Free Trouble in Transylvania by Barbara Wilson Page B

eyes. “But this is beautiful,” I said.
    We were not in dark deep woods at all, but in a narrow valley between rounded, low-lying emerald hills, scattered with copses of newly leafed birch. The sky was light, but the sun hadn’t yet come over the hills; a soft white mist clung here and there. I got out of the car and stretched. The air was pure and fresh. There were birds singing all around us.
    “It’s like Ireland,” I said. “It’s just as green.”
    “Any place you like reminds you of Ireland,” said Jack. “I’ve noticed that.”
    She and Eva had the hood up and Eva was looking doubtfully at the jungle of blackened metal within. “When the thumping got so bad, why didn’t you pull off at Tîrgu Mureş? Now we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
    I was still walking around, breathing deeply. Transylvania means “the land beyond the forest” and it did feel as if we had emerged on the other side of the woods, the other side of night and fear. In about fifteen minutes my body would begin screaming for caffeine, so I might as well enjoy this blessed state as long as I could.
    “We’ll have to walk,” said Jack. “The question is, should we walk back to Tîrgu Mureş and find a garage, or on to Arcata? I think we’re closer to Tîrgu Mureş, but I don’t know how much closer.”
    Eva thought Tîrgu Mureş, too.
    “What about Gladys?” I said. “She might be in a Romanian jail. We can’t backtrack now.”
    Before a serious disagreement could develop however, a woman driving a horse and cart appeared over the hill behind us. She was going in the direction of Arcata, and she offered us a lift.
    Two hours later, having been picked up by two carts and finally by a Dacia, the Romanian-made car, the three of us came to the small town of Arcata, in the foothills of the Carpathians. We had traveled through a valley of forests and small farms, of villages of blue- and green-painted houses very neatly kept. Some of the houses had elaborately carved wooden gates in front, wide as the length of the house. Words we couldn’t read formed patterns with vines and flowers on the gates, sometimes freshly painted, sometimes splintered and worn. Most of the gates had long birdhouses like dormitories built along the top.
    Large, ungainly stork nests balanced on roofs and on electrical poles by the side of the roads. Occasionally a long-beaked head poked out to look at us. We passed farmers in the fields ploughing furrows for planting; sometimes they worked the land with horses, more often by hand. The men wore fedoras and the women kerchiefs. Here and there were Gypsy families too, in brighter colors, hoeing poorer land.
    Arcata was a real town, not a village. The Dacia dropped us off on the main street and we started up a steep hill, along a road fringed with pine and fir, in the direction of a sign that said Arcata Spa Hotel. Up here the sun angled through the dark needles of the trees and dappled the gardens of houses that grew larger and more ornate the higher we climbed. There was a holiday feeling to the place, and the evergreen air was deliciously cool and intoxicating.
    I sang to Eva, who was lagging:
    Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking
    The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill
    The lark from the light wing
    The bright dew is shaking
    Kathleen Mavourneen! What, slumbering still?
    “I’m not slumbering,” said Eva ill-temperedly.
    “Don’t get Cassandra started on her Irish songs,” warned Jack. “Her enthusiasm and her ability to keep a tune are unrelated. Believe me, I heard every song Cassandra knows while we were traveling in South America. Motown is one thing, but watch out for ‘Danny Boy’ and ‘The Green Hills of Antrim.’ Your eardrums will never be the same.”
    “Anyone can keep a tune,” I said. “But I remember all the words. Are you ready for the chorus?”
    “No!”
    I would have sung it anyway, but the sight of something ahead stopped me. In a bright blue training suit,