The last cannibal had no one to eat. He wandered through the village, collecting onions and potatoes from the larders of empty houses and munching a carrot or an apple now and then. His stomach growled ceaselessly.

As evening came, the last cannibal sat on a tree stump to watch the sunset, which he knew was glorious though it felt joyless and solemn. A sow waddled up and nuzzled his sack of vegetables. He gave it a turnip and a cabbage and stroked its fleshy neck.

"Oh, Piggy," he said. "This gloaming, I cannot but recall the lore that the elders recounted in my youth. They told of the loneliness that the Final One would experience. They admonished against perpetuation of our feasting and for conservation of our stock. But we were heedless, one and all, and devoured their flesh before all others, each of us striving to outsmart and outlive. I succeeded. I alone remain. I am the one. But, what have I accomplished? I am forsaken and hungry. I cannot live on vegetables alone. Too long have I trained my body to need more. As it stands, in time, I’ll be left with no recourse but to eat you, my porcine companion, my friend. How low I have fallen! How hollow is my triumph!"

Having consumed the vegetables, the pig grunted greedily.

"Yes, my dear," said the last cannibal, somberly. "Have another turnip. Have a rutabaga. Have a melon. Fatten yourself so that, when it is time, I can be sustained by your meat. Oh, tragic day!"

When the sow finished eating, it rested its head on the last cannibal’s knee and the two waited patiently for the moon to rise. When it showed itself above the trees, the moon was bright and full, gorged with pride at its own perpetuity and scorn for the cannibal’s disgraceful end. Forlorn and guilty, the last cannibal buried his head in his sleeve to escape the moon’s reproachful glance. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, he saw images of his mother and father, of his mentors and heroes, of his dear wife and son, each of whose flesh he had savored. He saw them all smiling. He felt each of their souls within him.

The sow stirred and began nibbling on the cannibal’s fingers, where the sticky juice from the apples he had eaten remained. The touch tickled his fingers and the last cannibal laughed.

"Yes, Piggy, you are right," he said. "I will not eat you. I cannot so dishonor all those who are in me. For I am the last. I am the Final One. I am the culmination of the life of our village. In me are parts of all who have come before. No. I will not eat you. Instead let us all live on in others."

And so the last cannibal threw open his sack and strewed the fruits and vegetables throughout the clearing around him. Then he lay on his back and stared at the moon, which now gave him comfort, like a dear old friend. Finally, the last cannibal closed his eyes and waited serenely for the wolves to come.