The Singer - Hunter Elizabeth (мир книг .txt) 📗

Everything was confusion.

He finally stood and, ignoring the rocks on the riverbank, made his way downstream. There were always humans if you followed the water. His father had taught him that.

He thought his father had taught him that.

The man walked for what could have been hours. He had no sense of the passing time. There was only night and one foot stepping in front of the other. The sound of water and the occasional low of a cow. Step by step, he made his way toward the lights.

The lights appeared from behind a grove of olive trees. As he approached, he realized it was a home, but not like any other in his hazy memory. A dog began barking at him, so the man hung back near the edge of the trees, not wanting to frighten the humans.

Humans would be afraid of his kind.

There was a slamming door, then a man walked out, calling something in a foreign tongue. He looked like a farmer, his pants were stained with the mud from the fields, and his grey hair was mussed as if he’d worn a cap all day. The farmer’s voice rose as he shushed the dog and looked into the dark orchard.

The man stepped forward, holding up his hands to show he wasn’t dangerous. As the farmer caught sight of him, he stopped. He shouted, gesturing for the stranger to go away, no doubt alarmed by the man’s nakedness.

The farmer couldn’t understand him, and the man knew that was wrong.

Shaking his head, he held out his arms, trying to make the farmer understand he wasn’t a threat. That he needed…

What did he need?

Come back to me.

He needed to get back to the woman.

He didn’t know her name, didn’t know where she was or who she was…

Then he realized he didn’t know who he was, either.

I don’t know who I am.

He felt as if the air had left his lungs. His arms dropped, the farmer’s anger forgotten. The dog’s barks faded into the background as he closed his eyes and tried to control the panic.

I don’t know who I am.

Something in his expression must have given the farmer pause, because he stopped shouting and stepped closer. He said something else the man didn’t understand, but this time it sounded like a question. He ignored the human, clenching his eyes closed, trying to remember. Remember anything. Even his name—

“Malachi,” the woman had sighed.

His name.

Her soft voice had named him Malachi.

If he knew nothing else, he knew his name.

Malachi opened his eyes and took a breath to center himself.

The old farmer stepped through the gate. He’d grabbed a bedsheet from the line in the farmyard and held it out, speaking in a lower voice. Malachi took it, wrapping it around his body and cutting the chill of wind that had begun to bite his bare skin. The farmer motioned him closer, obviously concerned. He waved for Malachi to bend down, so he did. The farmer ran a hand along Malachi’s scalp, turning his head back and forth, muttering under his breath.

Malachi realized he was looking for injuries. Moved by the human’s kindness, he instinctively stepped away from the farmer’s hands.

He wasn’t supposed to touch humans. He did remember that.

The farmer spoke again, motioning Malachi through the gate and pointing at an outbuilding that looked like a metal-clad barn. Then he raised his voice again, shouting at the house until the door slapped open and a female voice yelled back.

There was a confused exchange as the old farmer led Malachi to the barn and flipped a switch on the wall that illuminated the interior with blinding false lights.

No, not false. Malachi knew what they were. They were the electric lights the humans had invented, fed by the manufactured energy they used to power all sorts of things. Lights. Musical players. Machines. Malachi caught sight of the machine at the end of the barn.

A tractor. The name popped into his mind before he had a chance to catch the source. Snatches of knowledge kept bubbling up, unpredictable and elusive. Disconnected from one thing to the next, he realized he knew the name of the tractor and what it did but had no idea what language the man was speaking. And some instinctive part of him knew that he should know. Knew that if he could just find some of the language written…

There.

Malachi blinked, ignoring the old man who ushered him to a chair by the workbench. He didn’t even notice when the farmer walked out; his eyes were glued to the paper on the table. He grabbed it as his heart began to race. Letters and characters always made sense. He sat down in the old chair and traced his hands over each one, learning its shape, letting his mind unlock its secrets.

The curve of an S, like a serpent in the grass, hissing its tongue.

The circled perfection of the O.

The slashing strength of the V.

His mind drank them up like a beast deprived of water. The letters turned into words, the words jumped into sentences. And as the meaning of the letters crept into his mind, Malachi felt a surge of power. The shouts on the other side of the wall began to make sense.

“—could be!”

“…looks hurt, not dangerous.”

“…no head wounds. …if he was attacked? Do you want…?”

Malachi glanced at the front of the paper. Then at the date. He understood the date, even if it didn’t make sense. The year seemed wrong, but then, what did he know? He read the headlines.

Protests Spread to Ankara

Economic Forecasts by the EU Favorable into 2014

Tourism Down in Istanbul for Summer Months

The letters soothed his mind, ordering the chaotic thoughts that tumbled and twisted. More pieces fell into place. He was in Turkey, in Anatolia, where he had been born. But it was hundreds of years later, and he knew his family was no longer here. But others were, and he needed to find them. Others of his race would be able to help him. Perhaps they would know why he couldn’t remember anything. Did he need to go to Istanbul? Part of him latched on to that idea while a darker whisper warned him to avoid that ancient city.

The woman.

Where was the woman? He continued flipping through the newspaper, and every picture jogged different memories. Rush-hour traffic in Ankara. An airplane crash. Charts showing the ebb and flow of commerce. His brain registered it all as he read, but nothing pointed him toward the woman. Nothing jogged the memories he was so desperate to find.

Malachi looked up when the barn door opened. The old farmer and his wife stood side by side, the man concerned, the woman obviously suspicious.

“Thank you,” Malachi said softly, not wanting to frighten them. “I must have been… I’m not sure. I may be in shock. I don’t know how I came to be in your field.”

The old man blinked. “So you are Turkish? We thought you might be a tourist who was robbed. Who are you? What happened?”

“I… I’m not sure, exactly. I know my name is Malachi, but my memory…” He frowned and rubbed a hand through his hair. She’d told him he needed a haircut. He cocked his head at the bubble of memory. “I’m remembering more and more. But nothing makes sense. I was born here, I think.”

“Tell us their name. We will find them for you.”

“No… no, they’re all gone now. I just… I need to find—”

“Who?” The farmer’s wife spoke. “Is there someone we can call for you? Perhaps we can take you to the hospital in Polatl?? Your name is Malachi? What kind of name is that? English? You don’t look English.”

Malachi shook his head. “I don’t need a hospital. I feel fine, just confused.”

The cave. There was a place with many caves. A place he and the woman had been. They’d been safe there. He remembered the feeling of safety. Was the woman still in the caves?

“But if you don’t remember anything, then shouldn’t you see a doctor?” the farmer asked. “That is not normal. You are a young man. Perhaps there is some illness in your mind that—”