The Moaning Enclave ✍️

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Her brow was drenched in icy perspiration. The bloody dreams plagued her almost daily, wrenching her from sleep at the stroke of midnight. Her fists clenched the mattress, nails digging into the soft fabric.

She sat bolt upright on her royal pine bed, hazel eyes wide with fear. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she pulled them tightly to her chest. The pelting rain battered the glass panes, and a massive storm surge outside sent tremors through her frail heart.

A radio broadcast crackled on their porch, warning the metropolitan population of an impending cyclone and the disastrous consequences it could bring with its advent.

"Landing preparations have only twenty-four hours remaining. The government is striving to relocate everyone as quickly as possible. . ."

As the host on the radio continued to caution, she sprang from her bed and grabbed a silver candle stand from the reddish-brown mahogany dresser in the corner of her room.

Power outages had plunged the town into darkness, and the servants in their quarters listened intently to the radio all night. The meteorological department warned that the weather might worsen before the typhoon hit land and that the city's power might not be restored until after the storm passed.

The candle's flame cast a warm glow, highlighting the creases on her forehead as she lit the wick. She moved to the mirror, her reflection haunted by fatigue. Beads of sweat dotted her face.

She avoided staring too long, terrified of the dark circles under her eyes and her disheveled hair. Turning to the antique door frame, she embarked on her journey through the dimly lit corridors of the ancestral villa.

The hallways echoed with the memories of better days, their grandeur now overshadowed by the looming disaster. She walked briskly, the candlelight flickering against the ornate wallpaper, creating dancing shadows that mirrored the chaos within her mind. Each step was measured, purposeful, driven by a sense of urgency and dread.

She reached the grand staircase, the wooden steps creaking under her weight. The sound was a stark reminder of the age of the house, a relic of a bygone era now threatened by the unforgiving forces of nature. As she descended, the radio's warnings grew fainter, replaced by the howling wind and the rhythmic pounding of the rain.

Her ancestral gold anklets clanked softly as she walked down the narrow corridor, the candle illuminating her path. In the shadows, the magnolia wall paneling took on a dusky citron hue, and her silhouette moved like an ethereal wraith.

She reached the large oak doorway of her father's cellar, careful not to trip in the dark. The iron knob creaked as she turned it, and after a brief struggle, the door opened, revealing the attic's contents.

The candlelight spilled into the room, casting a warm glow on dusty walls and cobwebs hanging from the bamboo ceiling. She cleared them away and stepped inside, the musty smell making her scrunch up her nose.

Everything in the haveli was rustic, including her father's favorite journal, which he had always hoped she would read when she was older. Though her father had ascended to his heavenly abode many years ago, she still cherished his memory deeply.

She yanked at the rusted brass handle of the antique mahogany cabinet, its metallic sheen long corroded. Dust swirled into the air as she opened the drawer, revealing her father's leather-bound vintage journal. The tree of life embossed on the cover drew her eye.

Carefully, she flipped through the yellowed pages, each one a cherished memory. She reached the last leaf and found an envelope addressed to her. The paper was thicker than contemporary notebooks, inked in a mixture of blue and black.

"Baba had his own charisma when it came to offering valuables," she mused, unfurling the letter. "His calligraphy is even more valuable, something the family nobility cherished and the Bengal folk wished to preserve."

She had always honored her father's wish to read the journal only after she became a doctorate. Now, with her degree in hand, she was finally authorized to read the letter he had left for her.

As she unfolded the delicate paper, her heart pounded with anticipation. The letter began in her father's elegant handwriting:

"Dear Daughter,
Dense woods swathe the inhabited countryside,
Where flora and fauna strive to symbiotically reside;
Go back to your roots,
Go back to your roots,
Where the earth, sea, and sky seamlessly meet–
Go back to your roots, I repeat,
Where the fury of horizon upsurge in the brackish waters–
Where the law of nature overwhelmingly falters–
Go back to your roots, I repeat,
To the homeland where the moaning enclave unwaveringly bleat–
Go back to your roots, I repeat."
Yours sincerely,
Baba.

As she read, the words of her father's elegant script transported her back to a time when he was alive, his wisdom and love guiding her once more through the shadows of the past and into the light of understanding.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she finished reading. She held the letter close to her heart, feeling her father's presence in the room, guiding her even from beyond the grave.

Determined, she tucked the letter back into the journal and closed it gently. This was her mission now. She would honor her father's legacy. With renewed purpose, she left the attic, the candle still burning brightly.

The storm outside raged on, but inside, a fierce resolve had been kindled. She was ready to face the challenges ahead, armed with her father's wisdom and her own indomitable will.

To be continued...

A/N: This story will be my Wattys entry this year, and I hope to have the unwavering support of all my readers. Thank you and love you all.

I plan to update the story very frequently and aim to complete it within the next two to three months. Stay tuned for a thrilling journey through the mysteries of the Sundarbans, as we explore themes of resilience, love, and the fight to preserve our natural world. Your support means the world to me, and I can't wait to share this adventure with you.