The Singer - Hunter Elizabeth - Страница 3

“I need to find a place with caves,” Malachi said, standing abruptly, suddenly confident in his destination. He heard the farmer’s wife gasp and her eyes widened as she glanced down. Malachi realized the sheet he’d tucked around his waist had fallen off. Clearing his throat, he reached down and wrapped it around himself again.

The farmer only looked amused. “With caves? A place with caves? There are caves all over Turkey.”

Malachi’s heart sank. “I remember being in a cave. I have this memory of my…” What was the human word? “Wife. My wife and I. There was a house in the caves.”

The old woman cocked her head. “You were living in a cave with your wife?”

“I think so. Or… we were staying there. There was a bed and… a desk. A washroom, even. I… I don’t know more than that.”

They exchanged a look, and the old woman shrugged. “Cappadocia, maybe?”

“One of the cave hotels?” the farmer asked. “Perhaps they took a holiday.”

“I can’t think of any other place. Who lives in the caves these days?”

“Cappadocia?” Malachi said, searching his mind. There was a faint memory… Yes. His father had gone to Cappadocia to study when he was a boy. There were scribes there—

Scribes.

He took a quick breath as another bubble of memory rose. He was a scribe. That was why the letters spoke to him. He was a scribe and others of his kind were in Cappadocia.

“Yes,” he said in a more confident voice. “In Goreme. I have people there. People who will pay you if you bring me back. I need… I need to find her. I think she is there.”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? I still think it might be a good idea for you to visit a hospital. You can always call them—”

“No.” Malachi realized the farmer was talking about using the telephone. “I… don’t remember any telephone numbers.” The more he searched his mind, the more he remembered. Odd things. He had crystal-clear pictures of his childhood, but couldn’t remember his mother’s name. He knew he wasn’t human, but also knew he couldn’t tell the humans what he was. He could picture faces, but not in context. He’d traveled the world—he knew that—but he wasn’t sure if he could drive a car. It was as if he’d been put back together from pieces, but too many of them were missing to create a clear picture.

And he couldn’t remember her name. He desperately wanted to remember her name. Remember more about her. But other than a few brief memories, his mind was silent.

“I have a friend who could take you,” the farmer said. “He has a truck going to Kayseri tomorrow. I can ask if you can go along.”

“I don’t have any money to pay…”

The farmer shook his head. “I can sense you are an honest man. I know these things. You will pay him when you get there. Or send money back.”

The wife’s raised eyebrow told Malachi she was more skeptical, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “I will get you some blankets. You’re welcome to sleep on the cot over there.” She pointed at the corner where a small pallet lay. “Are you hungry?”

He nodded. His stomach had been aching since he woke. “I don’t remember the last time I ate.”

“I’ll get you a plate then. Osman will bring it out after he’s called Ibrahim.”

“Thank you.” Malachi sat again. “I cannot thank you enough. I promise I will repay your kindness somehow.”

The woman’s voice softened. “I hope you find your wife. Sleep well. I’ll send extra blankets. The nights are getting cold.”

He slept deeply that night. Malachi dreamed he was running in a dark forest. He knew he was searching for her, but no matter which way he turned, the paths all led to dead ends. He could hear her crying somewhere. The sound almost brought him to his knees. She needed him. She was as lost as he was, but so far away.

Come back to me.

He heard her whisper it again. His soul raged in pain and anger, and Malachi knew he would hear her his whole life. She would call and he would answer. He belonged to her as surely as she belonged to him.

When he woke, the sky was still black, but he was more determined than ever.

The truck came at dawn, the honk of the horn answered by the old farmer’s friendly yell and the smell of breakfast wafting from the house. Malachi dressed in the too-small clothes the farmer named Osman had given him, apparently left from a cousin who’d lived there briefly. The pants were too short and a little baggy, but the T-shirt fit him well enough. He kept looking down at his arms, sensing something was wrong… but they were fine. The skin was smooth and unmarred by injuries or scars. He shook his head and went out to meet the driver.

Osman’s friend, Ibrahim, was a delivery driver for a shipping company out of Ankara. He was taking a load of wool to Kayseri and bringing back finished textiles. As he was an old friend of Osman’s, he was more than happy to do the favor, though he couldn’t promise how fast Malachi would be delivered. They took off as the sun was rising, Malachi shaking Osman’s hand briefly, conscious of his growing strength, careful not to hold the farmer’s hand too long.

Malachi could sense some energy growing. It made him edgy. Uncomfortable.

Luckily, Ibrahim didn’t ask many questions; he mostly wanted an audience. Ibrahim liked to talk. Malachi sat back, amused by the humorous old man, smiling for the first time as he listened to the raucous jokes and fantastic stories of the truck driver. Two hours later, he drifted into a fitful sleep, only to wake when the truck jerked to a halt.

Ibrahim was smiling. “What was that?”

“What?”

“That language you were speaking! I’ve never heard it before, even in Istanbul.”

What language had it been? Probably the language of his thoughts and dreams. The one he knew the humans weren’t supposed to know about.

Malachi decided to play dumb. “I have no idea.” He smiled. “How could I? I was sleeping.”

Ibrahim laughed. “Fair answer, friend! Well, we’re here.”

Malachi looked around the dusty town, but nothing seemed familiar. “In Cappadocia?”

“Osman said you had people in Goreme. I brought you to Goreme.”

Cars and pedestrians were scattered around a lively intersection, but Malachi could tell it was a very small town. Surely, once he was walking, he’d recognize something.

“Where are the caves?”

Ibrahim laughed again. “It’s Goreme! There are caves everywhere. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to a hospital?”

“No.” Malachi sat up, spying something out of the corner of his eye that looked familiar. It was a restaurant with a balcony. Red umbrellas shaded the tables. There was something about the balcony… “No, I just realized where I am.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, reaching for the door handle, suddenly eager to explore. He halted when Ibrahim’s arm shot out.

“Wait.” The old man reached for his wallet. “I like you. Take a little money, just so I’m not so worried, eh?”

“I don’t—”

“Please, take it.” He held out some notes. “I’ll give you my card. If you want, you’ll pay me back when you find your people. But Allah would not be pleased if I sent you away with nothing. Take enough to be safe for a day or two, okay? And you’ll have my phone number, too.”

Touched by the man’s generosity, Malachi smiled. “You are a good man, Ibrahim. And you tell very good jokes, even though I didn’t understand all of them.”

Ibrahim roared with laughter. “Well, you have brain damage! What can I expect?”

A few minutes later, Malachi waved as Ibrahim drove down the road, then he turned and searched for the restaurant. He walked slowly, hoping that, somehow, things would start to make sense. As he passed the restaurant, he caught the edge of a sign for a rug shop and knew he’d walked by it before.

She swung her arms as she walked, and Malachi let his brush against her. Just the brush of contact. Just so she knew…