The Woodcarver

The Woodcarver

The Woodcarver

Historical fiction short story

By Susan Browne © Susan Browne 2017/2019

Arius, a prosperous Spanish merchant returns to Galway to marry the love of his life. But when he arrives he finds she is in grave danger.

1588, Galway, Ireland.

Arius Emelio walked into the Claddagh from the sea, a little older than he had hoped. Across the white sand his sea legs took him. The market was there just as before, over the dunes. He bought oranges from fellow countrymen and ate them in front of the stall, catching his breath. Calming himself.

Past the sellers of fish, wine, fruits, wool and leather he strode. His heart overflowed with a mixture of anxiety and love. The streets of Galway opened up and embraced him as an old friend. The music he heard in his dreams played on. Past the sullen grey horse and its one-eyed owner and into the narrow street that took him finally to the wood shop of Nola. The last time he was there she worked for her father, but he was ill at the time and likely dead now. Now it would be hers.

He paused in the doorway and inhaled the scent of cut timber. He had waited so long for that smell again. It was the sweetest he knew – the happiest of days were furled up inside it. This time the shop boasted the most ornate of carvings. Furniture fit for lords, with intricate Celtic designs on them. He gasped when he saw the detail in them and ran his fingers over animals, trees, crosses, and spirals. The work of a supremely talented artist.

‘Arius,’ she rushed towards him. She was covered in sawdust. Her face, her blonde hair piled atop her head, her overalls. They held one another. Then gently he kissed her, and she kissed him back fiercely and pulled him to her.

He leaned back and looked at her. ‘You taste like.. trees.’

They laughed and wept. Her fingers traced around his face, like a blind woman they explored his contours. She kissed the parts of her fingers that had touched him and then his face over and over.

‘For good this time I am staying. I have handed over my crew, so that I can be with you,’ he looked at her, for any trace of regret or torment. Any sign that she was not still fully his. He had been gone four years. Most women her age were married. ‘One hundred and thirty ships sail to England under the command of the Duke of Medina Sidonia to invade England. I know it was such a long time and for that, I am so sorry to you. Now, we have all the fortune we could ever need.’

She placed her hands on his heart and then on his waist. ‘Thank God you are safe and not going. Aruna… are you wearing money or jewels around your belly?’ she asked, feeling around his waist and stomach.

‘No, I am just fat from all the big feasts we have out at sea.’

‘I don’t think so, my love,’ and she pulled his clothes over his head to reveal his wrappings.

He flushed, ‘let’s lock the door. I don’t think a naked Spaniard in your shop will be looking so good with the neighbours, no?’

‘Always so sensible,’ and she closed the shop and pulled him through to her home behind it. ‘It’s not so safe for Spaniards here now. And there is something else I must tell you.’

‘I am not afraid, and I am not the only Spaniard here in Galway. Still, they are at the market, trading here. What must you tell me?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘They are coming for me.’

‘Who is coming?’

‘There is a rumour started that I am a witch. The Mayor has a hatred of women, especially those who trade. I am told he does not think that it is natural for women to carve in this way. Black magic they say.’

‘No! We have to leave right away. They will kill you.’

‘They will weigh me, to see if I weigh little enough to ride on a broomstick,’ her eyes glistened with tears ‘and if that is the case then they will kill me. I do not weigh little, so then I have nothing to fear.’

‘Insanity. I have heard of another woman tried in this way. In Amsterdam. Are you light enough to ride on a broomstick, sweet Nola?’

‘When I am with you Arius, I am light enough to fly right into the clouds.’ They both laughed, wiping away tears. ‘Come with me, let me bathe you and wash your clothes. You must be hungry.’

‘No. We must disappear, Nola, if they think you are a witch, they will make you weigh whatever they want, you don’t understand. I’ve heard about it in other places. Ven a España.’

‘I cannot leave Arius. I’m being watched. If they see me try to leave, I look guilty. Spies are everywhere.’

In the early hours, soldiers broke into the house.

‘A filthy witch lying with a foreigner. Faigh di.’

One tall man with wiry hands roughly threw Nola’s cloak around her before tying her with rope. Arius got stabbed in the arm as he attempted to obstruct their exit.

They were led to Gort weighing house. There too was the mayor, who looked at her with contempt, even though her father was a well-liked man. Her mother and brothers were killed by consumption five years earlier, and so now Arius was all she had.

A crowd gathered. The large weighing scales, normally used for weighing cattle and goods was what they pushed her onto. A large circle of onlookers was ever widening. Some were already crying ‘cailleach, cailleach, cailleach,’ like wolves, baying for blood.

Her eyes met his and she gained strength as she awaited the verdict. The weighmaster announced, ‘this must be a witch, she only weighs five pounds.’

‘Estafa!’ Arius cried. ‘You lie!’

The crowd jeered in delight as she was dragged away to Blake Castle dungeon for death by burning that evening. Arius smacked his head over and over, he was trying to conjure up a memory from years before. A memory of a raid on the castle and an underground tunnel.

The acrid smell of death filled their nostrils in the pitch blackness of the souterrain running from underneath Blake Castle to the sea. ‘Be careful here, you’ll have to step over,’ Arius told her.

Nola gagged as her foot touched the liquid mass of a rotting corpse. In the dead of night, the blackness of the tunnel seemed never-ending. At last on the beach, the lights of the ship glinted, and they rowed over to it.

Out at sea, he held her close and they watched a fleet, ghostlike, aking their way from the North to Ireland’s west coast. Nola thought of her wood shop, her carvings, and tools. She conjured up a dream of starting it all anew. In a place where the sun shone that Aruna had told her all about. His home town of A Coruña.

About this Story: This story was written in response to a flash fiction challenge run by NYC Midnight in 2017, where I had 48 hours to write a 1000 word story. I have since added some more words!

The Prompt: Genre = Historical Fiction; Location = a wood shop; Object = a weighing scale.

Magical Mysuru

Magical Mysuru

Magical Mysuru

Introduction to this Blog Series:

7/3/19: It has to be a good year. I’ve already been to India and it’s not even St Patrick’s Day. I’ve walked the golden sands of the Goa beaches, swam in the warm Arabian Sea, felt the wind in my hair as I drove a scooter through the palm forests, smelled the spice and fragrance of Anjuna market and felt Kashmir silk on my skin. I’ve survived crossing the Bangalore roads, dyed my fingers yellow eating a biryani with my right hand trying to act like the locals, tasted the dosas, drank the sugary, milky coffee….

I’m ready, 2019.

My book is not ready, but it’s getting there. It is looking like a novel now rather than a tragic mass of word spaghetti. The mountain with a thousand summits has finally been summited and I am skipping down the other side. Finally, I can use the somewhat regal #amediting hashtag. Boom.

Day One

Arriving in India after fourteen years, having just ascended from the e-visa queue I feel right at home. In Bangalore airport, my other half and I are simultaneously trying to get cash out of a stubbornly non-compliant ATM and engage the Uber app for the first time. It’s all fun and games, and we chat to an Englishman who is on a similar mission to us. The bank call to check if I’ve been robbed – I reassure them ‘no – I am actually in India, booking an Uber.’

We’re queuing in the half-light behind a huddle of breakfast bars. We are reassured, our driver is coming, along with a hundred other drivers clamouring their way around a colossal roundabout. The coffee is good. Like nectar. I didn’t have change and so paid way too much for it, but I’ll get more organised as we go along. When we get into our car there are no seatbelts in the back and the driver seems to think I’ve got a screw loose for even asking.

The roads here are not for the faint-hearted. We are straight in at the deep end. Well no, technically that would be actually driving here. But if you’ve ever been to Alton Towers, Drayton Manor or one of those theme parks local to you… think of the scariest ride you ever went on and quadruple it and then you are right there in Bangalore in rush hour traffic. Ironically, I weep tears of joy inside this car. I write in my journal: Hello Mother India. I don’t look very Indian. Big-boned, six-foot blonde with skin as white as milk. But I feel connected. Like I’m returning somehow.

I’m not a city person generally. Give me lakes, mountains, waterfalls, ocean any day of the week. But there is something about Indian cities. Bursting with life and always teetering on the edge of death but with a hearty laugh, or a shout, and inevitably a thousand beeps.

Our first journey in India is this very long drive from Bangalore to Mysore. Mysuru as the vernacular Kannada speakers call it, rolling the ‘r’. Our driver gives each and every beggar that comes to his window a coin. I hold my breath as I watch the kamikaze pedestrians just going about their business. A van is filled with swaying lemons in front of us. On one of the many freeways, he just pulls in, without explanation and jumps out of the car and begins chatting with some men at the side of the road. We hold our breath, brain cogs turning furiously. Another guy then hops in and explains with a smile that the first driver was too tired, working all night, and so he would be bringing us the rest of the way.

Our hotel is an oasis in a busy street where the sun boils above in the sky. I want a coconut. I’m here in India many hours now, I must find a coconut. If you’ve never had one, they’re green and huge, not like the little brown ones we get at home with the not-so-pleasant milk in them. They are full of the most refreshing drink – coconut water. A large knife is used to cut the top off and then a straw is plopped in the top and voila. Some coconut sellers will offer you the flesh for eating afterwards that they scoop out using part of the coconut they just cut off as a scoop. It’s a bit strange, jelly-like. But I like it anyway.

We wander down the road, discovering that uninterrupted pavement is a rare luxury and we watch our step as it falls apart in places. We are asked over and over if we require a taxi. No, just a coconut thanks. No, not a taxi to get a coconut. They’re only around the corner. Eventually, we are brought into a silk shop and before I can say namaste we are being measured for clothes. ‘But I only want a coconut.’

‘Yes, yes, we will get for you. Please. Sit down.’

I get my coconut. But it’s hard to enjoy it now because we are ensnared within somebody’s expectation. And I have no notion of buying a dress or getting anything made. Even though I am sure it would be fabulous and the fabrics are exquisite looking. It’s just not on today’s agenda. He ends up buying trousers for a friend back home.

This first part of the trip is family business. Visiting the workplaces and grave of my husband’s great aunt who gave her life here as a nun. When we finally discover the way into the convent we are warmly welcomed by the sisters, whose lunch we are interrupting (it turns out we are good at that). They generously give us food and fruits we have never seen, less tasted before. Bull’s heart. Jack fruit. They show us around the beautiful garden. The chapel where she would have prayed.

Later they arrange a driver to bring us to the famous Mysore Palace, a three storey stone structure with marble domes and a five storey tower. Surrounded by gardens and facing the Chamundi Hills. One of the most famous tourist attractions in India after the Taj Mahal – we don’t get to see it lit but the lights are turned on Sunday evenings and public holidays.

Around the side of one of the entrances, we stumble upon elephants having a bath with hoses. It’s not really meant for the public, so we don’t stay long.

Afterwards, we are taken to see Karanji Lake. Home to a host of egrets, cormorants, ibis, storks, herons and many more. Here boasts the biggest walk-through aviary in India that includes black swans and peacocks of various sorts.

Then it is time to rest. The incredible journey east is taking its toll. Tomorrow we go back to Bangalore.

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