then, my darling, I can take you in my arms again. Ah, that will truly be victory!
Magdalena, you are my delight of delights. Los Angeles no longer weeps, but is triumphant with the trumpet calls of her angels who celebrate your return. Victory will be proclaimed in Los Angeles! Victory for California and victory for us, my darling.
From your devoted,
E”
The Eagle? Varga? Was I betrothed to the Eagle?
What was I doing betrothed to anyone? And the Eagle? Why didn’t I know that?
Why didn’t I know that?
Nothing from She Who Was Magdalena.
But wait. I could almost remember a suave, smooth, articulate voice. Eyes of the very devil. And hands clutching power and always winning. His power controlled me even now. Who? Who?
I cannot be betrothed to him! I refuse!
And yet.
Although I could not remember him, I could not deny my initial thrill at reading this letter. As if I had missed this very “E” all this time.
He alone understands. He is wise. Not caught up in ideals.
And yet, Magdalena.
And yet.
I could not deny that I thought, Diego, and my heart beat rapidly, and I desperately wanted to see him. That feeling was not only mine. It was part of every person in me, She Who Was Me and She Who Was Magdalena melted at the very thought of Diego de la Vega. This was not only the rich and fun fantasy shared by those of us on the Guy Williams Friends List, but that feeling that was born of having touched his hand, heard his voice, felt the hilarious delight of being with him, of our bodies meeting, matching, finding the missing piece of the puzzle of our lives, of hearing his voice in the night, where we sought each other.
This feeling we knew. I knew. I who was Magdalena and I who was myself.
One more thing. To win California, whatever his plans were, to gain his victory, the Eagle must defeat Zorro, who was the people’s hope.
Magdalena knew that.
Because she knew, I felt triumphant – and behind that, horror. This was war inside us. I never knew such a sweet kiss.
And what else?
He is this Zorro
Oh, what does this mean?
I wish I had met him before. But it will come to no good end.
What do you mean?
He lives in a dream world. His kind always die young and cruelly. I cannot go through that again.
Because he believes in his cause, that it is larger than himself, and he does not fear death or seek selfish power. Those are the people who are afraid.
I know. If you love him, listen to me. Keep him safe. Keep him in your box, in your fantasy world. Never let him suffer. Always let him win.
Darn you.
You will not always be here. Remember.
You will not always love the Eagle. You don’t know. How could you? He is not even handsome, and he is so arrogant.
You have never met him.
I have so.
Yes, but those visions you have were not always accurate. You don’t know anything.
Things have been close enough.
Things are confusing.
Yes, everything is confusing.
No. One thing is certain.
What?
Diego is Zorro.
Leave him be.
I do not have to try to destroy him. He will do that himself. His deeds will bring ruin on himself and on those he loves. Let us stay away from him! Please.
***********
I rode. Hard. I came to the river, and I threw my arms around that blessed tree where time had parted, and the white light had burst into colors, and I had become myself, afraid of loving and afraid not to.
Oh, for simplicity.
Oh, to give in to the simplest of desires.
Very well. I will!
I hurried behind the thickest branches hanging low over the river, and I pulled off my cloths, pulled down my hair, and tied it back. Clothes shed, I plunged into the cool river. There, Magdalena, are you happy?
Perfectly!
I swam. I floated. What a beautiful sky, so deep and blue, and the fringes of trees teasing it so. Not one cloud. I started to swim again. I started to laugh. Then, alone in the wilderness and one with it, I started to sing.
Startling She Who was Magdalena.
Leave your voice here when you go.
I am not going.
I felt that so profoundly. The feeling grew more as I sang. What was I singing? Do you remember the part of Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty where Aurora, as Briar Rose, is in the woods singing with her high coloratura (well, opera singer Mary Costas’ coloratura). She does this wonderful cadenza to Tchaikovsky’s music. So high and sweet. And then, to the waltz:
“I know you
I walked with you once upon a dream
I know you
The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam
Yet I know it’s true
That visions are seldom all they seem…”
I heard a splash.
What was that?
Nothing.Or it could have been Ahab's whale the way things were going. I kept singing.
“For I know you
I know what you do
You love me at once
The way you did once
Upon a dream.”
I swam around the bend where the trees were thickest, dove under, came up. Another splash! No, a series of splashes.
A strong current buffeted me. I grabbed a branch and turned in the water, peering through the dancing sunlight.
Up from the water came what at first seemed a bobbing merman with dark hair and a muscular chest. I flung back at the sight of him, as if I’d been struck, or boomeranged against it.
Well. Great minds think alike. This, too, was the unmasked Diego, a little more unmasked than I’d ever experienced him.
He shook his head, submerged to his neck, but I splashed him hard. “What -?”
I ducked behind the branches.
“Magdalena?” he asked, quizzically. “Is that you?”
Oh, now, Friends, are you perhaps leaning a little more forward now? Please do not drop the pizza on the rug. And watch out for that puddle. I think it’s Gail.
“For goodness’ sake!” I cried. “Is there no place in California where a lady may be alone?”
He started laughing very hard. I wanted to join him, and why shouldn’t I? Wasn’t it funny? And my God, didn’t I want to swim with him?
Go. Go.
You are one to talk. You want to kill him.
No. No. I want him to live. Believe me.
“Was that you singing?” he called.
“Yes. I thought I was alone. Imagine that.”
“I am very glad you were not,” he cried. “What were you singing? It was beautiful!” So there I was, splashing around, treading water, up to my neck and perfectly unclothed, and talking to Diego de la Vega, in the same perfectly condition, just a few feet away from me in that lovely lake, where he was also splashing water and treading around. Now, I know I was in a serious pickle, all told, not to mention being pickled, but I want to tell you that I would not have changed places with anyone. And that’s the truth. Nevertheless, I tried to keep my mind on the subject.
“A ballet by Tchaikovsky.” I did not add, “A cartoon from Walt Disney.”
“A what by whom?”
Explain that! (There's an assignment. Explain Walt Disney to Diego.)
“To the story of the Sleeping Beauty,” I said. “Tchaikovsky is Russian.”
“It is beautiful. You are beautiful!” His voice went soft, low. “But I think you woke me up. Now we almost have nothing to hide from each other.”
“Diego!”
He laughed. “I will go. I will swim round the bend there and back here. Is that enough?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“I will linger. Stay as long as you like.”
“No, no.”
“I simply wanted to swim here again the way I had as a boy.”
If he had asked me to join him, I would, and I know he wanted to.
“Good afternoon,” he called, and in a beautiful union of light and color, Diego swam past my branches, a forceful stroke from a magnificent, forceful body. Words cannot begin to describe it all, or him all, but I have a feeling that you have already imagined what I have not described.
And now what.
Calm down heart.
She Who Was Magdalena was silent. I think she was struck dumb.
I swam back to my horse, against the river’s current, and against the sun’s light.
I will not be betrothed to the Eagle!
Then we are both dead.
Magdalena, what do you want?
I want to live in Diego de la Vega’s world. So help me.
Then, my dear friend, we belong together. Let us get out of this mess.
That world cannot stand. It is a dream.
And you think this isn’t?
Silence from She Who Was Magdalena. Well, I could scarcely prove to her that the world we were in was not a dream. Yet, I think that the choices made in a dream world are just as important as in so called reality.
We must help each other.
Silence from She Who Was Magdalena. Silence. Silence.
And then –
He is handsome, isn’t he?
