The Painted Wagon

The Painted Wagon

By Linda Jo Martin

On a cold, windy day Lea sat on the stairs in front of her house, bundled in a coat and blanket. She watched as children from the countryside came to town with their parents in horse-drawn caravans, for provisions.

She looked into every new face to see if any of them were friendly. Most children looked at her, but then looked away, pretending they hadn’t seen her. Nobody smiled. She figured they were probably colder than she was, and not having a good time.

This was market day – the one day every month when countryside people came to her town, Tampur, to trade goods and get needed foods and supplies. Most of the wagons were plain and old, but one caught her eye, and how could it not?

It was painted bright red, and over that, scrolls of gold, with flowers adorning the sides. Such an unusual wagon seemed out of place in the windy, dusty town of Tampur. Lea was sure she’d never seen that wagon before. She would have remembered.

After all the wagons passed by, Lea went back inside her house for breakfast. Her mother placed flat bread and lentil mush on the table, and she hungrily ate her share as her two brothers laughed about how much fun they planned to have at the market later that day.

“I will chase the pigs and make them squeel,” Amben boasted.

“I will tell the pig farmer to watch for you, and you’ll be in trouble before you get there,” Ribay replied, “and you’ll be held by your arms until the pigs climb all over you.”

“Hush, you two,” Mother said, “or you’ll spend the day here scrubbing floors. There is no need to disturb the poor merchants. They have little enough in this life without you two causing them any distress.”

Lea said nothing. She wanted only to eat and then get ready for the day.

After breakfast she helped her mother clean the kitchen. Then she dressed for market. Because it was cold she put on three layers of clothing. First the cotton clothing that felt good against her skin, and next a warm layer of wool, and on the outside, a heavy coat and warm outer leggings. Her shoes, filled with goose down, were a gift her mother had made for her. Thanks to those shoes her feet were never cold. After all this her mother tied a warm hat onto her head – one that wouldn’t let the cold go down the back of her neck.

They walked together to the market where hundreds of craftspeople and farmers from the countryside had stalls and tables. They sold blankets, clothing, pottery, ale, fruits and vegetables, and everything anyone could want. Lea’s mother stood near a table full of lemons when Lea finally saw the beautiful red caravan. She tugged on her mother’s sleeve.

“Mother, there it is! The painted wagon!”

Her mother glanced over at it. “Oh, yes, that is amazing! Hold on now, I must pay for my lemons.” She gave the farmer a few cents and added ten lemons to her satchel. Together Lea and her mother walked around a row of tables, closer to the unusual bright red caravan. The two ponies that had been pulling it were free from their harnesses now, standing next to the wagon tied only by ropes.

Lea’s mother stared at the gold scrolls and painted flowers, and walked around the wagon, stopping only to stroke the two ponies and talk to them. The people who came to town in the wagon watched Lea and her mother, smiling, as they sold piles of new blankets.

“You like it?” a woman called to them. She had a wide smile.

“This is the most amazing wagon,” Lea’s mother said. “How did you do this?”

“We buy paint every month, a little at a time,” the woman said. “My daughter, Ceta, loves to paint.” She looked at a girl sitting at the rear of their stall, wrapped in a warm pink blanket.

Lea walked around the table and approached Ceta. “Did you paint your wagon?” she asked.

“My father painted the red, and I painted the gold and flowers,” Ceta said.

“How did you learn to paint?” Lea asked. “I would not think a child could do it.”

“I paint because I love painting,” Ceta told her. “I could not do it otherwise. But I do paint a lot.”

“It is because she paints so often that she does it so well,” Ceta’s mother said. “At first she could not paint well, but every day she would draw – yes, draw. If we didn’t have paints, we always had pencils. Ceta worked hard every day until she was able to paint beautifully.”

“Would you like to have a drawing?” Ceta asked Lea.

“Yes, of course,” Lea said.

Ceta brought out a worn sketchbook, opened it, and using her pencil drew and drew and drew, and when she turned it around, Lea was looking at herself.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen at the market today,” Ceta told her. “I’m so glad I met you.”

This is how Lea met her friend, Ceta. From that day they were friends, and met at the market every month to talk, draw, and have fun.

As to whether Lea’s brothers got in trouble with the pig farmer, I’m not sure. One of them came home that day smeared with mud, but nobody told Lea or her mother how it happened.

© 2011 – Linda Jo Martin

Pixabay images from RoySnyder and WenPhotos.