The children were carried nearly to the top of this hill, which was much higher than the one they had left. When they looked back they could see the water was already halfway up, past where they had been standing, and the animals there were so thickly clustered their horns and trunks were like the little, dead forest near home with its branches sticking up. Now the water covered everywhere: there was nothing to be seen but water, brown, tossing and flooding water, and all the hills were crowded with animals. Just near where the four people stood, the two children clutching tight to the legs of their rescuers, was a big, flat rock covered in snakes. Mara had never seen them alive, though she knew there were still some left. They were lying stretched out or coiled up, hardly moving, as if they were dead, but they were tired. And snakes were swimming towards the hill, through the waves, and when they reached the dry ground they slithered out and just lay, still.
"Some cloudburst," said the woman, and above them was a blue sky without one cloud in it, and the sun shone down on the flood. "I saw a river come down once, like this, but it was thirty years ago," said the man. "I was about the age of these children. It was up north. The big dam burst in the hills — no maintenance." "This is no dam," said the woman. "No dam could hold this amount of water." "No," he said. "I'd say the plain above the Old Gorge flooded, and the water got funnelled through the gorge down to here." "A pity we can't stop all this water flooding to waste."
Meanwhile Dann had found a hollow place in a flat rock where the water was trickling in, and he was sitting in the water. But he was not alone: lizards and snakes were there with him.
"Dann," shouted Mara. The child took no notice. He was stroking a big, fat, grey snake that lay beside him in the water, and making sounds of pleasure. "Stop it, that's dangerous," said Mara, looking up at the woman so she could stop Dann; but she did not hear. She was staring off in the direction Mara knew was north, and yet another wall of water was coming down. It was not as high as the others, but enough to push in front of it boulders and dead animals, the big ones with trunks and big ears and tusks.
"We can't afford to lose any more animals," said the man. And the woman said, "I suppose a few more dead don't make any difference."
They were speaking very loudly above the sounds of the water and the banging rocks and stones, and the cries of the animals.
At this moment Dann got up out of his pool, unlooping a big green snake that had come to rest around his arm, and climbed up towards them, careful not to step on a snake or an animal too exhausted to move out of his way, and stood in front of the two grown-ups and said, "I'm hungry. I'm so hungry." And now Mara realised she had been hungry for a long time. How long was it since they had eaten? The bad people had not given them food. Before that. Mara's mind was full of sharp little pictures she was trying to fit together: her parents leaning down to say, "Be brave, be brave and look after your brother"; the big man with his dark, angry face; before that, the quiet ordinariness of their home before all the terrible things began happening. She could not remember eating: food had been short for quite a long time, but there had been things to eat. Now she looked carefully at Dann, and she had not done that for days because she had been so thirsty and so frightened, and she saw that his face was thin and yellowish though usually he was a chubby, shiny little child. She had never seen him like this. And she saw something else: his tunic, the brown sack thing of the Rock People, was quite dry. The water had streamed off it as he had climbed out of the rock pool. And her tunic was dry. She hated the thin, dead, slippery feel of the stuff, but it did dry quickly.
"We don't have much food," said the man, "and if we eat what we have now we might not find any more." "I'm so hungry," whispered Mara.
The man and the woman looked worriedly at each other. "It isn't far now," he said.
"But there's all that water."
"It'll drain away soon."
"Far? Where?" demanded Mara, tugging at the brown slipperiness of the woman's tunic. "Home? Are we near home?" Even as she said it her heart was sinking because she knew it was nonsense: they were not going home. The woman squatted down so that her face was on the same level as hers, and the man did the same for the boy. "Surely you've got that into your head by now?" said the woman. Her big face, all bone and hollows, her eyes burning out between the bones, seemed desperate with sadness. The man had Dann by the arms and was saying, "You must stop this, you must." But the little boy hadn't said anything. He was crying: tears were actually falling down his poor cheeks now that he had drunk enough to let him cry properly.
"What did Lord Gorda tell you? Surely he told you?"
Mara had to nod, miserably, tears filling her throat.
"Well then," said the woman, straightening up. The man, too, rose, and the two stood looking at each other; and Mara could see that they didn't know what to do or say. "It's too much for them to take in," the woman said, and the man said, "Hardly surprising."
"But they have to understand."
"I do understand. I do, really," said Mara.
"Good," said the woman. "What is the most important thing?"
The little girl thought and said, "My name is Mara."
And then the man said to the little boy, "And what is your name?"
"It's Dann," said Mara quickly, in case he had forgotten; and he had, because he said, "It isn't my name. My name isn't Dann."