A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  And yet. And yet.

  Swinging between irrational thought and the solidified, cold logic of known reality—what they had seen, what it might mean—they did what they could to forget their pulsing hearts and shivers wriggling a chilled path across skin. First they kept to the sofa, arms tightened around each other. After long minutes in that position, Markriss pulled back into his knowing, thinking self and rose, blinking and yawning, stretched upwards until his fingers touched the low ceiling. He walked over to his fragment of bookshelf, half-listening to Chile moving, mostly concentrating on the titles before him. Placed a finger on his find, tipping it towards him.

  At the desk he whipped pages, frowning into his hands, blind as Old Sares. He was unsure of what he searched for, feeling his way through indecision, alive to the woody scent of paper, dust that leapt and tickled from sharp turns, the heft against his palm, the volume cradled in his hands. It had been so long since he cherished that weight. Had he been avoiding it? He wasn’t sure of that either.

  Who was this person who didn’t read the books he once cherished? Who recoiled in fear at dogs that had roamed outside his door for as long as he’d lived in the zone? Why did he repeatedly think of his father when he hadn’t for so long? Where did this new fear and mistrust come from? The vision of killing Ayizan just as a sickened vagrant once attempted to kill him as a boy was real, gaudy. He could admit he often saw it when he closed his eyes, biophoton patterns of colour forming human shapes and imagery. He still had no idea why it persisted.

  Nothing felt like him any more.

  He flattened a page smooth with a palm, settling in the seat. The letters were small and hard to read in the dim light:

  In our quest to become accustomed to this new way of being we must remake ourselves anew. We work towards this diligently as the caterpillar works towards becoming butterfly, ever in the knowledge that our wings are not material, or physical. None shall be witnessed with mortal eyes. We will not feel their beat, or the air stirred by others. We must eat daily, in fact we must gorge ourselves, again not meaning the physical; thus our work should go unnoticed, invisible on this plane. Imbibe what is good for us, reject adversity. Learn what does us harm and avoid those occurrences, as best as can be, practise acceptance when we cannot. There are many distractions to living a full and formless life, yet they are only true distractions if we make them so. It is in our power to give them power over our beings. We are landlords of this residence our soul is housed within. Anything that takes place is in our control.

  For this, we must strive to become what our ancestors call ‘Nun’, primeval or formless water. As even the smallest child knows, Nun, parent of Sun God Ra, deserves everlasting thanks for our creation. They are boundless, dark and turbulent. On the physical plane, they are essential to our being. We cannot live without water, it permeates every mode of existence. And yet it can be shaped and moulded, whether in word or in deed. It responds both to our actions and the things we might say, always remains unchanged. It takes on any form, exists in any confines, yet given even the smallest opportunity it is free. Water does not battle, nor fight amongst itself. Water moves collectively to achieve its aims.

  He lowered the pages. When he’d first reached Inner City, The Book of the Ark served as mantra. Passed from resident to resident, heavily bound or home-printed and stapled, held together with plastic binds, or taped repeatedly at its furthest edges for poorer readers, the book had become the Poor Quarter Bible, lender of hope, advisor of all. There wasn’t a bookshelf in the zone where it couldn’t be found, even in allocations where families did not read. It was digitally recorded and duplicated. In temple, teachings were extracted regularly and rendered as plays, children taught its ways during interfaith services. There was a suggestion that a decline in younger readers led to the rise of road teams for generations to follow. Markriss wasn’t certain that was true. Notwithstanding this, all that the Outsiders believed stemmed from those cherished pages.

  No one knew the author. The book appeared like a sapling, no one to witness the seed. No name on the title page, or any others. No mention of gender, country of origin, class. Where it was first circulated further deepened the mystery, several zones laying claim to being the original readers and disseminators of The Book. There was no publishing lineage, or initial print run on the inside pages. Although scholars claimed the book had existed for hundreds of years, it was never cited in relevant texts of earlier times, only latterly.

  Markriss turned the weight over in his hands. Hard bound, leather dark, surface ridged and tactile. Embossed gold font and Kemetic symbol beneath, three circles placed inside each other, a triangle within all. He was barely aware of his fingers skimming the cover like a caress, weight tumbling from one hand to the other, lips moving without words, thoughts and images behaving similarly, one end over another until he seeped into the present moment, ink on white paper. He leant further back. A mug of mint tea he hadn’t noticed emitted steam beside him. Chile had returned to meditation, her own mug resting by her side.

  He read more, meditated further. They returned to the pod, undressing without hurry, making love much the same. Held each other with possession, in hope they might retain the feeling of skin brushing against one another, the sharpness of sweat and rough scratch of pubic hair across bare thighs, soft flesh of breasts against the gristle of nose cartilage, lips against pelvic bone, fingers enclosed around the recoil of glutes. All the while knowing nothing would survive beyond the scant, transient notion of the present.

  And in deepest night, while they lay submerged in each other, dark void a material substance around them, a dense force rippled through the walls, floor and windows. Shuddering, rocking. Like the vibration of wind, but stronger and hotter. Solid became fluid, their pod shifting with the power of it all. And then came the blast, a sound that followed seconds after, outside streets forming corridors for misplaced air to rush, nothing to stop it, window-frames and glass vibrating. Voices heard through the allocation walls on either side, then on the street.

  They dressed in the clothes scattered around the pod, emerging to see. First, there were mere tendrils, wisps. Soon after, coarse black smoke began to fall, making breathing difficult, limiting vision. The bombs had done their work. They wandered from person to person, checking if everyone on the block was accounted for, touching elbows, hugging neighbours, guiding children back to their families. Parents screaming into muck, dust and paper, bumping shoulders with other people, coughing as they filled the street. Old Man Sares squinting, hand raised to his eyes, leaning against his allocation wall. The Mengus family pushing Pharah back towards their front door, scarves tight over mouths. Residents clutching each other, eyes streaming, fear lining their faces. Dogs running the block, barking at the unseen. Young people forming packs of stiff threat, machete-armed, jostling.

  Chileshe threaded an arm through his, leant against his shoulder to watch 1322 burn, with the others. Staring into distant flames, high enough to bear witness, far enough to convince themselves they might survive what they had done.

  11

  They knew the Corps would find them. Their only surprise was how long it took before they came.

  He laid his jacket on the sofa and sat beside it. Chile paced the room, tiny fists clenched, halfway to the podroom, back towards him, a lapping tide. She gave off an impatient, tense energy he often imagined as part of her make-up since she was a child; in those moments he saw her as a toddler, teenager, a young woman with that same buzzing aura, static fizzing in the immediate air about her. They refused to look at each other, in fear of being made aware of their own doubt, the inevitable a warm body, alive in the room. His stomach tightened as though he’d leapt from great height without thought.

  Pounding at the front door. They caught each other, wide-eyed in panic. Chile rushed across the allocation, threw it open.

  ‘They’re here!’ Vyasa roared, unseen by Markriss. ‘Let’s go, now!’

  Barely time to think befo
re he snatched his jacket up and took The Book from their desk, running to the door. Not a moment to worry about everything he left behind. The notebook, the medi, his long-dead and underused slide. Trinkets and offerings of Outsider brethren that lined his shelves. He ran onto the murky street, Chile too, close beside Temujin, Vyasa stutter-stepping by the brick wall, bellowing, urging them to move faster, and right away he heard it. Buzzing overhead, accompanied by pinprick red lights blinking through misted dusk, all he could see of them. Drones. A tiny whistle past his left ear, brickwork exploding fire-works in miniature. They were shooting.

  He put his head down, sprinting.

  They ran in one sure direction, not looking up, or to either side. Footfalls of Outsiders began to mass and join them, and there was more firing, Markriss grateful for the cover of smoke. He wanted to catch Chile and Temujin only they were faster and fitter, a distance ahead, and soon they were veiled by clouds of billowing smog. He heard Vyasa breathing hard, thuds of heavy feet matching his. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could move quicker. His thighs already burned, knees ached. He lifted higher, with more power; it hurt. His time in the sleeper had weakened his muscles. He tried to relax, hoping it would help his body move with more ease, panic driving his adrenaline, hindering motion. Somewhere at his rear, dogs barked. Drifting smoke flattened distant sound. The clatter of metal gear and stomping boots, the whine of something he recognised though couldn’t place which almost made him stop, swivel, frown into hazy air to catch it.

  A vehicle. The revving engine, the guttural voice of low gears.

  Knowing the danger, he couldn’t help looking back. The snub-nose armoured transport was a glistening beetle crawling from the smog, almost as wide as the street. Cautious, it slowed further, the stubbed bonnet pointing accusation.

  A masked Corps solider leant out of the side window, took aim.

  Markriss yelled out, veered left, ducked.

  Nothing came.

  He risked another look. Both vehicle and soldier were being swarmed by machete-wielding residents. The crowd took up the whole street, banging windows with knife handles, climbing onto the roof. The soldier fired. Someone fell, and the next resident pushed the body aside, wrenching the gun from the soldier’s hands, pulling him from the window. They were beating his limp body when Markriss turned away and kept running.

  A drone flew close, a whining mosquito. He covered his head, flinching, saw it fly past, towards the vehicle. Shots pinged the transport hull like popcorn on a lidded pot, throwing dust and metal flecks. More drones emerged from gloom, engaging in battle with the first, swooping and pivoting, tiny orange flames glinting from undersides. The first drone exploded into flames, dropping.

  Markriss didn’t look any more. He ran harder.

  From roof level fog, blood red beams of light emerged, touching the undersides of two whirling, darting corps drones. Engines shuddered, stilled. The machines fell to the ground, bouncing, metal legs exposed like dying insects. They didn’t move again.

  He couldn’t see. Smoke too thick, people too close. More shots, bodies hitting the floor, causing him to trip, fall. Chin meeting concrete. Iron-mouthed, spitting blood. He crawled, the sound of gunfire louder, screams of pain echoing. He got up from his hands and knees, starting to run harder, lungs burning from flames and his own harsh breathing. Muscles aching with pain. Emerging from the row of blocks onto Temple Square.

  The large doors were propped open halfway. Chile and Temujin’s mouths wide, gesticulating. He heard nothing. On the opposite side of the square, the short, rounded figure of a man was surrounded by a pack of strays, six or more at a hurried glance. He wore dark glasses, bright hustler clothes, T-shirt and jeans swollen with muscle. The machete in his hand gleamed, a fallen crescent moon. He raised it at Markriss, teeth bared. The dogs leapt, began to run.

  It was Bandyo.

  Markriss forced a last push for the door. Feet pounding on paving slabs, he focused on Chile. Her arm outstretched, fingers reaching. Sweat smeared across her forehead, hair wild. Her eyes said he wouldn’t make it. Reddened from smoke and welling tears, indistinct fear. Her head shook. Mouth opened. She saw what was coming behind him, and it shook Markriss to the centre of his being. Her lips pulled back in a grimace that ripped his heart. He reached for her, the distance too large. The growling pack louder, more prominent. He had to leap.

  Thudding connection. Whimpered canine pain. The clawed skitter of fumbling claws. Markriss took his chance, jumping for the door to land just beyond the dark interior, pulling himself over the threshold with the last of his strength. Shouting voices. High-pitched shrieks. He rolled onto his back, frowning. Temujin. Markriss sat up, the last thing he saw before the door closed a spinning, whirling Vyasa, gouging flesh with his machete in quick twists of his body, dogs hanging from his shoulders, legs, chest, blood streaming like spilt paint, the huge man swinging in wild circles to displace them, Bandyo running close, blade high, bringing it down in an arc destined to meet Vyasa’s head . . . and the door was shut, it was dark, the noise overpowering on either side.

  ‘Go, go!’ Xander cried, his pitch chilling Markriss’s heart. Temujin threw herself at the heavy doors, thumping and kicking, fighting men off in her attempt to open them again. Three went down in a series of sharp connecting blows. More came, pulling her aside, locks turning regardless. Strong hands pushed Markriss towards the steps. He reached for Chile, reassured when her fingers closed around his. Raw emotion soaked his face, wracked with pain.

  They took the steps down sideways on, fast as they could manage without falling, releasing each other to push against cold walls, running along the corridor, past chamber doors. Temujin’s wails rebounded from confined space, though she was with them, and he was glad of it. Through the fingerprint security reader. Along the squat corridor, those blank six doors. Past another reader at the far end, on through that heavier, iron door into the longer dead-end maintenance tunnel where Ayizan waited, the open panel beneath his wide-spread feet, glaring fire.

  ‘Come on, come on, let’s go!’

  Above, unseen conflict. The tunnel shook, metal framework creaking, dust shimmering fireflies in e-light, swirling about their heads. One after another, they descended. Chile, Temujin, Xander and Markriss, who paused, head poised, level with the upturned panel. He watched Ayizan bound over to the reader, key a succession of numbers and sprint back to the ladder. The control board beeped three times, red-blinking, set to kill code. If the door was forced, the mechanism would explode. Markriss quickly took the ladder steps, no time to think of falling death, only to wonder if Ayizan would secure the panel above them before they were found, noting the rising volume of explosions and gunfire at ground level. And then Ayizan slammed and locked the panel shutter, the digital reader was set, the primed red light blinking, feet rattled the ladder, and they plunged into the city depths, gasping, afraid.

  Though no one expected him, they found Paul in his usual spot, holding the lift doors open, anxiety deepening the lines of his weather-beaten face. They ran inside its confines as he hit the button, releasing pent-up breath while doors slammed together, showering fine earth. Temujin collapsed. She wept loudly, unrestrained, bleeding knuckles pressed to her temples, chin tilted towards the ceiling. Tendons of her neck red and straining. Lips pulled back, a wailing child. The men shuffled, unsure. Chile sneered at them all, sitting on the mud-strewn floor with her friend, rocking her limp body, wiping eyes with a sleeve while the lift fell like a rock thrown over a mountainside, rattling in its chassis. Unspooling metal pulleys filled their ears, the agonised whine of metal against metal that almost drowned Temujin’s grief for the long, unbearable minutes of descent. No one spoke. The men kept away from each other. Just leant against the lift sides to catch their breath. There wouldn’t be another rest stop for a while.

  They remained a still tableau, ever falling. Darkness ebbed through hairline cracks in the metal like gaseous substance, until it grew difficult to see themselves or the person b
eside them, even when the ceiling lights brightened, or seemed to, exposing particles of earth and darting dust around them that had probably survived since the lift was first brought online. Shudders intensified, becoming fitful, and the rocking threw them against the walls. There was nothing else to do but join Temujin on the dirt-spattered floor and listen to her mournful sobs. Lights flickered, bringing Markriss back to the recollection of standing at the end of his mother’s garden, watching the train take Excellence recipients into the Ark, the repetitive gleam of windows bathing his upturned face. That clatter of relentless wheels, squealing metal. Hot iron burning his nostrils, matching the liquid that filled his mouth years later, inside the crazed, shaking lift. Ninka’s wild, ecstatic laughter thrown heavenwards, a grin stretching his own cheeks until the area beneath his eyes hurt like toothache. It was difficult to know what Markriss cried for—Vyasa, Temujin, his brother or himself, his lost past or the present he’d fought so hard to win—as they plunged deeper into the flesh of Dinium than many Inner City residents ever travelled, into the very bowels of the Ark.

  The floor pushed resistance. Markriss wished he’d held someone; nausea rushed, threatening. He retched. When he looked at Chile, her rounded cheeks were tear-soaked, arms wrapped around Temujin’s neck, the Celt doing likewise, both squeezing their eyes shut tight as if every waking experience was pain.

  And then it was over. The lift silent a moment, before the doors split apart so easily, an invitation. A heady smell of brine rode the darkness beyond. Paul fussed with a metal plate beneath the array of buttons and controls that opened on a hinge. He buried his head into the hole, emerging with a number of torches, which he passed to the Outsiders one after another. Each was long, silver, marked with age. When Markriss flicked his on and off it worked, the emerging beam a solid object in its own right. Paul shut the panel, kneeling before Temujin. He placed a hand on her wrist. His voice calm and gentle, he looked into her eyes and spoke for long minutes.