“Jonathan, Jonathan.”

“Aye, Father?”

The man stood in the doorway, clutching an empty fabric sack. The night was quiet and still, save for the distant howl of a lone wolf. The man locked eyes with his eldest son, stern, stone-faced.

“Jonathan, pray thee. Hast thou been eating our sugar? The sugar I have labored all summer to save?”

Jonathan’s eyes widened in fear. “N-no, Father, I…”

The man looked upon the trembling boy. The flickering candlelight cast strange, dancing shadows across the boy’s face. The man had not seen such unnatural light since yesteryear, in the clearing, when the natives came upon the common, slaughtering man, woman, and child alike.

No, not natives. Heathens. Savages.

With a sigh, the man’s face softened. “Jonathan, my dearest Jonathan. Fear not my wrath. I only mean to uncover the truth. Pray thee, open thy mouth.”

The boy, trembling no longer, did as his father instructed. He emitted a weak laugh, hoping in vain to soften the moment of truth. There, upon his tongue, lay the last of the year’s sugar.

The man and the boy stood in silence for a long time, their faces inscrutible. Perhaps the man had lost himself again, lost in the slaughter of the year before, thinking of revenge against the redskins, and perhaps the boy was simply waiting, waiting for his father’s decree.

Finally, the man spoke. Softly, quietly. “Jonathan, leave my presence. Go to thy chamber and leave it not. I must speak with thy mother. Jonathan, I am not angry with you, but I must now figure out how we are to make it through the winter. Pray thee, Jonathan, go to thy chamber.”

The boy nodded and broke into a clumsy run, feeling his father’s sternness.

The man took a seat at the table, closer to the candle, where the unholy shadows would be less prone to brush across his sight. The carrots… gone. The squash… insufficient. The pigs… thin and weak. And the maize crop, the precious maize crop– failed. No, there was no hope, not anymore. The sack of sugar was the farm’s last bulwark against a winter of starvation, and now… Now it was gone. He had no way to feed his wife, his son, or his infant daughter, let alone himself.

And yet… Had not the man seen Jonathan’s well-padded frame? His thick legs, his succulent buttocks…?

With a heavy heart, the man stood and took down his axe. He could always have more children. It would not be as tasty as the pork on his family’s farm back in England, nor would it be as as plentiful as the chicken… But it would do. Yes, it would do indeed.