I was expecting shining bright light and elongated shadows. It was supposed to be faceless and formless. Like a ghost, a stalker, a lurker, not this persistent knock on the door.
“Go away,” I said.
I heard a cackle and imagined a beast or an evil witch. My head was spinning as pen scratched itchy paper. Nothing made sense; the words looked like a horde at a stampede. This was no pilgrimage site. It was a page of an old unused diary that had been left blank, as many other pages were. It was an uncontrollable urge that made the ink splash about forming curlicues one moment and standing up straight another.
The knocking continued and I hollered again. I heard a whimper. “Dog,” I said under my breathless breath. I imagined a little pup with a flea-infested coat and a hobble from a limp leg. I recognised my insensitivity in not getting up to help, but I too was helpless. I was stuck to where I was seated and it appeared that only my fingers moved, gesticulating in the air before falling on the page.
The sounds were persistent. I could hear singing, the voice starting with a contralto deep in the pit of the stomach and then rising to soprano heights and piercing through the doorless door. It was a feminine voice, though I pictured a lithe male body and dark eyes. After a while there was a growl, rather menacing. The man-woman seemed to have transformed into a demon-like creature hungry for blood. Not thirsty. I could not see it sipping and slurping. This one would eat blood, till it had baked and caked in the sun and the voice sang a dirge as a limping dog yelped and the witch took off on a broom cleaning the winds of dust.
The sky was clear. The knocking and the sounds ceased.
My pages had been filled with poems. Prosody and sonnets became recognisable. My body could move but the legs had got stiff and I hopped till the cramps stopped.
The Muse hummed softly as I, an 11-year-old, whimpered in its arms.Those arms would make a woman of me, and a bitch, a witch and a girl again.