A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  A scratch of movement, fallen earth.

  Harman Wallace beside him.

  The old man peered, frowning, curiosity etched into every wrinkle. Perhaps Markriss reminded him of a long-ago experiment he’d once made. They said nothing for a time.

  Why did you take me there?

  The professor considered. Looked towards water and probed the rocky earth with his stick.

  I think you’ll find you took yourself.

  Anger lit his fifth major chakra. He was aware of his aura, flushed with emotion.

  What’s that supposed to mean? I didn’t ask for any of it! I was a murderer. I lost my wife! I loved them all. We were killed!

  And yet here you are.

  Open-palmed, the stick held nimbly in his right thumb. Markriss was caught by the fact that the professor’s hands had no crease lines. No prints or wrinkles. They were perfectly smooth.

  His throat chakra wheeled faster, he could feel it. He looked into the dark hood.

  You know how it feels to die?! Have bullets take chunks out of your skin, to see someone you love get shot to death? Have you seen anything like that before?

  The hood motionless, the face still within it.

  Death of the earthly body is inevitable. You know that. But the awareness something greater exists should cause you to embrace that truth, not fear it. That your wife exists on other planes is all you need to know.

  He accepted the tension of clenched fists, opening his hands.

  What about Ureaus? I never saw it.

  If you needed the weapon, it would have been there.

  And Ayizan? You know he was my friend, right? I’ve known him all my life. On my parallel he’s like the Rogue you describe; on that one he was entirely different. Why was I meant to kill him? He was a good man.

  Was he?

  Markriss paused on the verge of speaking.

  OK. I see what’s going on.

  Do you?

  This is a test. You’re testing me.

  Harman pushed a small rock with his stick, shrugging.

  I haven’t the power, Markriss. I’m nothing more than a guide. My instructions are to show you the Way. I make suggestions only. Any experience that follows is entirely yours.

  Head low, Markriss contemplated trickling water metres beyond his feet. Dappled life adrift on soft currents. The chuckle of liquid traversing rock.

  I loved her with everything I had.

  Pressure. A hand on his. Harman was close again, staring into his eyes. Light blue, glistening. Mirror reflective. The lack of feeling was disconcerting, he was so alone.

  Does that change how you feel? Now? About Keshni?

  Everything, he said, eyes filling.

  Harman bowed his head. Thought for many seconds, stick tapping, toeing rocks.

  There are other places where your spirits converge. Where you could find her again, and the others you knew. The river has many. Please don’t expect me to guarantee the outcomes, or that your life with Keshni as you wished for originally doesn’t reoccur. That’s impossible.

  Yes. I hear you.

  I should have told you in the beginning.

  Markriss heaved a sigh.

  It’s not like I have a choice.

  Harman considered him further. Absence of light made it difficult to see if he was pleased, or otherwise.

  Come. The place isn’t far.

  They ascended, travelling at once without thought. Onyx earth ran beneath them, glittering starlight. The river widened, contracted into almost nothing, grew again until the banks of either side were wide apart, and the waters thrashed and churned. He wanted to ask the professor what place in the timeline it was, only the elder’s ka was far ahead, and try as he might there were no means to catch him. As much as Markriss learned, Wallace remained the elder. He was zamani of the Swahili tradition, an ancestral spirit of infinite past, a spiritual being who knew and could do so much more than he. It was a useful reminder, and yet despite his acceptance of humility he was also filled with an ease that came from repetition, the calm of the man he had been on his former physical plane. Teacher. Swollen with knowledge. His better self, perhaps. Wracked with pain, complicated though fulfilled by life and the people he had known. Immersed in the pleasure that came from multiple connections, a strengthened web of being.

  Where the land became bulky with rock formations, and the river was a slim creek, a pebbled bed visible beneath water, they slowed, came to a stop. Wallace lowered onto the bank. Markriss hovered above the water.

  Good. Well done, Markriss. You’ve learned a lot.

  I’m not sure how, I just know.

  You have grown. It’s beautiful to see.

  I feel it. I have you to thank.

  Mauve water burst with ethereal life. Illuminated against the darkness around them. Inviting, so different from the first time.

  You have no mission, no Ureaus. In truth, the Rogue left the parallel you’d been sent to not long after you arrived. It vacated the body of your friend to rejoin the astral. When it makes itself known, I’ll find you. Or you can return by stream. They exist on every parallel, you’ll see them.

  Cold lapped the soles of his feet. His aura vibrated black velvet, denoting the entrance of a portal, eyes closed. He was ready. He allowed himself to fall.

  You won’t remember! Wallace shouted, barely heard over rising bubbles that frothed and burst at his chest. Only when we next meet!

  I understand, Markriss said, river water covering everything.

  He sank into the welcome twilight beneath him.

  Part Three

  Awakening and Liberation (Ānava Samāveśa)

  ‘The creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed.’

  — Romans 8:19

  21 November 2019

  1

  Vibrations sang through his body, immersive pressure travelling a charged and stimulated atmosphere, vitalising numerous layers of flesh, sending infinitesimal tremors through veins, tendons, arteries, the beating pulse of organs. He sighed, rich energy washing through him, a rippling wave that saturated his epithelium, every hair rising to attention, the subtle atoms formerly at rest above his mortal body awakened, chakras spinning, primed to make a superfluity of connections. In the moment, Markriss saw a geometric shape formed in darkness, like something primordial. Needle-thin beams of fluorescent green spun from the depths, tumbling straight lines that arrived from every direction, top, bottom, left, right, as if by attraction, joining to become a three-dimensional pyramid, skeletal and diaphanous, rotating slow in its completed form.

  He wondered at what he was seeing, half aware. Vibrations rushed through him with greater volume and then he heard it properly, a steady rotation bringing circular motion to every part of his body, mostly his vision, and he spiralled into himself, a sensation he’d never experienced before. The pyramid remained steady, spinning on its base with slightly more force, something like dust emerging from the angles between those straight lines, smears of green like chem-trails, slight, apparent. More smears appeared from other corners, beginning to spiral into a gentle vortex that resembled the movements he imagined his body had made. And it was the strangest sensation. Him swirling, the pyramid swirling, trailing clouds at each corner, all swirling. Emotion flooded him, peace and warmth. Like he was alive to the temperature of blood coursing through him, feeling the rush of its travel and every one of its 37.5 degrees. He heard himself laugh, loud and uproarious, and somehow that brought him back, so when he opened his eyes he lay on the bed, blinking.

  The last fading note lingered, though Keshni had long stopped moving the striker. Bitter smoke hung from the bunched white sage she’d insisted on lighting until the leaves puffed, smoked, and then were waved around every room of the flat, high, low, everywhere, before their session began. She was perched on a small cushion at the foot of the yoga mat she’d laid for him, copper hair tied back, half smiling, leaning forwards, eyes clinical and small. Her light green dre
ss fell around her, sheer and translucent. In her left arm she cradled the bell, hugging it against her lower stomach, while her right held the striker poised, as though she might continue to play.

  Their flat was snug, cluttered. A small living-room section where he lay, a dining room area with a square of table, and an open-plan kitchenette in a corner. Away from those cramped spaces, twinned bedrooms he’d never seen, a bathroom. One bedroom served as their study. Markriss knew because he’d been told.

  ‘OK?’

  He licked his lips, nodded, struggling to sit up. His mouth was very dry.

  ‘Don’t get up too quickly, take your time. You’re gonna need a moment. Would you like water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Waiting for her to pass the cup, smiling as he took it. He gulped the contents down until it was empty. Placed it on the floor.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re very welcome.’ Keshni beamed, watching close. ‘How d’you feel?’

  ‘Odd. Like I had a massive nap. How long was I out?’

  She shrugged. ‘Twenty minutes or so. Not long. I wasn’t keeping track.’

  ‘Oh man. Feels like days.’

  ‘You snored a bit. And you were giggling,’ she said, laughing herself, fingers covering her lips. It was cute and made him smile.

  ‘That’s a powerful instrument. You wouldn’t think so to look at it.’ He rolled his neck, swinging his feet until they rested on chilled wooden floor, rubbed his eyes. His socks were blue, dotted with the heads of little Dalmatians. He hadn’t noticed when he’d pulled them on and left the flat. He’d been late.

  ‘Yeah, it’s pretty capable. They used to say they’re from Tibet, then when I got into playing more I found there’s no record of them in Tibetan musical history. I mean they sing, and use clanging in healing practices, not bells.’

  ‘Bells?’

  ‘I mean bowls. These things. Bells are what they actually call them, bowls are what they’re known as. Or gongs, or sometimes cups. They’re Chinese. Date back to the Shang Dynasty, sixteenth century BC, I read.’

  ‘Oh,’ Markriss said. He was hungry, wondering what to eat. Chinese would be nice.

  ‘So what did you see?’

  ‘Nothing much really. Just darkness. It felt nice though,’ he said quickly, as her shoulders slumped. ‘I might have seen a pyramid. It was tough to make out.’

  ‘That would have been cool. You respond so easily, I think it can really help with what you’re going through. Get your energies up, realign your chakras. You might even want to try reiki. I love it actually. See how you feel in a few days.’

  ‘Sure.’ He got up, pushing his feet into twinned Chuck Taylors. ‘You know how I am about this stuff.’

  ‘I know, I know, you said. Wanna hold it?’

  He didn’t, though worried about causing offence. Opening his hands, he waited for Keshni to place the bell between them.

  It was heavier than he’d expected, a weight that belied its size. Warmed by Keshni’s lap, it was the colour of bronze and a darker tone reminiscent of mahogany, with a continuous run of patterns or writing around the outer belly that brought to mind runes. Inside the bell, three layers of circular illustrations were carved. What looked like leaves in the uppermost section nearest the rim, a series of overlaid petals in the centre, and at the very bottom, an unfurled lotus flower. Raising the bowl to the light, each design gave the illusion of moving in clockwise and anti-clockwise directions, like the spiralling motion he’d experienced when Keshni made it sing.

  ‘That’s pretty trippy.’

  He gave it back.

  ‘Yeah, I wouldn’t take acid and play these things. You might not ever come down.’

  They laughed as though they’d signed a mutual contract promising hilarity, awkward once finished. She was looking at him in that peculiar way she had, head inclined, without guile or restraint. It was one of the things he liked most about her, her openness, a mature innocence he’d never encountered in anyone he’d met. She took his hands with both of hers, held them. Markriss felt a little embarrassed, didn’t let go.

  ‘I’m glad you gave it a try.’

  ‘So am I. And I liked it, definitely. I’m just not sure it—’

  ‘Wait.’ She smiled wider, chuckling. ‘Let it settle. See how you feel.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, and they laughed more. He couldn’t help smiling. It pushed at his cheeks, made them ache. ‘What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘Dinner, maybe a film. I’m dying to see the new Charlie’s Angels. Depends if we catch a screening.’

  ‘You should do. It’s early,’ he said, letting his fingers slide from hers. He searched for his puffer jacket, avoiding the eyes of photos arranged in various places around the flat, found it laid across the sofa, slipped it on. Zipped up. Familiar snugness enclosed him.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Ah, not sure. I might link up with a friend if he’s free. He’s probably not.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  There wasn’t much left to say beyond that, evidenced by the fact she wasn’t really listening. He wandered to the flat door, Keshni following. Markriss reached for the latch, looking back.

  ‘Thanks again, Kesh. I really appreciate you taking time for me, especially after all the fuss I caused.’

  ‘No problem at all! Let me know if you fancy another session.’ He opened the front door, stepping outside, struck by cold, damp air. Shivered. Keshni touched his shoulder. ‘Oh, by the way, don’t tell those lot at work about this, yeah? I try to keep this and that separate, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. They leant forwards for the obligatory kiss on both cheeks, ‘European style’ as Nesta called it. ‘See you.’

  ‘Bye, Riss,’ she said, closing the door.

  He waited in the basement a few moments, hands deep in pockets, thinking about what they had done. The reverberations of the bowl echoed in his head. His fingertips buzzed stimulation. The pulse at his throat was steady, obvious. He had felt something, he could admit, though it was strange to. Like some hippy cultist. It was as though his mind had been invaded. He needed to go somewhere and live the experience by himself, let his feet wander wherever they wanted to take him, be alone. He climbed the steps, emerging onto the street, where night enveloped him, all the noise and odour of burning petrol from a nearby exhaust, the orange lights, the light blue of approaching dusk.

  The idea of finding his own space in the busy city excited him. His own bubble. He’d filed copy that afternoon, and so he was free for the evening. Head tucked into his chest against the chill, Markriss walked back towards the station, skirting parents clutching buggies, colourfully dressed tourists wandering, stopping, looking around and down at maps, a gaggle of bodies moving as one unit, coming to halt at the indecision of their leader. The slim man with the tiny dog, the legs of the animal close to the ground for some reason reminding Markriss of a millipede. Though it was cold enough to see his own breath, still damp from an earlier downpour, he was invigorated by the early evening air. Perhaps it was the glaring contrast between the noisy streets and Keshni’s calm home. Notwithstanding all of his trepidations, his fears for the future and the weight of shared pasts, he loved the city maddeningly, an inexplicable joy that climbed from the mist of blurred green traffic lights, the roar of vehicles as he turned onto the main road, the amber glow of pubs and shops, and the sweet rose of a passing vape.

  Then came the first, most important question. Bus or tube? Or maybe he should walk? The river was only a few hundred yards from where he stood, after all. How long would he take to get by any route? It was only then that he was aware he’d chosen his destination subconsciously, almost from the moment he’d stepped into the cold. The southern bank of the river, certainly. Where else for isolated contemplation? What better place? He prised his phone from a pocket, typing into Google Maps: 41 minutes to walk the river, 22 by C10 or 507, and 13 by the Victoria Line, with a change at Gr
een Park for the Jubilee, where there was a reduced service. The tube had it. He put away his phone.

  Still, there was the nearby allure of Tate Britain. He carried a membership card in his Oyster wallet, although there were the tourists and enthusiasts, most of all the art. He needed a blank canvas, not the ideas of others. He needed space, the continual run of his own thoughts. Markriss walked down the inclined slope and into the light of the thrumming station, pleased with what he’d decided. There was the river, perhaps bottled beer, maybe even ramen; not Chinese at all, close enough.

  He descended into the lower reaches of the city. Once there, he ran for the train, making it just before doors rumbled to a close, feeling vaguely embarrassed by attempts to ignore the spectacle he’d made. Searching for the nearest available seat, middle carriage left, one with space beside it, thank God, surprising given the time of day. He sat hunched into the feathered expanse of his jacket before he realised he was growing warm. Straightened his spine, unzipped his puffer, tried to relax.

  No one looked at anyone, as was the etiquette, so he focused on the blank reflection of the window, the tunnel and coloured cables racing beyond. Metal wheels screamed conflict against the tracks, and he heard again the chime of the bell, or bowl, whatever she called it, an everlasting note he only discovered when he was underground, away from the light and noise and surplus stimulation. He marvelled at how it had stayed with him, grew louder in volume; lights flickered above him, and the shriek of train wheels became a screeching demon, Markriss entranced by the reflection of half-formed images in the window.

  Without notice, the dark background of the tunnel became rust-brown, everyone around him disappearing, and he was truly alone. The rattle of the train became stronger, painful to the ears, sounding as though it had shaken itself from the tracks—only when Markriss blinked, he was the only passenger in a huge empty goods lift instead of a train. He felt himself plunge, nothing to stop or catch him. A clogging physical presence of loss balled in his chest like the immovable product of a cold. He hacked and coughed, alive to pain. Mouth crying silence. Hands crushing armrests.