The Last Supper: And Other Stories - Plot & Excerpts
The road was an old road. No one in the whole country knew how old it was, nor was there any book or record or scroll written about that part of the country which spoke of a time when the road was not there. When a breath of wind broke the hot, still air, the fine white dust curled up and the people traveling along the road sneezed and coughed, and more than one said the dust would be the end of him. It seemed that everyone was on the road. Everyone was somewhere else, in the wrong place, because, as one of them put it, if you stayed in the right place you starved, and that was the long and short of it; and if you looked back along the road, the way it curled and curved and twisted, like a long white snake lying among the low, sun-dried hills, you saw a good two or three miles of the road and there wasn’t a piece of it but was crowded with people. At this part of the road, there was a hut of sun-dried mud, brick and reed and thatch, and on a bench in front of it an enterprising local citizen had set up to sell wine and water.
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