The Singer

“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 Göreme. 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 Göreme. I brought you to Göreme.”

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.