[Old] Mini Missions

The days were getting shorter and the winds colder. Winter was coming. And there was little anyone could do to prevent it.

But first, as always, came Autumn. 

And Autumn meant only one thing.

Harvest Season.

To say Harvest Season on the De Serio farm was a busy time wouldn't be quite right - as it implied there was a lull in work at other times of the year, which couldn't be further from the truth. No matter the season, the De Serios were always hard at work.

Two red Kamishiba walked down the path towards the orchard; one small, and the other tiny. Mercutio and his youngest son, Othello, walked side by side down the narrow path. Memory alone guided Mercutio down the familiar path while Othello simply used his eyes, tired as they were. The young child hummed softly, a winding tune that went wherever his heart desired, following no script nor music sheet. Above their heads small song birds flew. Occasionally they would imitate the boy's song, performing a beautiful duet. 

Small blue paws hit grass. Mercutio came to a stop. They had reached their destination. The child had to stop abruptly or risk running straight into his Dad's legs. 

Before them lay the family's orchard. It wasn't big by industry standards. But it was varied. They never grew more than five trees of the same fruit. That didn't make it small however. Diversity kept the farm alive and that extended to the orchard. Different fruits ripened at different times of the year, meaning they always had a steady supply of fruit no matter the season. The last of the summer fruits were beginning to ripen, and it was Othello who was volunteered to assist his Dad in the harvest.

"Are you ready?" Mercutio asked softly with a smile.

Othello nodded firmly. 

It took him a few moments, longer than it really should have, to realise why Mercutio had not responded. Right… he couldn't see.

He tried again, this time with an affirmative noise. The smile on Mercutio's face grew from uncertain to pleased. He gestured with his shoulders. The child shuffled up his legs, taking great care not to accidentally injure, and up onto his back. Mercutio let out a soft grunt as the child settled between his shoulder blades. Just behind the child, a leather band wrapped around Mercutio's trunk, two large wicker baskets hanging on either side of him. A soft fabric lined the inside of the basket to protect the fruit from bruising and a wicker lid could be lowered to keep the elements out. 

Mercutio waited until he no longer felt minute movements and shifts of his son as he tried to get comfortable. Once all was still on his back, Mercutio slowly began to walk through the orchard. As he passed the trees whose branches were laden with ripe fruit, Othello would reach out and pluck the ripe fruits as quickly as he could. Apples, sunnybis, pears, and oranges were all picked then softly dropped into the open baskets on either side of Mercutio's body. 

They went quietly, no words were exchanged as they both carried out their tasks. Only the birds interrupted the silence, singing softly in the sky above. It was the epitome of idyllic farm life.