Chapter 3

The dusty white Vespa Dad got drives like it belongs in a retirement community. It sputters gas fumes the entire way into town and never exceeds 30MPH. But this freedom from Dad is pure bliss, even though a knot remains wedged between my shoulder blades like a crooked nail.

Dad gave me a crash course in moped safety and a small fold-out Transylvania map detailing Varig, the Carpathian Mountain range, and a single main highway through the nearby villages. After reviewing it, I understand why Dad calls the map in the cabin hallway a tourist trinket. More like a piece of art. But what was that saying about truth in art?

Hmmm …

Varig is super small with a combination of paved and dirt streets. Old, squarish buildings huddle along the roads, many connected by gabled fences and roofs.

Once I locate the café, I park and head for its front patio, calling Mom on my way up.

“Morgan?” Mom answers, sounding half-awake.

“I forgot it’s like 5 AM there. I’m sorry!”

“No, it’s fine. Good to hear your voice. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just … don’t know if I can do this.”

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”

Although I just woke her, and Mom’s not a morning person, she sounds surprisingly upbeat. Like she’s still on an upward swing. And here I am, bringing her down.

I take a deep breath. Keep it light.

“I’m just being dramatic.” I force a laugh. “I’m good. You sound good, too.”

“Doc upped my dosage, and at first I didn’t know if I liked the idea, but I feel good, kitten. I haven’t called in to work in over a month now. Oh, and who has two thumbs and made a $100 tip last night from an NFL player.”

Sunburst yellows are my favorite shades of all Mom’s many moods. I shouldn’t shatter her bubble of positivity with my predicament. She doesn’t deserve that.

“That’s ‘cause you rock it like a superstar,” I say.

“I miss you,” she replies. “What’s it like there? Like your dad says—something off a postcard?”

I plant myself at a patio table with a faded red umbrella and pull out my tablet. “Super rural. I’m talking Little House on the Prairie here. No Wi-Fi at the cabin, I have to ride up a dirt road to the town café.” I push back a swallow and modify the whine sneaking up in my tone. “But, it’s fine. Dad’s a pain as usual—thinks he’s gonna toughen me up by teaching me how to wrangle wildlife. I just wanted to call and say hi.”

“Oy, well, you know that’s his thing. And as irritating as it is, he’ll use every inch of whatever he kills. You’re a sport for tagging along, but you can come home whenever you want. Just say the word and I’ll change your plane ticket to fly out of Sibiu. Have you talked to him about the student loan yet?”

“Not yet. I’m easing into it strategically.”

“Show him your portfolio, kitten. He’ll see your brilliance.”

I pull up Plan B on my tablet. The submission window for the International Battle of the Bands album design contest opens in two weeks—winners take home thousands of dollars in scholarships. With scholarship money, I can do it all on my own.

I glance over the contest updates. They’re down to three alternative bands. Artists have already started uploading work using the contest hashtag and getting likes from band members. This road trip set me way behind. “Mom, go back to sleep. But whatever you’re doing, keep it up. I miss you.”

I hang up and let out a flustered sigh. Maybe part of me expected her to have a more challenging time with me leaving. Her psychotherapist said this break would benefit her, especially if I want to move into a dorm.

Over the next hour, I listen to the contending bands’ latest performances. Design artists who make it past the first round of album art receive another month to develop a new original design. Complicated Beauty was supposed to be ready for entry, but it’s not. It doesn’t fit any of the bands’ brand or style. I need to come up with a new picture, and fast. Something gritty and evocative.

Hey, maybe something like the ink sketches on the hallway map …

Caw!

A huge black bird lands on my table. Its feathers rustle, head tilts. Ghost-like eyes stare at me. Studying, blinking. Just the two of us. Face to face.

Blink, blink.

Seriously uncanny. I lean back from the table and scan the area. A few locals stroll up the narrow street corner with plastic grocery bags. Vendors from an outdoor produce market sit just off the street.

Caw!

The bird watches me with a careful intention that gives me all kinds of deep violet-blue vibes. Peculiar awareness crackles over my arms and neck. It doesn’t look sick.

I push back a stray hair, peering down at the ebony creature. “What?”

It lifts off, flies to the Vespa, and lands on the handlebars. Creepy birds with crazy eyes probably appear out of nowhere and bother tourists here all the time, right?

I do a quick Google search on Romanian birds.

From what I can tell, this bird is a rook. Indigenous to the area. But the images shown do not have white eyes like this one. Wait, this couldn’t be the same bird from last night …

Words percolate in my head and I pull up my iPhone Notepad:

Indignant elevation.

Unlikely assumptions.

Undulating obsessive emotion.

The rook stamps its feet on the handlebars, demanding my full attention. Caw!

I snap a picture.

Shivers run down my back and prickle my skin. I wonder …

Pulling up my picture of the hallway map, I expand it and trace my finger along the highway from Varig to Sibiu. Sibiu is the largest city in the highlands. Veseud appears to be on the way, nestled inside a mountain range with a white-eyed rook overlooking it. Small Roman numerals mark the area. I check the map key at the far bottom left corner. I have to translate the text:

VI: Second shrine to the right and straight on toward the clock tower

The clock tower?

I do a GPS search for Veseud.

Nothing comes up. It’s not marked on the fold-out map either. Maybe it's a made up place … and this scroll map is just a trinket like Dad says. But … this bird is very real.

I scan my surroundings for the stranger from last night.

Nothing.

I’m definitely overthinking this.

Even if it is weird. No doubt, my art is served best with a tall glass of weird.

The rook’s head lowers and tilts, almost like …

Adrenaline spikes through my veins. Like it’s beckoning me.

I stow my tablet, strap my bag over my shoulder, and flank the bike. The rook watches. The tip of its large black blade-like beak glistens.

“What do you want, anyway?” I ask it.

Caw! The rook bows its head again.

Slowly, I reach out, careful of that sharp beak, and ever so gently, run a finger along the soft feathers on its back. It doesn’t flinch.

Unbelievable.

All at once, the rook darts into the air, high and mighty, midnight-black wings against a cobalt sky.

A fierce ambition like I’ve never felt before drifts through my veins, cool and swift and shrill, like pain-relieving medicine.

I climb onto the Vespa and roll out.

* * *

Along the highway, the countryside mesmerizes, with uneven, unmarked roads. No billboards, no streetlights. Just hills encroaching pavement, to the up-tempo soundtrack of my electronica playlist. Ahead, the Carpathians cut into the horizon beneath a mural of ominous rain clouds. Bad weather in the distance? Far away enough for the moment. Come back on Wednesday, at the reserve. The wetter, the better.

Less wilderness time. More art time. The air is different here—like top-shelf oxygen. For an indoor girl like me it’s intoxicating. I’m drunk with audacity and allergy-free. Sounds like a country song lyric.

I pass beside a life-sized statue of the crucifixion on the right-hand side of the road. Some kind of shrine.

Second shrine to the right.

Huh. Interesting. Could the hallway map be for real?

Sunflowers appear before the hills on either side of the road—patches and patches of them—golden and chipper in the morning light.

Ker-plunk!

Pothole beneath my tires. The moped wobbles.

I slow to an idle and double-check the trinket map. Okay, maybe I am being defiant just because Dad told me not to go. But also, maybe I’m being adventurous, chasing a muse because life is short and art isn’t meant to be safe.

If Veseud does exist, the map suggests it’s close, somewhere off this main highway. It was right about the first shrine and the direction of Sibiu. But the foldout Dad gave me shows nothing about shrines, and marks no villages along the way from Varig to Sibiu.

Caw!

High in the sky, black birds soar over treetops like macabre kites.

Goosebumps sprout over my arms. I’m all alone.

I ride up a way more and another roadside crucifix appears. Just past it, a narrow dirt road leads off the highway and disappears between hills.

My mind reels, scalp tingles. I have no idea how long my tank of gas will last. Guess I’ll find out.

I turn and start down the long, dusty road, and after some time, I reach a small street sign that reads: Veseud. Below it, it says, Zied. An arrow points dead ahead.

It is real. This is eerily fascinating. Satisfaction and curiosity ripple through me in an inward breeze. I continue, and finally, the vegetation peels back. A red-tiled roof appears, then another and another—stucco and brick, cottage-style homes with faded paint lurk over me like giant tombstones. Their solemn, empty windows gape at me. I am the spectacle—a one-person parade down a winding forgotten lane.

I’d guess this village no more than a relic, if not for the telephone poles. Maybe that’s why GPS doesn’t pick it up?

Dad told me not to come here. But maybe it’s my turn to break a promise, or at least prove to myself I know what I’m doing. Anyway, I’m eighteen. I can handle myself. A silvery glint flashes on the horizon like the wink of a star. A metallic spire stands between the topmost tree limbs on the next hill.

I roll to a stop and shield my eyes. The spire glitters. Wind blows the limbs apart enough to reveal a tall, red-tiled roof and the face of a clock.

The clock tower. Just as the scroll map suggested.

At idle speed, I round a bend in the dirt road. A group of barefoot children in tattered clothing kick a headless doll back and forth. They stop to stare at me. I wave. They call out something in Romanian, but I know only hello and thank you. The shanty homes behind them have strips of cloth for doors and bare windows. A battered old sneaker nearly trips up my tire. I swerve again.

Breezes pick up all around me and brush over the back of my neck and ears. Too sensitive, too fragile. Dad’s words echo through my head. He has no idea what I’m made of.

Broken-down, last-century cars litter the roadside. Beside me, a horse-drawn carriage passes, its driver, a dark-mustached man in a big hat. His team of ruddy brown horses flinches its straggly mane against a paparazzi of flies. Oversized red tassels dangle from its reins.

I stick out here. Americans always stick out, Dad once told me. In the small, neglected town of Veseud, everything about me must broadcast privileged American tourist on a moped. Nothing I can do about that now.

Farther down the road, a few locals stand beside a gray stucco building, its door open—a store of some kind. Last night, Dad gave me a handful of lei and bani, and it’s a good thing because I need water. I pull up to the curb and step inside.

It’s more like an empty pub than a store, with thick wooden support beams along the ceiling. Two refrigerators wait in the back, beside a rack of fruit and pre-packaged snacks, and a wood-burning stove built into the wall like a cabinet. A burnt, sooty odor fills the air.

The cashier, a thin, dark-eyed woman, leans on an old-fashioned cash register. She speaks animatedly with another older woman, both in white peasant blouses and scarves over their hair. They notice me, but not enough to interrupt their conversation. I grab a water bottle and sit it beside the push-button register on the counter.

The women pause and stare.

Nerves twitch beneath my skin.

“Buna,” I say. No reason to believe they speak English, but I give it a shot. “The clocktower up the road—do you know when it was built?”

Just making conversation. At the moment, getting a feel for the natives’ level of friendliness feels paramount.

The cashier’s brow furrows as she rings me up. Deep lines indent her forehead. “Clock tower belongs to church.” A thick Romanian accent clips her words. “Visitors not welcome.”

“Did you know Veseud doesn’t show up on GPS?” I ask casually.

The taller woman in the red scarf remarks something in Romanian, then hones in on me. “Where do you come from?” Her English is also accented—definitely German.

“Varig. Well, I’m American. Staying in Varig.”

The women exchange glances.

“Why you here?” the German woman asks. Her cold blue eyes are the color of faded denim and bore into me with a pointed distrust I’m more than familiar with.

“Sightseeing.” I fake a smile.

Seniors don’t always get my appearance—my dyed-black bob, dark red lipstick, and black-framed glasses. But that’s their problem, not mine. I owe them no explanation. Apparently, passing stereotypical judgment from snap impressions is universal.

“Sightseeing in Veseud?” Though her voice is halfway pleasant, the German woman’s gaze holds a mocking gleam that conjures an angsty orange and sour green shade of insecurity.

I pull out my phone and show her the picture of the hallway map. Both women lean in.

The German woman makes a little snort-like scoff. “Where you find dis? It is drawing, not a werkzeug—not a tool. Meant for decoration.”

Trinket map. Sure. Whatever. “It’s how I found your village.”

“Maybe there is reason you don’t see Veseud on maps. Ever think of dis?” The woman glares. “You are in wrong place. Dee church and clocktower have not been open in long time.” She sizes me up. “Go to Bran if you want to sight-see.”

The cashier says something in Romanian, and they converse in hushed voices.

“So the clocktower’s off-limits,” I ask, mimicking their phony-polite tone. “Fine. I get it.”

The cashier lets out a wry laugh. “Numai dacâ îti pretuiesti sufletul.”

Without Google Translate, I’m at a loss. I don’t want to be here anymore. I grab my bottle. “Mein Fehler.”

“Sprichst du Deutsch?” the tall woman asks, her forehead wrinkling.

I pause. “Kleiner.”

“Den I say it in English: Stay away from clock tower.” The tone of her voice elevates.

“Danke.” I give her a curt nod.

Suspicious conclusion darkens their gazes. Here come the burnt orange and mildew green shades auras again. Scorn and aggression. Colors I associate with Dad.

I start for the door, then angle back and catch a glimpse of the taller woman. Her finger extends from her outstretched arm as if showing me where the exit is.

Yeah, I get it. Lovely hospitality.

Outside, fresh air rolls over my neck and face, fresh and cool. Up the road, the clock tower looms between trees, and I’m confronted with a choice.

Aw, hell.

What is it about warnings that makes me want to do the exact opposite?