The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (15 page)

“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.

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.