A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  Temujin wiped her face, inclining her head to show she understood.

  ‘He says we’ve come lower than we originally planned, but it’s our only chance of getting away. It’s a long walk and will probably take the night. Capra’s waiting a little further on. He’ll have supplies and he knows the way. It’s dangerous, Paul says. That’s mostly good, cos they won’t believe we’d come this far down, but . . .’ She huffed, gave up, rose. ‘Ready?’

  Quiet. Ayizan crossed the lift, kneeling to embrace her. Her body shook and kept trembling. For a time it seemed she couldn’t find a way to stop it, as all four came to her, arms clasped around the next shoulder, sharing life and energy until it subsided. They wept together, in near silence.

  Paul’s weighty hand appeared on Markriss’s shoulder.

  ‘We know, we know. Thank you.’

  They let go, stepping into the cold expanse beyond the lift door, switching torches on, beams roaming in every direction. To their left, a small orange flag attached to a metal pole. Markriss placed a hand on the smooth plastic material, stroking for luck. It was difficult to tell exactly what kind of place they had come to. Above, concrete pillars and girders of steel formed a complex latticework that reminded Markriss of an Outer City motorway flyover, if it wasn’t for the pipes and cables and computer networks that covered every centimetre. Beneath their feet, sodden mud and water covered their shoes, making it tough to take the smallest step. He lifted his foot; mud sucked, grasping hold, his shoe browned to the curved smile at his ankle. Markriss looked up. Doubt transformed Ayizan’s face. The boyish charm had gone. Markriss had never seen him look so lost, so uncertain. Xander too had the scared eyes of a boy told to go to his room without the lights on. He bit his lip and the torch beam shook.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘There’s nothing to think,’ Ayizan snapped, jaw clenched, further thought bitten back.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Chile said, moving off arm in arm with Temujin. She reached her free hand towards Markriss, fingers wriggling. Refusing to look back.

  He tried to walk faster so they might make good time, though it soon became apparent that was the quick way to end up sprawled in mud. Paul touched his elbow, held up a finger. Wait. This, he told Temujin, was the foundation. He spoke of the dangers that came from mud-dampened clothes stuck to skin, lowering body temperature, causing a sickness of the lungs known as the Lower chills, and of toxins in soil, deadly if licked or swallowed.

  Paul took his time, picking the best spots to place his feet, which was difficult without being able to properly see where those spots were. They frequently lifted their torches into the distance to see what they were walking into, the view ahead always the same: an ocean of mud in static low-tide waves, torch beams disappearing into a star-lit galaxy of dust motes, the grey canvas of concrete about their heads, glittering and plain. As above, everywhere. Minerals danced and shone in every direction. Mud sucked feet, legs faltered, they stumbled. Every three hundred yards, the robotic spasms of their lights caught more small orange flags on metal poles, tilted by sunken ground, emerging from mud like emaciated, dwarfed trees. A means of guiding their way, Markriss assumed. Paul said there weren’t too many placed, as more likely than not there was some advantage to people being lost.

  Markriss didn’t answer. He held Chile’s fingers. They stroked each other’s knuckles with thumbs, kept silent. No one spoke except for Paul. Sometimes he’d stop to tell them about the surrounding area, where they were in relation to L1, or would pause a short moment, passing his torch beam over mud and concrete until he spotted a marker, obvious or not, continued. His serious, unworried air remained, steadying their nerves.

  A short time into their journey, Markriss smelt fire. Thin smoke in the distance, barely visible against the blackened atmosphere. As they went on it grew thicker, developing into smog. Paul instructed them to wrap their clothing over mouths and noses, to join hands in a chain. He would take the lead. They made confident progress that way, deeper into clouds of ash, eyes stinging, closed for most of the way, almost falling. And then slowly, like waking from a dream, the cloud thinned, became nothing, and they emerged into the gloom of steady night and soft earth. No one commented. Paul kept the pace, head straight, beam held beyond their group, moving forwards.

  After an hour of walking, Paul suddenly slowed to a halt and gestured for the others to hang back. He rubbed his chin, pressing the toe of his boot into damp soil. Knelt, pushing his fingers into earth, watching the response. Markriss couldn’t see anything beyond murky water filling holes where Paul’s fingers had been. The Lower shook his head and made a right turn. He muttered something to Temujin, who faced the rest of the group.

  ‘There’s some kind of bog,’ she said in a monotone. ‘Where they couldn’t dam the river, or it leaked around it, and the earth turned into quicksand. Half a mile wide. Shallow Lake, he calls it. If we walk that way it’ll take the lot of us down in under a minute. Lots of bodies, he says. Quite a few kids. He’ll take us around.’

  Markriss didn’t ask more.

  As they walked, noises—amplified by wide expanse—squelched and clattered around them. Once or twice the nerve-endings of Markriss’s cold feet awakened to the sensation of tingling toes and ankles, at times his calves. First he believed it nothing more than blood returning to flesh; later, he began to recognise the probing contact of small animals—rodents, most likely—sniffing at them, skirting the group, hoping for sustenance. Dropped food, or bodies. Promising either way for starving creatures. When he tried to catch sight of them with his torch, they were too quick.

  He was hungry, chilled. There was little feeling in his fingers, despite the warmth of Chile’s. Air hurt his chest, his lungs beginning to rattle. He wasn’t certain if that was due to smoke inhalation, or the polluted atmosphere of the underground level itself. A pain in his side had given birth to throbbing below his ribs. He tried to push it from his mind, to keep moving forwards. The further they went, the worse it ached. He had to push himself or cease functioning at all, worrying that it might mean he could collapse at any point, and the same was undoubtedly true for the others. Temujin looked hollowed by creeping grief, the flesh of her cheeks tightened around the contours of her face. Ayizan gasped, wincing, with every step, one arm around Xander, who was attempting to hold him up, only the strain was too much. Markriss saw glassy-eyed fear reflected each time he craned his neck to check on them. He dropped back, ducking beneath Ayizan’s free arm. His friend was a dead weight. When he asked what the problem was, Ayizan shook his head, lips pressed together, concentrating on each limping step.

  Paul grunted, gesturing with a hand. Forwards, forwards. The details of his meaning lost due to their reluctance to press for information—Forwards how long? They trusted him, walked. Saved the effort of asking for the energy it took to go onwards.

  After another hour of walking, they saw an electric-blue e-lamp ahead. Torch beams struck the concrete structure arching overhead, falling to run into black distance on either side. A hulked form leant in the shadows by a door covered in faded graffiti.

  Capra.

  He brought them each to his huge chest, held them. Temujin longest, the Lower stroking her hair in an absent manner, eyes red sunset, unfocused. When he released her, Temujin’s back had straightened. She looked more like the warrior spirit of her Celtic lineage, her normal, tense expression returned. Capra bent over a small crate, unlocked the lid, then paused, hands on each side, quick breath hitching in his throat. Markriss realised he was sobbing. Capra contained himself, reached inside, and passed around a bundle of three-quarter length jackets, padded with hoods. A selection of heavy boots followed. Jeans and thick jumpers, T-shirts.

  ‘My wife guessed your sizes, so if they don’t fit blame her.’

  Though he tried for his usual good cheer, something in Capra’s voice was lost. They strained lips upwards in attempts at smiles, all failures. Markriss removed what he wore, slipping with grateful acceptance i
nto fresh clothing made of dry hemp. A sweet odour of washing powder made him wish for his allocation, the habitual entrapment of clean podsheets. The boots were heavy though didn’t fit badly, a bit more room at the heel than his flat shoes perhaps, and plenty of protection from dank soil.

  Around him, the others brightened a little in their dry, borrowed clothes. Markriss placed a testing hand on his side. Pain flared. He winced, allowing another look to make sure his friends were preoccupied. Stood taller.

  Chile’s arms wound about his waist and she kissed his check. He moved slightly so she didn’t press his wound, guiding her hands to a safer place. They rested their heads against each other, looking into the other’s eyes, holding arms by the elbows.

  All dressed, the crate filled with their unwanted clothes, Capra placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

  ‘Put everything in the furnace. The whole lot.’

  Paul took the crate by its extended handle, bowing to the Outsiders.

  ‘We thank you. And we’ll never forget. Go well,’ Ayizan said.

  The lean man held a flattened palm over his heart. He pushed a code into the door-reader and entered the building, leaving them on the mud, the door closing behind him with a click.

  ‘We should leave, in case he’s caught,’ Capra muttered, sending a shiver coursing through Markriss despite the comfort of his new jacket. He ducked his head in agreement. They regrouped and set out again.

  Capra had a rucksack that he swung open as they moved, more sure-footed in the boots worn by Lowers of all levels. Inside, he’d packed paper-wrapped sandwiches, pasties, baked sweets. Only a single water bottle to share, though Capra said it didn’t matter, because if they walked strong enough, they’d reach the eastern city before Day-Lite. They ate as they walked, swapping sandwich fillings they didn’t like.

  Although they hadn’t long begun, Ayizan was already metres behind, clutching his right thigh, a dark spot on his jeans clear and visible. He swayed when Xander left him to approach Markriss and the others, looking as if he might not stay upright without support.

  ‘Look, he’s been hit,’ Xander whispered. ‘I’m not sure how badly but it’s his thigh. He doesn’t want to slow us down.’

  Capra swore through gritted teeth, hands on hips, spitting at his feet.

  ‘Always say!’ he shouted to the air. ‘Don’t put your westing on our conscience!’ Another, heavier spit. ‘Come on, then! Who else?’ Markriss sighed, raised a hand. Ignoring Chile’s slap to his forearm, glaring at him.

  ‘Flip me,’ Capra hissed at mud. ‘Come here, you fools, let Uncle Capra take care of it.’

  That raised a grim chuckle. They gathered around him in a circle, pushing soil with their steel-toed feet, straining ears to listen for movement. The pressure of silence was like the full weight of Inner City on their heads. Markriss felt as though his ears might pop. Chile continued to glare; her expression said there would be problems when they were alone. From the rucksack, Capra produced a roll of brown surgical tape, a small medicine bottle, scissors and a carton filled with plaster roll.

  ‘Good thing I listen to the wife, eh? Kriss first, lift up.’

  He bent closer to Markriss, who’d already given Xander his jacket, raising the borrowed jumper just below his chest. Capra dabbed the bullet wound with neem antiseptic, making him wince and swear, then plugged the bleed with a strip of plaster cut from his roll, wrapping it tight around Markriss’s torso with the tape. After taking a look at Ayizan’s thigh, he repeated the treatment, one leg extracted from the Outsider’s jeans, held aloft by Xander and Markriss. The neem made him growl aloud, mouth wide open. After Ayizan had been bandaged, everything was put back into the rucksack, the zip wrenched closed. Capra stepped back, rubbing his temple.

  ‘You’ve bullets in you, silly bastards. Know what that means, right?’

  ‘We have to move faster.’ Chile’s eyes swam behind her glasses.

  ‘We do. Markriss, yours is pretty deep, and the bullet sliced the skin.

  As long as you treat it and keep it away from the mud you’ll be all right. But mister over here, I’ll have to carry the rest of the way. Any objections?’

  A round of shaken heads.

  ‘Who told me to send the crate on wheels back with Paul?’ Capra groaned, crouching as the men lifted Ayizan onto his back. ‘Shit. Thought you lot were into fasting, you heavy sod!’

  They laughed, this time moving into darkness.

  As the Lower hoped, the group walked with greater purpose after their enforced break. The pace was more consistent and, according to Capra’s watch, they journeyed well. Yet it was a struggle for him. Xander and Markriss offered help, only he wouldn’t allow it. He removed his thick jacket, which Temujin carried over her arm, and his chest and neck became bathed with sweat, not solely due to the Outsider’s weight, but also the slippery mud under foot. Sometimes he would sigh, put Ayizan down for a few minutes, and the Outsider would stand heavily on one foot, guilt in his eyes. Though for the last hour, Capra refused to stop. ‘We’ve lost ’em,’ he said. ‘But I don’t take no chances.’ Apart from this, the group kept silent for the journey, Capra grunting with every awkward step, each of them panting hard, mud sucking and popping at their feet like living organisms.

  Just when it seemed to Markriss his body might give in, another arching wall appeared, more circular blue light. This time the figure beneath it was slim, their patchwork overcoat casting a dim reflection of collected torch beams.

  Capra whistled a two-tone greeting, trying not to stumble. Aife returned the same, kicking from the wall to face them with outstretched arms, a rectangular cloth bag hung from one shoulder.

  ‘Failt,’ she said, eyes on empty space behind them. The smooth leather of her jacket was a strange contrast to the scratch of wool that was her jumper, rough against Markriss’s cheek as she hugged him and each Outsider in her distant, noncommittal way. They stood, chests heaving.

  ‘She says welcome,’ Temujin breathed.

  ‘A real pleasure to hear you keep your father’s Manx as well as English, even though you muck about with this lot.’ Capra smiled, kissing his daughter’s cheek. ‘You’d all better leave. It’s dark up there, but won’t be for long. Aife will take you to your level, give you the help we promised, and then you’ll part ways. You know where to go from there, right?’

  ‘We do.’ Ayizan clapped Capra’s hand and shook, then threw himself at the Lower, hands clasped around his body, head pressed close.

  ‘Come on, come on, enough emotional stuff. I know you Outsiders, you’re not turning me into butter!’

  Capra looked behind their captain, swiping his eyes. They gave thanks, one after another. Markriss shook his large hand with both of his, staring Capra in the eye; no words could express what he had done for them.

  Aife was already at the door, keying in code. They followed her, entering a confined white passage, chalk-dust walls, a faint oil smell. The closed outer doors of a lift shaft, black windows. Aife pressed the call button, smiling, a little awkward without her father. After an uncomfortably long wait, thunder grew above them until the outer windows brightened and the lift doors crept open.

  The rattle of mechanics seemed to ebb then grow louder in concert with Markriss’s heart, the pulse at the back of his neck and centre of his forehead, his breath. They found separate places to sit cross-legged on the dimpled floor in varied states of meditation, eyes closed, centring. Markriss decelerated everything within him, his brethren doing the same, reaching out to see their bodies glint purple and yellow against the dark of his eyelids.

  Better. He was better.

  The lift finally ceased shuddering. He opened his eyes to Aife sitting as they were, legs crossed, hands on knees. Skin flushed, she blinked as though she’d returned to her body, as they had. They exchanged glances, rising as the door opened on another concrete shaft.

  Manoeuvring with more urgency, treading light on their feet, Aife took them along more nondescript white corridors,
until Markriss had no idea which direction they might be going. Ayizan limped between Markriss and Xander best as he could. Aife didn’t say much until they reached another ladder, hung flat against a wall. She muttered in Manx, one hand on metal.

  ‘This’ll take us onto the street, she says,’ Temujin translated. ‘A small alleyway, I think that’s the word she used. But it’s outside, between two buildings. She’ll go first to make sure no one’s there. After that, we’re on our own.’

  Aife looked into their eyes, waiting for Temujin to finish. Then the Lower genuflected, sighing, and lifted herself onto the ladder, climbing a few steps before she looked down.

  ‘Come.’

  They each in turn grabbed the cold bars of the ladder, following Aife. It was difficult for Ayizan. Going up was tougher than walking and his wound began to bleed again. He grunted, teeth bared, Xander holding his hips with both hands, pushing him up. Progress was noisier than it should have been, filled with pained shouts and yelled curses, Markriss fearful of what they might have summoned when they reached the shaft entrance. One Corps was all it took. One security guard, one conscientious member of the public. He imagined the cold, empty wasteland of the Blin, wind lapping his face and ears, tried to forget the image. They would not end that way. He squeezed his eyes tight, attempting to block Ayizan’s cries of agony, Temujin stopping above him; he almost bumped the wedged heels of her muddy boots with his forehead. He couldn’t see more than the ants’ trail of stitching on leather, hearing buttons depressed, clanking. They held onto the rugs, mouths open, still, every waiting moment a searing ache. Light fell across his face. Familiar scent, fresh air. They rose, the last push, Ayizan screaming behind closed lips, sweat pouring from his head, glossing his skin.