The Painters

My mother laid out the brown earthen bowls before my brother, father, and I. We all sat on our knees, contemplating our colors for the day. The bowl closest to me was filled with a very dark, forest green gel; and a bright red gel sat in the bowl next to it.

I sniffled. I’d need at least a little bit of the red today.

My father cupped his hands and scooped at the blue gel in front of my little brother. He carefully began to rub the gel over his body, so as to not spill any on my mother’s floor. She hated when we made a mess. Fortunately the paint was not so messy.

So he will be blue today, maybe I will also be blue.

“The purple bowl is almost empty,” my little brother pointed out to my mother.

“That is pink, my son. But yes, you are right,” my mother said. “I will go squeeze some pink out. Would you like to wear pink today?”

“Yes, I would like to wear pink.”

“I will get the pink,” I told my mother as I hopped up from my knees.

“But you’re unpainted!” my mother called after me, but I was already out the door.

Being unpainted is no big deal. Some people might think you’re lazy or boring if you go around being unpainted, but I’ve never thought that, and besides, the plants where we get the gel isn’t far from our house.

It was beautiful today. The sun was shining down through the tall trees, and the sand was warm between my toes. I could only see a couple of clouds in the sky. That lovely, toasty sensation on the pads of my feet took my mind away from the stuffiness of my nose and the soreness in my throat.

Such a shame to be sick on such a beautiful day. But it is ok. Tomorrow I will be fine, and hopefully the weather will be just as nice.

I passed through the jumble of trees behind our house, and walked down the short path down to the community hot spring. The plants I needed surround the pool.

It is early, so even though the pool is the gathering place of our people, there are not many folks around. There is one woman squeezing blue gel from one of the many blue pants into a pot not dissimilar from ours. She is wearing blue herself, and she looks at me and smiles. She seems to understand that even though I am unpainted, it is still early and I am not lazy.

A middle-aged man splashes around in the pool, furiously rubbing at his skin. The random splotches of gel on his skin appear hard and crusty. He must not have cleansed himself last night, perhaps he had too much to drink, and now he is trying to wash himself before the day truly begins and anyone notices. I giggle to myself, and the woman smirks. He pretends not to notice, and continues to rub himself.

Forgetting to wash yourself at night is not such a big deal, I think, so I won’t tell anyone I saw him wearing such crusty paint.

I walk over to the rows and rows of pink flowers. They are tall flowers, as tall as me, and I am tall for my age. Near the top, they sag from the weight of the heavy bulb. Pink gel drips from the mouth of the bulb, which makes it easy for us to catch the gel as we squeeze it out.

I place the bowl into its rope harness, and position it underneath the mouth of the bulb, and then sling the rope handle over the neck of the plant. The bowl will sit suspended right underneath the bulb’s mouth, and will catch all of the gel. My mother does not like it when we spill the gel, since it is such a gift.

I crouch to the base of the plant and grip the stalk firmly with both hands. I’ve only recently gotten strong enough to squeeze the gel. My little brother still can’t do it. So I offer to do it as much as possible, even though it is tough work.

I pull my hands up, squeezing the intertwined tubes of the stalk with all my might as I go. I hear the gel splashing into the bowl above my head. I can feel the skin of my face flushing, and droplets of sweat forming underneath my hairline as I exert pressure on the stalk. It takes several minutes, and many strokes to fill the bowl.

The blue woman has finished getting her gel, and she looks at me and smiles. She says, “You’re doing good work.” I like this because even though she is far older than me, I think she is very attractive. Fortunately she can’t see my cheeks blush, but I work harder to show off how good I am at squeezing the gel.

She leaves, and then the man who was washing himself leaves, and I am alone. I finish filling the bowl, and then unsling the rope from the neck of the plant and put it over my shoulder and carry the bowl in front of my belly. The bowl is now heavy with the gel.

My little brother is excited to have the pink gel. I am surprised he hasn’t changed his mind in the time it took me to retrieve the gel. I half expected he’d be green when I walked in. Little kids are fickle. My mom has painted herself black, I think she always looks pretty in black.

I have decided to paint myself blue today. My mom reminds me that I need to paint my nose and throat red. I tell her that I know this. She also says I am not to go to class today. I also know this.

I put the blue on first, since the red must be on top. The red is for sickness, and so I paint it on my nose and around my mouth and down my throat.

My mother then tells me to go lay down for a while, and that when I am up, I must go collect the sea water to feel better. After telling me all I must do, she leaves to gather some wood for underneath the kettle. My father kisses my forehead and says he must take my little brother to his class, and go to work.

Laying down in my hammock, I already feel a little better after painting on the red. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds. There are birds chirping in the tall, rough-barked trees. I can hear my mom grunting as she swings the axe to split the logs. I hear other people chatting as they walk down the path to the hot spring. They are chatting about how it is such a beautiful day. After a while, I am asleep.

I wake up to the warmth of the fire. My mother is hauling the large, black kettle across the room and hooking it into the wooden stand my father built for her many years ago. It is the finest stand of anyone in the village, for my father is a craftsman.

My mother notices that I am awake. “It is time for you to go get the sea water. Do you feel well enough to do this?”

“Yes, I can do this.”

I get up. The red paint on my nose, lips, and throat feels even better than it did before I laid down. I loop the string of the water bag over my shoulder, my mom kisses me on my cheek, and I begin my trek to the sea.

It’s not an awfully long walk. The sun is near its peak right now, and it will be well on its way down by the time I am home again. I must walk the whole village, through the forest, and down to the beach.

It would be nice to live closer to the sea, but being on the far side of the village, near the hot springs, is not so bad.

There are more folks walking around in the midday sun, enjoying the fine weather. There are blue people, yellow people, and violet people. Such a wide variety of colors. Some people have painted various parts of their bodies red.

An old man has red over his heart, and he walks slowly. Another man has painted his entire right leg red. He stands in front of the store with a crutch under his arm, and he smiles at everyone who walks into the store. He will be walking fine by tomorrow, I do not doubt.

There is a young couple walking towards me. They are holding hands and smiling. The man, who has painted himself green today, has painted his genitals red; his penis sways with each stride. The woman, who has painted herself blue, pulls her body closer to his as they walk.

I wonder if I will see the blue lady from earlier, and I wonder if she has a man she walks with hand in hand. This is something that I look forward to for when I get older.

I see fewer and fewer people as I leave the village and enter the forest. I come across an older man, who is unpainted. He is an extremely old man, and he walks slowly up the path from the beach. He smiles genially at me.

“It is a beautiful day today,” he says.

“Yes, it is a beautiful day, and a good day for you,” I respond.

“It is,” he says. “I am thinking that tomorrow will be a better day for you. I hope this weather keeps up.”

“Me too. I hope your health continues, old man.” Old men like to be called “old man,” my father has told me. To be old is to be worthy of a great gift that not everyone receives, he said to me once.

The old man smiles again, and tells me to enjoy my walk down to the sea, and I thank him.

When I reach the sea, there are dozens of families splashing along the beach and swimming in the water. They do not have to worry about their paint running off. The paint only comes off in the hot spring. That is the way it has always been.

I wade out into the sea. The water is warm and clear to the bottom. My toes are wavy underneath the surface, and little bits of seaweed brush against my feet. I crouch until everything but my head is submerged. There is nothing in the distance but the sea.

I unsling the water bag and submerge it in the water. I swing my arms around to capture the water and fill the bag. When it is full, I sling it over my back again.

After I step from the sea, the breeze is cool against my skin, and the sand clings to my feet. It looks as if I’m wearing moccasins. The sun keeps me warm, and it feels extremely pleasant. I barely notice my sickness now.

The sun is nearly down by the time I reach home. I give my mom the seawater, and she dumps it into the piping hot kettle. She tosses in handfuls of cut up carrots, onions, and celery for flavor. In a few minutes she dips one of our earthen bowls into the kettle until it’s overflowing with broth. She hands me the bowl and some freshly baked bread. I dip the bread and tilt the bowl to my mouth. My nostrils take in the warmth and rich smells of the broth. My mother tells me to lay down again; I feel fine but I lay down anyways.

My little brother nudges me awake. It is night, and so it is time for my family to go to the pool. We must clean ourselves of the paint every night otherwise we might offend those who have given us such valuable treasures.

There are several others already at the pool. The young couple are there, washing each other. I look for the woman from earlier, but she is not there. Perhaps she has already washed herself for the night.

It is not so difficult to wash the paint off if you don’t let it sit overnight. I’m already feeling quite well, but tomorrow I will be feeling complete again.

I should not need the red paint tomorrow.