The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  In the early twenty-first century a woman in Taos, New Mexico, falls heir to an extraordinary mystical artifact, a carved wooden box, which she discovers has a long and complex history. What follows is a glimpse at that history.

  Chapter 1

  Lightning Strikes

  Heavy, lead-colored clouds hovered ominously at the horizon, stealing the last scrap of sun that had peered tentatively around them half the morning. A frigid wind came off the waters of Galway Bay, whipping the gray waves to a foamy froth that licked at John Carver’s feet. He studied the clouds as the next wet salvo washed over his thick leather boots, filling the left one, draining out through the hole near his big toe. Maggie would give him the devil for his carelessness the same way she reminded the children to care for their things. “An’ where do you think we’ll be gettin’ a new pair of boots?” she would surely prod.

  Already this morning his wife had thought of a dozen chores he might do at their small hut—sweep up his wood shavings, clear his wares to the outdoors so there would be more space, watch the children while she kneaded bread. The woman always became demanding of him when she was expecting another one, and by the size of her belly the new mouth to feed would arrive within a few weeks.

  He pulled his woolen cloak tighter to his shoulders and walked away from the shoreline, staring at the two tall alder trees on the rise beyond the gray stone city walls. Both were long dead, gnarled old things whose smaller branches had been stripped and taken for the fires in a dozen homes. The last of the leaves had blown to the far corners of the county four or five seasons ago. The trees interested him, though, far more than anything else in his life right now. He put his walking stick ahead of him and began to make his way toward the stately silhouettes, black against the billows of cloud. Thunder rumbled somewhere behind him.

  Plates. Bowls. Cups. The words drummed through his head as he walked. Common kitchen utensils comprised his work these days. People had no money for niceties or trinkets in these times. They bought wooden plates and cups because the pieces were durable, wouldn’t break like real crockery could. Each week at Market Day, John managed to sell a piece or two, enough to buy flour that he hoped would not turn out to be infested with weevils. Sometimes there was money enough for some carrots or potatoes, or he simply bartered for what they needed. Four weeks ago the butcher’s wife had fancied one of John’s bowls on which he’d applied a simple inlay pattern, and the man grudgingly traded a half leg of lamb for the bowl. Maggie had given him no trouble on that day, when he showed up with the prize.

  If only he could make another desirable object like that bowl, something one of the wealthy merchants’ wives would take a liking to, something which could command a handsome price. He stared again at the two dead snags—some fine wood there, nicely dried already. He would not have to store it for months before beginning to work it. He would need to first cut the wood, then examine it. A piece of quality wood always told him what object it was most suited to become.

  A figure interrupted John’s concentration. The man walking along the hilltop was someone he recognized. Tyrel Smith spotted him and crossed the hill, raising a hand in greeting.

  “Greetings—fine morning!” Tyrel always had a way with irony, John thought as a spatter of rain grazed his cheek.

  Perhaps his friend was right; being out in the open, no matter the weather, made for a better beginning to the day than performing household tasks at the whim of a woman. Tyrel waited in place until John caught up.

  “I’ve given some thought to my next piece of woodcraft,” John said, not admitting his pleasure at selling a single, artistic piece rather than the utilitarian ones he normally made. “And I’m thinking ... these trees are doing no one any service up here on the hill.”

  “That one’s worm riddled,” Tyrel said, pointing at the southernmost of the two. “It will not be suitable for any fine pieces. The other, however—that one would catch my fancy. If I were in the business of wood carving.”

  John patted the side of his carry-bag, assuring himself that he had brought his axe. He walked up to the huge tree, admiring the jagged arms it sent skyward. It would take a mighty effort to fell it. Perhaps he could climb up, take the large limbs one at a time. He touched the trunk; most of the bark had fallen away, leaving a smooth surface and an indication of the beautiful bowls that could be carved from this wood. One limb of decent size was within his reach. He drew his axe from his pouch.

  Tyrel had moved down the slope, and he shouted something to John now. But the woodcarver didn’t catch the words, lost as they were to the rising sounds of wind and storm. He hefted the axe.

  Crack!! Thunder shook the earth and brilliant light blinded him. He felt his feet leave the ground.

  * * *

  “By the gods, man. Wake up!”

  John’s eyes flickered open. A familiar face hovered over him, a rough hand slapping at his cheek.

  “Carver! Wake up!” The rough hands pushed John’s hair away from his eyes. “The rain’s coming, we have to get out of here. Can you stand?”

  John reached for his friend’s shoulder, thinking to pull himself up. But his arm refused to rise. He willed it to move. His fingers tingled, as if he’d fallen asleep with the arm pinned beneath his body. Tyrel took him by the forearm, tugging at him, but John barely felt the contact. His legs felt similarly unconnected from his wish to make them move.

  “Can’t you move, John?” Tyrel’s face had a look of alarm. “Come on, man, try again.”

  “What happened?” John looked around but could not see beyond the bulk of his friend kneeling beside him.

  “Lightning. It struck the tree and flung you down the slope. I feared you were dead.”

  John stretched his fingers. This time they responded, tingling painfully.

  “Nay, I’m not dead,” he said, trying to put a chuckle into it.

  Heavy raindrops struck his face and he rolled to his side. Feeling rushed back into his arms and legs, jabs of pain that made him grimace and catch his breath. When it subsided he rolled to his hands and knees, wondering if the limbs could take his weight, frightened that he might have been rendered a cripple.

  Tyrel placed an arm on John’s shoulders, bracing him as he hung his head. Finally, like a dog, he shook himself and then sat back on his haunches. With numb fingertips he brushed the hair away from his face. One hand came away bloody.

  “You’ve got yourself a nasty splinter there,” Tyrel said, plucking the shard of wood from John’s temple with a delicacy incongruous with the size of his thick, calloused fingers. “There—it’s out. You’ll want Maggie to tend to that when you get home.”

  Maggie. John wondered at the reception he would receive. “How long have I been here?”

  “A few minutes,” said Tyrel. “Looks like we’ve missed the worst of it.”

  He tipped his chin to the north, where the furious black cloud blasted the earth with rain only a mile or two away. John shook his arms once more, started to rise, reached for the support of his friend’s shoulder. One at a time he stretched each leg before requiring it to take his weight.

  “I was about to take my axe to the—” He looked toward the hilltop.

  The magnificent old tree with the snaggled arms was gone. A smoldering stump marked its location and pieces lay about—from entire limbs to tiny shards like the splinter taken from John’s own face.

  “Well, you’ll not be havin’ to cut him down now, will ya?” Tyrel said.

  John couldn’t speak. Surrounding the debris field he saw a brilliant orange aura. He stared as it faded to yellow and then transformed itself to deep red. He squeezed
his eyes shut and pressed his dirt-crusted fingers to the lids.

  “Carver? What is it?”

  When John opened his eyes again he saw only the wisp of smoke from the trunk and the profusion of fragments covering the ground. The colors were gone. The air smelled of freshly cut wood. In the distance, the purple-black clouds had dissipated to gray, the storm quickly becoming only a memory.

  “John Carver?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a mite dizzy for a minute.” He knew he could never tell anyone of this experience, not unless he wanted to be branded an idiot—or worse.

  Tyrel nodded. “Well, as there’s two of us here, shall we take up some of the wood, carry it home for your work?”

  John’s legs ached with the first few steps, but as he approached the abundance of wood lying on the grassy hill he felt his strength return. He examined a few of the larger pieces. By god, he had a treasure here, enough wood for a decade’s work if he saw fit to use it. He began to envision how to use these pieces to best advantage.

  “I’ll borrow a cart,” he said. “I can—”

  He paused, unwilling to divulge his plans. Tyrel Smith was his friend, but word had a way of spreading through the village as quickly as a flash flood. Competitors would arise from the men who had little work in these hard times. Or, worse yet, the overlord would appear and claim the bounty as his own, creating a method for taxing John until any profit was gone.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll take a log or two. But let’s not mention this to anyone.”

  Tyrel shrugged. A smithy’s trade, with its requirement for special tools and years of apprenticeship and training, never seemed in jeopardy, whereas every man in the land with a knife or chisel could claim to be a woodworker.

  “How about that one over there?” John said, pointing out a section of the tree’s trunk that was nearly a meter long and several inches thick. “Carry it for me? I’ll get this other.”

  John’s imagination went to work as the two men walked back toward the village. Perhaps a wooden box of some sort. One of the fine ladies had mentioned such an item to her friend when they browsed at his market stall a few weeks ago. He could add decorative carving, perhaps something inspired from nature or from the rich fabrics the women wore. With the two pieces of wood, he could use one to make a practice piece and the other for a finely done one. Surely, the wife of the lord would appreciate such an item. And if not one of the titled ladies, certainly it would catch the eye of the butcher’s wife or the mistress of the sheriff. With the right buyer John could make more money than he had in many months. That would surely quiet his wife’s nagging tongue.

  The storm had unleashed rain in patches. The two men crossed fields where the earth was completely dry, only to come upon a gushing stream where water poured from higher ground and formed in puddles at the lower roadway. In the bay, the surf pounded the shore in muddy, foam-topped anger, as if to make the point that a mere batch of clouds was no match for the sea. The men spoke little, each concentrating on finding the path of least difficulty while walking with his sizeable burden hefted to his shoulder.

  On the outskirts of town lay a huddle of small cottages, John’s home only by virtue of the fact that Maggie's brother farmed a few acres of the nearby land. Tenant farmers were provided a home in exchange for dawn-to-dusk labor and the baron receiving an outsized share of the food they produced. If the day came that Sean chose to marry, John and Maggie and the wee ones would have to either take up farming to earn a home of their own or move into the town in order for John to keep up his woodcraft.

  He preferred to watch his children play and work out here where there were grass and plants, rather than in the winding, muddy streets of Galway where household waste was tossed from upper story windows into the shallow gutters and sickness ran rampant. For now, his brother-in-law showed no inclination toward women and seemed content to abide among the extended family with his sister as housemaid and cook. John put the thoughts aside; making radical changes to their living situation was something they did not discuss.

  Outside the one-room stone structure with its roof of heavy thatch, John spotted his young son Ethan, the eldest of the four, loading his arms with blocks of peat from the stack near the door. When the six-year-old saw his father, he abandoned his chore, dropped the peat and came running.

  “Da’, da’! Look what I found!” The boy reached into the pocket of his woolen trousers to bring out his treasure, but pulled out only a few fragments of pale blue shell and a slippery mess of yolk. His small face crumpled and a tear threatened to slide down his face.

  “Oh, a robin’s egg,” John said gently. “I’ll bet it was beautiful!”

  Ethan nodded.

  “No matter. We’ll find another, you and me together.”

  Ethan noticed Tyrel and went quiet, rubbing the remains of egg on his pants and lowering his gaze to the ground.

  “We’ve found some beautiful timber,” John said. “Go, finish helping your mother and I’ll show them to you when I set them down.”

  He led the way to the lean-to structure he had constructed against the side of the stone cottage, a place where he could keep his wood pieces dry and work in relative quiet outside the house where seven people, a cow and two goats provided nothing in the way of the solitude needed for creativity. Inside, he’d made shelves for finished wares. For pieces of wood that he’d not yet worked, there was a small bin, empty now.

  “Put it there,” he told Tyrel, nodding toward his small bench.

  He set his own length of the alder on the three-legged stool where he sat when working and stared at the two. These were fine pieces with a unique grain and no knots. He could create something worthy with them.

  “And what’s this?” Maggie’s voice came from the narrow doorway behind him. “You’ve not stolen that, have you?”

  “And bring the sheriff down upon my neck? No, woman, I’m not stupid.”

  “It was given by God,” Tyrel said. “He sent it directly to John.”

  Maggie’s tired eyes squinted, her mouth tightened. “What are you sayin’?”

  John wished Tyrel would keep quiet but there was no way to caution him without creating a bigger scene.

  “The tree was on common land,” John said. “Not the baron’s.”

  “He’s right about that,” Tyrel said, facing Maggie’s skepticism square-on. “Your John faced it with bravery, even when lightning tried to strike him dead. He’s due this tree.”

  Maggie looked past Tyrel, facing John with a mixture of fear and anger.

  “Lightning? And what were you doin’ out there in the storm, John Carver? What kind of fool are you, with a family to feed?”

  Tyrel sensed he’d perhaps gone too far. He edged out of the workshop, past the woman whose fists were planted firmly on her hips, and set a brisk pace toward the stone wall of the town a quarter mile away.

  John faced his wife with a firm gaze. “I’ll not speak of it. That’s final.”

  Maggie’s eyes flashed, but she said no more.

  * * *

  The fact that John wanted the lightning incident forgotten had little bearing on the townsfolk of Galway. No sooner had Tyrel returned to his blacksmith shed than the widow O’Connell happened by. An imposing old woman of fifty, she was known for her direct ways.

  “So then, Tyrel Smith, weren’t you one of the men I saw walking up the hillside this afternoon? It wasn’t a minute before the bolt of God came down, strikin’ that old tree, breakin’ it to bits.”

  With his tongs Tyrel picked up a rod of iron and held it to the fire. He worked vainly not to meet her eyes.

  “Ah, I knew it,” she said. “A wonder you’re not dead, the two of you. Who was the other? Me eyesight’s goin,’ you know.”

  Tyrel busied himself with the bellows; the fire had gone low in his absence and he’d not be accomplishing anything today if he didn’t bring up the flame.

  Mrs. O’Connell glanced up the narrow street. “That Carver fellow
, I’d wager. The man’s got no friends but you, thanks to that wife with the mouth on her. She’s angered every merchant in the village, haggling over their wares and insultin’ ’em to their face.”

  Tyrel watched the flame in his forge roar to life. “John Carver’s a good man, an honest worker.”

  The widow grunted. Her late husband, a baker of fine quality breads, was the one who’d had words with Maggie. Of course, he’d had words with half the townsfolk, and no one was so awfully surprised when he dropped dead, clutching his chest. It was only sad fortune that Maggie had left his shop not five minutes earlier. The widow O’Connell would forever blame her.

  She touched the horseshoe beside Tyrel’s door, for luck, then lifted her skirt above the smelly rivulet of mud that ran down the street and proceeded on her way to torture the wool merchant.

  Tyrel drew the red-hot iron rod from the fire and pounded it mercilessly until he felt better. He should have never mentioned the misadventure in front of Maggie; the woman and her shrewish tongue would be the death of John Carver yet. He’d simply been unthinking. He would buy his friend a pint of stout next time he saw him.

  A fortnight passed before that occasion and when John Carver passed the blacksmith’s barn, he seemed preoccupied.

  “How goes the woodworking?” Tyrel called out.

  John turned away from the street and entered the warm, smoky shelter. “Well,” he said with a smile. “It’s going well.”

  Tyrel thought of the pint of stout he meant to offer, but the set of gate hinges he was working at the moment couldn’t wait.

  “And the family? Everyone’s all right?”

  “The little bairn’s learning to walk. I suppose she’ll be toddlin’ toward the fire, just about the time Maggie’s got her hands full with the new one. Her time’s gettin’ close now.”

  Tyrel nodded as if he knew anything about that sort of thing. He’d been the youngest of four, and never knew his mother. The two sisters were so much older that they’d moved off, as far as Limerick, with husbands. He’d grown up in a house with a rowdy brother and a father who drank all the time and muttered about the unfairness of his wife dying like that and leaving him with a worthless baby to care for. All of Tyrel’s hard work in learning a useful trade earned him no points with the old man, who’d finally done the world a favor by dying two winters ago.