The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (18 page)

He turned to look at her. Was this a joke?

“Don’t move! I just cut too much from one place.” She placed her hands
on each side of his head and forced him to face the goat pen.

“Ramona, please do not joke about this.” He would not become hopeful
again, only to have his dreams thwarted.

She combed through his hair with quick strokes and then stepped around
to stand in front of him.

“I am serious,
amor
. It is time.”

Obviously, she had been thinking of this for some days. He felt a
flutter of joy in his chest. To leave the desert where the winters were cold
and the summers blistering hot. He remembered the paintings he had seen, all
those years ago, of tropical beaches and turquoise water.

“Miguel and Lorenzo are old enough now to provide help,” Ramona said as
she began cutting again. “Even Francesca and Enrique will be far less of a
burden than they were at a younger age. Aurelia is still small. But she is
strong and willful. She can be entertained by the others teaching her what they
have learned from school.”

Somehow he knew that was at the heart of Ramona’s decision. Finally,
her children had the basics of their education. They would not grow up to be
ignorant peasants in a dusty Mexican pueblo.

“I am almost finished with the sunflower plates,” he said. “We can
begin packing soon?”

“Immediately. In fact, if the plates are not already promised, pack
them. We can sell or trade some along the way for food.”

He reached over his shoulder and took her hand, clearing his throat to
cover the emotion that welled up. “Thank you,” he said simply.

By the end of the day the children had picked up the excitement and
were racing around underfoot. Ramona decided that they must be given tasks or
they would make her crazy.

“Enrique, stop running in and out the door! Help your father pack his
art supplies. Francesca and Lorenzo, help me in the kitchen. Miguel, put my
washtub in the wagon and then you can begin carrying out the items as we pack
them.”

Carlito watched with a certain admiration. His lovely wife had done
this so often that she knew how to organize everything perfectly. He set to
work making wooden crates for the pottery and instructed Enrique on packing
everything safely in straw.

Three days later, their accumulated household items were aboard the
wagon, except for the most important cooking pots, a supply of food, and their
bedding—the items that would be pulled out each night to make camp along the
journey.

“What about this, papá?” Enrique asked, handing Carlito the last few
boxes they had filled together. He was pointing to a high shelf and the carved
wooden box old señor Aragon had given to Carlito as a child.

“Hmm … I don’t think I need it,” Carlito said, thinking of the wagon
that was now crammed with their things.

“Papá! It is special. If you don’t want it, I do!”

Carlito reached for the ugly old box. He’d been equally insistent as a
boy; he remembered his father saying that he would have to hold it on his lap
since their carts were so full. He smiled indulgently and gave his own son the
same advice. Enrique clasped the box to his chest and ran from the room.

The journey took months but every step was worth it, Carlito decided
when he caught his first glimpse of the sea. His Mexican artist friend had not
begun to capture the fantastic shades of the blue-green water and white sand,
or the curl of the waves as they rolled toward shore and gently broke in foamy
trails. He walked to the water’s edge, let the swells break over his bare feet.

A bubble of happiness welled up inside him and burst in a glorious
outpouring of joy.

* * *

Enrique watched in fascination as his father exchanged words and gestures
with the Englishman who wore multiple layers of outrageous clothing, garments
that must surely feel like an oppressive mantle of death in the humid heat of
midday. Neither man understood the other’s words—that much was obvious as they
signaled what they were trying to convey. But at the end of an hour, the
Martinez family had a small wooden house to live in and the Englishman with the
improbable name of Mr. Clarence Smythe-Brookington (Enrique could not even
pronounce this) had extracted a promise from Carlito to paint portraits of the
man’s beautiful wife and two children.

Enrique ran back to the wagon, excited to tell his siblings that he had
learned two English words—
house
and
slave
. The latter referred to
the great number of people he saw with skin even darker than that of the
Indians of Mexico’s interior. These slaves moved with a frightened demeanor and
they all had jobs moving the heavy logs being cut from the surrounding jungle.
As for the house, it had a wooden floor and the family was specifically
instructed to use only the designated fireplace for cooking indoors. There were
two bedrooms, which meant the children no longer slept in the kitchen. He
wondered how they would keep warm at night but discovered, after sundown, that
the tropical heat never quite went away. Luckily, the windows in this new place
could be opened to the coastal breeze which kept them from roasting in their
beds—unfortunately, they also let in the mosquitos.

Ramona and the children spent the first day unpacking and setting up
the house, while Carlito was shown to the special room inside Brookington’s big
house where he would work. Enrique caught glimpses of two children with
extremely white faces and pale hair, both dressed in white clothing head to toe
and trailing behind a stern-looking older woman like little ghosts. He smiled
at them and received tentative smiles in return, although the woman quickly
shooed them back inside from the wide porch of that huge house.

Miguel and Lorenzo had piled their clothing on the big bed that the
three boys would share, disappearing toward the shore, and Enrique found
himself snagged by his mother who was setting dishes and cooking pots in place
in the kitchen.

“Put away all the clothing,” she instructed, “ and help Francesca tidy
your bedroom. Francesca can watch the baby while I make lunch and you will go
find your brothers.”

He started to protest the unfairness of having to stay inside and work
while the other two boys escaped, but it was simpler to do as she asked rather
than fight about it. Plus, this way he could have control over the bedroom
arrangement. He found Aurelia sitting up, a trick she had recently learned, in
the middle of the narrow bed that would belong to the girls. Francesca had
brought in the wooden crates their father made for the journey and she was
folding her own skirts and shawl and placing them in one. Two more of the boxes
sat on the floor.

Well, if his brothers could not be bothered with work, then they would
not reap the benefits either. He picked up Miguel’s extra pair of pants and the
two shirts cast off by their father that nearly fit the oldest boy now; into
the larger box they went, followed by Lorenzo’s things. He shoved it under the
edge of the bed. In the other crate he set the carved wooden box that was now
his prized possession then began folding his shirts. He’d told no one about his
experience under the stars one night during their travels.

It had been the darkest night of the new moon, with only the glow of
the Milky Way and the planets above, when Enrique woke suddenly. All the others
were asleep on their pallets under the wagon but he swore a voice had spoken to
him. He listened, the hairs on his arms rising. No sound but the soft breathing
of his family and a heavy sigh from the horse that was hobbled a few yards
away. It came again—like a whisper. He lifted his head from the roll of
clothing he used as a pillow. Cradled beside his stomach, the carved box felt
warm. He saw that the colored stones on it sparkled faintly in the starlight.

He slid out from under his blanket and edged away from the wagon,
keeping the box with him. Barefoot, he padded through the dust to the fire pit
his father had made the night before, where his mother had cooked their supper.
The embers gave off a faint glow, visible only because the night itself was so
dark. He sat cross-legged on the ground and opened the box’s lid. He imagined
that the interior glowed slightly too, but that was impossible. The stars were
simply giving out more light than one would imagine … it was because the desert
all around was utterly black in the depth of the night.

Enrique brushed a dusting from his father’s charcoal stick out of a
corner of the box. The glow intensified. Hmm. His interest perked up. He ran
two fingers around the interior edge of the thing. At the instant the fingers
completed the circuit a jolt of energy shot up his arm and into his shoulder.
His last thought was to keep the box away from the remains of the fire.

He remembered how he had awakened, sprawled on the ground by the fire
pit, as the sky was turning pale gray. The family was asleep still; no one had
moved. He rubbed his aching arm and shook out the soreness. The box lay about
two feet away, the lid open, and he picked it up. Immediately, the wood began
to warm in his hands; it glowed with a golden color he had never seen and the
stones sparkled red, green and blue. His breath caught.

All trace of pain was gone from his arm. His mind raced with the
possibilities—what was this thing? Did it possess some kind of magic?

The moment his thoughts settled on that word he knew he must keep
silent about it. The priests were free with talk of God and His miracles, but
they also spoke of witches and evil humans who would be caught and burn in hell
for the sin of practicing magic. He set the box on the ground and its color
quieted. Perhaps he should destroy it before it had the chance to destroy him.

He watched it as the minutes went by. The color became quite dull and
plain, the beauty of that glowing wood and the sparkling stones only a memory.
He felt sure his father had never experienced anything like this with the box.
He would have said so. Or he would never have given the item to his young son.
Somehow, in that moment, Enrique knew he alone was meant to have the box, that
he and this artifact would have a special relationship. He carried it back to
his sleeping pallet and wrapped a blanket around it. Suddenly, he was shivering
in the early morning air.

Now, in a new house in a new land, he folded the last of his clothing and
arranged the items to cover the carved box. He would have to decide what, if
anything, he should do about it. His mother saved him the trouble of making a
decision by calling out that lunch was ready. “Enrique, go find your brothers.”

Francesca carried the baby into the kitchen. Enrique raced out the door
and found the other boys near the water. Lorenzo was poking with a stick at
some creature that had washed up on the shore, a slimy-looking thing with short
horns coming out of its head. Enrique backed away from it. Miguel stood staring
toward the big house, where a girl about his age stared back. Her skin was very
black and her simple dress suggested that she was a maid at the house. He
nudged Miguel and laughed when his brother jumped. Girls! Was this what it
would be like to be fifteen years old?

Everyone had settled at the table when their father arrived, flush with
excitement.

“I have an actual studio inside the house,” he said, as he washed his
hands in the bowl by the door. “There is a work table where I can mix my
paints, and Señor
Smythe
… oh, I cannot say his
entire name yet … he says to call him Brookie. What a silly name. Anyway, he
says he will order the finest
canvas
from
Europe
for the
portraits. See? I have learned two more English words! Meanwhile, until they
come, I think I am free to use the space to paint other things. This afternoon
I will walk along the
playa
and look for suitable subjects.”

“Is he a nice man?” Ramona asked. “This Mr. Brookie?”

“He seems like a very devoted father, very kind to his children. But he
also has a stern way with the slaves. I heard him bellow orders to the foreman
and then when Mr. Brookie turned his back the other man lashed out with a whip
at two of the dark men who were not moving fast enough.”

Enrique had seen incidents of cruelty between people—there were nice
ones and mean ones everywhere, he supposed—but never one who was allowed to use
a whip on someone else without punishment for doing so. He would stay clear of
these Europeans.

* * *

Brookie sat on a chair on the wide veranda of his shady home, rocking
slowly when Enrique mounted the steps.

“What seems to be the problem today?” Enrique asked the man whose hair
had grown pure white over the years.

“Probably the damned lumbago,” Brookie growled. He shifted in his seat
and grinned as he indicated the other chair. “Can you believe us? I remember
you as a skinny little Mexican kid when you were eleven years old. Now you’re
my doctor, speaking perfect English, and our families have blended so
thoroughly that I can’t see the edges anymore. Where’s the old man?”

It took Enrique a moment to realize he meant Carlito. Among the
extended Martinez family, Brookie himself was often called the old man.

“Ah, Papá is resting. He finished a new painting yesterday and decided
to take a day off.”