'Help me,' whispered Mae.
And the entirety lifted up its aged, young, beautiful self and corralled its separate parts like hundreds of waving chiffon scarves, collected itself, trying to recognize and learn in a realm where time and learning were complete. Finished, meaning, accomplished.
Mae nipped in and out of that life like a mouse through floorboards. Mae called, and the entirety tried to lift its head as Mrs Tung slept.
Mae whispered to Mrs Tung in dreams.
A young wife tossed fitfully in her bed in a village called Mirrors. Mae tried to lead her back to the moment when the cauldron spilled, when the fire shot through the Air.
Little Miss Hu shivered on the grass as she slept by a campfire, trading horses. Mae called.
Granny shook her head, aching in a wooden chair, asleep in dreams, in Air.
Dreams are a way for the finished self in Air to live again, to have a before and an after in which to think. We learn through all eternity in our dreams.
And so did Mrs Tung. The dream had recurred all through her life.
It was a terrible dream, always the same. A friend, a daughter, even Lily perhaps, needed her. She, Mrs Tung, had done something. She didn't mean to do it, she had not known she had done it, but it was something she had done. Sometimes, at its most nightmarish, she had somehow stolen her friend's body.
And the answer was always the same.
Old Mrs Tung lifted all of herself up like a thousand ragged ghosts. And she was blown by love towards one particular time.
'Mae Mae Mae Mae Mae Mae…'
And she met a friend, and that friend seemed to pour her like slithery silk scarves to one particular thing.
That thing was a part of Mrs Tung's life. A moment of her life that had been taken and frozen and held. It was like a burn victim, so scarred that it could not move, embittered and incomplete. Incomplete and angry, after the beautiful pattern should have been finished. Mrs Tung settled on it with her whole self, and enveloped it and welcomed it and hugged it and stilled it. She was reunited with a tiny, hardened, mean little part of her life. She wove it back into the beautiful carpet.
And then said, very clearly, quoting the poet through all her life:
'Listen to the reed, how it tells a tale, complaining of separations.'
Somewhere in time, Mae's eyes fluttered and opened again.
She was in her kitchen, back in herself.
'I'm back,' she managed to whisper. There was a sound of scraping chairs as two men jumped up from the table.
But somewhere else, two spirits sat together as if in an attic exchanging memories, joined forever, remembering the poets.
'Body is not veiled from soul, nor soul from body, yet none is permitted to see the soul.'
In the future, everyone will be able to talk with their dead.
CHAPTER 26
Mae, Siao, Mr Ken and his children all strolled together towards the celebration.
They were a new kind of family. Mr Ken walked on ahead, cajoling and calming his two daughters who were beside themselves with impatience to get to the square to join their friends.
Mr Ken's arms were full of little paper boats. Each one had a birthday-cake candle balanced in it. The girls kept jumping up and trying to snatch them, as if they were full of bonbons.
'Careful, careful!' said Mr Ken. 'The candles are only held by a little wax, and these are for Auntie Mae and Siao as well.'
'Let me have mine,' said the eldest, trying to look more mature. She delicately peeled a boat from her father's grasp. She looked at it with experienced eyes. 'What happens if the candle falls over and the boat catches fire?'
'Oh, that is very good luck: That means your wish gets to Heaven even faster.'
Mae thought, I think Kuei has just made that up.
But, oh, he was handsome, his hair combed, his broad shoulders in a nice new shirt, his round legs in beautiful new slacks.
Mae and Siao strolled slightly behind them, holding hands.
Siao had caught her glance and grinned. 'I have found you out,' he said, teasing. 'I know you have a lover. But I am not sure who it could be.'
'Ah, now I am undone,' said Mae. She played along, but she could still be taken aback by Siao's unexpected habit of turning the most painful things into jokes.
'People even say that once you had a crush on my brother Joe,' said Siao.
'Joe? Don't be silly. Maybe when he was younger and more fashionable. I only like fashionable men.'
'Ah,' said Siao, who even on this big night wore his stonemason's grey sweatsuit. ' That is what you see in me.'
He grinned at her with his beautiful catlike face. That was the village face when it was beautiful, like Mrs Tung's, I love both of my men, thought Mae.
She walked, ponderous with contentment and pregnancy. I feel like a ewe on the pastures at lambing time.
'Mrs Chung-ma'am!' someone called. Mrs Hoiyoo, Kwan's sister, was waving from a high window. 'Your special dress is so beautiful!'
It was airy and embroidered. 'Shen Suloi made it for me!' Mae called back.
'The girls look excited.'
'They are beside themselves. See you there!'
The village square was already full of people. Mr Ken's daughters saw friends, squealed and ran off, clutching their boats of wishes.
The village square was newly paved with honey-coloured stone. Their once wayward little river was now firmly disciplined in a decorative zigzag channel. The bridge which had conveniently dropped down from Upper to Lower Street was now firmly mortared in place, and hung with lights.
Once, the lights would have hung from the One Tree, and the children would have been in the swings soaring higher and higher over the heads of the festival. The children did not even miss the tree now.
'Dad! We'll need more duct tape!'
Genghiz Atakoloo shouted down from scaffolding at the edge of the drop. It would hold all the village TVs, for everyone to see. His father, Enver Atakoloo, bristled his white moustache. Mae remembered that her first real crush had been for Mr Atakoloo, who in those days had been strong and bull-like with his black eyes and black stubble. On the terrible day that he killed Mr Pin and was carried off to prison, Mae had wept. Joe came up behind her and said that she must get used to that, because one day, he, Joe, was going to kill someone and go to prison, too.
'I miss Joe,' Mae said to Siao.
'I know,' said Siao, and gave her hand a shake.
Mae coughed up bile, and moved her handkerchief over her mouth.
Dawn came bouncing up, pulling her mother, Mrs Ling.
'My mother says you are no longer pretty,' giggled Dawn.
'Oh!' exclaimed her mother.
'She says that you are an Imam instead.' Dawn dissolved into giggles. 'Where is your white turban?' She kept chuckling.
'Mae,' said Ling, in apology.
'It is nice to be called an Imam,' Mae said with a shrug.
And suddenly Kwan was there with Sunni, and the women gave each other a quick hug. And Ken and Siao and the girls were all hugged in turn.
'Well!' sighed Kwan. 'We're all here.'
'Not all of us,' said Mae.
She thought of Sezen, Kai-hui, Mrs Tung, Old Mrs Kowoloia. Someone's car radio was pumping out Balshang Lectro.
'Ah,' Kwan said. 'Indeed.' The song faded away and a Talent raved over and over the Air was coming, it was Airday, and the air was 27 Air degrees.
Food came up on legs – the Pin children brought Mae plates of food. People straightened her collar for her.
Young Miss Doh approached, still yearning for love. 'This is your day,' she said to Mae.
'We are all so lucky!' said Mae.
'Lucky? Kizuldah?' said Young Miss Doh.
'We are high up, so we have rain and do not live in a desert. Our people had to fight to stay here, you know. This was the most valuable place.' Mae looked up at the ruined hills. 'We were cut off from all the madness until the very end.'