From a distance, a long, narrow snake crept down the mountain. It wound from east to west, it’s body bent by sharp turns, giving way to stretches of unnatural straightness. Its scales were pale and faded, even against the barren face of the slope. Its belly carved through stone and earth, grinding all to dust beneath its eternal weight.
Yet, there was no serpent descending upon the valley below. The locals of the land knew the meandering creature to be the old mountain road. It was as ancient as any wurm, and for those familiar with both, knew it to be just as treacherous.
It was a bright day. The sun sat in the glory of its throne, and reigned down upon the mountain and the valley with unquestionable authority. Its sharp rays cut through the blue dome of its court, blessing the faithful and scorching the false-hearted. Beneath the great light, a silver dart glimmered as it sped along the backbone of the old mountain road.
It was the bus. Once, it had been something to behold. It had been the first mechanical beast of its size in the area, and many came to see it. Many bought a ticket to simply sit and ride in it. It was a wonder, if anyone was to ask. But that was a long time ago. Now, it was a beaten and weathered. The smooth metal had roughened into something more akin to worn leather, and the great wheels which once thundered in their rotation, now jiggled with soft wariness. Only the desperate rode the bus now, its necessity dictated by no other option, and although that number was few these days, there were always souls ready to occupy its crumbling seats.
On this particular day, Martin sat at the back of the bus. If he dug deep enough, he could retrieve the memory of his first time on the bus, but that sort of archeology had become hard work for him. Recollection was a difficult thing as of late. Yet, he knew he always sat in the last row in the bus. Perhaps that was more habit that memory. The seat beneath him hugged his buttocks, as if it had been made for him. Like a glove, some would say, but he had forgotten the little things like idioms. He had also forgotten the pains of misery, and he longer missed the presence of his wife sitting beside him. She had passed on long ago, and that wound had scarred over and was now numb with dementia. He was simply comfortable and content to be sitting in his usual seat. His mind wandered. That’s not to say it was lost, but it strayed from any thoughts which he tried to keep. Martin stared out the window and watched as the rugged mountainside swept past. His mind skipped from one thought to the next. It scrutinised the porous stones, and then marvelled at how many littered the steep terrain. It jumped from one detail to the next, picking apart the details of the mountain, but it failed to notice how the sharp edges of those many stones were drawing nearer to the bus.