The Denizen Of Baku

a billion manats love!

The name was Azersu, the only Jewish amongst the people of Aliyev tribe. Azersu was a young hatched-faced boy of sixteen, his ruddy skin was fair but weather beaten; also, there were no facial hairs at all; the hairstyle was similar to any of the other tribal, except for the fact that his hair was strawberry blond!

Moreover, those deep-settled eyes had a diverse verdigris in them. He had strong arched brows and eyelashes so thick, it could be illegal. And then his eyes- they were deep and catastrophic, a vivid baby blue as a great body of water that softly melted into a milky green. This close, I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes. He had distinct cheekbones and an angular jaw, his pale skin made him look devilishly handsome.

He wasn't a male model but he should have been. The lush,

mother lode-gold hair he groomed so carefully had a rippling quality, a sign of his rude health. His only blemish was that he was beetle-browed and they sometimes knitted in frustration. The aquiline nose he sported complemented his prominent cheekbones. Handsome in an understated way, his concrete basalt jaw and Spartan shoulders spoke of strength. He possessed a latent, leonine power and always walked with purpose and authority.

People had always remarked that his best feature was his entrancing, wayfarer-blue eyes. Sloe shaped, they could shine as bright as the evening stars when they were a-light with joy. At other times, they could resemble two liquid-blue pools of flashing fire.

His tribal brothers always commented on his vivacious character and his gentle nature. His voice could be foghorn loud when he was booming out a guffaw but it was normally mellifluous. Flamboyant of character, the room having him was always filled with his sonorous, rumbling voice. His rakish clothes were a source of amusement to some, not least because they emanated an herbal smell. However, an earthy scent always swirled around him.

The boy, had no family: his father was a fisherman, and payed him a visit rarely; Azersu presumed that this time he was on a bigger voyage; since his last visit was seven years ago! But, he had a distant relative, who was a loader at the Baku sea port and payed him visits once a month. Apart from this, his goats and some of his tribal brothers were his only companions!

Having not much friends had its own pros and cons; Of course, the pros were the recessive gene in there: most of the nights the lad didn't have anyone to talk to, or exchange views with. After all, isolation and depression were the only two incurable illness of the realm. For them, the mortals weren't smart enough to develop a drug!

The afternoon sky was cocktail-blue and the scarcely visible grass was downy soft. The trees were paradise-green and the forest floor was crinkly when trampled upon. The bark of the trees felt like frozen, bubbled soup and the smell in the forest was like freshly-pressed laundry. The fruit in the forest was syrup sweet while the branches of the trees resembled the Neptune's fork. A stew of smells filled the air. The earthly smell from the Bojkh-Bokha mud volcanoes; which stood a thousand yards to the north, tickled the nose hairs and the shaggy heads of those conifers were definitely a leafy paradise.

The fields were still Elysium-green. Bees were murmuring in that strange cult hum exclusive to them. They flit from flower to flower, surfing the short spaces. Bilberries and chanterelles adorned the forest floor, questing for sunlight; and, the perpetual skies of summer were buckled with clouds where they flared up in a luminous, neon-blue: when the mood took them. The fields were laden with goldenrod yellow flowers and silver-washed fritillaries carried their bushels of pollen carefully.

It was the summer season in the 'city of winds'!

Twilight was falling as the boy arrived with his drove at an uninhibited hammam. The rooftop had fallen in long ago, and a mammoth buttonwood had grown on the spot where the ceramic cauldrons had once stood. He decided to spend the night there. He saw to it that all the goats entered through the ruined gate, and then laid some planks across it to prevent the flock from wandering away during the night. He flounced the floor with his muffler and lay down, using the Moccasin his relative had gifted him as a pillow. He told himself that he needs to find a cobbler soon, or he would have to walk barefooted for the rest of the way. His Moccasin had almost dithered.