The Deep Well

A Story of Love, Loss, and the Mercy of God

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At the confluence of Europe and Asia, down a crooked alley off Kemankeş Street in the old Karaköy district of Istanbul, hung a door no tourist ever noticed. No sign. No flashing lights. Only a green lamp swinging above a slab of oak older than any living man. Behind it, a staircase of slick stone coiled downward, carrying with it the damp, salted breath of the Bosphorus.

Down the worn steps, carved from the ledge more than a millennium ago, the Deep Well endured — unnamed, unwritten, spoken only in the hush between sailors’ songs and smugglers’ lies.

The bar itself was buried in a Byzantine cellar, its limestone walls thick and sweating. Faded mosaics clung to the corners—broken faces of forgotten saints and spiral glyphs predating the alphabet. Soot-darkened arches curved low overhead, bending the room into a slow, heavy hush. The light came from half-melted candles shoved into green glass bottles and a few old oil lamps, their flames wavering against the stone.

The air smelled of old wood, cloves, and smoke—tinged with something older, something metallic, like the blood-memory of battles fought on ancient shores.

The patrons were few, scattered like flotsam. Among them was a woman with hennaed hands, whispering into her phone, a man with a sailor's stoop, cradling a glass of raki like it was an anchor, and two young men arguing in Greek over a chessboard missing a white bishop.

No one looked too closely at anyone else. It was a part of the unspoken pact.

The drinks were whatever Mounir decided you were worth: raki, whiskey, arak, syrah, or sometimes just a chipped clay mug of water drawn from the well in the floor. No menu existed and the food changed nightly. That night it was stewed lamb, falling apart, eggplant roasted over open flame, rice rich with saffron and pistachios, and a soft, warm flatbread.

Mounir moved among them, as he always did — a man shaped by stone and smoke. His skin was worn walnut, his gray hair tied back roughly, his hands strong and sure. Tattoos faded into his skin like old maps, and when he spoke, it was in a voice that sounded like gravel being dragged across a dry riverbed.

At the far end of the bar, under the crumbling arch where the shadows ran deepest, sat a man who didn’t quite belong to this century—or the last one. He wore a loose white tunic, heavy at the sleeves, and over it a crimson silk vest stitched with black and gold thread that caught the candlelight like scattered embers. A thick gold chain circled his neck; several bracelets clinked softly at his wrists when he moved.

His hair, long and dark, hung past his shoulders in slow, careless waves. A beard framed his mouth, trimmed but untamed, and his face—at a glance—seemed no older than thirty-five.

But the eyes.

The eyes told the real story.

Gray as old ash, they held the weariness of a man who had watched a thousand kingdoms rise and rot into dust. A man who had built empires and buried them, and walked away without looking back.

In front of him, Mounir set down a plate of lamb and rice, along with a squat glass of wine—dark as garnet, unlabelled, poured straight from a battered green jug.

The man took it without a word.

He didn’t thank Mounir.

And Mounir didn’t expect him to.

A flash of color stirred at the entrance, catching the low golden light—orange and red silk, embroidered with patient, ancient hands. Golden jewelry winked in the lamplight—a choker, a heavy necklace, earrings like inverted suns. A tumble of black waves fell across the luminous skin of olive shoulders.

Sharp eyes, breaking the unwritten rule, looked at each patron, and settled on him.

He turned to look at her.

Their eyes met.

Mounir stepped from the kitchen with two plates for the chess players, stopping in his tracks as he caught sight of the two gazers, each locked on the other.

He had seen this before.

Not these two, perhaps. But this moment — oh yes.

It was a story older than the stones themselves.

He held her in his gaze as she came to him, his eyes steady.

She blushed—only slightly—but rather than looking away, she met his gaze and held it.

He was certain of two things: first, she knew she had blushed; second, she wanted him to see it.

She flowed into the chair beside him, made easier by his hand sliding it back with a deft, gentle motion.

"May I see your hand?" she asked. "And I'll tell your fortune."

"This should be interesting," he said, placing his large hand, palm-up into her petite fingers.

She cradled his hand in her left palm and traced the lines with crimson-painted fingernails.

She studied his hand for a moment, then looked up into his eyes, finding his serene gaze still resting on her face. Her breathing quickened, despite her best effort to stay calm, and she looked back down at his hand—fleeing the intrusion into her soul.

"Who are you?" she asked. "And why does your lifeline repeat?"

“I am the rarest of men,” he said. “A seventh son of a seventh son. A birth steeped in myth and folklore since time immemorial — whispered in old stories, bound to omens, feared in some places, worshipped in others.”

"That makes you a man of luck," she said. "A man of fortune."

"No," he said. He lifted his glass and took a sip. It was a relief that his eyes had turned to the drink. "It doesn't make me lucky. It makes me immortal. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

She looked up at him, just in time to catch him looking at her again.

“That’s why the lifeline repeats,” he said. “My palm doesn’t have room.”

“What are you?” she asked.

“The question is, what are you?” he replied. “You knew from the moment you first saw me that there was something strange. How did you know?”

“If I told you, it would give away my secret power,” she said.

“It’s only fair, since you know mine.”

“True,” she mused.

Mounir appeared, setting a glass of port before her — the very thing she hadn’t realized she wanted.

She picked it up, sipped, letting the sweetness roll across her tongue.

“I see the moment people die when I first meet them,” she said.

He nodded. “And?”

“I saw no moment of death for you. It was the first time I ever didn’t see one.”

“As I said,” he said, lifting his glass. “I am immortal.”

“How long have you been alive?” she asked.

“Three thousand years,” he said.

“What is your name?”

“Solomon,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Yes,” he said. “That Solomon.”

She blinked at him.

"The son of David?" she asked tentatively.

“The same,” he said. “My father, David, was the seventh son of Jesse."

"I seem to recall that Jesse presented seven son to Samuel, excluding David. There were eight."

He smiled at her. "It's a matter of how you count them. Although Samuel says there were eight, there were only seven. The eighth was a cousin of my father, adopted as a son, as was the custom after his own father’s death. But Jesse had only seven natural sons — which is why the Word names only seven.”

She coughed, turning away from him, placing her face into the corner of her sleeve.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“It’s nothing,” she said. "What about David's sons?"

"David had many sons. The Word only lists about twenty, but I had many more brothers, sisters, and half-siblings. I was the seventh son—the first son of Bathsheba."

"I believe you," she said without a moment's hesitation.

"Then you know why I am here," he said.

"Because I am the rarest of women," she said. "A seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. A life conceived only in fantasy and mythology since time began—said in hushed tones, spoken in oaths, loved by few, feared by most."

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“I am thirty-four,” she said. “I was not meant to live this long. I should have died in my youth.”

“And you are dying still,” he said.

“I am,” she answered. “It’s a wasting disease. Eventually, I will succumb to it, though I live as healthily as I can to hold it off a little longer.”

He raised his glass to her, looking at her expectantly.

She raised her port to his.

They clinked.

“Then I shall take your wasting disease, and finally die. And you shall take my immortality, and finally live.”

She stared at him.

“It is the way God intended," he said. "I have paid my penance in solitude, in sorrow, in unimaginable loss. Every person I have ever known has died, leaving me alone, leaving me behind. All because I turned from God when I began to think near the fortieth year of my reign that I was invincible. He has kept me alive these three millennia to suffer alone."

"When was the last time you loved?"

"Over two centuries," he said. "I cannot do it again."

"You can do it one last time," she said. "I'm asking you to. Let me be the last woman you love."

He looked at her, wonder in his eyes. He drank his wine in silence as she watched him.

He set down his empty glass and turned to her fully.

“That would be—a mercy," he said.

“It’s not mercy,” she said. “It’s love."

"How can that be?" he asked.

"Because," she said, "I saw this moment the very first time I looked in a mirror. I knew our end. I have known you since I was six years old. I have loved you since I was a teen. I have desired you since I was a young woman."

"Truly?" he asked.

"I have been waiting for you," she said. "I will love you. And you will love me."

A tear formed at the edge of one of his eyes.

“Because this is what God intended,” she said.

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Transmigrant is a survival thriller in a speculative fiction setting. You can find the complete novel on Amazon. The audiobook version, narrated by Eric Priessman, is available on Audible.

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