A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  ‘I will tender my resignation forthwith. In my stead,’ the CEO shouted over the noise, ‘I will be replaced by my daughter, Isla E’lul, whom many of you already know. Isla is strong, resilient, fully capable of heading the company. She’s of diligent mind, and one of the smartest people I know. She’ll make a worthy leader, of that I’m sure. Thank you everybody for your time and for allowing me to be of service to you. It’s been my greatest privilege. Now, I’ll take questions.’

  Markriss got to his feet. The forest of arms around him, desperate for attention, almost knocked him over until he righted himself, lifting the slide high above his head. He couldn’t hear anyone, and so he stared at the man on stage grasping the lectern with the clasp of a person who feared they may be lost if they were not anchored. Pale eyes, the colour of a sky Markriss knew only from childhood stories, darting to one place then another, finally resting on him.

  Hanaigh raised his hand to point at Markriss.

  ‘Mark, go ahead,’ he mumbled low, rumbling speakers.

  Markriss lowered his slide to hip level, gasps and complaints firing overhead, Keshni’s tut of annoyance gunshot loud.

  ‘Thank you, Governor. What I’d like to know is how you justify keeping so many people in so many zones across Inner City, and even under our feet, in conditions that are barely humane, only to act with surprise when they refuse to live that way. Seventy people were killed in the L1 Poor Quarter raid you ordered after the first explosion. Only a handful of those were involved in the original attack. That just doesn’t make sense. It’s not justice, it’s execution without due process, or trial. It’s murder. How dare you step down, full of condemnation for the terrorists and not a word for the suffering your company has caused the destitute and menial, bringing everyday terror to their lives, never mind the people below ground who never see light? How can you leave that all behind, knowing it exists because of decisions you’ve made, and just blank it from your mind, move on? How can you live here, far from everything you’ve done, and not feel complete and utter shame?’

  He sat. The following roar washed over him like an elemental force, Markriss jostled even harder than before. People screaming close in his face, spitting, out of focus, necks stretched in anger, pointing, bony fingers stabbing flesh. Work colleagues. Security guards eyeballing hate yards away, faces red and swollen. Even Keshni, glasses snatched from her head, glass-bottle eyes bulging fury, the arm of her shades jerking at him. Markriss couldn’t hear the words.

  He had not planned to speak and could not say why he did after so many years of saying nothing at all. He considered the ease he suddenly experienced in his chest and throat. The notion of an object dislodged, seemingly from nowhere. Despite the elements from outside his body, outside his control, inside was a silence that felt new. He rested, listening. Head bowed, examining its quality.

  He stayed that way for a time and then, satisfied, he raised his head, a touch of a smile pressing at his lips. Hanaigh E’lul blinked in his direction. Nothing to say, or so it seemed. Just looking. He may have smiled with him, though if he did it was inconsequential and Markriss couldn’t tell.

  Standing, loose rucksack clasped between his fingers, body held side-ways, Markriss edged along the row. At its far end, free of stiffened bodies and chairs loosened by over-excitable press members, he noted Chileshe. She stood with a crew of rival photographers left of the stage, camera lens pointing down at the grass, posture equally limp. She brought her hands together, softly enough for him to question the reality of what he’d seen. Head tipped in acknowledgement, he turned away.

  Markriss walked towards the D-tram stop, and never looked back.

  An empty bench, protruding beyond a playground gate. He sat, turned away from climbing frames and children. There was the inevitable rain of pinging messages he chose to ignore; having no answers himself, it followed that he had none for anyone else. All he knew was lightness, the removal of a weight he hadn’t understood he carried. He heard trickling water somewhere in his deepest imagination, pleased for no reason. He allowed himself to watch the press conference run its relatively stable course at the centre of the square, small and distant, amplified words echoing, as Simi’s metallic voice intoned a predictable list of contact names and organisations he’d worked with since his time in the Ark. He flinched a little when people walked by. Wondering if any were disgruntled L4 residents who’d watched him on their slides, or in offices, who might have already seen what he had to say and harboured a grudge. Soon, he became distracted by Simi’s irregular litany, a dubious poetry.

  One softly voiced name caught his attention: Willis Bracken, editor, Ark News.

  Markriss blinked his right eye.

  ‘You’re fired.’

  He waited for more.

  ‘Message end.’

  Head back, chin raised towards lights, Markriss took short breaths, expanding his lungs until panic receded. The steady thud of a pitzball beneath the yells and laughter over his shoulder calmed him. Immersed in the freedom of unknown children, a lack of misbegotten cares. He would stay with the playground at his back, absorbing their energy, and when he felt good enough to leave for home, he’d return and meditate on what he should do. Had done.

  He lowered his head between knees, the moment in the square forgotten, as another scene from his memory played in his mind’s eye. The chill breeze of the park. Emotionless orb of the moon. Lifting from his physical self without warning, looking down on Raymeda, sleeping below. The quick snap of a moment like a balloon burst into formless shreds, to see Misty and Nesta, flailing at each other. His friend’s eyes blood-red, moving backwards as Misty advanced, until Markriss fell.

  He trembled, a cold embrace of shame tightening. Hands flat on knees, deep breathing. Blinked his right eye.

  Simi, message Misty Amen.

  Messaging . . .

  ‘Have you seen the news? VT me.’

  He glanced around. Nothing. No one close enough for him to care. Another normal day in Tibisiri Square, where the midday Lites were soothing, the warmth a balm, the calm reassuring. Markriss bathed. A home he’d never believed he deserved, unable to admit he’d felt that way before now.

  A ping, a name breathed by Simi: ‘Hanaigh E’lul, E-Lul Corp’.

  Markriss jumped, staring at his slide.

  ‘Mark? I’m not sure you’ll even answer, but I had to try. I’m entirely intrigued by your questions today. I think we need to talk. Come and see me in my building tonight, say 6? All this kerfuffle will have gone. Just intro yourself at reception, they’ll do the rest. Hope you can make it.’

  2

  He had no one to talk with, least of all friends who would give sound advice. Everyone he knew, apart from Misty, he knew through work. It was true there was the chance he was being summoned to be spirited away, out of the Ark or into the dusty netherlands outside their walls, the Blin. Markriss reasoned that if that were the case, there were far easier ways of manoeuvring him out of Inner City. He struggled to convince himself that any plan to kill or expel him would necessitate a personal voice text from Hanaigh E’lul. Though they’d spoken in the past, it was largely at press conferences, fundraisers and charity events, never any personal capacity. He didn’t even know how the former CEO had obtained his slide details, although he was forced to admit, like the ability to have him killed or expelled, that was a relatively easy affair for a man of Hanaigh’s power and means.

  He waited for Misty to message or ring, half hoping she wouldn’t. They’d only talked once in the last few weeks, a bland conversation of networking and pondering which dignitary was going to be at that week-end’s event. Contact between them was irregular and brief.

  Children and parents left the playground confines, replaced by others headed in the opposite direction through iron gates, filled with joy or trepidation depending on size or age. He kept his head down, not wanting to be accosted or embarrassed by angry parents. Misty didn’t call.

  He decided to leave the square
before the press conference ended, needing to find a place where he wouldn’t be recognised. He had no intention of going home, only to leave a few hours later, and if he stayed around Tibisiri he would have to be careful: L4 patriotism was a serious affliction for most residents. There were no poor zones on the upper level. Here, everyone lived well. While utopian in theory, it meant that support for menials, all of whom were elevated in and out of the level via gateways, was mostly relegated to the levels below.

  Some might agree with his views; Chile’s quiet affirmation gave him hope in that quarter, and yet even his closest friends would probably distance themselves from him in public, especially after the cluster of attacks. The very real chances were that he was alone now, possibly homeless, even more likely a potential target for fanatical residents. Markriss walked the street unsure where he might go, grateful for the moving walls of tram cars, keeping his head bowed, a scarf he’d found at the bottom of his rucksack covering his lower face, feeling exposed as a bug on a clean kitchen floor.

  Half a block from the square, avoiding people stepping around him as he paused, shoulders hunched against mutters of annoyance, Markriss looked into red light. A number of scarlet fluorescent bars formed letters, the letters creating words: TEMPLE OF SEBEK THE MEASURER. Twin symbols—three circles placed inside each other housing a small triangle—bookended the name. He did not remember seeing a temple like this, more like a storefront, as a child. Too long had passed, he’d made too much effort not to be reminded. Blind to prior experience, he crossed the road.

  Inside was cool, darkened by red lights from alcoves built at two-metre intervals from the temple doors to the altar, situated at the far end of the store. Rows of wooden benches were placed a few metres from where Markriss stood. At the altar, beyond the candle arrangements, lotus and papyrus flowers and lectern, towering over all, was the spot-lit statue of Sebek, a green-faced crocodile’s head on a human body. The god was depicted wearing a collar of gold and a cross at the centre of its chest. A traditional blue wig of human hair and date-palm fibre was placed on its head. The arms were crossed, and it surveyed the temple with the knowing wisdom of ancients. In red-lit alcoves, carved wooden depictions of greater and lesser deities: Ausar and Auset, Heru, Seker, Tehuti, Maat. The temple was hushed, empty, incense fogging the air.

  He bowed his head, whispering ‘To be at peace’, his eyes closed, then took a seat on the last bench, nearest the door. He dug inside his rucksack, finding the snacks, an apple. Quietly, searching dark corners for anyone who might spy him, he opened the packet of snacks and ate slowly, trying not to crunch too loudly. He was hungry, unsure what the protocols were for eating in temple. Although Markriss had attended regular services since he was a boy and into manhood, he’d never eaten during worship.

  The atmosphere was calming, despite the probing eyes of various gods. He imagined the statues were able to read his soul. It was the right place to be, to sit and think about how he’d got there. Those he had left behind. He’d imagined at the time they would be forgotten and he would never think of them again, not that he would see their faces on blunt screens after their westing, nothing of joy and vitality in their eyes. Maybe that was his karma. Shame claimed him again, stomach queasy, fists clenched tight. Incense smoke almost made him cough. A terrible thing to have done, he could admit, all these years later. He owed them the simple ability to face it, think about it, now all was said and done, and their lives had ended so terribly. It seemed a trivial act at the time, yet the smallest things often had the largest repercussions. What he’d seen from the trees: Misty punching and kicking at Nesta, lashing out like whirlwind, his arms raised to shield his face, the awful sounds of squealing pain, scared him like nothing he’d ever known. And after, when they walked the pathway home and they all saw the rising bruises on his face—Raymeda horrified, shrinking from her cousin, Nesta tearful, hardly able to speak—Markriss had been sure he’d said something. Reached out a hand, made eye contact. Given comfort. Now, looking back, it was clear he had not. Ray and Nesta walked to Misty’s car alone, Misty looking over at Markriss, and he’d been fully aware of what she was communicating. He would listen. Never voice what he had seen.

  Her actions were common at the school he attended. Those with wealth and status had the power to exact punishments for little or nothing, usually the latter. Poorer children were bullied and slapped, tripped up and chastised, had food and tuck-shop money taken from them, and if they ever complained, the children of wealthier families would complain in turn to their parents, who informed the school, and measures were taken. Poor children had been suspended, expelled, sent to secure units based on lies spread and paid for by the rich. Their parents, often employed by the parents of richer classmates, were beaten, harassed, rumoured to be killed. Raymeda, not at all wealthy though still under her cousin’s protection, was long aware of this fact, and decided that Burbank Park was the last time her silence could be bought. While she became closer to Nesta, Markriss distanced himself from both. His mother wasn’t pleased, although she knew full well what he was doing, and why. If he wanted that opportunity of a better Inner City life, not just on the lower levels like every other Excellence Award grantee, he would do well to have the protection Raymeda had scorned.

  In his final years of compulsory schooling, Willow remarried an ex-banker, Charles Bandyo, a man twenty years older than herself and relatively kind to mother and child, although he was strict. Markriss didn’t like Bandyo, or the ideals he thought important. Although he’d spent time in the military, his mother’s new husband was overweight, consistently smelt of body odour, and expected him to study every waking second. Willow seemed to love him anyway, and Markriss had worried for years about her growing old alone, especially after he was destined to go inside. They moved into Bandyo’s six-podroom North Marvey house the day after a small temple marriage attended by Markriss, a scattering of Bandyo’s work colleagues, and the Ahmets, Misty and family. She’d grown up two blocks from his new stepfather’s home, had known him all her life. Senef, the Ahmets’ butler and part-time driver, kept himself in a back corner of the temple like an automaton offline.

  Whenever Markriss looked at him, it was difficult to tell how the menial felt about what he saw.

  He hadn’t spoken to or seen Nesta and Raymeda since he left school for college, over twenty years previously.

  Elbows on knees, Markriss exhaled, bathed in red fluorescents. How they had got from there to here, all of them, was astounding. He checked his slide, knowing that Simi would have pinged if Misty had made contact, aware of the reality. She would not. Markriss was relieved. He explored that emotion. What could she be feeling? Grief, or guilt, or something else? Perhaps she was in another temple, or at home in front of a shrine? Could she be attempting to make contact with their spiritual selves in order to make amends? Or was she cold enough to pretend they’d never existed, and she never played a part in their lives?

  ‘To be at peace.’

  Markriss lifted his head. An impossibly tall man in the traditional clothing of a temple priest, the wrap-around skirt and tunic of linen, frowning slightly at him. He was wigless, his real hair grown in locks that brushed the stone floor, a small orb of black ink to mark his third eye. Beneath one arm he carried a small book of leather. Markriss peered at the embossed gold title: The Book of the Ark.

  He clutched at the food on his lap in a vain attempt to conceal it.

  ‘To be at peace, brother. I hope you don’t mind me taking my dinner here.’

  ‘Not at all. Consider this your space. Do as you must.’

  ‘Thank you, my brother.’ He popped a bean snack into his mouth, lifted the pack, offering. The priest shook his head with thanks. He dropped his arm. ‘You have a beautiful temple.’

  ‘Thank you. We tend it with all our hearts, in hope that others may love it as we do. Have you come to pray, meditate, or find peace?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m still working that out.’

  ‘Whe
n did you last meditate?’

  ‘This morning. Actually, maybe you could help with something. I’d set my pod to a guided sim—’

  The priest wrinkled his nose. ‘That is not true meditation.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Pods control the astral body. They dictate who you encounter and where you may travel. Therefore, your consciousness is not expanded. You remain trapped on the lower planes. Lost.’

  Markriss sat up. ‘Ah, it’s funny you say that; see, the thing is, that’s what I was trying tell you. Last night I programmed my sleeper for a Chichen Itza pitz-game, then I found myself at Burbank Park. There was a stream of silver light bursting from the ground, and my little brother was there. He wested as a child.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thanks, it was ages ago. Anyway, my brother was there even though I’d never been to Burbank with him before, and there was this odd black dog, even though I’ve never owned a—’

  Markriss stared at the statue of Sebek, then at the priest. The old man was smiling.

  ‘The dog was Apnu?’

  ‘I believe it was.’

  ‘How could I not know?’

  ‘Sleepers divert you from your path. You have been trained not to see. Someone is showing you the way. Accept.’

  Markriss thought about that. Sat forwards.

  ‘And a week or two ago, it happened too. I was taken to this press conference by an old man with a walking stick. I’d never met him before. He wore a hood so I couldn’t see his face, and he walked like it was painful for him. But he was taking me to this place—I never found out where it was—anyway, when I got there, there was an audience and I got up and made a speech. Everyone loved what I said. Then when I finished there was something in my throat, like mucus or fluff, and I could feel it but I couldn’t get it out. I was trying to cough it up like a hairball, but nothing came. I fell over. People were laughing at me. I couldn’t speak.’