That very year, just after the festival had ended and the villagers were about to return to their toil in the swamps, three visitors arrived. Swampmuck rarely had visitors of any kind, as it was not the sort of place people wanted to visit, and it had certainly never had visitors like these: two men and a lady dressed head to toe in lush brocaded silk, riding on the backs of three fine Arabian horses. But though the visitors were obviously rich, they looked emaciated and swayed weakly in their bejeweled saddles.

The villagers gathered around them curiously, marveling at their beautiful clothes and horses.

“Don’t get too close!” Farmer Sally warned. “They look as if they might be sick.”

“We’re on a journey to the coast of Meek,”1 explained one of the visitors, a man who seemed to be the only one strong enough to speak. “We were accosted by bandits some weeks ago and, though we were able to outrun them, we got badly lost. We’ve been turning circles ever since, looking for the old Roman Road.”

“You’re nowhere near the Roman Road,” said Farmer Sally.

“Or the coast of Meek,” said Farmer Pullman.

“How far is it?” the visitor asked.

“Six days’ ride,” answered Farmer Sally.

“We’ll never make it,” the man said darkly.

At that, the silk-robed lady slumped in her saddle and fell to the ground.

The villagers, moved to compassion despite their concerns about disease, brought the fallen lady and her companions into the nearest house. They were given water and made comfortable in beds of straw, and a dozen villagers crowded around them offering help.

“Give them space!” said Farmer Pullman. “They’re exhausted; they need rest!”

“No, they need a doctor!” said Farmer Sally.

“We aren’t sick,” the man said. “We’re hungry. Our supplies ran out over a week ago, and we haven’t had a bite to eat since then.”

Farmer Sally wondered why such wealthy people hadn’t simply bought food from fellow travelers on the road, but she was too polite to ask. Instead, she ordered some village boys to run and fetch bowls of swampweed soup and millet bread and what little goat-rump was left over from the festival—but when it was laid before the visitors, they turned the food away.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” said the man, “but we can’t eat this.”

“I know it’s a humble spread,” said Farmer Sally, “and you’re probably used to feasts fit for kings, but it’s all we have.”

“It isn’t that,” the man said. “Grains, vegetables, animal meat—our bodies simply can’t process them. And if we force ourselves to eat, it will only make us weaker.”

The villagers were confused. “If you can’t eat grains, vegetables, or animals,” asked Farmer Pullman, “then what can you eat?”

“People,” the man replied.

Everyone in the small house took a step back from the visitors.

“You mean to tell us you’re . . . cannibals?” said Farmer Hayworth.

“By nature, not by choice,” the man replied. “But, yes.”