A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t particularly want to.’

  ‘It’s not bad. I don’t think, anyway.’

  She kissed her teeth at length, Markriss imagining her expression. Loose-lipped petulance.

  ‘You’re not exactly the best judge.’

  He laughed, swivelling. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’

  ‘You’re going in?’

  ‘If I can.’

  Markriss tried ignoring the gravity of her sigh. Better to concentrate on what he was doing. The pinewood slats across the door were flaking, corners tinged with orange crescents at the screws. They spanned the upper and lower windows of the door. Between the two a handle. If it was locked, he’d have to give up, although the boarding was also strange. Vacant houses around the Quarter were normally made secure with metal panels and digitally locked doors, left to rot on the insides unless the zone ran low on accommodation, which hadn’t happened in decades. He pulled the top slat towards him with both hands. It gave with a bounce, suggesting the screws were quite loose, most likely worn, so he kept pulling until the wood came off in his hands. He tried the next, and the others. After a time, six piled at his feet like firewood.

  ‘That was easy,’ he threw over his shoulder. For reassurance he supposed.

  ‘Tell me again when you’re an ancestor.’

  He feigned a smile, grabbing his sleeve and bringing it up over his fingers. He grasped the material in a fist and eased his arm through the broken glass, slow, as he’d done as a child playing that game with a hooped piece of metal and the buzz of electric wire. What was it called, something like— ?

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘You OK?’

  Behind him, pitched with worry.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, caught my sleeve. No blood.’

  ‘No common sense, you mean.’

  He chuckled, kept going. Pressed down on the door handle.

  It opened.

  ‘Coming in?’

  She rested on the brick wall, smoking a roll-up, one leg thrown across another, foot bouncing. Veiled smoke blown sideways, towards the street. The scuffed white crescents of each toe.

  ‘Nah. Stopped tramping round old houses when I was a kid.’

  Hands on his hips, he looked up, stung by unexpected brightness.

  Sharp light pierced his eyes. He looked down. He wanted to convince her, wouldn’t allow himself to admit he needed company.

  ‘I’ll be five minutes. Promise.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  More careful than usual, disturbed by Chile’s reluctance—she was right about most things—Markriss grabbed the door, levering it open in stiff jerks, slower when he heard soft glass tinkle like emptied bins into a distant rubbish truck. He shook his head. Always thinking of Outer City. He kicked the wooden slats aside with a heel, scraping them in squealing protest across the floor, pulling the door further out until there was room enough to slide his body past the door’s edge and stiff tongue of the latch, weapon-sharp. He looked over his shoulder. Chile studied her trainers, lost in patterns of lacing and stitching. Of being entwined.

  Whispering prayers, Markriss entered.

  The homeliness surprised him, particularly since the house had clearly not been inhabited for some time. Smudged walls bore swarthy patches and there were holes in floorboards where carpets had once been laid, and yet picture frames remained even if the photos were long gone, pearls levered from chipped oysters. At the bottom of the stairs, a mahogany table was first-knuckle deep with dust. Above his head, a mock chandelier, with many glass baubles missing. Surely—and this was something that wouldn’t stop nagging Markriss in the days and weeks to follow—he would have noticed an allocation this opulent before? He’d walked this route every day for eight years, and he’d never seen this place, he was certain. He ran a hand across wallpaper so old he could barely discern faded patterns—bouquets of flowers? Bundles of wheat wrapped in fine blue and red ribbons? Who wallpapered houses anyway? Everyone painted, had done for a generation at least. So how old was this?

  He moved towards the rear of the house—though the tug of sensation was strongest up those stairs—needing to learn the personality of the space, perhaps glean something of its past and why it pressed on his spirit. A bare kitchen, with stone counters and gap-teeth slots, presumably where a cooker and white goods once lived. Cupboards, empty apart from one that contained the skeleton of what he presumed was a dead mouse. Dusty twinned living rooms, also bare, two imitation fireplaces left to mark the purpose they’d served. Markriss was surprised to see them intact. Not worth anything, he suspected—if they were, they would have been long stolen. It was odd they’d been fitted at all; within the Ark there was no need. He always assumed fireplaces were banned because of the obvious risk. Yet this allocation had two.

  A downstairs bathroom, confined as a cubicle, then the upstairs podrooms where the presence he sensed lived. Upstairs, he found two doors separated by a small passage fenced by a half-broken banister, whole sections missing. He let his hand rest. Built from robust wood, the banister was rich with aura and smooth to the touch, yet wobbled like a milk tooth. He snatched his hand back quickly as it shook, narrowly avoiding a fall to the ground floor. The upper floor was dingy, little of the Lites seeping in. Wallpaper was sparing, paper strips peeling like fruit until they were bent double, figurative heads resting against bare wood, or the staircase. The air entering his mouth, windpipe and lungs felt gritty, laced with chalk. Stuffy, difficult to breathe. He wished he’d brought water. Above, in what he presumed was the attic, he heard skittering clawed feet, hoping the animal was tiny and spooked enough to stay up there.

  He poked a head around the open bathroom door, flicking the switch. No working lights. Rusted, stagnant water in the full belly of a roll-top bath, the remains of a collapsed half-sink that looked bitten by giant teeth. He backed onto the landing. The presence was behind him. Coming from one of the white-painted podroom doors, most likely the right. The door was ajar, Markriss unable to see beyond. Faint brightness of Day-Lites spread from the room onto the landing, nothing more.

  Houses in this state reminded him of being a younger, when he’d escaped from home and the road team he’d chosen as family reached the point of the night when their need to sleep became paramount, and where became an ongoing mission. Sometimes they even called it that—the Mission. They couldn’t sleep on Outer City streets. As young adults, they understood potential dangers were so numerous it was never even voiced as a consideration. If their go-to safe houses were habitable, or empty, or hadn’t been reclaimed by owners old or new, then the mission was short, and they slept relatively easy. If their chosen house was compromised, they were forced to walk hostile streets. Markriss and Nesta were together on occasion, although he often took missions with kids he barely knew, or a clutch of childhood friends like T’shari, Karis and others, going from house to empty house, levering locks and slatted boards with broken tools. They called those mornings ‘Shallows’. When sleep was at its thinnest, least restful. When the worst things you could imagine made themselves known and convinced you they were real. No one knew who’d coined the noun, yet it fit perfectly, and so remained.

  If they were lucky and managed to gain entry without running into immediate danger, they would walk a passage or landing, feet treading the creaking floors as quiet as humanly possible, in hope a door they were about to open wouldn’t contain animals, or men, or a security precaution that might cause them to lose their lives. Hearts pulsing at throats, weapons raised, eyes fixed.

  He hated the fear that pricked his fingertips, drying his mouth so his tongue lay dead and foreign, and carried the emotion with him anyway.

  Markriss pushed the closest white door with outstretched fingers, allowing it to swing further open by its own weight. The room was well illuminated, empty of usual furnishings—bed, carpet, wardrobe—and open and spacious, nothing like he’d imagined on the landing, those vicious places of memory. Cracked wal
ls and jagged floorboards. Fogged windows and stained, muddy curtains.

  In the far-right corner, a steady sheen of light thrust from bare floor-boards up to the matte grey ceiling, where it erupted into a churning cascade, a shimmering river, a waterfall reversed.

  Markriss watched the light until he noticed a presence.

  Old Man Sares was poised and motionless in the opposite corner. Cross-legged, dressed in his usual white robes, a plethora of unwrapped locks falling over his knees like tendrils, thumb and first fingers touching. His eyes opened.

  ‘Markriss.’

  Dark stare unfocused, set beyond him. The old man couldn’t see, though he knew.

  ‘Teacher.’ Bowing, a slight nod. ‘I thought you were an ancestor.’

  Old Sares offered no response. He chewed on something unseen, making bovine movements with his lower jaw, head set in Markriss’s direction. Or so it seemed.

  ‘You brought me here?’

  The old man shrugged, shoulders relaxing.

  ‘I couldn’t if I tried.’

  The voice was difficult to catch, low, tinged with the coarse burn of a thousand cigarettes, feet scraping across gravel and the low mist of raised dust. Markriss never saw Old Sares light up, let alone take a drag of anything. Stories persisted of the old man and his assigned work in the Lowers, the warren of underground levels beneath Inner City. Something about machinery accidents leading to disfigurement, though no discernible scars etched Old Sares’s body or face. Markriss never found courage enough to ask his neighbour if the zone gossip was true.

  ‘So how did we find this place? I walk this street every day, I’ve never seen it.’

  ‘I don’t have answers for you.’

  ‘OK.’ Searching plain walls, trying another way. ‘So how did you get in?’

  ‘I came to meditate. Just like you.’

  Markriss opened his mouth, closed it. Crossed the room to sit by his neighbour’s side, leaving enough space for comfort. Nearer, the shimmer emitted a tuning-fork hum on the edge of his hearing. Subtle vibration purred against his thighs and buttocks, through floorboards. He laid his hands on the wood.

  ‘Will Chileshe be joining us?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s waiting outside. She’s scared.’

  ‘She is wise.’

  Markriss smiled at his knees. Thought of her smoking another roll-up, possibly looking at blind windows, wondering how long he’d be.

  ‘What is it?’

  The wait for an answer took so long the immersive rush of the shimmer, that gentle continuum, began to lull him into a sensation close to entrancement. He believed Old Sares had slipped into meditation, or had no answer, or didn’t care for the question.

  ‘A point where our normal understanding of physical time and the higher energies converge,’ the old man said into quiet, the timbre of his voice harmonised with the purr. ‘A place you couldn’t see due to lack of vision. You’ve transcended. You’ve found a cross-stream.’

  Listening with intent, trying to overstand, Markriss noticed the material of Old Sares’s white robes flutter, a motion like the sigh of a breeze. Swelling, falling. If he closed his eyes, allowed it, Markriss felt something caressing the hairs of his arms and neck, cooling his skin.

  ‘Chileshe’s right to be cautious. These manifestations are dangerous.’

  ‘How so?’

  Old Sares faced him. Eyes huge and dark, all pupils. Angular features seeming carved rather than birthed. Markriss was convinced his expression of confusion had been noted, possibly judged, even while he knew it wasn’t possible. There were ways, of course. Multifarious ways.

  ‘Learn, Markriss. Allow it.’

  The old man turned away, bowing his head. His breathing deepened and slowed. Markriss nodded, understanding. He lowered his chin, closing his eyes to begin grounding.

  Chanting quiet mantra, he gave way.

  The Lites had dimmed a few degrees. Counterfeit evening settled on the Poor Quarter as Markriss emerged, pushing the stiff door. The lengthening shadows of roofs and terraces, the sallow glow of streetlights, the shouts of children. Paired lovers, bodies pressed tight as they unified steps. Elders prone in gardens. The louder hum of varied mechanics, 50-inch screen-slides making windows shine with stuttered glows up and down the block. A feel in the air he recalled from Outer City, one of good—gathering people, the promise of future, the buzz of a burgeoning summer and all contained by the earth’s position in proximity to its sun. There would be celebrations, parties and outdoor food. The Poor Quarter would reconfigure, as always.

  Chile dropped her roll-up, squashing it underfoot, standing. He took her hands and kissed her. Smoke lingered, an aura.

  ‘Got what you came for?’

  ‘Think so.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Sares doesn’t give things easy. He sets your path, the rest is yours.’

  Markriss squeezed her fingers lightly, appraising her with more care. Threading them with his, she pushed him backwards and away.

  ‘You’ve gotta stop doing that.’

  ‘Hey, I see people, remember?’ Touching his cheek with a finger, her eyes misted over. Her elemental aura read blue, the colour taken when a person was teaching, or engaged in action promoting sensitivity. ‘Ready to go?’

  He blinked, unsure what she was referring to. A woman in shorts, athletics vest and flip-flops sauntered by, heels drumming a lazy rhythm of slap and slide, slap and slide. The pace of her walk echoed along the block.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  Markriss took her hand.

  Although they’d been friends since they met on either side of a grainy nursery-school sand pit, the weak sun leaden and high above their matted heads, Markriss found much of Ayizan’s ways as mysterious as a stranger’s. He possessed the quality of a person who achieved blank spaces in their life without trying, moments and experiences no one, even those closest to him, could penetrate. Markriss called these events subconscious voids. Most of the time his old friend didn’t know how he behaved, he was positive of that; the sheer epitome of being, he just was. If they walked, Ayizan would disappear without warning, only to reappear at their destination as if nothing had happened. Or if he arrived at a gathering, talking loud and fast with excitement, he’d bring someone with him he’d known for months, even though he’d never mentioned their name. He’d speak in depth on subjects he’d previously never shown interest in—trigonometry, or the omega nature of wolves—or even show adeptness in skills Markriss had never seen him practise or discuss. Over time, especially in the claustrophobic blocks of Inner City, others put the trait down to Ayizan’s blessing as an old soul, something that Markriss had long considered to be true. And still, ever since childhood, he harboured a secret belief of his own: Ayizan was magic personified.

  The most obvious manifestation of those black-hole spaces was his belongings. His allocation was a mirror double of Chile’s and Markriss’s home, yet while theirs was untidy despite being relatively free of all but essentials, Ayizan’s was packed to the ceiling with things. Every possible space was filled with some object or other, and still the impossible was made real—the allocation was tidy, almost like an Inner City show home. Chile would often comment on it when they left the flat, hunchbacked to avoid being overheard by neighbourhood gossips, speaking in whispers that verged on jealousy. They didn’t understand how he managed it. And it wasn’t even that the things he obtained were shoved or squeezed into spaces where their inexact positions left them exposed, awkward, obscene. Wherever they’d been stood, laid or hung, there was barely a sliver of room between the place he’d found for an item and the item beside it. Simply put, Ayizan’s belongings always looked as though they belonged.

  Perched on the sofa edge holding earthenware mugs of peppermint tea, starting at the sudden roar of Ayizan’s generator booting online, Markriss pretended that he couldn’t see Chile sat beside him, head swivelling, eyes roaming the room in search of additional objects. He attempted
not to follow her gaze. Ayizan constantly obtained new people and items. Markriss had no idea where he got them from, or even how, they materialised from nowhere in irregular bursts like teleportation. Lovers, work products, or pieces of art appeared in an eye-blink. Walls were filled with indigenous paintings, masks and sculptures, composed of bright, astral colours and representing cultures from all over the world. Some depictions were traditional, more rural: the man fishing a calm lake, red sun falling behind him, or the step pyramids of Chichen Itza bathed in tall green trees. A brown leather-bound Kebra Nagast. The narrow-eyed, contemplative stares of Bulan masks crafted from wood, metal and even 3D Bakelite, hung beside Venetian cat’s-eye masks, and another streaked black and white, possibly a badger. A varied forest of sculptures lined shelves and bookcases: a woman bent, drawing a calabash of water; a bare-chested man carrying his toddler son on broad, muscled shoulders; an Indian elephant adorned with its headdress, trunk raised; two Chinese symbols sculpted side by side, the Mandarin for ‘tranquillity’, Ayizan had once said. There were Kemetian ankhs; a cartouche with, from head to foot, a squiggled line, a feather, a bracelet with two beads placed in its centre, a half-risen sun and an eyeless bird. A metallic, eight-pointed ‘Lotus of the Soul’, the inspiration for their Outsider logo, sat atop a bookshelf. Amongst them all were sketch drawings of all manner of chakras and an unfinished canvas of a beautiful woman Markriss didn’t know, and Ayizan never spoke of. Whenever he was asked, he’d smile and say, ‘Beautiful spirit. Golden.’ He never mentioned her name. It drove Chile crazy.

  Bookshelves were packed so tight Markriss wondered how he freed the volumes to read. Shelves were somehow built into walls and placed around the room, which gave the confined allocation a smaller, darker feel, although the final evening beam of Lites managed to penetrate a lone, central window. The coffee table was stacked with a neat pile of board games: oware, chess, Chinese checkers, a slim and weathered dominoes box.