The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (4 page)

He set the piece on his work
table where it quickly lost the glow. In the corner, on the floor, sat more
chunks of wood from the lightning-struck tree. He picked one up and laid it on
the table, contemplating its size and the direction of the grain. It would
certainly be adequate for a second box. He took up his hatchet and went
outdoors to rough out the shape.

The sun was a high white orb
behind a solid bank of cloud when he heard the hoofbeats. John had become so
absorbed in fine-tuning the basic shape of the new box and its lid that he’d
not realized how the day was getting along, nor the fact that it would probably
rain within the hour.

Three men on horseback
approached, the large English animals thundering along the small cart track
from town, slowing only as they came close enough for John to recognize faces.
It was the sheriff—a man called Dunmoor—and two deputies, one of whom was the
blonde-haired man chasing those two boys through town yesterday. Dunmoor, a
heavyset man with official attire and a face showing an indulgence for rich
food and strong drink, dismounted and walked to the back of John’s handcart.

“You—farmer!” the light-haired
deputy called out. “Why are you not out tending the baron’s fields?”

John explained that Sean was the
family tenant farmer, that he was himself a craftsman. Maggie, hearing the
voices, had stepped out the doorway of the cottage and the men eyed her for a
long moment.

“How many are living in this
dwelling?” demanded the sheriff. “Too many, I’d warrant, for the ration of food
earned.”

“Sean Farmer provides for himself
and the animals only,” John asserted. “I provide for my wife and children and
myself.”

He had set the new box on the
back of the cart and Dunmoor picked it up now.

“Piss-poor work. I’m amazed you
can sell this sort,” he said, holding up the rough-cut shape.

John wanted to protest that the
piece wasn’t finished, that his kitchen utensils actually sold quite well, but
that part of it was not quite true. Besides, there was no winning an argument
with a sheriff in these parts. He merely gave a small nod and lowered his gaze.

“Where is this man, Sean Farmer?”
demanded the deputy.

“Out working.” John said.
Instantly regretting the impudent tone, he added, “I mean to say, I believe he
planned to till the acreage beyond the stone wall.”

Dunmoor clutched the unfinished
box between his meaty paws, as if he meant to crush it. John held his breath,
hoping the piece would not show a reaction to the man’s touch; he would die a
slow death in prison if that happened. But the sheriff’s attention had gone
toward the other small cottages in the village. He dropped the box back to the
cart and mounted his horse. The three spurred their horses, laughing over the
clods of mud that struck John’s chest.

“Pigs!” Maggie hissed once the men
were out of earshot.

“Careful,” John warned under his
breath. “They have supporters here and there.”

He turned back to his work,
carrying the new box and its lid to his table where he could begin to lay out
the quilted design and start the finer work with his chisels. The wood took
shape under his hands, responding to his tools, somehow feeling different to
his touch than the first one.

*
* *

The second box was more pleasing
to John’s eye. He had taken more care in the sanding and finishing, smoothing the
surfaces cautiously, applying his walnut stain with more restraint. He carried
it outside and held it up where the morning sunlight could show it to
advantage. Perhaps the box would find a buyer today, he hoped, as he loaded the
cart and began the walk toward town.

But, hours later, he’d had no
such luck. Four wooden spoons and a pair of bowls had comprised the day’s
sales. He’d made a good trade for some fine cheeses early in the morning and
Maggie would be happy to see the four good loaves of bread—those would mean no
hours of kneading dough for a few days, now that her back was constantly in
pain from the heavy burden at her belly.

He arrived home to find the
children gathered outside, fussing with hunger.

“What’s happened? Where’s your
mother?”

The little ones looked at him
with large eyes and Ethan spoke up. “The midwife’s come for her.”

Poor little ones, they had no
idea what that meant. John knew he was not to be allowed into the cottage’s one
room, so he took the children into his workshop, cleared a space on the table
and made places for them to sit. Breaking the bread and cheese into chunks, he
satisfied their immediate need. While they ate, he walked back to the house and
stood at the doorway, calling to the midwife that he was home now, asking whether
she needed anything of him.

He expected a shouted “no, thank
you” so when the woman appeared at the door, he knew it was not good news.

“It’s been a very hard labor. The
baby seems strong and vigorous but I fear for your wife.” Mrs. O’Sullivan’s apron
had smears of blood and her hands looked none too clean either.

From her bed, Maggie screamed and
the other woman turned to dash back inside. The sun went down and Sean came
home to tend to the animals, ignoring convention and taking them to their indoor
pens, then climbing to his own sleeping loft. John made beds for the children
in his workshop, convincing them that it was a game called camping. He held up
the new box he’d made and told a story about how an evil sheriff had once
handled it and how the courageous wood carver took it away and saved the people
of the town through his bravery. Their eyes grew sleepy and he pulled the
blanket up to their chins as they began to slumber.

The moon was high and bright when
he heard Mrs. O’Sullivan’s soft voice call his name. He stepped outside.
Maggie’s cries had stopped.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carver,” the
midwife said in a hushed tone. She held a tiny bundle of cloth. “The wee lad is
so weak. I doubt he’ll make it.”

“And my wife—?”

The woman shook her head.

John felt the breath go out of
him. Maggie, gone? How would he cope? His eyes prickled but he felt the
midwife’s eyes upon him. John reached for the bundle and opened the blanket.
The newborn’s face looked unearthly—although the woman had wiped him clean, the
skin was pale and muddy rather than rosy. His eyes were closed, mouth
absolutely still.

John remembered how his own
afflictions had disappeared after he’d handled the wooden box, how quickly
Ethan had responded. He laid a gentle hand along the side of the tiny infant’s
face. He stroked one side then the other, hoping to see the child’s color
improve, to see it trying to make suckling motions. Nothing happened.

“I’d best tend to your wife’s
body,” Mrs. O’Sullivan said quietly. She walked away, leaving him in the yard
with the unresponsive baby.

He carried the child to the open
back of his cart and set the tiny boy gently there, opening the blanket and
placing his hands carefully over the baby’s chest, its stick-like arms and
legs. When he leaned over it, his ear to its face, he could detect no breath.
What had happened—why hadn’t the magic worked this time?

*
* *

Two days later, he thought of the
two carved boxes again as he struck his shovel into the muddy earth, digging a
grave for Maggie and the wee one who’d never even had a name. What the boxes
had in common was the fact that the wood had come from the same tree, that and
the work of the carver himself. One box had delivered a miracle; the other only
heartbreak. He thought of the evil Sheriff Dunmoor, the fact that the man had
touched the new box. Could he have tainted it with his negative powers?

He heard voices and looked up
from the hole in the ground to see a procession of neighbors carrying the
coffin John had spent all night making. Tyrel Smith, Gordy O’Sullivan, Tom
O’Roark
and Gerald Mulligan carried it. Ethan and the
younger ones tagged along beside Mrs. O’Sullivan, their faces somber and
unsure. John leaped from the long hole in the ground and dashed toward them.

“Tell the priest to wait a
moment,” he said to Tyrel. “I cannot say goodbye to Maggie in this state.”

He ran home, tugging his shirt
off, and plunged his hands and face into a pail of water outside his woodshop.
Scrubbing quickly, he rid himself of the black earth coating his arms then dried
his face with an old towel. He spotted the priest riding toward the village
along the cart track, so he hurried to pull on the clean shirt he’d set out
this morning and raked his hair back off his face.

As the man spoke at the
graveside, John could only wonder—where would the next clean shirt come from?
Who would feed and dress the children, if not himself? And while he had his
hands full with the household, who would produce items and take them to market?
He had a feeling little Ethan would act as caregiver to the little ones; the
lad would quickly become an adult.

All too soon, the grave was
covered, the religious promises made. John’s skepticism surely showed on his
face. The neighboring women had filled their larder with food, answering an
immediate concern. While the children napped that afternoon, John turned to his
shop and tried to decide what he would do with his life.

*
* *

The two carved boxes sat on his
work table, along with the remaining pieces from the tree. He picked up the first
one and a rush of good feeling and energy ran through his hands and arms.
Quickly, he set it down. Cautiously taking the second one, he felt the energy
drain away. Almost instantly, a weight of depression settled upon him. Good and
bad—the two boxes.

From far back in his memory came
a story his old Norman grandmother used to tell when John was a tiny child. It
had been the story of a gypsy, or perhaps it was a witch—he didn’t remember for
certain—a story where the evil spirit was called Facinor. He remembered being
terrified when Grandmother spoke of this. He picked up a small blade and began
to carve the name on the inner surface of the lid of the second box. He wanted
to remember always that this one had been the cause of grief and pain, that if
a wooden item had a spirit, this one was evil.

When he finished he took up the
other box. This one created energy and joy and healing. To honor those
attributes he thought of a word and began carving: Virtu. He stacked the boxes
with the good one on top, looked at them carefully.

“I cannot keep either of you,” he
said quietly. “You both remind me of her.” Not to mention how badly he needed
the money from a sale. He tossed them into the cart, ready for the next trip to
market.

Meanwhile, he picked up the last of
the wood from the lightning-struck tree.
I
cannot keep this either
, he thought. He carried the largest hunk of it
outside and set to work with the axe. But as soon as he had split it into two
pieces he realized that it was not in his nature to waste a good piece of wood.
He drew out his small hatchet and, almost from memory, began hewing it to the
same shape as the other two. Perhaps a set was the way to approach this; make a
set of three boxes, which would appeal to someone of wealth.

The week’s end would bring the
Feast of Beltane, and with the celebrations in Galway would come wealthy
merchants from other cities and loosen the money from the pockets of nearby
farmers as well.

That would be his answer—to sell
all three boxes at the festival market. He worked quickly, roughing out the
shape and placing the pattern across the top. By the time the children woke,
wanting food, he knew he could have the third box finished yet tonight.

Sean came in from the fields
before dark; Maggie’s brother had been quieter than usual since her death and
John feared he was thinking of a way to suggest that John and the children move
elsewhere. Already, Sean had hinted that John would do well to look for another
wife. John washed the children’s faces and set the table neatly, the way Maggie
used to do. Mrs. Mulligan had sent her grown daughter over this morning with a
stewed chicken and some potatoes prepared with a seasoning unfamiliar to John.
But it tasted good. He laid out the meal for Sean, as if he were now the wife waiting
on the farmer.

“Feast of Beltane starts
tomorrow,” Sean said. “The baron sent word that we’ve two days off.” He seemed
in a good mood as he told John he planned to visit the marketplace and to watch
the performers on the common.

“I’ll be at my usual market spot,
hoping for good sales of my wares. There are three boxes finished now—perhaps
they will sell as a set. If that happens I can add to the food supply, even
some delicacies.”

Sean nodded and grunted approval
at the quality of tonight’s meal. He reached into his pocket. “Say, I found
these out in the dirt. These past few days the plow has been turning them up.
Maybe you can use them somehow.” He dropped a handful of small stones on the
table—they appeared to have some color to them but it was hard to tell under
the crusty, dried dirt.

Eager to get back to his work,
John cleared the table and put the children to bed. He dropped the handful of
stones into a bowl of water, hoping to clean them without too much extra labor.
He already had an idea for them.

The next morning he rose early
and loaded the cart. He had completed the third box during the late hours last
night and now he checked to be sure the finish had dried. Mrs. Mulligan’s
daughter had offered—a bit too eagerly—to watch the children all day. Maybe
Sean was right about a wife; a man couldn’t very well manage four children and
conduct business at the same time. Kate Mulligan was not an attractive girl but
that wasn’t the important point right now. He resolved to think about it later.