The four of us are seated around the table for Thanksgiving dinner.
To my right is my wife, Elizabeth, looking resplendent as always in a black dress accented by an emerald brooch. Samuel, our son, sits to my left, with little eight-year-old Emily beside him.
The dining table is 18 feet long, suitable for entertaining many guests. The warm, rich mahogany seems almost to glow in the soft light of the glittering chandelier.
I am seated at the head of the table, the patriarch, the pater familias, the founder of the feast. I look proudly upon my family from my high-backed chair. I have always worked tirelessly to provide for them, and on this day we celebrate by giving thanks for the many gifts with which we have been bestowed.
Tradition! It means everything to me. Change is an invasive cancer, an infection that pervades every aspect of modern society. Today's youths have no respect for conserving traditions. And I have no patience for the corrupting influence of so-called progress.
That's why I insist that every Thanksgiving be precisely like the one that came before.
"My darlings," I say, raising my carving knife. They look at me expectantly. Elizabeth twirls the stem of her wineglass between her long, slender fingers. The ruby-colored wine inside swirls and sloshes, releasing its fragrant bouquet. "My beautiful family. I am so thankful to have you. Each of you is more precious to me than diamonds. I would die for you, do you know that?"
They nod in unison.
"Do you know how much you mean to me, my lovely little Emily?" I say. She looks so beautiful and innocent, her pink face framed by yellow curls. "Do you have any idea how much your Papa adores you?"
"Yes, Papa," she says.
"And Samuel," I continue, turning my attentions to the tall, handsome teenage lad. "You are your father's pride, and a fine young man."
"Thank you, Papa," he replies.
I take my wife's hand in mine. "And you, Elizabeth, my beloved bride. How could I be so fortunate as to be blessed with a partner so endlessly enchanting, with so wonderful a mother to our children? My heart is yours forever."
"And mine is yours, until the end of time."
"And I give thanks for tradition," I say. "For familiar customs. For an old-fashioned Thanksgiving, the same as we do it every year. Every detail just as it should be, and my family here with me, as it has always been. Nothing different, nothing new or unexpected. Are we all thankful for tradition?"
My family nods again.
"Then let us raise our glasses," I announce, taking up my wine. My family members do likewise. "But before we toast to another joyous Thanksgiving holiday, I'd like to hear what you are thankful for. Elizabeth, why don't you go first?"
"I am grateful for this bounteous feast," my wife says. "And for a strong, steadfast husband who is an unfailing provider and wonderful father to Samuel and sweet, little eight-year-old Emily."
Emily wrinkles her nose at this description, but she says nothing and I pretend not to notice.
"I appreciate what it means to have such fine parents," Samuel says. "And I'm thankful for my sister, and for this delicious food." His eyes meet mine, and he quickly adds, "And for tradition. For everything the same, always."
I smile, nodding approvingly. "And little Emily?" I say. "My treasured daughter? For what things do you give thanks, my angel?"
She looks at me for a moment, then turns away and stares into the fireplace. She is wrinkling her nose again, and I don't particularly care for this expression of distaste. How can anyone make such a face when seated before such an abundant feast? How can a child seem ungrateful, when her father has made so many sacrifices for her happiness?
"Emily?" I say. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
"Let her alone, dear," Elizabeth says. "She can pout and be childish if she wants to. We're all hungry, so let's eat."
"Pouting?" I say, frowning deeply. "I'm sorry, but I simply won't tolerate it. If something is bothering you, my child, then I should like to hear what it is."
Emily says nothing for a while, but continues to look at the flames, popping and crackling merrily on the hearth. I'm about to press her again when she finally speaks.
"I'm sick of being eight years old every year."
I sit up straight in my chair, bristling at her insolence. I can feel my face growing hot, and my clawed fingers tighten around the handle of the carving knife.
On the table before us, a young female human, bound at the wrists and ankles, lays trembling on a long silver platter. We've been feeding it aromatic vegetables and bathing it daily in sweetened brine, and it smells sublime.
"Just once I'd like to be sixteen years old," Emily says. Beneath her curved, ebony-colored horns, her pretty features shimmer, and suddenly a bosomy teenage girl is sitting in her chair.
I am furious, but I say nothing.
The human on the platter whines and whimpers around the large, rosy peach jammed in its mouth. Elizabeth's forked tongue darts out and licks her large red lips. I can hear her stomach growling.
"Or maybe even a grownup," Emily continues. Her hair ripples; she grows taller. Now a woman of perhaps twenty, she lifts her wineglass to her mouth and sips, even though we haven't completed our toast. "Why can't I be a grownup this year, Papa? Just this one time?"
Samuel rolls his yellow eyes, wondering, no doubt, why his sister can't be more like him: docile, respectful, and subservient, as a young one should be.
"Our tradition," I begin to say, and Emily gives a contemptuous toss of her golden locks. My rage grows, but I continue to keep my temper.
"Tradition, tradition," she says mockingly. "Everything always the same. Every year I'm eight years old, every year for the last half-century at least. Every Thanksgiving, a quivering young maiden. Why couldn't we have a male for our supper? A nice, big fat one. Have you seen the butcher down at the market? It would be a feast fit for royalty. And its infant twins for dessert, basted in honey and anise liqueur."
I hear Elizabeth's breath catch in her throat at the mention of such delicacies. She licks her lips again, large nostrils flaring. I don't want to keep her waiting any longer, so I take up the knife and fork and begin to carve our main course. As I go about my work, I lecture my daughter.
"I expect very little from you," I declare, raising my voice to drown out the irksome noises our meal is making. "I provide a good and comfortable home, far from the prying eyes and awful weapons of those who would seek to hunt us down. I bring tender morsels to fill your bellies, and I strive always to teach you the ancient ways of our kind. For what do I ask in return? A modicum of respect? A measure of pride in the age-old practices that I hold dear? Are these requests unreasonable?"
I serve a juicy slab of meat to Elizabeth, who begins devouring it hungrily.
"Our toast has been ruined," I say after serving myself and the children. I raise my wine and down it in one swallow, then push back my chair and stand. "I'll allow that particular custom to slide this year ...."
As I speak, I unfurl my leathery wings. I lift the dripping carving knife to my lips and lick it clean. My children are intimidated at the sight, as they ought to be.
"But I must insist that our other conventions be honored," I conclude, lowering myself slowly back into my seat. "Is that perfectly understood?"
Emily is an eight-year-old girl again, dainty and cherubic. She looks at me furtively, then picks up her knife and fork and tucks into her dinner. "Yes, Papa. It is understood."
"Thank you," I reply, and I give her a wink and a loving smile to show that all is forgiven.
We sit at the long table and we dine by the light of the chandelier and the flickering fire. As I watch my wife and children eat, I feel very, very blessed.
I'm already looking forward to next year.