gone! He thought there had been thieves. He thought that Chung Mae had finally gone crazy and driven a tractor into his house. It had its funny side, waking up hungover, having slept through disaster. He had to laugh. He told the story over and over. He did not look at his wife as he laughed. Sunni looked down at her hands.
Food was dropped from the air: bags of flour or rice, paid for partly by money donated by the Nouvelles magpie. On cold, clear days, the village could hear the rumble of machinery, up from the valley. The road to their village was being repaired.
Kwan thanked Bugsy, thanked the world. She still had requests by voicemail for Mae's last narrowcast. Kwan always referred to the Nouvelles address. She could not bear to listen to it herself.
At times Kwan stood looking out of that same window, to see how the village was healing, and to think of Mae.
The wind had a different sound now. Kwan was sure she was not making that up. Some of the wind spirits had left them: The invader wind had frightened them away. Some of the spirits would never come back; the air itself would sound forever different.
That, at least, is what her mother would have said. Her mother, Mrs Kowoloia, would have said many things.
Kwan's mother would have said, There are four principal spirits, called Earth, Air, Water, and Fire. In times of change they become unbalanced. The Eloi despised the Chinese with their paltry system of opposition: yin and yang. The Eloi had layers of struggle and synthesis.
Earth was female and solid, and nourishing and dark and fertile as the womb. It was the lowest layer.
Water was the force of time that carried everything forward. It flowed, making the earth turn, the air spin. Water was the engine of the world. Water was change.
Air was the spirit, high in heaven. Between Earth and Air was Fire.
Fire was people. Fire was their desires, the things that made them move. Fire and Water were change; Air and Earth were what continued.
Oh, Mrs Kowoloia would have had no trouble telling them what had happened. Air had usurped the place of time and desire. The world of the spirits had come to earth, like ghosts, and the fire-demon Erjdha had blown across the hills.
Old Mrs Kowoloia would have had no difficulty knowing what Chung Mae was, either.
Some people bore the weight of the world. It was not their fault. They could not be blamed. Air and Fire and Earth and Water churned within them exactly as they churned without. They did extraordinary things and were to be avoided, for they were maelstroms; and they were to be watched, for whatever happened to them, happened to the world.
Such people became oracles to be read like yarrow stalks.
So Kwan would sit and ponder the meaning of the oracle.
What the oracle told her was simple and final, and all that Mae had been saying since the beginning.
Their old and beloved world had died. It was right to mourn it. But they could not resist the movement, either. Water, spurred by Air, had changed its course. Water was time. Time had moved, very swiftly, and so must they.
And Old Mrs Kowoloia, long since burned by funeral fire to join the world of the spirits, would also say: Do not fear for your friend. The Water in Mae has responded to the usurping Air. The Water has swept her away.
Mae lives in the future.
Thinking this, looking out over their darkened village, Kwan let hot water fall from her eyes. And her mother would have said to Kwan: Cry, daughter. Tears are good for people who grieve. Tears are time. The tears help bear you away beyond the time of grief.
Why does it work, Mother? This old stuff. Why does it work? When you tell me it is dead. Why does it help me understand?
Kwan had wanted her son to be modern and scientific. The Eloi had to be, to live in this world, and to fight the Karz if the time ever came again. But her son knew none of his people's wisdom. And he would go away, like Mae's son did, and come back a stranger.
Look to oracles, they live out the future.
Kwan wiped her eyes and went down to the diwan, still crowded with people. Her son's name was Luk. He was big, quiet, kind, and part of a group, not its leader. Was now the time? She saw his face. It was a university face; he might not become a soldier. He could become something even worse than a soldier.
See the water? See the tears? See the candle burning in our little boat of wishes? He is going away, daughter. This is his last winter in Kizuldah.
So Kwan made herself smile, and collected the stone mugs and murmured to friends, not wanting to disturb their viewing.
They were watching a programme about Mat Unrolling.
Kwan was glad to see Suloi there. Suloi would understand. Two Eloi sets of eyes caught each other's glances.
Kwan said, 'Remember Mae? She talked about her Mat all the time.'
Very solemnly, Suloi nodded downward, once – yes.
Kwan came to Luk. 'Son? When this is through, could you and I go for a walk?'
He glanced at his friends, two of the Pin brothers, all bucktoothed and sweet. Kwan was glad he had such good friends.
It was unusual for her to ask. He looked at his friends and said, 'I can go now if you like.' Mat Unrolling bored him, maybe.
Kwan was careful not to tell him how to dress; he did not want to hear his mother telling him to bundle up. And she promised herself as she slipped on boots that she would not let her worries run away with the night. She would not worrit him about studying, about not spending, about writing her. Nothing he could do would fill the gap that would be left behind when he went. Nothing she could do would make his life better if he failed to fly by himself.
We must meet as equals, she thought.
So they trudged out together, and her son had bundled himself up in sheepskin coat, scarf, and gloves, almost too carefully.
And this made Kwan think: Where is the swagger in him? Is Luk a bit too quiet, even a bit dull?
They walked out into the courtyard.
Kwan asked her son, 'What do you make of Chung Mae?'
That surprised him. If he had been dreading a motherly discussion, that would have reassured him.
'I don't really know,' Luk said, finally. 'She is your good friend. I'm sorry she is not well.'
'That's what I think, too, of course. But what do you think she is?'
Luk looked back at her askance. Was this a trick question? Adults asked questions when they knew the answers.
Kwan did not want to play a guessing game. 'The Eloi in me thinks she is something very mysterious.' Kwan found herself smiling and wiggling her eyebrows, almost making fun of it. They both stood in the courtyard light.
Luk grinned. He understood. 'She is a bit spooky,' he said.
'Your grandmother would have said she was
'Many people would have called her disturbed,' said Luk. 'Only, she turned out to be right.'
Kwan stepped out of the courtyard, and began to walk out of the village, up the hill. It was so cold that the stars seemed to be made of frost – as if her own wreathing, white breath blew up into heaven to freeze there. Stars and breath, it's too big, she thought. You can't cram all of the Eloi world into someone all at once.
'The Elois said that stars are solid places in the air, for spirits to rest,' she said. 'They are like frozen air.'
'Well, they're fire instead,' said Luk.
'Do you ever think about the Elois?' she asked him.
She could hear his sheepskin shrug. 'Only that I am part Eloi. My first name is Eloi – I think. It doesn't seem to make any difference in the way people treat me.'
