The Ebbing Tide by Elisabeth Ogilvie

blew out the light and slid down between the chilly sheets.
    That night she dreamed. It was the first time she had ever dreamed like that since she had been grown-up, waking up to the sound of her own incoherent moans, reaching out into an emptiness that suffocated, feeling clammy and chilled with sweat. She lay in the darkness for a long time, huddled into a tight ball, rehearsing over and over the horror of the dream. She had been watching the mine rising and falling gently on a sea as friendly and blue as Jamie’s eyes. She could only see one bit of the mine, since most of it was under water; but what she saw had not been terrifying. It flashed in the sunlight as it moved. Then, though she didn’t see the boat, she knew it was there, she heard it coming nearer and nearer, and knew Nils was on it; she’d felt a great surge of happiness.
    I hadn’t expected to see him as soon as this , she thought. They must have come back for something. This is a little unexpected gift .
    But he mustn’t bump into the mine. She said it quickly, and then she tried to call to him, because as the sound of the engine grew louder, the mine looked suddenly malignant, as if it had a life of its own, and there was something horrifying even about the shining, tranquil water around the mine. But when she tried to call, her throat closed up. It ached with her effort to be heard, but nothing happened. . . . Nothing but the flash. There was no sound, just a flash that frightened her more than a sound could have done.
    When it cleared there was the shining water again. It stretched to the horizon on either side, reflecting the sun like one vast uneasy mirror. The mine was gone, there was no sound of a boat, no friendly mew of a seabird, nothing. . . . Nothing but Nils’ head, and a wave breaking over it with lazy finality.
    His head had been covered with blood. The one ghastly glimpse hadn’t shown his face. Maybe he hasn’t any face , someone kept whispering, and she awoke and knew it was herself, whispering.
    In the morning she felt sick and slow, as if she were coming down with some sickness. Even in the light of day she couldn’t escape the dream. It carried its own atmosphere, and she was surrounded by it. When she was getting breakfast she thought miserably, It’ll torment me till I tell someone about it . And she decided to tell Owen when he came down. He would jeer at her, and that was what she knew she needed.
    She heard feet on the stairs and her heart lightened wonderfully, and began to shape the way she would tell her dream. And then Dennis Garland came into the kitchen.
    â€œGood morning,” he said pleasantly.
    â€œGood morning.” She turned away, busy with measuring coffee, and neither of them spoke again until Owen came down. Then there was no chance to tell him about the dream. But her annoyance with Dennis Garland had tempered the horror somewhat.
    â€œWell, we didn’t blow up last night, by God!” Owen announced and plunged his face into a basin of cold water. Coming up, he groped for the towel, found it, and emerged from it pleasantly, his brown skin glowing. “Nope! But there’s still plenty of time. Wait till the expert gets here.”
    There was more talk of the mine at breakfast. She thought she would go crazy. It was Owen who did most of the talking; Garland asked more questions about the Island, but she answered them briefly. It was like having a toothache, when even to move the jaw hurts unbearably. She thought they would never get through the meal, and down to the shore. But when she was alone with Jamie, she was also alone with the dream again.
    She was upstairs making the beds when the doors banged downstairs and Thea called. “Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”
    Joanna thought first of not answering, but Thea was quite capable of exploring the house if she thought it was empty. “I’m home,” she called from the head of the stairs.