Woodcarver's Secret

Chapter 1 - Lightning Strikes (PART 1)

[[Author's note: Since posting my first Samantha Sweet mystery here on Wattpad, it's received quite a few views....This story, The Woodcarver's Secret is a companion book to that series, answering the question of where that magical wooden box came from. Over the next few days, I'll be posting the first couple of chapters, to give a taste of this historical mystery. Enjoy!]]

Heavy, lead-colored clouds hovered ominously at the horizon, stealing the last scrap of sun that had peered tentatively around them half the morning. A frigid wind came off the waters of Galway Bay, whipping the gray waves to a foamy froth that licked at John Carver's feet. He studied the clouds as the next wet salvo washed over his thick leather boots, filling the left one, draining out through the hole near his big toe. Maggie would give him the devil for his carelessness the same way she reminded the children to care for their things. "An' where do you think we'll be gettin' a new pair of boots?" she would surely prod.

Already this morning his wife had thought of a dozen chores he might do at their small hut-sweep up his wood shavings, clear his wares to the outdoors so there would be more space, watch the children while she kneaded bread. The woman always became demanding of him when she was expecting another one, and by the size of her belly the new mouth to feed would arrive within a few weeks.

He pulled his woolen cloak tighter to his shoulders and walked away from the shoreline, staring at the two tall alder trees on the rise beyond the gray stone city walls. Both were long dead, gnarled old things whose smaller branches had been stripped and taken for the fires in a dozen homes. The last of the leaves had blown to the far corners of the county four or five seasons ago. The trees interested him, though, far more than anything else in his life right now. He put his walking stick ahead of him and began to make his way toward the stately silhouettes, black against the billows of cloud. Thunder rumbled somewhere behind him.

Plates. Bowls. Cups. The words drummed through his head as he walked. Common kitchen utensils comprised his work these days. People had no money for niceties or trinkets in these times. They bought wooden plates and cups because the pieces were durable, wouldn't break like real crockery could. Each week at Market Day, John managed to sell a piece or two, enough to buy flour that he hoped would not turn out to be infested with weevils. Sometimes there was money enough for some carrots or potatoes, or he simply bartered for what they needed. Four weeks ago the butcher's wife had fancied one of John's bowls on which he'd applied a simple inlay pattern, and the man grudgingly traded a half leg of lamb for the bowl. Maggie had given him no trouble on that day, when he showed up with the prize.

If only he could make another desirable object like that bowl, something one of the wealthy merchants' wives would take a liking to, something which could command a handsome price. He stared again at the two dead snags-some fine wood there, nicely dried already. He would not have to store it for months before beginning to work it. He would need to first cut the wood, then examine it. A piece of quality wood always told him what object it was most suited to become.

A figure interrupted John's concentration. The man walking along the hilltop was someone he recognized. Tyrel Smith spotted him and crossed the hill, raising a hand in greeting.

"Greetings-fine morning!" Tyrel always had a way with irony, John thought as a spatter of rain grazed his cheek.

Perhaps his friend was right; being out in the open, no matter the weather, made for a better beginning to the day than performing household tasks at the whim of a woman. Tyrel waited in place until John caught up.

"I've given some thought to my next piece of woodcraft," John said, not admitting his pleasure at selling a single, artistic piece rather than the utilitarian ones he normally made. "And I'm thinking ... these trees are doing no one any service up here on the hill."

"That one's worm riddled," Tyrel said, pointing at the southernmost of the two. "It will not be suitable for any fine pieces. The other, however-that one would catch my fancy. If I were in the business of wood carving."

John patted the side of his carry-bag, assuring himself that he had brought his axe. He walked up to the huge tree, admiring the jagged arms it sent skyward. It would take a mighty effort to fell it. Perhaps he could climb up, take the large limbs one at a time. He touched the trunk; most of the bark had fallen away, leaving a smooth surface and an indication of the beautiful bowls that could be carved from this wood. One limb of decent size was within his reach. He drew his axe from his pouch.

Tyrel had moved down the slope, and he shouted something to John now. But the woodcarver didn't catch the words, lost as they were to the rising sounds of wind and storm. He hefted the axe.

Crack!! Thunder shook the earth and brilliant light blinded him. He felt his feet leave the ground.

Now, follow the three boxes through history to the present day! The Woodcarver's Secret is available at these online retailers: Kindle, Kobo, Nook, iBooks, Google Play, all other ebook formats, Paperback