Stoker's Manuscript (12 page)

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?

I asked him if he spoke English. When he nodded, I told him it was not for sale. He waved his arms as if I had misunderstood him and hurried toward the front door, locked it, and turned the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED
.

“Please?” he asked. “It will not leave your sight.”

I followed him behind the counter to his tools and lifted it over my head, presenting it with two hands. Gently he took it and moved his hand over it, then turned it over.

“Save and protect,” he said. “The
drac
’s feet.”

“It was a gift,” I said.

“This is
argint
, silver, from these very hills. Not the highest quality.” He placed it under the scope. “But
eez
very old.”

I knew the area had the country’s oldest mines, but the silver had played out centuries back. They used it to mint the country’s first coins six hundred years ago. It was the mines that brought my metallurgist father to the area.

“This is the only one I have seen with a ruby set in the middle.” He looked closer. “
, this is not a ruby.” He put it under a refractometer. “Single refractive, one-point . . . seven-six. This gem is a . . . red spinel.”

“They are not found here,” I said.

He shook his head. “Africa or Southeast Asia, usually.”

He secured it under the magnifier to look for inclusions, the small irregularities that often map its origin. “It is oval faceted, polished, not cut. Not as valuable as rubies,
natürlicht
, but a fine spinel like this one is much rare . . . flaws fewer than rubies. Before optics often mistaken for rubies, as this might have been.” He found something on a page that he cross-referenced several times. “They are found in Burma, Tanzania, Madagascar, and I believe this came from Badakhshan mines of Afghanistan.”

“Ottoman traders?”

He nodded. “Centuries ago the king dispensed them as gifts or traded to Ottoman sultans for protection.”

“It came in a wooden presentation case,” I said. “Could this have been a treaty gift?”

He nodded. “Is possible.”

“Is the
argint
the same as the minted coins?” I asked. If so, that would place this between 1431 and 1476.

“I am most positive. Tell me of this presentation case.”

“A solid box, black walnut, with a carving on top: a dragon’s tail wrapped around the bottom of a cross.”

“Drac,”
he said.

“Yes, a dragon.”

“The Order of the Dragon.” He rubbed his chin. “My young friend,” he said, removing his reading glasses, “you may . . . I say with great reservation, of course,
may
have a rare treasure, one that belongs in a museum. The stone and material used to make this tells where it came from, and the scribing tells who it was intended for. This was very possibly an emperor’s gift to Vlad Dracul.”

“The dates fit.” I reached for the crucifix and returned it to my neck. “Don’t worry, it will be in a museum very soon.”