The Sound of Madness

Winter had a way of pressing sound out of the world. For months the fields lay under ice and packed snow. The river locked in place. Branches held stiff against the sky. Days passed with nothing moving and nothing speaking. A person could stand outside for an hour and hear only the soft shift of their own boots.

I grew fond of that quiet. It settled the mind. No birds chattering from the hedges. No insects whining at the glass. Just pale light over the drifts and the distant crack of ice shifting along the river.

Then the thaw arrived. It began with dripping. At first the sound pleased me. Water fell from the eaves in bright drops. The snowbanks softened and slid down the slope toward the road. Small runnels formed along the path, carrying brown leaves and bits of gravel.

A gentle sound. A welcome one.

But the dripping did not end. Day after day it struck the same patch of ground beside the porch. A steady tap. Tap. Tap. Morning through dusk and long into the night. Even after the last of the snow collapsed into dark water, the dripping continued. The roof shed its melt in slow measure. Sleep grew uneasy.

Then the birds returned. They arrived before dawn. Their voices broke the morning open while the sky still held a deep blue cast. One robin perched in the lilac bush and called with tireless devotion. Another answered from the fence line. Sparrows took up residence beneath the porch boards and carried on their own chatter without pause.

I shut the window. The glass did nothing. Sound passed through it and filled the room. By midday the yard rang with calls and rustling wings. The air trembled with it. Even inside the house I could trace each note, each chirp, each quick burst of wings from branch to branch.

I told myself this was ordinary. Spring had come. People welcome such noise. Still, the quiet of winter held more grace.

The nights brought frogs. Their voices rose from the low ground beyond the road where the snowmelt gathered. A rough croaking rolled across the fields after sunset and carried through the dark until the first pale light of morning. The frogs did not rest. Their calls overlapped and tangled together until the sound became a single thick hum over the land.

I placed a pillow over my head. It helped little.

The dripping continued beside the porch. The birds woke before dawn. The frogs claimed the night. During the warm hours of afternoon bees struck the window glass with dull little knocks as they searched for entry.

Every hour carried its own noise.

I could not escape it. I began keeping track. Morning held the robins and the steady drip beside the porch. Midday brought bees and the dry rustle of wings through the hedge. Evening filled the air with the first frogs. Night deepened their chorus until the ground itself carried the sound. And always the drip.

Soon I noticed another rhythm beneath it all. At first I blamed the frogs. Their croaking rose and fell with curious order. Then I thought the dripping had taken on some pattern I had not noticed before.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The beat returned everywhere I stood. In the yard. In the kitchen. Even in bed long after midnight. A dull pulse.

I stepped outside one afternoon and pressed my palm against the damp soil beside the porch. The ground felt cool from the long winter, yet I could swear the faint thudding came through my hand.

The earth held a beat.

I drew my hand away.

Perhaps I had grown tired. The season always brings such restlessness. People speak of spring fever with a laugh. Fresh air and rising warmth stir the nerves.

Yet the sound did not fade.

It grew sharper.

The frogs cried from the ditch beyond the road. Birds called across the yard. Water struck the ground beside the porch. All of it rode upon that slow dull pulse that pressed against my ears no matter where I walked.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I lay awake through the dark hours counting it.

The beat matched nothing in the house. No clock ticked with that measure. No branch brushed the siding in such steady time.

The sound rose within my head until I could think of nothing else.

One morning I carried a shovel into the yard. The dripping had softened the ground near the porch. Dark earth showed through the last thin crust of snow. I marked the place where the pulse sounded strongest and drove the shovel down.

The soil broke easily. Each thrust lifted a wet clump and cast it aside. The beat grew louder with every cut.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

My hands shook. I dug faster. The yard filled with the smell of fresh dirt and the dull scrape of metal against stone. Still the sound continued. Still it struck against my ears with tireless patience.

At last the shovel struck water. A shallow pool spread in the bottom of the hole where meltwater had gathered beneath the soil. The surface trembled with each drop from the roof.

Tap.

A ring spread across the water.

Tap.

Another ring.

I leaned closer and saw my reflection staring back from the pool. Pale from sleepless nights. Eyes wide. Mud streaked across my hands.

The sound did not come from the ground.

It came from within my head. My pulse hammered against my ears with every drop that struck the water. The dripping from the roof had kept the time. The frogs and birds had filled the air with their racket until the pounding of blood rose above them all.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I stood there in the ruined yard with the shovel still in my hands and understood that the quiet of winter had hidden it from me.

Now the world had grown loud again.
And I could not escape the sound.

By Heather Patton / Verdant Butterfly

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