It Truly was My Lucky Charm

The light from the setting sun was fading quickly and the shadows emanating from the looming peaks soon stretched across the landscape. Earlier in the day I had been hiking across the countryside until I finally hitched a ride in Moldova, crossed the border into Romania, and made it as far as Moreanu, a small rural town isolated near the base of the Carpathian Mountains and sitting alongside the Prut River. With daylight coming to an end, I decided it would be best to call it a night and continue my trip in the morning. Like most of the towns in the rural countryside, this one probably closes up at sun down and, if I were lucky, I could get a needed night of sleep and an early start in the morning. Hopefully I can reach Bucharest by the end of the next day.

Seemingly passed by the creature comforts of modernity, much of Moreanu consisted of aged stone houses, its lone road was cobblestone, and no electric lights could be seen. At the center of this quaint hamlet was an inn and tavern called the “Podul Corbului” (or Crow’s Loft), a large, two-story building covered in a light yellow stucco and ringed by the cobblestone street that ran throughout the town. Its exterior was accented with black iron railings, black painted trim, and it was topped with the deep and dark red tiled roof that was prevalent across much of the country. On either side of the entrance sat a large sconce, each one holding a burning torch, a touch that added to the town and building’s medieval feel. In a country where buildings built five or six hundred years ago were common, this one had a much older feel about it.

The front door was weathered hardwood planks, held together by iron fittings and cut nails, and had an aged black lacquer coating that was worn and long overdue for another painting. Occupying the center of the door was an ornamental knocker—a crow’s head that was cast in bronze, hewed in a patina finish, and held a thick metal ring in its beak.

I grabbed the ring, used it to knock on the door, and waited a few moments before using it to knock on the door again. Just as I was about to give up, the sound of scraping metal and moving latches from the lock’s tumblers could be heard from the other side of the door. It slowly creaked open, stopping just short of halfway, and from behind the door, a large muscular man, dressed in an old and worn Soviet soldier’s uniform, peeked through the opening. He had a pale complexion, scars across his face, and stood at least 7’ tall.

He was quite a menacing figure to be the first face I was greeted by from an establishment of hospitality. He continued to stand there motionless, staring off as if he were looking for something in the darkening night, and past me as if I were a ghost. Starting to feel uncomfortable with the silence, I finally inquired, “Do you speak English? I’m looking for a room for the night and was hoping I could stay here.”

My giant friend didn’t say a word, but instead slightly tilted his head like a dog does when it’s trying to hear you better, stepped to the side, and fully opened the door. I took this as a silent invitation to enter, so I walked into the building. I cautiously slid by him and after entering, I turned and glanced back to see him nodding in the direction of further down the hall, urging me to continue walking down a dark and creepy hallway. As I move forward in the darkness, I hear the loud crash of him closing the heavy front door behind me.

At the end of the hall, I open another door and walk into a large and open communal room. There were old, wooden picnic-style tables with long benches on either side of them located in the center of the room, and along three walls were similarly styled tables, but with partitions around them forming booths. To my left was a bar, and hanging some 20 feet above the room from thick, wooden beams stretching across the high, vaulted ceiling were two chandeliers, each lit with a dozen or so tallow candles that dimly illuminated the room. Along the walls were old, woven tapestries depicting men who were fighting in medieval combat. In many of the tapestries’ depictions were dead soldiers being feasted on by a score of crows.

Alone at one of the tables was another traveler. He had blonde hair, a long matching beard, was dressed in jeans, sporting a bright yellow North Face jacket, and had his backpack sitting beside him on the bench. Based on his look and dress, if I were to guess, I would say he was Scandanavian. He was finishing up his own meal and a glass of wine but took the time to make eye contact with me and nod in acknowledgement.

From behind the bar, a raven-haired beauty looked at me. She had piercing gray eyes, a purple hew to her eye shadow, fingernails painted black, and long, straight, dark hair that hung down her back, exposing an alabaster neck and shoulders. Hanging around her throat was a tight-fitting, black choker and she wore a black leather corset that laces up in the front. I would say she was in a full gypsy get-up, but I got the impression this wasn't a costume for her.

She had a long dagger in her right hand, balancing the very end of the hilt with her forefinger, and holding the point of the blade against the bar top. She twirled the dagger in a slow, circular motion like she was drilling it into the bar top, but never took her eyes off me as I approached. A few paces from the bar she says, “I’m Amelia! I understand you wish to stay the night with us here?” All the while looking me up and down while she spoke as if sizing me up for a new suit…or a coffin.

I look around the bar momentarily before making eye contact with my host and answering, “If it’s not a bother. I will be leaving at sunrise to continue on my journey.” I pause for a moment. “How did you know I speak English?”

“An American!” She excitedly proclaims as she snatches the dagger up and deftly slips it into a sheath on her waist. “It is rare to see an American in these parts. I heard you speaking to my servant at the front door.”

I’m sure my disbelief in her superhuman hearing ability was evident on my face, but I didn’t press it. “Yes, I’m American, I’m surprised you could so easily tell,” I interject.

“Let’s just say Americans have a certain ‘Je ne sais quoi’ that makes them easy to pick out. Now what would an American be doing traveling alone in the middle of the Romanian countryside?” Amelia asks before smiling and adding, “Are you one of those crazy tourists who wants to believe in and find some vampires?”

“Well, I am a professor of Folklore and Mythology at the University of Notre Dame.” I answer. I continue looking around the room and taking in the decor before sitting down on a stool across from Amelia. I continued, “No I don’t believe in vampires; besides, this area was also the origin for the myths surrounding lycanthropes…werewolves! Stories of werewolves were thought to have started with the Germanic tribes deeper in Europe, but those myths started here in Dacia and migrated to the Germanic regions with the westward displacement of tribes during the Roman era.” I turn my attention away from her and let my gaze around the room guide her eyes, too. “Based on the age of this building, the tapestries on the walls, and the decor outside, it looks like this building may have seen the start of those myths.”

“Yes, I’ve never changed anything after I…” She pauses, considers her next words, before finishing her answer, “...after I inherited this establishment. We don’t get many travelers here, but the ones who come through are intrigued by its rustic charm, uniqueness and the change from the touristy themes in the larger towns.” She smiles and quickly changes the subject to business. “A room for the night will cost you 75 Euros and that includes dinner, breakfast, and drink. We are serving Mici with mustard and a half loaf of bread for dinner tonight. I’m afraid it is a bit bland since we ran out of garlic before making the sausage, but you can have a second drink to even the ledger.”

The dark beauty behind the bar leans in very closely, where I could smell the intoxicating scent of her perfume, causing me to become a slight bit lightheaded. She then places her lips close to my ear and asks in a low voice, “This area is known for a specific variety of Divin that is famous across this part of Romania and Moldova. Would you like a glass?”

Alarmed by the intrusion into my personal space, I lean back a little and pause before regaining my composure and answering, “Sure, I would love to try it!”

Amelia smiles, turns, and softly calls into the kitchen. A moment later a young, thin, delicate, and plainly dressed beauty walks out. She had fair skin and dark hair too, but unlike Amelia’s, it was shorter and slightly curly. She reached the bar and then stood there staring at the floor and never looking up. “Alexandrina, my dear, we have a new guest but have run out of the Moreanu Divin, please go and grab another bottle from the cellar. Also bring our guest a plate of the Mici,” Amelia softly asked.

The young girl turned around, never looking up from the floor, and walked back into the kitchen area, disappearing behind another door.

Amelia smiled, “I’m sorry for her aloofness, but she rarely speaks, especially in front of strange company. She was traumatized in the past, and ever since I took her in she has remained…introverted. Alexandrina was away from home at a piano lesson when her family was arrested and later executed by Antonescu’s soldiers during a purge in Romania. Her father was a professor of English and he was accused of pushing anti-government propaganda to his students about Romania’s relationship with Germany. That didn’t sit well with the Cundacator. She escaped and was hiding in the countryside where our paths later crossed.”

“Hold on!” I objected. “That girl couldn’t be more than 25 years old and I know that the Cundacator, Ion Antonescu, was executed right after World War 2. Something isn’t adding up with that timeline, Amelia! That was 75 years ago and you would be the most attractive 100 year-old woman that I have ever heard of.”

Ignoring my words and within the blink of an eye, Amelia quickly draws her dagger, and places it against my chest where she uses it to lift up a silver crucifix I wore. “This is an interesting piece. May I take a closer look at it?” She asks. “Where did you get it?”

At first I was speechless at both the sudden change in our conversation and the speed at which she moved and placed a dagger against my chest. Sitting there momentarily dumbfounded, I quickly collected my thoughts and answered, “Uh, yeah, I picked it up on a trip to the Vatican. It was a gift given to me by a friend who worked at the Vatican and blessed by the Pope himself. I consider it my lucky charm. Let me get it...” And before I could finish speaking she had used her dagger to slip it up over my head and had it dangling off the blade in front of her face while she studied it. I had heard stories extolling the gypsy’s prowess with a knife, but her skill and deftness with her blade was remarkable.

My astonishment was interrupted when the young girl came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of food and a bottle. She set the plate down in front of me, pulled the cork from the wine bottle, poured a glass, and then set a knife and fork that she removed from a pocket on her apron on the bar top. She turned, bowed quickly to Amelia, and took a few steps back.

Never taking her eyes off of the crucifix, Amelia speaks, “Please go and clean up the kitchen, Alexandrina. I don’t think we will have any more visitors this evening.” Alexandrina nodded and then disappeared into the kitchen.

She continues turning the knife and stays fixated on my pendant. “This is old. Very old. Although the origin of this work is Byzantine, it was crafted by a smith who traveled to Constantinople with the Varangians. Vikings from the Old Rus. Rurik of Kiev, a name I hadn’t thought about in a long time.”

Remaining transfixed on the crucifix, Amelia continued with her story, “This was originally commissioned and given to me as a present from my uncle, Basil the second, ruler of the Byzantine empire. He sent it to me several weeks before I was to leave and marry a minor Pecheneg prince in hopes of strengthening our diplomatic ties and ensuring the security of our border to the north. Although he was my uncle, I was still excited to receive a gift directly from the emperor. He included a note stating that he also hoped I would help spread Christianity among the pagan Pechenegs, whose people were new to the Christian faith and mostly practiced Tengrism or Sunni Islam.

My family was living amongst the Bulgars, as my father was a Byzantine emissary in their court. Pliska was such a beautiful city during this time, and the capital of the Bulgars, but today it is nothing more than ruins. It’s great walls and buildings have fallen victim to the decay of time and pages of history.

When I finally left to meet my husband, my party traveled north alongside the Danube, until it met the Prut, and then we headed northwest through the Wallachia region. Our caravan was deep into the forest when we were attacked by raiders. They were Turkic horsemen or possibly outlaws from various tribes, but they killed most of my entourage and took me and a number of others captive either to be ransomed or sold as slaves. We were bound to a long, single rope, and one of the riders tied it to his saddle and we were expected to keep up to their frenetic pace.”

Amelia continued to look in the direction of the crucifix she dangled in front of her eyes, but now seemed to be staring beyond it and imagining herself in this past she was presently concocting and trying to sell me. Although I found the story interesting and thought she was completely full of shit and only angling to take my necklace, I didn’t interrupt, but sat quietly and gave her my full attention.

She continued. “We were travelling at a vigorous rate as though we were eluding pursuers that we never saw. During this part of the journey, we never stopped for more than a few hours at a time, only to eat and let the horses rest, and three of my maidens were raped and killed along the way because they couldn’t keep up with our captor's pace. It was a hard message for the rest of us. When we reached the other side of Wallachia, near the region of Transylvania, we set up a camp and were told we could rest and would stay here through the night. I think they felt safe and believed they had put enough distance between where they attacked us to where we were now. What happened next is still a mystery to me. It was the darkest night I have ever experienced and something set upon our camp, killing everyone and everything, myself included. I sometimes still feel the clutch of my killer and my neck being torn open. I didn’t know how much time had passed since that evening, but I later awoke in a cave. I was healthy, my senses were heightened, my wounds had healed, but I was suddenly sensitive to sunlight and had a burning appetite for human blood.”

Feeling tired and ready for bed, I finally interrupted her. “Okay, Amelia, this was entertaining, but I’m not a tourist who needs this type of show to feel like I’m getting the full Romanian tavern experience. I just want to eat and get a good night’s rest before I leave in the morning. Besides, if you were a vampire you wouldn’t be able to look at the crucifix, so can you give me back my cross and allow me to eat and drink in peace? I’m really tired and just ready to call it a night.”

Amelia looks past me and yells, “Alexandrina, No!”

I turned to see that the young and frail-looking girl who brought me my food and drink was now stalking behind me with red, bloodshot eyes. Her fingernails were long and sharp and she had fangs extending from the top of her mouth. I stumbled back, toward where I’d entered the room, and out of the corner of my eye I watched Amelia make eye contact with Alexandrina then nod toward the other guest.

Even at this distance I noticed how large his eyes had become, heard him breathing hard, and saw the shock and horror on his face. He had already stood up, held his backpack up like a defensive shield between him and this creature, and was backing away from the three of us toward the far wall.

In a flash, Alexandrina crossed the room and, despite her victim being much larger and more muscular than I thought when he was seated, set upon her victim and threw him against the wall like a rag doll. He fell to the floor, motionless, and she pounced on him, bit into his neck, and became covered in his blood as the arterial spray coated her and the wall. Even in the dimly lit room, the bright red color was both frightful and captivating as it contrasted across his yellow coat and the stone floor.

I turn with the intention of running out the way I had originally come, but I see the large fellow who originally let me in blocking my exit.

“Well, tonight you can truly call this your lucky charm,” I hear Amelia say behind me. “I haven’t seen this crucifix for over 1,100 years, and while the touch of silver now bothers me, the sight of a cross has no effect. What’s in me is far older than Christianity. Tonight your lucky charm has bought you your life.”

I could hear the young servant girl continue to feed on the other unfortunate guest while I remained frozen with fear. I finally turned back around as Amelia walked out from behind the bar and approached me. I am staring into her eyes as she closes the distance, but before she reaches me, my legs give out and everything goes dark as I presumably collapse to the floor.

The crisp sound of a whistle from a train woke me up as I found myself on a bench outside the station in Darabani. My head was still sore, the ground around me spinning, and the sunlight hurt my eyes as I came to. I instinctively checked my pockets and found that I still had my wallet and saw that my backpack was on the ground next to me, but when I reached up and felt around my neck, I found that my lucky crucifix was missing.