A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘Will do, cheers!’

  Bounding down steps to the second floor sideways on, Markriss went back on himself along the corridor and into the hall, careful not to rock the slab of toolbox into his knees.

  There, Outsiders worked in every metre of the expansive room. Esoteric symbols, bannered mantras and flags of countries comprising the zone’s many nations were being hung from high walls using A-frame ladders. A group of women laid the black, skeletal limb of a lighting array on the floor before them, fitting arc lights with gels and wires. Men sewed beads and sequins onto elaborate costumes denoting a range of Kemetian ancestral spirits: Sheps, Sebek, Amen, Tehuti. At the head of the hall, on a raised stage, a larger mixed group connected turntables and speaker boxes with trails of coloured wires and a soldering gun. Ever since the Outsiders had shunned pod connections, they had disregarded conventional neural processing in favour of analogue systems of computers linked by wires and homemade equipment developed by zone menial workers, who made up 98 per cent of all Quarter residents. Nothing was bought, even the smallest component. Everything had been built in Temple. They tracked the necessary parts down on search engines, 3D printing them using long-forgotten schematics that had gone unaccessed for decades.

  Markriss paused before Ayizan, Temujin, a young Outsider named Iris, and Xander, all circled around a squared, ragged section of missing floorboards. They looked into the cavity as if expecting something to emerge. No one noticed him.

  ‘Got what you need.’

  He dropped the toolbox, the thump sending tremors through his forearm. Temujin barely glanced at him.

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Where I told you. Who’d you send to look? Xand? You know he’s useless.’

  Xander swivelled on his rear, kicking out, just missing. Markriss backed off, returned, edging closer to the hole.

  ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘You haven’t seen it?’ Temujin said, amused. ‘Thought you knew every inch of the place. That’s our very own Lowers. Dunno how they done it, but there’s a kind of crawl-space under the whole hall. They probably used it for performances, dunno why. It’s not like it’s the opera or anything.’

  ‘Goes right up and under the stage,’ Ayizan said, indicating with his head. ‘Even got well-camouflaged escape points.’

  ‘I don’t reckon it was used for performances,’ Xander ventured. ‘I think they hid kids from the Corps so they wouldn’t be killed.’

  ‘Thanks, Xand. Bring down the tone,’ Iris muttered at her feet. Broad-shouldered and athletic, she looked as strong as the men. Markriss often wondered if she and Ayizan were seeing each other. He never wasted breath by asking.

  ‘There’s tunnels and false rooms all over the building, not just here.’

  Ayizan sat on his haunches, waiting.

  ‘So what happened?’ Iris asked. ‘Why did they need them?’

  ‘Old Sares will know,’ Xander offered.

  ‘But would he tell you?’ Ayizan smiled at their laughter. ‘Alright, folks, let’s work. Who’s up for hammering some floorboards down?’

  A rush for the toolbox. Markriss got up, eyebrows raised in Ayizan’s direction. Caution rode the air between them.

  ‘See you lot in a bit.’

  They waved, distracted by work. Markriss left them to walk from the hall, back towards the brighter light of the narrow corridor.

  The earliest gatherings had been a means of releasing tension bred from living under the yoke of the Authority without sun, sky or elements. Those original celebrations, necessarily small, were held in resident allocations or front gardens under heavy Corps presence and usually marked the change of outside seasons. Over time, people emerged onto the streets and circled home blocks in a procession of costumes, masks, dancing and drums. Meats were cooked, vast plastic barrels of punch concocted. When the celebrations grew larger, the first response of security was to crush them to size, resulting in zone-wide violence and the deaths of two Poor Quarter residents, Osman Farhardi and his nine-year-old daughter, Tamina. When residents refused to give the practice up, emphasising their resolve by holding the next gathering after the Farhardis’ cremation rites that following day, the Corps cordoned the zone off from the invisible border with its neighbours. No official announcements were made, although residents’ committees of the time believed the Poor Quarter had been left to police itself.

  Modern gatherings were often impromptu, kindled by any small occurrence. A birthday or marriage, a football win or, in this case, the Lites’ return online. Once a year an official autumn gathering was held throughout Inner City, solemnising 11 October 1910 as an auspicious date; the day when the Ark first opened its gateways to the world. The celebrations were huge. As much as they despised the politics behind that particular gathering, the Outsiders’ influence on it grew more visible every year. Temple became their focal point, where they opened chambers to all, offered a crèche for infants, sold food and meditation aids, provided books and workshops, but most of all threw the biggest party in the zone. Ayizan and the remaining Circle members had conflicting feelings about whether such overt displays of influence were the right direction for them, but their leadership role in street and allocation parties was never up for discussion. Gatherings were essential to the culture. It was difficult to imagine the Poor Quarter without them. The release it gave their pressure-cooker existence was plainly evident from the enthusiasm of zone residents’ participation.

  Aimless, Markriss wandered back down concrete steps to the ground floor, then outside Temple. There he sat on paving slabs, his back against cool stone. Wisp-thin weeds grew in cracks between concrete squares. He touched one with a finger, admiring their tenacity. The Lites had reached their apex, a one-hour duration after which, although they appeared constant, the machines dimmed degree by degree until going offline. Markriss searched his jeans and jacket, digging, revealing. Rolling papers, a quarter of cigarette, a self-contained wrap of piahro dust. Combining ingredients, he licked and rolled a splint. Patted his pockets.

  No lighter. He must have left it inside the building.

  He tucked the splint behind one ear, zone-watching. When the right person came, he would ask. Twisting strands of hair between his fingers, he whistled a partial tune between his teeth. The square was empty apart from the odd weekend shopper or resident paying a visit to family or friends. Quiet, low-threaded music wove from some distant allocation. Many stayed indoors during these hours, believing the Lites kept autumn months too warm, and the Authority should bring down the temperature; such heat wasn’t needed inside. Others argued that the changing seasons were a fundamental part of human life. Detractors countered that by saying there was no weather system, so why simulate the cycle of Geb around the sun?

  Shouts, explosive feet. Running. He pushed himself upright, back rising against the wall, straining to see. Noises echoed from every direction, impossible to tell where they came from until the figures shot into view on his right, limbs flailing, clothes flapping mute around them. A sprinting boy. Skinny, dirt-caked, a street kid. Three residents followed close, calling and pointing, all men, well-groomed at quick glance, expensive clothes and trainers, jewellery and watches creating spectrum diamonds against Lites. Though they seemed familiar, Markriss didn’t know them. The man in the lead, wide and strong, aimed a kick at the skinny boy’s feet and caught him. Skinny dipped low, arms straining for balance, a sprinter crossing the line. Panic drew his teeth into a grimace of desperate fear. He knew what it meant to obey gravity. What the cost of losing won. His feet, seemingly working alone, knew similar. They kicked up tarmac dust, hoping to find much-needed traction.

  The second assailant drew level, throwing a punch at the boy’s shoulder, and it was over: he was down, they were on him.

  The whisper of trainers scuffing powdered dirt and the bass of landing fists consumed Markriss, alive to the pitch of Skinny’s voice, betraying the difference between bones connecting with flesh, and piercing metal with the sa
me. Skinny cried out with every thrust, the knife blows producing a shrill whimper that chilled his heart, made him wince. As he approached, taking stock, Markriss became aware of residents hanging back in gardens and on block corners, the others who moved to his rear, dressed in the bright trainers and designer shirts of hustlers, blocking his escape.

  ‘Leave him,’ he said, arm crooked behind his back, fingers barely touching cold metal, the existence of the knife reawakened against his spine. ‘Let him up.’

  The first man kept pounding. The rest turned on their heels, heads craned over shoulders, casual as business.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Ignoring him, they continued.

  Markriss took a two-step run, kicking the stabber in his ribs, sending him skittering across the pavement, an upended crab. The people watching cried out, mostly in shock, some anger. There was enough time to punt the second between his legs so he fell across Skinny, his weight causing the boy to roar pain. The crowd gave another cry. When the third leapt to his feet, Markriss flicked the knife and held the blade erect, circling on light feet so he looked each crowd member deep in the eye, keeping peripheral sight on the men.

  Third’s weapon was drawn, thin and rusted. He crouched, arms wide in an empty, awkward embrace.

  Sensing what came next, the crowd gave room.

  ‘This got nuttin to do with you! Man’s tief. Check im pockets, im still ave it!’

  Third’s teeth, unlike the rest of him, were broken, rot-caked.

  ‘Give a shit, you’re on Square! Square’s Temple, round Temple this shit don’t work! I told you let him go, or take us on. You wanna take us on?’

  ‘Us? Who the fuck’s us! I only see one dirty suttin! Is me and you!’

  Rope tendons protruded from Third’s neck, crying outrage, fists clenched, forearms stripped with muscles. Second, hands grasping balls, continued rolling on his back, crooning as if to lull away pain. First limped to his angered friend’s side, a hand on his ribs, the other resting on Third’s shoulder.

  ‘Take time, bruv,’ he said, a line of dirt on his bright red T-shirt to mark where he’d fallen. ‘Is a Outsider, bredrin.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck! I’ll kill him! I’ll fuckin kill him!’

  ‘Hey,’ Markriss said, softening his voice and palming the knife, thumb across the hilt, hands raised. ‘Hey, this don’t need to go no further. Yeah? We can stop right here, the kid can give back what he stole, and we call it done. Alright?’

  First’s head rocked, a hint of gold emerging between parted lips, while Third crouched, feet shifting, disrupted mouth open, eyes darting over Markriss’s shoulder. Markriss knew what would happen. He swivelled, pivoting out of the way, the punch from the fourth assailant still glancing against his chin, sparking bright fire, snapping his head around to see Third’s charge, blade phallus-ready. A step backwards gave Markriss room and time, moving him away from the line of attack. His counterpunch met the temple of Fourth, a thick-set allocation man. Fourth stumbled, eyes rolling, feet scrabbling as he tumbled into the knees of Third, who was pushed away and back, both knocked to the floor.

  Two left standing, Markriss and First. The crowd sighed, stepping back a few paces. Markriss’s knife returned to his fist, offered in irregular directions as he watched each facial expression for signs.

  First jittered with nerves, hands raised. ‘Teacher, man, I’m not even involved bless. Man’s done.’

  ‘Get your things, get your bredrin and get the fuck outta my area,’ Markriss spat, hating himself. He’d succumbed. ‘What’d he take?’

  ‘A watch, my gold watch.’

  ‘Get it back, now. Take anything further it’s round two.’

  ‘Alright, Teach, cool yourself down . . .’

  First riffled the boy’s pockets, immune to his cries of pain, digging until he found the item, a limp and scratched thing, probably worth a lot less than he’d been told. He slipped it into a pocket, helped his fallen friends to their feet and they limped away from the square, arms thrown across each other’s shoulders like dance partners. Third threw glances over his shoulder, having sense enough to remain silent. As they turned a corner out of sight, the crowd’s shoulders sagged and chatter began.

  Markriss knelt beside the boy. He bled from at least three places, stomach, ribs and thigh, lips coated, fingers rigid, limbs shaking.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Keyon.’

  Spluttering with effort.

  ‘OK, Keyon, I’m gonna sit with you and ring for Dr Amunda. Any medical people here?’ he asked, turning around.

  ‘How you gonna ring anyone, you man don’t carry slides,’ Keyon said, spitting blood. Instead of landing on the pavement, it trickled down his cheek.

  Markriss laughed. ‘Don’t worry yourself about what we carry.’

  A woman, mannequin serious, came close. ‘I live on Square. You can bring him to mine.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say!’ Markriss yelled, seeing her flinch. He caught himself. He needed water. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ The unsmiling woman touched his shoulder, turning to the crowd. ‘Can some of you man grab him and bring him over?’

  ‘And call Dr Amunda,’ Markriss said, modifying his tone. He needed to calm himself, his forehead was damp with sweat. Bodies crowded the skinny boy, shielding him. Maybe it was better that way.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve already called. I work with him sometimes.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Markriss stood, scanning the area. A mess like this on Gathering Day wouldn’t be good for the zone. Scattered groups littered the previously empty square. Talk buzzed around him. Faces pressed at Temple windows and allocations everywhere he turned. On the far end of the square, just by the road leading out of the zone to the high street, stood Io’s son Renno. Taller than most men, wearing a pitzball strip and lean with teenage muscle, watching the scene with an expression Markriss found difficult to interpret. Part contemplation, perhaps disgust. He didn’t know.

  He pivoted, walking into Temple, the retracted knife cupped and hidden in his palm.

  Down into the basement, where the music of tools and yells of working residents lowered to faint whispers. A place of cool air and damp walls, blue lamplight, guttering candles and a veil of incense smoke. The lengthy chimes of a distant gong. The vibration of invisible energies. For the duration of gatherings, most under-level meeting rooms, workshop spaces and transmutation chambers remained as they were, quiet, free of music and barely decorated, used for nothing other than studied contemplation.

  Arriving onto the dim-lit floor, Markriss’s heart receded from thumping urgency at his chest, violent residue seeping into darkness. He tucked the knife into the space between his back and waistband.

  A resident emerged, small and loose-limbed, flushed with the aftermath of ascension. Hair tied back, clothing loose and casual, she bowed, expelling nervous energy.

  ‘Teacher.’

  ‘Afternoon. Chileshe still there?’

  ‘Finishing,’ she said, taking the steps upwards until she went unseen.

  He frowned, ear pressed against the shut door. Voices, though he couldn’t tell if any were Chile’s. He knocked twice, knuckles flaring pain, raising them to the nearest light. They were skinned, bruised dark.

  Wincing, he twisted the doorknob and let himself in.

  This chamber was without furnishing except for a group of chairs at the far end. Across from Markriss, a small table was covered with a sheet of purple cloth, scattered crystals of all colours and designs laid on the material. Walls were painted with mantras, prayer flags hung. It was unusually humid, the air lumpen and weary. Five women sat cross-legged on individual hemp mats before Chile, who sat at the near end of the room, head tilted towards the open door. The women were barefoot and wore loose clothing. Their eyes were closed, wilting hands on knees.

  He crept inside, realising his mistake, wishing he’d found an empty, private space.

  ‘Keep focus . . . Y
ou’ve all met my husband,’ Chile said, rolling her eyes, frowning. ‘He knows he shouldn’t be here.’

  Rippling chuckles. Markriss shrugged, gave a meek grin, pointing at the chairs where he’d be out of her way. Tiptoed over. Eased down, closing his eyes.

  Chile continued to speak, reminding Markriss of listening to her sleep-talk, mumbling and low, a relaxed monotone.

  ‘Try to feel your way into your body. Feel yourself enter your toes. Your ankles. Your calves. Your thighs. Your womb. Stay with your womb a moment. Give her love. Don’t cling. Don’t regret. Accept her. Reassure her. This is an essential naardim right now. Treat her with compassion. And then, when you feel her open or close, whatever’s best at this moment, let yourself move on. To the stomach . . . Intestines. Ribs, heart. Linger there a moment too. Embrace her. Forgive her. Moving into the lungs, your throat. Mouth . . . Nose . . . Eyes, all three. The mind, the brain. Settle into yourself. You’re home. Make yourself whole.

  ‘We try to lower ourselves gently, not rush or force. We needn’t panic or cling to places we’ve been, the people we’re connected with. You’ll see them again, I’m sure. At this stage we practise acceptance, and acceptance comes with love. Love who they are. Love who you are. Love where they are. Love where you are. Does that sound weird, or difficult? Loving being in here—not Temple, I mean Inner City? Good. Well, it shouldn’t. There are things about here you like, even inconsequential nothings. The blue of e-lamps. Your favourite crystal. Kids laughing when the Lites go down, the smell of your next-door neighbour’s vape. The sound of trams. What do you like? What do you love? Find that thing and hold it. That’s the key to ongoing maintenance in this place, finding and holding. It’s the thing that will help you get out there, with strength and with clarity.’

  A pause.

  ‘Now open your eyes. We’re done.’

  Murmurs, women looking around half-smiling, rubbing eyes with fists, drinking bottled water. Throwing back their heads and rolling necks, feeling for cracks.

  ‘Questions?’ Chile’s eyes were bright and glassy. The door swung open. A creak and the small woman Markriss encountered came inside. ‘Joanie, how you doing?’