The small terraces below the village were falling, collapsing into the waters.
The houses of the Pins and the Chus. Where Sezen was?
Mae was spurred by terror. 'Shenyalar. Wake up! Oh please wake up!'
A shutter moved.
'Who is it?'
'Mrs Shenyalar, it is Chung Mae. Listen, did you hear that noise?'
'Yes, yes indeed.'
'The Flood is here! Mrs Shenyalar, can your husband come with me, can he come and open up the mosque, so we can use the public-address?'
'Wait there, Mrs Chung,' said the wife.
Ju-mei began to shout at the other houses. 'Mr al Gama! The Haj-sir! Mrs Nan!'
A light went on at Mrs Nan's.
'Mrs Nan! Get up, get your things – go!' Mae shouted at the light.
The door of the Shenyalars' opened.
'Oh, Muerain!' Mae cried in relief.
'Inshallah,' breathed out the Muerain. He had taken time, the foolish man, to dress in his religious robes. He saw the river and its surging current, and the new lake at the foot of the streetlight. He heard the roar. He turned and looked at Mae, and his fine, thin features said mutely: You were right.
'We have to tell everyone,' she said.
Unhurried, the Muerain strode back into his house. 'Wife! Get the children, get food, and go at once to Madame Kwan's.'
His wife called, 'Surely it is too soon to worry?'
'It is too late to worry. I order you, wife: Out of this house and up to the house of the Wings'!'
'What are you doing?' his wife asked.
There was a flurry of footsteps on stairs. 'My duty!'
At that moment, the entire village was plunged into darkness. The power went.
'Inshallah!'
'Husband!'
'Get to the Wings'. I go!' shouted Mr Shenyalar.
Mae wrestled with her backpack, and felt the rubberized surface of a waterproof flashlight.
'I have two,' she said, and passed him one. The light flashed on the wet walls like fairies in a play, dancing ahead of them.
Mae turned to her brother. She kissed his cheek. 'Thank you,' she said. 'Don't go down. Lower Street is lost. Go up to the Soongs', the Pings', and Mr Atakoloo. Yes?'
'My place is with you,' said Ju-mei.
'It has always been with me, brother. But it is also with your wife and neighbours. Please go?'
Ju-mei paused, and then, very deliberately, gave his sister a long, low bow of respect.
Then he turned, shouting, 'Go to Wing's, don't go on Lower Street!'
Mae shouted, for a Muerain could not lose dignity to that extent. 'Everyone up! The Flood is here! Everyone up!'
Mae and the Muerain fought the current back up the gap between the Haj and the Nan households. Overhead, the stars glinted with merriment, the hills roared, everything was comic. The little people were finally seeing who their master was.
The current on Upper Street had gained strength. It sounded now like a waterfall; the little lake had reached up into the house of Mr Ping, and its surface rippled as it sluiced its way out between houses.
The Muerain hoisted up his skirts to show long hairless legs. He reached back for Mae, and ran, holding up his skirts like a dancing showgirl. The stars laughed. Around their feet stones swirled like the shards of broken pots.
The Muerain ran up the cobbles of the bridge. Below, through the pursed lips of the bridge's arch, the river made a noise like a child blowing through its own spit. Mr Shenyalar and Mae cleared the top of the arch.
More like a stallion now, all in white, the Muerain plunged down into the cascades that swept around both sides of the Dohs' ancient house. His sandals were snatched away from him. The Muerain nipped and minced and hopped across the stones on tender feet. Ouch ooch eek ouch.
The stars clutched their sides, their tiny eyes narrowed, wet with tears of laughter.
Ahead of them was movement. Mae shone her torch.
Mr Ken was giving a piggyback ride as if at a party, Mrs Okan's arms around his neck. Mr Okan shuffled beside them, clinging to the edge of his wife's dress and murmuring to her.
Behind them came Sezen's two sisters; Edrem, carrying his youngest child; and Hatijah, who was carrying the goat. Its eyes were round and pink with terror.
The Muerain said, 'Hurry up to Kwan's. The bridge will not hold.'
'The current is terrible,' said Mr Ken. 'Mae, come with us.'
'Not yet.'
'Mae, do not be so foolish. Please!'
Mae said instead, 'Loan the Muerain your shoes.'
A moment's pause, the sense of it was seen, and Mr Ken kicked off his galoshes.
'Is your mother out?'
Kuei shook his head. 'My mother is packing!' The Muerain hopped on one leg, pulling on the shoe.
'Packing! Does she think it's a picnic?'
'I know!' Mr Ken began to run to gain momentum to get him and Mrs Okan up the steep slope of the bridge. 'I'll have to go back for her!' he shouted.
The goat blinked and kicked in Hatijah's arms. Mae and the Muerain ran.
They ran straight into the rusting bedding now washed into the roadway. Blindly they bobbed and bounded their way over the springs. On the moonlit hill, Sunni's house was dark.
Out onto the bare slope, all trails gone. The stars glistened on the sheen of water. Ahead of them the white walls of the mosque glowed.
They reached the door of the mosque. Mae waited, panting. The Muerain suddenly slapped his own forehead.
'I've left the key behind,' he said.
'You what?' Mae felt like the water – torn, broken, swept away.
The Muerain stood back, raised a leg, and kicked at the lock. He was tall, strong, a herdsman. With a splintering sound and a shuddering of wood, the door chuckled its way backwards.
The floor was flooded. He grasped the wooden railing of the prayer stall, splashed across the floor to a staircase, and ran up the steps to the tower. Mae ran after him. The flashlight licked hungrily over the back of the speaker down to the batteries. Mr Shenyalar bent and kissed the batteries, tasting them to see if they still worked. He flicked a switch; there was amplified crackling. He began, low and dark, to sing.
Mae grabbed his arm.
'Muerain. Please!'
The flashlight glared angrily at her.
'I'm sorry, Muerain-sir. But most people sleep through a call to prayer.'
Pause.
'They turn over in their beds.'
Pause.
And his voice, rich and deep, said, 'The Flood has come. For our sins, our godlessness, the Flood is upon us.' It was strange. Mae could hear his voice, which was so close to her, roll and fall away all across the valley.
Then he said, 'Follow the advice of Mrs Chung. Take food, take blankets, and go to Mr Wing's. Do not go on Lower Street. Already you will not get past. Go on Upper Street. Now. The Flood is here.'
He turned.
'You go,' the Muerain said.
She paused. Somehow she had pictured herself calling the faithful.
'You must go and wake people. I can stay here.'
'Not too long,' Mae warned him.
'I have a duty,' Mr Shenyalar said. 'Go.' He passed her back the second flashlight. She turned and the Muerain's voice ballooned out over the sound of the water. 'The Flood has come.'
Mae staggered down the steps and then had to lean over. Acids shot like venom up from her stomach and out of her mouth. The fumes were acrid; she had difficulty breathing. Her throat was raw and sore. She knelt down and scooped up some of the water and drank.
Where could she do the most good? Sezen would have roused the plain, the houses in the low south. It was Sunni who had farthest to go; she was high, but next to the river. She would need to go down to the bridge to cross. Mae looked across and saw Sunni's house, high and alone. She blinked, and thought she saw it move on its foundations.
So Mae ran to save Sunni.
The hill between the high mosque and the high house was no longer flowing with water. It was pouring mud; the mud stirred around her like porridge, but porridge with teeth, for it was also full of stone. I will have to give up soon, Mae thought, I will have to save myself.