The Wind Knocked | A Story

I

The wind knocked on the door. Hesitantly. Wanting to be let in. It had heard the murmuring of the flames. And knew that there was a fire. The wind sought shelter. It had been a hard winter. And she had come a long way. Not one to force her way in. Being. On the whole. A courteous sort. She waited. Shuffling. On cold bare feet. Shifting. From one to the other. Blowing. Into her hands. In an effort to keep them warm. Rubbing them. Hopping. Up and down. To keep her limbs from freezing. The wind had not known such cold.

The little girl sitting by the fireplace heard the knocking. She looked up from the book she was reading. Put it aside. Moving closer to the fire. A small shiver ran through her. What if it was the big bad wolf knocking at the door? She had to protect her grandmother. She got up and went over to the coffin. In which she lay. Her grandmother. Having died. At the hands of the big bad wolf. A few days ago.

Meanwhile the wind took a long breath. Sighed deeply. And turned into frost.

The little girl sat by her dead grandmother and another shiver ran through her small frame. The knocking had stopped. Replaced by the sound of the wailing wind.

The winter came to mourn the loss of her grandmother’s death. Thought the little girl. She opened the door. And walked straight into the arms of the waiting wolf.

II

She hid herself with great care. Not in the cellar. The one that was under the cupboard. Beneath the trapdoor that looked like the rest of the floor. Nor the attic. With the skylight that led to a terrace. And on to a fire escape. In the forest. She hid. Where the green of her dress would merge. With the other greens. Suitably camouflaged. In her cocoon. She waited. Soon the wait slipped into sleep. The sleep into deep slumber. Anesthetised, she failed to see what was coming. The green of her birth would soon give way. Change. Like most things do. Into something else. Something that would give her body the most amazing colours. Aquamarine blue from the oceans. A tinge of the silver from a full moon. A dark purple stain. From fresh grapes before they too were changed into wine. The red and the brilliant yellow came from a painter’s brush. Gentle strokes on her wings. The wings themselves were like unfurled umbrellas. Stolen from peacocks. While they slept. Blue green blue green and gold. With orange tassels. From fresh tangerines. Soon. Very soon it would be time for her to wake up. Her hiding place no longer a place of safety. Having transformed into a thing of beauty. Fluttering her newly acquired wings she took tentative flight. The butterfly. Into the waiting net. Of the man who caught butterflies. And clipped their wings.

III

All by herself the little girl stood staring hard at the earthquake around her toes and heels the sand beneath her feet pulling stretching whirling in the opposite direction tugging at her ankles the foaming waters swirled around her knees raising a storm that thundered and flashed its bolts of lightning even as the waters rose dangerously up to her thighs receding swiftly and without warning only to crash against the back of her knees again hurtling around and aiming whiplashes of rain and hail like giant waves on rocks leaving behind gold and black particles of sand and salt and the drowned remains of stillborn shells that clung to the life-breathing pores of her legs like bloodsucking leeches as wave upon wave of blazing white waters with mouths open and teeth barred their throats resounding with war cries continue to batter the girl’s exhausted legs

Meanwhile its head full of thoughts the sea took a deep breath plunged into its vast depths and began the long journey back

Pulling.

Stretching.

Whirling.

In the opposite direction.

IV

The light gatherers

Each night when the household was deep in slumber they would slip away. Into the woods. Quietly. Brother and sister. A bucket in each hand. They had a job to do. One that had to be done. Before the pink light of dawn.

They would make their way to a clearing. Deep in the forest. Surrounded by giant oaks. The kind that gather light in their bark. Each crevice that runs the length of the tree a furrow. Glistening with freshly flowing moonbeams. Like a silver river in spate.

The siblings would make their way to the bottom of each oak. One by one. Turn the palms of their hands into cups and gather the light from the trees. Filling their buckets.

Their task complete. They would swiftly make their way back. So as to fill the darkness now strangulating their home, their land, their entire country with light

V

Having spent the first half of the night covering them with blood.

And the second half. Washing the blood off them.

In the morning. She hung the sheets. Out to dry.

VI

I gathered the pebbles. Handpicked. From amongst the stones. Weighing each one carefully.

I did this under cover of darkness. Using caution. And stealth. Watched only by a lone child who sat at her window. The light behind her head playing hide and seek.

When I had managed to collect a sizeable number, I began to drop them one by one into a large well which had once contained drinking water but was now almost dry. The little that still remained had retreated to the bottom.

I continued to drop the pebbles.

The whole night long.

I was still at my task in the morning.

And the rest of the day.

The solitary child that had kept me company through the night had somehow managed to gather an army of companions. They sat silently.

Patiently watching the waters rise.

I think they sensed that if I continued with my task, the waters would, one day, overflow.

Naveen Kishore is a publisher, writer, photographer and theatre practitioner