Duped

 “Son, the time has come for you to knead the clay,” his father said. The boy’s ears twitched. “The red clay in the tub. A man of my age does not perform that task.”

The son replied, “But the clay is hard and my hands are still so small.”

His father’s calloused knuckle pressed against his bottom lip.

“You must knead the clay as I have done since I was your age. It was dryer then and but for these hands…” here he observed his knobby fingers outspread “…would be far dryer. It is practically dough.”

The boy turned towards the steps. The bottom one was collapsed in, a cobweb flimsily spanning its rent remains.

Their eyes met.

The boy pled, "But it's too early. I'm not...prepared."

“It is your duty, son. Were it dryer -- dry as an ancient tusk -- it would be your duty to knead, just as it was my mine. You cannot escape.”

Repressing a sigh, the boy mounted the second step and ascended. 

The man went out into his garden, laid himself at the foot of an olive tree, and closed his eyes. The noon sun beamed through the branches, dancing on his whiskered cheeks.

A olive fell in his lap. The man chuckled.