A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘We’ll get the chamber cleaned up and go. Neither of you has to do a thing. We’ll take care of it.’

  Footsteps. Silence. A hand lay on his bare exposed neck. Kneading. Even to him, the tendons felt stiff, immobile beneath the welcome pressure of Ayizan’s fingers. His eyes prickled, flooding. He swallowed harder, blinking everything back.

  ‘OK? You done good, brother. I know what that took out of you, but you stepped up. It’s done.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Just queasy.’

  ‘That’s totally normal. I threw up, I can’t lie. We mustn’t get used to this shit. Don’t let that happen to us.’

  ‘No.’

  Shaking his head, panting once more.

  ‘I’ll be back. You’ve done well, brother.’

  The touch was gone. He heard the door again. Muted drums. The buzz of people over their heads. Chile’s silence, he felt her eyes, her breath distinctive as words.

  ‘I should have told you. You’re right.’

  Deeper inhalation, a frantic gasp. The heavy wave crashed into him, startling, thrusting Markriss downwards, separating him from himself, physical body left hunched, hyperventilating on the soft chair, elemental body descending, flat as an Outer City kite, peregrine graceful. Oozing black, warm comfort. Immediately a face emerged from the depths. Curling red hair, stark green eyes. Sombre contemplation, he wasn’t worthy. Closer, floating beside him with greater scrutiny, turning slow orbit.

  Keshni Myatt.

  She came closer. What did her appearance mean? He didn’t know what she wanted. Was that judgement in her eyes, causing his panic? How would his soul journey after that night? Sinking lower, he tried calling out to ask whether the act he’d performed was righteous. Had he chosen the correct path, or was the place he was travelling to one of moral discontent, forgoing any chance of return? Keshni became more distant with every falling second, further and further above until she was a twinkling, solitary planet, cold and alone.

  Markriss floated lower, and lower, disappearing.

  9

  He looked down at his clean, loose shirt and trousers; they had dressed him. Rough fingers entwined his. Chile’s perfume beside him, the familiar soft and firmness of her. A linger of an echo, a recollection of the sound that had gripped him from the depths, pulling upwards. The slamming door. Looking behind to see the white wooden rectangle, the black reader-panel on its right edge. Temujin, blank-eyed a few steps beyond. He’d been lifted, returned to Geb by the swift finality of the closing tunnel entrance. Reality seeped in. The maintenance tunnel. They were descending into the Lowers.

  Sound reduced to bubbled silence. Ayizan, ahead as always, reached the tunnel end, a blank wall of moss-green stone glimmering with reflected lamplight. He knelt and balanced on his heels, opening a small panel on the stone between his feet, revealing a simple brass padlock and hasp. Jangling keys were produced from his jeans. He opened the padlock and placed it into a pocket, pulling back the hinge with a faint tink of metal on rock. Chile and Temujin moved to help him. Together, they lifted the heavy metal trapdoor to its peak, then let it fall. All three had bulging packs on their shoulders.

  ‘You OK to do this?’ Ayizan’s tired eyes squinted. ‘If you feel yourself jump back, try and let us know before it sets in.’

  He said nothing, his silence mute compliance. Beneath their feet, a long shaft, a metal ladder. More electric lights led downwards. Temujin went first, wordless and grim. Then Chile and Markriss, finally Ayizan, stopping for a long moment to close the trapdoor, re-attach the padlock and make his way after them.

  The ladder went down eleven metres. A confined space, a metre square, and if he slipped that would possibly be the end. They’d only done this twice, each time Markriss wishing he’d never been asked, nerves sparking at the thought of what might happen if he fell, or was caught by Corps. On this attempt he was strangely detached, a product of astral projection and the shock of his actions not half an hour ago, yet his absence of nerves wasn’t reassuring; it worried him. He stopped, gripping metal. Chill seeped into his flesh and he shivered. Ayizan grunted over his head and so he kept on, trying to secure his feet on the rungs.

  A fragmented memory of spurting blood, of hissing exit. He gagged. Stopped again, head hung.

  ‘You can do it,’ Chile called.

  ‘Nearly there.’ Ayizan’s voice a repeating echo.

  He pushed himself to keep moving. Something was happening to him that he had never experienced before. Blood had never bothered him. If he was honest, neither had killing. Both were a natural part of Outer City life and the Ark. There was no reason for his body to react as it did, and yet he remained cold, as if the chill of the metal he clutched spread through his fingers into his heart, and was transported by the network of veins around his whole body. He shook his head. That wasn’t it. Cold had been inside him even before they descended, when he’d entered the chamber to see Elliot and his team alive with intense mortality. They had gone too far.

  The sound of feet meeting rungs ceased below him. He closed his eyes again for the last few metres, knowing the risk. It felt better. He became conscious of ambient noises. Raised voices, metal clanging, an odour of hot vapour laced with various oils. Another backward motion, his feet met solid ground. A second step, he was standing. Markriss opened his eyes.

  A shark-metal gantry, secured from above with broad cables inter-twined like rope, or Chile’s braids. Steel walls enclosed them on either side. The gantry flooring was latticed, though it was difficult to see how far down the actual ground was, or if, in fact, there was any. Shouting voices were closer, unseen. The air contained a mixture of damp earth, cooking food and that rich aroma of fossil oil. Chile and Temujin talked low by the far wall. His wife saw him watching and took a few steps until she was at his side. Temujin’s lips tugged in a ghostly smile, Markriss following suit as Ayizan stepped from the ladder to close their circle. Chile wouldn’t meet his eye. Their arms touched.

  ‘Capra said Paul would wait at the end of this landing.’

  ‘After you.’

  Searching his face, nodding, she took the lead.

  They emerged from the passage confines. On their left, the sparse wall continued, flat and matte. To their right, a cavernous universe of e-lights, machinery, a series of squared landings mirroring theirs. Too many to count, they descended miles into the earth, each formed by a maze of gantries in a warren of criss-crossing pathways, some designed to create open space in which gargantuan machines were housed, others forming a square or rectangle where monitors, lathes, processing materials, computer banks and robotic pincer arms were installed. Pipes ran along walls, beneath the lattice gantries, into machines and floor vents. Fine precipitation hung, steam erupting nearby on occasion, or far beneath. Men and women in overalls of various colours, with names and the level number ‘−1’ on their backs, walked everywhere. Basic automatons rolled at their feet, round or square, speaking that strange, unfamiliar tongue, coloured lights blinking. The area had an unyielding, military atmosphere.

  Despite their urgency, they were unable to ignore the sensory overload that was the Lowers. Everyone knew the Ark foundations contained a proletarian class dedicated to making sure Inner City worked as it must. Yet it was a place few of the levels above saw, or even believed existed.

  Markriss ducked his head from the dive of a drone—at ten centimetres, much smaller than he was used to. The tiny machine pivoted, blades whirring, claw-like mechanical legs exposed. Ayizan laughed, Temujin leaping to the gantry banister, pointing at the drone, which hovered further to get away. Filming, no doubt. Chile returned to hold his hand. He stiffened, not pulling away. When Temujin pushed herself from the banister, she paused to rub his shoulder before moving on. Markriss’s aura filled with earlier days, past moments. By the time they reached the man sitting on the landing steps with his back to them, they’d formed a tight group with Markriss at their centre.

  Paul rose and turned, brushing foundation dust from his ov
eralls. He was lean and over six-and-a-half feet tall, head shaped like a lozenge or the dim e-lights surrounding them. His teeth were yellow, wide-spaced. Skin pale and overalls particularly oiled, full of lacy holes at the elbows and knees. Temujin stepped forwards, stiff hand raised in greeting, which Paul clasped and shook. They hugged.

  Temujin and Paul spoke in their language as the others waited, half listening in an attempt to interpret hand movements, or words they’d heard her use before in conversation with Vyasa. In the past she’d told Markriss the language her mother taught her was a former, interesting mix of proto-European Dutch, Norse and French, subverted by ancient Germanic and Latin, the origins of both forgotten centuries before. Although there was vague scholarly interest in the dialect, no one in the country had spoken English since the Romans constructed Londinium in 43 ad. And yet somehow the language had survived in broken form to become the Lowers’ dominant tongue. Only the most educated, or those with dual heritage, spoke Nubian, Meroitic, Swahili, Arabic or any of the above-level Bulan languages dispersed throughout Inner and Outer City, besides the thousands of others from all over the globe.

  Temujin indicated the group and Paul bowed. As one, the three clasped right hands over their hearts. The Lower turned, leading them down the steps to a small lift area, its mechanics evident and skeletal. They waited, Ayizan swinging his right arm, clutching the shoulder, wincing pain.

  ‘These are original constructions,’ he whispered. ‘Some as old as the Ark.’

  ‘Let’s hope they still work.’ Chile gave the lift doors a critical glare as Paul broke into a beam, leaning to speak with Temujin.

  ‘He says they replace the lifts every ten years or so. These are about five years old.’

  Chile’s eyes rolled. ‘So much for gossip.’

  ‘He understands Meroitic?’ Surprise lifted Ayizan’s voice.

  ‘A little, but he can’t speak it.’

  Swapped looks. Noted.

  Gears rattled, unoiled guidelines squealing as the lift arrived, doors rumbling open. They stepped inside, their collective weight causing the lift to rock. Paul laid a palm on the reader, keying an unmarked pad, and the doors snapped closed, the lift plunging at great speed, rattling side to side in an unsteady gait. Metal whined as they fell. The fossil-oil smell grew stronger. They all moved to lean against the dirt-streaked walls except Paul, who stood, legs wide in the centre of the lift, eyes closed, head thrown back.

  The lift slowed as if tugged from above, jerking one last time until the surrounding noise ceased, the doors prising apart with reluctance. Beyond, smoke, noise, music, people. Paul moved to one side, motioning them to go first. Markriss took Chile’s hand. They stepped from the lift onto a black tarmac path, churned earth on either side. Immediately before them, a collective of metal storage units stretched into the near distance.

  ‘Nobody call anyone “country” down here.’ Temujin’s expression barely shifted. ‘It won’t end well.’

  ‘You guys hear that?’

  Ayizan eyed each of them in turn, as Paul beamed even wider, heavy boots splashing miniature puddles, bounding past them to lead onwards, talking over his shoulder in fast, explosive speech.

  ‘He says we shouldn’t hang around. These people have never seen Levellers, he can’t vouch for their actions.’

  Bodies twisted in their direction as they followed Paul, and mouths hung open. Small children cried out, pointing, jade snot poised above upper lips, sore mouths crusted. To one side, piquant smoke caused Markriss’s eyes to water. The origin, a sizzling black hotplate laden with various creatures of the earth—fattened beetles and worms, the de-limbed carcasses of what he assumed were spiders, ruby-coloured ants, all popping, crackling. The hefty woman behind the plate saw his shock and glared. A clutch of men in Lower overalls pursed greased mouths, spitting chewed insect shells into lumped mud. Past the stall, a dirt-caked woman sat on the edge of the path, hair dishevelled and matted, left foot swollen three times its natural size as though filled to bursting point with water. Howling upwards, it was difficult to tell if she was in pain or simply distraught beyond repair.

  Paul looked over his shoulder, gesturing with clear meaning. He turned left at a small crossroads, deeper into the units. They turned with him.

  In his attempt not to look on either side of the path, it dawned on Markriss that the storage units could be the Lowers’ version of allocations, and their original function had been subverted, perhaps due to overpopulation. Glancing beyond the occasional open metal door, they could see glimpses of lives: a bare space, lined with empty sleeping bags; the hazy apparition of an elderly woman shrouded in cigar smoke, blowing, making fumes swirl; a group of children jumping with glee on a sagging double bed, no adults to supervise them; teenagers smoking pi and dealing cards around a crippled table, an unseen person closing the flimsy door as Paul walked by, trailing his visitors.

  Eventually, he slowed down, relaxing. Ayizan appeared at his shoulder.

  ‘How far down are we?’

  Angling his head at Temejin, telling.

  ‘A quarter mile,’ she translated. ‘The foundations go down five miles in all.’

  Ayizan whistled. Chile gaped amazement.

  ‘Five miles of this?’

  Paul twisted further, finding her. A flattened blin Markriss hadn’t noticed, smooth and winding, tracked from his cheek to chin, white, hair-free. Paul nodded. Indicated the nearest enclosure with an open palm and turned sideways, away from them.

  A number of large men in dark-blue overalls stood before the tatty enclosure, a writhing plume of steam emerging from its roof. Paul whistled between his teeth, thin and low. The men looked back as one, parting. Just beyond an open door, solid legs spread wide, piahro splint chuffing between his teeth, sat Capra Paorach. Everything about him was huge. Feet, thighs, jaws. Though similar in height to Paul, Paorach’s shoulders were unnaturally wide, his bald head shining autumn brown within the illumination of his lavender aura, solid as flesh. His body sheathed in an awkward glow, as if placed somewhere he didn’t actually belong. Markriss only knew one person anywhere near Capra’s size and that was Vyasa, which made complete sense, as the men were second cousins.

  ‘People!’ Capra removed the splint to lift in their direction, white teeth glistening. ‘I thought thou’d never arrive!’

  ‘Gathering, family,’ Temujin said, slapping his palm, taking the splint to place in her own mouth. A deep drag, passing left to Ayizan.

  ‘I can tell. We hear thee pounding down here!’

  Laughter from the men, Capra’s shoulders heaving. The Outsiders laughed with him. Markriss almost forgot the pressure of blood, the whine of exiting spray, hoarse, bubbling gurgles. A momentary smile rose and fell.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re all here.’ Searching faces, locking onto his, or so he felt. ‘Are you well?’

  Heads lowered, nods.

  ‘Are you sure?!’

  Capra’s boom pushed from his chest to vibrate in theirs, a rush of air and sound and vitality wrapped in life force.

  ‘We’re sure,’ Chile said, splint at her lips. ‘It’s been a long few weeks.’

  ‘Of course.’ He studied them. ‘“As above, so below.”’

  ‘“Only more,”’ Markriss returned.

  The Lower’s smile faded. Blue eyes dimmed.

  ‘Yes it is. It is.’

  He rose, gasping with his own weight. Fingers bumped Markriss’s, splint heat warming his knuckles. For the first time he saw that Capra held a number of slim cards in his large fist. Brown one side, yellow the other. He began to distribute them amongst the surrounding men, each grunting thanks, secreting them in various pockets.

  ‘Here, here, here. I have to deal with our guests, but think of me when your belly’s warm and your wives are loving you.’

  Paul spoke up, the men erupting with laughter so loud Markriss’s ears rang.

  ‘Yes, not too much!’ Capra shouted after them. ‘Don’t get them jealous over tha’s c
harms.’

  The men began to walk the narrow path, waving as they departed, disappearing in all directions. The Lower captain watched them go, smile lessening to become tight scrutiny. ‘Let’s go in. We’ll talk.’

  They followed him into the unit, Capra ducking his head. Close walls, low ceiling. The rich aroma of broth emitting from a large pot on a flimsy slab of a two-hob gas stove. To their right, jagged space where a door had been cut into the wall, Markriss realising that two units were joined to make one.

  In the corner, Maolisa, a slim, pale woman in strange wired glasses that looked homemade, sat on a threadbare seat eating from a dull brass plate. She smiled, her pinched face creasing.

  ‘Ah!’

  Maolisa placed the bowl at her feet, making to stand.

  ‘Please don’t get up, we’ve disturbed you enough.’ Ayizan pushed downwards with both palms. ‘Apologies for our intrusion. Eat, eat.’

  ‘A gentleman!’ Capra roared at no one. ‘And here we were thinking thee religious thugs and agents of mayhem! Where’s the champagne? Milk sweets! You’ll eat with us, won’t you?’

  Another flurry of glances. A heavy thud, Capra thumping his heart. More booming laughter, the loudest yet.

  ‘Oh, the fear! The anxiety! ‘“Will we survive? Can we stomach bugs and insects? We’ll have to decline, surely?”’ Don’t be afraid, our higher selves. We eat farmyard animals and food of the soil in this allocation, as do thee. But surely thou know that!’

  ‘We didn’t mean to offend.’ Temujin wore a rare smile.

  ‘Me, family? No. How? I wouldn’t eat the shite they serve out there if it were the body of Christ incarnate.’

  Chile caught Markriss’s attention, rolling her eyes. He fidgeted, searching the confined space. Capra was digging in a small trunk, emerging with a pile of cushions and folded rugs.

  ‘Ladies get the padding, men the expanse. As in life, some say.’

  ‘Can you spare our guests your filthy mind?’ Maolisa’s eyes crinkled, tired by her attempt to match her husband’s energy. She reached for her plate, lifting it to her knees to continue eating, pausing to watch every so often.