Defined by Romanian, Austrian, and Spanish ancestry transplanted into the New World by hopelessly migratory kin, the child Zolen Caló awoke in South Dakota.  His starved curiosity there sought nourishment in books and, later, propelled his fascination with learning and travel.  He worked his way through southeastern U.S. universities where he earned degrees in literature and psychology, after which he resumed his habit of "hazardous adventures of a domestic sort."  He has consolidated his search for lore into seven novels and six chapbooks of poem, with a resolve to return literary fiction back to Planet Earth.  Using earthy content rendered by humans struggling for a definition of self, or simply a place for themselves in the unfiltered order of things, the world of Caló is no more soft that a fall from a horse.  But it is a world of vitality pumped full by every emotion you know.

The Year 1504 ¾ A Village of La Mancha, Spain

"I carry a great secret for your ears tired of words of wills and rites, my faithful squire," Don Quixote whispered from his deathbed to Sancho Panza.
"Speak to me, sir."
The old knight-errant slowly twisted his neck so that his eyes might directly meet those of the trusted companion who reinforced the pillow under his head.  He took a slow breath.  No sound came as he so slightly let it go.
"Though chivalry has departed us in this domain," he began feebly, "that quality survives, my Sancho . . . in the ways of honor."
"What?  Oh, sir!  But you last said—“
"I last said the truth."  Quixote''s voice came laggardly but deliberately.  "I said that I renounce chivalry and the books that have carried that ideal to the epitome of fancy in our world—as do I renounce those who read the trash."
"Which is to say that chivalry is dead and alive in these days, sire?"
"No.  No.  Listen, for once, to what I say.  I said¾"
"Yes, master."
"I said that chivalry is dead in this domain."
"Here?"
"Yes."
"Then you do not intend another foray against the—“
"No, no.  I die.  I go the way of my beloved Dulcinéa.  To ashes and dust.  To all that is decomposition of enchantment."
"Oh, sir!"
"No matter.  Just listen to me before you drown me upon my own words."
Sancho swallowed, then sighed.  The good don continued.
"There is a place where chivalry is not known, but where honor is fitting, rife, and waiting . . . waiting . . . "  Quixote''s eyes seemed to brighten, his voice to accelerate.  "To spread again through the ranks of mankind.  And . . . and to spread with the same ferocity by which it spawned all of the great civilizations that we now know."
"There could be no such place on Earth, sir.  Everywhere is ruined."
"Ah!  You fail to consider, my trusted:  the New World."
"Oh!  Of the travels of Cristóbal Coronal."
"You mean Cristóbal Colón.  And, yes¾under the direction of the Great King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.  And of the writings since his fourth voyage whereby he again confirmed that a new territory exists between Spain and China."
Sancho tightened the stretch of the blanket to better warm his master''s chest.
"Of course.  Of course, my honorable."
Quixote paused and eyed his squire curiously.
"You doubt me.  But I have seen a copy of the map where Colón outlined a great gulf;  where he landed in a profoundly deep harbor in a place he has named Honduras.  There, he testifies, dwell thousands who imbue nobility¾Indians, he wrote."
"Indians?  Like in the India that his brother, De Polco, reported?"
"That would be Marco Polo, not De Polco, and that would be two-hundred years ago¾even though there does remain some confusion from his accounts as to where India and Indians are precisely located.  But what I wish to say to you, dear Sancho, before my strength too greatly wanes, is that the burden of honor must be shifted from our ignoble, fanciful, and masked civilization to that other vague but energetic place."
"Whooh, oooh, whooh!”
"An appropriate response for a practical simpleton," the old man replied irritably.  But he let the emotion flee as quickly as had his words arrived.  He sent his squire an apologetic smile and rested a hand upon the other''s arm.  "If you wonder why I laden you with these things, poor Sancho, I do so for this reason:  I feel with certainty, in the depths of my soul, that a new world complete with noble and conscientious Indians awaits the Spaniard¾the Spaniard who will define for them the stuff of honor¾the stuff from which they will enact a chivalric code that will carry the world to new heights of truth, bravery, romance, and gentility."
"But . . . but dear don!  Everyone knows that each generation, each civilization, decays in the very face of the one that spawns it.  How¾"
A spasm of coughs overcame the dying master.  When the blockage passed, weakened by the excitement caused by his own words, he closed his eyes and fought for breath.  Sancho clutched him from behind and raised him so that his lungs could better fret for air.  Still, the old man went faint.  The squire cried out for help barely sooner than Don Quixote''s niece, followed by the housekeeper and barber, rushed in.  The niece, wailing, shook the good don in a way that should have revived any person less than three days dead.  The housekeeper tossed a cool rag upon the old man''s forehead and the barber, brows raised quizzically, took the pulse at his wrist.