The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  The days crawled by but Carlito’s thoughts were so lively that he did not mind the slow pace. His head was filled with images of Mexico City, the market and the many things he’d seen for the first time in his life. He would have so many stories for the younger ones when he returned home. By the time they reached the southern outskirts of Durango, his uncles were eager to stop and enjoy town comforts for a night but Carlito reminded his father of the promise to stay with Ernesto and Gloria Aragon. They pushed onward to the end of the day to reach the northern ranches before stopping.

  From the moment their small caravan slowed in front of the casa, Carlito had a bad feeling. A strange burro stood in the yard near the horno. Where the fire had been blazing last time with pots of savory stew, there was only a pile of cold ashes. No chickens pecked at the ground. None of the animals were in sight.

  “Maybe they went into the city,” Carlos said to his son. “Let’s check.”

  They had no sooner descended from the wagon than a priest stepped out the kitchen doorway. He held up a hand, partly in greeting, partly to stop them.

  “Do not come inside,” he cautioned. “I am sorry to say that there has been a very unfortunate …”

  Carlito cried out and started to run to the house but the priest stopped him with hands on both shoulders.

  “My son, do not.”

  “What has happened here?” Carlos demanded. “Where are the Aragons?”

  The priest shook his head. “Indians, from the mesa. They came last night to several of our neighboring ranches. I have checked at the Mascarenas place, the Chavez’s, at Diego Sanchez’s ranch. All are muerte, all those good people. The animals were stolen, the houses raided. Two of our friars have taken the bodies to the church for burial tomorrow but I am afraid there is no food left for you to even make your own supper.”

  Carlos stood, stunned at the turn of events. Although they had been told of the dangers of this journey they had never yet encountered the brutal reality. He scanned the surrounding hills and mesa tops. All was quiet.

  “They will not return soon,” the priest said. “They took what they wanted. For now, it was food and horses. Next time it may be a direct attack on the church or the fort. They take out their anger on Spaniards, I am afraid, wanting us to all go back to Spain and leave the land as it was. They do not understand that after almost two hundred years in this place, we will not be going away.”

  Carlito observed the adult conversation, comprehending only that the elderly couple who had been so kind to them were gone now, forever.

  The priest gathered his robes and mounted the sad little burro. “I must go now, return to my church to say the evening Mass. Feel free to stay here if you like, but I would recommend that you stand guard.”

  He nudged the burro and started toward the city.

  “What do you think?” Uncle Hernando asked Carlos. “Is it safe to stay here or do we go back to the city also?”

  Carlos stared at the hills around them. “It is at least five miles back and darkness is coming fast.” His face took on a determined look. “Build up the fire. Gather the wagons and animals close together. We will take watches during the night. Two sleep and two remain on guard. It is dangerous, I know. We would be overpowered. But, as the holy man said, the Indians already took what they wanted from this home. They have moved on.”

  Carlito gathered sticks and small branches for the fire and watched as his uncles pulled food from their packs. They ate a simple supper of bread, beans and jerky. The night was quiet and the animals settled peacefully at their tethers. A half moon lit the landscape and the men realized they would see anyone who approached, as long as they stayed diligent. Hernando and Carlos agreed to take the first watch, and soon the others were asleep on their blankets on the ground.

  Carlito said a prayer for Señor and Señora Aragon, remembering what his mother had told him about souls going to heaven. He remembered their evening together a few weeks ago, wishing that tonight had been the same. Then he thought of the carved box and the stories Señor Aragon had told about it. Where was the box now? He crawled out of his nest of blankets.

  Carlos saw him as he approached the fire. “Why are you up?” he whispered, joining his son at the edge of the low embers.

  “I need to check something.” Carlito stuck a twig into the fire, setting the end of it aglow.

  “Hijo, you need to—”

  But Carlito had already taken his small torch and was running toward Gloria’s kitchen door. The priest had barely closed it; at the boy’s touch it swung inward. Moonlight from the one window showed the big items—Gloria’s worktable lying on its side, a wooden bucket of water where she had left it near her dishpan, the corner fireplace where she prepared meals in winter. His flaming stick illuminated the details—broken dishes fallen from the shelves, jars that had contained corn and beans but were empty now, a pool of something dark on the floor. His breath caught but he refused to dwell on what that might be.

  “Carlito! Come back outside—now!” His father’s harsh whisper cut the absolute stillness in the room.

  “Uno momento,” Carlito said, his eyes darting back and forth.

  On the floor, in a corner beneath the shelves where Gloria’s dishes had once been stacked, he spotted the familiar lumpy shape. He rushed toward it, feeling a stab as a shard pierced his foot. It did not stop him. He limped on, being more mindful of the broken pottery, and picked up the wooden object. Someone had opened it and, discovering that it contained nothing of real value, had thrown it to the earthen floor. One of the hinges was broken; the lid hung by the remaining bent one. He fitted the top back in place and stroked it gently, as he might have done with an injured kitten.

  “Carlito!” This time the whisper was more commanding.

  “Coming, papá.” He cradled the box and picked up his little torch again. The flame had burned nearly to his fingers and he tossed it to the ground the moment he reached the outside air.

  “What have you taken?” Carlos asked.

  Carlito showed him. “Señor Aragon told such good stories about it. I think he would not mind me having it now.”

  There was certainly no one else who wanted the ugly, broken object; both the Indians and the priest had left it behind. And the old couple had no children to inherit it.

  “Fine. You must watch out for it yourself. Now go to sleep—we have many long days ahead of us.”

  * * *

  The newlyweds placed the last of their things into the cart which had been his parents’ gift to them, along with the droopy-eared burro who pulled it. Ramona turned to her mother, Carlito to his father, to say goodbye.

  Beside her husband, Josephina Martinez wept softly. Her eldest son was leaving and who knew when they might see each other again. Of all the children, Carlito was the hardest to hold down. Josephina put on a smile for her new daughter-in-law—did the girl truly know what she was getting into? Probably so. The couple had known each other since childhood and Ramona had watched Carlito leave on the yearly Camino Real journey six times already.

  “Did we pack my paints?” Carlito asked his new wife, a concerned frown crossing his face.

  “Yes, my darling. All your supplies are safe in the wagon.”

  He poked under the oiled cloth covering the cargo anyway until he felt the reassuring bumps on the lid of the old box in which he stored his precious pigments. Relieved, he offered Ramona a hand up to the cart’s seat and then followed, taking up the reins and giving the old burro a slap while all seventeen members of their families waved frantically.

  Their goal before nightfall was to follow the old Camino northward for a few miles beyond San Juan Pueblo to an area of natural hot springs, a place Carlito had explored a few years ago. As an inquisitive fifteen-year-old he had come upon the place, with its steaming pools of mineral-laden water and tall, shady trees, thinking that he would one day paint pictures of this astounding scenery and would make love to a woman on the soft ground under the cottonwoods. A
t the time, he had not known this would be Ramona but thinking about it now, as the cart carried them along, it could not have been otherwise. He had loved her ever since the day his father’s caravan of traders had returned from Mexico, the first of several times Carlito had made that journey. Ramona’s raw emotion, her absolute joy at his safe return, had captured his heart. It took him only eight more years to find the courage to propose marriage. It took her only a moment to accept.

  “So … Carlito, my dearest … do you still plan to paint my portrait one day?”

  He turned his eyes from the road and looked deeply into hers, dark chocolate irises that matched his own. They would make beautiful babies together, he realized.

  “Yes. I absolutely will paint your portrait. I want to paint you in every light, in every setting.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps in the morning, on our blanket under the trees, when your skin is flush with love and the warm air caresses you.”

  A pink tinge rose under her pale brown skin and her eyes immediately shifted toward her lap. Her mother had told her good girls do not have such thoughts as she was having right now, good girls do not discuss intimate details with men, not even their husbands. But Mamá did not consider that Ramona and Carlito had been best of friends since they were twelve; she did not know that they had already experimented with tentative touches and many kisses. Tonight would only be the beginning of so many more delicious experiences.

  Ramona looked back up into his face, meeting his gaze straight on. “My wonderful, beautiful artist husband. How soon will we be there?”

  He slapped the reins against the burro’s back again but the creature was not to be hurried. One day he would receive a commission lucrative enough to purchase them a fine carriage and a pair of strong horses and then they would travel in style. And much faster.

  “Patience, my love,” Ramona said, sensing his haste. She ran the tips of her fingers over the light cloth covering his thigh. “Patience.”

  The setting sun lit the western clouds with shades of orange and mauve and brilliant pink as they turned toward the small enclave of trees where he knew the hot pools were. While Ramona gathered wood for a fire, he quickly staked the burro near a grassy patch and pulled out the straw-filled mattress and blankets she and her mother had made as part of their household goods. The clouds faded and dispersed and soon the Milky Way made a brilliant swath across the black sky.

  “There will be no rain tonight,” he said. “We shall sleep under the stars.” He was practically trembling as he loosened the tie that secured her blouse.

  Her hands were quick and eager, and in moments their clothing had fallen to the ground. The straw mattress crackled as they sank into its depth and Ramona giggled. He stilled the sound by covering her mouth with his and the giggle turned to a moan as he ran his hands from her shoulders to her buttocks. Holding her gently he positioned himself and discovered that her body eagerly awaited him. She let out a tiny cry and he was finished, his pent-up energy released in a moment’s time. She lay beneath him, breathing hard and kissing his face all at once.

  “Is it always so quick?” she asked, a trace of disappointment on her face.

  “The next time, I promise you …”

  She kissed him again.

  He made good on the promise, twice more before the moon reached its zenith and again at dawn’s first light.

  “My mother never explained it this way.” Ramona laughed as Carlito rolled to one elbow and brushed the hair back from her face. “Thank goodness Graciela was willing to talk freely.”

  The older sister who had married only a year earlier. Graciela was already nursing her first child and the thought crossed Ramona’s mind that the same situation could be a very distinct possibility for her. She tucked that idea away. For now, she wanted Carlito to herself.

  He had risen from their outdoor bed and wrapped her shawl around his waist, reaching for his box of charcoal and a sheet of sketch paper.

  “Do not move,” he said, pulling lines down the length of the page. “I want to catch you exactly like this—your smile and that lazy look you have in your eyes.”

  She laughed with delight, holding her position, knowing her mother would be scandalized if she knew how wantonly her daughter could behave.

  “As long as this drawing is for your eyes only,” she said. “This is our own very private moment together.”

  “Moment? My darling, I want us to have a lifetime of these private moments, exactly like this one.”

  * * *

  “Carlito—we are moving again?” Ramona felt the sway of uncertainty. The baby in her arms sensed her anxiety and began to squall. A tug at her skirt told her that little Miguel was hanging on tight, most likely with his thumb in his mouth. And she’d missed her monthly cycle again, although there had been no chance to inform Carlito of this.

  “There is work in Tejas, a group of missionaries and explorers have branched away from the Rio Grande Valley and are discovering new places. There will be construction work and they will want art to beautify the hundreds of churches they plan to build.”

  It was always this way. Three years of marriage, soon to be three babies, always somewhere new to explore. She was happy for him, truly, that he had such a love of life and a thirst to learn more. But did he realize the difficulties? Packing their belongings, leaving half of their household goods behind each time and having to start over. The daily problems associated with keeping the children fed, their clothing washed, treating their injuries along the trail and praying every single night that no one became ill because there was rarely a doctor in any of the tiny settlements and pueblos where they ended up. She opened her mouth, intending to tell him.

  The baby let out another long shriek and Carlito came to her side. “Here, I will take him for a walk down to the stream. He always likes to watch the water rush by.”

  That had been Miguel, their water-watcher. Little Lorenzo always seemed to have a stomach ailment.

  “He’s hungry,” she said. “Take Miguel and I will get this one fed.”

  Like a dog after a rabbit, her husband’s focus changed in a second and he did as she suggested. She sank into the chair where she usually nursed the baby, thankful that this landlord had provided a few simple furnishings. On an easel near the window sat Carlito’s most recent painting, a view of the Taos Indian Pueblo done from memory since he had only been there once, right after their wedding. It was the week she had told him she was pregnant for the first time. He’d been so overjoyed that he’d immediately stopped sketching the pueblo and moved the family to a rented room in the nearby settlement that passed for a town.

  Before the birth of Miguel, however, he had received word that another mission settlement needed wood workers and they moved south, six days over a road that was barely a track through the high-desert terrain. They had stayed there long enough to welcome Miguel, conceive Lorenzo, and finish a beautiful altar piece. It only made sense now that Lorenzo was ready for solid food they would pick up and move again. She sighed.

  “They are calling the new place San Antonio,” Carlito said as he spooned portions of beans into bowls for the two of them. The boys were already asleep on their pallets in the corner. “There will be a mission church, so I can use my woodworking skills. And this time I want to convince the priests to allow me to paint a mural. I can see it in my head, a series of pictures depicting the life of Christ, one leading to the other so that it spans a long wall. Maybe even two walls. Such a project would give me work for a very long time.”

  “Do you think we might stay there, then? Long enough for the children to settle down, perhaps even to learn a little reading and writing from the priests?”

  He shrugged and chewed a large mouthful. “Maybe so. San Antonio might be the place.”

  She didn’t think he said it with much conviction and she was beginning to remember the little comments from her mother-in-law. Josephina had hinted at Carlito’s need for adventure and change.

  She mad
e up her mind to accept it—what choice was there anyway?—and then she informed him she was once again pregnant.

  * * *

  Carlito reached for the carved box on the high shelf of his studio, lifting it down and regarding it closely for the first time in years. How differently he saw it now than he had at twelve. The workmanship was not good—his own skill at woodworking had far surpassed that of whoever made the box—but still, it held a place in his heart. He remembered his fascination with it as old Señor Aragon had told of its history, his boyish enthusiasm when his father gave permission for him to own it. He cradled it in his arms the way he did as a boy then set it back on the shelf.

  “What is that, Papá?” came the small voice of Enrique, his four-year-old.

  “Ah. Well, hijo, I used to keep my paints in it when I was a young man, when Mamá and I first married.” Since those early days he had accumulated more art supplies than the small box could hold so he had fashioned a larger one with compartments and a tight-fitting top.

  He took the old box down again and placed it on his worktable where brushes and paints were strewn in disarray. Sitting on the stool where he often worked, he took the child on his lap and picked up the box.

  “It is very old,” he said, “and the man who owned it told of how it came from Spain and then went to a town on the coast of Mexico, a place where there were pirates!”

  Enrique’s eyes went wide, more from the tone of his father’s storytelling voice than from any knowledge of what a pirate was.

  Miguel walked into the room just then. “There are pirates on the coast still,” he said. “Father Dominique told us that they are evil Englishmen who come to cut the wood and kill Spaniards. They steal logwood from the forests and take it away in their ships. Father says the English will be doomed to hell because they don’t belong to the Church.”