A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  They stood before the twelve-inch steel deevo, stained rust-orange and brown from overuse. Filled with translucent liquid, the pan alive with the tangerine flame of a burning wick. He inhaled melting ghee, closed his eyes. Pictured Sylvan fast-talking, and her precocious laughter, mischievous even at the end. The kind woman who cared for her community with grace and love, who cooked the most delicious vegetarian dishes in the Quarter. An invaluable Outsider presence, despite her sole vice of dreaming. Sylvan’s warm ka entered him. Markriss felt sorrow, also peace. He opened his eyes. Caught heated air between his fingers, lifting it towards him, and touched his chest, eyes and forehead. Whispering ‘Àṣẹ’, he breathed deep, filling and expelling his lungs three successive times before he moved aside for Chile. While she gave her own tribute, he sat on the soft white sheet, enveloped by song and the close proximity of the Mistrys. Head bowed, he prayed.

  3

  The chair had woken sore points, each rigid slat uncomfortable and stubborn against the muscles of his back, rear and shoulders. He shifted, trying for a more comfortable position. It was wooden, great for carvings, ornaments and probably the old-style beds that existed long before sleepers, though he’d always thought the insistence on crafting trees into seating a grave mistake. He rocked side to side, trying not to be noticed. The chair creaked protest, so he stopped. It was always the same. He’d tried everything, from bringing his own cushions to sitting on the floor—which Ayizan disliked, probably because it wasn’t official enough. He had been so caught up with their present troubles, he’d forgotten how much he hated the emaciated chairs they’d brought up from the dingy school basement. He muttered, stretched a leg, tried sitting upright, fell against the back of the chair, annoyed by the failure of his efforts, while Ayizan kept talking, pushing waterfall locks over one shoulder, casting glances between the pad on his knee and each adept in the Circle.

  The others seemed able to cope. Vyasa and Temujin pushed their chairs together so they leant against each other for support, although they never registered one another’s presence, much less allowed their bodies to touch. Xander, at twenty-five the youngest and perhaps most agile of the Circle, sat cross-legged, back plinth-straight, a strand of twisted baby lock fallen across an eye, hands clasped in his lap, statuesque. Ayizan seemed relaxed, one leg thrown across the other, bouncing a knee, his voice calm and fluid. Chile would normally complete their Circle, but she taught regular home classes for families who couldn’t attend temple due to childcare restrictions. Apologies were sent in her place.

  He still hadn’t recovered from almost two days’ sustained meditation. As much as he and his fellow adepts exercised daily, being prone in a sleeper for that long was far from conducive to the body’s wellbeing. That was the real problem, he told himself, over and above his longstanding issues with sitting for more than fifteen minutes in a wooden chair. It made listening to Ayizan much more difficult, though it was vital to learn everything he’d missed. Not having fully recuperated from his meditation meant everything felt off, not only in his body; his mind also felt bruised and sore with use. His temples ached, his third eye beat an irregular pulse, a gentle, random sensation, consistent as breathing. He ignored the louder creak of his chair as he leant forwards, attempting to squeeze greater concentration by making Ayizan his sole focus, trying to block pain. He pictured the image of an old washcloth held by a strong hand. Only when the fingers tightened into a fist, no water emerged.

  He let the visualisation go.

  Their most urgent topic was the uprising, and their stalled dissent against the Authority. Going into transmutation just after the incident that prompted residents’ fury had been risky, yet the Day-Lites had been online, protests were confined to main streets, and the Corps presence was minimal. There had been a football game, nothing major or of any real merit, Barnsley Zone versus Charlton FC, sworn enemies on the pitch at least, their long-standing rivalry birthed in a friendship going back to the glory days of the Ark inception, when the Gateways first opened and everyone hoped. Willingly or otherwise, the matches reflected the very societal structures they represented, each game promoting fierce competition between rich and poor. A given, most believed, seeing as Barnsley housed a more affluent zone of tower blocks, Inner City workers and families. Charlton was the official name of the Poor Quarter.

  For decades, both teams refused to buy into the competitive fervour of fans, playing down animosities, posting online selfies of drinking and socialising after games no matter who won, trading players and managers alike. No one knew if they’d been forced to publicise their actions or decided to themselves, the Ark too small and intense for anything other than open camaraderie, despite the contrived nature of every promotional opportunity. They were often commended by the Chief of Corps, the brick-headed Chintana Wells, and the wider media praised their efforts with loud, celebratory and overzealous headlines.

  Pal Mullen, the famous 1980s striker and ex-Poor Quarter resident, nicknamed ‘Sargamatha’ due to his extreme size and build, had begun his career with Charlton. There he won the AA cup and league three times in a row before he switched teams, accepting the mantle of Barnsley captain until he retired. Goalies married the sisters of defenders from the opposing team. Coaches became well-documented best friends, and the only aggression between sides came from the fans. There were fistfights in stands that spiralled into violent free-for-alls, attacks on stadium security and even Corps. Occasionally, on the streets, there were deaths. On match days the entire spread of L1 was put on high alert, and security drones were deployed. There were curfews. Matches had been cancelled, sometimes hours before kick-off.

  The present uprising wasn’t borne of a clash between sides. It came after a Poor Quarter resident, Enos Weston, a twenty-eight-year-old Gateway worker and father of three, tried to exit the curfew zone to buy emergency supplies for his sick daughter. He wasn’t a fan of either team. He didn’t even like the beautiful game, preferring athletics, the 200 metre hurdles specifically. Weston’s spouse, a pragmatic L1 nurse at Chaucer Cross, suspected their eight-year-old daughter had come down with measles and sent her husband to the mall for paracetamol, a pint of fresh orange juice and a desk-top humidifier. On a good day it was a simple journey, perhaps half an hour there and back. But Weston ventured out not long after the final whistle of that year’s AA cup quarter final. The home team won, trouncing Barnsley in a decisive 4–2 victory. Street parties blossomed on every block up until the Corps perimeter, the corner where Prospect met Willington. Well-seasoned meat smoked on roadside barbeques. Monolith speakers were erected on rickety sound systems. Corporation soldiers appeared, face-masked and armed.

  Weston had only asked to leave his zone and return. When the soldiers refused, he grew frantic. His child was in the early stages of fever. If it worsened the virus could infect his entire family, hospitalising them with possible fatal results, maybe even affecting their zone. The last outbreak of measles in the Poor Quarter killed four children, as expensive vaccines were only available to the rich. Eye-witnesses said the Corps became agitated. They forced Weston to the floor, gun butts raised flags above their heads, threatening further violence. Weston refused to return to the Quarter without supplies. It was entirely feasible that he believed his daughter might die. The security forces tackled him into a chokehold and placed him under arrest, grappling him into submission. Enos Weston died, one cheek pressed against the cold speckled tarmac of the street, limbs convulsing robotically, in less than two minutes.

  And the Poor Quarter took to the streets.

  ‘As of last night, Bay Weston finally allowed us to intervene on her behalf,’ Ayizan said, scrolling the information on his slide. ‘I’ve sent emails and v-mail requests for meetings with Wells and E-Lul. No response, so I’ll keep the pressure on. I may need to ask one of you to take over if this continues. They’ve ignored Bay’s requests too. They won’t even give her basic respect.’

  ‘They’ve got no intention, we know that.’ Without m
oving, Xander was alive with fierce, abrupt venom. Only darting eyes and the quick rhythm of his chest divulged emotion. ‘And then what next? We wait for raids? More killings?’

  ‘It won’t get to that point,’ Markriss said more quietly than he felt. A wave of nods travelled the circle. He fidgeted against wood. ‘We’ll move first.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Markriss read grateful thanks as Ayizan caught his eye. ‘In the meantime we’ll use official means of contact even though we know it’s useless. Just to say we communicated in their language. It’s the Bulan way.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Xander blinked himself still. ‘She’ll need food, tics, childcare.’

  ‘Tics we can cover with donations, but could you handle the rest?’

  ‘I’ll make it happen.’

  ‘Thank you, brother. Ready for the next item?’

  ‘I am.’ Temujin’s eyes flitted between appraising Markriss and checking the others with swift glances. ‘How do you feel, Kriss? Can we talk mission?’

  ‘I’m actually good.’ Up until that moment there’d been little exploration of his aural response in the aftermath of his failed jump. The strength of his voice created a ripple in his element he wasn’t sure his Circle-mates picked up. ‘I’ve been reading my notes and taking small meditations up till this morning. I’m still not sure what happened, but the simple explanation is I got lost during the jump. It’s strange. I met that rogue being, and didn’t see any of you, even though you’d all mutated. But I’m ready for another transmutation.’

  ‘When do you think?’ Vyasa picked at the heel of his shoe with desperate attention, aura brightening rose-pink. An emotional flush, Markriss read. Possibly concern borne of love. Or fear.

  ‘The end of this week?’

  Another nodding wave. Ayizan wrote in his response.

  ‘It’s not that big a jump. I’ve done bigger. It should be easy, barring clashes with that rogue.’

  ‘Quicker the better, I’d say. Let’s talk more later,’ Ayizan said, looking at the notes, striking off the item. ‘Next. Medical attention for residents.’

  ‘I’ve contacted Dr Amunda. He’ll be here by morning, the checkpoints are less busy,’ Temujin said.

  ‘Good work.’ Ayizan scratched that in.

  ‘What’s the injury tally?’ Markriss tried another position, finding it just as bad.

  ‘One fracture, one suspected broken leg, four mild concussions, one confirmed broken finger and Bay Weston’s daughter with measles. Oh, and Syn Adebayo thinks she’s pregnant again.’

  ‘Syn by name . . .’ Xander cut in, getting a laugh.

  ‘Yeah, I see how you look at her.’ Vyasa grinned, shoulders heaving. ‘Imagining sin.’

  The young man rolled his eyes, imitating serenity, losing. ‘Nothing wrong with admiring a bodily aura . . .’

  ‘Mr Adebayo will cut it off. Turn the other way.’ Ayizan chuckled with the room. ‘That everyone for injuries?’

  Markriss raised a hand, caught himself and let it drop. They hated the gesture, yet kept up the habit like trained pets.

  ‘Can we put me and this bloody chair? It’s killing—’

  ‘Oh, here we go . . .’ Vyasa sagged.

  ‘Alright, people, focus.’ Ayizan raised his own hand, pen waggling for attention, a command. ‘Nearly done. Next item, waste collection. Right, can I start? We have to keep on it, yeah? We won’t have the confidence of our own team, let alone the residents, if we allow rubbish to build in our zone. We promised.’

  Xander winced. ‘It’s not the team’s fault, it’s us—I mean, where do we put the f— sorry . . . the stuff?’

  ‘I thought we decided that,’ Temujin said, craning towards her husband at last. ‘We dump it in the next zone.’

  ‘No, we don’t dump it in the next zone,’ Markriss interrupted. ‘We chuck it in the Lowers for Capra Paorach and the below-levellers to incinerate. I thought we knew that. Does Rick know that?’

  ‘Rick does not know that,’ Temujin said, sitting back, arms folded, blue ink on pale skin a disrupted Celtic map of illustrations and half messages. ‘He thought it went in the next zone and refused to let his people take it. Said he didn’t want anyone shot.’

  ‘OK, Xander tell him otherwise and leave it for him to sort. He asked to run waste disposal; it’s his shout. We’ve done our bit. Right?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘Thank you very much . . .’ Ayizan sighed. ‘Onto the best part. Any other business?’

  ‘Have we discussed the Quebanos’ wasp nest?’ Vyasa said, huge raised hand eclipsing the candles behind him.

  ‘No, we haven’t, it’s taken care of. I did it myself, and it was a nightmare, thanks for asking. We don’t need a meeting for that.’

  ‘Bloody well did need a meeting for that,’ Vyasa muttered beneath his breath. He was ignored.

  ‘Anything else?’

  Silence. Reluctantly Markriss raised his hand. Ayizan’s smile became a wince.

  ‘Kriss. Make it quick, I suspect these lot want to go home.’

  Him too, Markriss thought. Ayizan’s eyes were rimmed black, tired. He took a deep breath. Waited.

  ‘I’m not sure I have an answer, so I’ll say it anyway. What do you propose we do about the media coverage down here while we wait? Uprising after uprising it’s the same nonsense, and I don’t know how you guys feel, but I’m tired of the crap. I heard some people talk about it on the way in, the usual stuff, you know. The protestors looted for no apparent reason, other than the urge to smash up their own zone; looting was capitalist in nature, more about clothes and tech rather than basic provisions like food, water, medicine. Lies about attacking and injuring Corps soldiers, no names, photos or proof . . . And then, you know, they don’t say nothing about what Bay Weston and her family’s going through right now, nothing about people like Sylvan Mistry corpsing in their machines, or the injured, and everyone else left to rot. Like I said, I don’t have answers; I just keep thinking about the media and the way they deal with us and I wondered if there was any way to lobby them so we highlight the misinformation, or change the narrative in some way . . .’

  They watched him with an intensity he hadn’t felt before, Markriss pulling his energy inwards. Calm. He needed calm. He felt the rush of rapid breath, the chair squeaking with each movement, a chattering, excited animal. Ayizan faced him with forensic deliberation.

  ‘Sorry about that, I just—’

  Ayizan’s bright palm, scored with dark pathways. The markers of future life, elders believed, although few left alive could read them.

  ‘No need to be sorry. We feel what you say and agree, don’t we?’

  This wave of nods went all the way.

  ‘The real question is whether it’s possible to do more than we’ve already proposed. They’re media. They have the backing of entities like Hanaigh E’lul, the Corps and the Authority. We’re a group of allies trying to help the community govern themselves. Rock versus sword.’

  ‘But surely there’s—’

  ‘Rock versus sword.’ Weighty, deliberate. ‘If you can come up with a method of disarmament, I’d like to hear it. But fighting the media’s like trying to fight smoke. Until we can blow enough air in their direction, we should concentrate on what’s manageable.’

  Markriss conceded, nodding as they had. The knife-sharp pain in his back returned, deepening. He stood in one quick movement, causing the chair to emit a wailing bark.

  They stared of course. He was alone on his feet.

  ‘Meeting closed,’ Ayizan said, palms held together like prayer, pad dormant on his knees.

  The high street was desolate with abandoned buildings, the shop windows blank, cold glass. Broken doors and bent metal shutters lay smoke-blackened, prone as sculptures. The street was mostly empty, only residues of past life—husks of roasted plantain, cassava and potato-chip wrappers, tiny remnants of bone—to betray what had once been. The Lites were on, dimmed to sallow beige.

  At the opposite end of
the street, behind the closed barricade, was the Corps, suited for combat, staring down anyone who dared to venture out of the Quarter or Prospect Towers. Residents hurried past, heads dipped, shoulders hunched against silent threat, moving with the quick purpose of night creatures expecting the worst.

  The men stood alone beneath the awning of Sarfatti’s tech repair store. Window signs screamed SALE, beside scattered offers of discounts. A pale blue e-lamp shone in one corner of the window, indicating that the store was open for business to residents who knew what the signal meant.

  Fully masked, heavily armed Corporation soldiers formed a line of fifty or more. With supporting vehicles and machinery, they stood in row after impenetrable row, still as winter trees. Sharp-edged drones hovered above like evil thought, a horizontal buzz of motion and blue-bottle whine. These autonomous machines were equipped with 2.2 bullets and HD digital recording equipment, no mics. A security precaution in case the Corps were recorded saying anything that could be hacked and transmitted out of the zone, perhaps even out of Inner City. How they enforced their will on camera was of no concern.

  Ayizan prepared a tobacco splint, licking paper. He kept his sights on the Corps best as he could, even with his head ducked; one quick movement and he was up, returning their mechanical stare. It was wise to see what they did, or might do.

  Hands in pockets, Markriss also watched.

  ‘Brother, I’m with you,’ Ayizan continued, between lighting the splint and emitting smoke. Scented caramel rose. He blew the fiery tip. ‘News sites, VS, bloggers, news drones, even writers and poets. You saw the Hogan piece, right? Very few stand to support us. Most agree our lives are worthless, so I totally get what you’re saying.’