Tonight, In Your Arms

Across the Carpathian Mountains: TONIGHT, IN YOUR ARMS

Halfway down the Făgăraş, I knew I was going to die.

The Transfăgăraşan Highway's sleek, deadly turns mesmerizing, I missed my app fool me there's a shorter path to the nearest town, Arefu, until it was too late. My rented electric car beeped ungodly red, spoke in tongues, and lost its power and died first between the shades of dark trees.

Staying inside wouldn't have been too bad if not for the skies deepening and my phone following the car's fate. Calm down. You could still see the Transfăgăraşan. I walked to the road. A vehicle passed, and another. It must be my face, my hair... or my simple white dress and knitted corset that no one dared to look at me. Hope died as the dark evening swallows the valley whole, and cold mists from the peaks trickled, stretching their ghastly fingers. Still on the road! I texted Mama, and it died too. By now, only the lights of the vehicles break the darkness.

So I went back into the forest; my arms keep me warm enough to walk. Shit, my medicine. I only need to get food. There were humble homes along the highway, surely there are some too in the trees. Encouraged, I went over rocks. I passed by the car. The mist soon caught up, turning into walls of vapor, white tendrils weaving the dark trees and me together. My skin blazed with ice. I parted my lips, and the cold dug in my throat viciously I coughed.

Blob! Blob!

"Rrriver!" I coughed up, my heart thudding dangerously hard for my lungs. Blob! Blob! I covered my mouth with an arm and ran. Black branches poked from the fog and grasped my hair, my dress. Rocks cut the leather of my boots. BLOB! BLOB! The land shifted up. The fog began to spin away, as if it knew not to touch the river and the land beyond. Făgăras. Cold stung my eyes. They say Făgăras was an ancient place, hidden by old spirits hoping that men would be content with the rest of the world. Dracula's first, ancestral castle, Poenari, is here, for this was where Transylvania and his Wallachia would have crossed. It was a gateway, a border.

The path of life and death, entwined, together.

The mist left, and I was back. The river's steady hum drifted, but then came a different sound. Overhead, a silver full moon glowed in her glory, shining over the mountains and me. Awooo! I ran and crossed the river. The wolves' glowing, white eyes reflect the moon as they race between trunks and branches, over rocks. I shoved my scream into my stomach, ready to throw my phone, until yellow lights shone...

A path opened.

Awooo! I followed that light behind the rugged wall of the cliffside, breathless, and met steel rails guarding travelers from a death drop. I clung, expecting a climb, but a plateau spread underneath the mountains: lined by electric lights strung on wires and fenced in by a stone gate, a medieval fortress stood with her three towers, red pointed roofs stark against the deep blue evening sky, while the other tower beyond had crumbled, leaving rocks forever at the edge of the cliff and revealing insides protected by curtains since stained by snow and time. Gargoyles grimaced atop two grand doors. There was no crest, but there was a little silver panel with green screen by one of the gateposts.

"Hello!" No wolves. "Hello!" I coughed and knelt on the road, paved too.

The screen buzzed.

Thank God.

"Attention!" A female voice whirred. "You are now trespassing in private property. Please leave by the staircase to your right and never go beyond the rail. Have a good day."

"No! No!" My body shook from the cold; I crawled. "Please! Please I need help! There are wolves! Wolves! My car is dead! I'm a tourist! Look!" Damn it. My bag was sliced open by the trees. I bit my lip to not cry as I dig for my things. Only a few bills left. My medicine bottle is safe in the pocket, but my passport was ripped—at my neck. Great. "Here!"