Stoker's Manuscript by Royce Prouty

mine what my business was. But as I crossed the street to return to the center of town, I heard the man calling my way.
    “Joseph!”
Yosef.
“American.” I turned toward the voice. It was Drago. “I ask you this for your own protection.”
    I walked back to him. “Is there such a place?”
    “Yes, young man, thirteen kilometers, three hours’ walk over that hill.” He pointed northeast. “There is coming weather, and no places to stay in Dumitra.”
    “What about Dreptu?”
    “No.” He shook his head. “This is not a place.”
    I unzipped my jacket to pull out my GPS. “It’s only—”
    “Where did you get that?” he said, pointing.
    “Amazon.com,” I said, shrugging and turning the device back and forth in my hand.
    “No.” He pointed to my chest and the crucifix. “That.”
    “Oh, a gift.”
    “You will need it.” He made the sign of the cross. “There is a man who travels over the hill every afternoon about this time, a Gypsy. You will know him by his copper wares. He speaks no English; mention my name.”
    “Thank you, Drago.”
    “But you must find a place to stay; the forests are not safe. Look for signs, and be careful to watch the moon.”
    Superstitions run deep in Transylvania, cautions and ceremony I once would have waved away like a fly on a lunch plate, but I registered his words and said, “A.” A
room
.
    He nodded and waved.
“La revedere.” Good-bye.

    Within an hour the man with the copper pots drove by in a horse-drawn cart. I waved for him to stop and called out, “Dumitra?” When he failed to respond, I said, “Drago.”
    He halted his cart and without smiling pointed to the back, where I climbed in and made company with his wares.
    “.”
Thank you.
    He said,
“Va fi o.”
    “
 . . .
 . . . I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said.
    He made a sound like thunder and motioned with fluttering hands that it was going to rain. He pointed to the north sky—thunderstorm approaching. I apologized for my lack of fluent Romanian, and his grunt conveyed that was just as well. I settled in for the ride on a folded woolen blanket and slipped a leg through my backpack straps.
    The two horses needed no reins, as they knew their path home. As the cart climbed the first foothill, I looked back overand its organized row of red-tile roofs, and again was taken by how their cities end at a certain street, then turn to tree-lined fields. Such a sight might disarm an American developer, but it made sense there, for if a town is not growing, why force it at the seams?
    Soon as we reached the top of the first foothill, the magnificent white Carpathian peaks came into full view to the north and east, and with it the chilled wind of refrigerated air. Farther northwest, dark clouds obscured the horizon. The horses led the cart off the two-lane road north and onto a smaller path, leaving the numbered road toward the mountain pass that the original Saxons had migrated over. Beyond was the Ukraine.
    Within a quarter mile a small valley took shape with the heavy tree lining that accompanies a river, much as willows mark the path of water in a rural setting. We traveled a single-lane path now with no signs of life ahead. Within the hour we reached the valley floor, crossed a creaky wooden plank bridge, and assumed a parallel trek with the river. Overhead hundreds of birds followed the river as it slowly churned at little more than paddling speed. I had never experienced life at this pace, and was tempted to offer to exchange jobs with my driver.
    Two hours of quietude passed, and we approached a small village, outskirted by the usual small family farm plots and weathered fencing and a cemetery in a clearing. Ahead smoke rose from several chimneys in the chilly air, and I smelled the wood burning.
    “Dumitra?” I asked.
    The driver nodded. Before reaching the village, he halted the cart to turn into his residence, a small fenced farm with a smithing shop out back. I dismounted and