by Royce Prouty
At the east end of town, just before crossing the small river, there stood an old wooden church with a tall steeple topped by an Eastern cross. Inside a solemn priest stared through faded windows; he, too, blessed himself.
Once past the church and over the wooden bridge, I found a lone house that stood separated from the others, the only structure east of the water. It seemed an ordinary dwelling, notably more Western in design, all white with a porch and a simple cross on the front door. Its grass was neatly trimmed, and a healthy herb and vegetable garden flourished behind a wooden fence. Walking by, I saw a woman sweeping the porch. She had middle-aged Roma features and dressed in the traditional way of wool aprons, or , over a black skirt and covered with a light wool jacket. I noticed her boots, the medieval opinci, leather laced to the leg around wool felt. Our eyes met, but rather than turning away, she did a double take and pushed her head scarf back behind her ears. I was far enough away that I could not read precisely her features, but she looked to be concentrating on me.
Suddenly uncomfortable, I turned away. As I did so, I heard someone call out, Can you hear me?
Granted, I know I had not slept much the night before, but this spoken message seemed soundless. By that, I mean that it came into my head without entering through my ears. Without question it was a woman’s voice. I stopped and looked around for whoever spoke to me, but no one was within earshot.
Go back where you came from.
I looked back to the village. The street was deserted except for the priest who had come out of his church and stood praying as he looked at me. In my mind, an image flashed of looking back after crossing the Acheron. I wheeled and looked again for the Gypsy woman on the porch of her isolated house, but she had disappeared and her front window was now shuttered.
I had overstepped reality’s boundary. That voice you take for granted in your head is your welcome friend . . . right up until the time it has a companion. I stood waiting for another message, looking for some woman nearby. But finding no one, after a suitable silence, I turned toward the forest. Just two miles from my destination, I told myself, I could not turn back now.
On a two-rut path I walked, the absence of footprints in the mud suggesting this was not the locals’ direction of choice. As best as I could I stayed to the bisecting hump between the ruts. Deeper into the forest, the trees—beech, oak, and sycamores—clasped their tops together to form a canopy and filtered the leaning afternoon sun. Continuing east, I caught glimpses of the ambling river to my right, and took several side trips to the waterway to scout ahead. Across the water the land rose to a series of rocky cliffs obscured by fog.
Can the monastery be on the hill hidden by clouds? I wondered.
My GPS suggested otherwise, and I continued east. An hour passed as the path steepened and the river churned from an elevation change. Finally I reached the end of the two-lane path as it circled back on itself like a cul-de-sac before confronting a rock barrier. Carved into the rock were a dozen steps, flanked with a flimsy wrought iron railing, suggesting civilization ahead. I figured the monastery must be close.
Again I walked to the river’s edge to scout ahead, but only saw dense forest lining the banks and an impassable canyon wall beyond. I looked up at some commotion and saw flocks of birds flying straight east. With the incline came more dense fog, now hiding the treetops. I caught sight of my first pine trees and realized it must be a thousand feet higher than the village. No wonder I was tired, for I had been climbing. The GPS coordinates now told me I had reached my destination.
Just a little more, I thought, then get back before dark. As soon as I stepped foot on the first rock I heard the sound of an animal scurry above. Momentarily I froze and looked around. Though isolated, I did not feel alone.
Continuing up at a mild climb, the path emerged after a hundred yards to an open field. There was just enough light to see a footpath across its mildly undulating terrain that reentered the forest a quarter mile or so across. I picked up my pace across the open field and into the forest. With every turn in the woods the terrain closed in on three sides, until I found myself in the shadows of canyon walls. I looked at my GPS again, touched the backlight button, and realized it had become dark outside. Just a quarter mile more and I vowed to turn around.
From higher ground came a yipping noise: a single dog. Or possibly a wolf.
I was just about to retreat—with intentions of returning at sunup—when a breeze momentarily lifted the fog, revealing another clearing ahead, and within it the outline of a massive structure, a fortress with huge stone walls at least twenty feet high. I stood stunned. It was a side wall so long, I had to twist my neck to see its length. Corner towers stood at both ends of the wall, supported by a flanking tower at the halfway point, connected by an uncovered parapet wall. All seemed dark within the structure.
A howl descended from the fog above. Canine in origin again, but sounding more urgent than before, much closer than the first, and not a yip.
From where I stood, the wall looked to be at least two hundred feet in length. Another breeze lifted the fog long enough to allow me sight of the structure inside the walls: a single tower several stories taller than the wall. I walked toward the corner tower and saw that the wall joined at ninety degrees. Must be a rectangle, I reasoned. Another corner tower stood equidistant at the far end and it occurred to me they looked like giant chessmen, with bishops in the corners, rooks as the flanking towers, and a king in the courtyard. Gray dominated its appearance; dark, lifeless gray. Yet the structure did not fit the description of ruins, which suggest a certain abandoned disrepair. No, this did not feel empty.
As I walked around the front, there were what appeared to be a set of wooden doors, shaped like the pointed-arched equilaterals at Castel Bran. I approached.
A twig snapped behind me and I quickly turned my head toward the forest. Nothing.
Continuing toward the door, I noticed it was set under a Roman arch of stone. There was no writing on the corbels or front door, and if this was a monastery, then why were there no crosses?
Suddenly it fell upon me, some sort of animal. Before my senses perceived it, I was knocked to the ground and on my back with my arms trying to shield my face from blows. My first thought was a grizzly bear. Claws scraped my front, and it bit my arm. Its strength was overwhelming. A horrible growling sound and the smell . . . awful. Another scrape across my front, and suddenly the beast stopped.
I dared open an eye, but only saw a mouth of snapping teeth. It made a most unhappy sound, a growl mixed with a hiss. And as suddenly as it had ambushed me, so it rose to its feet, two feet . . . and disappeared into the fog.
What was that? I thought. Its jaw looked inhuman, but what little glimpse I got of its body did appear human. It was not canine, as the previous sounds suggested. Was it some kind of bear that I had startled? Could my adrenaline have caused my eyes to deceive me?
Terror replaced my curiosity, and I grabbed my backpack from the ground and stood to leave. It was then that pain registered across my arms and torso, and I checked to see if I was intact. That’s when I heard noises coming from all directions. I could not see far in the fog, but I did see red eyes. Several pairs. Nor could I make out their features, but they looked the size of adult men, standing erect, with their hands moving, flexing as if stretching their fingers. Almost imperceptibly they moved in closer.
Instinctively I took the crucifix from around my neck and held it up, turned in a circle, and heard them react as if disgusted. A couple of them spit.
Then, from back in the forest, a voice boomed: “Tu nu aici!” You do not belong here!
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving.”
Quickly I walked the direction I had come, crucifix held high overhead and darting my eyes side to side into the woods. From the cliffs above I heard several canines howling, deliberately betraying my position. Back across the open field, down the st
eps, and onto the two-rut path, my legs kept pumping.
If the men were pursuing me now, I did not hear them, but I did hear the howls in the distance and several phantom noises in the woods. I hit a dense patch of fog and could barely see the path at my feet, bumped into a couple trees, and continued on. I kept stumbling on the uneven ground and prayed I was going the right way. Nothing looked familiar in the dark.
When the last turn of the path revealed the village, I broke into a run, crossed over the bridge, and did not stop until I reached the front of the church. There I fell to my knees on the front step to say a prayer of deliverance.
“Thank you, God, thank you.”
A hand touched my right shoulder.
I swung my arm around in defense and struck a man on his shoulder. When he pulled back I recognized the priest and offered my apology. “-ma, va rog.”
“I speak English,” he said with a heavy Eastern Euro accent. He looked middle-aged Slavic and dressed in the black robes of Orthodoxy, without the round cap. He kept a clean-shaven face. “I am Father Andrew. What happened to you?”
“I was attacked by some . . . animal out there.”
“Let me see.” He shone a lantern over me and moved my chin side to side, inspecting my neck. “Anything broken?”
“I don’t think so.” I opened my jacket and noticed a startling amount of blood across my chest.
“You had protection,” he said.
Only then did it occur to me that whatever attacked me had torn through my clothing and some skin, only to stop when it saw the relic that Arthur had sent me.
To protect.
“Come,” he said, “there is a woman who will help clean your wounds.” Voonz.
As the priest started walking toward the bridge, I halted. He turned to me and said, “It is okay. We go here.” He pointed to the lone house on the other side where the middle-aged Gypsy woman had looked at me earlier. I walked across the bridge and felt a shudder of fear with each creak of the wooden planks, and knew firsthand the fearful looks owned by the superstitious villagers. Yes, I now understood them.
The priest knocked on the door and spoke as the woman emerged. “El s-a muscat un caine.” He’s been bitten by a dog.
I greeted her. “ mâna.”
We went inside where the woman’s tidy house held decorations of traditional Romanian fashion: whitewashed walls with colorful fabrics and an icon corner along the east living room wall. Immediately she retrieved a wool blanket from a closet and laid it on the wooden plank floor, then covered it with a clean sheet. I lay on it while she washed her hands and the priest withdrew.
From a cabinet she removed several items: scissors, cleaning fluid, bandages, and a sewing kit. She snipped through what remained of my bloody shirt and asked, “Cum ?” What is your name?
“ numesc Joseph Barkeley.”
“Bine venit.” Welcome. “Sonia.”
She dressed as the nuns did, in layers of redundant modesty. Her collarbone-length hair was as black as the priest’s shirt, but giving way to random strands of gray. Like most women of these rural parts, she wore no makeup. Her skin suggested somewhere south of the Danube and managed to avoid the common ravages of deep lines, just a couple crow’s-feet. The shape of her dark eyes suggested east, somewhere the Mongols had conquered, and gave the impression she had seen much sadness in her life. Lastly, I noticed her manicured hands and slender fingers, out of place in the land of peasantry.
“I have a million questions,” I said.
Sonia carefully removed the crucifix from my neck, kissed it, and set it aside. She stared at my face while preparing to clean my wounds, and I heard the female voice in my head again.
Do not speak in the company of others.
I looked quizzically at her. Is that you? I thought.
She nodded. Your first question involves your own sanity.
Yes. I yelped when the alcohol-soaked rag introduced itself to my skin. The stinging cure felt worse than the wound.
I know who you are, and these are not dog bites. She turned my chin side to side, also inspecting my neck. Do you know what attacked you?
“No,” I said aloud. I suspected what it might be since it looked like the drawing in Mara’s journal, but one does not utter the word vampire while in the company of strangers in the Transylvanian backcountry.
She pulled back and glared at me for speaking.
Sorry, go ahead.
Sonia continued cleaning and prepared a salve for gauze and bandages. Those who attacked you are evil, an eternal foe of all that is good. She wrapped me with tape. I did not need to see your neck to know that you have been selected.
Selected for what? I asked.
A great mission.
I don’t understand.
You have come home to right a great wrong. She handed me a towel to wrap as a shirt. You will need wisdom. Next she returned the crucifix to my neck and laid her hand on it. And you will need this.
Is it enough protection?
Depends where you are going.
She went to the next room and retrieved an old coat to replace the torn one. Taking a deep breath as if to smell it one last time, she handed it to me with a wave and made a quick sign of blessing.
“,” I said.
The coat smelled old, but not unpleasant. It fit with room for layers and had a tad more sleeve than arm. One might describe it as a barn coat with a button front, the collar and lapel cuts not trending with recent fashion.
“Come,” the priest said. He had returned without my noticing. “You may sleep in the church.”
“My things are at the inn.”
“That door will not be open tonight.”
I had so many questions as I looked at her. How can I thank you?
You must come back.
I wondered if I had heard her right. First she warned me to be gone. Then, after I failed to heed her, she insisted that I return. Her eyes, wiser and older than her face’s appearance, sought my own. Her gaze pleaded wordlessly that I mind her this time.
Come back here? I asked.
You must return to this place. This very ground holds the answers you seek. Go now. Complete your transaction and return to me. Before she closed the door, I heard, Many lives depend on your completing your mission.
The priest walked me to the church and showed me inside. “They will not come in here.”
Many nights can I count sleeping on the hardwood pews of churches, and after my adrenaline and elevated heartbeat subsided I slept as if embalmed. I awoke to the sound of the priest opening the creaking church door.
“It is time for you to go now.” The priest handed me a crust of bread and water and my traveling articles that he must have retrieved from the inn.
I thanked him and asked to pass along my gratitude to the woman who had cared for me. He acknowledged with a nod and gave a blessing as I left: “Return to the ways of Gott.”
I caught an early cart ride back to with the Gypsy. As we departed the village, several locals carried bundles of wood in the direction of the cemetery and piled it up in a clearing. I asked the driver about their activity.
“Un mare incendiu.” Big fire. He waved his hands to indicate a large fire.
“Festival?”
“Festival, da.”
“Când?” When?
“.” Tonight.
As much as I wished to stay for it, I equally wanted to leave. Not the most peaceful of trips jostling a muddy path and crosswinds, every jolt jabbed my wounds in protest of my decision to explore the previous night. My thoughts turned to the cautious words of my brother, and his warnings of what I might see. When I had pressed him years ago for specifics, he looked uncomfortable until finally responding with, “I’ve never told you anything you would not believe. I’m not going to start now.”
He never again spoke of his time in Romania, but perhaps he had seen something that cannot be explained without requiring a sanity check. It is one thing to tickle the tail of the daft dragon, but something completely different to tell someone of it.
Arriving at , I thanked my driver. I hustled to the train station and made for my hometown, Baia Mare, a city about a hundred miles northwest. The locals pronounce it as one word: baya-mah-day. A sizable city of 150,000 built along the River in Romania’s oldest mining area, it was the reason for my detoured plans—a visit to my birthplace and my mother’s grave.
Even as I sought to put all that had happened in Dreptu out of my mind, I experienced eager anticipation of homecoming, as well as anguish over how things should have been.
My eyes turned to the landscape, where stunning green and gold foothills heave to the feet of the snowcapped Carpathians. Baia Mare was built as a fortress city to fend off Turks, and its oldest house, cornerstone 1440, still stands on the east side of the town square. I walked there from the train station and wondered if any of the sights might look familiar. When I walked into the square and saw Stephen’s Tower, a twelve-story Gothic watchtower with a steeple of green patina, the memory of holding my parents’ hands returned. It seemed like someone else’s life, a stranger’s memory. I moved on.
In an open-air market I stopped and purchased two shirts, traditional Romanian cotton, white with embroidered patterns, careful not to select two identical styles, and put one on under my new coat. The image in the mirror suggested the local I might have been become. And in that moment of piteous retrospect, I sank to a place not frequented since the days living in the convent basement. But not for long, because at that moment God favored me with a visit from two homeless street dwellers. I placed alms in their hands and continued on with my brother’s voice in my head and recharged gratitude: Someone’s got it worse.
En route to city hall, I spotted a shop that sold religious artifacts and stopped to look for something to accessorize the shirt I’d picked up for my brother. Soon as I walked into the store, an elderly man behind the counter did a double take as if he recognized me, and quickly shuffled toward me. It was the crucifix he pointed to. “ rog; pot ?” Could I please see that?
