A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  He watched the bullet-shaped train ease past government houses, so old its former grey metallic exterior had turned copper in places. The Excellence Award logo, an E slashed above an A, was long faded. A stubborn layer of dust coated the windows. Smoke seemed to emerge from every crack in the metal, every loose panel, though it didn’t bother the occupants, who were delirious with joy, screaming with laughter, hanging from open windows, yelling how they’d made it, how happy they were, of the new lives they would lead. Families in various gardens waved and wished further luck. Try as he might, Markriss couldn’t contain his envy.

  Willow eased herself between her sons, taking their hands, a strange look on her face. She seemed tall enough to tear a handful of rotten cloud from the sky. Feeling his eyes, she managed a smile.

  ‘Remember what you’ve seen,’ she said as always. ‘That’s your ticket out and don’t ever forget it.’

  Ninka was too young to grasp her words, of course, though Willow seemed relieved when Markriss nodded. As his brother grew bored and found a neighbourhood cat to play with, she knelt beside her elder son until her face was level with his. Her thin, pretty features were elegant, her eyes like the tawny orbs of a lioness. Her skin reflected red sunlight, giving Willow a warm tint that made him love her more than he thought possible.

  ‘It’s up to you.’ Her whisper scratched at her throat. ‘Understand? You’re too young, though when you’re older you’ll ride that train. You can be anything you want, Markriss, you’re the only one. I’m too old, and your brother . . . Well, he isn’t quite strong enough. So it’s you.’

  He watched Ninka grasp for the tabby’s tail and felt hollow, cold. His brother could never ride that train by his own power no matter what changes he was destined for. His natural IQ was low since birth, and recent schooling seemed to indicate little would change. Markriss was a child, and yet he already knew the results would mean Ninka growing up to become a burden, maybe someone that he, as his older brother, would be forced to carry. It didn’t make him love him less, yet the fact remained. It was something known without words.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Good. Now go and get your dinner.’

  He ran inside, clipping Ninka on the ear to make him wail, a success, then collecting his steaming plate of spaghetti bolognese from the oven top. Markriss remembered the meal as one of the best he’d tasted. Full, he kissed his brother on the forehead to apologise. Willow smiled, pleased with them both.

  In full night, after wiring him into his sleeper, she closed the lid and loaded a Nocturna program, telling Markriss how proud she was. He could have wested and gone straight to Aaru.

  Markriss fell asleep to a baritone vibration of comfort, until sometime during the night he was wrenched from his familiar projection of playgrounds and climbing frames to find when he opened his eyes he couldn’t see. There was pressure on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to fight, yet the more he struggled, the worse the pressure seemed and he knew his eyes were open because he could feel himself blinking; still, he couldn’t see. He tried to open his mouth and scream. Nothing came, so he fought to kick and punch, only it was useless and his breath was leaving so fast that soon he wouldn’t have any left. A voice rasped in his ear, deep, creaking with age—an old man’s rattle—whispering words he didn’t understand. He fought harder, pushing and tearing at the pressure, lashing out—though not with his limbs, which seemed paralysed, with his mind. He couldn’t quite work out how he managed this, fighting until he woke up.

  Everything remained as it was when he had gone to bed. His toys were where he’d dropped them, his clothes were where he’d folded them and his brother lay in his deep, humming sleeper on the opposite side of the room, face up, arms flat by his sides. Markriss lay back on his pillow, curled into a ball, shuddering from the remnants of his sleep cycle. It would take another few hours for him to realise that Ninka’s breathing had ceased, to leap from the bed and shake his brother, first gently, then more frantically, for Markriss to scream for his mother and Willow to burst into the room moments after, breath caught in her throat, tight fist clutching her dressing gown, pushing her elder son aside in haste. Shoulders colliding, unaware of the other, they pushed and pulled at Ninka until Willow lifted his limp body from the pod, knowing he would never be warm again.

  2

  The machine is stilled. Coffin-dead, cold, awaiting a second chance. Quiet breath surrounds it. The podroom door remains closed. Her elder child occasionally wanders inside, although he doesn’t stay. She never does; she hates it.

  The machine is stopped. Perhaps for ever.

  The doctors refused to, or couldn’t, explain what happened to Ninka. He was in perfectly good health, by medical accounts, up until that chilly spring morning. They made grand statements, citing ailments Markriss and Willow had no knowledge of and were sure Ninka hadn’t suffered from. E-Lul Corporation, universal manufacturers of the sleeper pods, spoke in grave voices about complex states of transcendental being, using terms neither understood. Few experts mentioned the sickness. Ninka’s body was subjected to numerous tests until they ascribed his respiratory failure to some vague form of cot death. The experts returned, gave Willow a certificate stating the flimsy fact, and left in a collective of frowns and sympathetic words that held very little meaning for mother or son.

  When Markriss remembered Ninka in those early days, he saw convulsing, faltering vagrants, puffs of dust and light that caught spinning motes in wide, angular shafts. Tattered figures collapsing to the floor, unable to chase. His brother’s cough, thick and dirty as a derelict Ark Station. He knew.

  At first it was all Markriss could do not to give in to the pain, to be strong for his mother, who veiled herself behind blank eyes and a robotic normality he could never match. After the funeral, attended by friends, neighbours, and very little family as there weren’t that many, they wandered the corridors of their house, sometimes not speaking for days. Willow’s visits to her beloved garden ceased. No smoke curled from cigarettes. One day, Markriss stamped open the kitchen bin to find twin packs concertinaed into a formless lump; after, there were none. Shopping in the local market and mall, they walked with their eyes straight, never acknowledging, yet feeling the stares and sympathetic whispers of neighbours. Markriss became subdued, the subject of child psychologists and concerned acquaintances. This last even included his school dinner lady, who thought giving him extra helpings for lunch might ease his pain in some small way.

  Though buffeted by circumstance while he made sense of his new beginning, his new life, thankfully for Markriss the world sometimes makes children supple enough for such strain. The loss of his brother soon felt like an amputated limb. Though the pain was largely gone, he often felt a nagging itch that reminded him of what had once been. Like days when he felt Ninka close in his ear, a ghost of warm breath on his cheek. Or before he went to school, playing with his brother’s toys in the passage, when he would go into the kitchen for a cool glass of milk and return to find the toy on Ninka’s pillow, as though it had always been there. These occurrences were ordinary as sunshine, and so Markriss immediately told his mother. Willow gave a faint smile. She felt Ninka too. That was the first time she cried in front of him following Ninka’s death, the moment they first shared their experiences of his presence.

  Although Ninka never entirely left his mind, by the time Markriss was eleven, secondary school and the joy of being in a grown-up world was more than enough to keep his attention. There, he discovered that his natural curiosity was linked to an aptitude for study that made him one of the brightest students in school. Of course, he had no intention of being a geek or a swot, so he combined his passion for learning with a passion for people, soon becoming part of the school’s ragged social elite. In those days Inner City was enough of a lure for people to understand his reasons for knuckling down, even if they didn’t share his prowess. He joined the football and rugby teams in winter and the athletics club in summer, scoring straight A’s in
his academic subjects. He became especially skilled in English Language and Literature, writing stories and songs he’d perform for eager schoolfriends whenever out of adult earshot. Markriss wasn’t alone in having such a talent and pretty soon a small group of them were having friendly competitions during the hour lunch break, surrounded by cheering spectators who formed a noisy circle around them.

  He developed a special bond with some kids and was advised by Nesta, the only friend who joined him from primary school, to buy a pad and carry it at all times to write down lyrics and thoughts. Following this advice, Markriss found that he couldn’t go anywhere without the pad, and therefore, without his school bag. His rucksack became the trademark he was known for, always strapped to one or both shoulders.

  Such activity was bound to get him noticed by a certain section of the student population. By thirteen, he’d noticed them too. The young women who roamed playgrounds, hallways and classrooms were something like the sweets to be found at the Great and Wonderful Confectionary Store; though actually seeing them, being with them, walking past them for hours on end was like having keys to the shop and being told to eat until your teeth rotted. Markriss, along with a good few of his male counterparts, discovered the opposite gender with a vengeance that was almost an obsession. Each watched their opposite number develop with fascinated glee. Markriss discovered a new pain, a new itch; only this one was deep, a swelling tumour.

  Nesta became his running buddy in this quest of new discovery. He hailed from Priory Street, one of the roughest, darkest back alleys in Regent’s Town, the area they’d grown up and gone to school in. He’d become tall and berry-dark, his smooth skin reflecting a shimmer of light that seemed to glow a faint electric blue. Nesta was notorious for fights, stolen goods, backchat and a general give-a-damn attitude that was overbearing for most adults. Their teachers spent years imploring Willow to keep her son away from him, as it was taken as given that Nesta would come to a bad end. Willow had none of it, reminding tutors that Markriss hadn’t failed an exam to date. More to the point, she always found Nesta pleasant and full of generosity in her own home.

  He was formed by the usual Regent’s Town stories, though his seemed worse than most. A family of dealers, ranging from mother and father, to the uncle that died of the sickness. An upbringing that revolved around the blocks and corners of Priory Street, where kids on bikes were the biggest road teams and adults crossed the road when they rode by in their hundreds, a predatory flock of birds. Nesta’s own philosophy was to become the hardest, like his father and father’s father. Not long before his tenth birthday, Nesta’s mother had walked the Regent’s Town streets alone after a night drinking with girlfriends. Singing with all her strength, stumbling from pavement to curb to lonely road, barely able to stand, until she was spotted and mugged. Her assailant, armed with a simple length of rope, claimed he killed her accidentally, pleading guilty while on trial. Locals discovered his trussed and nodding body on the banks of the River Azilé not long after being released from prison; weights meant to sink him had broken free. Nesta’s father was arrested and eventually freed when no evidence linked him to the murder. Some said it had been done in the family home. That Nesta saw everything.

  At fifteen, when the boys cast their eyes on the school’s most coveted prizes, Nesta was well on the way towards being expelled. Early that summer, he’d been spotted with a gun. Although he hid the weapon where it couldn’t possibly be found, he’d been hauled from his first afternoon lesson and kept in the head’s office for the remainder of the day. The only thin ray of light in his dark future was the consolation that Misty Ahmet and Raymeda Khuti, the school’s most gorgeous young women by far, had agreed to meet the boys for an after-school date. Days earlier, they had planned a trip to Burbank Park, the imitation woodland of trees, plants and small animals not far from the Blinland that stood between Inner and Outer City. After all the deliberation and game-playing between them, Markriss was hardly able to believe the girls said yes. He resigned himself to the belief that they would never meet by the school gates like they agreed, especially after Nesta’s antic with the weapon.

  He left the building at the electronic bell, walking the through-road that led to the adult world, unable to deny the duo standing beneath the ‘Regent’s and E-Lul Secondary School’ sign. Faint disappointment lurched. If they hadn’t turned up, at least he couldn’t be blamed if things didn’t go well.

  Misty and Raymeda were tiny beauties who bore as close to matching complexions as Markriss had seen. They were direct cousins through their mothers, who also shared that burnished gleam of vitality and life. Misty stood slightly taller than her cousin and closest friend. Raymeda’s eyes and lips looked like they’d been shaped with an artist’s perfection. They were top of their classes and forwards in the volleyball team. Both walked the school corridors completely aware that they starred in every adolescent fantasy the male students could muster.

  As is often the case with men, Markriss and Nesta were torn between each girl, neither knowing which they preferred. Fortunately the cousins were more decisive, or maybe less greedy, than they. Over the past few weeks Raymeda had expressed a tardy desire for Markriss, even as Misty made moves for Nesta through half-smiles and lowered eyes. Clearly the girls long discussed any differences in taste. This suited the boys.

  Markriss approached the gate, working for a casual manner, though he couldn’t stop his excitement prompting a smile. He was heartened when Misty and Raymeda returned matching grins of their own. They stood in silence together as e-cars whined by on the main road, a trio of satisfied faces joined in agreement. All decisions had been made. The battle was over. This was the time for counting spoils. A new teaching assistant drove along the through-road, catching sight of the students as she joined the rush-hour traffic. Recognising the scene for what it was, perhaps thinking of her own school years, the TA smiled as Markriss, Misty and Raymeda, all students she knew, underwent an ancient ritual in her rear-view mirror.

  ‘So you can’t speak?’ Raymeda said, after they had stared enough.

  ‘Hey, Raymeda. Hi, Misty.’

  Kisses for both girls on both cheeks, dry lips meeting soft flesh; Markriss felt heat, even from that limited contact.

  ‘When’s he comin out?’ Misty burst between quick pops of gum.

  ‘Dunno. They came in class and got him, didn’t say anything to us lot. He’s been there all afternoon.’

  ‘Well, we can’t get to Burbank without him, so . . .’

  Misty gave the gum a last pop before turning to walk a few steps towards the gate. Raymeda took the cue, stepping forwards and slipping her hand into Markriss’s, positioning her face beneath his.

  ‘What kind of lame kiss was that?’

  He obliged, keeping it brief even though his every impulse was to let his hands move, hold her tight. When he lifted his head she was studying him, lips pouting.

  ‘That’ll do, but you better be more romantic when we get there.’

  It was forty minutes before Nesta came strolling down the through-road, that hard face etched with thought. He visibly collected himself, arranging his features into a smile even wider than the others. Markriss caught a glimpse of muddy brown colouring overtaking his fluid blue sheen, even as he envied the smooth and comfortable manner in which Nesta drew Misty to him. The confident way he looked at her from head to foot. The way he dared to squeeze her body and kiss her lips until she had to scream and fight him off, fist pounding at his chest, not too much.

  The boys bumped fists while the girls threw questions, Nesta guiding them towards a battered little car parked further along the main road. The vehicle was scuffed and dented, no logo between the dull eyes of headlights, no name on its rear. To Markriss, the little car looked squat and hardened by elements, much like Nesta.

  Chauffeuring the girls inside, he faced Markriss, shaking his head before he spoke.

  ‘I bin expelled.’

  Even though he’d guessed as much, reality cau
sed Markriss to gape. ‘But they never found the—’

  ‘So? They don’t give a shit about that. This was the perfect opportunity to get me out.’

  Nesta’s fear was apparent enough to make the sadness of his eyes unbearable. It had nothing to do with what teachers or even his hustler father might say while bathed in piahro smoke. It was certain Nesta would never live to see beyond Outer City; with no qualifications there was little chance he would ride the train to the inside world.

  ‘Better tell Raymeda and Misty . . .’ Markriss followed Nesta around the back of his car towards the driver’s door, keeping his voice low. ‘They waited ages.’

  ‘Nah, Mars.’

  ‘What, you’re just gonna leave—’

  ‘I said no!’ Nesta’s words seethed between twisted lips, sharp enough to alert the young women staring out from the mucky glass of the car window. ‘It’s all right for you lot, innit, wid yuh Excellence Award shit; I got nothin! They don’t care about me, I just make their life less boring . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but, if they felt that way surely—’

  ‘People like them don’t stay with Outer City people. They could fail their exams and live on the street; they’ll always have that option – some Inner City guy will bring them in. The only people who stay with Outer City people like me are Outer City people like me. You too stupid to see?’

  He didn’t wait, wiping his face with one hand, wrenching at the driver’s door. Markriss closed his eyes, too late to block what he’d seen. Nesta’s tears obeying gravity’s rules, not those of teenage boys, falling to the concrete regardless of his wish. Markriss saw the girls interrogate the youth, knowing they’d get nothing from the set of his face. He made sure his own was set in similar fashion and ducked into the back seat, slamming the door hard enough to rock the car.