There was a sound like sheets in the wind, clean sheets being shaken.

'It's a helicopter.' The handsome man spun in joy. 'They have already sent a helicopter!'

'Mae, did you send a message last night?'

'Blurpble ah,' said Mae. She was not well.

Mr Ali came forward with his hat, and Mr Atakoloo and even Mr Masud.

'So,' said Mr Ali. 'You will have to teach us all now, Mae – all how to use it.'

'We will need it,' said Mr Atakoloo. He tried to smile.

But everything was slipping into darkness, closing down. Someone else was dancing.

Old Mrs Tung won.

CHAPTER 25

Progress passed into the hands of the habitual leaders of the village: the Wings, the Muerain, and Mr Atakoloo.

They set about rebuilding Kizuldah. As a blacksmith, Mr Atakoloo was disposed to building shelters of prefabricated metal. Mr Wing knew stone was best. Stone would hold warmth.

'It takes too long to build!' Mr Atakoloo protested, gesturing, puffing out his handsome white moustache.

'If you only have two or three people building. We have one hundred men, with nothing to do.'

' Tub. Most of them unskilled,' said Mr Atakoloo, brushing flakes of village bread into his cupped palm.

In the end, they had to build with both metal and stone. The cold came back. Ruined houses like the Dohs' or Mae's had small shelters built against whatever walls were still sound. For this, the stones of the ruined terraces and houses served better than tidy sheets of aluminum. The men and the women carried rocks, in wheelbarrows or in gloved hands. The aluminum sheets formed the roofs. Concrete was poured on top of that to stop them radiating out all the warmth of the fires.

Fifteen families had bought Mr Wang's insurance. Ju-mei, his city clothes gone in the Flood, made a point of giving them their cash himself. He passed them wads of bills to replace their houses, folds, and flocks. They gaped at him in wonder.

So it was that Mae's computer was seen even to provide money. The village people were related to each other and showed solidarity. They shared their payouts, and so the village had money to restore itself.

The TV brought other things. News, for example, that the Office of Discipline and Education had reinstated Shen in his job. The e-mail wished him a productive partnership with Mrs Chung. The Office seemed unaware that there had been a flood.

People temporarily shared their houses. The Kemals and the Ozdemirs found shelter in Ju-mei's house. Mr Wing put up the whole tribe of Pins. The Alis stayed with the Haseems in what was left of their house.

Faysal Haseem had awakened late on the day after New Year, to find much of his house missing. It looked, he said, rather like his own skull felt, broken open and washed away. His garage, his white van, all his tools were 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. Mae was our oracle.