Short Stories

Call me Sandro. I’m a Mexican magical being from my lord Moctezuma’s court.  My tongue, gentle reader, is my most lovely and distinguishing feature—so long and sharp, it is full of stories and tales guaranteed to hold your attention past the usual nanosecond. 

One evening in 1814, in the City of Palaces constructed on top of foundations from my master’s palaces and temples, I was attracted to a certain salon.  This mansion was the stronghold of La Nina, the matriarch of the Gavilan family. 

Although she was merely five feet tall, La Nina was formidable. She dressed in total black that only a nineteenth century widow donned.  Her skirts billowed in matte black, silk crepe. The bodice of her gown that evening was black lace with a choking, high-throated neckline. Her mantilla was also of black lace. 

I assumed the shape of a mariposa perched upon La Nina’s mantilla.  In my orange wings, spotted with black and white, I looked magnificent. Of course, I constantly rolled and unrolled my lovely tongue lapping up the gossip.

At one point during the evening, we were approached by a middle-aged gentleman of angry and haughty countenance. I sensed the house fairies bristle defensively. 

“Dowager Marquesa Gavilan, I am the Marqués Gaspar de Alba,” said the surly gentleman.

“Yes, de Alba, I know who you are, and I don’t remember inviting you to my salon this evening,” La Nina said.

“But Dowager Marquesa Gavilan, I wanted the opportunity to ask for your permission to court your granddaughter, Dona Leticia Gavilan.”

“De Alba, I’m going to overlook your impertinence and remind you our family raises all our children and grandchildren to make their own decisions.  You don’t need my permission to approach her. But I must warn you, de Alba, we do not suffer fools lightly.”

“How very unconventional, Dowager Marquesa.”

“De Alba, I repeat, you approach her at your own peril. Now leave me alone while I enjoy my party.”

The startled gentleman could do nothing but accept a glass of French champagne from one of the waiters. Among those gathered in the garden, our hostess met the young woman de Alba hoped to woo.

“You look lovely tonight, my dear,” La Nina told her granddaughter, Leticia Gavilan. 

“Thank you, abuela,” Leticia replied. “It’s the evening that is lovely, is it not? The breeze is so cool, and the jasmine flowers are so fragrant.”

“Everything is just perfect. Do you remember staying with me during the summers when you were a child? You would get out your hand trowel and proceed to dig deep holes throughout the garden along those walls.”

“Yes, abuela, I do remember. My duenna told me tales of Aztec gold buried near the base of the wall. I wanted to get my hands on some teocalli.”

“Treasure?” La Nina laughed. “There was no treasure, foolish child. Remember, I guided you to the base of the wall that formed the foundation of the house after you’d desecrated Cocina’s roses. I thought you would do less damage there.”

Leticia looked momentarily stricken, then asked, “Do you think that the ancient Aztecs sacrificed humans on their temple steps, cut out their hearts, and ate them?” 

I almost dropped off the old woman’s mantilla. I don’t know where mortals get those horrid ideas. My master never cut out a heart, much less ate one. He is a confirmed vegetarian. Yes, he’s partial to groin injuries to produce blood sacrifice for the Sun god, but who doesn’t like a little pain now and then? Fortunately, I quickly recovered from my shock and assumed the shape of a small mosquito. All this talk of blood made me thirsty.  I decided to fly to another salon in the neighborhood to gather more information and have a drink.

When I returned to La Nina’s palace, the Gavilan fairies whispered frantically to me from the kitchen below the stairs, so I joined them. What I saw in the kitchen was sheer carnage. Fifty fairies lay in various stages of injury on the long wooden table, lined up as if in a war zone hospital. 

“Someone had best explain to me what happened,” I said angerly.  

The fairy emergency medical technician whispered, “Everyone made it through, Sandro.”

“What happened?”

Ariel, the most experienced battle mage, began the tale. “Sandro, the treacherous de Alba tried to cut Dona Leticia from the other guests.”

“Didn’t one of the mortals come to her aid?” I asked.

“The crazy marqués isolated her from the others quickly, gripping her arms and dragging her to a remote spot in the garden. We house fairies buzz-dived de Alba around his head and arms. Just as the man raised his arm to knock her out, I led the attack.   Our little army suffered many injuries. I was stuck to his fist for a few moments, just long enough for Dona Leticia to knee him in the groin. He toppled like a dead saguaro. Our housekeeper and butler, Cocina and Centzo, hauled de Alba out of the house into his carriage.”

“Ariel, you should be happy. You and your army prevailed.”

“This is not the first time I’ve had to defend the house Lady.  Do you remember the legends in the veil last century, when an English fairy valiantly defended his English Lady? That villain had a pair of embroidery scissors with which he was going to cut a lock of Lady Belinda’s hair.   Recall that her house fairy, to stop the rape of the lock of hair, placed himself between the lock and the scissors?”

“Yes, I do remember that horrific story. He was cut into two pieces.”

“The other house fairies gathered up his bits and sent them to Mexico,” Ariel said with tears in his eyes. “I stand before you today, Sandro, as the reconstituted English Ariel.   I’m rehecho en Mexico!”   I hugged Ariel for his bravery and suggested he rest for a few hours.