- Vol. 02
- Chapter 12
Dye The Water GreenYou could see it from miles away if you're in the centre of Dharmsel. Nestled elegantly on top of a hill that protruded from a forest of cinnamon trees, just off Indies Tres Avenue, a twelve-storey-high wooden tower watches over the sleepy sea village and its thousand-strong residents. As daybreak beckoned, swarms of colourful vendors with half-lit eyes occupied the streets. Our hero, the charming poet, aptly named Preens, arrived in Dharmsel for the first time in his life after a month's journey on horseback. The smell of sugar-laden chai, deep-fried potato samosas, armpit odour of homeless sadhus and the excrements of water buffaloes worked in unison to explode a foul bomb in his nostrils and woke him as a nightmare would.
It was no accident our hero, Preens the poet, ended up in this stinking village on a fine morning. Word has it that, imprisoned since birth, a stunningly beautiful maiden resides on the uppermost storey of the prominent wooden tower after having been accused by her father, Lord Kannan of House Zurrl, of killing her own mother during childbirth. Poor Repan. She barely knew how to breathe let alone kill her own mother. Her father's rash decision stood through time and on the eighteenth year, word got out that Lord Kannan was opening his tower's doors for suitors. Hundreds of men from all walks of life travelled far to reach Dharmsel for the sole reason of having a go at winning her heart. But none was successful at bearing fruit.
Then came Preens. The thirty-year-old poet with his brown locks swaying in the breeze as he removed his musty sandhat. Unsure of what had to be said, he sought guidance from a passing jester who was in-the-zone of juggling five scythes concurrently.
Dye The Water Green
"She has beautiful brown hair, much like yours, but longer. What I would suggest is that you call for her to let down her hair, followed by calling her full name," the Jester advised.
Preens mounted his horse and trotted steadily toward the foot of the wooden tower. A handful of a watchful crowd, who have decided that their daily duties were no match to watching a stranger propose to a woman he had never seen before, gathered around the vicinity with their breaths held in their breast pockets.
"My name is Preens. I am a poet from The North. Let down your hair, so I can see you Oh Repan Zurr........"
The crowd went into a state of delirium, laughing on their backs like a fallen wild boar, throwing potato samosas at each other, as Preens, our hero, after further inspection, stared blankly into what appeared to be a rundown wooden lighthouse.