Chapter 3 Housecall

I walked for awhile, trying to keep to the various deer paths that crisscrossed the woodland. I had noticed, before starting out, that my shoes had somehow been worn clean through the soles, until they were merely hanging from my ankles like giant bracelets. I took them off and carried them, not wanting to just leave them sitting in the middle of nowhere.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes of walking, I emerged into a small neighborhood, which was situated on a U-shaped road with a dead end at each lower corner. I came out at the lower right- hand side, right near a middle-sized two-story house. The garage door was open, and what appeared to be an elderly man was bent over a small card table in the middle of the cement floor.

I walked over, cautiously, but at the same time, a little bit curious as to what he was doing. Apparently he saw me approach, and sat up, setting down what looked like a small metal figure, sitting atop a small metal horse. Spots of color decorated the horse's sides, and I figured that the elderly man had been painting it. Sure enough, when the older man lifted up a thin hand to adjust his small square glasses, it carried a very fine-tipped paint brush, with a small dab of white paint on the end.

"May I help you?" the man asked, an English accent lending a refined tone to his speech.

I nodded. "yes sir. Can you tell me where I am?"

His eyebrows drifted upward toward his thin white hair. "why, you are on Sellers road, in upland, Indiana. Does hat tell you what you wish to know?"

My eyes widened. Indiana! How far had I run?! "Um, yes sir." I squeaked out. I stood for a moment, uncomfortably, then blurted, "If I may ask, what are you doing?"

The elderly man looked faintly surprised, but answered, "I am painting lead soldiers, you see. It is, what you might call my 'hobby'."

"Oh." it was then that I noticed the big old ping-pong table, which took up half of his garage. Instead of ping-pong, it was set up as the gigantic courtyard of a castle, with cardboard cutouts of battlements and towers, upon which a small, metal soldier stood, about every two feet. It was the courtyard itself, though, that held my attention. At each end, a large, portcullised gate stood open, through which battalions of brightly painted soldiers marched, in perfectly straight columns, into the field before them. Proud bannerman, and drummers on horseback, marched in time at the head of the column, the tassels and braids of their bright red uniforms gleaming gold, their tall hats inky black. A row of soldiers stood at attention in the center of the field, in front of a large band, whose many instruments gleamed brass and silver in the dusty light. A row of bagpipers stood to one side, their colorful ceremonial costumes standing out against the faded green background.

And, in the center, the great gold encrusted carriage gleamed, like a golden cloud of gems and gilt. The door stood open on one side, and, seemingly just stepping out, was the great queen herself. In long robes of red and white, with a short jeweled crown sitting atop a well-curled hairstyle, the queen seemed to emanate regalness, as if she were saying, 'I could conquer the world, if I wanted'.

The carriage was drawn by four dappled white horses, who seemed almost as bejeweled as the queen herself. Long feathered plumes stuck out of their golden headstalls, while their tails were braided with flowing red ribbons, and their hooves painted to a golden shimmer.

The old man saw my gaze fasten on the table, and he got stiffly to his feet, nodding toward the display. "you see my soldiers? I paint them all by hand, and I castes most of them myself." he nodded toward a tiny pot of what looked like hardened metal. "I melt the lead in there, then pour it into a mould." he turned to me. "What is your name?"

I blushed, slightly embarrassed that I hadn't told him before. "it's Kerata."

He nodded. "Mine is Bill Ewbank."

"those horses are very beautiful," I said, to distract myself from that embarrassing moment.

"ahh, yes. The horses." He looked around. "I had another, separate one around here somewhere." he bent over a box on the floor, rummaging through it, before coming up win a satisfied, "humph". "Here. This one didn't quite match the others. You can keep it, if you would like."

I stared up at him. I had never been givin anything this nice before. "Thank you, Mr. Ewbank." I said breathlessly, staring down at the delicate white figure in my hands. For a moment, I couldn't tell what the difference was between this and the horses pulling the coach. Then I realized it's eyes were blue, instead of brown, like the others.

Just then, an elderly woman opened the door to the inside of the garage. She had thin brown hair and a friendly smile. "Well hello! Who are you?"

"my name is Kerata, ma'am." I said, nervously.

She smiled even more. "well, Kerata, I have some cookies inside if you would like something to eat." she eyed me up and down. "You look like you could use a good cookie."

In spite of myself, I licked my lips. "yes please, ma'am." I said.

She shook her head. "please, call me Mrs. Ewbank."

Inside the house smelled old. It smelled of old dust and old books and old house and old people. It was a... content smell. The smell of life well spent.

I wandered after Mrs. Ewbank as she padded into the kitchen. I watched curiously as she took down a large tin from a cupboard and opened it, placing it on the table. "help yourself, dear," she said kindly.

I thanked her and took a few. They were small and round, and rather crunchy, with a strange, wafer-like taste, not unpleasant, but which still made you wish for a glass of water. Which I promptly asked for.

Afterward, we sat at the kitchen table, where I told her about myself. That I was an orphan, who grew up in a Chicago orphanage. That the last thing I remembered was running away from an explosion at that same orphanage. All true, if not exactly the whole truth.

We talked for awhile, until I noticed it was getting dark outside. Thanking Mrs. Ewbank, I went out the garage door again. Mr. Ewbank was sitting in a lawnchair in the driveway, trying to read a book in the dim light. I stopped and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up. "thank you." I said.

He smiled. "you are most welcome. Enjoy your horse." I nodded, and walked down the driveway, feeling happy for the first time in years.

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I am dedicating this chapter to Mrs. Francis Ewbank, who passed away just last month, and to Mr. William Ewbank, who passed away just this morning. May they rest in peace for eternity.