All night long Paul heard the driving rain and the wind lashing the dead vine across his window. Even in his dreams he heard it. As gray daylight came, his sleepy voice kept mumbling, "They should've named it Oceanus ... Oceanus ... Oceanus."
His own words brought him awake. Scarcely touching his toes to the cold floor, he leaped to the window and pulled the curtain aside. He stared awestruck.
The sea was everywhere, all around. The tide had not ebbed. It had risen, its waves dirtied and yellowed by sand and jetsam. They were licking now against the underpinning of the house. Suddenly Paul knew it was more than rain he had heard in his dreams. It was the sea on its march to the house.
All at once fear was sharp in him, like a pain. Misty had drowned! She had drowned because she was trapped in a stall. He himself had bolted and locked and trapped her. If only, long ago, he had sent her back to Assateague with the wild things where she belonged! Then she could have climbed the White Hills and been saved. If only.... If...!
Angry at himself, almost blaming himself for the storm, he pulled on his blue jeans over his pajamas. And he yelled for Grandpa as he tore through the silent house to the back hall.
The old man was already there, struggling into his hip boots. "Shush! Shush!" he whispered. "You'll wake yer Grandma and Maureen. Ain't nothing they can do to help. Mebbe," his voice was tight and bitter, "ain't nothing anybody can do."
Paul hoped Grandpa wouldn't notice the tremble of his hands as he buttoned his jacket. But Grandpa was busy gathering up a pile of supplies—some old, worn bath towels, a thermos jug of hot water, a box of oatmeal, and a small brown paper sack. He stuffed the towels inside his slicker, picked up the jug, and gave the oatmeal and the sack to Paul.
"Mind you keep them dry," he cautioned. "The sack's got sugar inside ... in case o' emergency."
He opened the door, and the old man and the boy stepped out into a terrifying seventy-five-mile-an-hour gale. The sudden pressure half-knocked Paul's breath out. The rain blew into his eyes faster than he could blink it away. He felt Grandpa thrust a strong arm through his, and linked tight together they flung themselves against the wind, floundering ankle-deep in the choppy water. Paul's heart hammered in his chest and he cried inside, "Please, God, take the sea back where it belongs. Please take it back."
As they stumbled along, Grandma's new-hatched chicks swept by them and out to sea on the tide. And they saw two squawking hens, their feet shackled by seaweed, struggling to reach their chicks. But they were already out of sight. Paul and Grandpa, too, were helpless to save them.
Numb and weary, they reached the shed, and to their relief it was a windbreak. They caught their breath in its shelter. At least, Paul thought, the wind won't rush in when we open the door.
Grandpa set down his jug. Paul opened the door just a crack. Fearfully, uncertainly, they peered in. They stared unbelieving. Maureen, looking like a wet fish or a half-drowned mermaid, sat dozing on Misty's back. Skipper was sleeping at her feet, curled up in a furry ball.
As the door creaked on its hinges, Misty shied and Maureen fell off in a surprised heap. She bounced up like a jack-in-the-box.
"Wal, I never!" Grandpa clucked as he and Paul went inside. "Seems like we're intrudin'. Eh, Paul?"
Paul's surprise turned to resentment. "Least you could've done, Maureen, was to wake me up."
"And who usually goes off alone?"
"Who?"
"You! Remember when you sneaked Grandpa's boat and went to Assateague all alone?"
"Oh, that! That was no place for a girl."
"Stop it!" Grandpa shouted. He gave Maureen a gentle spank, then turned to Paul. "We've got all the makings here. You and Maureen fix a hot mash for Misty. I'll wade over to the hay house and see to Watch Eyes and Billy Blaze and the mares. You two wait for me here."
Later, at breakfast, Paul started to tell Grandma about her chicks, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. She was spooning up the porridge, trying to hide her fears with nervous chatter. "As you said, children, there's a time to go to school and a time to stay home. Well, this-here is the time to stay home. I won't have you going out again and catchin' the bad pneumonia."
"Guess ye're right, Idy," Grandpa agreed.
Paul and Maureen merely nodded. For once, a holiday from school did not seem attractive. They ate in silence.
"I've a good mind to feed you sawdust after this," Grandma went on. "Not a one of ye would know the difference."
Halfway through, Grandpa pushed his bowl of porridge aside. "It's stickin' in my gullet," he said. He got up from the table and stood over the stove, flexing his fingers. "Any way ye look at it," he sighed heavily, "we're bad off. Our old scow tore loose in the night—it's gone. And likely our ninety head up to Deep Hole are gone, too." His body shivered. "But even so," he added quietly, "we're lucky."
Maureen sat up very straight. "You have me and Paul," she said solemnly.
"That's 'zactly what I mean! We got us two stout-built grandchildren, and they're not afeard to buckle down and pull alongside us."
Paul stood up. He felt strong and proud, as if he could tackle anything. "I'm going with you, Grandpa."
"How'd ye know I'm going anywheres? But I am! I got to get over to town. Human folk may need rescuin'."
Grandma's lips pressed into a thin line. "Ye can't go! There's no road! Water'd come clean up over your boots."
"There, there, Idy. The wind's let up some, and Billy Blaze and Watch Eyes is used to plowin' through water. If they can't walk, they kin swim. Boy, ye ready?"
Paul shot a look of triumph at Maureen and immediately felt ashamed.
"Clarence!" Grandma pleaded, trying to keep her menfolk at home. "I won't have you going off and over-straining yourself. You, and me too," she added quickly, "is getting agey. Besides, soon the telephone will come on, and the electric, and we can all set cozy-like and listen to the news on the radio."
"If everyone was to stay home, Idy, a lot of folk might go floatin' out to sea like yer baby chicks." He clapped his hand over his mouth. He hadn't meant to tell her. But now it was too late.
Grandma's eyes filled. She covered her face with her hands. "Pore little chickabiddies," she whispered, "with their soft yellow fuzz and their beady birdy eyes." She wiped her tears with her apron. "All right, go 'long," she said. "I just hope your herd up to Tom's pasture ain't met the same fate."
Grandpa put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "That's another reason I got to go," he said. "When I'm fightin' the elements, I can't be grievin' about my herd. If they've weathered the night, they'll last the day. And if they ain't...."
"I'll keep watch on Misty," Maureen offered. "And if there's any trouble, Grandma knows all about birthing."
