They say the desert has no forgiveness. I find this all too true, as I wander, feet blistered, skin cracked, throat dried, across the searing dunes. Head mired by exhaustion, I almost fall into it.
A warming updraft from below. It tickles the hairs on the back of my hand. With nowhere but featureless desert to wander, I descend.
A crevasse. Orange walls worn by countless aeons of sand-laden wind howling through these halls. They bow and curve, and the rays of light spilling in from above flow in dappled dances, creating the impression of submersion below the sea.
The sand is finer down here. Softer. Warm air brushes past, venting out the cleft above, leaving cool air at the base of the crevasse. There is shelter from the sun and howling winds. I’d hoped to find water here but no such luck.
What I do find instils in me a terror greater than the percariousness of my own situation. I find what I have been looking for. Carved into the walls. Ancient beyond imagination. I cannot know exactly what the glyphs say, but the carvings they surround imply something horrible happened here. Something that is set to repeat itself.
And here I am, stuck in a place that will kill me, with no way to get the message out. The warning.
The desert has no forgiveness. But it does have a sense of humour.
Paddy Dobson
28th November 2022