A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘I’ve always had trouble with those bloody machines,’ he said, getting to his feet slow. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Don’t stand there like a scarecrow for Ra’s sake, we have to go back to your podroom. So you can lie down, relax?’

  ‘OK . . .’

  They wandered into the room as though he was being led to death, heads bowed in reverence. Markriss stopped and looked around at the few items he possessed. His neat and tidy home looked like a hotel room after the cleaner slammed the door rather than a place where one man lived out his life.

  ‘Where do you want me?’

  ‘Best lie in the pit. Get comfortable.’

  Her voice seemed toneless, business-like. He did as she asked while she grabbed at a single wooden chair and dragged it beside the pod. Markriss lay with his arms by his sides, eyes closed.

  ‘How d’you feel?’ Keshni asked.

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘Good.’ Hopeful. ‘OK, so the first thing I want you to do is be very aware of your breathing. Actually feel the oxygen entering and leaving your body. See if you can feel the breath down in your solar plexus, be aware at all times and always have intent. Be clear.’

  She waited. He heard her light breathing, the rustle of clothes and the hum of the pod, a low-volume white noise. Outside, on the street, someone shouted. The honk of a tram. His fingers tingled. The sensation died.

  ‘When you’ve got the rhythm, try slowing it down . . . So, breathe in . . . hold for a count of two . . . and breathe out. Breathe in . . . hold for two counts . . . and breathe out.’

  He sank, the fatigue of the last few weeks working like gravity, pushing him into the pit mattress. Her voice soothed.

  ‘Now . . . see that dark space in front of your eyes?’ Nodding once, eyes closed tight, hardly a twitch. ‘I want you to look into it. Focus your attention on the screen of your mind.’

  She paused again, the silence lasting almost a minute.

  ‘Visualise a square, form it.’

  His fingers clenched.

  ‘Got it?’

  Another mute nod.

  ‘Great. See how easy it is? OK, now I want you to create what we call a command centre, a space that’s of your own making you can go to whenever you need. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hands clenching tighter.

  ‘Relax. Don’t force it. Let the place come . . .’

  Though he’d been sceptical and felt a little silly partaking in he didn’t know what, the pillow against his head and the feel of slowing his breath was soothing enough to convince him that this transmutation business might be therapeutic in some strange, abstract way. His breathing was so light his chest barely moved. Dark encased him fully.

  10

  He strained to see. Tiny sparks appeared; few at first, and then everything seeped into view. Huge buildings towering so high he couldn’t see rooftops, glittering from reflected light. A concrete walkway materialised under his feet, spreading bacteria-fast until he saw a sea wall, a lookout point and, many yards from him, the length of a pier. An expanse of water, vast and opaque. The River Azilé, running through the centre of Dinium, although this was not the river he knew. This river was unfamiliar, untamed. He’d visualised the outside world.

  Unsure what to do now his vision was expanding and lengthening before him, he let himself move towards the lookout point. The night sky was brilliant as any his memory had constructed, populated by thousands of stars, a huge, clear full moon. He was touched, verging on tears. It had been so many years since he’d witnessed something so commonplace.

  Beyond ink gloom, Markriss saw the lone figure of a man sitting at the bench. Bent, as though in pain.

  He stood before the figure as though he’d jumped those few steps with his eyes closed. The occurrence didn’t surprise him. It was a little disconcerting, as he wasn’t used to such physics, yet somehow—in this transmuted state—it made sense. Now that he was closer to the figure, he could see more details. The man was small, thin and dark-skinned, impossibly old, a hairless head reflecting white moonlight. He wore a suit that seemed to be made of a coarse brown cloth, rough as coconut husk, and a belt made of the same material. Attached to the belt were suede bags, also brown. Though Markriss tilted his head, it was difficult to see his face. The only other discerning feature was the knobbly stick the old man held in one hand.

  Markriss opened his mouth to ask the figure who or what he might be. But the sound that emerged didn’t come from his mouth and didn’t enter his ears. There was no rumble in his chest, no vibration in his throat, movement of his tongue or any sound. Instead he heard the voice in his head, as if he’d thought the words.

  Hello?

  Unsure how the man would respond, he waited.

  The old man didn’t answer, keeping his head bowed. Markriss was about to ask again when, millimetre by millimetre, the head began to rise. An age seemed to pass before he finally faced him—though face was not exactly the operative word. Although there were features—a nose, two eyes, lips that formed a mouth, cheeks—the face seemed blurred by a shadow as impenetrable as deepest night.

  His fear rapidly intensified. He knew who he was looking at: his Prospect Road assailant.

  Markriss was about to bolt, even though he didn’t know where to, when an inky haze swirled around him, then cleared a little. The face came into view. Thin, the flesh of the cheeks falling to the floor like melting wax, as though sliding from his head. The dark eyes almost blue, yellow whites. A proud, broad nose.

  What now?

  That wasn’t the question he had anticipated asking. He really wanted to find out where he was, but maybe this was what he needed to know. Before he’d worked out how he could rephrase his words, the man held up an arm and got to his feet. This seemed to prove difficult. Markriss had to stretch out a hand, help him up. The man was very short. Though his obvious physical discomfort—jerking pain, a hand pressed tight against his waist—would normally have distressed Markriss, he felt at ease. He was calm, ready to hear whatever the man had to impart.

  As he took another look into the sallow, disgruntled face in front of him, Markriss understood who he was staring at. He’d seen the pictures while researching his early article for Ark Light, reading through notes and diaries: this was Professor Harman Wallace. The scientist, inventor and murderer had somehow, without reason, been conjured into his nambula.

  He took a step backwards, recognition striking a moment before fear at his memories of what the man had done. A lethal dose of poison killed the young woman, injected while she lay in trans, testing a proto-type sleeper. Though the murder had been committed over a century ago, Markriss couldn’t help falling back. He didn’t know what would have been worse: the professor, or the shadowed person from Prospect Road.

  Wallace seemed not to notice. He stretched his arms wide, chin cast towards the night sky, his dark figure forming the silhouette of a cross. He seemed to ignore the younger man; then a reedy yet confident voice boomed deep within Markriss’s mind.

  Follow.

  A flash of light. A second later the lookout lit up, followed in quick succession by the buildings, then the sky. Markriss craned his neck upwards but gave up attempting to track the light. He looked down, and the brown suit lay in a heap by the empty bench. Thoughts of death by lethal injection emptied from his mind.

  He looked up again. It was difficult to take in what he thought he saw at that moment—a stream of light that seemed to twirl and dance in the sky, changing colours as it moved. He tried to pinch himself and prove he was imagining this, only to find he couldn’t: he had no fingers or hands.

  The light stopped dead, hovering above the river. It shimmered, alternating between light green, a darker green and vibrant blue, before the whole pattern repeated over and over. Markriss was intrigued as much by the colours as his intuitive discovery. He wanted to see them close up. Before he’d even thought as much, however, he’d left what had constituted the earth.


  He had a conscious realisation of the sky and the fact that he was floating. Stars were bright, close as family. He soared with a speed that caused exhilaration to beat in his chest. No walls to cage and keep him, only wind against his face and the ground far below. Gravity was a banished concept and it felt good, felt right. He looped a joyful loop, dropped low until he skimmed rooftops and rippling water, leaving the river behind in the blink of an eye, racing above the endless expanse of the Blin. Soon he moved so fast the bare earth was only a blur. His heart beat without pause. He pushed harder, harder again. He could fly for ever.

  The stream of light pulled up beside him with an almost embarrassing ease. Closer, its shimmer was electric, each colour embedded with a white that shone like molten iron. In the depth of the light where the greens or blues were deepest, diamond sparks made it glitter like a precious bracelet laid flat.

  It’s beautiful, he thought.

  So are you.

  No neck muscles moved or eyes focused on what he could see. His perspective simply changed as though he was watching a film and the next scene had come into view. The light that was in effect his body had the same diamond sparks and shifting colours, his fiery red fading to a light pink and sometimes the dark purple of amethyst, which he observed with some shock and more than a little pride. They moved around what he could only loosely term his ‘body’ in fluid motion. He felt laughter and looked over at Wallace.

  Like what you see?

  Sure.

  Ready to see more?

  He hesitated only a fraction of a second.

  Why not?

  Wallace shot away. The next time Markriss looked, he was merely a blink of light on the horizon. Markriss willed himself to catch up and instantly found himself beside the stream, everything a blur beneath them once more. They moved at speed, in silence.

  Good, he heard. Now do this.

  Another burst of acceleration beside him—vertical this time. Markriss did his best to follow, and although he found his movements slow in comparison, after some thought he was able to speed up. Wallace and Markriss passed through thick cotton clouds that muted the stars like fog over torch beams before they thinned and dispersed into clear sky. Everything became darker, even as the sparks of light grew bigger and brighter, rounder and more defined. Wallace was a mere streak of rainbow ahead. That was all he could see until something burst in what would have formerly been his ears—a dull pop, no more. He glanced around.

  He was in outer space. His rational mind refused such a discovery, even as another part, the part that believed what he was experiencing, said that he was meditating (or hallucinating—he wasn’t sure which), wasn’t he, so it was allowed, wasn’t it? Didn’t it make sense that Wallace had led him here—where his subconscious wanted to go—the ultimate freedom of limitless space? He didn’t dare doubt the possibility of what he was seeing too hard in case it all disappeared and he returned to his podroom with the single mattress against his back, imprisoned within his physical body. Markriss wanted to believe. He wanted to see.

  So many lights were around him he felt warmed by their presence. Some darted at full velocity, others meandered. Some saw him, or cruised past without taking note. So many luminescences, so many stars, so many colours, from orange to violet, peach to grey, swimming tropical fish in the vast sea of the solar system. The moon was a white ball in front of him; Earth was the same behind, its sharp colours dazzling. He felt peace of a type he thought he’d never attain flow through him. He felt a part of something he’d never laid eyes on.

  A light he took to be Wallace approached, glowing that familiar green and deep blue. Then, it began to transform. Out of light came a head, a male body that was tall, naked and athletic. It was Wallace as a much younger man. Huge feathered wings made of the same glowing light grew from his back, unfolding until he resembled an angel. His face was stern. Although he wore no clothes, Wallace had no visible sexual organs. Markriss wasn’t surprised. Why would a being that could create a head, arms and legs at will need genitals? What for?

  Wallace flared his wings, almost in greeting, before he was off and away. Without knowing why—only why not—Markriss followed.

  They raced through cold space, streaking past the tableau of stars, some bright yellow spots, others far and blue. Each seemed no more than a fingertip from them. Wallace moved with undeniable purpose. He saw where they were headed. The moon, that ancient desert, once a bright yet far-away glow, loomed on the horizon. Before he could take in the magnificent view, he was skimming the awe-inspiring craters and valleys that made up its pocked, plaster-of-Paris surface.

  Wallace didn’t slow to give these wonders further attention. Flapping his wings harder, he forced Markriss to push faster still. In his enthusiasm, Markriss didn’t notice the light fade behind him, or the darkened land, devoid of sunlight, they were racing towards. They moved with even more speed, over a limitless valley on the border of permanent night. The gash in the moon-rock below him went on as if there was no end, as though giant hands had wrenched a huge tear in the land. Although Markriss blanched at the sight of such fathomless depths, he didn’t slow. The wings ahead gave two almighty beats and dived into the darkness.

  He tried to stop himself. Nothing happened. Though he mentally willed the opposite, he was heading for the chasm at full speed, without control. He tried to struggle against it, but that only seemed to add to his velocity. Night was everywhere.

  11

  Coming to, it took a while to draw his vision into focus; he did so by squinting, lifting his eyebrows and letting them fall, turning his head left to right in an attempt to jar sight into place. He felt numb, unable to move, arms and legs powerless, detached from his torso. Sharp light shot pain through the back of his head. Sight returned.

  He was back in the doctor’s surgery he’d dreamt on the tram. That same tiny room with panelled walls and the thin, bunk-like single bed covered in a dark green sheet. This time the pod was directly in front of him, he on the opposite side of the room. He was standing with his back against what felt like a huge metal slab, arms and legs clamped as before. A smell of chemicals hung in the air. The computerised beep that accompanied his heart rate was strong and fast. He looked to his right. The drip in his arm remained, fuelling him with that mysterious purple fluid. He looked to his left. A rack of doctor’s tools and instruments—the customary scalpel, a curved and serrated knife, the double-handed saw. Markriss felt his frown as he noticed a shining red fluid coating the edges of each blade. He looked down and saw the flesh of his chest peeled back like a ripe banana, a glistening wide hole at the centre of his body. The meat of his insides was much the same as that of any other animal; jaundiced fat, the white of his gaping ribcage sparkling light. Blood everywhere, no pain. Nevertheless, the computerised beep gained speed, even as he noted three coloured wires trailing from his chest cavity. Purple, green and blue. Following the wires, Markriss saw a metal trolley on wheels just beyond and beneath his manacled legs.

  The wires finished their journey at a point where each pierced a thick lump of meat placed on a coal-black machine. The meat was about the size and shape of a large pebble, jerking in time with the computerised beep. On the right-hand side of the trolley next to this strange muscled object was another machine, an identical twin to the first. On it lay a single large black feather, curled in an almost U-shape, light enough to quiver with the slightest shift of air. The beeping grew faster still, the meat convulsing simultaneously as Markriss understood that the writhing fist of muscle alongside the LEDs flashing for attention on the twin machines was his own heart. Just when he recognised that he was dreaming, the machine bearing his organ blinked red, while the machine with the feather blinked green. A deafening klaxon. He struggled and fought to wake himself, somehow couldn’t raise a scream.

  Then it was dark.

  His eyes seemed closed, yet he was blinking: he could feel the muscles work, the faint touch as eyelids met, but when he tried to open them wider nothing
changed. The black remained impenetrable. Then pressure on his chest, that same weight pushing stronger than ever before, stealing breath from his lungs. He knew what was happening, remembered his fight against this unseen force while his brother slept in the machine parallel with his. Even as he fought the crushing weight, he accepted that struggle never achieved success, inside or out of the Ark. Not knowing what else he could do, he let go.

  Everything became distant, difficult to fathom. A croaking whisper formed just below his ear, words he couldn’t understand yet caused a chill of fright, leading to a feeling he hadn’t experienced since Burbank Park; the quick sensation of falling backwards as though he’d sunk into the bed itself, falling with nothing to break his momentum.

  Everything was clear.

  Markriss saw his podroom as though suspended on high, marvelling at the weightless sensation. An attempt to look himself over and check whether the doctor’s surgery had been a dream produced that strange switch of viewpoint, the fluid flow of red, light pink and amethyst he’d seen before. His arms, legs and everything else he might term his natural body were there, only they were covered in a membrane thin as bubble skin, colours flowing on the surface in a never-ending cycle of motion.

  It was mostly dark in his podroom, a pinch of faint light streaming from the window overlooking Prospect Road, casting shadows and bulky silhouettes. He caught a glimpse of his alarm clock; it was 3 a.m., though he didn’t know how it had got that late. His focus was drawn to the centre of the room. It was strange looking down from that angle, seeing his own self in the pod and Keshni next to him, studying him like text. He examined his prone body in great detail—the short and kinky dark hair, a pencil-thin nose leading to broad lips. The smooth skin, broad, bulky shoulders. A stern jaw shadowed with tiny hair. The dotted burn just below the thumb of his right hand and the mannequin pose he adopted with his eyes closed. Strange as the viewing was, he felt pleasure from his own appearance for the first time in years.