A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  Connected, Markriss let go.

  He was ready.

  He turned to face the Temple doors. Renno’s gaze fixed on him. The garden had emptied, plants held breath.

  ‘You would like to speak?’

  Renno, impossibly lean and tall, approached the bench, where he lingered.

  ‘You can sit.’

  ‘Give thanks, Teacher.’

  He sat, bony knees protruding, thighs extending from the furthest wooden slat, as far on the edge of the bench as he could go. His cheeks were lined with pimples, dark skin dry, uncreamed. A fresh haircut only made him look younger. The snake emblem on the chest of his pitzball shirt caught Markriss’s eye. Coiled, hood extended, in striking distance. He blinked, staring for so long Renno cleared his throat to regain Markriss’s attention.

  He sat up, looking Renno in the eye.

  ‘It feels as though . . . correct me if I’m wrong, but I sense an obstruction in you. I wondered if you’d like to talk about it. You can speak your mind.’

  The boy spun, examining the space over both shoulders, one after another.

  ‘No one’s here, and if there were it wouldn’t matter. Please.’

  Mouth open, a frown etched Renno’s forehead. He tipped forwards once more. A knee bounced. His hands trembled, even as he tried to stop them. Below his throat, Markriss recognised an ache. Breath shortening, his ka retracted to his collarbone, where it settled.

  Guilt. Renno feared him.

  ‘Please.’ Softening, much as he could.

  ‘I can’t.’ Renno pushed upright, taking two steps. Turned, eyes glinting ice. ‘You told us you were men of peace. You said that.’

  He walked the path, disappearing around a corner.

  Markriss contemplated the space he’d left.

  Plants imbibed elements, reaching for light.

  Time bent, folding on familiar streets. He needed to be careful, that was true. Awareness might have been his saviour, although he needed to retain the intensity of the connections he’d forged in the garden—they were good, and true, and would lead him on the right path. It was possible he might find the western lands on the horizon of this particular journey, though he was strangely at peace with that notion, unafraid. When he tore himself from the present enough to ponder the eventuality, he knew that part of the reason he wasn’t fearful was because he actually didn’t believe it was his time. Whether simple arrogance, or blind faith, Markriss was uncertain. Instinct told him something else belonged in the hazed mists of his future, so he raised his head, refusing to look at people, dogs or allocations, to think of his friends, wife or ancestors. He only walked.

  Loitering outside that peculiar, broken-down house, he was surprised, despite himself, to find it still there. He trod the broken stone path to the front door, freed of wooden boards, stepping over the slats he’d ripped away like tree bark that remained stacked on the floor. He pressed his palm flat. Bent over, forehead touching flaked paint. Cross-stream energy thrumming, noiseless above his head, burning fire vibrating beneath his fingers, tiny hairs on the edge of his ears standing on end. Searching for traces of vague contact within his own memories, recalling himself as a child, immersed in the bushes and fragrant plants of his mother’s garden, tiny fingers enclosed in the toughened flesh of a rough hand. That feeling of content, belonging. Being lifted into the air and lowered so he could be embraced by ambient masculinity. He pressed his forehead harder against wood. Needing to remember more of the presence he’d pushed away for such a long time.

  Markriss stayed that way, respiring slowly.

  He fell into waking dream, materialising at the Ark Station. Far-away voices reaching beyond molasses darkness. Spun-cotton wisps, distant. Mind made up, walking broken glass and wood, careful, into the solid length of night. Nothing besides the mythical sense of physicality, knowledge of his existence arriving only from the brush of Nesta’s body against his, their joined harsh breath. Heart beating, hot blood. The corridor, damp, old. A taste of odour, gritted sherbet. Covering his mouth, stumbling on unseen material. The floor thick with dust. Stubbing his toe on what he guessed were heavy blocks of concrete, more than once.

  His trainer landing on something soft, the give of flesh. An inkling of what came next. His friends, jaws static, screaming. Metallic banging, heels smashing against the mesh metal window. The thrust and pound of his feet kicking amongst the others. A scared-eyed kid looking up into his face, the moment he’d caught the boy’s fear. Strange laughter.

  A shadow rising, hands closing around his neck, pads of rough fingers tightening on his throat; realising he couldn’t breathe, falling onto his knees, the sharp and true pain of bone striking concrete, a swimming lightheaded feeling he later knew as ebbing consciousness. Cold seeping into his body, fluid death.

  Then everywhere was roaring, echoing from unseen walls. Being pushed, the sound of a heavy object connecting with something sodden yet hard, until fingers released him, and he breathed again, a huge, gasped intake. Sounds even more terrifying when his hearing returned, hands on knees, coughs tearing his throat. Traded harsh pants, growled combative forces, discernibly young and old. Bodies crashing into walls with dusty, tired thuds, cried pain. Nesta’s infantile sobs. Clattering, the loud fall of bodies. Wheezed breath, screams of pain. The roar of an unseen man using every ounce of his greater strength to end a life, or so it seemed in the moment.

  The click of Markriss’s extended knife heard even over their screams. Crawling, pain slicing his hands, to the place where his friend’s breath gurgled like boiling coffee, climbing on top of the stinking hulk of man, pulling stringed hair tight around his fingers, plunging the knife somewhere beneath him with his free hand repeatedly, screams merged in the darkness until only his and Nesta’s survived. Falling, hands sticky, onto his back, unable to see anything, himself, his friend, or the person that was once human, now mere object. Halting tears beneath the frantic shouts of Karis and T’Shari, finding them.

  Head resting firm against the door, Markriss waited. In the months after the vagrant’s westing, the first by his hand, he’d dreamt the sickened man was his father. Similar dreams returned in spells for many years after. Intriguingly, whenever he meditated, or rose into the upper planes, Markriss never encountered Vendriss. His father had gone into the Ark when he was very young, and Markriss still believed he would recognise something of him, if not his face, then his material essence. Yet it never happened. While that didn’t mean Vendriss was alive, it had given him hope. He pondered how old his father would be. Thinking back on what he himself had done to survive and become the person he was today, he wondered, would Vendriss be proud? The question went unvoiced and unanswered. He tried not to think it often, though in that moment when he did, Markriss imagined his father’s withheld distress might well resemble Renno’s.

  Shuffling behind him caused feathery nerves to lighten his lower guts. The perfect time for Bandyo to strike. He backed from the door, anticipating a blow, turning when none came.

  Old Man Sares. White robes, white staff. Silver ank hanging from his neck. Locks untied, loosened to meet his ankles.

  His elderly neighbour opened his arms, abrupt and wide, staff clutched high in the fist of his right hand. Blind eyes directed upwards at the allocation. Seeing the elderly figure of a man, someone close to his estranged father’s age, a physical sense of something broke inside him, his emotions venting with an almost discernible snap. He was a child again, vulnerable, unsure. Assailed by the realisation of all he’d lost—a home, friends, father, mother. The caress of air against his cheek, river brine, the call of a gull. That weightless, secure feeling a moment before drifting into sleep, calm night beyond misted windows. He stumbled the few steps it took to reach Sares, head buried his against the old man’s shoulder. Material scratched skin. Eyes dry, no tears. Too far gone to weep. And he was embraced, clutching meagre shoulders in turn, energies coursing from elder to younger as auras communicated, and their spirits made peace.

&nb
sp; He returned to his allocation, head low. When the door closed, he found Chile in the centre of the room, legs crossed, head lank, burnt sage clouding the air. He lowered himself on the sofa opposite her, watching.

  Markriss waited for an extended period of time before Chile’s head rose. A wisp of smile at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Hey there.’

  ‘Hi. Good journey?’

  ‘Lovely. Almost didn’t come back.

  ’ They chuckled.

  ‘How were the gardens?’

  ‘Good. Really good.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Sighing content.

  ‘I was thinking of vegetable soup for tonight.’

  ‘You dug up sweet potato?’

  ‘No, they gave me a handful from the kitchen. Shall I?’

  ‘Yes, please. I don’t know why, I’m craving them all of a sudden.’

  ‘Probably need the carbs. I got young leaves too, I can chop those up and throw them in?’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  In the kitchenette, he switched on lights, harvesting utensils while Chile played transcendental from the front room. Swirling strings, the harmony of an unknown singer’s voice penetrating flesh and bones, exactly what he needed. He diced, collecting ingredients, eyes heavy, hands nimble, until several brightly coloured piles were before him, water bubbling and gasping on the hob, and he was pleased. He dropped everything into the pot, pausing to thrust his nose into steam and smell the changeable quality of vapour.

  Chile’s presence, breathing at his spine, the pressure of her nose, lips and forehead pressed against his back. Arms wrapped around him.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘I am. You?’

  Movement against his clothing. He smiled.

  ‘Want to get in pod? I’ll give you a massage.’

  Paused surprise. Comprehension.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Go on. I’ll just do this and be over.’

  ‘Thank you, Kriss.’

  After he submerged ingredients, added spices, removed and poured excess foam into the sink and lowered the heat, Markriss entered the sleeper. Chile was undressed, a russet blanket covering her waist and legs, humming to the song resounding through the speakers. Head between crooked arms, chin turned to one side, the window misty with condensation, the air sweet. A rhythm of bubbling soup blended with the singer’s ambience. He removed his clothes, placing them on the podside, slid next to her and inhaled her scent. Ran a finger in a straight line from her shoulder blade to hip. He pushed gentle pressure with his fingertips, making small circles.

  ‘That’s really sore.’

  ‘There’s tension in your lower back.’

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  He smiled, pausing to open a squat bottle of peppermint oil, pouring into his hand. Liquid made a flat circle, set like amber. Palm flat, he pushed from one side of her hip to the other, her skin a rippling tide. She gasped, finding a better position, head rested against her forearms. Markriss pulled back, repeating the movement with the same amount of pressure, sat on his heels, pushed again, this time with both hands. Attending to the lower back, feeling for the beginning and end of individual muscles one after next, hands rising like kundalini energy to her mid-section, down the narrow incline of her spine and up the other side, one hand over the other in an idle, steady flow, bathed in music and the odour of developing soup, one ingredient fused with the next, and the next, and so on. Everything entwined, the sibilance of hands against flesh, the connection between limbs, the sharpened tang of oil and material of the sheets that covered the mattress beneath them, the push and pull of energy between bodies. Markriss finding a rhythm that lulled them both, swept by low current on the edge of the other world beyond theirs, that boundary of infinite wonder, the land of ancestors. Sometimes he forgot where he began and ended, feeling as though he inhabited that place fully, in life as it was in westing, and later he had no recollection of what he had done with his fingertips, only a vague notion of how the movements made him feel, a dream forgotten as he’d woken, a fading tendril of steam, dissipating yet present in its quantum, unseen form.

  Three taps, sharp and precise, on their window. Markriss’s hands slowed, and he rose towards the drawn blinds. Chile barely moved.

  ‘I’ll put clothes on.’

  He grunted, kneeling to find his. They dressed without speaking, grumbling at inside-out material, trapped limbs. When they were ready, Chile kissed his mouth, held him. They nuzzled, rubbing noses, lips touching and parting. Whoever knocked didn’t again.

  He crossed the room to the door and opened it. Ayizan’s head was bent low. The machete firm in his fist. Beyond him, street-lights trailed further than Markriss could see. He stepped back, let Ayizan enter.

  A single dog positioned itself on the empty street. Ribs expanding and contracting, yellow-eyed. Its legs seemed thin and hollow, pocked by glittering red sores. Not knowing what else to do, he closed the door.

  ‘Water, orange juice?’

  Chile gave Ayizan a light hug, already turning to the kitchenette.

  ‘I’ll take a juice, please.’

  Markriss sat beside him. They avoided each other. Saying nothing until the generator’s heavy rumble started, settling into a familiar thrum of regularity.

  ‘They’re in. They’ll plant the drop at the end of their shift, on last rounds.’

  Markriss rubbed his hands together, looking at the worn, moth-bitten carpet. How hadn’t he noticed it was that bad? Chile returned with a plastic glass. Ayizan smiled.

  ‘Give thanks. If we don’t hear anything from them or the Corps we’ve got away with it. If they come down on us like the vengeance of God, we’re fucked.’

  ‘So that’s it? No further contact until we instigate?’

  Chile looked from one to the other.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Markriss said, bending to pick carpet tufts. ‘To be safe.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that.’ Ayizan was frowning. ‘And I talked it over with the others. There may be some merit in acting normally. Not doing anything different.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘They seemed to think it was a good idea.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we stick to the plan?’ Chile’s knee bounced nervous electricity that Markriss felt from across the room. ‘It’s been like this for months.’

  ‘I’m happy to go with whatever you think, Chile, I’m not going to argue if it doesn’t feel right. I said I’d meet them at their allocation if we changed our minds, and bring them to my place where we’ll instigate. If I’m not there when they get home, we meet at Temple like we said.’

  ‘OK.’ Playing with a loose braid between slim fingers. ‘I think we stick with plan A. We’ll be safer in the Lowers.’

  ‘Alright then. Markriss?’

  ‘I’m with you. Whatever Chile thinks.’ A pause. ‘On that note, she did mention being cautious about the dogs. There’s one on the street right now. Or there was.’

  ‘Really?’ Ayizan got up, turning to separate blinds with two fingers. He pushed his face against wood. ‘Nothing’s there.’

  ‘I don’t trust them. They’re always following us.’

  ‘They want food.’

  ‘That could be what they want us to think.’

  Ayizan sat down. Back hunched, chin cupped in a hand.

  ‘I don’t know what we can do about that, besides act like we aren’t suspicious.’

  ‘I’ve already told Markriss; we don’t do anything incriminating around them.’

  Both men nodded in unison.

  ‘Well, I mean we can’t not do what we’re doing tonight, but I see your point. Good. Very good.’ Ayizan threw his head back, downing juice. ‘Alright, I’m gone. All being well, we’ll instigate at a quarter of midnight. Once I know they’re back and safe, you’ll hear it.’

  ‘OK then.’

  They stood, hugging for a long time, Markriss’s heart pounding against his ribcage. Sudden, real. They pressed t
heir heads together, ignorant of pain.

  ‘Alright, see you at Temple.’

  Chile saw him to the door. Once closed, she climbed the sofa on her knees, splitting the blind as Ayizan had. She pulled back as if scalded.

  ‘Kriss.’

  Waiting, almost knowing.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s there.’

  He crawled the sofa to join her, tense and careful, eyes pressed against the letterbox gap. Ayizan was far out of sight, the dog padding slowly in the direction their friend always took to his allocation, nose pointing, half-lifted, sniffing air. Pausing, foreleg bent mid-step, surveying the block with swift, robotic jerks of the head.

  It snapped to the right, glaring through their allocation window, deep-set eyes and open mouth, wet tongue hanging, curved teeth on display.

  Chile released the slat. They dropped into an impromptu huddle, backs thudding against the sofa like fists into a tired, heavy bag.

  ‘Shit.’ Her voice a solid object dragged across gravel. ‘Shit.’

  They reached for each other, necks bent low, fearing the slightest movement.

  After a time, the dog left. When they next looked through the slats, it had disappeared. Even for Chile, it was difficult to express exactly why they were so shaken by a stray looking into their window. Dogs roamed throughout their zone and had done since they’d entered Inner City, trotting alongside everyone, tipping over bins, attempting to steal food from shopping bags on occasion, scaring red-faced, tiny children entombed in buggies. Dogs were and had always been as much a part of the landscape as e-lights, or brickwork. Fresh in their zone as a newly married couple, Chile and Markriss even fed them leftover scraps from cupped hands, wincing against moist sandpaper tongues, back when they were hopeful, young.