by Ross Turner
His friends too wished for the same things themselves, but in their cases, that meant following in their parents’ trade, which they were all, for the most part, already doing.
Yet for Cole, there were no signs of power, he showed no promise of impending ability. He was a bright boy and did exceptionally well with his studies, but that was simply not the type of aptitude he was searching for.
He often viewed his home, and the world in general, not with dislike, far from it; he loved the world he had been born into, but with a yearning for more from it.
This couldn’t be it, surely? That was a question he asked countless times during those early years, and never once did he receive an answer.
He did not wish for great deeds or battles, or fame and fortune, and certainly not pain and suffering. But, although he knew he was loved dearly by his parents, and had a caring community all about him, it was the deep-seated need within of himself that he could never satisfy.
The feeling was an endless and insatiable pit, which only deepened with time, and haunted his every moment, both waking and sleeping.
His biggest fear grew and developed in his own mind, and so, consequently, it became inescapable.
Time changed Isabel’s life as the years passed, and she turned her hand to many things that, in the past, she had never even considered. She spent much of her time tutoring the children of the village, including Cole, teaching them to read and write. For those who were more able, she even taught basic numeracy, which was more than most ever received.
As all knew, often children would follow in the trades of their parents - a long, upstanding and successful, though somewhat limiting custom.
This too was to be the case with Cole. It had required little thought for the matter that Zanriath had rekindled his roots and turned his hand once again to the forging of metal. He spent many hours in his smithy, the only one in the village, turning metal in the tremendous heat of nothing but his bare hands.
Many came from far and wide to witness the odd spectacle as had never been seen before, and Zanriath’s talent was such that he provided the finest goods on the whole island.
Needless to be said, regardless of their fame and celebrity throughout the kingdom, Zanriath loved his family dearly, and they him. His greatest concern, and that too of Isabel, was the distancing they observed in Cole, and the way in which he looked upon the world as if something were missing from it.
And then there were the nightmares. Thankfully they were infrequent, never more than one or two in a month, but they were widely varied. There were numerous things that had haunted Isabel throughout her years and, she imagined, they would continue to trouble her for as long as she lived.
On this particular night, her thoughts as she slept were set upon Still Waters.
She stood alone, as she always did, on the perfect mirror of the water. There she waited for an eternity, before finally she saw the boy in the distance. He faced her, as he had done, by now, so many times. But it was not he that she feared. He was gone, defeated, and only his distant memory remained to torment her.
Then the hand came, sliding silently out of the surface of the lake.
It was black and gnarled and slimy and haunting to the touch. Isabel remembered its touch all too well and even still shuddered at the memory of its fingers wrapping around hers. However, this was not the hand of the demon that she had felt all those years ago.
Looking down in horror, she did not see gruesome beasts with horrific green eyes staring longingly up at her from the depths. She saw something far, far worse.
Instead of monsters, she saw men, women and children. The lost souls of all those who had been destroyed countless millennia ago, and their longing was infinitely greater than that of the demons, their eyes boring into her relentlessly churned and wrenched Isabel’s core, her very soul.
With a violent jolt and a scream Isabel awoke from her nightmare and shot bolt upright, fists clenched tight and her exposed body covered in a cold sweat. Her breathing was short and shallow, and it would, as it often did, take her some time to regain her composure.
Queasily, she made her way from the bed and to the bathroom. After washing her face and calming herself, she usually felt better, but this time, for some reason, waking up did not bring her the same relief it normally did.
She returned to the bed and her Zanriath pulled her close and held her tightly, as he always did, and she drifted back into a much more peaceful sleep. She slept calmly again then, secure in the knowledge that, even after all these years, long since the day he had saved her on the cold and unforgiving streets of Aproklis, things between them had changed only for the better.
These were happy times of security that she prayed would last forevermore. The people around her were caring, and hardly a single ill word was ever spoken.
But there was something - something nagging at the back of Isabel’s mind that she could not shake. It was a festering notion there that she could not for the life of her identify. It felt like a perception, one of those realisations that she had always seemed to have - information that she seemed to glean without even knowing how. But this time she could not place it.
The thought troubled her as she slept, but she was unable to find an answer to her flurrying questions.
Hopefully soon she would be able to identify it.
Hopefully, before it was too late.
2
Kalaris was set deeply into the rich depths of autumn as Isabel sat looking pensively out of the window of her solid stone home. The room was not furnished heavily, but equally did not look bare. The large hearth inside the stout oak frame was lit, as it often was now with winter encroaching so rapidly. In the centre of the room was an elegantly carved table and set of four chairs, where they sat as a family to eat.
Beside that the room was decorated with landscape canvases of the Kalaren Peaks and surrounding meadows, painted by the old man Arthur, who lived further up the village, whom Isabel was certain could capture anything with the right canvas and implements. There was also a square mirror on the far wall in a decorated wooden frame, a gift from one of their many neighbours.
There were side dressers on two of the walls, upon which were neat rows of books that Isabel would often sit and devour for hours on end, usually when the weather turned too dire to venture out into the heart of Kalaris. And finally, the floor was carpeted a gentle blue and matched the curtains that framed the window at which she now sat, looking out watching the world changing before her very eyes.
Trees turned from lush and green to orange and red, and were now shedding almost the last of their leaves. The rolling landscapes she could see off in the distance were also changing, no longer the rich green that she so loved, but instead warm, earthly browns and oranges. Though, as all knew only too well, it was anything but warm if you found yourself stranded out there without shelter.
As Isabel awaited her son Cole, she thought of the nightmare that had shaken her so the previous night, and cast her memory back to the day upon which Ben and Zhack had been murdered. The pain of guilt that she felt even now had never left her, and she spoke of them very rarely, if ever, and only to her Zanriath.
He was over at the smithy now. He had been working on a new set of tools requested by one of the village’s craftsmen, a man by the name of Baron. She smiled fondly as she thought of her husband and the almost twenty wonderful years they had had together.
Standing and moving gracefully over to one of the dressers, Isabel took down a book that Cole was in the middle of reading with her. He was an intelligent boy, and could quite easily grasp metaphorical meaning in literature, rather than simply taking what was written at face value, even at the tender age of fifteen. It was a skill that she was finding somewhat lacking in some of the other children she tutored, even the older ones amongst them.
Moving to the table, Isabel caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and smiled wryly as she thought of herself more than a few moons ago, only sligh
tly older than Cole, as the boys of Aproklis had trailed after her.
It wasn’t that she was no longer attractive, nor Zanriath handsome, for they both retained their ever-envied striking features. Zanriath’s eyes still shone a glorious golden, and Isabel’s were perhaps a deeper, more yearning brown than they ever had been. But, as is inevitable with time, their faces were touched here and there by signs of age, and their bodies were slower and more sluggish than they once had been. But their young spirits would never be so easily quelled.
Cole entered the living room, dressed in plain brown garb, and smiled affectionately. His smile always warmed Isabel to the core, and she never failed to see the face of her husband behind her son’s. Perhaps it was her parenting instinct, but she could think of nothing more wonderful in the world than her Cole, and he meant more to her than she could ever explain.
His light brown eyes and hair were a perfect mix of hers and Zanriath’s, and his athletic, but not quite adult frame, would surely bud into something that would easily rival her husband’s broad figure.
“Good morning mother.” He greeted her, his voice mellow.
“Good morning Cole.” Isabel replied gently, remembering her own father’s affection and how it had felt all those years ago. She flicked her fingers through the weathered pages of the book she held and found where they had finished off last time. “Shall we begin?”
Several hours later, after plenty of hard work, and consequent success, Isabel was satisfied with Cole’s progress for the day, and sent him to help his father in the smithy. Many would probably be apprehensive of sending their child to work and learn in such a place, even under the watchful eye of their father. But Zanriath had certain advantages in his particular line of work, and such, it was actually a very safe place and Cole learned much, and his education was not simply limited to the art of metalwork.
In many places it was often rare for a child to spend much time with their father. But in Kalaris, such was the tradition that sons, and daughters, spent time with both parents learning the family trade, and sometimes two, if their parents had each worked a different trade.
Due to this, the children of Kalaris were proving to grow and mature into bright and well-educated adults, taking the best of the knowledge from both of their parents - an effective practice for certain.
Cole had been in the smithy that morning for some time, learning from his father and continuing his education, before finally Zanriath set aside what he had set his hand to and nodded approvingly at his progress. The fires he had been using quenched instantly and went cold, as if they hadn’t been lit for days, and he pondered for a moment before moving to his workbench.
From beneath it he took out a bundle wrapped in fine leather and sealed with a stout cord. He unravelled the cord and checked the contents over one last time, Cole knew, for probably the hundredth time. Eventually he seemed satisfied and retied the cord.
“Here son.” He said, purposefully holding the bundle out for Cole. It had been the case in the past that Cole had delivered his father’s work to customers, and collected payment for him also, but never before had he been given such valuable goods.
“This is worth an awful lot…” Cole said dubiously as he took the heavy leather bundle, knowing that the tools he now held in his hands would be the pride and joy of any workman.
“Indeed.” His father replied. “Fourteen silver in fact. But I’m only asking for seven.”
“Who is it for?” Cole asked.
“Baron. His workshop is on the farthest west end of the village, just past young Aimee’s spice store. You remember don’t you?” Even as he asked Cole the question he flashed his son a knowing smile, for he knew Cole had visited Baron’s workshop with him many times before. Cole understood his meaning instantly, and smiled back gratefully.
“Yes, I remember.” He said confidently. Zanriath walked out of his workshop with his son and looked up at the slightly clouded sky. It was not too cold, though it had been the night before, and the peaks just to the north of their village were covered with a touch more snow each day now.
“Take your time.” Zanriath reassured him, telling him in that simple and single statement that he did not expect Cole to return to the workshop that day. “It’s likely to be a glorious afternoon, if not a little cold.” He smiled again and Cole returned it with a grin. His father nodded and Cole took off like a shot to the west, headed toward Baron’s workshop, at a much quicker pace than was really necessary.
Zanriath watched him go with a sigh and discarded his apron upon a hook before heading back into the stone house adjacent to his workshop. As he traced along the small pathway to the front door of his home Zanriath thought deeply. He knew Cole was more than dependable, and would make the delivery as soon as possible. But he also knew that it was rare that Cole ever received such an ideal opportunity to visit Rosynn, and that their son would likely not return for the remainder of the afternoon.
He opened the stout wooden front door and was greeted by his Isabel, who held him tightly as they watched their son disappear between the mismatch of stone homes and stores, with a mixture of both intrigue and concern flushed in their eyes.
Cole was running now, with the leather-wrapped bundle tucked securely under his arm, his hot breath steamed out in front of him and wisped over his head. He acknowledged passers-by briefly as he tore between buildings and rounded corners sharply, skidding with each turn. After a few minutes he was breathing more heavily, but had almost reached his destination, and so slowed to catch his breath, greeting the old artist Arthur with a quick gasp of a hello as they passed each other.
He approached Aimee’s spice store and could see Baron’s workshop not far beyond it. Both buildings were made of stone and were reasonably squat. Both had low-beamed doors and very square set windows. The main difference was simply that Baron’s workshop was much bigger, and extended much further out, occupying quite a lot more land that Aimee’s.
After all, Baron did make many items of all shapes and sizes, of all different materials, and had been hankering for the exquisite tool kit that Cole had tucked securely under his arm for quite some time. Zanriath had agreed to make one for him, for somewhat less than the tools were worth, more out of kindness than anything else.
Baron was the village’s carpenter and craftsman, and a good man he was, often offering his goods to villages for low rates, again simply out of his own kindliness. Cole’s parents did not mind lending a hand to good men.
And it was also out of that selfsame compassion that Cole’s father had asked his son to make this delivery on such a fine day, for as he walked briskly, Cole’s eyes fell upon a much more elegant and very familiar stone home, directly across the track and adjacent to Aimee’s store.
It was in no time at all that Cole had made his delivery to a very pleased Baron who, upon immediate inspection of his new tools, insisted on giving Cole more than the agreed sum of silver in payment, as he had never imagined receiving such exquisite metalwork in all his life.
Baron delighted in his new equipment and put them to work almost immediately. His splintered fingers found them to be much sharper and clearer than any he had ever used, and he resolved to somehow one day repay the favour Zanriath had done him.
Cole bade the stocky and balding fellow a fond farewell before retracing his steps back towards Rosynn’s house.
The autumn air was cool against Cole’s skin and his father had been right, it was turning out to be a glorious day. Soon enough though, he was sure, the air would no longer be cool, but instead cold, as winter unavoidably set it. Cole did not really mind the cold however, and looked up at the almost clear sky in momentary and blissful content.
Rosynn was a sweet young girl in her late twenties. Cole had first met her when he was much younger, only five or six years of age. Isabel had taken him with her to visit Aimee, as she had needed some supplies for her kitchen. It was then that Cole had first been drawn to the blind woman who tended to her rose bushes so
contentedly.
Ever since that brief encounter, on that day almost a decade ago, Cole had taken every opportunity possible to visit the lovely and intriguing young woman. Zanriath and Isabel both knew this, but they were also very fond of Rosynn, and so didn’t mind Cole’s visits. They were pleased that it gave Cole someone to spend time with, as he often struggled to engage with the other children in the village.
Rosynn had always reminded Isabel of Ayva. She was a very pretty girl with glorious flowing blonde hair and a lovely figure. She could not remember her father, or even his name, but knew only that he was dead. She knew also that her mother had been killed in the Kalaris massacre, just shy of twenty years ago, when Rosynn was only a young girl.
She had been found and taken in by a farmer off to the west, safe from the cold and from the demons. The kind old man had then returned her to Kalaris, when he had heard that survivors were rebuilding it, in an attempt to try to find some remnants of Rosynn’s family.
They had had no such luck in their search, and the young girl had been blind for as long as she could remember. So, as soon as they had laid eyes upon her, Isabel and Zanriath immediately took sweet, young Rosynn under their wing, and in Kalaris she still lived.
Cole approached the house and saw her awaiting his arrival. Somehow every time she knew he was coming. She sat, as always, at the base of the creeping vines that wove their way up the side of her petite stone home, between her endless fields of rose bushes that somehow managed to flower right up until the dark cold of winter, and then immediately again as spring emerged from its cold recesses.
Though Cole did not know why, she would always sit facing the windmill that could just be seen off in the distance to the east, perched upon the river that fed down from high in the Kalaren Peaks.
Cole loved both his parents dearly, and did not deny the fact, but there was something about Rosynn he could never quite place. Whilst Isabel and Zanriath had every care in the world for their son, and safeguarded him against the majority of his doubts and fears, so far, they had never truly been able to understand the feeling of inadequacy that plagued him. Rosynn, however, knew everything about Cole, and had a way of seeing right to the heart of all of his thoughts and emotions, although he could not for the life of him fathom how or why.
