Chapter Text
1720, Port Windknights, Jamaica
As the saying goes, everything that took place at the Starsby Manor is as predictable as ticking clockwork. The orange sunset on the Caribbean would always signal that suppertime is near. As if on cue, the manor’s servants would rouse themselves from the island’s sleepy afternoons and would come to life each and every day without fail, ready to serve their masters. From the large window of Starsby’s kitchen, it is said that the sound of servants, scrambling about in preparation of suppertime, could be heard all the way to Port Royal and to Kingston and the smaller towns beyond.
It is also said that the aroma of the kitchen’s honey-roasted meats and herbs could be smelled all the way to the docks, where sailors, at the same hour each and every day, would all turn their heads towards Starsby for a fleeting moment and be reminded of the homes they have left behind. The arrival of dusk would finally herald suppertime for the entire manor, and at precisely eight o’clock on the dot, the Governor George Joestar of Port Windknights, with the young Jonathan Joestar, would be seated at the table together, ready to dine as father and son and to discuss the events of the day.
This was the usual routine at Starsby. However, more recent developments have caused quite a stir in the rhythm of life that had already been long-established at the manor. In the past April, the younger Joestar had finally turned eleven and with this age came more freedom to roam about the Port without chaperone, for in the Governor Joestar’s mind, the practice of self-discovery and independence was crucial to a growing gentleman’s education. But these privileges had been designed with a curfew of precisely six o’clock in mind, and the young Jonathan, as naive and forgetful as a boy of eleven could be, has been far too careless with his new freedoms as of late, and with this unfortunate recklessness comes the tardiness that formerly was not part of his habit.
“Layla, don’t ye dare drop those dishes,” Mrs. Phillipa, the head maid, calls out. “I told ye to watch them feet of yours! If ye have bigger dreams than bein’ a scullery maid that ye are, then start with ye damned shufflin’ feet!” She flicks Layla’s forehead with a thick sausage-shaped finger, a warning. Layla, a maid of seventeen years of age and a pale slip of a girl, winces, only muttering a shaky “yes missus” before scurrying away, this time with a death-grip on the Governor Joestar’s china.
“ Ah, Philippa! I was looking everywhere for you!” the Master Joestar calls out from the top of the staircase. He slides briskly down the sandalwood staircase, past the statue of the Goddess of Love, and into the entryway where Philippa was barking out orders only a few moments prior.
“Aye, Master Joestar, what might ye require of me?” Mrs. Phillipa knits her fingers together in respect for the master of the house and regards him with a curious glance; once again, the Governor was tense, with his thick eyebrows knitted together, pensive. It is certainly not a new look for the Governor, given his son’s new-found habits.
“You see, Phillipa. I’ve not seen Jojo anywhere all afternoon. It is no wonder that the manor seemed a bit quiet. I have looked in his room, in the library, and in the music room, but he was nowhere to be found,” His frown tightens as he speaks, and for a moment, he looks older than his age of forty-six. “Might you know where he is, or heard of his whereabouts? He should have been home a nigh two hours ago.”
“Now that ye mention it, Master Joestar... I’ve not seen ‘im the whole day either,” Mrs. Phillipa replies with a shrug. “The last I saw ‘im, he was busy workin’ on his colors in the sittin’ room, but since then, am afraid I haven’t!” She then turns around, to the servants rushing in and out of the dining hall in flighted footsteps. “Have any of you lot seen the young master Joestar anywhere?” All of them shake their heads with a muttered “no ma’am”, save for Layla, who replies with a mousy “yes” to the head maid and master of the house.
“I ‘ave, Master Joestar. I saw ‘im leavin’ the house earlier, and for a minute, he was in the gardens with his pup Danny! I then saw ‘im round the gates and head on out ‘bout some three hours ago! Methinks he may ‘ave gone to town.”
“ Curses , that child...” The creases in his forehead only deepen as worry finally starts to creep into the tone of his voice.
Having been a resident of Port Windknights for over thirty years and its governor for ten, George is already more than familiar with the city’s less savory aspects, especially the continued presence of pirates within it. Although laws that have been passed in Jamaica over the last three decades have made the place significantly less hospitable to them, they still refuse to be erased, like cold sores upon the city that he worked tirelessly to cultivate. Pirate ships have been known to dock in smaller port cities nearby, and under the cover of darkness, these men would frequently travel to Port Windknights for its selection of brothels, pubs, and gambling rings (institutions that George would, too , do away with if he could). The name Jonathan Joestar , the beloved son of the Governor Joestar of Port Windknights himself, may make for an even more appetizing target for the bolder men of this bunch. George had an idea of what they might do: ransom Jonathan for his weight in jewels and doubloons, knowing that George would pay this sum and more in a heartbeat just to assure Jonathan's safety. If not this, then worse.
He calls out to Mrs. Phillipa again, this time with more urgency. “ Philippa . Please fetch Mr. Tigby and Mr. Owens for me,” He kneads his temples tightly and immediately stops himself when his teeth attempt to grind against one another, also a recently-acquired habit. “ Christ , what will I ever do with that boy?”
“As ye wish, Master Joestar,” Mrs. Phillipa says, and she looks at George very briefly, reading his wishes just as easily as she always had since she started serving the family almost forty years ago. With a pudgy sway of her hip, she immediately turns to Layla once again. “Layla, tell Mamie that we ain’t gonna be puttin’ out the apple tansey fer dessert. Looks like the young Jonathan won’t be needin’ it tonight. ”
✰✰✰
After Mrs. Phillipa had given the word, Mr. Tigby and Mr. Owens rushed to Starsby posthaste, and by the time they stood in the entryway, George was waiting for them, having already donned his coat and his riding boots.
“Prepared the horses. They be outside now, Governor,” Mr. Tigby says.
“Thank you both so much. Mr. Tigby, would you please go to the docks for me? He has been spending a lot of time there as of late.” After Mr. Tigby, George then turns to Mr. Owens, who gives him a respectful nod. “And Mr. Owens, you know how Jonathan gets when he’s at Ainsley Park, and he may be there as well. Please check there for me. Meanwhile, I shall check the cove at Orchid Beach. If neither of you find him in those places, then please meet me at the town center, and there we shall— ”
In the distance, they hear barking. As the barking draws nearer, so too, does the sound of running, the sound of leather shoes scaling the wrought iron gate in front of the manor, and the sound of a high-pitched yelp followed by an ungraceful landing on the hard dirt ground. The running resumes, becoming heavy and frantic, crushing crisp palm leaves and heat-dried signal grass underneath as it draws nearer. Upon reaching the stone patio preceding the front entrance, the running slows into an uneasy shuffle, and the presence lingers outside for a drawn-out moment in suffocating pause. George and his entire household of servants hold their breaths, staring at the door with rapt attention, and soon enough, the lock clicks and turns, and the ornate entrance opens, revealing Jonathan Joestar himself, the prodigal son of Starsby Manor.
Jonathan is sheepish before his father, unable to look him in the eyes. When he finally speaks, it is as if he has turned into a mouse before the entire household, his voice hardly more than a quiet, stammering squeak.
“Good evening, F-Father, I-I’m sorry I’m late.”
What had been a silk-white dayshirt is now coated in layers of dust, dirt, and grime, seeming to be a shade of tan from where George stood. Jonathan’s dark curls are also in messy tangles, with remnants of grasses, snags, and twigs clinging about his person, and his leather shoes—oh, his shoes . At this sight, George swears that he hears his blood simmering from within his veins. Jonathan takes an uncertain step inside, tracking a bit of mud on the shining hardwood. Upon meeting Mrs. Philippa’s resulting glare, however, Jonathan draws back in embarrassment, muttering an apology from under his breath.
George takes a deep breath, his self-restraint now as threadbare as his patience, “ Jonathan Thomas Sinclair Joestar , you already know how I feel about your tardiness, I have spoken to you about this foible endlessly,” George then motions to Jonathan’s mud-caked shoes, “And goodness, what have you done with your leather shoes? Those were a gift from your Aunt Anne! You cannot get those in any place but in England, Jojo! Clearly you have no regard for the rules, or your things. Or as a matter of fact, this manor. Mrs. Philippa and Mamie just cleaned these floors, boy!”
“F-Father, please! I can explain!”
“No more talk out of you, young man! I am very cross with you right now, you are in big trouble,” George snaps back. “Everyone at Starsby works hard so that we may eat well and have a clean home. And you give them this, your tardiness and ,” He eyes Jonathan’s tracks on the floor with utter distaste, and Jonathan only closes his eyes, his cheeks alight with embarrassment. “I even had to summon Mr. Owens and Mr. Tigby because of you. You made me interrupt their peaceful evening, when they had long retired for the day. Called them back to work while they were dining with their own wives and children. This is what I mean, Jojo! You must pay the price for being a disobedient child.”
“But father, I—”
“No more talk out of you, boy! I swear!” George looks away, his face searching the sky for something, someone , and then turns back to Jonathan, this time looking a bit sad. “If your mother could only see you right now, Jojo. She would cry in heaven, knowing that her only boy is acting so… unbecoming. That he is not living as the gentleman that she wished he would grow up to be,”
Jonathan feels hot tears begin to prick at the corners of his eyes and his face burns red with shame. Oh , in that moment, Jonathan only wishes that he would disappear, that someone would whisk him away to some unknown fantasy land; he screws his eyes shut, wishing that a faerie or a flying horse from his made-up tales would come to save him, but when Jonathan opens his eyes, he only finds his very-real father in front of him, and with a stern look that he very much recognizes.
“It seems that after all this time, you still do not take your father seriously. You care more about your own playtime than being a righteous son. I, I… have spoiled you for far too long,” George is regretful as he utters the next words, but he knows he has to be firm, “You know what to do next, Jojo.”
“Y-Yes, Father.” Jonathan barely contains the tears that want to make their dramatic escape, only nodding to his father with a sniffle and a stiff tremble in his lower lip. He very much knows the immutable law of the land: five wallops on the bottom for every hour late.
As if Mrs. Philippa’s pointed gaze is a cue, Jonathan removes his mud-caked shoes and then waddles to the sitting room. He scans the dark room for a brief moment, the same place where he happily played with his colors only some hours prior. Indeed, it is so easy for a perfect day to go sour . Jonathan wipes a stray tear that had managed to slip through his defenses. It is his fault that everyone was so unhappy; it is he, Jonathan , that always ruins everything. He paces around in the darkness until he finds the table with his mother’s portrait.
It was a shrine of a sort for the late Mary Sinclair Joestar, gracing the sitting room with her delicate smile. Gazing into her portrait, Jonathan finds a fleeting sense of comfort, especially as he peers into her eyes—eyes as blue as his own—that caught a shine of white light from the moon outside.
“Mother, it’s me again,” Jonathan says in a hoarse whisper; he cups her portrait, running a gentle hand over the blush on her oil-painted cheek, as if he could imagine her and her warmth into existence. But he knows that it is only a childish fantasy, that his mother would only ever exist in his mind’s eye and in his dreams. “I know that you’re not proud of me right now. I haven’t done a good job of being a gentleman lately. Everyone is mad at me, and I… I’ve ruined today for everyone. I’m so ashamed,” He feels five years old again as he says the words, and he wants nothing more than to cry, to disappear into the darkness of the room, to be out of sight and out of mind forever, Would Father miss me? His lips begin to quake as he plays the question over and over in his head.
But what would a gentleman do in this situation? His mother’s father was a soldier, as was his father before him. Jonathan Sinclair. James Sinclair. Jonathan repeats the names of his grandfather and great-grandfather in his mind. In their youths, both Sinclairs had fought against foreign kings, stifled rebellions, survived sieges...Even to the end of their lives, they were both still gentlemen, facing their ailments and impending deaths with as much bravery as they could. What would they think of him then, crying as a girl would, in the face of a punishment that he very much deserves? What would mother think? Jonathan shakes his head. No.
Jonathan makes up his mind then; he opens the drawer of the table, procuring the slender switch that his father had only used on him a handful of times. All the men in his mother’s family had faced adversity with a stiff upper lip, and their blood, too, ran through his veins. He is a Joestar and a Sinclair . Facing what is to come with as much bravery as he could...It is not optional, it is his duty . Jonathan gives Mary a final glance before heading back into the entry room, clutching his father’s switch with a trembling hand. He places the switch into his father’s hands and looks to him with puffy, yet determined eyes.
“I’m ready, Father.” Jonathan hopes that nobody has heard the sniffle in his voice.
✰✰✰
Jonathan thinks himself brave. He took ten lashes to the bottom as a soldier would—he did not even cry this time! Yes, the offensive sensation that screams from his bottom is extremely uncomfortable, but at least he took his punishment, even as the entirety of Starsby looked on, with his pride unsullied. Clad in his nightshirt, Jonathan sits at the foot of his bed, clutching his favorite pillow in his arms; he listens with careful attention to the bustle of servants and the clattering of dishes downstairs, but he knows that no dinner would come to him tonight. Instead, Jonathan distracts himself with the portrait of his mother, nailed to the frame of his oak bed.
“Mother, I wish you were here! I was so embarrassed today that I feel like I may sleep and never wake come morning! Perhaps Mrs. Philippa even wishes that in the darkest corners of her angry heart,” Jonathan lets out a laugh, but it is without malice. “Everything will be better come morning. I promise that I will try and be much better. Although ,” he clutches his round, hungry belly, “some delicious food would be good right now, but tonight, I suppose I will only be having supper in my dreams. Mother, I hope you give me dreams of roasted cornish hen and endless birthday trifles!”
Jonathan yawns and with the day finally done and over with, he lets a smile play upon his lips at last. “Tomorrow will be a better day, and I will try to be better as a gentleman, too, Mother. I love you, and I miss you!”
He closes his eyes, feeling the fatigue of the day take him into its lulling embrace, and he counts sheep in his mind for what seems like an eternity, until he hears some rapping at his bedroom door. Jonathan awakens instantly and checks the grandfather clock. It is the tenth hour.
“Jojo, are you awake?” It is his father, and this time, his voice seems softer as it echoes through the empty halls.
“Yes, father, come in!” Jonathan replies quickly, smoothing away the tiredness from his own voice and attempting (as best as he could) to tame the wild curls on his head. A gentleman always tries his best to be presentable.
The door creaks open slowly, and George strolls inside. He, too, is clad in his pyjamas and his velvet night robe, and in his hand is something curious . Jonathan narrows his eyes, trying to make out the object in the darkness, but after a few sniffs, his nose gives him the answer. “Apple Tansey!” Jonathan beams, and he, along with his stomach, come to life in perfect unison. “But Father, are you sure? I’m not sure if I…” But the sight of the dessert’s crisp, buttery crust and the cinnamon-scented apple filling that spills deliciously from its sides shushes him immediately.
“Don’t be silly, Jojo. It is not as if you committed murder, high treason, or piracy...Now, in those cases, I would most definitely not give you dessert,” George lets out a hearty laugh and sets the plate onto Jonathan’s lap. He takes a seat on Jonathan’s bed as Jonathan devours the platter in ravenous abandon. “Careful. You may get indigestion. This is why you grow more plump everyday, my boy!”
“F-Father…” Jonathan looks to his father with nothing but adoration in his eyes, but as soon as he tries to speak, the words leave him, and once again, he feels his shame, lodged in his throat like a jagged stone. “I-I’m sorry again for today, father. I didn't mean to be tardy. I will be more responsible next time. It is only what a gentleman would do.” Jonathan pauses, blinking back his unshed tears, and then continues when he was certain that he wouldn’t choke and give in to the crying boy that he knows is still very much a part of him. “You see, Danny and I were playing by Mr. Richard’s keep when Danny ran off into the forest...When I finally caught him, I realized that we both were lost. I’ve never been so scared in my life, Father! I spent the entire afternoon trying to find our way back.”
“ Heavens , Jojo! Don’t you know what roams in the forests? Like wild boar, poisonous lizards, and man-eating snakes!? You really could have been hurt today, boy!” George looks to Jonathan again, distraught, with that same, disapproving glance from earlier in the evening. Jonathan briefly has the mind to retreat from his father once again, but George’s gaze softens. “You...You are forgiven, my son. Just promise me that you will stay away from the forests in the future. You may play next to Mr. Richard’s keep, but no more forests for you until you are much older. Promise me, Jojo.”
“I promise, Father! I will never, ever go near the forests! I will also never, ever be late ever again! I will be here at six o’clock sharp everyday for the rest of my days!” Jonathan snuggles into his father with eagerness, feeling utmost warmth from his chest, now with a mended heart and a belly full of dessert.
“I am most glad to hear it, my boy, although ...I do pray to the Lord in heaven that you will be a man someday,” George smiles in return, softly patting Jonathan on his back; he turns his head then, eyeing the red leatherbound novel on Jonathan’s nightstand. “Now, Jojo...I know that you are a bit old for bedtime tales, but how about we read that story that you have been going on about for a change of pace...What was that story called? Robinson…”
“ The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe , father! The English gentleman who survived on a deserted island for many years! He was quite brave! And so very clever.” Jonathan snatches the book and places it into his father’s hands. He thinks that if he were a pup like Danny, then he would be wagging his tail one-hundred times a minute. It has been so long since his father had read him a bedtime story, after all.
“So he was, Jojo.” George laughs, his grin now stretching from ear-to-ear, visible through the curtain of his thick mustache. “Let us find out how he survives, then. Who knows? His tricks may come in handy in the future.”
It thankfully does not take long for Jonathan to fall asleep. George takes a moment to move Jonathan from his lap and concludes that the night is a success after he tucks him in, and Jonathan neither stirs or makes a sound. The sight of his treasured boy brings a smile to his face—it always has, and he keeps on smiling, even after he has blown out the candle flame for the night and as he makes his way to the door in the near-darkness of the chamber. From the window, a gust of brackish air wafts in from the bay, filling the room with a stale and bitter smell. George has the mind to close it but does not.
✰✰✰
Since that day, Jonathan decided that he would turn over a new leaf. A gentleman must be well-rounded in his education and give his all at every challenge that comes to him, even if he does not succeed the first time. George’s words guided Jonathan as the new week presented itself, a blank slate waiting to be filled with triumph and improvement.
Jonathan paid more attention than usual in Governess Norbury’s arithmetic lessons, and although maths was never his strong suit, he managed to raise his marks into the line of eights, which, to George, was a welcome surprise. Jonathan even tried his best at slow-dancing class (his least favorite subject of all) with Mr. Lyndon, and this time, he only stepped on Mr. Lyndon’s foot twice! Mr. Lyndon told him that he may even be able to dance with an actual lady come the Charrington Ball, and Jonathan was elated. He would have two months then, to perfect his craft and to practice with unfettered intensity.
Harpsichord lessons, too, were a definite improvement. Yes, Jonathan stumbled on some beginning pieces (the harpsichord had never been a friend of his thick, clumsy fingers), but he persisted on; this time, Mr. Wolsley (albeit with a sympathetic look) even allowed him to pass into the next level with zero slaps to his wrist. Zero! For the first time in a long time, Jonathan was proud of himself, and he carried on like this for the rest of the week, puffing his chest outwards in pride with his head held high. And after each and every day, he would, without fail, be home at six o’clock sharp, and would dine with his father come eight o’clock, ready to discuss the events of the day.
The days steadily trickled by, until Friday finally came to greet him. Jonathan had just finished his final science lesson with Governess Norbury, and the sunny June afternoon lay before him like a story book waiting to be filled with adventure. On the road to becoming a gentleman, there were certainly no stipulations against Friday treats... Did he deserve it? Oh, Jonathan already knew the answer to that question.
So with his pack full of books and pilfered lemoncakes, Jonathan sets out, first making his way into the garden and into the kennels, in search of his favorite friend.
“Come, Danny, we’re taking a walk, boy!” He unlocks Danny’s cage, and Danny speeds to his master with unbridled eagerness, given their almost week-long separation.
With Danny trotting behind, Jonathan makes his way through winding streets with a hop-skip to his step, past the horse carriages that slowly trudge onwards in the summer heat, through the bevy of the of the mid-afternoon rush, and even past the kind madame that sells his favorite mince pies. She calls out to him, but Jonathan only gives her a cheerful wave and skips on by, for today, he only has one destination in mind: Orchid Beach, a place that he considers his own little slice of the island.
The sight of the white sand and the blue-green waters up ahead is unmistakable to him. Jonathan feels his heart race as he draws nearer, and with each step, the call of the ocean gets louder and louder, so that when he finally sinks his feet into the powdery sand, he casts aside everything—his clothes, his shoes, his pack—without even a thought to spare. Jonathan runs headfirst into the sea like a boy gone mad, and it, too, rises up to greet him like an old friend, its white, foam-capped waves kissing his body in a cool, watery caress.
“Danny, come in! The water feels just right!” And so the spotted dane, too, wades into the sea with his master, and for the next hour, they make the ocean their home. Only when their bodies finally give way do they return to land.
“I wonder what Erina and Robert are up to these days, Danny...” Jonathan gives him a pat, and Danny regards him with a questioning gaze. They sat on the sand together now, waiting for their energy to return with the sun’s warm rays. This summer is perfect, Jonathan thinks, but it would be even better if Erina and Robert were here with him.
Erina and Robert are his only true friends, aside from Danny. No one else in Port Windknights understands him like they do. All the other boys in Port Windknights have always been so mean to him. They would only smile and play nicely with him when they were at church, when he had Mrs. Phillipa’s teacakes to share ( they would always leave none for him), or when his father would host banquets at Starsby, where all of the well-to-do families in Jamaica would be invited to gather once a year and celebrate in one of the most famous events in the whole West Indies. In those times, their jests and their cruel pranks would cease, but on most days....
Jonathan frowns as he remembers the names they would call him. Crybaby . Jonathan Bacon . And the worst one of all, Piglet . Jonathan holds his knees to his chest. What has he ever done to them? Especially Owen Collings, Simon Hastings, and Harrison Golding—the sons of his father’s business partners. Those boys are the worst of them all, and there is a reason why Jonathan prefers his own company.
“Don’t let those boys get to you, Mister Jonathan!” Robert’s voice echoes through his mind’s eye then, and Jonathan recalls the day they (Jonathan was only a reluctant accomplice) filled the three boys’ shoes with cow pies just before the New Year nearly a year and a half ago. “May they be cursed with rotten luck for the rest of the year! That ought to teach those ruffians a lesson!”
Of course, Jonathan felt that he was being absolutely mean that day, recalling the odd sensation in his stomach as he watched Robert wreak havoc on their leather shoes. But then, Jonathan also remembers the flutter of Erina’s soft giggles, how her beautiful face beamed with its gentle mirth when he and Robert recounted their adventures to her later that same day.
“I wouldn’t say that they didn’t deserve it, Jojo,” said Erina, and when Jonathan imagines the blue pools of her eyes, he feels his stomach fill with the flapping of butterfly wings as if it had only been yesterday when he had last seen her.
It is a pity that he only sees them every other Christmas, for they lived all the way in Bermuda. Jonathan thinks of them then, of Robert’s pranks and the games they would play, and of Erina… oh, Erina . She is the most beautiful girl that Jonathan had ever laid eyes upon and is only one year older than him. He will see her again this year come December, which makes him giddy with excitement. Perhaps he should be thriftier with his weekly allowance to prepare for this upcoming Christmas, he thinks. Come December, Jonathan will ask her father for the permission to take her to the Johnson's, the finest restaurant in Port Windknights. Perhaps he will even suffer a trip to the tailor’s just to get a new suit that would make him look the part of a proper gentleman and save his money to get her a Christmas gift that is grander than the porcelain doll and the set of fountain pens that he and his father had bought her last time. Jonathan would make it so that her stay in Port Windknights would be worth her voyage half-way across the world, and maybe then, Erina would finally view him as a man, and no longer as a boy. Which reminds him .
“Isn’t it wonderful that all girls love poems, Danny?” Jonathan says, pulling out his notebook and pencil from his pack. Danny looks at him again with curious eyes, and although he couldn’t speak, Jonathan already knew what Danny was thinking: All girls love poems. You should definitely pen her one, Jojo! Danny is right. Jonathan could ask Mr. Tigby to run it by the post when he gets home later today. Erina needs to know that he is still thinking of her. And so Jonathan begins to write, his best cursive streaming from his fingertips like the winding threads of a tapestry.
O, sweet sunny summers of June
Everytime I dream, I dream of you
Your brilliant, crystal sea-blue eyes
(“What rhymes with ‘eyes’, Danny? Oh .”)
Seeing you again would be very nice
Sincerely yours,
Jonathan Joestar
“Erina would like that, don’t you think?” Oh, yes, she most certainly would, Jojo! Your love poems will go down in the books! Jonathan ruffles Danny’s head then, making sure to reach that particular spot behind his ears, and so Danny wags his tail in utmost glee, nuzzling up to his beloved master. “You are absolutely the best dog ever, Danny! Thank you for being such a great friend.”
It is not long before Jonathan feels the exertions of the day on his body, and so soon enough, he begins to sink into the warm sand that cradles him; he lets himself fall into a doze, at peace in his little corner of the world. Here, Jonathan is home , and as he sleeps, the sun envelops him in its loving embrace.