The Wanderling

Breakfast in the Rucksack

            “Ah, m’boy!”

            Genuinely startled, I turn around and see my father. Seeing him charging toward me beaming like a sun is almost like walking through a door and being greeted by a shower of flower petals: unusual, but not unwelcome.

            He grabs me by the elbow and leads me down the hallway, through the many wings and courtyards of the castle. No doubt he wants to drag me to breakfast. When we arrive, he practically dumps me onto my seat at the grand dining table. Mounds of breakfast food are already littered in beautiful patterns and plates on the ancient oak table. The smell of pork grease, fresh fruits, buttered breads and pastries covered in chocolate make my mouth water. I realize it’s been quite a long time since I have eaten with the family. Then the Queen steps into the room with her usual gliding gait. With that one look that she gives me—a look of disgust and loathing—I remember why I do not usually eat meals with the family. Not that she is family to me, I think.

            Everyday since I recovered from almost being stoned to death in the town outside the walls of the Kingdom, I have been doing the same thing. Early each morning, I hurry to the kitchens, toss two silver coins to the head cook, and fill my rucksack with food that has yet to be set on the breakfast table. Those silver coins serve to buy the head cook’s silence rather than buy the wares I slip into my pack. I stopped counting how many times the servants who see me ask what I would do with the food. Is it not quite obvious already? And then I realize these servants have never been famished. Somehow, the thought causes anger to roil within me.

            “Eat,” my father insists, taking a long swig from his liquor flask. I sigh and do as I am told. Not that I would go against an order from the King, of course. And I would not want to turn down food this delicious either.

            “And don’t get any fleas on the table,” says the Queen in a voice barely above a whisper. Clearly I was not supposed to hear that. Though, with the horrified look on her face as I glower and bare my sharper-than-average canines at her, I can say that she underestimates my hearing. A smug satisfaction blooms in my chest as she squeaks in shock and chooses a seat as far away from me as possible. That’s right, I think. You are in no position to be so boorish to me. I can slit your throat in a matter of—

            “Stop growling.”

            Instantly, I sit up straight and clear my throat. I was not even aware I was hunched over and growling like a deranged dog. Thankfully, no one else seems to have noticed. Well, except for the terrified Queen, and my older brother who berated me with a hiss for growling at the table. I glance up at him and see that he is not looking very pleased with me. Instead of defying him, I sigh and eat my breakfast quietly.

            Despite the fact that the Queen and my brother are on the same side—and that’s any side except for mine—I still respect my brother. He has inherited all the best traits the Royal Family has to offer; the King’s well-placed ferocity, the Queen’s wit. Unlike the Queen, though, he does not hate me. I can see it in the way his eyes glint mischievously when I outsmart the Queen or give a rather nasty retort on anything she ever tries to insult me with.

            “So, m’boy,” my father slurs, brandishing a spoon in front of him as he speaks, “Today you turn… ” a servant leans close to his ear, obviously to remind the King how old his son is today. I pick at fried tomatoes and dip them in warm cheese as I wait for the servant and the King to come to an understanding.

            “Nineteen!” he blurts out and laughs, raising his brows at me as if waiting for a round of applause from me and the air that blows from the window behind. Yes, I think. Nineteen years of being fathered by my Keykeeper Grall and not by the King. Well, what have I to complain about? I am lucky to be intriguing enough for him to keep me in the castle.

            As if to remind my father of this, I purposely move my furred ears in a funny manner as I nod appreciatively.

            “You are correct, Your Majesty. I turn nineteen today.”

            He guffaws like the drunken man he is while the servants tend to him and somehow keep him from falling off his chair. Some people from the Outskirts tell me I should hate my King father for not raising me. I really do not see how that will ever affect my life for the better. Besides, he may not particularly show tender loving care for me, but neither does he show it for anyone else. Even my brother does not exactly get much of his attention. He is always so busy with his food and wine.

            While everyone is preoccupied with trying to get the King to calm down and stop rolling with laughter, several loaves of warm buttermilk bread, a roast chicken, four fried fishes(each the size of a finger), unpeeled fruits, a thick slab of yellow cheese and a mound of bacon disappears into my rucksack. This rucksack is, in all honesty, not entirely clean. But the people I will be giving this to are not picky when it comes to food.

            I know what the servants think as they stare at me and my pack. Kingdom Baltheros will not be running out of food for a long, long, long time and yet I store so much like this is the last mound of food to be seen for miles. How foolish of them to think I take from the table just to gorge myself like the Wolf I am.