Air (or Have Not Have)

and called over her shoulder, 'Live!'

The hills were laughing.

There was a giggling sound, thousands of chuckles as the water shook itself over rocks, down gullies. It slapped its way across the rock faces of the terraces.

Mae skittered down the slope to the square box of the mosque that had the public-address system mounted on its gable. She came to the door. She rattled it. The sound beyond was hollow. It was locked.

Who locks a mosque? It's never been locked! Mae had calculated, she knew it would take three hours to rouse each house in turn. Mae was near tears. She had planned and planned, but she had never planned that the mosque would be locked.

She would have to run to Mr Shenyalar, the Muerain. He would have the keys.

At least it was downhill. She turned and let the water and gravity carry her.

Mae staggered and slid down the hill. She skittered through the space between the Alis' and the Dohs'. She got tangled in old rusting bedding that someone had discarded. The springs made a merry sproing sound as she pulled her feet free. She half fell onto the cobbles of Upper Street, and spun herself into the concave frontage of the house of the Doh family.

Mae shouted up at the shuttered windows, 'Old Mrs Doh, all Dohs, wake up, wake up, there is a Flood, there is a Flood!' She had danced with them only hours before. 'Please wake up!' New Year, and everyone will be asleep, drunk, exhausted, happy.

Mae spun away onto the bridge. The little river roared, enveloping the arch in mist that stroked Mae's face and danced happily into her lungs. Over the stone balustrade, moonlit rapids shot white and hot and fierce down the gully. Mae remembered the ducks, the geese. Already they were a memory, already washed away. Below, the village square looked like an ocean, all glinting waves.

On the other side of the bridge, there was a huge puddle. Even here on Upper Street, a pocket of the road was flooded. Mae plunged down from the bridge and water poured in over the tops of her boots. Even now, the village was still asleep, still dark.

'Flood! Flood!' she shouted. Suddenly a flashlight flared around the corner of the back of the Haj's house.

'Mae, this way,' said a voice. It was her brother. 'We've got Mother up at the Wings. I've just been down to Lower Street.'

'Ju-mei! I need to get to the Shenyalars'.'

'Good, this is the way, down here.'

Mae waded towards him, the water above her knees. Ju-mei reached forward and grabbed her arm. Together they threshed their way down the rocky gap between the house of the Haj and his neighbours. The alley was like a water garden, all ferns and waterfalls. Mae and Ju-mei fell into Lower Street as if plunging into a river.

The current nearly swept them away. It poured around the corner of Ju-mei's house, rucking up like bedding, white as sheets.

Across the street was the Muerain's tall stone house, with its bronze plaque. Clinging to each other, Ju-mei and Mae crossed the torrent. It made them trip downstream as if dancing. They crammed themselves into the porch of the al Gamas' house to brake. Holding on to the rough walls, they pulled themselves upstream, as if up a cliff.

Something crackled. Mae turned to see the Haj's straw outhouse spin out into the current and down into the square. The square was a lake. The village's one streetlight glowed golden on waves rocking against the front doors of the Kosals' and the Masuds'. The outhouse roof, like a straw hat, swirled away on the current. The surface of the water roiled as if full of serpents.

Ju-mei pulled Mae into the doorway of the Shenyalars'. He pounded; Mae howled.

'Muerain! Muerain Shenyalar! Oh please, please open. Please wake up! Oh, Muerain! Muerain!'

Why, why didn't they move? They were religious Karz, they did not drink, they did not celebrate the New Year, why didn't they hear?

'There is a Flood, Muerain, please wake up!'

From somewhere down in the valley came a terrible spreading crash, as if someone had dropped a dresser full of china. The sound of breakage rolled, settled and then shushed to a halt.

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