A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘Better,’ she said, sitting on her mat. The closest woman pulled her close for a prolonged hug, stifling though not drowning her voice. ‘Had a good cry.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Chile looked them over. ‘You’re bang on time, we were just about to start sharing. Anybody?’

  A hand rising, hesitant, the woman who’d hugged Joanie. She twisted, looking at the others on either side of her, brunette ponytail bobbing. From where he sat, Markriss couldn’t see her face.

  ‘I’ll go if no one else wants to.’

  ‘Sure,’ Chile said.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you all what a lovely experience I’ve had . . .’

  A round of ahs, more hugs.

  ‘I’m twenty-five years in. My kids are teenagers, almost grown, and I’ve never . . .’ A choking gulp. ‘I mean I never believed in this before, this streaming stuff I mean, obviously I believed the rest . . . Oh, what am I saying? What I’m saying is, it’s been so long since I’ve seen Mum and Dad, my nan passed while I was here and I just . . . It was so lovely . . . I just wanted to say thank you to Chile, and thank you all so much, I’ve never felt so much love . . . It’s my first stream, as you all know, you’ve heard me say it a billion times; you’ve all been lovely and I’ll be sure to come back . . . That’s it.’

  Lengthy applause, Markriss tapping his fingers against his palm. This was why he became an Outsider. This was reality.

  ‘Anyone?’

  Withheld breath, tension. Heads stiff, attentive.

  ‘I know our cycles aren’t synched as they were, but always remember it’s very important to visit chamber. Don’t let the Ark block out energies. Even if we can’t stream together, we can come together, yeah?’ A pause, Chile watching. ‘Alright, get out of here. See you next month.’

  They rose, rolling and gathering mats beneath arms. There was gossip and more questions, even though they’d been asked to raise their queries earlier; it was exactly the same as whenever he took classes. He watched Chile’s ease, their banter, the way she rubbed a shoulder and almost smiled up into their faces, as she was shorter than the other women. Even so, her aura rippled brighter, with greater clarity, far lovelier than anyone else.

  Markriss smiled at his feet. So many uncomfortable feelings assailed him on this particular Gathering Day. As much as he knew the answer was to let them flow, the practice was difficult in times of high stress. He should not attach, judge or act; emotion should drift and ebb away. Pride was dangerous, given his position in the zone. He shouldn’t allow energy to fester and impregnate his ego, but maybe that was why he was there, to hear Chile speak. To learn. Take her advice and see what he felt for what it truly was. Love. Pure, simple love.

  His tired body, frustrated at being ignored, fired questions through swollen knuckles and red, broken skin. Pain. He closed his fist, turning it left and right. What did he know about love, his flesh and muscles asked, when he was consumed with the desire to injure? To hate?

  He lowered his head, hoping to see. Sank into himself, sunsum-drifting. After what felt like a mere moment, Markriss looked up. The room had emptied, Chile saying last goodbyes from the door. He blinked, back arched, stretching.

  Every month his wife tutored Bloodstream Meditation classes, a practice she’d discovered by close reading of Kemetic annals in the top-floor Temple library. The books arrived by all means, loaned or given by residents, donated from charities, brought by members and lent for others to learn from. She discovered the ritual in a textbook written by the Kemetian high priestess Amanitore millennia ago, Divining Neter. The writings focused on methods women might use to channel their specific biological make-up to access higher realms. Two chapters in particular gave detailed analysis of an ancient ritual undergone at menstruation, to work with lower body energies, and bring them in line with the women’s higher selves. This allowed them to traverse the astral realm and make contact with members of their bloodline, in or out of the Ark, on a monthly basis. It had taken over twelve cycles for Chile to mistress the rituals, modifying them enough to bring the practice into the chamber. Ever since, it had become a regular temple class, difficult to hone and greatly beneficial to the growing number of attending women.

  Chile eased the door closed, sagging against metal.

  ‘Nosey.’

  ‘Not at all. I needed to see you.’

  She peered at him, her eyes hardening, coming closer. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Some kid robbed a few guys, from Alpern I reckon. They tried to get their things back and crossed the square.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Chile raised his hand, hissing as he gasped pain. She touched Markriss’s jaw, turning his head left and right. ‘Who else got hurt?’

  ‘Just the kid, pretty badly. The rest of us will be sore in the morning, that’s it.’

  ‘You look sore now. You need to soak your hand in water.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, it’s your choice. If it hurts enough, you will.’

  She let his hand fall. He kissed her cheek.

  ‘I was really angry, Chile. I haven’t felt like that in a long time. I needed to calm down.’

  ‘We were in trance.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Luckily we’d finished.’

  ‘I knew that.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  She took his hand again, inspecting fingers. ‘Do you think they’ve got worse on the blocks?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘More riled up. Tense.’

  He stroked her knuckles, noting the deep-ridged lines, the knot of bone. Skin a shade darker than the surrounding flesh. ‘I don’t think so. They’re over-excited, heat gets to them. Out there drinking, smoking pi . . .’

  ‘One of the women, Hamadra, the one who said how much she liked it here, said there’s been increasing violence on her block, even before the Lites came on. Stabbings, a murder. She thought it would stop when we got online, only it hasn’t. She asked me to speak to you.’

  ‘Sure. I mean there’s nothing wrong with taking a look. The boys are patrolling, right?’

  ‘When there’s gatherings?’ Spearing him over her glasses. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Fair enough. Talk with Ayizan. I’m sure he’ll agree.’

  ‘Alright. I will.’

  He almost frowned at Chile’s old-man strop, before she relaxed, leaning into him. Markriss followed her mood, letting go of what he’d seen, hugging her to him, engulfed in her scent. Eased by every breath.

  7

  As a younger, many years earlier, Markriss had fallen in love with photography. From that point onwards all thought, waking or sleeping, concerned the need to commit every detail of his escaping moments to the tightly wound film in his camera, imprinting them for ever on celluloid surfaces in a vain attempt at avoiding suspect recall. When he’d first discovered the form, way before Willow allowed him to use bottled chemicals to develop his photos, he used an instant camera, delighting in the slow transition from darkness to colour, blurred form to solidity, ghostly forms or environments into people and places he knew. Flapping rigid photographic paper into the wind, poised for results. And so it was probably inevitable that his spiritual body—see-saw wavering between the earthly plane and the numerous others that existed on the astral ever since he’d woken—took on the form of those seeping, half-formed images he’d captured with an eager childhood grin, depressing the camera button with a finger, breath withheld, hoping the moment was right.

  Like those photos, the images invading his present were difficult to see. Unlike them, there was no development into anything even vaguely decipherable as reality. He couldn’t tell if they were fragmented or belonged to some forgotten whole. In the last few days, the images had begun to strike with increasing regularity, and even while he knew why, Markriss worried about the lack of focus they gave him, especially now, when he needed to concentrate on his surroundings more than ever. Still they came, immersive as the immediate wo
rld, nebulous as nightmares. The shape of something that might have been a woman half-veiled in shadow, swirling smoke or thick cotton. A rotating form he struggled to make more apparent, and might have been the tyres of a bike, although he’d never ridden one. A thud of noise, possibly footfall or heavy machinery, or falling concrete, or the distant boom of artillery. He didn’t know and couldn’t tell, so they remained vague, eyes blind with cataract abstraction. It scared Markriss, though he wouldn’t allow himself to admit it. Meaning could be gleaned from those fragments, had it not been masked and coded beyond understanding.

  Practised adepts were wary of spontaneous projections, calling them jump-backs. Post-ascension, they were prone to flashes of past, present and future, particularly after sustained or aborted jumps. Moments of quiet meditation—recalibrations—alleviated most lasting effects, something Markriss had omitted after the panic caused by his last journey. Confusion led to his skirting normal procedure, behaving like an initiate rather than the experienced teacher he was.

  He knew what had happened. Or rather, what he was doing to himself. He’d run from the task, neck-deep in procrastination, walking to temple like a man who had nothing better on his mind than to perform random errands for friends. Avoiding his future self. Fighting strangers, playing with the notion of murder, theirs or his, the possibility of ascending to become an ancestor. It was all diversionary, and as he left the Temple doors a second time, emerging into low light, fuelled with renewed purpose, he chided his base self for being so easily swayed. He was a teacher. One who gave guidance. And yet he’d failed to counsel himself, much less to notice the askew path of his journey. He’d allowed his body to detach from his mind, to become unfocused.

  He didn’t hurry. Hands in pockets, eyes on the street, ears attuned to all, even though his step was casual. It was dangerous in their zone, perhaps even more so after what he had done to break up the fight. The people around him had an alertness he hadn’t seen since the beginning, when he and Ayizan first declared themselves to the Poor Quarter. Back when they were men of road teams and night, conflict and weapons, before they’d found spirituality. Violence at their fingertips, willing to do whatever felt applicable, men whose gaze was avoided by most. And now the people acted as they had then, unsmiling, heads turned or viewing his back with cautious eyes, crossing the street before he reached them, whispering as he passed. Talk had been traded, new stories exchanged for old. They overlooked Teacher, recalling his past. Conversation died when he walked by their silent gardens, replaced with stiff nods, resuming when night folded and collapsed into the empty space he’d left behind. With his head raised and his step fluid, blue light made him an untethered shadow adrift through the Quarter, a spectre of their enclosed space they could not avoid or escape, and so they silenced themselves in hope that he would continue without noting their existence.

  He could admit that the Circle had known he was struggling, leaving him to do the task in his own time, make discoveries for himself. No one wondered aloud why he sat with them whiling time, or why he wasn’t below in chambers, alone, attempting to rise. He recalled their body language, translating what he’d seen, evasion as non-verbal questions. Glances at him and each other. Eyes hidden, cast at their feet. Subtle communication much like the unspoken language Markriss found on the streets. In the silence of his response, they had kept theirs. Deep love surged for their willingness to stand with him despite his actions’ potential to harm. They trusted him.

  Even as deep thought misted his vision, his attention was captured by everything, from the wink of distant metal on high gantries, to brickwork crumbling like moist cake. His awakened senses were more acute than ever, with the strangeness of a new-born feeling that had pulsed through every millimetre of skin since he’d woken from the waking dream. Tingling nerves, longing for contact, alive to every sensation: oxygen swelling his rib cage; the electric insect whine of a tram, so many blocks away; chinking cutlery high on the air, possibly from the Ivory blocks to the west, those dark monoliths of sparking window light. The buzz of miles-away people, unheard conversations. A pad of dog paws over his shoulder, hardly noticeable, their hesitance as he slowed to dig into his empty pockets, before they regained pace. The vibration of online generators, their tremor in his soles. Life. Everything.

  He walked the path to his front door. The skeletal twist of metal chair belonging to Old Sares was empty, leaning to one side. Markriss hardly knew how the old man sat, let alone found comfort, the cushioning threadbare, vomiting bile-coloured innards. The Menguses’ home glowed citrus light. Raised voices came from within, a clash of meeting plates. Pharah’s tricycle lay on one side in the concrete garden as if collapsed with exhaustion, asleep where it fell. Again, that felt like a memory long forgotten, on the edge of remembrance. A flash of something that had happened in the past or not happened at all. Déjà vu. He examined the fallen trike—hashtag scuffs, pink and silver handlebar ribbons, scabbed dents—trying for recollection. An inner glimpse of a spinning object, sparkling light. The constant tick of revolution, nothing more.

  He slipped his key card into the door. A push, the lock clicked green. Stark silence. Dormant furnishings, the calm of home. He could have chosen the chamber, closed the door and made sure it was locked. Laid a hemp mat on hard temple concrete, cleared his mind and begun. Only there, with his cheek pressed against Chile’s, breathing in her scent, he’d felt a call for his allocation. Nothing overt, just another simple reoccurring image. The pod, cold and offline, the austerity of enclosure. His familiar mattress, pillows, the fluffed duvet. Full-circle repetition—where he started and failed. It made an odd type of sense, and so he allowed his feet to do the work, mind set on autopilot. And it was done. He was home.

  Other than his environment, he needed few things. A pen and his thin notebook. His stick of rose-quartz crystal, the stone of love and cleansing, which he’d keep for the entire jump. A custom-built meditation visor given by Capra. The cool, sterile atmosphere of the pit, his mantras, a glass of water to drink following descent and the spirit of his dead brother. All was in place.

  He opened the pit door, stepped inside and lowered himself onto his back, looking at the cracked ceiling. Water pipes sang continuous harmony behind the walls. The thud of a parkour runner on his roof made him start. A thudding succession of steps, the final decisive stamp and they were away, beating time into distance. Far music, bumps and voices from the Menguses’ flat. Markriss listened to his neighbours. Language, when heard through the muting barrier of walls, became nothing more than unfamiliar sounds and grunts, baritone and mezzo-soprano, soprano and contralto. Like hearing someone who had lost the power of speech, an undiscovered animal. He listened to the alien voices until his eyes were heavy, thoughts adrift. He clasped the solid heat of the crystal in his palms.

  Markriss grounded himself, imagining his body afloat in a calm black sea. One arm outstretched above his head, drawing a line around his entire body. Phosphorus illumination glowed blue, trailing from the tip of his index finger. Once, twice, a third time, until luminescence held. He relaxed, floating on still water, the ovoid circle moving with him.

  He sank into darkness.

  And rose.

  A broad, muscular block threw lengthened shadow over his head. Red flag, austere walls. Number 1322. He raised his eyes, couldn’t see the roof. The Lites were offline, the building windows dark glasses. The normally busy high street was empty, no rolling, electric-horn beep of trams, no commuters or bright shop windows. The Inner City night was still as the ocean he’d left behind in his meditation.

  He looked both ways before crossing the road, a habit. If traffic came, he wouldn’t be hit—this was not a physical realm. Up and down the long main street, miles of buildings, no movement. A shift of an invisible form, a shimmering haze camouflaged against brown stone.

  Ninka.

  His brother surged up the steps, a rippling wave on open water, through doors and inside the building. Markriss went with him, hesit
ant. He had to catch him, to let him know. It was his task. Beyond the security guards—a skinny, balding one asleep with feet on the desk, a bigger, red-eyed one hunched before a 20-inch slide screen that lit the entire foyer with its flickering glow—he reached for Ninka, fingers moving through empty space where he just made out what looked like a shoulder.

  The rippling haze paused, colours and solid material behind it shifting sand.

  Alone. I must go alone.

  Emotion bled into his aura. Relaxation, a loosening. The haze rippled to one side, the space beyond taking on a look of normality. The cloud he encountered on his last jump was gone. He hadn’t noticed it disappear, it was just like it had never existed.

  He moved. A silent lift area, three grey sliding metal doors, all closed, orbs of security cameras fixed on the ceiling. A simpler swing door with a sign above indicated a fire exit. The place he needed was somewhere above. Markriss closed his eyes, chin raised, and pushed upwards so his ethereal form moved through a mass of dark concrete, wood and steel until he emerged a floor above the lobby, in a wide room of Ark-grey, open-plan desks. He pushed again until there was a floor of walled cubicles, then one of well-defined offices and blank featureless wood, then the penthouse level, light and singular, taking up a whole floor.

  He slowed, orienting himself. He’d emerged into an expansive open-plan space that captured the surrounding light of neighbouring buildings, even in offline darkness. No walls in any direction, only glass and metal lattice, a repeating pattern of hexagons. From the centre, where he floated, he saw the media zone and all other zones for miles; squinting, in the far distance, there might have even been the girders, red lights and checkpoint security of gateways, to the west and east. He turned in wonder to gaze at the squared sections of blocks. Reminded himself what he had to do.

  The floor had an office area with a desk, bookshelves and cabinets, unmoored and incongruous on one side of the room without walls to define them. Sofas were hulking, well-defined animals beside miniature towers of drink and snack machines. A visor console and mini-slide were set up in what was clearly a relaxation area. Not far from those was a four-person luxury pod and jacuzzi-sized bath. Markriss had never seen a sleeper that size. A slidescreen and 3D projector hung from the ceiling, positioned so the picture could be viewed from either pod or bath. A steel-blue bathmat shimmered like still water beside a rack of clothes and a hive-like cabinet filled with fluffed towels. The bulk of a steel fridge containing the shiny round bottoms of wine bottles murmured energy. There were giant potted plants, a pitzball hoop (he could just make out the wire bin filled with yellow sponge balls), the offline grey squares of a dance floor area, a family of gym equipment and in one distant third of the space an ornate library; otherwise this football-pitch-sized level, one in which at least fifty Poor Quarter families could live without discomfort, was empty.