A River Called Time

by Courttia Newland

  The priest, head occasionally moving, was silent.

  ‘What do you think that means?’

  ‘I believe you know what it means.’

  Markriss chuckled at his shoes. ‘Yes. Yes, OK.’

  The priest laid a large hand on his shoulder. His middle fingers wore gold rings set with emerald and quartz. ‘I believe you have made an organic connection with a manifestation of Ausares. The reason for this is yours to learn. Stay as long as you like. Take the time you need. We have rooms to the back if you’d like a transmutation. If you’d rather share your thoughts, I’m here to listen. Or you may pray. Whatever you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s kind. Oh, I’m Mark.’ Offering his hand, which the priest ignored. Markriss squinted upwards.

  ‘Sares,’ the priest said. ‘To be at peace.’

  He snapped a white wand at the floor with his free hand, producing a thin crack as the wand extended into a metre-long stick. Prepared, the priest walked slowly in the direction of the altar, tapping stone until he reached the back room, where he disappeared into shadow. Markriss watched, sighing.

  He bowed his head in prayer.

  Crossing the square, Markriss’s pace matched the elderly men of his dreams and reality. The hooded one and the priest, opposites yet similar. Deliberate, steady, focused on the opposite side. The Lites, set for winter months, allowed early night, stillness falling across the perfectly manufactured grass, the low playground gates closed and climbing equipment dormant, free of laughter, running footsteps. The stage where the press conference had taken place had been stripped of bunting and black cotton sheets, only the wooden framework remaining, the speakers, slidescreen and lectern all gone, as were the chairs. Mysterious white crosses, placeholders for menials to set seating or other accessories, lay forgotten in low grass. Markriss stepped over the markers, or kicked them aside with a foot as he walked towards the sallow interior lights of the E-Lul building.

  He was nervous, intrigued. Hanaigh’s message contained no malice, although some said that was the former CEO’s finest quality: the ability to convey reason while committing unreasonable acts. Markriss wasn’t sure how he felt about the man. He’d never been an outright detractor, that was true. He had also never been one to champion his cause. Mostly, he’d kept his silence, forced his head down, done the job. Perhaps he was the worst of the lot, Markriss thought, as he climbed steps, pushed swing doors open. A fiddler watching the fire, the man who crossed the road when a fallen traveller called for aid.

  The lobby dazzled him, reminding Markriss of a five-star reception, wide and airy, security watching him approach, high ceilings and elaborate quartz-crystal lamps overhead. Dominant yellow, the colour of pyramid stones. Brickwork, lamps, even staff tunics. He laid his hands on the cool glass of a lengthy countertop, smiling at the well-ordered receptionist with bobbed hair, not a strand errant. Even when she returned his smile, the woman looked as unreal as a mannequin. Her name badge said ‘Japa Solanki’.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Denny. Here to see Mr E’lul?’

  He tried to mask his momentary unbalance. Nonetheless, Markriss stuttered at the thought that she knew him. ‘Evening. Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘If you’d like to head that way, our security staff will guide you.’

  She stretched her left arm towards a bank of three lifts, a collective of dour-faced and wide-shouldered men wearing E-Lul tunics. He nodded.

  ‘Thanks, Japa. Have a lovely evening.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr Denny. You too.’

  The soles of his shoes hardly made a sound on the flooring, hewn from solid limestone. The first security guard, a giant with shaven head and full beard dyed orange, moved towards him, sullen and indifferent.

  ‘Step this way, sir.’

  Guided to the central lift, open doors exposing gold interior and mirrors, Markriss tried to spy the guard’s name badge without being caught. A sideways glimpse: ‘Peter Demming’. He stepped inside, and the guard joined him, rocking the enclosed space like a raft. His nerves were dancing in spite of his attempts at nonchalance. Treat it like a breaker, he told himself, until he remembered there was no paper for him to break news to. His smile faded, nerves grew.

  Peter worked at something Markriss couldn’t see, his wide frame blocking his actions. The beep of electronics, a closing panel, the guard stepping aside.

  ‘You’ll be riding alone,’ he said to the sheer mirror behind Markriss. ‘Exit when the doors open. Good night, sir.’

  ‘Good night,’ Markriss said, and the guard was back in the lobby, the doors whispering shut, and the lift climbed, steady and slow as his walk across the deserted square.

  A gold bench with tan cushions at his rear. He sat, hands on knees, awkward. Markriss avoided his reflection in the mirrors. What was he doing here? He was mad, surely.

  Gears and pulleys rumbled. He closed his eyes, avoiding shreds of memory of his vision in the tram, the falling lift. His knee bounced before he stopped it, gripping it with his hand. Markriss bit the inside of his lip, finding rough flesh on his inner cheek. He probed it with his tongue, wondering how long it would take to heal. Both sides of his mouth were much the same. He’d bitten into them without knowledge.

  The noise over his head quietened as the lift ground to a halt. A puff of exhalation, doors opened. He saw polished onyx floor tiles in front of him, another golden bench and a pair of waiting shoes. Shifting as the body stood, Markriss rising with them. He stepped from the lift, into the room.

  Hanaigh E’lul, almost smiling, arms raised in greeting—that low-trimmed, familiar beard, casual Eurasian shirt and trousers. He grabbed Markriss by the upper arms, squeezing.

  ‘You made it. Thank you.’

  Markriss looked towards the gleaming floor. Black with strands of white smoke trailing from one tile to another. Disappearing.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  He had difficulty finding his voice, now he’d arrived. Like a dream he remembered the smoke-filled temple, the vision of his clogged throat. Falling.

  ‘Come this way, please.’

  He followed, away from the lift shaft protruding into the centre of that space, an open-plan penthouse the size of several pitzball fields, expansive square metres by the thousands. Broad, tall windows on all sides. Even from where he walked, Markriss saw the distant scattered lights of Tibisiri Square, and beyond, far below, probably a greater part of L4, the zones laid out in all directions like a satellite map. Inside the penthouse, sections of the wide space were walled off, providing the illusion of different rooms. None of the partitions reached ceiling height, and were perfunctory divisions at best.

  Hanaigh led him to a kitchen area not far from the lift, undivided from the main space. In front of the array of units, convection hobs and the numerous closed maws of ovens, a long black stone table and chairs set for twelve diners or more. Plates and bowls of food were spread from one end to the other.

  ‘I take it you don’t celebrate Christmas?’

  He lifted his shoulders, facial muscles tightened in confusion.

  ‘No matter, I didn’t think so. My bloodline’s originally Celt and my grandmother was Christian, so some family traditions stayed with us. I’m early, but I’m a bit partial to the food she cooked and I had some made. Roasted meats and potatoes, roast veg, you know. Stuffing, gravy, sprouts. I’ve got the things you’re used to as well, whatever you prefer. If you’re hungry, please, eat.’

  Markriss sat on cold stone, tentative as a trapped bird. His stomach growled, hard enough to bend him. He hadn’t even had breakfast. His eyes blurred from spices and steam.

  ‘This place you have is huge.’

  ‘Isn’t it just? We’ve actually managed to keep the length of the building to ourselves. We’ve got study rooms, playrooms, exercise rooms, games rooms, meditation and massage chambers, a temple, the lot. It’s a family space really, although I tend to spend a lot of time here working. I’m very used to it.’

  Hanaigh ste
pped forwards, opening and closing container lids.

  ‘Please, help yourself. That’s rice, that’s curried chicken, that’s a dry pork dish from Siam I love, there’s Swahili fish, Gujarati flatbreads and bhajis. You’ve got roasted carrots, parsnips baked in chilli and cinnamon, bacon-wrapped cocktail sausages . . . My chefs are all flown in so it’s authentic – they’re the best.’

  Warm plate in a palm, Markriss prised lids from containers, spooning choice dishes in turn. He wished he had the strength to refuse, to stick by the principles he’d kept on the square, surrounded by peers, cameras and the prickle of Day-Lites. Even as he thought of it, his outrage and the heft of their collected anger, his head swam, and he knew he wouldn’t last the evening. So he ate, and it was all he could do not to close his eyes with pleasure. Hanaigh was certainly right about his cooks. If he were to west after this last dinner, it would be the ascension of kings.

  ‘Good, right?’ Hanaigh said, Markriss reluctant to admit that when he saw the former CEO take his own plate, lift his own container lids, ladle his own food and sit at the stone table, head bowed in quiet prayer, he was relieved. No chance of being poisoned by way of food, at least. The older man ate fast, in silence, ignoring Markriss.

  The opulence of their environment was highly distasteful considering the simple beginnings Markriss came from, how the Inner City poor below lived. And it was true, this man he ate with and his family before him had the blood of thousands, if not more, on their hands. Yet still, if Markriss applied the honesty he wished from Hanaigh E’lul to himself, he could admit that he had known those simple truths for years, inside and out of the Ark, and never once cared enough for a single incident, either reported or lived, to raise his pulse rate, let alone cause him to speak out. Perhaps, possibly, coming to terms with the past and his role in the lives of childhood friends made him feel and speak as he never had. Perhaps this was the Way opened by the seemingly random nature of recent visions. If he were entirely truthful, the thoughts he had, expressed or otherwise, didn’t strike him as attitudes he’d ever claim as his own. Every one of them operated far outside his emotional and analytic range. As much as they fired his synapses, saturated every nerve-ending and were transferred into a physical response like speaking Poor Quarter truths to Hanaigh’s power, nothing of what he felt actually belonged to him.

  And yet. And yet.

  Meal finished, Markriss laid his cutlery on his plate, pushing it to one side. He was sleepy, determined not to let it show.

  Hanaigh’s chin raised.

  ‘Dessert?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Expression stern, patience thinned.

  ‘So, you’ve had enough of my attempts at hospitality. Or maybe that’s harsh. Let’s say that curiosity has overtaken your hunger. Yes?’

  ‘I’m impressed by the wealth you and your family have collected, that’s true,’ Markriss heard himself say. ‘I am starting to wonder why I’m here, if it’s not to be buried in the Blin this evening.’

  Hanaigh blinked puzzlement. His eyes registered hurt.

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Of course I believe that. Are you trying to say it’s never happened?’

  ‘You weren’t even searched before you entered the building. For all I know, you could want to kill me.’

  ‘With an apple, banana or water bottle? Please, take your pick. Anyway, we both know I’d be dead long before I even got close to killing you.’

  ‘But how? No one’s here,’ Hanaigh said, and then he began to smile. ‘OK. I see we’ve started on the wrong foot, which is something I’d hoped we’d avoid. That’s entirely my fault. Let me start by telling you this. You’re right. To be afraid for your life, of my motives for having you here. I agree with everything you say, and I understand your anger. So much of what I’ve done up until now is patently wrong.’

  Markriss sat back, heart thudding. Furious, surprised.

  ‘So why the deflection?’

  A casual shrug. ‘Habit, I suppose. A life spent in denial is not easily corrected. I know our soldiers kill, because I give the orders. If not in direct, day-to-day cases, then in the first instance. It’s me who allowed Chintana Wells to act with impunity when policing the Poor Zones. I know that, and I’ve lied about it for so long, particularly to your people, the journalists and media, I’ve forgotten how to be truthful at all.’

  Lights from the window caught Markriss’s eye. Much as he didn’t trust Hanaigh and his proximity to him, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of the distant city. His original people, not the ones he worked amongst, no matter how he saw it. The ones he loved and loathed. Their lives caught up in non-existent dreams of betterment.

  ‘You have your own temple. Your priests, probably brought in from Kemet, like your chefs. I don’t want to hear your confessions, they’re as useless as your resignation. All they do is allow you to continue like your family have for hundreds of years. The legacy of your family name is oppression, death and murder for personal gain.’

  Hanaigh stared. Smile gone. Shrunken.

  ‘Is this how they feel on the lower levels? About me?’

  ‘I haven’t been on the Lowers since I got here. I’m just as much a hypocrite as you, I’m afraid.’

  He laughed at himself, them both. Hanaigh was hardly listening.

  ‘How about Outer City? You grew up in Watkiss and Regent’s, yes?’

  ‘Partly. I moved to Marvey when I was sixteen.’

  ‘I see. I’m an Elegban man, born and bred. Eastender. Ironic on all counts.’

  Markriss stared back, strangely unfeeling. He felt lost, untethered.

  ‘To the truth. The truth,’ Hanaigh said, and reached behind his back, twisting downwards to the tile floor.

  ‘This is it,’ a voice said inside Markriss, tiny and resigned. A gun, or knife. Which would it be? When Hanaigh came up again, he almost flinched.

  Instead of a weapon, the older man held a book.

  ‘You’ve seen this before? Must have.’

  He handed the weighted, leather-covered volume to Markriss. Gold-embossed title. No author’s name. The Book of the Ark. He turned it over in his hands, straining to think where he’d seen that title. Handwritten in black ink, on a small writing desk. Passed to him by Nesta, a man with an enigmatic alias for a new persona, beneath dim allocation lights. Laughed about with work colleagues on a high building roof. He shook his head as if his ears were waterlogged.

  No. It was the priest. Sares had carried it beneath his arm, only hours ago.

  That was the last time he’d seen it, Markriss was sure.

  ‘I know it, but I’ve not read much. Just skimmed through.’

  Hanaigh’s brow furrowed. ‘Really? Not even when you first came inside? I thought it was a menial-class staple—’

  ‘Not all the poor came as menial-class workers,’ he said, anger flaring. ‘I never did a menial day since I arrived. We’re not some homogenous group.’

  Hanaigh watched. Eyes the static colour of volcanic lakes.

  ‘That’s so interesting. Because I’ve been doing extensive research on this book to find its origins. It’s quite a cultural artefact, you know. Many believe it stems from the beginnings of the Ark, circa 1910 onwards, but I’ve always thought that impossible. I mean, how would they know so much, to articulate the experience? It would take generations just to acclimatise to the inside. And then I pursued the idea of its being written during the first generation, sometime during my grandfather’s tenure, between 1920 and 1960. As much as I wanted that to be true, the author knew too much of the modern Ark for that to be the case. And so I settled on it having been written sometime during my father’s leadership. Dathi E’lul was the Ark CEO and governor from 1960 to 2000, after which I took over as the youngest CEO in Ark history. I’m immensely proud of that.’

  Exasperated, Markriss leant over the table.

  ‘Look, this is fascinating, but—’

  ‘Your father came inside during the winter of 1996, d
id he not?’

  Unblinking, taking measure of each other.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he did.’

  ‘The first reported mention of this book by another Ark resident was a Lower worker, James Michael. In April 1996, he wrote about The Book of the Ark in his journal, stating: “My close friend and now family member Vendriss Denny has shown me the book he has. He says it will help us to weather the days. From what he’s telling, the Ark is a collection of thoughts and teachings based on the elders’ spirit practices. He allows me to read twice daily, and it brings me peace.”’

  Markriss’s fingers brushed soft leather. It was warm, as if alive.

  ‘What is this? What are you telling me?’

  ‘Your father wrote The Book of the Ark, Markriss. Not in ancient times, before you or I existed. But in our lifetimes. When you were a child, and I was becoming a man.’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s ridiculous. The journal doesn’t say that.’

  ‘It’s not ridiculous at all. Numerous accounts claim the same, they tell of your father taking the book around the allocations, preaching, giving classes—’

  ‘He can’t have done. He wasn’t ever religious, as far as I remember, and from what my mother said . . .’

  ‘Maybe he changed. That’s always possible. When people are isolated in here, they often take on different identities . . .’

  Markriss slammed his open hands against the table. The sound echoed throughout the wide-open space of the room. Hanaigh looked on with mild surprise.

  ‘He couldn’t read or write. Why else do you think he was a Lower? My father worked hard and never saw Day-Lite so me and family might have something better than him to live for, because there was nothing else for him to do. If he could write, never mind read, he probably wouldn’t have been here.’

  ‘Like you?’ Hanaigh said, and Markriss had nothing to offer in return. His head fell. He was struck by a wave of grief so immediate it was all he could do not to let go of every emotion he had accumulated for so long. Perhaps scream aloud. Perhaps. When he realised what he was doing, he saw that he had grasped the black book in his fingers tight enough for the cover edge to imprint a thick line on his thumb.