Eat the Poor

III

My father was a strong man. A brave man, possessing many virtues.

Intelligence was not among them.

On the day I was born, he accused my mother of adultery. His reasoning was that no male conceived by his seed could possibly be so thin and yellow.

He kept this theory as time went by, despite all my features emerging to match his perfectly. Fortunately, he was handsome, or at least so I was told. He was shot in the eye with a burning arrow before my fifth birthday.

I'm certain he died never accepting I was his son.

For the remainder of my childhood, my mother was my only light. And I was hers, though she thought she hid it well. Arguably, it was this favoritism - giving me the biggest helpings of dinner, letting me wash clothes with her while my brothers labored over our crops - that fortified their resentment toward me.

I missed her.

The women of the castle were up before the sun. Tending to the chickens, cooking breakfast, preparing the grandest meal of all for the King.

King Philip was his name, King Philip III. I would've bet a lifetime of wages every citizen of the country hated him, some more discreetly than others, but he was the King.

You didn't hate your King, you loved your King.

Besides, without him, I wouldn't have had a job.

When dawn arrived I was already awake. The old cook, whose name I learned was Missus Mack, came banging on the door with a crooked metal ladle, and as simple as that - everyone got up.

"Wash, dress, take ya breakfast in the kitchen," Mack ordered as she tapped each man's elbow with the ladle.

A languid line formed out down the hall. It was dark still, with shadows looming over the brick walls and seeping across the chipped stone floor.

In the middle of the kitchen, bordered by shelves of dishes and crates of vegetables, were four long tubs, filled to the brim with dark water. I sought out Geoff in the crowd of grubby servants.

"Well, hello there." He had rolled up his sleeves and was dipping his arms into the water.

"Hello. What are we doing?"

He gave me a slight smile as he rubbed his wet hands over each arm. "Morning bath, of course."

We were given a brown sponge on a long rope to wash with, beginning with the first man at the first tub and making its way down the line. When it was finally my turn I grasped the sponge in one fist and squeezed it over the floor.

A long stream of dark liquid spilled out.

Wordlessly I stretched to pass it to a man at the next tub over. He was from the group playing cards last night, seated beside the bald man. He accepted the sponge without a glance and dipped it in the water, then bent forward to scrub the crack of his hairy backside.

"Those things are useless," Geoff commented. "They harbor more grime than our bodies beforehand."

I pulled my shirt over my head and splashed a generous amount of water directly onto my chest. "I have a brother who studies new-age medicine," I told him. "There is a theory that disease stems from unclean water and poor hygiene."

"Hygiene?" he said.

"Meaning the art of health." I smiled boastfully. "He's very smart."

"The hell you blabbering about?" My smile quickly disappeared as the voice of the bald man lifted my gaze. "Finish up."