A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘Nah, I gotta get back.’

  ‘It’s gathering tomorrow!’ Iris raised her voice over the soundtrack. ‘You’ve gotta drink tomorrow!’

  Markriss smiled. ‘Maybe. I’ll see.’

  He smoothed his jeans down, listening. A cupboard door opened and shut. A heavy object thumped, probably Ayizan’s rum bottle. Markriss was more aware than ever of all The Book instructed, relishing the simple act of being, unsure whether he’d experience anything like it beyond that night, bathed in fleeting time.

  8

  The woman’s legs stretched gantry high, or so it seemed, the lustre of a thousand sequins throwing starlight, her body shifting with the pound of drummers at her feet. Beams of light reflecting from the sequins moved left, right, bending like they might break or she could fall, raised energy making her audience scream exuberance. Conjure-woman, extracting spirits from the cage of sweating bodies, emerging dragonflies swimming and diving about the square, freed to roam. Wherever she stepped people matched her, pivoting and thrusting, abandon stamped into artificial ground, lifting dust and kicking litter, the dancers below her moving to give room.

  The circle at her feet closed and opened, a dilating pupil. Flared trousers glittered peacock blue and purple, the deep red of her blazer shimmering as her arms shook, writhing as her open palms thrust upwards, head thrown back in unheard laughter. Higher. Higher. Face painted black in the guise of long-dead ancestors, joined by an able partner, another impossibly tall, face-painted woman. They clasped hands, swaying. A foghorn blared, loud over clapping and whooping, dancers bouncing on balled feet and long-forgotten joy.

  Stalls lined the outer rim of the dance area, mostly food and drink, also clothing and crystals. Vendors hawked, shimmying to the frantic beat, tending wares. High above the crowd, red-clothed Outsiders perched as silent threats on the Temple roof and the roofs of the allocations opposite, scanning the crowd for thieves and rival road teams. More lurked within the mass of dancers. No stepping, no cups or food in hand. Staring at all, unsmiling. It was unusual for the risk to be taken, though if it happened the Outsiders were there.

  Chile passed Markriss something covered in tissue. A gift of pastry; he unwrapped it and bit off a corner. Minced meat, mashed potatoes, chick peas. Wonderful.

  ‘From Clios.’ She nodded at a large vendor with a red bandana and bald head standing behind a stall ladling more fried pastries into a large serving bowl, dripping oil. The waiting queue behind him was long, salivating. Markriss raised the pastry, free hand held over his heart. Clios shuffled to the drums, pointing a finger at Markriss, shoulders heaving laughter as he continued working.

  Chile broke a chunk from her own pastry as she swayed. Popped it into her mouth, wide-eyed. ‘These drums! Fallernum’s on fire!’ Rubbing her hips against Markriss, moving. Chile stepped closer. A knee between her legs, they rocked in time. He placed his lips against her neck, perfume seeping into him. Chile doing the same. Inhaling each other.

  Lifted heads, eye-gazing. Drums fell away, somewhere beyond the senses. Movement slowed into almost nothing. She pressed her forehead against his, rubbing noses. Markriss thought he heard her say she loved him, even if her lips hadn’t moved. He only felt it, his core trembling vibration. It settled, lingered. He sent it back and then there was a descent. Markriss tried to resist, due to the danger of having his guard down in that place and time, only he couldn’t stop, he needed to see. He plunged.

  The closed, locked gateway. Voices he couldn’t recognise, not screams, a relaxed call, a sung choir. Prolonged, resigned pain. Dark helmets and visors gleaming, coming closer, possibly Corps, he couldn’t tell. And the gateway again, this time the once-open doors swinging to a close, and he could see a glimpse of the wide and mighty Blin before they shut with an all-enveloping, ear-shattering noise of a powerful wave meeting the ocean, crashing with its full weight, then black submersion, and then . . .

  The woman. Red hair, pale green eyes. Keshni Myatt. Staring at Markriss with confusion, lips parting to speak . . .

  He was back in the square, surrounded by deep night, Chile frowning. He nodded at her unspoken question, brisk, close-mouthed. Yes. He’d spontaneously projected. Her expression crumpled, body coming to a halt. She kissed him, soft where her perfume was strong, tracing his cheekbones with her fingers.

  Hugging her to his chest, desperate to feel her. ‘I love you more than life. Remember.’

  Chile smiled, sad and lonely, whispering into his ear, ‘We should go.’

  She took his hand. They squeezed through the people, crossing the square to the opposite end, where the huge Temple doors stood open. Here there was space between vendors’ stalls, although it was blocked by a knot of watching people, arms folded, nodding time, a number of children bored or tired, slumped against adults. Chile and Markriss passed through the group into Temple.

  It was more crowded inside. The darkened shuffle of unseen heads, muttered conversation. Piahro smoke, heavy and stagnant. Movement was slow, though people gave way when they saw whom they stood beside. The music pulsing life from deep within the building was fast and intense, electronica fused with live instrumentation, harmonic chords and vocals floating about them. Chile pressed through a gap, hand warm and damp, towards steps down to the lower basement chambers, where muted sounds became a tunnel of vibrations and cool earth, submerged energy, dim colouration, the humid breath of passing bodies and the murmur of collective voices pressed close.

  They found each other in the dark confines of the steps. Outsiders and their like, together in place. As one they breathed in, out. Stone temple walls, once material of the earth, collected life-force in their pores to give as energy once the lights dimmed into nothing, the music found completion and the mass of humming bodies dispersed until the next time they came.

  She pushed further down the steps to the transmutation chambers. Here the atmosphere was softer, a floating void of musical abstraction filling the space, minimal to the point of absence, more harmonic. Dim red light made the contours of drifting faces partially apparent, expressions unreadable. The heavy thud of transcendental from the main hall became distant, walled vibrations merging with the music below, soft humming.

  Markriss always believed the lower-level chambers were a subtle representation of the base chakras. Unblocked and open, they could be channelled to powerful effect. That night’s gathering felt more potent than ever. He shuddered in brief, quiet acceptance.

  A hand on his shoulder. The outline of Vyasa’s towering form could be just made out in dimness. People stepped around him, muttering, ‘To be at peace.’

  ‘Hey, brother. Ayizan wants you to come.’

  He touched Vyasa’s elbow in acquiescence. Following the broad expanse of his back past the run of doorways, they reached another set of steps at the corridor end. Above, arched brickwork created a semi-tunnel of two metres length, another door. Beyond that were Outsider antechambers of study and meditation spaces for the Original Five.

  ‘What’s going on?’ He moved towards Chile, unable to see. The squeeze of her soft hand felt warmer and damper, though she said nothing. ‘Vy?’

  They ignored him.

  Vyasa placed his right forefinger on the reader. The indicator turned green, the door sighed open. Standing back to let them enter, he ducked inside after, scanning the busy corridor before the door closed.

  ‘What’s going on, guys?’

  Vyasa’s eyes were oval, empty pits. ‘You need to come.’

  When Markriss searched for Chile, she’d lowered her head. Her entwined hair flowed in plaited rows, a series of straight lines from the rear of her neck to amass at the top of her head in a whirlpool bun, its centre raised above her crown. She walked away, towards the final door in the set of five. Ayizan’s antechamber. Vyasa went with her, and there was something in the straightened poise of her back, the certainty of her walk, the way she refused to look behind her even though she knew he was confused. A shard of intuition. He knew what he would see
.

  She knocked on the door. The answer went unheard beneath muffled beats and distant revellers, until it opened, Chile nodding at whoever had received her. Only then did she look back.

  ‘We should go inside.’

  He walked past Vyasa, staring at her. This time she met his eyes, held them. He went inside the antechamber, Ayizan’s contemplation space. To his left, Xander stood dressed in red, a blind gaze focused on close brick walls.

  Markriss nodded, curt.

  ‘Brother.’

  ‘Brother.’

  The tiny space was similar to his own contemplation room, simple and unusually spare. A desk pushed against a far wall bearing notebooks and pens. Ayizan’s slide, propped at an angle by a desk stand. A comfortable chair. Sparse shelves of books, only the most important titles, obligatory crystals, a puffed and worn easy chair for guests. A simple woven rug on brick floor. Scribbled graffiti crawling the walls, phrases, symbols, scrawled hypotheses perhaps—they were too illegible to read. Xander shut the door.

  Markriss moved to the far end of the room. A second door, a dented brass knob, round and scuffed with age. He turned and pushed, entering the Chamber of Heretics.

  This room was more expansive than Ayizan’s. Eight by four, large enough to contain a reasonable number of people, small enough to feel enclosed. Damp, even more airless, and flooded with white light.

  A single rectangular lamp was affixed in the left-hand corner of the chamber. Three large men knelt in the centre of the room, hands and feet tied, bowed, sweaty foreheads touching a dark sheet beneath them, rear ends upended as if communing with their gods. Markriss knew the beings they worshipped took material forms of narcotic substances, bartered in trade and commerce, and any conceivable reward that came with them. Even without seeing faces, he recognised the Mansion House team he’d fought on the square.

  In front of and behind the men stood Ayizan and Temujin. Machetes grinned in their limp hands. Webbed blood patterned each blade, saturating the white sheet laid on the stone floor, the men’s bright clothing. Their victims shivered, weeping with pain.

  Ayizan’s head rose. ‘You came. Good.’

  ‘How long have they been down here?’

  Temujin’s expression was sour. ‘Not long enough.’

  ‘And you all knew this was happening?’

  Behind him, when he swung to include her, Chile stood resolute. ‘Yes.’

  He stared at the trembling bodies. One, the man who’d backed off during their first encounter, had a deep wound in the region of his neck or collarbone. Leaking blood in a regular patter, the wound kept time like the bass thud above their heads. His breath jagged, panting. He whimpered on occasion. The man knew they were about to die.

  Markriss tried to relax his jaw and stop his teeth from clenching.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I told you why.’

  ‘But it was over.’

  ‘You never said that.’

  ‘I thought it was obvious. We don’t need them.’

  ‘Kriss.’ His voice fallen weight dropped from great height, the power of the wave Markriss imagined one level above. ‘We don’t turn our cheeks. We’re not Christians.’

  A pause. The inelegant, random pants of frightened men.

  ‘So what then?’

  ‘You know what we have to do.’ Temujin’s face was set inflexibly as Chile’s, sculpted lips barely moving. She looked hewn rather than born. ‘Are you in?’

  ‘Does it matter if I am?’

  Searching Ayizan for confirmation. The machete was lowered, his hair untied so it fell past his waist, physically manifesting uncoiled energy. Like Temujin he seemed untroubled by the blood, the tears of the men, the piercing smell that struck Markriss along with faltering sounds of urination.

  Ayizan shook his head. No.

  Markriss approached him, raised a hand, footsteps muffled as if he walked in fog. Ayizan watched him carefully, turning the blade handle first, passing it to him. The leather was hot with emotion. He grasped it in both hands, lifting the handle to his forehead. One Mansion House victim, the man who’d attacked Markriss he guessed from the rasp of his voice, began to wail loudly, a wordless lament that sent a feeling of such loss and dread through Markriss’s entire body, he almost dropped the blade. He gripped tighter, whispering prayers for guidance, fortitude. The others whispered with him. Low, their combined voices remained strong, even below the pleas. The muttering, the unity. The westing prayer.

  When the mantra was over, he lowered the blade, opening his eyes. Knelt on haunches before the wailing man. The man’s eyes were blood-shot, mouth smeared with dried tears and caked mucus. It looked like mud, or the parched earth of some isolated desert. An open knife wound split his left cheek like fallen fruit. Crystallised blood caked his lips. His right eye closed purple, vulva plump, the bloodied face in contrast with the sharp lines of his razor-close hair and beard, a fresh barbershop cut. One day fresh at most, possibly two. Markriss knocked the tip of the machete against the stone floor three times.

  ‘Hey. Hey.’

  Another wail of injury.

  ‘Stop, stop, stop. Give him water, someone, will you?’

  Shuffling, Xander beside him, metal cup in one hand. The young man pushed it roughly against the older’s lips, who butted to the left like a goat. Water splashed, mostly on himself. Droplets caressed Markriss’s face. Cool. Welcoming.

  Xander roared anger. He slapped the man twice with all his strength, the contact echoing from walls. Blood leapt from his torn cheek like fruit flies. Xander raised his palm for a third.

  ‘Alright, Xan. Leave him please.’

  He paused, right arm high, the man attempting to close his mouth, stop whimpering. On both sides, his companions tried doing the same. Xander stepped back.

  ‘So you don’t wanna drink.’ Shifting weight for comfort. ‘What’s your name?’

  More blubbering. Markriss wiped a trace of water from his eyes and cheeks. Flicked it onto stone.

  ‘C’mon, man, it’s OK. Tell me.’

  Big gulp, lips moving, vague air emerged.

  ‘Elliot.’

  ‘Elliot, yeah? Good, strong name. I like that.’ Another shift. ‘You know me, Elliot?’

  Frantic, kneeling so his head touched the dark sheet again. Markriss watched, feeling cold, so cold.

  ‘Nah, get up, Elliot. Get up.’

  He leant back on his knees, bottom resting against heels. Eyes closed, head back, mouth wide. Crying from his heart. Like he meant it. Markriss was reminded of a nursery-school child who had no understanding of their misdeeds. Lacking responsibility, acting from basic want.

  ‘You did this. Understand? You.’

  ‘No . . .’ Elliot crooned low, energy spent. He’d given up on a fair hearing. He was lost, falling. ‘No.’

  ‘It isn’t my fault,’ Markriss said, and brought the machete down across Elliot’s exposed neck.

  The red line on pale skin was thin, barely noticeable before the flesh separated, exposing white and pink and red meat that belonged to a butcher’s shop window rather than within the fragile body of a man. Markriss couldn’t watch, choking on instantaneous bile. He swallowed, clearing his throat, standing with no recollection of opening his palm to let the weapon drop, only that it met stone and clattered, shrill, fast, over. Then it came. The reaction of fellow Outsiders, an exhalation of tension, releasing violent energy. A gasped ‘Uh’.

  The unhinged cries of Elliot’s road mates began from some shallow, disbelieving place, evolving through a series of vocal pitches, each higher than the last, exploding into frantic, never-ending screams. Shuffling, kicking legs as they writhed away from their friend’s venting body, seeking escape. The forceful slap against his cheek, hot and pressing, reminded him of Xander’s violence, before he realised this was too consistent, this was liquid. This was blood. A whistled hiss of high-pressure exit, fine and precise. Bubbling gargles like Elliot had been pushed underwater, and he was trying to cry out, protest, do
anything to express what was happening. The deadweight thud of crunching bone as his body fell, face hitting stone and floor meeting the dying man’s nose, broken one final time.

  They yelled out, jumping back from fanned blood spray. Temujin grabbed the remaining men by the hair, jerking heads back and sliding her machete right, twice in succession. Repeated noise, further blood. Markriss looked into the faces of his team, Chile especially. There was nothing, only a reminder of past moments and previous heretics, in this chamber and beyond: that iron odour, cries of loss, the rise in temperature, most of all that distant expression on every living face, their bodies devoid of soul for those long minutes, much like the physical death they had brought into the room.

  He pushed beyond Ayizan, moving out of the chamber and into his office space. He intended to go to his own small room, when his legs gave. He collapsed into the softness of the easy-chair, gasping breath. His head swam. Heart pounded. Pressure forced its way from the depths of his stomach, rising, and Markriss thought he might vomit, noisy and uncontrolled, into the room. He closed his eyes and hung his head between his legs, panting like a stray Quarter dog.

  Nothing until the chamber door opened, closed. Her perfume, her aura. She watched him, simply breathing.

  ‘Nobody wanted to.’

  He forced his head to rise, even that was too much. Another surge. He gave up, pushing his head between his knees again.

  ‘They would have come for you first, you know that. You’re lucky you hadn’t been stormed already.’

  Another attempt. Gasping, trying to look. To see her.

  ‘What’s . . . gonna stop them now?’

  She focused on the light installation, bit her lip. No answer.

  ‘You took Circle without me. You didn’t have to. I was already outvoted.’

  Finding him. Eyes glittering, beautiful. Back in her body, the woman he knew.

  ‘Kriss, I’m sorry. We thought—’

  The chamber door swung open, a gaping mouth. Chatter and movement on the other side. Ayizan. He paused just beyond the threshold, shut it gently. Inhaled quiet.