The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 3

  Should he wake Maggie? Should he start for the O’Sullivan place?

  “I don’t know what to do for you,” he whispered under his breath. “Son, I don’t know what to do.”

  He leaned forward and pulled Ethan’s limp body into his arms, hugging the boy to his chest, stroking one puffy, hot arm with the hand that was accustomed to discerning every knot in a piece of fine wood. Ethan stirred, his eyelids fluttering.

  “Da’?”

  “Hey, boyo, how are you?” John kept his voice low, rubbed a fingertip across his son’s forehead. It seemed a little cooler than a moment ago.

  “Da’ I don’t know what happened.”

  “You’re a little bit sick. Your mother’s been here all afternoon but she needed to sleep.”

  The flush drained from the child’s skin, and John could barely tell a difference now between his own temperature and the boy’s. Ethan struggled in his arms and sat up.

  “I’m hungry, Da’. I missed my supper, I think.”

  John nearly laughed aloud, tears of joy threatening to spill. “Aye, you did that. Supper’s long over, but I’ll find you something. Wait here.”

  But when John stood to look for something to feed the child, Ethan got off his pallet and skipped to the table. “There’s bread,” he said gleefully, “oh, and fresh milk!”

  Maggie sat up. “What’s this noise about, then?”

  John found himself speechless. He moved the lamp to the table and watched his son scramble around, picking up and munching whatever he spotted to eat. Maggie stared at John, almost accusing.

  “You let him out of bed!”

  “He got up. The fever’s gone and look at him!”

  She couldn’t argue with the happy face and exuberant energy of their son. But she gave John a long, hard look.

  “We’ll not be repeating this story,” she said. “Not unless you want to see me burned as a witch.”

  He nodded somberly. There was one suspected witch who lived in the town, and she’d gained that reputation for an event very similar to this. When a young girl had fallen ill two summers past, the gray-haired woman had brewed a concoction—she protested that it was a tea of herbs but no one else, including the doctor, knew of these herbs. When the little girl began to sing and dance about, the old woman’s friends had all stood at a distance, denying that they knew her. Twice, the church had sent men to get her, to put her to the stake, but the woman had a disappearing-spell and knew how to stay away from them.

  Maggie had no spells, no way to escape. They would take her, for certain.

  * * *

  At daylight, Sean woke early and left for the day. John and Maggie sent each other signals across the table as the children ate their breakfast of bread and goat cheese. When the young ones had been sent out with little chores to fulfill, they spoke of it for the last time.

  “We must proceed as normal,” John said. “Sean is the one person who might ask. Tell him only that the fever broke during the night and our Ethan has recovered.”

  He left her to pluck the chicken and he picked up the carved box and made his way quickly to his small workshop.

  In the light of day, sitting among his other carvings, the piece was as ugly and benign as ever. Somehow he had expected it to have retained that near-translucent glow. He lifted the lid, letting it rest open on the new hinges. Nothing about the plain interior gave a hint as to how it came to contain such power. He tentatively touched the inner edges. Nothing happened.

  Last evening he had sat for a long time at his son’s bedside. Perhaps he had dreamed the episode. Maybe Ethan had gotten well simply because the disease ran its course. He picked up the box with both hands, examining the workmanship, contemplating whether to make another one, a finer one. After a minute, the wood began to warm to his touch and the brown stain turned to the color of dark honey. His heart quickened. The thing did possess some sort of power!

  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.

  In town, the market square was bustling with activity earlier than usual. He parked his cart and gave a shout to Tyrel when he spotted his friend.

  “I want to show you something,” he said.

  He pulled out a small cloth pouch and dumped out the stones. Clean, it turned out they did have a bit of color to them, mostly red, green and blue. He picked up one of the wooden boxes and held a stone to the top of it, letting it rest in the low center where the quilted design formed an X. He placed more stones, selecting colors randomly, placing them in the crisscrosses on the box.