Crystal shank took the beaten road, and the motorhome followed at a nomadic pace. Treble the danger of sliding rocks, to and fro like the sliders on a sound control board, this was the heritage of the viper’s path, and the thirst dusted plain way. Without a doubt she ran after the glistening man, who turned and regarded her between pillars of profound stone.
The crown that swept with the swallows in the coastal place where ground and air met, that was the sun of many flies that feasted with the larger scavengers, and brought things to their dens. The man who regarded her had many, masked with faces of flies, rank on rank in their swarm. She went with him, and he turned with her along the curve of a gleaming scimitar blade.
Then came the point, and the mountain surrounded by sunlit and sunburnt shadow. There sat the cottage, the door open as the mouth of a baby bird in a thatch nest. A hut, a hovel, but in the darkness thereof there sat a glitter, a hint of crystal, and the softer gleam, the hem of a skirt.