From the Improvement Era, December 1967 –

Christmas Carvings

By Douglass Stevenson

Mary knocked reluctantly on the sagging screen door. She was still trying to think of someone else who did wood carving other than the occupant of this ramshackle house.

She knocked again. Inside she could see a light, dimly penetrating through the smoky front windows, feebly lighting the rough weather-beaten boards on the front porch. The house was over a hundred years old and had been continuously occupied by different generations of the same family. Looking at the whittled windowsills, Mary wondered which generation had mutilated them. The members of this family were in the same shape as the house— they had become a little more run-down with each generation. Her family had never advertised the fact that the Devlins were related to them.

Mr. Devlin lived alone now. When Mary was young he had had quite a family. She could well remember the public brawls and hair-pulling matches that they used to stage. Now that they were grown, she understood they perpetuated the art of fisticuffs in their own families. The Devlin code had always been, “Never mind the means, just as long as you get away with it.”

Mary knocked once again on the door. Waiting, she listened to the words of a Christmas carol coming over the loudspeaker a few blocks away:

“And in despair I bowed my head:
‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said,
‘For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.’”

Until now she hadn’t realized how tired she was. For days she had worn herself out trying to find two things on her son’s Christmas list. Suddenly it seemed silly. Foolish woman, she thought, trying to hold on to a child’s belief in Santa Claus. If he is old enough to question, he is old enough to know. It was just as well that the old man hadn’t answered the door.

Turning to go, she was startled by a heavy step at the end of the porch. A huge figure came from out of the darkness and was silhouetted in the light through the window. The brim of a man’s hat jutted out sharply above a square jaw. A buttoned sweater wrinkled down his portly middle.

“Been here long?” he asked.

“No, just a little while.”

“I was out back splittin’ some wood. I can’t hear nothin’ out there. Come in,” he said, opening the front door.

She followed him into a sparsely furnished front room. The odds and ends of furniture supported a heavy layer of dust. The carpet was threadbare. He threw his old greasy hat on the leather couch, causing a small dust storm. Then, turning around, he smiled down into her upturned face. But his deep-set gray eyes did not smile. Instead, they penetrated her like iced steel.

She had hoped he wouldn’t recognize her. Actually, she had never seen him face to face before. Their social circles had been miles apart. But there was no question that he knew who she was.

“I am Mary Hilton,” she said.

“I know. I can tell by your deep-set eyes. Brown, aren’t they?”

She nodded.

“Deep-set eyes are the family’s trademark, you know.”

She didn’t, but she knew now. “Really?” she asked.

“Yes. I don’t know who you married, but you’re Kate’s granddaughter. I’d know her kin anywhere. The tilt of your chin and arch of your brow is a dead giveaway, sort of an air of aristocracy,” he said with a note of sarcasm. Then he went on, “This was your great-great-grandpa’s house. He built it the summer he crossed the plains.”

“Yes, I know,” Mary said, thinking his pioneer ancestry was his only claim to respectability. “I came to see you about some wood carving,” Mary added, changing the subject.

“Oh, so you’ve heard about my whittlin’,” he said, obviously pleased.

“Yes.”

“Well, come on back here and I’ll show it to you.”

Mary followed him to the room beyond. He switched on a light hanging from a cord in the middle of the ceiling. As it swung back and forth, it lit the top of his handsome gray head. He was over 75, and his hair was still as thick as a teen-ager’s.

There were wood shavings all over the floor. “I only sweep it out when it gets so deep I can’t get through. If I kept it clean, I wouldn’t want to do any whittlin’,” he chuckled.

Mary smiled.

“Well, there they are,” he said, pointing to some figures across the room on a shelf. They were Indians about 12 inches tall, delicately carved out of dark wood.

Mary walked over and picked one up. “The detail is exquisite,” she said, running her finger along the tiny muscle in the arm.

The old man smiled with pleasure as he went down the row telling her to which tribe each one belonged.

“Your work is just beautiful. What tools do you use?” she asked.

“Oh, just my pocketknife. It’s got two or three blades— different sizes, you know. That’s all the tools I need.”

Mary rubbed her fingers over the polished surface again. “How do you finish them?”

“Well, after I get them whittled, I give them a good sanding, then rub on some hot linseed oil.”

“Really? I thought it was some special varnish you used,” she said with genuine admiration.

“Well, it takes 20 to 30 coats to get a finish like this, I can tell you, and enough elbow grease to polish all the mansions of heaven,” he laughed.

She put the figure down and was about to pick up another when he said, “Now what did you really come for? I know if you didn’t want something, you wouldn’t speak to me, let alone pass the time of day.”

His rudeness was beginning to irritate her.

“You’d make a poor poker player, just like the rest of us,” he said. “You talk with your eyes.”

She glanced at him quickly. He was going too far. She wouldn’t put up with this kind of impudence. She looked at him again. He was amused, for she had done exactly what he expected. Even her chin was tilted. She smiled, then said good-naturedly, “You’re right. I came to see if you could do some wood carving for me.”

“What do you have in mind?” he asked curiously.

“I’d like you to carve me a bird of paradise and a plumed serpent.” “A what?” he exclaimed. “A bird of paradise and a plumed serpent,” she repeated.

“I don’t even know what they look like. What in the thunder do you want them for?”

“For my little boy. He’s asked for them for Christmas.” Then she explained, “You see, he has a collection of prehistoric animals— tyrannosaurus, brontosaurus, triceratops …” She stopped. He would think she was showing off. “Dinosaurs, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure that there is another reason he has asked for them,” she went on. “You see, he has begun to suspect there isn’t any Santa Claus.”

“Why, the little imp!” he laughed.

She nodded in agreement. “He knows as well as I do that they are impossible to buy.”

“But why a bird? And what was that other thing you said?”

“A plumed serpent— a snake with feathers on.”

“I still can’t figure out where he got his idea,” he said.

“Well, you see, we took a trip to Mexico last year, and he saw them down there. They were the gods of some ancient people.”

“Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully, “I don’t know whether I could whittle them or not. Without ever seeing them, I wouldn’t know what I was aiming for.”

“I have pictures of them,” she said.

“Here?”

“Yes, in my purse.” She took out two postcards and handed them to him.

“Well, why didn’t you say you want a quetzal bird and a Quetzalcoatl?” he exclaimed.

“You know about them?” she asked, surprised.

“Sure, anybody who has carved as many Indians as I have couldn’t help finding out about Quetzalcoatl.”

“Do you think you could carve them?”

He looked at her with his steel-gray eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I can whittle them for you.”

“How much will you charge?”

“I didn’t think price was any object in your tribe,” he said sarcastically.

This made her bristle. “On the contrary,” she said. “Price is and always has been very much an object in my tribe. You see, we pay our debts. And I intend to pay you.”

As soon as she said it, she could have bitten her tongue off. Years before he had gone bankrupt.

His eyes gave her a sudden chill. It was time to go now. Extending her hand she smiled warmly, saying, “Thank you for showing me your work. I have really enjoyed visiting with you, but I must be going now. When you decide on your price, if you decide to do the work, just call and let me know.”

He shook hands with her without saying anything. Something in his eyes left her with a feeling of uneasiness.

About two weeks later Mary’s telephone rang. It was Mr. Devlin. “Well, I’ve got your quetzal bird done.”

“But Mr. Devlin, you were to tell me the price first,” Mary said, obviously taken back.

“I couldn’t tell you how much it would be until I knew how long it would take me. I told you I’d never whittled anything like this before.”

“Well, how much do I owe you?” she said impatiently.

“I can’t tell you yet, because I’m not done with the Quetzalcoatl.”

“Well, I’ll pay for the quetzal bird and just forget about the Quetzalcoatl,” she told him.

“Can’t do that,” he protested. “I’ve got the Quetzalcoatl half done.”

Mary didn’t say anything for a minute. A typical Devlin trick, she thought to herself. How could she have been foolish enough to go to him in the first place? All she could do now was get the things and pay him off.

“When will they be done?” she asked him.

“That’s what I called to tell you. I haven’t got a way to get them up to you, so why don’t you pick them up here on Christmas eve.”

There was nothing left to do except wait. On Christmas eve, after dropping her eight-year-old son off at the ward for the Santa Claus program, Mary drove down to Mr. Devlin’s house. He had been expecting her, for he answered the door immediately. The quetzal bird and Quetzalcoatl were on the table. Instead of being dark like the Indians, they had been carved from a light golden wood. The long plumage on the bird’s tail, carved to a paper thinness, was intricately filigreed.

“They are beautiful! What kind of wood did you use?” Mary exclaimed, picking the bird up.

“Maple, bird’s-eye,” he answered.

She looked at the bird’s eyes. The wood grain gave them an ethereal look. The serpent’s eyes were the same.

“The eyes,” she said. “How did you do it?”

“You like them?” he smiled.

“Oh, yes!”

“Wait— I’ll show you what I made for myself.” He went out in the back room and returned with an Indian figure. His face was lifted and his arms reached skyward. The old man had carved him from the same golden wood. His eyes also had an ethereal expression.

“He is worshiping,” she said.

“Yes. He is worshiping the real Quetzalcoatl.”

“You know the legend of Quetzalcoatl?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Who do you think he was?”

“Well, when we were in Mexico, the guide said he was probably some shipwrecked sailor who made it to shore. While he was building a new ship, he taught the natives a lot of new things.”

“There is another account,” the old man said. “It says that Quetzalcoatl’s hands and feet were pierced, and there was a wound in his side.”

She looked up into the old man’s soft gray eyes. For a fleeting moment the two drank from the depths of each other’s soul in complete communion.

“Well,” she said, looking down at her purse, “I must pay you. How much will it be?”

“I’ve been working on them ever since you were here. At the minimum wage, that would amount to hundreds of dollars.” He looked at her cunningly.

She was aghast. “I expected you to call before you made them. I thought you understood. I’m sure I made it clear that I only wanted toys. If you had used something like balsa wood, you could have carved them crudely in a few hours.”

“Balsa wood!” he thundered. “You would have me put work like this on balsa wood? Would you piece a quilt with bits of paper?”

“I’m sorry,” Mary said miserably. “It’s just that I’m afraid I can’t pay you.”

“Oh, you can pay me all right.” She might have known. The Devlins had always thought her family was wealthy. She had certainly got herself into a predicament.

“I can’t pay you all of the money right now,” she said. “You will … you will expect a payment for Christmas?”

“Indeed I will, this Christmas and every other one,” he said, rummaging through some old papers. He found a sack and continued looking for something else.

I’ll be in his debt for the rest of my life, Mary thought, as she got out her checkbook.

He put the figurines in the sack and handed it to her. Then he saw her open checkbook. “You can’t pay me with money,” he said in disgust. “Can’t you understand? I’m giving you my art— the only decent, beautiful thing in my whole life!”

“Well, how do you want me to pay you?” Mary asked in desperation.

He didn’t answer her question. Instead he opened the front door. “Have a merry Christmas,” he said gruffly.

She hesitated.

Reading her thoughts, he added, “You’ll get the bill.”

Bewildered, she drove home. Once inside, she numbly opened the sack. There was a slip of paper in it. She picked it up and read, “I used my talent to keep Christmas for a little boy. To pay your debt, go and do likewise.”

Mary stood motionless for several moments, looking at the paper. Had he planned to give them to her all along, or had he changed his mind?

Faintly, breaking the stillness of the night, came the music of the carols from outside. She walked to the door and opened it. In full, rich, meaningful tones the words rang out,

“Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail.
With peace on earth, good will to men.’”