'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 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.