ON A BLACK MOON SEA ~A Halloween Anthology~

The Ileara

Rignes Island does not see many visitors. Located just outside the polar circle, it has little to offer but freezing lowlands, steep cliffs and the cry of a thousand horses forever caught in the waves surrounding it.

Its story is seldom told, its shores barely walked upon. Rignes Island is not found on any map, and not even the most well-travelled man can tell you where exactly it is. Some say it lies just off the coast of Greenland, whilst others say they've caught glimpses of it in the Bering Sea. It comes and goes with the morning mist, elusive and unattainable.

Bolin had spent the last half his life searching for Rignes. In possession of the only map to ever to make it off of the island, he had devoted much of his wealth and his sanity to cruising the icy waters and following every possible lead he could find, no matter how insignificant.

For he knew the island itself did not have anything to offer but barren land. The breaking waves surrounding it, however, were nothing short of magical.

Myths tell of Neptune's horses, of kelpies and water horses living in the lochs, but none compare to the Ileara of Rignes. Their beauty is beyond comprehension, and those that have seen the creatures that dance in the breaking waves say not even the most perfect rose will look beautiful after the experience.

Bolin never thought he'd see them himself. Even though he had dedicated many of his years to the search, the thought of actually finding them, of seeing them charge and run in the foam, had become something quite like a dream. Stealing breath and gaining everlasting life had always felt like something that was possible, but out of reach.

"Bolin," a raspy voice said. "Bolin, what are you doing?"

Even though Bolin had lost the map in the shipwreck, he had looked at it for hours on end and knew exactly where on the island they were. He had been staring at cliffs for the past half hour, unable to believe he had made it.

"Those are the Torik cliffs." Bolin pointed. "We're on the wrong side of the island."

"For Christ's sake," Richard said, giving him a shove. "Is that what you're worried about? How about you worry about getting off the island? Even if those water horses of yours are real, everlasting life won't do you no good if you're stuck in this place for eternity."

"We can worry about getting off the island after," he said, probing his mind for memory of the shipwreck, testing his reality and his mind to see if this wasn't a dream. Everything felt real, down to the biting cold on his cheeks and the fire in his fingers. He had stopped feeling them a few hours ago, and the pinkie finger on his left hand had started to turn slightly blue.

"You're bloody mad," Richard said. He had smoked for the majority of his life, and his voice sounded as harsh as the rocks the waves crashed into. Bolin had liked Richard, at first, but detested his voice.

It had taken hours for the fishing ship to sink below the waves. The radio was working, but they got no answer to their desperate cries for help. They were in the middle of the Bering Sea, a commercial fishing hot spot, yet there wasn't a single ship in sight.

He and five other men had shared a lifeboat, but only four of them had made it to the island. As soon as the first man went overboard, the second had tried to pull him back up, only to be taken himself by the next wave. Bolin did not know their names, nor did he care. What point was there in naming the dead?

Compassion for another human being was something foreign to him. It was lost along with the memory of his wife and three daughters. Their names were always on the tip of his tongue, lost in the depths of his mind.

"Bolin!" Richard called. Bolin turned to look at the scraggly man and the others huddling close. With nothing but rock on this tiny island, they were unable to make a fire to warm their freezing bodies. Two of the men had taken off their clothes and were holding--quite awkwardly--onto each other in a desperate attempt to share body heat.