The Harvest

Samuel

Samuel awoke early that morning. Normally, he slept well past sunrise. Today, he beat the sun to rise. There was only one week left before the Harvest Festival, and there was oh so much work left to do. Namely, the harvest. His mother had woken up even earlier to prepare porridge, fortified with cream and honey, and little dried fruits. She had since moved on and was hard at work, forming ropes from the hemp crop at the bench in the centre of their hovel. 

Samuel was to meet his father and the other farmers in the fields. His mother gestured towards a sickle and a straw sunhat towards the door. Samuel threw his mother's oversized, well-worn hat over his head. It fell down past his ears and eyes. He readjusted it and hooked it over his ears. He hooked his father's sickle to the piece of braided hempen rope that made for his belt. The boy had on a white frock shirt and a pair of oversized tan trousers that were suspended from his shoulders by braces attached to the belt. 

Samuel rushed out the door, his head ahead his feet. Only then did he turn and tell his mother goodbye. She wished him well and said she would see him for lunch. The sun was just beginning to peak over the hills and horizon, giving the dark morning a light russet glow. The boy ran down the paths alongside the Sea. He brushed his hand into the grains and felt them wave under the weight. 

 Samuel found his father, many other men and boys, and quite a few women and girls, all gathered and hacking away at a section of the Sea. His father and the larger men were using giant two-handed scythes, while the rest used either one or two sickles like himself. He took his rightful place by his father's side. He looked up glowingly at his father, who in turn looked down at him.

"Let me see your hands," Big Sam Sawyer requested. Samuel put out his hands for his father to inspect. They were young hands, but they had earned a callus the other day polishing and honing harvest tools, and he was eager to show it off.

"Boys' hands, soft and smooth. Like the hands of the Little Prince up on the Hill. By the time we see dusk, you will have man's hands. Worn and weary. Can you handle that, son? Otherwise, you'd best go and wait for the feast with the lot of them Castlers." Big Sam theatrically threatened.

"I'm ready, Father. I want strong and hard hands like yours," Samuel insisted. His father smiled sadly. His hands were indeed strong and hard. But they were also warn and wary. Big Sam Sawyer had lost several digits working in the fields.

"When I was your age, I wanted the same. I wanted more for you..." Big Sam said to his boy. The boy hugged his father tightly.

"I have everything I could ever want, Father. I have you and mother and the Sea," Samuel insisted.

"That you do, boy,"  Big Sam agreed. His father smiled brightly and whipped away the shadow of a tear. "Alright, everyone, listen up. The scythes will go through first, then the gatherers with their baskets. The sickles come through after that. The Sea is our life. We are not here to ravage it. We will take what we need for us, the town, the Castlers, and some for trade too. But they will leave much and more for the beasties. Our Sea is not to be picked clean. Only harvest the golden, purple, and amber of crops. Nothing green or young. Use your judgement. Don't hurt any beasties. This is their home too. They also have a long winter coming. Let's get to work." 

The farmers hooted and hollered. They sang harvest songs as they worked. The songs were as old as the Sea itself, or so his mother told him. One woman's primary job was to lead the chorus, but she also gathered besides. Samuel was glad that wasn't his job. He wanted to gather the most crop of anyone. 

His father and the other scythes cut great sloughs of golden grain, purple amaranth, amber barley, and more besides. They did it all in a great single motion in rhythm to the music. They looked like great, powerful human machines in a dance with Sea and the scythe. 

The gatherers followed. They deftly and deliberately scooped up the felled crop. They sorted out the bad crop before storing the best in massive hempen baskets on their backs. They left that which was raw or overripe, or Rotten. Samuel admired the dexterity of their hands. 

The sickles came next. Samuel hunted with the other sickles for good crop left behind. Not all of it, mind. Just what they needed. He was responsible for cropping his own crop. He had a much smaller hempen basket tied to his belt. He filled it steadily. His sickle was sharp, and he never needed to strike any crop twice. His hands soon hurt and were rubbed raw, but he pushed on.

The party curved in a seemingly random pattern like a river of water following the freshest crop and flattest terrain. They only carved but a small section out of the vast Sea. Even this small section took hours and hours and hours. 

When they were finished, this would be the newest trail through the Chaff Sea, replacing one that had grown in, until it did so itself. That was the nature of the Sea. Always changing, adapting, growing. Samuel admired its resilience. He knew many like it had died from overharvest and disease. They would protect their Sea with their lives. Because their Sea was their lives.

The sun was high in the middle of the sky by the time Samuel had filled his first basket. His father soon called, "Break for Lunch." Samuel's mother and many more mothers emerged from the cottages with a picnic for the party. They had cheeses and fresh breads, jams and butters, honeycomb and fresh juice. One woman even managed some smoked fish from the lake or a trader. They all shared in the bounty. Samuel ate greedily. He was so hungry. He had never been this hungry before. His mother inspected his canteen to make sure he had drained it empty and ensured he refilled it full. Then she looked down at his hands.

"You are going to help me this afternoon with the garden and the animals," Samuel's mother informed him. It wasn't a request.

"But Father said I did well," Samuel complained. He couldn't understand why he was being punished.

"You did brilliantly, son, but we have more sickles than we need, and your mother has need of you. Obey her, boy," Big Sam ordered. His father drained his canteen and filled it full again. "Back to the Sea." 

Samuel obeyed his father and mother. He tried his hardest to hide his disappointment. His mother needed help with the giant gourds and the goats. Samuel sliced a pumpkin bigger than himself free from the vine with his sickle and rolled the irregular thing through the commons to the carts. There, the local counter was taking inventory of everything for the feast and for the cache. The elder man, a bent-back, looked at the young boy.

"Thank you, Samuel. You've done very well to help your mother with this. A fine pumpkin indeed," the bent-backed elder assured. What did a broken old geezer know about it.

"I wanted to help my father in the fields," Samuel complained. This man would never understand. He was broken. Samuel was strong. Only bent-backs wanted to be counters. Samuel wanted to be a farmer like his father.

"No boy should work the fields for a full day. How do you think I lost me back? I was a cute little boy with a button nose like you once. My parents worked me in the field, sunup to sunset, and it took me back from me. Your parents don't want that. None of us do," the bent-back counter revealed.

"You're just a wicked old weakling. My father is the strongest and biggest farmer. No one could break his back. Mine neither," Samuel shouted. The boy ran off crying. He found a place under a favourite tree to collect himself. 

The counter was right, of course. Samuel didn't want to end up so broken. But he didn't want his father to either. He wanted to help. To ease his father's burdens. The boy remembered what he was told. He returned to his mother and the goats. He made a note that he had to apologize to the old counter tomorrow.

Samuel found his mother in the goat pen. He hated the things. Their wicked eyes always watched him. He loved the kids, though. They were adorable. This one, his called Lamb, was his favorite. She was white as snow with a black ringed eye. She always licked Samuel when he fed her. His mother was milking one of the goats. 

He saw another bucket and another stool, and he sat and did the same. His hands hurt badly. When he was done, they stung greatly. His mother poured some goat milk over them and rubbed some herbs and honey. The stinging reduced. He helped her feed some of the older harvested grain to the kids and their mothers. Lamb licked his hands greatly. She must have liked the honey. He pet her and sat with the kid.

Samuel was already drifting off by the time his mother called him for dinner. He could hardly keep his eyes open while he ate. Who could say why? He wasn't able to finish his food. He remembered his father carrying him over to his cot. Samuel stumbled into it, slumped over, and fell into a deep sleep. 

Samuel dreamed that night of the work he had to do again tomorrow. He slept like he had never slept before.