While passing through a town, half-way to the coast nearest England, I was told to hide in the cart, and not make a sound. The jockey didn't want anyone knowing he was transporting a passenger, or there'd be extra tariffs at one of the toll-bridges. Those tariffs were meant to keep the bridges fixed, but usually went into wishing wells and the bottoms of mugs. As we crossed a particularly rickety mess of planks, I kept my mouth shut and covered myself with a spare blanket, pretending to be a lump of bundled leather. I'd plenty of practice at being unseen, thanks to my cruel, unseemly relatives back home. As one of the milk barrels turned to salted cheese right next to me, I scrunched up my face and 'blagh'd'. I'd only just gotten out of a place where I'd been forced to smell worse, every single day: the Beckenov home. Or I suppose, for me, it was only ever just a house.

When my parents died, I was no longer allowed by The King to live by myself in my old home. He didn't want to put me out, but he didn't exactly take me in, either – he was still sore about his sofa. Legally, I couldn't lay claim to my own house, nor its lawns, until I was fifteen years of age. I was only eleven at the time. So across the village on the watery side, I was made to keep with the Beckenovs. It was a quaint-seeming, stone-based, birch-logged cabin of six bedrooms, nine closets, and every other room you could think of. A kitchen, a living room, a basement suit with its own faucet, a gaming room, and even a place just for shelving cold food. We had a cold box made of stone, under the counter, on a little wheeled cart – it needed to be filled with snow so the fish inside wouldn't rot. They had an entire scullery, big as my bedroom back home, cold as a mountain-peak in the summer thanks to a heat-vent built up through the ground above it. It was grated finely, so nothing could sneak in and steal their wares; save for spiders who did no harm but to flies that wandered in. The only problem with the home was that the landscape was utterly falling apart. The disarray came from boggy puddles, overgrown grass, splintered staircases, falling trees, and threateningly jagged stumps.
On the task, bravely, was The Rationeer, The Chief, and their big white dog, Thunder. The Rationeer was a large woman of fifty years, pale but African-faced with narrow, kindly-seeming eyes and a curled, big-lipped smile. Her hair was grey, but she'd been dyeing it brown again. I'd guessed her for Mayan (or somewhere near), as well as English, French, Russian, German, Scottish, and probably Irish. She was apparently a niece of my great grandfather, and Egyptian as well. She was responsible for two things, actually: tax accounts for the entire village's agriculture, and keeping the stove hot with dinner. After that, she'd retire to bed early, and wake up fore dawn to 'crack at' once again. She'd be wearing full makeup and a housecoat before anyone else was even conscious, already cooking breakfast for herself and others. The Chief was a burly but oafish old man, with a low, low growl of a voice. But he mostly used it to tell jokes, and comfort small children, with whom he was locally famous. We didn't actually have (or need) a Chief for the village, because we already had The King – but he called himself that anyway, and claimed it was his nickname from work. He was in his late forties, yet somehow, looked even older than his wife. The old man was strong, but more-so of frame than of mind, and seemed to be a mix of Scottish, New World, and possibly African-Arabian. His brick-colored face was redder than anyone's, and usually covered in black-grey prickled hairs, and leftover food. It was his job to purchase groceries from the stands using his incredible wealth from his faraway career in Arabia's oil fields – he was only ever around four times in four years. At first, I found him funny, and sensitive – but over time, I started to see that something disturbed was coming over him, and his sense of humor was warping into a lack of self-control. As well, The Rationeer was becoming less kind, less charitable, and less patient with her own memory – forgetting more and more by the days. She wanted a 'fair share' of rent from me, but also wanted unwavering manual labor for the grounds – the kind that grown men do for pay they can buy a house with. And, she was beginning to drink more and more. When I caught an eye of inn-scrips in her purse (she'd requested her keys), I realized those drinks were being had with other men than her husband. He as well, soft though he seemed at first, was quickly becoming an overbearing bully, and alcohol was well in-hand on both sides if he could help it. Though a masterful grandparent (if not a bit over-disciplining) to any wee ones in his sight, he was no such gentleman to anyone with curves or a blossoming scent. It was suspicion that I felt ridiculous for, when he barged in on me getting dressed and stood there like a town guard asking "what I was doing". I thought it was clear as day? Then when he complained that I should change next to him, as he forced us all to go on another monthly swimming trip at the beach.
"I won't waste this hot day on you, struggling to get nude in a bush," he growled.
But I was determined not to let his previous interruption be rewarded. When I did return, I didn't feel like getting soaked in the salt, knowing it would dry my hair somethin' awful.
But he said, "I didn't bring everyone all the way out here just for you to not even swim."
I didn't understand what the difference was, but he apparently felt it was a matter of life and death. So he forced my head under the water, in front of everyone else. I was so angry, I splashed him in the face, and he roared and splashed me back twice as much. To the rest of the family, it looked like good fun. They didn't see the rage in his eyes, wishing he could do worse.
He failed to relent, after that. I thought at first he was simply distracted, and that I'd accidentally made some kind of suggestive remark. To be fair, a lot of my jokes were innuendos! And his as well, which he said he was above but then sunk back down to, anyway. Comedic distance made it easier to stay in the same house. But I slowly saw he was much like The Knight – stricken with men just as equally as women, if not perhaps even more than I could relate to. He demanded I walk to the market with him for groceries, but made certain to stop by his favourite pub: The Two-Leaf Clover. I assumed the joke was that, if a four-leaf was lucky, a two-leaf was the opposite. That didn't help the pit growing in my stomach, being shoved through the doors. I felt unlucky just for having arrived. The bardance there was a song called "I Fancy Thy Hinded Cleft", a gawk-ear he knew all the words to. Then, he joked that I had quite the 'cleft' myself. I paid no mind to that, thought he was simply deriding. But as he drank, he began eyeing me up for my sleeker sides, and his stare was like a cold, indifferent spotlight moving across a body – it made one shiver sickly to be seen. Yet the women in town found him cute, for his 'protectorate' act, to which I was his apparent prop. I tried to avoid him for the months when he was home, shedding toenail clippings and food wrappers on the expensive sofas he liked to brag about having purchased himself. Unfortunately, he did not take my curtness nor absence for a message, and on long carriage rides for food and landscaping supplies, he would often spread his legs and let all his ghoulish musk spill out – like he was doing some kind of natural favor to the world around him. The folks called it 'man-spreading', and when I told The Rater about it, she said it was simply something men did, and couldn't help. I'd be forced to cover my mouth, and look to the right of me to avoid him. He wouldn't let me climb into the back, said it "unevened the weight" and made the journey longer. I thought he was full of shit, and he probably was, but his yelling was loud enough to scare a mountain. Once again, he jimmied his legs a bit, apparently trying to draw attention to them. It made me frown, and I jumped off the cart to walk the rest of the way home. So he stopped the cart, shouted at me with his usual crack and boom, and told me I'd starve if I didn't get back in. I sighed. And when I did climb back into the cart, he immediately did the stupid thing with his legs again. I didn't understand until the next time he did this, what it was: a silent suggestion that I give him what the adults of Fogborn jokingly called "road head". It never happened, and thankfully, he never forced the issue. He probably knew if I disagreed, and if I told his wife what he'd done, he'd be paying for lodging elsewhere for the rest of his days ashore – he was only daring far enough that he could claim plausible deniability. I imagine, if he'd tried to take something out, that armor would be gone. His harassment was endangering to a twelve-year-old, for one thing, and insulting to one whom The Mentor had already raised to know better. Looking the other way for so long, I'd put a sore spot in my neck just trying to shrink away. I was appalled, and scared for my life. He'd already threatened to abandon me on a strange road if I'd ever crossed him, and I managed my pulse on a tight-rope so as not to give away my fear. I didn't want him knowing I'd figured him out, but at the same time, couldn't figure out what the hell else had to be going through his blunt fucking skull. That he would let his lap brew for an actual child, he must have been born in the pits of an outhouse. Whatever made the plague miss him, something else had definitely found him – somewhere in his head, and down below. A look of anger and dejection shot across his face, and without provocation, he called me a "snobby prick". I'd said not a word to him prior, nor since, for the entire trip. I didn't dare open my mouth, and let my dried saliva seal it shut.
The Chief calmed down after that, but I was still wary, even after returning to the house. He decided to cover for his earlier ploy by motioning that I call him 'dad', or 'papa'. An attempt to make me see him as family, instead of as a threat. I refused, and he acted hurt. 'Acted' being the key word, here. He sulked and told his wife, who to my delight, shrugged him off. It was the highlight of my entire day. Was I supposed to feel bad, that he had no sons of his own? No. From what I'd seen, the Gods had made a very wise decision indeed.