The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (7 page)

Just beyond the art store the air
from a bake shop carried the heavenly scents of yeast and honey, pulling for
Sophia’s attention. She had brought two coins from home, for the linseed oil,
but the woman reminded her that the Boregas had an account for the use of the
artist. Sophia made a quick decision and stepped into the bakery.

“Two of the honey covered buns,
please,” she said to the old woman who was kneading dough on a work table.

With her purchases wrapped in a
piece of cloth and placed into her bag, she felt suddenly lighter of heart.
Instead of retracing her route home, she decided to take an alternate way back
to the Borega home. A change of scene and a sweet treat to go along with their
afternoon tea would cheer both herself and her father.

She turned into an unfamiliar
lane, sensing that it would circle back in the right direction. Ahead, she
could hear the cheerful shouts of children.

Rounding a curve, she saw four
boys in colorful shirts running and shrieking in delight.
Roma
, she thought. Gypsies. The boy who appeared the eldest ran
from the others then spun quickly, taunting them with something he held above
his head. A smaller one, probably no more than three years of age, ran at him
and at the moment the older boy turned, the little one crashed into him, lost
his footing and fell hard. Sophia could nearly hear the crack of his little
head against the cobbles.

The boy lay inert on the ground,
like an old rag.

“Oh, no,” she said, rushing
toward them.

One of the other boys ran away.
Two others stood transfixed at the sight.

Sophia dropped her bag and
reached out to touch the small white face, pale against the black of his hair,
but at that moment a woman came forward. Crying out, she gathered the child
into her arms. She began to scream something in another language and adults of
the community appeared, almost as if they were coming from nooks and crannies
throughout the neighborhood.

“Magda! Magda!” Several of them
took up the cry.

Sophia looked about in confusion.
Within moments an elderly gypsy woman appeared. In her hands was a box.
Sophia’s eyes widened. It was a twin of the carved wooden box given to her by
Maria Borega, except that this one had colored stones mounted in the crevices
where each diagonal line formed an X shape. The stones were glowing brilliantly
and the surface of the box—just as hers did—warmed to a golden glow.

Sophia stepped back. The mother
of the unconscious boy looked up at the old one with a tenuous smile of hope.

“Magda, can you—?”

The white-haired woman pushed the
black shawl off her head and gripped the box with both hands as she knelt
beside the pair. Setting the box down, she rubbed her hands together quickly
and then placed them on both sides of the child’s head. She closed her eyes;
her lips moved with silent words. The boy stirred and his eyes opened. He grew
restless in his mother’s arms and pushed against her to sit up.

The other gypsies gathered around,
blocking Sophia’s view. A couple of them cast suspicious glances toward her.
She smiled encouragement to them and picked up her bag.

“I am happy that the boy feels
better,” she said as she passed.

The scene ran through her head
all the way home. The Church taught that miracles were possible, usually
performed by holy men or innocent children. Had she witnessed such a miracle?

*
* *

Father Benedict stepped from the
shadow of a cypress tree, facing the clan of heathens.

“Give me that box,” he ordered holding
out his hand.

Like roaches in the light, the
Romas
scattered and vanished into the
labyrinth of alleys and doorways. Benedict started to give chase but the
infidels were light and quick. Rather than admit that his lumbering size was a
hindrance, he turned toward the cathedral as if that had been his intent all
along. Bishop Andreas would want to hear about this.

He found the man alone in the
cloisters.

“I must speak with you
privately,” Benedict said, fully aware that a normal tone of voice could carry
in unimaginable ways through these stone passageways and arches.

Andreas tilted his head toward
the door leading to his study. He closed the door behind them and indicated
that Benedict should take the plain chair against the wall. The bishop circled
the heavy table he used as a desk and sat in his own ornately carved chair.

“I witnessed an extraordinary
event, only moments ago,” the priest began. He detailed the story, relishing
the look on the bishop’s face as he spoke of the wooden box.

“They are practicing witchcraft,
of course,” Benedict said in conclusion.

“Yes ... yes, they must be
questioned on that subject.” The bishop’s eyes met his. “But questions will not
bring me what I desire.”

The priest nodded. The two men
had discussed the wooden box that he had discovered in the possession of the
artist, Abran Vermejo. Stories circulated, and the rumors of a powerful
artifact were not unknown to them.

“The woman was present, the
daughter of the artist.”

“And she performed this ... this
deed?”

“I do not know if she had a hand
in it. When I came to the place, she was standing at one side. An old gypsy
woman had her hands on the box. She touched the child and uttered the words.”

“So ... perhaps the two of them
are in it together.” The bishop ran a fingernail along the edge of his lower
lip.

Benedict didn’t believe this to
be the case but there was no advantage to being right if it entailed an
argument with a superior. He merely shrugged.

“I want that artifact.” Andreas’s
eyes glittered at the prospect of the miracles he could claim with all of that
power at hand. Performing the royal edict would be done with effortless ease
and he would take credit for ridding the kingdom of crypto-Jews and dirty,
thieving
Romas
.

Andreas pulled a soft leather
pouch from the deep pocket of his robe, loosed the thin leather strip that held
it closed, and reached inside. Removing a dozen gold coins, he handed them to
Benedict.

“Do whatever is required,” he
said. “Purchase the box or purchase the information, I care not. I want it
before the end of this day.”

The priest almost withdrew his
hand before the coins could touch him. Suddenly, he felt much less sure of his
knowledge.

Andreas had slipped the money
pouch out of sight and he stood now.

“When the clock tower strikes
midnight, that is when I shall expect to have the item.”

Outside, the wind had become
stronger, whipping around corners and sending a draft under his robe. Benedict
gathered the coarse brown fabric closer and pulled the cowl over his head. The
gold coins felt burdensome in the pocket. He turned a corner where the chill
wind did not reach. On this side of the high stone walls the sun shone high in
the afternoon sky. He paused a moment, fighting back the uneasy seed that the
bishop’s words had planted in his gut.

His eyes scanned the gardens and
nearby streets. No sign of any gypsy anywhere. With a nervous glance over his
shoulder at the clock tower he started walking.

At the small square where the
children had earlier played, where the old woman had healed the injured one, he
paused. The area was eerily quiet. Not a face showed at a window, not an open
door in sight. He could begin knocking on doors but these were wily people,
able to sneak through small openings like mice. None would turn on a member of the
tribe and they would offer assistance to each other in escaping. He glared at
the surrounding buildings, wishing ill to any who harbored there.

Hours later, he had trudged every
alleyway of the entire barrio; his head felt as if it would burst. Where would
he find that box?

Wait a moment, he thought. Call
it witchcraft or a miracle, no matter—the bishop had not witnessed the event.
Only Benedict, among the Church hierarchy, had seen the old woman and the box.
He had been charged with one mission—bring the box.

He set off in the direction of
the Borega family home.

*
* *

Sophia’s thoughts ran in a tumble
as she walked hastily home. There were
two
boxes, almost identical in appearance, both with mystical powers. So far, with
hers, she had only seen visions that appeared to be scenes from other places
and times—perhaps a minute peek into the history of the box itself. But what if
it could perform miracles of the type she had now witnessed?

She had a brief glimpse of a life
as a healer. No more would she spend her days uselessly brushing the dust off
someone’s furniture or cleaning messy paintbrushes while her father worked at
his life’s calling.

Perhaps I have found my own calling.
The thought quickened her
pulse as she turned onto Calle del Solano and made her way toward the Borega
house.

From the dining room she could
hear the lively sounds of a meal in progress, one that included visitors by the
sound of it. She edged to the stairs and ascended quietly. In the studio her
father seemed agitated.

“Where were you, girl?” He
gestured toward the half-finished painting.

“A child was injured. I stopped
to see if I could help.” She reached into her bag and took out the linseed oil,
setting it on the table. The carved box sat exactly where she had left it.

He made a scoffing sound and
busied himself with his brushes.

“I brought you a treat.” She
unwrapped the cloth with the honey-coated bread inside. “Let me go to the
kitchen and get some soup for you.”

He eyed the bun but did not stop
working turpentine into the delicate bristles.

“You’ve made good progress today,
Papá. Stop for some food and a rest.”

He sighed. “My shoulder aches.
Worse each day, I am afraid.”

Her gaze fell to the box.

“Go to your room, Papá. I shall ask
the kitchen girl to bring the soup and then I will stop in and rub the painful
area for you.”

At last, a small smile. He set
the brush down. Sophia guided him by the elbow, out of the studio and toward
the stairs. After a quick trip to the kitchen, she came back to the studio.

She closed her eyes and
remembered the old gypsy woman, how she had held the other box. The woman had
murmured some words, something Sophia could not understand. If that was a
critical part of the treatment, her actions now might have no effect. But it
was worth the attempt. She held the box with both hands, fingers splayed,
concentrating on the sensation of warmth that traveled through them and upward
along her arms. She carried it up the back stairs, her hands becoming almost fiery
hot by the time she reached Abran’s bedroom.

“Papá, show me where it hurts.”

When she applied her hands to the
muscles along his neck and shoulder, he moaned quietly. His eyes closed as she
applied slight pressure and moved over the aching places.

“My Sophia,” Abran said, “you are
such a kind girl. I feel so much better I shall go back to my work.”

She stared at her own hands. How
could this be? No time at all and he felt well enough to go to work? She
thought of the young boy who had been unconscious one minute and sitting up the
next. She nearly laughed out loud. The things she could do with this power! The
numerous people she could help!

A tap sounded at the door. “All
right, Papá, but eat your soup first.”

She admitted the kitchen maid.
The girl placed her tray on Abran’s bedside table.

“What’s this?” Sophia asked,
noticing a bandage on the girl’s hand.

“Carelessness. I’m sorry ma’am.”

“Don’t be sorry. Tell me what
happened.”

“My hand touched the large kettle
over the fire. Cook insisted that I put this cloth over it.”

“Let me take a look.”

As her father sipped the hot
broth from the bowl, Sophia unwound the cloth, which looked none too clean,
revealing an inflamed spot the size of a coin. The servant winced and turned
her head away from the sight.

Sophia tentatively touched the
area around the wound and saw the redness fade before her eyes. She laid the
palm of her hand softly over the spot; when she raised it the circle was just
faintly pink. Her breath caught and the maid looked at her.

“It doesn’t seem too bad.” Sophia
forced the quiver out of her voice, afraid of showing her excitement.

The young maid stared at her
hand, then looked up. Sophia smiled, like a mother who had kissed away her
child’s small scratch. All better. The girl’s face was full of gratitude as she
left the room.

“What did you do just then?”
Abran whispered once the door had closed. His eyes were sharp.

“It was not so serious a wound as
the girl thought.”

“And my shoulder? Did I only
imagine
the pain that has wracked me for
weeks?” He held up a hand. “I am only cautioning you, my dear. Do not speak of
this, and be very careful as to who might observe. Your acts of kindness could
easily be taken the wrong way in these treacherous times.”

*
* *

Father Benedict lifted the heavy
metal knocker and dropped it for the third time. The sound echoed through the
Borega house like a rock bouncing off the walls of a dry well. No response
came. The sun was now low in the sky, throwing gray shadows over the streets
and homes.

He needed to get inside and make
a pretense to visit the studio of the artist. Bishop Andreas wanted the box
that had performed the miraculous healing of the gypsy child, but the bishop
had not seen the box. From the brief description he’d given, Benedict felt sure
this other box would serve the purpose. When the bishop failed to perform a
miracle with it, the explanation would simply be that the bishop was a holy
man—he could never perform such an act of witchcraft. The box’s very benign
nature would be clarification enough.