The Starved

It stormed in the night. Now, though the flood has long since passed, the falling dew from the pines above douses us in a perpetual drizzle.

As we seek a respite from the damp, we happen across a narrow, flat glade. Laid in its centre, upon a well-made wooden table, is a sumptuous feast. Though its chefs are nowhere to be found, the food is piping hot, while the number of seats precisely matches that of our party. The invitation is clear.

We linger at the glade’s edge, our grumbling stomachs urging us forward. The unctuous smell of succulent pork certainly beats the smoked cheese in our rations. And yet we know better than to approach such a repast without suspicion.