Ice cold waves washed over him as Hamish fought to get to the surface. He gasped, desperately trying to get some—any—of the brisk air into his lungs, but all he managed to do was to gulp even more salt water yet. Something was wrapped around his ankle, and it was dragging him down… down…

Hamish threw himself upright with a gasp, panting in fear. It was the same nightmare again. The same nightmare he had for the last few years, but now it was becoming more frequent. He had that nightmare more times than not over the last several months, and although he tried to brush it off, it was starting to really unsettle him. It must all be psychological, he thought to himself. He had only moved closer to the coast about a year ago, and so his brain was simply reminding him of the drowning he had suffered as a child. Every day he thanked God that his father had been there to rescue him, but his father wasn’t there anymore.

Trying to put the thought of his father out of his mind, Hamish left his bed and got ready to tend to the farm. He loved this farm. This was where he had grown up and learnt his trade. It was only fitting he would take over his father’s farm upon his death. Hamish didn’t mind, though. It was a beautiful place, the farm he’d grown up on—wide, expansive fields, clifftop views of the blue-grey sea, with salt breeze ruffling through your hair. The crash of the waves were their own music that Hamish and his father would listen to while planting, weeding, harvesting. He loved this place.

Well, he once loved this place. Right up until he was caught on a wild horse’s bridle and dragged into the sea. It was his own fault. His father warned him not to play in the nearby loch. He had his reasons: Hamish was not a strong swimmer, and anyways, there were monsters in the loch. Hamish didn’t especially pay attention to the idea that there were monsters in the loch. That was a fairy tale, of course—simply to detract Hamish, he thought—and so he defied his father to go play. Who could blame him? He was only eight, after all.

Hamish shook his head, clearing his mind of the ghosts of the past. That was at least twenty years back, and his father was gone for nine moons now. It was time for him to grow up. As Hamish walked out of his small cottage home, he looked out at the sea, something pulling his eye. A dark-haired man stood on the beach, staring up at Hamish, who turned away, unsettled.

❈❈❈

A bizarre wind came in over the course of the day, and by the late afternoon, it was storming. The rain pelted at the windows, sending sheets of water down the panes; charcoal-grey sky, rumbling thunder threatening to come closer. Hamish was forced to retreat inside. He stood at the window, his eyes skimming over the plot he was planting before this unnatural storm came in.

As the winds picked up, Hamish could see the last plant his father planted, a just-sprouting kale, violently thrown around in the wind. For reasons he didn’t understand, Hamish found himself walking out to the kale, holding a stick and some twine, pelted by relentless rain but drawn no less to help this struggling little plant. Kneeling by it, Hamish quickly worked to tie the plant to the stick, stabilising it. He would get ill from being out in this storm, he knew, but something was calling him to help that small, struggling little kale. 

Hamish stood and turned to walk back to the cabin, only to see the dark-haired stranger standing by the door, staring, snarling, unblinking. Anger rose in Hamish’s throat, and as he walked towards the man, his hand raised. The man transformed. He was a stallion—a beautiful, jet-black horse with a wild, wind-swept mane and almost feral eyes. He ran towards Hamish, Hamish’s outstretched arm getting tangled in the bridle that seemed to appear from nothing, and he was suddenly being dragged. 

He tried to shout, to scream, to ask for help from anyone or anything that may have heard him, but the oxygen left his lungs. He could not let go; he was entangled in the bridle, and his skin seemed stuck to the horse’s hide. Somehow, they descended the cliffs in but a moment and were already diving deep into the sea. He fought against the horse, trying desperately to escape, but the more he fought, the more tangled he seemed to become. The horse was galloping deeper and deeper into the water, ignoring Hamish’s fight for survival. There was no way out of this. This was just like when he was a child, but there was no one to save him this time. 

“Father!” he cried out, salty seawater surging down his throat. 

His father ran into the seas, shouting his name, swimming to reach Hamish and the horse.

Hamish reached out, hoping to grab hold of his father’s hand.

Just managing to catch his son, his father grabbed hold of the horse’s bridle.

Hamish’s hand found its way to the horse’s bridle. He tugged at the strap surrounding his wrist, but he could not loosen it.

His father pulled hard at the bridle, and eventually it became loose, throwing Hamish back into the arms of his panicked father.

Desperate, Hamish tried one last time. He pulled at the bridle, and it came loose in his hand. Suddenly the horse was gone. Sea calm, Hamish was alone, the horse’s bridle now firmly in his hand. He was shocked but felt the spirit of his father surrounding him. Hamish turned around and swam back to shore.