William and the Painted Wheel

The cart rolls a little farther than William expects. He tightens his hands on the shaft, checks its weight, and walks on along the dirt track. Evening has taken the heat out of the ground. At each turn of the wheel, a metal ring strikes the hubnut: a bright note with a rough edge.

He tries walking in time with it. The next rut spoils that.

When he stops, the silence seems larger than the sound was. He crouches beside the solid wooden wheel and follows a faded curve with one finger. A painted petal, perhaps; dust has filled the places where the colour has worn away. He loses the line and finds it again nearer the rim.

These Costa Rican carretas carried coffee before they became things people stopped to admire. From the Central Valley, across the mountains to Puntarenas: ten to fifteen days to reach the coast. William can remember the span, but cannot make it fit inside this evening. He imagines a sack settling against another sack, mud resisting the spokeless wheels, another bend beyond the bend in sight.

Painted patterns could tell where a driver came from. Each cart had its own chime. He cannot read this pattern, and leaves its origin unguessed.

William rises and takes the shaft again. In his imagining, the road keeps going until the air tastes of salt. Here, there is only enough light for another stretch of track.

The wheel turns. Its small, uneven note returns.