The Souls of the Ocean (Book Two in The Tamarack Series)

by Ross Turner

  Love may be blind to most, but to some it offers insight otherwise impossible to find.

  And so, with the bizarre kinship that they shared, Cole would steal away at every given opportunity to sit with Rosynn. He would not be dishonest about it, for the whole village knew of the odd affair, and that there was nothing improper to it. He simply made sure that, whenever an opportunity such as this one presented itself, he took full advantage.

  “Are you warm enough Cole?” Rosynn’s sweet and smooth voice asked as he sat down beside her.

  “Yes, thank you. Are you?” He replied, not at all startled by the way she knew who and where he was. She always did. Her hands absently worked at the rose bushes around her while they talked.

  “Good. I knew you would come. How are you today?”

  “Very well thank you, and you?” Rosynn did not reply. Instead her forehead creased for a moment in a concerned frown and she sighed richly, the cool air pinching her lungs.

  “The feeling is growing stronger?” She asked worriedly. She was, of course, referring to the discontent that Cole felt in his bones, in his very existence, but spoke of to no one but her. And she was not really asking him, for she already knew what his answer would be.

  He smiled gladly, as he had been sure that she would have known without him having to tell her. Sometimes it seemed to Cole that Rosynn was the only person that did not inherently expect great things of him, and that she alone saw him as a human being, as all were: fragile, delicate, and complex.

  Of course he knew that was all nonsense, and that realistically, the only person who expected such things was himself. But still, he felt more comfortable in her presence than in anyone else’s, and so did not feel as though he wasn’t living up to expectations when they spoke so openly.

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself all the time.” Rosynn said in a voice that to any other would have sounded no different, but Cole felt the heavy weight of truth bearing down upon her words, and they stood solidly against him. She softened her tongue. “It’s not a bad thing to be self-critical Cole.” She assured him, placing her free hand on his. “But your own disbelief will hold you back.” Cole nodded glumly in response.

  “I know.” He admitted solemnly. “I can’t help it.” Rosynn thought for a moment before speaking again.

  “Did I ever tell you why I was named Rosynn?” She asked him gently.

  The truth was that she had, many a time, but Cole liked listening to the sound of her voice, and so shook his head regardless. She smiled, as always knowing Cole’s thoughts without the need for him to speak them, and recited the tale.

  She had told him many stories. Stories of the creation of Tamarack, stories of Rilako, of his parents, but this particular tale always brought him back from gloom, though he never did know whether it was true, or if Rosynn had simply made it up because she had known it would calm him.

  “My mother would always tell me, when I was very young, that before I was born she and my father would take long walks across the fields to the east, because they loved to watch the glorious summer sunsets off to the west. They would stand atop the highest of all the hills together and just watch, and they continued to do so even when my mother fell heavily pregnant.”

  She paused for a moment and shifted her busy hands to a different rose bush.

  “Then, one day, in the height of a late summer’s afternoon, she had gone in search of my father over the fields, because he had gone to visit one of his close friends.” Rosynn’s storytelling was simple, but calming, as it always was for Cole, even as the tone of her voice rose and fell and changed dramatically to suit the intricacies of the simple the tale she was weaving.

  “Then, all of a sudden, she felt a sharp pain, and her hand went to her swollen stomach, and she knew immediately that, on this occasion, time would not wait for her return home. Having almost reached her husband regardless, she called out his name, and he and the others rushed to my mother’s aid.” She smiled fondly as she felt Cole’s anxiety melt slowly away.

  “It was on that late summer’s afternoon, beneath the warmth of the sun touching the hills, that I was born in a field of rich, red roses. And so I was to be named Rosynn, and to be known by that name forevermore.”

  Cole smiled and sighed, knowing somehow he would never fully understand this strange yet lovely young woman.

  “When I was a little girl…” Rosynn began as she turned her head to the north. Cole imagined her casting her gaze up at the Kalaren Peaks or even beyond, though he knew that wasn’t possible. “I always wanted to live in Akten on Avrik. But then, after my mother died, that desire vanished, and I wanted nothing more than to stay here.” Cole looked on at Rosynn with intrigue. This was something she hadn’t told him before.

  “Why was that?” He asked.

  “I’m not sure.” She admitted. “But it was almost like there was something keeping me here, as though I was bound by this place. So I never left.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t leave.” Cole said suddenly on an impulse. “Or else I probably would never have met you.” Rosynn smiled.

  “So am I.” She said quietly. “I suppose in some ways we’re lucky that what happened to Kalaris did so. If it hadn’t, the people surely wouldn’t be this content, and our first meeting may never have taken place.”

  “Yes.” Cole replied simply, agreeing and nodding his head slightly. They sat quietly then for a few minutes and, for some reason, he did not know why, Cole wondered whether luck had in fact had anything to do with it at all.

  He remained silent as he pondered the thought, but after some time Rosynn broke the hush, her voice much firmer than usual, carrying a tone of certainty that Cole did not recognise.

  “There is more to life than power Cole.” She told him suddenly and directly. “I know you are frustrated. I know sometimes you are disappointed. But you have much more than you realise…power included.” Rosynn’s hand came to her head and her forehead creased. It was almost as if the words she had spoken had not been her own, in a voice that did not belong to her.

  The hour was growing late and it was not long before Cole reluctantly bade Rosynn a warm farewell, and headed back home to his parents. As he walked he thought of their conversations, and, as was usually the case, he had once again left Rosynn’s company in evermore wonder of the strange girl and her peculiar insights into his life.

  Soon enough, the welcoming sight of the stone building that was his home came into view, and Cole quickened his pace, his stomach telling him he had indeed been away for quite some time.

  But as he approached the house his pace slowed warily, and he eventually stopped. Something was different. He felt a strange sensation that he had never experienced before, a compulsion even, that he did not recognise.

  Though he could not see her, Cole somehow knew his mother was home. In fact, he knew precisely where she was. She was in the kitchen, presumably preparing dinner as she awaited his arrival. He pinpointed her location exactly, but of his father’s whereabouts, Cole could not tell.

  A sudden excitement swelled within him and he flexed his mind and gathered his will, experimenting with something he had honestly believed he would never possess. A smile spread across Cole’s young face until he was practically beaming. And then he released his will, somewhat apprehensively, not really knowing what would happen when he did so.

  He waited expectantly, but was not rewarded. He waited a little longer, hoping he had missed something, but it was not so. His heart sank and his excitement faded, draining out of him within seconds, leaving him feeling somewhat abandoned. It had been nothing. Still he was nothing but a disappointment, and that horrible feeling consumed him wholly once more.

  Cole trudged on, no longer hungry. He realised he could smell his mother’s cooking, and hear her whistling a melodic tune as he approached. He had not sensed her presence at all, only heard her whistles and smelled his dinner through the open kitchen window.

  He sighed begrudgingly at his o
wn foolish self.

  The evening proceeded as evenings usually did. Zanriath had been home after all, and within minutes of Cole’s arrival, they were seated as a family enjoying a hot and delicious stew. None of them spoke of Rosynn, though Cole often wondered how much his parents would have liked him tell them of their bizarre conversations.

  Before they knew it the night was growing older and they all retired to bed, relieved to have warmth and shelter from the bitter night.

  Cole slept soundly until he was awoken by a scream from his parents’ bedroom, and the all-too familiar sound of his mother sobbing uncontrollably.

  Isabel cried out Depozi’s name in her sleep as she was haunted by His last meek and pitiful cry of desperation, before she had done what had to be done - what only she could do.

  There had once been a time, even when he was very young, when Cole would have rushed in to ensure his mother was ok. But by now, he knew nothing could be done to help her, but to let his father comfort her until she slept once more. It was not uncommon for her to be haunted by her past, and once she had settled her nerves, she would often sleep soundly for the remainder of the night.

  As always, in the morning, she seemed to be fine, and she never spoke of the nightmares, but Cole knew better than to think nothing was wrong.

  Never before had he been woken two nights in a row by his mother’s terrified screams, and the haunted look in her eyes betrayed volumes that her words and her tone and her smile worked so hard to disguise.

  Something was indeed very wrong.

  3

  That day, following the night of Isabel’s second consecutive nightmare, something else odd happened - something that had also never happened before two days in a row. The day was almost an exact repeat of the previous one. The fact that Cole was presented with the opportunity to visit Rosynn again so soon, was unheard of, though he did not question the matter.

  Upon conclusion of his tutoring with his mother, Cole sought out his father’s workshop, only to find his father had another errand for him to run, as luck would have it, over on the western side of Kalaris.

  And so, after paying a short visit to Khriss, a young wiry gentleman with short, cropped hair and strangely piercing eyes, the keeper of Kalaris’ stables, to deliver some of his father’s work, Cole made his way to Rosynn’s neat rose garden.

  As usual, as he drew nearer, he could see Rosynn waiting for him, sat amongst her rose bushes that bloomed at unnatural times and outshone other flowers for miles around. She seemed to be looking directly at the young man, rather expectantly, as he approached. She smiled at him warmly as he greeted her.

  This was indeed a strange set of circumstances, she thought. It seemed things were moving rather more quickly than she had at first anticipated.

  That night, Isabel’s dreams tormented her in a way that they had never done so before, and she was deeply troubled by what she saw.

  Cole was alone. The boat in which he sat like a lost puppy was algae covered and leaking profusely. It drifted aimlessly upon a stagnant river that barely moved in the oppressive heat all around it, clogging the air and trapping the young man helplessly, isolated.

  The noise of vermin and insects verged on deafening as they ferreted their way around this peaty, boggy swamp. Worst of all, combined with the heat, was the overpowering smell. It was a soggy stench that could only be the result of a mixture of almost motionless water, and various other less than delightful substances.

  The surrounding trees were swarming with life of all shapes and sizes, each creature going about its business unaware, or uncaring, of the abandoned child floating along beside them. The muddy banks and shores and the living trees and branches stretched far into every distance that the eye could see, and there was only more of the same beyond that, the whole marsh drowning in the heat and the stench and the murk that was its heart and soul.

  Cole’s small boat moved slowly downstream, caught up by twigs and algae and frogspawn as it trundled inexorably along. Cole himself did not move. His head rested in his hands with his elbows perched on his knees. His ripped and dirtied clothes hung off him as though he had been abandoned and living in the wild for the better part of late.

  And that is exactly what he was. He was abandoned. He was alone. He was unwanted. Isabel saw her son from the shore, sitting in the sinking boat, waiting.

  The sight tore at her heart and the feeling of loss tormented her terribly, and she wanted so desperately to reach out to him, if by nothing more than a mother’s instinct. But she was unable to do so.

  She called to her son, but her voice made no sound. She struggled to reach him, but her movements gained her no ground. It seemed that her senses would allow her no contact with Cole, except the torturous knowledge that she was not there for him.

  Isabel’s next thought was one that she recognised. It was not a thought as much as a memory. It was a memory of Depozi. She remembered all too clearly how alone she had felt when she had at last found herself face to face with Him in the Lair of the Demonic. She had almost been overwhelmed by the strength of that horrendous feeling, and had only been saved by those who loved her.

  Had she known then how it would wrench at her heart to see such a loved one so alone, and to be unable to help them, her wrath would have been tenfold. This is not what she would ever have wanted for Cole. She loved him too dearly.

  Then a strange thing happened. Cole looked cautiously up and, not seeing Isabel, cast his gaze to the far shore across from where he sat. Isabel followed his line of sight and her eyes widened in recognition of the figure that stood there, leaning contentedly against the solid trunk of a wide, slimy tree. As rats scurried at his feet the man rested his hand contentedly atop his white, spiralling walking stick. She could not believe her eyes.

  Farmhand was exactly as Isabel remembered him. He even wore the same thick grey tunic, despite the intense heat of the swamp. His features looked infinitely more fragile than they had done, all those years ago, but his words rang as clear as day in Isabel’s mind.

  ‘May you both be happy together.’ His voice echoed emptily through her thoughts.

  And indeed Isabel and Zanriath were happy together, exceedingly so. But what of Cole? What of her son? Then Isabel remembered farmhand’s question to Zanriath, and finally realised, somehow, that the question had not been intended solely for her husband to-be.

  ‘If you were never to see her smile again, would all your other troubles still seem so important?’

  Isabel looked at her son with tears standing heavily in her eyes. Cole watched the strange old man with a mixture of confusion, intrigue and wariness.

  When had she last seen Cole smile? Smile without a hint of sadness - not since he was very young surely. He had seemed so…pre-occupied of late, so worried, so…disappointed.

  Next, something happened that Isabel wasn’t prepared for. She cast a fleeting glance at farmhand once again, and his expression changed from one of contentedness, to one of worry and fear, before he faded away and disappeared altogether, leaving nothing behind.

  Looking back to Cole, Isabel drew a sharp breath, and fear seized her also.

  Now, sat opposite her son in the moss-ridden boat, twisting and turning sluggishly through the dingy swamp, was a young girl, no more than six or seven years of age. She had a tiny frame and very small hands, petite and delicate. They were, however, clenched so tightly in balled fists upon the wooden hull of the boat that her fingernails raked into the ancient wood, making a terrible scraping sound that pierced the heat like a knife.

  It was impossible to tell the colour of the girl’s hair or clothes or eyes or even skin, as her entire figure was a ghostly white, tinged with light blue, and her outline flickered dangerously as if in and out of existence.

  The most notable thing about this flickering ghost of a girl was her expression. While her hands raked at the boat and her body was tensed so rigidly, her eyes bore into Cole with a look of what could only be described as pure anger, hatred
, loathing, the likes of which would not be thought possible to be housed by one so young. A deep-rooted and age-old longing radiated from the tiny figure, It was a feeling that Isabel recognised all too clearly, and it sent shivers down her spine.

  This flickering girl was a lost soul, one of the countless Souls of the Ocean that had so desired her. The chill seeped eagerly through her entire body and consumed Isabel wholly, shaking her to her core.

  It seemed that Cole was now also on their minds.

  Isabel did not wake this time with a start or a scream, nor was her pulse racing or she short of breath. As her eyes opened in the murky darkness, she felt nothing but the overpowering feeling of loss and longing hanging from the strings of her heart. A lump caught in her throat and a cavern opened in the pit of her stomach, as she saw Cole still, even now, alone with the lost souls.

  She was an empty vessel, lost in an endless ocean, trying desperately to hold on to the son she felt she had already let slip from her grasp.

  Still an hour later Isabel stood in the doorway of Cole’s bedroom, unable to take her eyes from her son sleeping so soundly before her, untroubled by nightmares. Long had she wondered whether Cole would show any potential ability in the demonic. In some ways she hoped he never would, and if he did, she hoped he never had the need to exercise his will, for it was not something to be taken lightly. Nor was its torment easily forgotten.

  But she knew better than anyone that, sometimes, it is the way of the world for a task to be set for which there is no alternative. Even if such a task would never leave the poor soul chosen to complete it without regret, without guilt, without some form of anguish.