LISA FILE 2

CRUSH

This uses the "love is like an hourglass" quote.

Besides a couple of the star characters, it employs a few of the recurring extras. Rosa is the girl with the headaches (and the watered-down laudanum) in Betrayal. She makes it into the credits there, but I'm fairly sure I have seen her (unnamed) as a designated patient in other episodes as well. Her brother, Francisco, is based on one of the anonymous troopers riding off to Monterrey (and nearly blown up on their return) in The Hanged Man. Tomas is based on one of those ubiquitous, and equally anonymous, wounded soldiers who reappear from episode to episode--more particularly, the one in The Dragon cautioned against trying to dance for the time being.

~~~~~

Rosa combed her hair and pinned it back, catching the wispy lengths that tended to fall disobediently about her face. She checked the effect one more time in the small, tarnished mirror, then adjusted her new shawl carefully about her shoulders. The silken fabric was luxuriously soft beneath her work-coarsened fingertips. It was too precious for wearing everyday, something to be saved for Sunday Mass and for fiestas. Her brother Francisco had brought it back for her from Monterrey, and its bright colors carried the echoes of his tales of that fine city, his gallant, revered commander, and the new Viceroy.

Emboldened by its promise of worlds outside Santa Helena, Rosa picked up her basket and turned her steps nervously toward Doctor Helm's office. Perhaps her mother was right and she was being so very foolish. "Be careful, mi hija," Mama had sighed, "love is like an hourglass with the heart filling up as the brain empties." But had the Doctor not always been kind to her? Even through the fuzzy delirium of her fever she could remember the coolness of his hand on her forehead stroking her sweat-damp hair. "Don't worry, senora," he had reassured her mother, "your pretty daughter will be dancing at many fiestas yet." Did he not always have a smile for her, too, whenever she turned up on his doorstep on one pretext or another? And had he not listened with such troubled eyes as she had described her headaches?

And was he really so very beyond her star? He was only a foreigner, after all--not even a good Catholic, people said. The dons' daughters might fancy him, it was true, but in the end they would marry others like themselves, with money and land and privilege. And as for Senorita Alvarado, who so boldly, brazenly even, breezed into his office in her pride and fine, expensive gowns and demanded his attention--

"Ay! Me vale!" With a toss of her long hair Rosa shook that thought from her head. Her father, she reminded herself, who had come up here from Mexico with the army long before she was born, counted himself as good a Christian man as any don in New Spain. The day would come, he promised his children, when the poor would take their share of what the rich landowners hoarded to themselves.

The Doctor's door stood open to bring the cooler evening air inside and refresh the house. Rosa hesitated a moment only, then tapped on the door-frame and entered.

She was a little disappointed to find that the Doctor was not alone. Colonel Montoya, of all people, had evidently made himself at home in the Doctor's usual chair, his legs stretched out comfortably in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Rosa had never had reason to be so close to him, and she quailed a little as his eyes swept over her. Doctor Helm had been lounging against the side edge of the table, his back to the door, but he had turned and straightened as he heard her knock.

"Rosa? The headaches have returned?"

"No, senor. I--" Rosa extended her basket a little awkwardly. "Mama and I, we thought you might like these."

"Gracias, Rosa." The Doctor smiled at her as he took the basket and examined the contents. "This is very kind of you."

"My, my, my," the Colonel remarked. "So it seems the Good Doctor has captured yet another lady's heart." Rosa blushed.

"Don't mind him," the Doctor comforted her. "The Colonel is jealous." He flashed her a more mischievous smile, glancing sideways toward Montoya. "Because beautiful young girls so rarely offer him baskets of empanadas."

Rosa drew a breath. How dared he jest like that with the Military Governor? She was just a little frightened now, as well as embarrassed, even though the Colonel showed no sign of taking offence.

"Ah," he merely replied, rising gracefully from the chair. "But then, not being English, I do not need to be taught what real food is like. Enjoy your supper, Doctor. Senorita." He stopped for a moment in front of Rosa and inclined toward her with the suggestion of a courtly bow. It was an unprecedented, unaccustomed courtesy--men of his class rarely treated women of hers as anything more than servants--and Rosa blushed more deeply.

"Do you like empanadas, senor?" she asked once they were alone and silence had fallen in the room, and after she had regained a little of her nerve. "Do you not have them in your country?"

"We have something similar. We call them 'pasties.' They're much less spicy, though: no chiles in England."

"Pasties," Rosa repeated to herself, trying out the word's foreign sound, and contemplating a place without the pureed roasted chile peppers which were such a kitchen staple in California.

There was another silence, and Rosa knew he was waiting for her to say good night. "There will be a fiesta next week." She approached the real purpose of her visit a little shyly. "For San Juan, sabes? There will be music and dancing, and--"

"Ah, Tomas." She looked at him in some confusion, but his back was to her as he placed the basket on the table and he could not see that. "You're worried about Tomas. You needn't be: the leg wound was very superficial, a bruise, really, no more. He'll be fine by the fiesta." He faced her again, and she looked down to avoid his kind, but so unperceptive, eyes. "He told me, you see, how much he was looking forward to dancing La Jota with you then."

"Si, Doctor." Love's hourglass turned, and its sands ran back from her foolish heart into her brain. In her infatuation she had forgotten all about Tomas. Tomas, whom she had known since they were children chasing each other amongst the chickens and struggling crops in the yards behind the soldiers' families' houses. Tomas, who now stood so tall and proud and handsome in his uniform, and whose fingers always managed to brush hers in the Holy Water stoop on Sundays before Mass. Tomas, who, on her last birthday, had even dared to steal her a rose from the Colonel's garden. Resolved now, Rosa smiled broadly. "Si, I will dance with Tomas."

END

ANONYMITY

TRIO (brick, medicine bottle and pinata) and the Napoleon QUOTE.

What is it they say? No names, no pack drill?

~~~~~

What had once been a small house now stood open to the scorching sun and relentless wind. The traveler's foot kicked against one of the scattered adobe bricks and he looked down. Something sparkled in the morning light. He stooped, and his fingers scratched briefly in the dirt to unearth his prize. Not a diamond after all, he laughed to himself: only a curving shard of glass, by its size and shape the neck of a small medicine bottle. Should he take that as an omen? He threw it back amongst the detritus of forgotten lives spread out in the dust like the unclaimed prizes of a broken pinata.

"Glory is fleeting," he murmured, "but obscurity is forever." And wasn't that what he was seeking? Obscurity, anonymity, quiet usefulness. Somewhere he could forget what he had seen, what he had done, who he had been. Oh, he had had enough of glory. In this new world he would no longer be the young officer whose daring and resourcefulness were mentioned in despatches and praised by generals who chose not to recognize what "daring" entailed. Now he was merely that odd chap (what was his name?) who had chucked it all, promising military career, family and fiancee, country, everything.

He pulled out his map and squinted at it. If this was Agua Poquito, then he had a relatively short ride ahead of him. He would be there by well before nightfall. He replaced the map carefully in his pocket, next to the polite and yet somewhat imperious letter from Colonel Montoya offering him the post of physician. Then he walked back toward his horse and remounted. He had heard that when one of Napoleon's entourage realized the desolate place of final exile for which they were bound, she despaired and threw herself into the ocean. And here was he, so eager for this other Santa Helena. The traveler smiled at the irony and urged his mount along on the trail that led to his new life.

END

GAMESMANSHIP

Eliza started the whole croquet thing. Then Julie did her part. So how could I resist? The Doctor got his mallet back, but the Colonel was still out one orange.

Oh, and this little offering does contain the Wilde quote (like I could resist the Divine Oscar either, especially this soon after the big San Francisco Gay Pride festival) and the word "dotty."

Rating? No more than G, despite a little teasing.

~~~~~

Luis Montoya sipped his sherry. Another fine end to another productive day in Santa Helena. His soldiers had even managed to collect taxes without any interference from a certain masked lady. He was a happy man. The sun had slipped below the height of the thick adobe walls, and his courtyard was a haven of peace, quiet and solitude. He sighed, settled back in his chair and picked up his beloved Shakespeare. Ah, yes, a perfect moment.

Well, perhaps not perfect: one stray doubt nagged at him.

It had been three days. Three days. And he was beginning to worry.

"Let me know whenever you're ready to play," he had said, and reveled in his victory, in calling Doctor Helm's bluff. Had the man really thought that so clumsy a provocation would not have its consequences? Helm had upped the stakes in their sly little game, and he, in turn, had seen the bet and raised it again. He had shown him that Luis Montoya could tease with the best of them.

Only afterwards had it occurred to him that his words might have been interpreted as a challenge.

But for three days there had been sign of a counterattack. No visitations from annoying children. No projectiles through his windows. No confrontations at all. Even Grisham had commented on the physician's uncommonly placid demeanor.

Oh, yes. Helm was up to something. He had to be. The English were so serious about their games.

A deeper shadow fell across the pages of his book and Montoya lifted his eyes. Speak of the Devil...

"Colonel." He looked harmless, but with both hands hidden behind his back he could be holding almost anything.

"Doctor." Montoya acknowledged him with an inclination of his head. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?"

"I realized that I owed you something."

"Oh, I should think you owe me a great deal," Monyoya replied, sitting up and laying his book on the table. The best defence was a good offence. "Gratitude for inviting you to 'this other Eden, demi-paradise' of ours, for a start. The loyalty any public servant owes his commander. Not to mention two reales for repairs to the plaster on my wall. But do not worry: I will deduct that from your salary."

"Fruit."

Montoya frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"An orange, to be more exact. It was an orange you traded for my croquet mallet, wasn't it? Then you returned the mallet to me, so..." Helm drew his hands from behind his back and presented the fruit with a polite bow.

Montoya narrowed his eyes and considered the thing. It looked like an ordinary orange. Fairy tales told of poisoned apples, though, and Helm was a Doctor, after all. Who knew what he could have done to it? A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies, Montoya reminded himself, nor too cautious in accepting their gifts.

"And an apology," Helm went on. "I'm sorry about the whole croquet thing. It was a rather dotty thing to do. Impulsively juvenile of me." He sounded sincere. He looked sincere. A faint blush dusted his cheekbones, just below where shamed, downcast eyes were veiled by eyelashes Montoya had never noticed were quite so long and lush. "Can you forgive me?" He glanced across the space between them and the proffered orange, and his eyes glistened a deep, mossy green.

Montoya felt himself enthralled in their spell. And resisted. Really, the performance was somewhat over the top. Now he knew there was something wrong with the orange. He sat up straighter in his chair. "Of course." He smiled, and gestured his guest to sit. "Perhaps we might even share it?"

The Doctor showed no sign of dismay as he relaxed into a chair."Would you like to peel it, or shall I?"

"Oh, you, I think." Better safe than sorry. Alert for the slightest warning of danger, Montoya gave the operation all the attention he would give the defusing of a bomb. He watched every movement, every nuance. He watched long fingers stroke the dimpled surface of the fruit before piercing it and ripping off the peel with both force and precision. He watched Helm divide it exactly and hold out both halves. Montoya could see no difference between them, no indication that he was meant to choose one and not the other. So he chose, but delayed separating, let alone eating, any of the segments.

Helm seemed oblivious to both observation and hesitation. He ate the first part of his half with his eyes closed. "Mmmmmmm. I love oranges." He opened his eyes again and smiled. "When I was a boy, you see, we used to have them at Christmas time." He raised the next piece to his mouth, chewed it slowly and deliberately, evidently savoring every moment. "It's an English tradition: Seville oranges, a special treat, something bright and exotic in the depths of winter." He ate the next piece. And the next. "They've never lost that decadent glamor." And then, when he was finished with the last succulent slice, he carefully, painstakingly licked each finger, drawing each in turn between his lips, and his cheeks hollowed as he drank in each and every drop of juice.

Montoya watched, his half of the orange forgotten as suspicion transmuted into fascination. The sweet, sharp scent of the fruit embraced him. He licked his own lips. His breath caught. Then the wanton moment ended. Tearing his gaze away, he met Helm's eyes; they were golden and mischievous.

Helm stood and approached him, then leaned over him until Montoya could feel the soft warmth of his breath against his cheek.

"Something else we have in England, Colonel," he whispered, "is a warning about thinking you can teach your granny to suck eggs. Or oranges."

END?

THE INFORMER

A plot-writing exercise collides with Challenge #30...

Trio: coin, pearl necklace, apple tart
Quote: "Regret and misery like ashes in the mouth"
Word: finial
Cliffhanger/Sentence: "Help arrived minutes too late"
It's just another day in Santa Helena: a little death, a little larceny. But despite the presence of a tart, neither slash nor smut. <g>

~~~~~

Was it true that a dead man's eyes held his murderer's image fixed within their pale and glassy depths?

Colonel Montoya sighed as he looked around the scene of the crime. The hotel room offered such a banal setting for a mystery. It was so ordinary, just a room like many another--except, of course, for the body hanging limply from the lariat knotted around a decorative finial on the oak wardrobe, and the scattering of coins at its feet.

"I'd say the killer was interrupted while robbing the room, and dropped the money as he left." The suggestion sounded more hopeful than confident.

"Would you, Grisham?" Montoya answered as he knelt and picked up one of the silver reales. "I, on the other hand, would say no such thing. Hanging a man, especially in so awkward a fashion, is hardly the impulse of a thief. And look how the coins are arranged, all face down." He returned the coin to the pile and stood up. "Hmmm."

"Hmmm?"

"Thirty pieces of silver and a hanged man. This suggests nothing?"

Grisham shifted his weight as he thought, then he smiled broadly. "Oh, I get it. Judas."

"Exactly, Grisham." The setting, the overdone symbolism, everything bespoke a sordid melodrama of betrayal and retribution. Montoya smiled to himself. Betrayal meant a secret, and where there was a secret dangerous enough to kill for... Well, this murderously dark cloud on his day might yet disclose a silver--or golden--lining. He gestured for his men to take the body down.

Juan Munoz had arrived on the Monterey coach a few days earlier and taken the smallest, cheapest room in the hotel. His clothing, too, was decently petty-bourgeois but showing signs of long, hard service. The shirt-cuffs, for example, had obviously been turned and the worn military boots repeatedly resoled. The silver coins might not amount to a fortune, but they comprised a larger sum than was likely to have belonged to the dead man.

"It's suicide, then?" Grisham stood at his Colonel's side glancing over the body. "I mean, in the Bible Judas hanged himself, right?"

Montoya turned the corpse's head to one side. "If he hanged himself, Capitan, he must have been very determined." He passed his fingers over two sets of abrasions on the neck. "Here, slanting upwards, are the marks of the noose. But what are these other, deeper ones, I wonder?" Very much, he thought, as if the lariat had first been wielded as a garrote.

The dead man's effects were as anonymous as the man himself, though such extreme anonymity was in itself not a little suspicious. Munoz had carried no personal letters, no sentimental souvenirs. Nor had he been a man of high literary tastes. Montoya ruffled through the pages of the one book in the room, a torn-covered novela policia--some lurid tale of bandits, no doubt, or of revolutionaries and spies. A folded paper fell out. Montoya frowned as he scanned the handwritten sheet: it appeared to be a fair copy of a police statement, the testimony of an informer and the report of an arrest made by one Sergeant Juan Munoz, October 1810. Ah, now that was curious. A dangerous secret indeed.

"You are no doubt correct, Grisham," Montoya remarked at last. "Suicide. Officially. A tragedy, truly. And yet we must look on the bright side, no? This stranger's death need not disturb our fair pueblo's peace. 'We that have free souls,' as the Bard says, 'it touches us not.'"

"Yeah, sure," Grisham agreed as he followed his commander out of the room. "Whatever you say."

~~~~~

A crowd had gathered outside the hotel. Had the citizens of Santa Helena nothing better to do than loiter in the plaza? Most, however, contented themselves with gawking silently and gossiping afterwards. They dutifully cleared a path for the Colonel, his men and the corpse.

Most of them.

"Oh, Colonel. How horrible!" Senorita Alvarado slipped up beside Montoya and placed her hand on his arm. Why did her presence not surprise him? "Whatever happened to that poor man?" She batted her eyes coyly, but he caught the sharp, knowing curiosity she attempted to conceal.

"Capitan Grisham assures us it was a suicide. Very distressing, to be sure," Montoya murmured consolingly as he steered her away from the cortege. "But nothing to concern you, Senorita." The fewer people who saw the body--especially those who might look too closely--the better.

A woman suddenly cried out a few steps behind them, and they both turned. Montoya had to think a moment before he could put a name to the fainting figure. Margarita Sandoval was wife to one of the less important, less wealthy dons. She pressed a hand to her throat, her fingers grasping at a pearl necklace half-concealed within the high collar of her morning dress. But Montoya barely noticed: his memory flashed another image, of the lady's taciturn husband, his hand counting out the reales as he paid his taxes, meticulously laying each coin face down upon the desk.

Senorita Alvarado rushed to the woman's side and fluttered her fan to revive her.

"Ah, you see," Montoya remarked, "how such a tragic sight affects the sensitive. Perhaps, my dear Maria Theresa, I may ask you to take care of Dona Margarita? Perhaps the Doctor...?" He let the suggestion hang in the air, knowing full well that the Alvarado girl would be willing enough. While an alliance between the rich heiress and the troublesome Englishman was not one he wished to encourage, Doctor Helm's damned infatuation with the Queen of Swords rendered him safe enough. Montoya narrowed his eyes as he glanced back. Not for the first time it crossed his mind that the Senorita and the Queen... He shook his head to clear his thoughts. One mystery was quite enough for the time being, and the death of the mysterious Senor Munoz was one he needed to solve soon. Before the Doctor examined the body and, inevitably, barged into his office demanding to know why the hell so clear a case of murder was being concealed beneath a verdict of suicide. Before, just as inevitably, the Queen interfered with the plan he was beginning to form.

Montoya passed through the coolness of his beloved Rose Courtyard, choosing neither the stairs to his office not those to his private apartments. He knew very little about the Sandovals; they kept to themselves and participated only rarely in the town's social life. But who knew more about a household than its servants? And servants did gossip. That was a fact a man like himself could never afford to forget. He strode purposefully through the more public rooms of his Residence, then slowed his steps and strolled casually into the warmth and bustle of the kitchen.

"Ay! Senor Colonel!" The cook gasped. A momentary smile broke across her broad, sun-wrinkled features, but was replaced with a worried frown. "There is something wrong? Oya, ninas," she began to scold the two younger housemaids.

"No, no, Guadalupe." Montoya spread his hands engagingly. A man must know when to command and when to charm his subordinates. "I came only to find out what could possibly smell so delicious." And indeed the air savored of brandy and mace and the raisins steeping in the liquor. A chopping board was piled high with apple slices, and a high-rimmed pie dish was already lined with pastry. "Ah, torta de manzanas. You spoil me," he smiled in delight. "I shall look forward to such a treat after this difficult day."

"Si, si. The dead man." The cook nodded and sketched the sign of the Cross. It was hardly surprising that even without leaving her kitchen she had already heard: Guadalupe Uriarte was mother to two of his soldiers, mother-in-law to yet another, and beloved abuelita in spirit if not in flesh to the whole garrison. "God have mercy on his soul."

"Indeed. It is a great shame. A shock." Montoya watched her begin layering the apples in the pastry. "Senora Sandoval was quite overcome."

"Que pobrecita. So much sadness in her life."

"Really?"

"Oh, si." Guadalupe sprinkled raisins among the apple slices, then added some finely chopped membrillo and a few pinches of piloncillo sugar. "There are no children, and that is always a pity, no?"

Montoya smiled and nodded. She began a second layer of fruit as she continued. Carlos and Margarita Sandoval were recent arrivals in Alta California, having come north from Mexico barely ten years before. Not Spaniards, their pride in being criollos, born and bred in this New World, kept them apart from most of the other dons, who reveled in their connections (real or imagined) with the Spanish court. The Senora had had a brother, Tomas, but he was long dead, and tragically; both the Sandovals venerated his memory as if he were one of God's martyrs... As Montoya had suspected, Guadalupe knew far more about the household through servants' gossip than the most diligent police spy might require.

Having finished filling the pie, she covered it with a final thick layer of chopped nuts and more of the course, unrefined sugar, which would caramelize as the confection baked.

"Such a desert, Guadalupe. Perhaps I should invite Doctor Helm to join me for supper; I understand he is fond of an apple tart."

One of the housemaids dropped a pan, and Montoya noticed the blush on her cheeks as she bent to pick it up. Oh, dear. So it seemed his physician had yet another admirer. The Queen, Senorita Alvarado and who knew how many other girls of good family, even Vera Hidalgo--Montoya grinned--and now at least one of his own servants. Really, were it not for English restraint the man might make quite the egalitarian Don Juan.

Egalitarian... The word echoed in Montoya's mind as he walked back to his office. Equality. Liberty. Republic. The fine words colored the banality of Munoz' death scene. 1810, the year of Miguel Hidalgo, El Grito and the first stirrings of revolt in Mexico. Revolution, police spies and betrayals. And Carlos Sandoval's way of laying out his coins so carefully, the King's head always downward, stood revealed not as an idiosyncrasy but as a covert political statement: abajo el Rey, down with the King.

Oh, yes. Such a secret, one tasting of regret and misery like ashes in the mouth, would certainly be worth paying to keep in silence. The Sandovals' holdings were not extensive, but they were nicely situated and well-watered. Perhaps half might constitute a fair price to insure that such a secret remained a secret?

"Corporal," Montoya called out as he took Munoz' manuscript from his pocket. "My horse, and a half dozen men ready to ride."

"Si, Colonel."

Montoya spread Munoz' report on his desk and read it again more carefully. He needed names, dates, places. "...The informer stated that she had seen Tomas Gallego and three or four others..." Montoya saw again, as if for the first time, Senora Sandoval's surprise, her shock of recognition upon seeing the dead man. He cursed the rare failure of his imagination. Carlos Sandoval was a true believer, a zealot; he had not been the informer, his wife had, and her own brother had died because of it. The blood money had bought a new life in California. Dios! Did Sandoval know? But of course, he did: had he not returned the price of betrayal to Munoz as Judas had to the high priest in the Temple?

~~~~~

The Sandoval hacienda stood picturesquely amid a grove of live oaks, the model of quiet propriety. Montoya pushed open the door. The empty rooms rang with the echo of his boot heels against the tile floor as he passed through. He paused for a moment as entered the back parlor. Its frame shattered, a simple pencil and crayon sketch of a young man lay thrown down upon the carpet. Montoya stooped to pick it up and was monetarily caught by the earnestness of the expression and the romantic idealism of the pose and costume, a loose white shirt and patriotic green and red bandana. He dropped the drawing back on the floor. As he stood to face the open window his foot brushed against a few pearls torn from a broken necklace.

A pistol shot splintered the silence, and Montoya ran to the window. Carlos Sandoval's body lay stretched out on the ground at the roots of one of the oaks, the wound in his chest oozing the last of his life. Dona Margarita's body swung like a slow pendulum above him. Dislodged by her husband's fall, the stool on which she had been perched rolled slowly away. For that daughter of Judas help arrived minutes too late.

END

RELAXATION

Trio? Bar of soap, wine bottle, latch-key. Rating? P for pointless (not to mention plotless). Summary? Calgon, take me away <g>

~~~~~

Luis lay back, luxuriating in the warm water, bending his knees in the tub so as to submerge his shoulders and so soak away the stress he carried in those muscles. He closed his eyes. Ahhhhh. Bath water at just the right temperature; the faint, sweet rose and lavender scent of the bar of soap; the glass in his hand and the now half-empty bottle of rioja on the floor beside him; and if his door was unlocked, the assurance that a loyal servant was as good as a latch-key against uninvited guests.

The last few days had been annoyingly hectic, filled with reports to be written and dispatched to Monterey, the usual monthly garrison requisitions and expense accounts to be justified, citizen complaints to be dealt with before grumbling became insurrection, taxes to be collected and criminals to be arrested...and consequently rescue attempts by the Queen of Swords to be repulsed. Which meant more expenses and requisitions and more reports after she finished beating the crap out his soldiers.

But this moment of respite from such cares, this rare moment of serenity was blissfully, gratifyingly...sufficient. Not perfect. Perfect would be a bath tub deep enough and long enough that one could soak both knees and shoulders at the same time. Perfect would be some mechanism for topping up that did not require the interruption of a servant and a jug of scalding water. And to be absolutely honest--since he was alone here and could be--perfect would be a companion willing to wash his back and massage the tension away. But since the companion he was thinking of would, unless gagged, likely disturb this blessed silence with argument... Since Alta California was not replete with engineers able to recreate the wonders of ancient Roman indoor plumbing...And since, God knew, there had been many times when a soldier could only dream of enjoying this luxurious a tub...Luis sighed again, took a sip of wine and enjoyed the peace and quiet.

It was, alas, far too good to last.

Voices drifted into the room with the last of the late summer evening's long twilight, angry, raised voices, speaking English. "...prisoner...inhuman treatment...son of a bitch." And then the reply:"...mind your own business..." Then the subdued shuffle and thud of struggle. "...bastard..." "...arrogant prick..." Luis sighed again, less contentedly, opened his eyes and glanced toward the window: his physician and his captain of the guard would never like each other. Someone should separate them. Someone should reprimand them both for causing so shamefully public a scene. Someone should send them to their respective quarters to calm down. But not him. Not this time, Luis murmured to himself. He sat up, leaned over to refill his wine glass, and then lay back again. This time they could sort it out themselves. He closed his eyes once more and smiled. It was Friday night; he was off duty.

END

THE ONE YOU LEAST EXPECT

This uses the Trio (shears, chair, tomato) and Quote 1 ("If you are going through hell, keep going"). It also takes its title--and, in a perversely ironic way, its inspiration--from the Quote 2 ("Sometimes the perfect person for you is the one you least expect"). No warnings, except for the odd instance of adult language.

~~~~~

"Do I need to ask how this happened, Sergeant?"

Pedro remembered he was a soldier and tried to smile bravely through the pain as Doctor Helm bandaged the wound on his forearm. "It was an accident really, Senor. We were chasing the Queen..." He heard Helm mutter something unintelligible under his breath. "Anyway,Tepinito--Juan Verdugo," he corrected himself, for the doctor hadn't grown up with "Little Flea" and wouldn't recognize the nickname. "He shot at her and the bullet hit a boulder and..."

"And the ricochet hit you."

"Si, Senor." Pedro sighed. "And then my horse threw me, and the next thing I know my head hurts too, and the Capitan is shouting at me to get my lazy ass off the ground." He shook his head sadly. "Que chingadera." A fuck-up indeed: because of Tepinito's bad aim and his own clumsiness the patrol had once again failed to apprehend the Queen of Swords.

"Well, fortunately there's no permanent damage, though you'll need to take it easy and let yourself heal." The doctor picked up the shears and the strips of bandage cloth and moved across the room to store them away. Pedro flexed his arm experimentally and winced as he slipped it into his uniform tunic sleeve. Helm turned back towards him, folding a larger piece of white cloth into a sling. "You should try to keep that arm as immobile as you can." He paused for a moment. "I'm afraid I'll be putting you on the invalid list for the time being."

"Do you have to, Senor?" Invalid status meant half-pay. "It is only my left arm. I can still drill the men, and..."

The doctor's eyes were kind and understanding, but he shook his head firmly. "In a week or two it should be as good as new, but for now, I'm sorry, but..."

"Si, Senor. Lo entiendo."

But at least he was a sergeant now, Pedro reminded himself as he walked away from the clinic. A sergeant's half-pay was not so very much less than a common soldier's full pay; he had managed to live on that. He paused in front of the cantina and pulled a few coins from his pocket. Good: he had enough for a glass of pulque, or two--purely for medicinal purposes, of course.

As he sat drinking the musky-sweet liquor he considered his situation. He was hopeful. After all, was he not still a young man, and healthy, and sure to recover quickly? He had prospects. Who knew but that one day he might even become Captain of the Guard himself, he thought to himself as he watched Marcus Grisham cross the plaza toward Headquarters. Sergeant Perez fancied his chances of promotion from the ranks, after all, and though Perez had seniority, Pedro could read and write with much greater fluency. Such things would recommend him to the Colonel, surely. Pedro raised his glass in a silent toast to his commander, a man whose disappointment and anger he feared, of course, but whom he would faithfully follow through hell. What was it that Colonel Montoya told them? If you are going through hell, keep going. If any man could outwit the Devil himself, Pedro trusted, it would be Montoya. God willing, he would serve him for many years yet, and then finally retire with a small grant of land from the Crown, as his father and uncle had.

He drained his glass and stared out at the busy market for a few minutes, until he caught sight of a particular beautiful, dark-haired woman passing among the laden carts and booths. Emboldened by ambition and alcohol, Pedro slid his chair back from the table, stood up--taking care not to jar his wounded arm or force bruised muscles into too rapid and painful motion--and walked over towards her.

"Senorita Alvarado?" Many years ago, when he was a small boy, the children of the soldiers and the dons sometimes played together, at least at the public fiestas. He remembered how once--he must have been eight, perhaps, and she five or six--he had come to Tessa Alvarado's aid against some older boys who wanted to bully her out of her share of candy from a pinata. Not that the little hell-cat had needed much help, as it turned out. He remembered, too, how at Mass, when he had to sit so seriously and sedately on one side of the sanctuary with the other altar boys, she would squirm beside her elegant parents in the front pew, fidgiting and making faces at him. But that had been before she had gone to Spain and become so fine a lady--she had even met the King, they said.

Tessa turned to face him, replacing the tomato she had been examining. She smiled, but her lustrous, dark eyes were wary and cautious. "Sergeant?"

"You probably do not recognize me, Senorita. Pedro Ortega." He sketched as gallant a bow as he could manage under the circumstances, and placed his right hand on the handle of her basket. If the beautiful dona had to do her own shopping, he could at least carry her purchases for her. "You will permit me to assist you?" Tessa's tense expression lightened, but Pedro couldn't help but notice she seemed a little embarrassed by his attentions. He felt his face flush. "My apologies, Senorita. I did not mean to presume--"

"No. Sergeant Ortega, please. It's not that," she reassured him quickly. "It's just..." Tessa gestured at the sling. "Your arm. I couldn't possibly impose on you. Not when you're wounded." She frowned a little, and cast her eyes down. "I am truly sorry for your pain. I hope it is not too great."

Pedro shrugged, though even that movement caused him some discomfort. "It is nothing, Senorita," and that was almost the truth. For would he not gladly welcome any wound suffered in pursuit of that devil Queen if it won him the regard of an angel like Tessa Alvarado?

END

THE ONE YOU LEAST EXPECT

~~~~~

"Do I need to ask how this happened, Sergeant?"

"And the ricochet hit you."

"Do you have to, Senor?" Invalid status meant half-pay. "It is only my left arm. I can still drill the men, and..."

The doctor's eyes were kind and understanding, but he shook his head firmly. "In a week or two it should be as good as new, but for now, I'm sorry, but..."

"Si, Senor. Lo entiendo."

Tessa turned to face him, replacing the tomato she had been examining. She smiled, but her lustrous, dark eyes were wary and cautious. "Sergeant?"

END

QUOTE CHALLENGE 36

See, I REALLY like Christopher Marlowe...

Warnings? Potential English Lit Class From Hell flashbacks. And some subtext, but hey, we are talking Kit Marlowe, the author of Edward the Second, so this could have been so much worse <g>

~~~~~

Colonel Montoya frowned as he glanced through the report on his desk. His quill pen hovered over the surface of the paper, dipping to make the occasional correction here,the odd change there. The "errors" displayed little ingenuity; some might even be accidental. One expected a garrison to "lose" a certain amount of the ammunition and equipment which was regularly allocated to each soldier with payment deducted at a regulated rate from his salary. The considerate commander looked the other way at times--though often taking his cut from any black market sale--and calculated it in amongst resources expended in the course of duty. In this case, however, the discrepancies were so appallingly blatant. Montoya sighed: he had expected even Grisham to be more subtle than this. He struck through the figure, noting out of the corner of his eye the flicker of disappointed greed on his captain's face.

"And is there anything else, Capitan?"

"Just Corporal Alvarez, sir. He needs your permission to marry."

Montoya altered another figure and re-added the column. Much better. Grisham, alas, would be a few reales less rich, but the pueblo would stand to recoup a little more out of the taxes. "And is there any reason I should not grant it?"

"Nah. Might even do Alvarez good. The girl's a kitchen maid at the Serrano hacienda. They met a couple of months ago at the harvest fiesta, and he's been stupid in love with her ever since. Well, stupider, anyway," Grisham shrugged. "He never was the sharpest knife in the drawer."

There was, indeed, many a dull knife in Santa Helena. Montoya finally looked up from the papers. "Ah," he sighed expansively. "'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight,' eh?"

Grisham grinned. "See, I know that one. Shakespeare." He was partially correct, though it had probably been a lucky guess.

"Tell Alvarez he may marry his pretty kitchen maid." Montoya dismissed him with a wave of his hand and, picking up his pen, returned his attention to the reports. The new Viceroy was an even greater stickler for paperwork than the last idiot. Every reale of the taxes and garrison expenses had to be accounted for, every entry in the books reconciled. Montoya smiled to himself: but where there was a will, was there not also ever a way?

"That's wrong, you know."

Montoya looked up, and his eyes narrowed at the man crossing his floor.

"'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight,'" Helm clarified. "It's not Shakespeare."

"Eavesdropping? Really, Doctor, quite the spy. I would not expect a gentleman to listen at keyholes." Montoya extended his hand. "Your report, if you please. That is why you are in my office and not your own, is it not? Or have you come merely to waste my time and try my patience?"

Helm ignored the slur on his character. "It's not Shakespeare," he repeated as he offered his report. The doctor would have been scrupulous, Montoya knew, in preparing his monthly lists of military patients and the extent of their injuries (on duty and off), with notation of which medicines were to be charged against the territorial accounts and which against individual salaries. He would have been scrupulous, too, in disguising his unfortunately charitable propensity to bend regulations.

"Don't be absurd." Montoya looked more closely at the doctor's overconfident smirk and made a mental note to go over these accounts with an especially fine tooth comb. And in the meantime, since the annoying, fascinating man seemed inclined to games this afternoon... "Of course the line is in Shakespeare," he said, choosing his words and phrasing with utmost care. "_As You Like It_. Act Three. Scene Five, I believe," he added. He sat back in his chair and waited for his impetuous mouse to take the bait.

Helm nodded. "'Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might,'" he recited. "'Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' But it's a quotation, a tribute to the 'dead shepherd,' Christopher Marlowe." Such charming recklessness, as he rushed into the challenge. "The line's from _Hero and Leander_."

"Indeed?" Montoya kept his tone quietly bland. "You know the poem well, do you?"

"I had to memorize part of it when I was a boy. I think I still remember the lines." Helm looked up toward the ceiling and frowned. "'Stone still he stood, and evermore he gazed,'" he began slowly. "'Till with the fire that from his countenance blazed, Relenting Hero...'"

"'Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strooke,'" Montoya supplied with a slow, triumphant smile. "'Such force and virtue hath an amorous looke.'"

Helm blinked in surprise, then grinned back at him. "'Strooke?' You sound like an Englishman--well,a Yorkshireman at any rate."

"There's no need to be insulting, Doctor. Pray, continue. Your cue is 'it lies not'..."

"'It lies not in our power to love, or hate, For will is in us over-ruled by fate.' Ummm. 'When two are stript long ere the course begin, We wish that one should lose, the other win.' Then there's something about gold..."

"'And one especially do we affect Of two gold ingots like in each respect.'"

"Trust you to know that couplet, Colonel."

"Your words sting me, Doctor. Now," he prompted. "'The reason'..."

"'The reason no man knows, let it suffice, What we behold is censured by our eyes.'" Helm drew a deep breath and continued confidently. "'Where both deliberate, the love is slight.'"

"'Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?'" Montoya joined him in the last line.

They stared at one another for a long moment.

It might be all very well for schoolboys to spend the afternoon reciting love poetry, but it suddenly seemed less than appropriate for a military governor and his physician. "I prefer Marlowe's drama, of course," Montoya remarked. "'Is it not passing brave to be a king And ride in triumph through Persepolis?'"

"'Infinite riches in a little room'?"

"Hmmph. And the next time you and your masked lady burglarize my office and rifle through my bookshelves, may I suggest you pay more attention to the titles? Now, if you will excuse me, Doctor, I have work to do, even if you have not."

Montoya watched him leave. It was such a pleasure to engage in a battle of wits against an armed opponent. He reshuffled the papers on his desk and sighed resignedly. As for the reports he would send to Monterrey...

END