A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  Wallace had brought him here to witness the land, Markriss guessed when he tore his gaze from the sky. The dry earth remained black on this side of the mountain, torn by fissures and valleys stretching further than he could tell, though here the fissures were acres wide, the valleys open like a deadly gash, miles between opposing edges. Thousands of cracks and crevices formed smaller meandering trails between larger veins, islands of earth left in their wake. Luminous purple liquid flowed along these streams and rivers, carving bubbling paths that brought a flat glow to the persistent night. Markriss strained his vision, trying to see where the veins of liquid ended, relenting when he noted the lack of horizon.

  I need to sit down . . .

  You are in control, Markriss. If you wish to create a physical body for this realm, you must will it.

  OK. I think I got that now.

  Sure enough, he thought and floated in a lightly glowing physical body much like his previous frame. Tendons, veins, muscles, arteries and other internal workings were alarmingly visible, emitting iridescent light that seemed to surround everything. He watched his heart pump blood through his own chest, the muscle fleshy and stiff, until the sight made him nervous. He found a flat ledge amongst the rocks of the mountainside and let himself sit, loving the solidity. Professor Wallace took up a similar position opposite, his brown suit, despite the lack of a body, falling in the faint suggestion of humanity.

  Markriss breathed in, filling his lungs.

  I need some explanations before my head explodes. First of all—are you really Professor Harman Wallace? And why are you showing me this?

  The man bowed once again, this time in greeting.

  Apologies, Markriss. Eagerness to open the Way causes etiquette to slip. You’re right; I am Harman Wallace. Years ago, I was a Child of Geb like you. My people are from Tamana, a city built by ancient Kemetians in Northern Bulan, what you know as the Sahara. Our ancestors mastered Kemetic Science, exploring and mapping these realms, passing the knowledge to those who came after, and so it became my field of expertise.

  A Child of Geb? Markriss chewed that over, three steps behind, latching on to the name. The physical plane?

  Correct. Trace a path from my lineage to yours, you’ll find us related. I’m an ancestor, long resident of this plane.

  Right. My parents are Nubian, and my mum always told me Kemetians originated from Kush, so that makes sense . . . Markriss looked at the guide with a great deal more respect. So this is what I am when I die? Just . . . ka?

  Ka is what you were, are, and always shall be. It is your truest form.

  So much information, an entire world he’d kept at bay, and Wallace had only provided a shortened version. On that black mountainside above the eternal flow of rivers and streams, Markriss wanted to hear the history of his descent, to know everything.

  You’re restless, Markriss. It’s natural to have questions. It’s the only way for the mind to grow. Yet I haven’t answered your second question, and that’s perhaps the most important, for it tells why you are here. Your will shall award you secrets of the realm, Kemetic Science and your ancestors. Do not hurry this knowledge or it will lead to danger.

  Markriss bowed his head. Wallace was referring to his thoughtless pursuit of Keshni’s ka.

  I’m unsure whether your power comes as a gift, or if you were born blessed by chance. It happens only once in every while . . . A child of an era can be birthed with natural ability for the old ways as they can be born with blue eyes in a family of brown. There were key stages of your life when your power was at its peak, times when I called and attempted to make my presence felt. It was dangerous for you and those around you. Tapping into your spiritual energy affected your ka. The life force within you has the power to negatively influence weaker souls. There were . . . mishaps.

  Nesta . . . and . . . my brother . . .

  Yes.

  Grief, weak at best. Years had sucked the tears dry, his sorrow focused on his ignorance rather than pain. Not knowing why it all happened, whether he was to blame. Wallace let him have a moment of staring at rocks, burying his head in his hands.

  Go on.

  Your gift is duality. The power to move between spiritual and physical states without the aid of sleepers. Your life force is stronger than many I witnessed. Sages, adepts and masters transmute for a lifetime to reach your heights. Your Neter-given aptitude means that you are attuned to the indivisible dualities that encompass every aspect of every realm. There has not been the rarity known as ‘an Individual’ for over 5,000 years.

  Events in the higher realms forced me to attempt contact well before your time of maturity. In my age your power would have been noticed, and you would have been trained in Kemetic Science from birth; not so in yours. According to maat, a Child of Geb must make contact with the ancestors. Opposite attempts are not outlawed, though they are heavily frowned upon as the dangers are well documented. If, for some reason, an ancestor feels it’s imperative to overlook the unspoken rule, there are also laws governing this. It must only be done in dream state, never during waking. The Child must be immersed in the Supreme Conscience before the ancestors make themselves known, so there are no doubts concerning the spiritual hierarchy. Most important, contact with an immature Child of Geb can only be made twice in a lifetime. Once as infant, once as teenager. If the ancestor fails to make contact, they must wait until maturity before they try again, sometime around the twenty-eighth year. That is the method I used.

  Markriss nodded to show he followed, reluctant even to think in case he missed a point of vital importance.

  So you’ve contacted me and showed all the things your law asks. Why?

  In order to get help in a task that only you, with your powers of duality, may carry out. It is a simple task that I would perform myself, had I the gift. I do not, so it is left up to you.

  Well, there had to be a pay-off somewhere. I reckon you’ll find that in one of your laws. Although part of him dreaded hearing the answer, Markriss had to know: What is it I’m supposed to do?

  I have already told you how rare duality is. Rare, though not impossible, as your journey to Briah has shown. Unfortunately, duality also dictates that you are not the only bearer of this gift. There is another, a dark spirit, and that spirit is evil. He has used his knowledge of the upper realms to gain his own duality and could destroy your physical world just by his existence; with that balance gone, everything you’ve seen will collapse.

  Silence, taking that in.

  So you want me to stop this spirit? Kill it?

  As much as something like your ‘self’ can be destroyed . . . Yes.

  Elation dimmed into sorrow. A murderer asking him to murder.

  I’m no killer.

  Markriss, you have no choice. You must do this or calamity will follow. It is the Law.

  The vastness of the world he had had opened up to him hit Markriss with an overwhelming desire to slip back into his physical form, back into his cubicle at work where he could write articles tailored to the paragraph, keep his head down and out of trouble.

  Exactly what would happen if I refused? If I went back to my podroom and decided this whole thing was a dream?

  He was looking deep into the professor’s eyes, hoping the professor couldn’t read his own dismay at the weakness of his threat.

  It is forbidden for myself or any other guide to tell when or how . . . But go back, and your physical body will be destroyed. This is the inevitable consequence of straying from the Laws of Maat.

  He remained still, waiting for Wallace to say more. No way forwards, no way back. That was what he’d been told. An outpouring of emotion and injustice grew hot inside him until he forced it to recede. No place for it there.

  They sat silently opposite each other, seemingly for an age, the enormity of what he had been told replacing Markriss’s fear, growing in his mind until it caused a steady pound to begin where his neck met his head. Throbbing heartbeat, the pounding ever harder, until Mark
riss spoke simply as a means of taking his mind from the sensation. The calm he’d achieved, against everything, gave him strength.

  Destroyed by who?

  It’s forbidden for myself or any other to tell when or how.

  Markriss stared at the old man’s sagging face, his infinite strop angled towards rocks. Remembered pictures he’d seen of the woman poisoned by Wallace, the voice of the man who’d threatened him. He tried to look into the professor’s eyes, waiting for answers until it became evident he would give none. He wanted to know what reason Wallace had for murdering the young woman, unsure what response that would cause, or even if he’d be given the truth.

  This spirit is in the physical world you said?

  He is.

  And if I don’t go back to my flat, if I go back to destroy it instead, things will be better? I’ll get to see Keshni and we’ll be together, right?

  Of course. She is your mate.

  How?

  The professor stretched his left arm out across the land, bringing the scene to Markriss’s attention. From their high vantage point they could see the purple liquid escaping from underground pathways at the roots of the mountains, bubbling along smaller streams and diving via massive waterfalls into the crisscross valleys beyond. Markriss caught sight of movement in those depths. He stared into the rushing current, couldn’t see.

  River Time, Wallace said with authority. Not an actual river as you know them, of course, like Chaucer Crossing, or even the Gates of Binah: your eyes and mind do most of the work. Nevertheless, be mindful that what you see does exist, if not in the form you view. This river is your means of getting back to Geb.

  But what about my control? Can’t I will myself there, in my podroom and body where I started? Can’t I stop myself being killed? I thought I had power!

  More chuckling. Markriss got the idea he was a perpetual source of amusement.

  You have that power, yet also a way to go. You’re not ready to circumvent events, even if you were experienced enough to return. And then, after you had accomplished that, it would still do us no good. In your time period the rogue spirit inhabits the Ark on a level far above your own. There are laws in your world too, Markriss, that would never allow the necessary access. You must use the river and travel to a time period where the Rogue operates on your level. That is why you are here.

  Travel through time? To the past?

  Not past or future, Markriss. This time lies parallel with yours.

  Again, shock robbed him of thought, blurring vision. When he brought himself to look at Wallace, the ka was gone. He switched his gaze to the land. A blur of colours, too fast to trace. First, the blur was large, then the size of the stars, then no more than a pinprick. When it morphed into black Markriss leant over the mountainside. Wallace had gone ahead.

  Markriss! Markriss, come!

  He directed his ka towards the guide, beside Wallace before the thought was formulated, floating above a body of liquid the width of a canal. The purple water was motionless, barely a ripple marking the surface. Other streams could be seen, other rivers, some waters bashing and roaring as though eager to flood, others quiet as their own. The movement he’d seen from the mountainside had been no optical illusion; there was further activity here, caused by creatures that swam in the clear depths like alien fish. Closer inspection caused him to lower his ka, floating nearer the surface.

  A human head performed a slow spin, the eyes, when they reached him, open wide, teeth gritted. He cried out, propelling to Wallace’s side.

  They are not real, the guide told him. Merely thoughts, dreams, possible events seen through the lens of the river. It would take an eternity to explain the true concept of time. When you return to Geb, you must study these things.

  I will. You know I will.

  Indeed. I can tell you this for now; there are many parallels to every existence. All eventual possibility can be found here. This is where the decisions you make are shunted into life experiences. Choose a path, stream or river, and your predestined life will carry you to a destination. There are thousands of eventualities. Humankind has either lost her ability to explore them, or become too consumed by pod machines to know they can.

  That was it. The final straw.

  Please just tell me what you want me to do. If you tell me any more I’m not sure I’ll be able to take it.

  He wanted to express his helplessness and lack of knowledge, though it was impossible to tell if he had. Wallace’s serious face was unchanged, his voice retained composure.

  Dive into this point of the river. When you wake it will be inside your normal physical form, though far from your original parallel. Don’t be fooled by familiarity; there are subtle differences, some difficult to detect. The Ark and everything in it might resemble the place you recognise. Be aware it is not. Do not rely on people you knew to act as they once did, for although their forms are unchanged, their souls are strangers. Search for a man named Ayizan, leader of the Outsiders . . .

  The Outsiders? They’re mixed up with this rogue spirit?

  The gift of duality is often used as a means to possess human bodies, forcing them to carry out destructive acts. The Rogue has done so with Ayizan. The results could mean great peril. He is the man you must banish.

  Wallace held something to the light of the water: a thin band of gold on which sat a single carved snake, also of gold, poised upright as if to strike, midnight-blue stones embedded for each of its eyes. The band folded into three hinged sections. As Wallace opened these sections, Markriss saw the band was in fact a crown, the snake situated at its centre. Wallace unfolded, then folded the crown back, and handed it to Markriss. He took the gift without a word.

  It’s more common for objects to possess duality than humankind. This is Uraeus, a weapon that uses your sixth and seventh naardim to harness psychic force. It works by breaking down the components of a spiritual body and redistributing that energy into other forms. Order it to banish the Rogue and it will.

  So what happens to Ayizan when I banish him?

  You’ve already seen there is more to spiritual life than meagre physical existence. Ayizan will not die in the true sense of the word; he will simply be released into a freer mode of living. Exist as he was always meant to.

  It was difficult for Markriss to keep track of the sense of anything Wallace had told him. He still wondered if the man Ayizan would be killed. Earlier, Wallace had asked him if he could ‘trust’. He’d thought the guide meant did he trust the odd spirit of a murderer to take him places that he’d never been. Now he saw that it meant much more. He was being asked to throw everything he believed over his shoulder, learn a new language, laws and methods of behaviour. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he could, or if he wanted to live up to Wallace’s high expectations. His only lifeline, the only thing that made any sense, was Keshni. Being with her. His mate.

  So I just have to let myself fall into the river?

  Yes. Your will does the rest.

  He moved down, halting just above the surface. Objects and people continually floated by, each on an eternal journey to future destiny if the guide was to be believed—a miniature allocation, a dog, a raging fire, and at one point even the hulking mass of the Gateway. Markriss paid no mind. He was calm, in control. He was ready. Before he fell, he remembered what had been forgotten.

  Wait, Wallace! After all that talking you didn’t tell me what the Way is!

  The guide’s laughter came back. The Way is everything you have seen, Markriss. Everything you have seen and are about to see.

  He broke the water, causing circular ripples to slide across the surface. Slow as he could, he let himself fall further, creating more ripples. The liquid was cool, soothing. He was almost fully submerged.

  Wallace! Will I see you again?

  He was beneath the surface, purple glazing his vision, finding he could breathe. Markriss relaxed more, Wallace’s ka fading as he began his descent to the deep with greater speed. Light dimmed. His
guide was no more. He could see nothing beyond ethereal images of possibility and above that, distant ripples of a chess-black sky. When the last star died there was no choice. He curled his body towards the depths, grasping Uraeus tight, diving further than he’d ever thought conceivable.

  Part Two

  The Book of the Ark

  ‘In some way, which I cannot recall, I got the knowledge that I was dreaming, and then experimented in prolonging the dream.’

  — Oliver Fox, Astral Projection

  23 November 2020

  1

  Bright, steady awakening. He lay in the soft-lit room, blinking at the ceiling, relishing cotton against his back. He didn’t want to move or disrupt the feel of air through his lungs, the rumble of his heart, the pulse of blood flow, all signs of common existence. Every intricate working of his body’s interaction with the outer world was experienced and understood with utter clarity.

  He took deep breaths, inhaling the last until it became painful. Opened his eyes to the allocation. That low ceiling, those close walls. Light supplied by scattered candles, a dance of flames causing an illusion of rapid animation. He sat up, blanket falling into his lap along with something hard that rolled to his feet. He reached out, picking it up—the rough shard of a rose quartz crystal, warmed by his clutch. He put it on the podside for safety. There was a window-like opening on his right, devoid of glass, a kitchenette beyond. He made out lumps and bumps of furniture, a solitary window that looked onto the barely decipherable street. A memory teetered on the edge of his consciousness, and he tensed as he tried to recall words he’d once been told. By whom? He couldn’t remember.

  He threw away the blanket. Cold raised his skin into minuscule bumps—he was naked. A pile of clothes on a chair. He stood and fell back into the sleeper, his foal-weak legs another surprise. It took several pain-wracked attempts to stand upright, holding the wall to keep balance. Even when he let go, starting to walk as if attempting to find balance against a stilted, rocking tide, one hand remained outstretched in case he fell. Though it proved difficult, he straightened, still leant against nearby objects. A simple pair of dark cotton trousers and a plain shirt lay folded on the chair. He slipped them on, feeling comfort, familiar warmth.