The Disaster of Absolute Silence

The sky stretches above our heads, a faded dome of simmering heat, bleached at the edges. You let your eyes trace its expanse as you march to the rhythm of my boots. You experience a moment of smug reflection, pleased that you remembered to wear lightweight sandals instead. Sure, your feet are starting to ache, but what of it? You aren’t baking like me.

The mountain of rubble tumbles on before us, populated only with scattered brush and a few minuscule, flowered thorns. You glance over your shoulder, stumble, and catch yourself on hands full of bloody gravel. Brilliant. 

“Are you okay?” I ask, kneeling next to you on the narrow path.

“Fine,” you grunt. You accept my arm up and dust yourself off, hissing in pain. The tender skin of your palm is peppered with tiny flecks of filthy rock. You sigh and start picking them out.

“You sure?” I inquire, eyebrows knit together. Most of my jaw-length dirty-blonde hair has escaped my bandana at this point. As you glance back again, this time successful, you can see why. The oasis is now a stamp-sized splotch at the foot of a hill. A vast, flat expanse of brown spreads out all around it at the edge of the hills. Our path winds through those hills, getting higher and higher until it meets our feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, refocusing on your palm.

“If you say so,” I allow. I grab the straps of my backpack and keep going. “We’re almost there.”

You crunch on behind me, watching your feet keep time with mine in your periphery. After a few minutes I stop, and you pull up short.

“Water?” I hand you my bottle, half full. You gingerly accept it and attempt to drink without too much pain. “I’ve got a first aid pack in my bag, if you give me a moment.” I drop to the ground and rummage through the bag.

You screw the cap on and set the bottle on the ground, glancing around. This place doesn’t look too different from anywhere else in this desolate wasteland. The only differentiating features are a small, spiny bush populated by a yellow-flowered vine and a slight overhanging that provides a patch of shade. You kneel down and plop into the shady spot beside me, your back against the rock. You can feel yourself dripping from the searing heat.

I locate the first aid kit and help you dig the specks out of your hands best we can, through your gasps of pain. Hands bandaged, we both sit alternately panting and crunching granola bars. You get the gluten-free bar, I get peanut-butter chocolate chip.

You zone out staring at the bush, with its sheltered cups of sunburst petals. I let out a sigh. You shoot me a glance, realize that I was observing the same thing.

“What?” you ask, curious.

I hesitate. “Nothing. Ask me later.”

The blistering air is absolutely, perfectly still. The whisper of a breeze could never touch this place. Your munching slows as you wonder whether there are any wildlife here, or if the place is actually totally deserted. You swallow, then focus intently.

No insectile whir. No chirping or cheeping. No rabbits rustling the spiny undergrowth. You scan the stones, but no lizard reveals itself. You shift, causing stones to crackle and me to wince. No condors wheel in the blue-tinged wax-paper sky.

You shift back and lean against the stone again. You are acutely aware of a trickle of sweat inching its way down your spinal cord. An insatiable drone fills the background of your consciousness. You try to think about something, anything, but that silent buzz draws your mind irrevocably back to your increasingly uncomfortable surroundings.

Your palms ache. You wonder irritably whether it was worth it to turn round, then are instantly flooded with guilt for spoiling such a solemn moment.

You sneak a peek at me. My eyes are closed, and I’m obviously trying to breathe as quietly as possible. You were right. You would never tell me to my face. The silence really makes you think.

You shoot to your feet abruptly. That, of course, causes a shower of gravel to pelt my lap and face. That was certainly not kind.

“Let’s go,” you announce. You thrust the granola wrapper into my open pack. “We have quite a hike back.”

I sigh and thrust out my hand. You hoist me to my feet, letting me grip your arm instead of your bandage-smothered palm.

“All right.” I say. “We should head out.” I swing the bag onto my back and begin the treck. You stand for a moment blinking at the sunburst petals of the prickle-bush. There’s a metaphor in there. You grin and then set off after me, crunching and racketing as much as you can.

Too much silence can’t be good for a body.

Location: Chebika, Tunisia