The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

He smiled and slept again.

  The next time he heard the voices he struggled to open his eyes. A small sound came from him but he could not form words—it was more of a moan. His eyes felt crusty and stuck shut; he saw light and shadow through the fringe of his lashes.

  “Señor del Fuentes? You are waking up?” Her Spanish was soft and welcome to his ears.

  A gentle hand with a cool, wet cloth dabbed at his eyelids. He wondered how the angel knew his name. Of course, God had told her. How silly of him not to realize that. He smiled again and this time managed one word. “Agua.”

  A trickle of tepid water ran over his tongue. Little of it touched his throat.

  “Más agua, por favor.” His words came a little easier now.

  Another trickle. This time he swallowed.

  His eyes opened, only a slit; the light was too bright, although he could tell that it came from a single candle. “¿Dónde estoy?”

  This time a male voice responded. “My son, you are at the clinic in Vera Cruz. You have been very ill.” A priest in brown robes stepped into his field of view.

  Rodrigo puzzled over that for awhile. He remembered nothing beyond a very hot day where he stood at the rail of a ship with a handful of papers. He looked at the priest’s kindly face. Movement on the other side of him drew his attention to the white-clad angel. She patted his hand and agreed with the priest. Rodrigo closed his eyes again.

  When he woke the room was very light—a new day. He heard more sounds than before, the moans of others followed by reassuring words from the nurse. He lay very still and flat, staring toward the wood-beamed ceiling. Other noises intruded. Wind, howling through tight spaces. A patter of rain, silence, more rain, heavier this time. He groaned and rolled to his side.

  Less than a meter away was another bed where a man lay with a terrible wound to his head. A white strip of bandage was wrapped around his matted hair and blood had soaked through it in a circle the size of a saucer. He let out a continuous moan but no one came to attend him. Rodrigo raised his head and saw that the entire room was filled with beds, probably twenty of them, all occupied. Was this the extent of the town’s medical facility?

  The nurse turned quickly away from another patient, a wad of bloody cloth clutched in one hand. She dropped the messy bandages into a pail and went to the next bed where it appeared that she applied an ointment to a woman’s forehead. Clearly, she was too busy to come to the side of a man who was not presently in pain. Rodrigo let his eyes close once more.

  His mind became too active for sleep. When had all these other sick people arrived? Had they been here all along but he was so deeply unconscious that he never heard them. The noise of their cries and pleas was nearly intolerable. He raised his hands, looked at them (the thin bones showed quite clearly now), and placed them over his ears.

  A touch to his forehead startled him and he opened his eyes again.

  “Your fever is gone, Señor del Fuentes,” said the nurse, with a gentle look on her face. “If you lived here in the city we would be ready to send you home.”

  “The city?”

  “You are still in Vera Cruz, but I am sorry to say that your ship sailed away without you.”

  He raised up on his elbows. “What?”

  “The captain was here, asking about you, worried at your condition. But he informed us that he could not delay on account of one crew member. The ship had to go, to meet its schedule.”

  Rodrigo remembered the sailors talking, before they left Sevilla, about the huge celebrations upon their return, the fireworks, the fine wine and the fiestas all over the city. He would now miss it all.

  “How long—?”

  “They sailed four days ago.”

  “I—”

  “You have been here in the clinic for ten days, señor. You were unconscious when they brought you.”

  His head fell back to the thin pillow as he absorbed this information. Ten days!

  “My things?” If they were to discharge him from the clinic he had no money, no clothing … and the carved box. What happened to it?

  “Your captain brought them. But do not worry yourself—we will not send you away yet. There is a storm, más terrible. No one can be outdoors now. Roofs are blowing off buildings, trees are flying through the air. Too dangerous to go out.”

  To punctuate her declaration, the wind howled through the rafters again and a drizzle of rainwater poured through a space in the ceiling, dripping into a bowl that had been strategically placed on the floor beside his bed.

  The nurse patted his hand and pulled the sheet up to his chest. “Rest. Gather your strength. A hurricane such as this usually passes in a day. Tomorrow you may go home.”

  Home. Unfortunately, home was a lot farther away than this godforsaken place in the tropics. As the nurse turned to check on the man with the head wound, an involuntary tear ran down the side of Rodrigo’s face. He thought of his mother. When would he see her again? How would she manage the house without his bonus silver from the voyage?

  * * *

  He walked out of the clinic in the early afternoon of the following day, wearing simple Mexican peasant clothing provided by the priest who had visited his bedside and, he now knew, had once administered the last rites for him. In the bag over his shoulder were his useless, overdone clothes from Spain—minus the money he’d carried in a small purse within his cloak—and the carved wooden box. Perhaps the priest had felt it his due that the clinic receive the money in exchange for the care they had given, or maybe one of the sailors had come across his sea bag before the captain delivered it ashore—no matter. The first thing he needed to do now was to find work.

  Meanwhile, to feed himself for a few days, he could sell the box. It was no treasure, certainly not worth much but perhaps he could find a ready buyer or negotiate a trade for food. He walked the narrow lane from the clinic toward the shore, alert to any possibility for a job. The priest had informed him that the next Spanish galleon was not due for another three months, due to the hurricane season, and that ship would be his first opportunity to find passage back to Europe.

  As he walked toward the turquoise sea, he began to see signs of the hurricane damage. Broken tree limbs and shredded leaves from plants littered the streets, some of the homes were missing their roofs and farther along, evidence of a surge wave where entire wooden structures had been swept out to sea. In the distance, he caught sight of the water. It was oddly calm, deep blue-green and beautiful now.

  The stone edifices of the customs warehouse and the stone docks on the Isla were intact, but the beach was littered with a million pieces of debris—palm fronds, boards, even cooking pots and clothing that had once been inside those shattered homes. People were staring—most of them in shock—at the carnage. Some were picking through the detritus to recover lost possessions or salvage what they could to start over. Rodrigo’s feet carried him to the shoreline, drawing him to join the others. Perhaps he could help someone with even less than he.

  Gentle, foamy waves lapped at the beach, each new one carrying some additional thing to add to the clutter at the water line. He saw a large piece of wood drifting toward him. As he stared, it moved closer, like a raft cast loose and traveling on its own. Nearer, he could tell that it consisted of several planks, broken now but clinging together by some impossible means.

  Blue paint. Yellow flashes. A few letters … NDA. It was from the hull of the Niña Linda.

  He thought of the captain, a man who had been kind to him. The cook, who always saved him a bit of the best meat. The manifest, which had been his responsibility, the document that detailed the tons of silver and gold aboard that ship. All of them gone now. He began to shake. If not for the tropical fever and his grave condition, he would have been among those who went down, never to be seen again.

  He fell to his knees on the sand and raised his eyes toward heaven, vowing to be never again ungrateful for the fact that he still had the opportunity, one day in the future, to get home.

>   Chapter 5

  Traders Go South

  The city of Durango appeared as a cluster of tan buildings, nestled in a low place in the land, when Carlos Martinez first saw it. The convoy had reached the halfway point of the journey now and he only had one wish—that the traveling party locate an inn where they might find a hearty meal and a hot bath.

  “Papá! Is it Mexico City?” Carlito asked, tugging at his father’s sleeve.

  If only that could be so. “No, hijo. Did I not instruct you to count the days? We have been away from home only sixty-five days.” Carlos scanned the horizon, aware that too strong a focus on the town ahead might lessen his awareness of other dangers.

  He had nearly canceled this year’s trip. Stories were everywhere in early 1680, rumors that the pueblo Indians all along the Rio Grande valley and into the province of Nueva Vizcaya were on the verge of rebellion. Indeed, his traveling party of five wagons and twenty men had caught the tension as they made their way south along the well-used Camino Real.

  In Santa Fe, the Spanish garrison was on high alert. South of Isleta Pueblo no one accosted them, but as they neared El Paso they spotted an Apache raiding party watching from the edge of a mesa. Carlos and the others kept a close eye on the Indians, their weapons ready, but no trouble had ensued.

  The unrest was nothing new. Ever since his ancestors had come, fanning expansion of European beliefs and ways northward where only indigenous peoples had previously lived in solitude, there had been uprisings. Even among the tribes who’d always inhabited this land there were wars. So far, in their ten years of making the annual trek from northern New Mexico to Mexico City, trading their corn, potatoes and dried chiles for finely manufactured goods of silver and leather, Carlos and his brothers had remained unharmed. He raised his eyes and sent a quick prayer to the Holy Father that this year would be no different. Josephina would have his neck if anything were to happen to Carlito.

  The boy’s request to come along had created strife where previously there was none, although at twelve he was certainly competent with both horses and weapons. Josephina was a devoted mother who wanted all of her eight children nearby, under her own watchful eye. Carlos was still uncertain which of the many arguments in favor of the boy coming along on the trip had won her over. At any rate, it would not do to become complacent yet—they would not be safely back at their hacienda north of Santa Fe for another four or five months.

  He slapped the reins against the sturdy back of the donkey pulling the small wagon and envisioned a bathtub as they moved toward tonight’s destination.

  The rich smell of meat cooking over a fire drew the men’s attention to a neat, whitewashed home at the northern outskirts of the city. A gray-haired woman in a bright skirt and shawl bent near the outdoor horno, pulling two loaves of bread from the squat, rounded oven as they watched. When the wagons came to a stop a man appeared, walking out of the orchard to their right.

  Carlos called out, “Buenas tardes, como esta?”

  The man replied in kind and came closer, shaking hands with Carlos and with each of the other men in turn. He gave Carlito an indulgent smile when the boy extended his hand in the same manner.

  “Por favor, may we camp here on your land for tonight? And, if it is possible, may we purchase a meal and a bath?”

  Clearly, the elderly couple were accustomed to such requests. Traders on El Camino Real must be a frequent sight to them. It was no coincidence that a large kettle of hot water was one of the vessels on their cook fire. The man introduced himself as Ernesto Aragon and his wife as Gloria. As the men climbed down from wagons and horses, Gloria began dipping hot water from the kettle and carrying it to a side room of their home, where she poured it into a large tub and tempered it with cool water from a nearby pump.

  “Carlito, help the lady,” Carlos ordered. His son hurried to take over filling the tub.

  The sun dropped behind the surrounding hills while Carlos and his brother Hernando tended to the animals and secured the wagons. The men would sleep on the ground beside their cargo, as they had every night since leaving home. They drew straws and Carlos won the right for the first bath. Carlito found himself drawn to Gloria’s side, as he would to his mother’s, helping to finish the meal.

  “Come, eat,” she called to the men, dishing out plates of beans and the thick stew of pork and red chiles to go with thick slices of her freshly baked bread.

  They took turns eating while the next one bathed and soon they began to relax. Carlito followed Gloria into the kitchen, carrying plates to a waiting pan of water. He accepted the towel she handed him, drying the utensils after she washed them.

  “What is this?” he asked, pointing to a carved wooden object on the shelf where she had directed that he stack the plates.

  “Ah, that old thing. A box that has been in my husband’s family for a long time. I put my spoons in it, but it smells funny. Someone must have stored herbs in it once. You will have to ask Ernesto.”

  Carlito ran his fingers over the lumpy shapes carved into the box, feeling an attraction to its very ugliness and the small, dusty stones mounted with tiny metal prongs. The fact that it was not a beautifully polished item captured his attention.

  When he went back outside, the men were gathered around the fire, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and taking nips from a bottle that was being passed around.

  “Señora Aragon said I should ask you about this,” Carlito said to Ernesto, holding up the box.

  “Ah, that is a very interesting story,” Ernesto said, settling onto the ground and patting a spot next to himself for Carlito to sit.

  He took the box into his hands and stroked it with his thumbs. Carlito swore that the wood looked much prettier in the firelight. Ernesto raised the lid, revealing traces of carved lettering. Carlito ran his finger over the letters.

  “It says Virtu,” Ernesto told him. “That is a good thing. My great-grandfather lived in the port city of Vera Cruz when he was a very young man. He came from Spain on a galleon, they say, and he stayed behind to work in the king’s service at the customs house. All this I know only because my own grandfather told me of it. He said that great-grandfather was there, keeping records and collecting taxes for the king in 1588, the year of a very bad epidemic. A fever gripped many of the townspeople after some sailors from one particular ship brought the disease ashore. Some survived but many died.”

  He stood up, handed the box to Carlito, and added a log to the fire. Resuming his story, he sat once more.

  “One sailor was so ill that he missed the departure of his ship for Spain. It was his good fortune that he did—the ship went down in a hurricane. That young sailor had this box in his possession.”

  “Was it the box that brought him good luck?” Carlito asked.

  “Maybe. Maybe so. Anyway, the sailor had no money for food and no place to stay until the next ship could come, so my great-grandfather took this box in trade for a few weeks of room and board.”

  “What happened to the sailor? Did he go back to Spain?”

  “That part of the story is lost to me—I do not know.” Ernesto glanced at the box in Carlito’s lap. “I do believe, though, that the box has had a lucky life. In 1618 the whole city of Vera Cruz was nearly reduced to ashes after a large fire. It was almost the biggest city in all of Mexico at that time. Can you imagine? My grandfather was a tiny child then. The family barely escaped, but they made their way to Mexico City. Lucky that they did—Vera Cruz became a rough city, overrun by pirates. Eventually, the king of Spain had to station the Barlovento Armada there for protection.”

  “Did your grandfather fight the pirates?” Carlito’s eyes were large.

  “No, I am afraid not. By then our family had moved west.”

  Once the part about the pirates was done, the boy’s attention waned. Carlos saw that his son was getting sleepy.

  “Give the box back to Señor Aragon,” Carlos said, placing a hand on Carlito’s shoulder.

  Carlito held the box
a moment longer, hoping that its good luck would rub off on him. He said goodnight to their hosts, followed his father to their encampment, and in the morning they rose early to hitch the animals and get on the trail once more.

  The capital city enthralled Carlito—endless stalls in the bazaar with amazing items such as he had never seen. Leather saddles trimmed in silver, made locally; heavy, carved furniture from Guadalajara; fabrics and shoes and oranges from Spain; cocoa beans from the rain forests of Guatemala. He escaped his father’s watch one afternoon after they had unloaded their own products and spent a joyful hour exploring and tasting foods that he had never seen before. Until his uncle Hernando found him at the woodcarver’s stand.

  “Your father is worried, niño,” the tall man said. “You’d better come back.”

  They had found a place to stay, two rooms in a boarding house about a quarter mile from the central market square. They would rest here in the city two weeks, choosing the items on Josephina’s shopping list, before they loaded the wagons for the trip back to nuevo méxico and home. Carlito could not stop thinking about the wooden box Señor Aragon had shown him, the one that had saved its owner’s life from certain disaster. At each vendor that sold wood carvings he looked for one like it.

  “Can we stay again with the Aragons when we go back through Durango?” he asked his father after meeting with disappointment in his quest.

  “You liked that wonderful supper, did you? La Señora is as good a cook as your mamá, no?

  “Si. That is the reason.” How could he explain his fascination with the box? He wanted to have contact once more, if only to see it. Perhaps to touch it and see if it would bring him luck.

  “All right. We leave in two more days. Remember, though, it will be at least a month before we get to their place.”

  Carlito vowed to be patient but his feet felt itchy to be on the road again.

  At last, on a Tuesday morning, Carlos declared the band of travelers ready to leave. The wagons had been carefully packed with a table and benches, two new saddles (sadly, only the plain ones), a bag of oranges from Valencia, several thick bolts of cloth from which Josephina would make curtains and clothing, and a heavy ceramic jar containing the wonderful chocolate powder. Carlito and his father had both become very fond of the hot beverage each morning.