When locusts struck in the 1960s, my mother and I begged the villagers to help harvest our wheat, but they only mocked us. What they didn't know was that our family had always worshipped a Rat Lord. With his help, we learned in advance that the real locust swarm would arrive three days later. My mother and I worked through the night, cutting down our still-unripe wheat. The villagers laughed at us, but three days later, they regretted it bitterly.