Go!
That was all the instructor said. We already knew what to do.
We walked in silence to the outer courtyard of the dojo, kicking up dry dust as we went. The sun was already high.
Under the shade of a crooked tree, the cauldron. Made of thick clay darkened by use, it gave off a strong, sour smell. Inside, a thin, whitish broth floated, with bones and rice scraps. Medicinal herbs floated on the surface like mud.
My stomach was churning; it didn't feel like food, it felt like diarrhea from a fat man.
The old servant stood there, hunched over, silent. With a wooden ladle, he served each child without looking at our faces. One bowl, a little broth, nothing more.
The old man left without saying a word.
I sat down on the hard ground with a bowl in my hands. I raised it to my nose. The smell hit me first—a stench of rotting roots mixed with old fat. It was almost unbearable.
Fuck, I decided not to smell it anymore. I'm going to swallow it.
The taste was worse.
Bitter, almost metallic. Like chewed vomit. The food in there wasn't meant to satisfy you. It was meant to keep you alive. The herbs were meant to force your body to recover.
Beside me, the older girl moved. Her eyes were still on the bottom of her own bowl, her body turned toward me. Her fingers moved quickly, intently, trying to reach me.
Wait.
I pretended not to see.
And then, with a gesture, I grabbed the chopsticks in my right hand and made a small thrusting motion.
I poked her wrist.
A sharp, precise strike. It didn't pierce her. But it could have. She recoiled with a small hiss, more from surprise than pain.
Her eyes met mine.
Cold and expressionless. I remember how my black eyes looked, I must not be easy to look at.
She hesitated. The moment lasted only a second. Then she returned to her seat.
Silence.
Although they were small children, none of them were naive, none of them would risk getting hurt.
We finished eating in silence. No one exchanged words. No one dared to joke. There was only the sound of wooden chopsticks scraping against clay bowls, no one wanted to go hungry.
I ate everything I could.
Every drop of the bitter broth, every grain of rice at the bottom of the bowl. I left nothing. No matter how bad it was, it was all I had. And wasting it would be foolish.
My stomach hurt, the herbal mixture made me nauseous.
I managed to sit for a while. Just resting, effortlessly. The other children were finishing up too. Not a word. Nothing but rapid chewing and bowls being stacked.
Then he came back.
Oh old servant.
He reappeared from the shadows of the tree, as if he had never left. This time, he had a burlap sack on his back. He placed the sack in the center of the group. He opened it. The smell wafted up. Salt.
mixed with dirt and grass clippings. Grains so big they looked like crushed rocks.
"Rub it on the wounds." That was all he said.
And I remembered. Disjointed memories, from the old body. They were there to toughen the skin. To force the body to stop bleeding.
One by one, we all stepped forward. No one hesitated. Each took a handful and rubbed it on their scraped shins, their bruised arms and necks.
It was my turn. I dug my fingers into the sack. The salt was sharp and scratched my hands just touching it. I put a piece on my shin, where there were thin red marks. It hurt. It burned like fire.
My nostrils flared. I grabbed another piece. My teeth gritted. I rubbed the salt over my wounds, my hands, the sides of my neck.
Sweat ran down my forehead.
The old servant watched in silence. Nothing in him seemed to feel pity. Because there was no pity there.