Tales of the Peculiar (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children #0.5) - Ransom Riggs

FOREWORD

IF YOU ARE OF THE PECULIAR PERSUASION—and if

you’ve read this far, I sincerely hope that you are—then this is

a book that likely needs no introduction. These tales were a

formative and beloved part of your upbringing, and you came of

age reading them and hearing them read aloud with such frequency

that you can recite your favorites word for word. If, however, you

are among those unfortunates who have only just discovered their

peculiarity, or who grew up in circumstances where no peculiar

literature was available, I offer this brief primer.

TALES of the PECULIAR is a collection of our most beloved

folklore. Passed down from generation to generation since time

immemorial, each story is part history, part fairy tale, and part

moral lesson aimed at young peculiars. These tales hail from

various parts of the globe, from oral as well as written traditions, and have gone through striking transformations over the years.

They have survived as long as they have because they are loved

for their merits as stories, but they are more than that, too. They are also the bearers of secret knowledge. Encoded within their

pages are the locations of hidden loops, the secret identities of

certain important peculiars, and other information that could aid a peculiar’s survival in this hostile world. I should know: the Tales are the reason I’m alive to write these words now. They

preserved not only my life, but those of my friends and our

beloved ymbryne. I, Millard Nullings, am a living testament to the

enduring usefulness of these stories, though they were written

many years ago.

That’s why I’ve devoted myself to their preservation and

dissemination, and taken it upon myself to edit and annotate this

special edition of the Tales. It is by no means exhaustive or complete—the edition I grew up reading was a famously unwieldy

three-volume set that weighed, collectively, more than my friend

Bronwyn—but the stories contained here represent my very

favorites, and I have taken the liberty of annotating them with

historical and contextual insights so that peculiars everywhere

may benefit from my wisdom. It’s also my hope that this edition,

being more portable than previous ones, will be an easy

companion on your travels and adventures, and may prove itself

as useful to you as it once did to me.

So please enjoy these Tales—before a crackling fire on a

chilly night, ideally, a snoring grimbear at your feet—but

remember, too, their sensitive nature, and if you must read them

aloud (which I highly recommend) make certain your audience is

peculiar.

—Millard Nullings, Esq., EdD, MBCh

The Splendid Cannibals

The peculiars in the village of Swampmuck lived very modestly. They were farmers, and though they didn’t own fancy things and lived in flimsy houses made of reeds, they were healthy and joyful and wanted for little. Food grew bountifully in their gardens, clean water ran in the streams, and even their humble homes seemed like luxuries because the weather in Swampmuck was so fair, and the villagers were so devoted to their work that many, after a long day of mucking, would simply lie down and sleep in their swamps.

Harvest was their favorite time of year. Working round the clock, they gathered the best weeds that had grown in the swamp that season, bundled them onto donkey carts, and drove their bounty to the market town of Chipping Whippet, a five days’ ride, to sell what they could. It was difficult work. The swampweed was rough and tore their hands. The donkeys were ill-tempered and apt to bite. The road to market was pitted with holes and plagued by thieves. There were often grievous accidents, such as when Farmer Pullman, in a fit of overzealous harvesting, accidentally scythed off his neighbor’s leg. The neighbor, Farmer Hayworth, was understandably upset, but the villagers were such agreeable people that all was soon forgiven. The money they earned at market was paltry but enough to buy necessities and some rations of goat-rump besides, and with that rare treat as their centerpiece they threw a raucous festival that went on for days.

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