A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  He sat up, holding his head, breathing deeply. The physical pain, remembrance. He went into the kitchenette and removed fresh mint from a glass jar, boiled water for tea, and took his steaming mug into the front garden.

  They’d made the paved ‘outdoor’ area comfortable with a couple of wine-red easy chairs, folding metal seats in case of more company, and a three-seater by the wall marking the confines of their space. Potted plants sat beneath their window, mostly herbs Chile sold or transferred to the Outsiders’ larger garden at the Temple, for wider consumption. A barbeque rack near the front wall was never used as Chile had a potent dread of fire. (‘If one of these cookouts goes up, the whole level will burn,’ she’d said so many times Markriss never bothered to argue.)

  Chile lay back in the nearest easy chair, eyes closed, the pages of her book wide-open wings soaring on her lap. Markriss wasn’t sure if she was sleeping. He perched on the arm of the chair, sipping carefully. The tea was very hot.

  In time, he noticed the still figure in the next-door garden. An elderly man wearing a white robe so long it brushed against his bare toes, bright cloth contrasting with black and brown locks falling in equal cascade, hair almost touching the floor. Large black sunglasses. Lumped, rocky hands, one on top of the other, resting on a walking stick that resembled a wooden stalactite, and might have been as old. A classic visage of the ancients: wizened, hooked nose, thick eyebrows and protruding chin jutting at the world with proud defiance, unabashed, set with time. Despite his stillness, the old man looked alert, ready to leap to his feet. The occasional insect—a bee, or fly—hovered about him, perhaps taking his robes for petals, yet they made no great difference. The elder kept his motionless countenance. They hovered, lost interest, moved on.

  He manoeuvred his body towards Markriss. Raised a hand.

  Markriss called: ‘To be at peace, Sares!’

  Reversing, Old Man Sares faced the road, stilled once more.

  ‘Let me know if you need anything from the shops.’

  Markriss tried another sip of tea. Better, still not great. He eyed his next-door neighbour. The elder, formerly a menial worker, had at some time become a wandering prophet of sorts, walking the squared confines of Poor Quarter streets, a book of wisdom tucked beneath his arm, imparting knowledge of the spiritual planes on block corners in a shrill, powerful voice to anyone who might listen. Though Sares treated their Outsider faction with respect, accepting regular donations of food and clothing with humble gratitude, he always refused to join their ranks. Ayizan said that elders of this nature were ‘necessary’, and Sares’s impartiality was a natural consequence of zone democracy, imparted by their road team. As long as the old man taught the Kemetian ways, he would be tolerated.

  ‘Kriss! Kriss!’

  A high voice, pierced with excitement. He walked towards the sandy rumble of plastic wheels against grit and concrete.

  ‘Hey, you, what you doing?’

  ‘Riding,’ the little girl said, her expression bemused query, wondering if he was stupid or blind. ‘I’m racing myself.’

  ‘Oh. Who’s winning?’

  ‘It’s a tie,’ she said, beaming like light.

  ‘You’re funny. Don’t let anyone tell you different.’ Markriss balanced a leg on the wall.

  ‘As if,’ she snorted, off around the front garden, creating a jerky, too-loud circle on her bee-striped trike.

  Pharah Mengus, six-year-old daughter of Shola and Credan Mengus, had proclaimed Chileshe and Markriss her best friends since the first day she moved into the Ark. Cirrus-haired, lisping from an errant front tooth, sociable and chatty, Pharah was there to greet them most mornings before school, often afterward. Today, she was clearly too busy for small talk, her sights trained on the middle distance, pressing down on tricycle pedals, turning handlebars to maintain tight circling, the clatter of wheels a continuous blurred noise. He sipped tea, watching. Racing herself. Everyday signs might be found in child play, Markriss often taught as guidance. He’d do well to heed his own lectures.

  Strong fingers kneading his shoulder. He looked back, resting against her.

  ‘How you doing?’

  ‘OK.’

  Pharah threw a wave, feet moving fast, faster. Chile grinned back.

  ‘Hey, precious!’

  ‘Hi, Chileshe!’

  He always wondered what Chile thought when she watched Pharah. She loved children, although they’d agreed it was cruelty to bring them into a world like the Ark. They reiterated their decision every so often, yet whenever Chile’s eyes drifted Markriss thought he saw intense sadness, rich with imaginings of possible futures.

  ‘Such a cutie.’ Whispered low, sighing. ‘I should get back to work.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. Made you tea.’

  ‘Saw, thanks. I’ll get more mint later, and some bits and pieces from the garden on order. Need anything?’

  ‘Nothing I can think of.’

  ‘OK.’ Kissing his temple. ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Yeah, some. I need to connect with Ninka. I think he’ll guide me.’

  ‘Of course he will.’ She rubbed his shoulder and went in.

  Markriss laughed, shook his head. Wise was the adept gifted with patience enough to show where to look, not tell what to see. He sipped tea, readied himself.

  First, he secured his aura by grounding. Markriss always took protection before a transmutation, deciding to spend more time on this, visualising his back against rough tree bark that scratched against skin, his feet buried in long grass tickling his soles. Saw energy coursing from the sky and into the leaves, through the trunk and into himself. Into green stems, into earth, into roots beneath. Allowed his breathing to slow to slight rhythm, almost nothing.

  Let himself fall.

  The expanse he remembered so well before and since, Burbank Park, that lush green. Bright sky, wheeling birds. His brother’s silhouette, tall and watchful, walking with purpose towards him. The crush of flattened grass, his connection with organic life making Ninka’s steps loud, a hundred decibels’ multiplication. Powerful sunlight, expanding beams a halo beneath Ninka’s head. The outline of his body and approximate features shifting heat haze; each time he caught a glimpse of something resembling a face or expression, it was gone, rippling into formless nothing. Seeing Ninka was similar to looking at sheer plastic immersed in pellucid water, a glimpse and uncertainty after. His brother came closer, reaching for his hand, and there was the anticipated contact with nerve-endings, his fingers moving through Ninka’s as though encountering a ghost. Brightness grew until it was painful and there was nothing else.

  Light faded to reveal a building. Armed guards at twin doors, a multitude of tinted windows. The people inside saw out, the people outside only wondered. A microcosm. As above, so below. Separated by circumstance. Nondescript, dowdy even, the building one of many corporate blocks in the zones of commerce near the Ark centre. The better off paid dues in those places, blind duty for an Authority that deemed them more worthy than others. Like gifted babies, loyal to the offering of positive inheritance, tethered to the only mother they knew.

  Numbers imprinted the building, the only markings that differentiated it from any other. 1322.

  And there was his brother, gliding upstairs and towards the doors then floating through them, past security guards—made double by the reflective gleam of marble floors—who looked into the distance. Equipment—blinking metal detectors, the feline purr of baggage-check machines—silent and immune inside the lobby. Ninka was through the next set of locked doors, disappearing. Markriss did the same, allowing his astral body to move past the security, through the locked doors and into a cloud of sooty, fogged space gathered beyond. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, moving deeper inside the mass. A tug, like being yanked by unseen rope. The sensation of resistance in his lower spine. Acceptance flooded him as he allowed himself to be pulled back, towards his body and the realm of his own.

  Purple into mauve. In the foreground, a three-dimen
sional pyramid of thin wrought gold shattered into pieces that tumbled outwards in svelte fragments, slowed to a pause, then fell inwards on themselves, where they came together as an eight-pointed star that turned in lazy, fixed rotation. Fading into nothing, consumed by black. When his eyes opened, Chile was watching from the opposite side of their pit, legs crossed, glasses removed. The calm blue aura shone around her, suggesting she’d not long finished descent.

  Their dim, cool room. Candles extinguished, walls humming with the subdued power of their generator.

  ‘Better?’

  Markriss nodded, blinking at solidity.

  ‘I looked but I still can’t see your aura.’

  Reaching for water, Markriss smudging the condensation at the sides of his cup.

  ‘It’s a really odd realm,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what being there means. Everything’s like here, just with different rules. It must be similar to your own journeys, right?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m trying, but buildings or objects just aren’t my thing. Only people.’

  He sipped, wincing from cold. Alternate versions of the plane existed according to how receptive an individual’s naardim were to spiritual dimensions; he had yet to discover, or be taught, the true meaning of those differences.

  ‘I can see everything. People, buildings, machinery. But it’s a blank, no sound or connection. I’m a ghost, like Ninka. I’m not even sure how he found it.’

  ‘He didn’t communicate at all? Not even thought?’

  Markriss placed the water back on the side of their pod. ‘No. He just showed it to me, and I was tugged back. I think I can get there by myself next time, without guidance. I’ll try anyway.’

  ‘OK.’ Chile took light sips of air, mouth barely open, limp hands resting on her knees. Without the distraction of glasses her eyes glowed in dim illumination. He watched them catch rare light.

  ‘We should tell Capra. We’re almost ready.’

  ‘Yes. I think Ayizan will want to come; you should too.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She caught him looking, smiling at the mattress. ‘What?’ ‘You seem very relaxed.’

  He slid to her side of the pod, rested on a shoulder, catching the sweet, tangy odour of shea and avocado butter. She often mixed the lotion in the kitchenette, filling their allocation with the smell. He nuzzled against the warmth of her neck.

  ‘So you come to disturb me?’

  He heard her smile, kissed her collarbone, once, twice, travelling down. The root of her neck. The curve where it met jawline, that faint road of bone leading to her chin, lips. Her soft lips. They kissed. Explored how it felt as though they never had.

  Markriss returned to her collarbone, nipping, nibbling.

  ‘Should I leave you alone?’

  ‘Did I say that?’ She jerked, leaning towards him. Giggling. ‘You’re tickling.’

  ‘Good.’ They laughed. He put an arm around her waist, sighing. They’d been apart too long.

  ‘I was letting you work. Don’t you have work to do?’

  ‘This is more important right now. Don’t you think?’

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. Content hummed deep inside her, he felt it. Travelling between them, yoking.

  ‘You know what I think. Better grab a towel; I’ve got my cycle.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You OK with that?’

  ‘Course. I just couldn’t tell.’

  He found a large towel in a drawer, bringing it back to spread across the pit. She uncrossed her legs, lying on their mattress, pulling him to join her. He lowered himself, testing weight. Rested against her body. She sighed, a gentle outpouring as he relaxed. Arms around his neck, wrist against the back of his skull. The soft and rapid pulse of flowing blood. Her breath solid as the fingers on his cheek, a moment before they tasted each other. Minutes savouring. Chile pausing to slide cotton over her head, him rubbing a cheek against the sheer material of her bra, lower, feeling tiny, almost invisible hairs, listening to her gasp, going further down, lips drawing a damp line against the vague muscles of her stomach. Chile writhing, meeting. Kissing her belly button, playing the indentation with his tongue. Gentle exhalation, light hands placed on each hip, anticipating tremulous reaction.

  White light flooded the sleeper. As it came, the consistent hum of the generator rattled before ceasing, replaced by seconds of tension, then the growing surge of online machinery booting up outside their window, a loud, collective whine which had to mean it was taking place all over the zone. Audible gasps of wonder, cheers punctuated by explosive chatter. Poor Quarter residents caught outside their homes, engaged in rapid discussions about what this meant, conversations rumbling, avalanching. The pod lights blinked silent animation as its internal workings hummed into life. Chile’s eyes widened, caught his. Quickly, she sat up, pushing him back, leaning one arm over the pod and thumping the control panel until start-up died, the wind-down a mechanical sigh of disappointment, a promise lost. Chile’s shoulders relaxed, her body spilt liquid as she slipped back into the pod, her head propped where feet would usually rest. They waited, saying nothing, listening to Pharah Mengus scream at her parents to come out and see, the power was back.

  ‘Well,’ she said, lifting her head to see him.

  ‘Well.’ Markriss balanced on his hands, looking out of the window. ‘We’ve got a little bit longer.’

  Laughter erupted from her. ‘You’re actually serious?’

  ‘Come.’ He took Chile’s fingers, drawing her to him. ‘I’ll show you.’

  They lowered into the pit.

  5

  By the time they emerged from their allocation, Poor Quarter excitement had waned into something less than wonder, closer to the anticipatory spirit that came before a gathering. People strolled for no other reason but to look up at the gantry Day-Lites, amazed. Gardens were filled with families camped on deck-chairs, drinks tables and picnic spreads. Many residents wore sunglasses. They lay on sun-loungers, fanning themselves and talking of heat. It was a bitter disappointment for Markriss and Chile to see how overjoyed people were to be granted their most basic of human needs, that of light. Indignation burned him, matched with his understanding that they had forgotten who’d taken that right from them without considering what it might do to their psyches, or the community at large. Yet still, the terraces were content.

  They took the streets that led to the Poor Quarter depths in slow disbelief, watching residents whoop, calling up at the mile-high ceiling with joy. A dishevelled man in bright shirt-ripped tatters, trouser-torn flags, ran up to Chile, kissed her cheek, then sprinted away, blistered heels disappearing around a corner before she or Markriss could respond. The foul cloud around him took longer, though eventually left them. People were happy, it was undeniable, and they felt slight pleasure to see it, though each time he looked at Chile her lip was curled, and when they exchanged glances the set frown between her eyes echoed his own. Yes, it was a celebration. No, there was little evidence of even the faintest amount of righteous anger. Their steps became wooden, bodies turning robotically.

  Fireworks crackled, trailing abrupt smoke. A glitter of burning lights arced upwards, searching for ceiling. At their peak, exploding into a shower of flint sparks and dust, the Lites made them difficult to see against their glare. No one gave a damn, launching more regardless. The torched smell of burning sulphur brought Markriss comfort even as Chile recoiled, frown becoming shock, hunched with fear. He rubbed her shoulder to placate her. She was tense as stone, so he stopped where they were, hugging her to his chest. Kids screamed, playing chase and kicking footballs. No doubt they hadn’t been allowed on the streets during the prolonged nights without power. On rooftops, shadowed parkour runners leapt from roof edges, their splayed limbs dark stars—though some ran for sport, others were drug dealers’ mules. No one could tell the difference. Dogs loitered, skittish and afraid, eying people with bared teeth, low-gear growling. Markriss always tried to recognise them individually and found it impo
ssible; one seemed as mangy and decrepit as the next. People squinted, shielding eyes. After days of darkness, ‘normal’ light hurt. All over the Poor Quarter, streets became a desert blessed by rainfall, life, colour and humanity blooming where once there had been a barren, listless expanse, a dead zone.

  Blocks from Ayizan’s street, Markriss’s left eye jumped, rapid twitching. A growing pressure spread across his brow, his eyes grew heavy. The ache became stronger as they passed a two-storey allocation, a slab of broad, flat, lifeless brickwork much as the others. Markriss slowed, turned, curious and unsure. Unlike the surrounding houses, which all seemed neat and well looked after, this one wore a dirt-blackened air of dereliction. Shadow blooms of dust suggested it had survived a long-ago blaze, yet there were no signs of fire in its past or more recently. Broken windows were boarded with wood, shark’s-teeth shards of glass firm in every pane. The front garden was overgrown with tall weeds, bowed by the weight of successful growth. The upper windows were also boarded, red paint graffiti-sprayed even there, mostly incomprehensible scrawls. Markriss saw an Outsider insignia almost eclipsed by newer, less accomplished attempts. What little he could make out of the roof was patched with the scabbed wounds of holes. This was also strange. The house seemed older than the terraces on either side, which wasn’t possible from what Markriss knew about their zone. Old-timers told stories that suggested all of the accommodation in their region had been designed and constructed simultaneously. And yet there the house stood, alone in discrepancy, the front door shut, the insides silent, lifeless.

  He faced the allocation. Chile let go of his arm.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, just . . . Look at this.’

  ‘Yeah, what about it?’

  He found himself by the crumbling front wall. No recollection of moving, or forming the thought. Over his shoulder, she craned her neck up and down the street, biting her lip. She scratched the rear of her calf with the toe of a shoe. The arc of her body made her look like a discarded kid’s doll.