A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  Balancing a too full mug, pleased with a job well done, Ayizan entered the living area. In his other hand he carried a full plate of biscuits. He rested both on the coffee table beside the Kebra Nagast, huffed, surveyed their manner, smiled.

  ‘OK. Now we talk.’

  ‘If we can hear over that noise.’ Chile tipped her head towards the thudding generator.

  ‘What would you rather, us go missing and end up in the Blin?’ Ayizan grinned, motioning at the plate. ‘Have biscuits, eat.’

  ‘We’re fine, thanks.’ Chile’s palm rose to ward off argument.

  ‘Made them myself? Honey and cinnamon.’ An eyebrow lift. ‘Sure?’

  ‘You’re a wicked man.’ Markriss lifted a biscuit and broke it in half to offer his wife, relishing the thin, pleasing snap. She pulled down the corners of her mouth, shrugging, took it. A hearty crunch. Chewing.

  ‘No calories in mint tea, so you can afford to make them up elsewhere.’

  ‘I’ll need parkour after this,’ Markriss said, taking a bite. Sweet not cloying, a cinnamon kick. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Well, you know.’ Ayizan’s bashful expression set his face askew. ‘Practice, practice. I might as well do something useful with my time.’

  ‘No word from the Authority or Corps?’

  A shrug, a sigh. ‘The usual. Their standard reply, a form letter from the Complaints Committee saying they’ll launch an investigation and instigate a report. We know where that’s going.’

  They listened to the clatter of a trolley or suitcase roll by on the street, looking at their hands.

  ‘Family’s doing well though,’ Ayizan said, straining for brightness. ‘I’m not sure I’d be as strong or composed. They’re inspiring.’

  ‘Will there be a funeral?’ Chile’s voice low, noncommittal.

  Ayizan thought a moment. ‘I don’t know how they’ll play this one. Honestly.’ Another sigh. ‘How was your walk?’

  ‘Good.’ Chile leant forwards. She’d read Ayizan’s true intention, to discuss what was happening in the Quarter. ‘The people are happy, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And they seem in easy spirits, better than I would’ve believed if you’d asked me before. Lots of barbequing and lounging in gardens.’

  ‘Tons of kids,’ Markriss added.

  ‘Yes, loads. You haven’t been out?’

  A see-saw motion of his hand.

  ‘A little. Down the road mostly, though I spent the morning seeing members and writing emails back to the Authority. Got food for dinner, that was it.’

  ‘It seems calm,’ Chile said, considering Markriss. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘For now. People are happy the Lites are online. They’re not thinking why, or who put us in this situation.’

  ‘They want things the way they were.’ Ayizan sipped tea.

  ‘They’ve been placated,’ Chile said, keeping a neutral tone.

  ‘True.’ Markriss sat back. ‘Can we work it to our advantage?’

  ‘We must.’ Ayizan smiled again, weaker. ‘It’s the only choice we have. How was your transmutation?’

  ‘I found Ninka. He led me to the building, then my thread wouldn’t let me in.’

  ‘You’re not ready.’

  A frown etched Ayizan’s face, rough fingers rubbing his forehead. Captaincy had aged him. Spider-web hairs threaded locks, cheekbones protruded.

  ‘It’s not that. I think I need to go by myself.’

  Chile edged forwards even further, until she perched on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘He’s fine. The first jump was a setback, but I think we’re ready to see Capra. We should go soon. Markriss found a cross-stream.’

  Ayizan sat upright, his mug hitting the table with a sucker-punch thud. His stare travelled from one to the other.

  ‘Yeah.’ Markriss held his eye. ‘A derelict two blocks away.’

  ‘There’s no such place.’

  Confident, testing.

  ‘It’s there. I’d never seen it either, until now. I went in and found Old Sares.’

  ‘Shit.’ Head lowered, fingers raking his beard, Markriss couldn’t see his thoughts. He tried reading his aura, and found it difficult. Some red, a little white. Anger, mixed with truth. Confusion.

  ‘I never went inside and only saw the usual terraces, but I felt Sares. That much I know,’ Chile said.

  ‘OK.’ Back bent, fingers tapping the mug, body swaying with slight motion, a sign Markriss always took to mean he was thinking laterally. ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘Beautiful. Like a stream of silver shooting from the floor.’

  Ayizan looked up. Markriss and he smiled without knowing.

  ‘Right. Capra’s waiting to supply the canisters on our word. He won’t get them made until we’re sure we need them, so the more last-minute the better, he said. It’s dangerous to leave them lying around.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ Chile asked.

  ‘A few hours.’

  ‘Can’t forensics trace the canisters to him?’ Again, Markriss tried to read their faces. It was impossible. Each was shielded by intent.

  ‘He’ll print them.’ Ayizan’s eyes widened, seeing his reaction. ‘Don’t worry, it’s an unmarked machine. One of his people hooked it up. They’re not silly down there.’

  ‘Can “his people” be trusted?’

  Bright grin, safer ground. ‘Chile, when I say “people” I mean his oldest daughter. Convinced?’

  ‘Still,’ Chile pouted. ‘No prisons in the Ark, right?’

  They sobered, backs stiff. Once an Outer City myth composed of shifting gossip between road teams and career criminals, the mantra ‘No prisons in the Ark’ had become truth to centuries of outside dwellers turned permanent Inner City residents. There actually were no prisons in the Ark. Conviction of a C- or D-category offence stripped residents of work assignations, or ejected them back to Outer Dinium. Convictions involving violence, rape or murder meant people disappeared without warning. Families cried and begged, lovers cursed, still the convicted A-category criminal was banished from existence like the life they were accused of taking. Many believed the guilty were buried in unmarked graves all over the Blin. Whispered discussion sometimes centred on whether the guilty were actually guilty at all. Over time, ‘No prisons in the Ark’ evolved from rumour to mantra. Be careful. The chosen path might lead in a singular direction.

  ‘We’ll hold a gathering to celebrate the Lites booting online,’ Ayizan said. ‘It’s nearly winter anyway, it’ll look odd if we don’t. While that happens, we’ll go down. That means you’ve got forty-eight hours until Sunday night. If you can’t get in, we don’t go.’

  ‘OK.’ Chile bit her lip. Her eyes were scared. Markriss took her hand between his, rubbing. Though warm, they were also rough, scarred by the past. He kneaded flesh, in hope it might soften.

  ‘Truth?’

  Probing for definite signs. This time they matched his stare.

  ‘Truth.’ In unison.

  ‘Then it’s done.’

  Ayizan cradled his mug, one thumb stroking ceramic. The unseen clock ticked seconds away.

  Their missions were simplicity itself. Media, in the form of Ark News, Ark Lite and its various subsidiaries, were the chief propagators of news that demonised Poor Quarter residents in general and slandered the families of those who came into violent contact with Corps, whether criminals or everyday residents. They supported the oppressive policing tactics of the security forces, using advertising and subscription revenues to fund a large percentage of the Corps budget. After all, when the bottom line was observed, the Ark was no more than a single conglomerate company. Inside the city, there was no one to regulate exactly how business was done, or bring anyone to task for foul practice.

  The Outsiders’ initial function was to voice zone concerns, while giving those under their protection the opportunity to strengthen their spiritual psyches against daily assaults by the city state and its propaganda ma
chine. In time, stories like Enos Weston’s had become commonplace. Residents were shot or choked, taser-shocked or bludgeoned; found guilty in locked-room courts and spirited away, allocations given to unknowing new residents, or left empty and metal-boarded. The Ark official Complaints Committee had logged over 2,000 custody deaths in the last two decades, with no convictions or even employer dismissals. Corps and their agents became a feared reality, the evil that parents warned children against when they were old enough to venture onto zone streets alone, telling them to keep their eyes open, be compliant when spoken to, don’t make any sudden movements, be afraid. And then there was the present, ongoing pressure of life as a Poor Quarter resident, humiliating menial work a perpetual reminder of how the Authority defined its residents—although far better than being assigned to the depths of the Ark foundations, existing forever below ground as ‘tunnel rats’.

  When they had found themselves ejected from various menial jobs for differing reasons (most centred on their inability to absorb verbal, physical and quite often sexual threats), Ayizan, Chileshe and Markriss—black-marked, unemployed—founded the Circle, in order to heal themselves in the beginning. As the years passed and their Circle widened to include Vyasa and Temujin, later Xander, they realised the scope of their spiritual practices. They called themselves the Outsiders, a name that meant they weren’t confined by Inner City rules, or walls. They read and meditated until they were ready, only then going into the pocket world of the zone to spread teachings, recruit further. At the urging of Ayizan, those early days were a slow, quiet time of gentle building. They shrouded themselves, not only by their clothing but in their lives. Ayizan knew the problems knowledge of their works could bring. They knocked on doors, lectured in the square outside the long-derelict school building, stood outside shop doorways handing out leaflets. With each yearly revolution, the Authority’s oppression bore weight on the zone’s neck with even greater force. If they couldn’t breathe, Ayizan had said at a Temple meeting almost twelve months before, it was their moral right to push back.

  And so they implemented a two-objective mission. The first was for Markriss, most adept at anomalous cognition, to seek astral impressions of their unseen target, Building 1322, and locate its schematic plans. The second was for Vyasa and Temujin, in the guise of working their assigned jobs as Building 1322 security, to plant a number of gas-based explosives at positions identified through Markriss’s remote view of the layout. During offline hours, when the building was uninhabited, they would detonate the explosives.

  If successful, the blast would temporarily disable L1’s ability to transmit media communication in or out of the Ark.

  If unsuccessful, and caught, they would likely be killed.

  Music pulsed beneath raised voices, echoing long-forgotten elation. He imagined Chile and himself as two untethered bodies adrift in the lower dimensions, twinned ghosts immune to the call of their names, waving hands, the clamour of miniature explosions that crackled over their heads as if the air was aflame. They walked back the way they had come, Chile’s lips set straight, eyes as blind as Old Man Sares’s. She also dreamt awake. He wanted to tell her of the tiny fists that squeezed his gut, the lightness in his chest and prickle of a difficult-to-swallow object in his throat chakra, his voice stolen or overused, he wasn’t sure which. She pressed against him, cradling his elbow with a guiding hand and he felt she either knew him, or shared his perspective. Their feet scuffed road. Their bodies met and separated, finding acceptance, each momentary contact forcing them to press closer, in search of a notion that couldn’t be found in the brick walls and narrow blocks of their environment.

  Two allocations from their home, just beyond Old Man Sares’s flat, a lone dog. Sallow fur the yellow of sun-bleached corn. A rack of protruding ribs and tight stomach, scimitar canines. The animal faced their direction, breathing hard, coal-glowing eyes, dark centres bleeding red. Feet planted firm against the tarmac, body turned at an angle, otherwise still.

  The poor animal would be shot at the barricade. Nobody dared to go near them for fear of being bitten. And so they scavenged, wracked with hunger. Something should have been done, he’d long thought that, Markriss always outweighed by other pressing concerns. He turned his back, shamed as he fumbled for his key card. Touch ID wouldn’t allow access without neural pod connections either. The only way to open his door was manually.

  ‘Isn’t this weird?’ he said, hardly listening to himself. ‘All this, what we’re doing?’

  ‘Not here,’ Chile said low, sounding as though her lips had barely moved.

  He slipped the card in, waited for green and pushed. A flash interrupted his thoughts, immediate memory followed by something else. Him pushing the white door, opening into a glittering shower of cross-stream, the open door of long ago leading to the blank corridor, where he’d found . . .

  Head whipping, a violent twist. He stopped, gasping. Chile was at his arm.

  ‘Alright?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Moving to their yielding sofa, wincing, he sat with head between knees, fingers kneading his temples. ‘Migraine flash.’

  ‘You’re pushing too hard,’ she said, and slammed the thin metal door, causing another shard of pain. Familiar dimness, cool air. He lay back. ‘Sorry. It’s all well and good Ayizan saying we’ve got to move, he’s not making the biggest jumps in the Quarter.’

  ‘You wanted me to jump.’

  ‘Not at the expense of your health.’ Sofa cushions sank under her weight. ‘And you know what else? Don’t talk around those flipping dogs.

  ’ Rubbing sore spots with his fingertips, frowning. Neck and temple, the back of his skull.

  ‘Are you for real?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I can’t read them.’

  ‘They’re dogs. And they’re barely alive.’

  ‘All living beings have auras, as you know. Theirs are thin as ozone. All I make out is grey.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Seeing her face, relenting. ‘OK. I won’t talk in front of the dogs.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘On my life.’

  Chile winced.

  ‘Bad choice of words. Sorry.’

  ‘Put your head here, will you.’ Patting her thighs, she manoeuvred to make room, knuckles cracking, head rolling.

  He spun lengthways, laying his head on her lap. Her fingers pressed his temples in small circles. A groan emerged from him, aimed at the ceiling. Silence shrouded the room.

  Beyond their single window, gatherings evolved from diminutive genesis. A lit match, a loosened cork, passionate hugs or joined hands that led feet to imitate mirrored dance moves, laughter thrown towards the unseen sky. Connections, benign or violent with intent. Isolated moments exposing glints, however momentary, of life in voluminous creation, rich combinations of beauty and danger. The giving and the taking. Receiving and acceptance. Being open to the best, or abject despair.

  6

  Nowhere in the zone had a greater connection with the past than the Temple. It seeped through walls and brickwork, sculpted wood, statues and portraits, out of cabinets and faded name-plates, the still and dusted air. From the moment the Original Five had broken open its heavy doors, blue lamplight and slide torches raised to better explore the multitude of long-emptied rooms, Markriss had felt the presence of those who went before them, curious and tender at their sides.

  He had flinched at the clamour of hurried feet rushing behind, around and past him to run headlong down unfathomable corridors, bouncing high into air, laughing as they disappeared. He’d poked his head inside former classrooms to hear the muffled lessons of teachers, barks of voices raised as disciplinary warning. In the wide expanse of a former gym hall, an ebbing tide of prayer songs and hymns came and went, the irregular thud of a ball keeping offbeat time in harmony with squeaking trainers. The Temple, unaware of what it would become, was alive with the spirits of its previous incarnation; they all felt that. The intensity of former lives sat behind each warped desk, strode corridors in hope of
making it before the ring of a discarded bell, made long-scrapped pots and metallic trays clang in the expanse of the canteen. On rare occasions they even smelt frying chips.

  The former school building drew those first Outsiders to it in wonder. They hugged in celebration of their luck, none more elated than Markriss. The others had found home; he had found sanctuary.

  Channelled and brought to light by meditation, transmutive nambula and crystalline work amongst further practices, the space became a focal point not only for the energies of the building’s past, but also their own. Temple was a space where ancestors, individual and collective, were called into being as a means to provide empathy, knowledge, instruction. It was there, in the depths of a transmutation chamber, that Markriss first made contact with his brother. And it was there that he discovered his more recent abilities, harnessing the mirror-image realm for greater exploration.

  He walked the building’s corridors and cramped stairways, heavy toolbox painful in one hand, past rooms that throbbed with the living as they made preparations for the gathering. And yet the sounds and feel of past energies mingled, remained. His eyes narrowed against the thud of falling hammers, searing drills—his migraine very much alive, causing a pulsing ache around his frontal lobe. High-vibration excitement saturated the air. Tremors at windows, the crackle of unknown aura connecting with his naardim. He tried to still himself, though it was there, that sizzle of nerves.

  ‘Kriss! Yo, Kriss!’

  He stopped, murmuring beneath his breath, turning halfway. A short man, lean and shaven, eyebrows dotted with perspiration. Io.

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Crepe.’ A carpenter by assignation, Io took care of the Temple’s handyman duties. Today, as with all gatherings, he’d been given the more creative role of dressing old classrooms in preparation for various uses. ‘I’ve got a bit, but it won’t hang the whole space.’

  ‘Tried the stock-room?’

  ‘My boy says none’s left.’

  ‘Send him to the shops, keep the receipt.’ Shouting over his shoulder, moving. ‘Tell him to come straight back if he sees Corps!’