The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Read online

  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.

  Over the city, bells from the cathedral tower rang out, calling the faithful to vespers. There was the reason—the entire family, plus servants and guests, would be in attendance. Benedict turned away from the door. He made quick steps toward the high spires that rose above the other nearby buildings.

  Inside the cool, dim interior sounds of the liturgy and the parishioners’ responses echoed from the massive central pillars and surrounding stone walls. He took a place near the font of holy water, scanning the altar area for a sign of the bishop. He caught sight of white robes but at this distance could not be certain that it was Andreas. He would prefer not to cross the other man’s path until he had implemented his plan. Fewer questions that way.

  The final prayer ended and Benedict made his way to the tall, carved doors through which the parishioners would pass as they left. He smiled benignly at each family, taking note that Miguel and Maria Borega were walking slowly through the nave and would soon reach the doors. He edged slightly to the right, making sure that among the several clergy he would be the one to speak with them.

  “Good evening Señor, Señora,” he said, making eye contact and giving his most practiced, benevolent smile.

  “We’ve not seen you in our home in several days,” Maria said. “A small supper will be prepared by the time we arrive. Would you care to join us?”

  The conversation was almost an exact replica of the one they exchanged each fortnight. He filled his dialogue in the scene with a gracious acceptance. Miguel Borega gave a small salute as he donned his soft hat and Maria preened a little as others around them noticed the favorable attention bestowed upon their family.

  An hour later, Benedict arrived once more at their front door and this time was escorted into the large hall and offered wine. He sipped it, surreptitiously eyeing the staircase and considering what pretense he might use to wander into the artist’s studio on the second floor.

  Outside, the tower clock chimed eleven.

  The meal took far longer than he would have liked. He observed the various household members—the children who were sent to bed early, the artist who seemed distracted for some reason, the man’s daughter who spooned up small pieces of fruit and studiously avoided talking to him. He kept up a lively discourse, telling stories on some of the parishioners who had participated in the recent Semana Santa observations, how the man charged with carrying the crucifix along the parade route had nearly dropped it. The tale drew polite laughter, nothing more.

  Twice, someone else at
the table had excused himself in the delicate manner that suggested he was visiting the outdoor privy. It seemed as good a reason as any to go away alone for a few minutes. He said the appropriate words and left the dining hall, turning in the direction he had seen others take. Once out of sight of the doorway, he slipped up the stairs and took quiet steps along the wooden floor. If he remembered correctly, the studio was the third door at the right. A cautious peek—yes. Moonlight streamed in through the windows where no one had closed the shutters yet. He let his eyes adjust to the gray-toned interior until he could make out objects on the man’s work table. The box sat near some jars of ground pigments.

  The clock struck once, a signal of the half hour. He visualized the bishop’s face as he had ordered Benedict to meet him at midnight. He must hurry—carefully.

  He picked up the box and something inside it rattled as it shifted. Lifting the lid, he saw small lumps of rock. Carrying those along would not do; the slightest sound would give away the fact that he’d hidden something inside his robe. He turned the box to its side, letting the rocks slide onto the table top.

  Out in the corridor he heard footsteps. With the stealth of a cat he tucked the box into one of the inner folds of his robe. The steps passed by the studio and a door down the hall opened and closed.

  He eased the studio door open and peered both directions into the corridor. No one in sight. He edged out and hurried toward the stairs. He had been gone too long already.

  Voices rose from the large hall below and he had almost reached the stairs.

  “Father Benedict?” It was Miguel Borega and the man obviously wondered how the priest had gone so far off the track to his stated goal.

  “Ah, Señor, I so admired this tapestry at the top of the stairs. I had to come up to examine it more closely.”

  Maria Borega appeared at her husband’s side. “It has been in our family for six generations,” she said with a smile.