I headed toward the church. Up close, it was truly something to behold. Nestled in a copse of trees — that hid a small cemetery behind the church, which was framed in a low, decorative wrought iron fence scarcely two feet high, before giving way to the steep slope of the mountain — the church sat within the shadow of the ruins, and yet its quiet majesty seemed to hold the ruins’ dark presence at bay. Romania is renowned the world over for its collection of ornate wooden churches — Romanian Orthodox, all — erected in the Middle Ages by master carpenters who’d dedicated their lives to the narrow specialty of constructing such places of worship. They carved these rural houses of God from the verdant forests that surrounded them, and their appearance — from the long curved taper of the bell tower’s shingled roof, which terminated in a simple wooden cross, to the planed-smooth logs that joined in cross-hatches at the building’s corners and into which narrow windows paned with leaded glass were cut — made them look as though they sprouted from the very ground itself, and suggested what lay beneath was not basement but fibrous roots. Many were lost to war or fire over the years, and most fell into disrepair during the brutal Communist rule of the last century. This one appeared to be among the latter.
As moss-laden and dry-rotted as portions of it appeared to be beneath the metal gridlines of the scaffolding, it looked to be a stunning specimen. A tower four stories high, a single, glossy slab of wood comprised its oversized front door — not new, but newly refinished. Framing it were broad planks of wood gone gray with age, into which was carved an elaborate bas relief depicting at its upper reaches a sky filled with cold, beatific angels each emitting radiant light, which gave way to an image of a village that was recognizably this one in the middle, and beneath that a fiery hell full of writhing, naked demons in various states of torment, or perhaps ecstasy.
I found the sculpture oddly captivating, and disturbing as well. Looking at its depiction of a carnal hell, I couldn’t help but think I’d been privy to similar scenes a time or two before. In the basement of a Staten Island squat occupied by the demon Merihem and his human playthings. In an abandoned-sanitarium-turned-skim-joint in the wilds of New Mexico. I wondered if the artist had a similar first-hand inspiration for this piece.
“Quite something, isn’t it?”
When I heard the voice beside me, I damn near jumped out of my shoes. My meat-suit was clearly not accustomed to being snuck up on. He was also pretty damn well-trained, I discovered in the fraction of a second it took me to gather my wits, muscle-memory had already kicked in, and my right hand was wrapped around the grip of my SIG Sauer beneath my jacket. Through force of will, I relaxed my grip, and let the hand fall to my side.
“I’m very sorry,” said the man beside me. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I looked him up and down. Forty, maybe forty-five. Thick-stubbled, handsome, with dark brown hair lightened here and there by the sun and deep-set brown eyes flecked with amber. Good-humored, based on the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the lines around his easy smile, but a forehead that showed the ghost of worry-creases suggested him a serious man as well. He wore the faded, dirt-ground jeans of a workman, and a tool belt stocked with tools. His shirt was a black button-down with a Roman collar, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms.
A priest.
I flushed at having been called out in my startlement. Covered with a change of subject. “You speak English,” I said.
He looked mock-startled for a moment, and then quipped, “By God, you’re right!”
“How’d you know I did?”
The man gestured at the guidebook in my hands. “You’re carrying The Know-Nothing’s Guide to Historic Romania,” he replied, his words scarcely accented, and his use of contractions rare among even the best Romanian English-speakers. “So I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence, but it seemed like a fair bet.”
“No forgiveness required,” I replied, forcing myself to soften my stance and smile. “I confess, I’m happy to hear my mother tongue; it’s been a while. And if you don’t mind me saying, Father…”
“Yefi,” he supplied, extending one calloused, workingman’s hand.
“Father Yefi,” I continued, taking his hand and shaking it, “your English is quite good. I’m Frank.”
“An admirable quality,” he joked. “And as for my English, I should hope it passes muster; otherwise, I’d think my years at Harvard Divinity ill-spent. And please, just Yefi — no Father required. I’m here to meditate and reflect, not minister, which is just as well. These people have little interest in whatever spiritual guidance I might offer them. Their faith lies… elsewhere.” The priest’s countenance darkened.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
The darkness lifted, replaced with false good cheer. “Meaning they’re kind enough to leave me to my woodworking, is all. For which — most days, at least — I’m grateful.”
I gestured toward his tool belt. “I always thought meditation was more sitting on a straw mat and less… whacking things with hammers.”
“Yes, well, I prefer a more active approach. It’s good for a man to have a project. There are very few burdens in life that can’t be eased by a good sweat, by honest work. And idle hands are the devil’s playthings, after all.”
“I couldn’t agree more. I’m here on a bit of a project myself.”
He squinted appraisingly at me. “And what, pray tell, is that?”
I gestured up the hill toward the ruins — hard and sharp against the sky, like the spires of a wrought-iron fence viewed at an angle, so they crowd together in silhouette. “Exploration,” I told him. “I’m trying to see as many of Europe’s castles as I can.”
“And your quest brought you here? I’m surprised. I would not have thought so humble and remote a town had made the guidebooks. Particularly since you’re the first such tourist to happen by in my memory, and,” he said, nodding toward the square, where the townspeople watched our conversation with naked, gawking interest, only to avert their gazes when we glanced their way, “a good deal longer, if their reaction’s any indication.”
His question came off all light and conversational, but I couldn’t help thinking it was a test. Yefi knew damn well these ruins weren’t in any guidebook, and further, that this town was hard to find. What’s more, I couldn’t help but feel there was a secret-handshake component to our entire conversation. He was feeling me out, but why? What did he know that he wasn’t telling me?
Whatever it was, I thought it best to play along. I shook my head and feigned a sheepish smile. “To tell the truth,” I said, “my trip so far’s been pretty touristy. I only wound up here because I suck at reading road signs in Romanian. Pretty sure I took a dozen or so wrong turns since I left my hotel in Petrosani this morning. And in the interest of making a full confession, Father, I’m still not sure where the heck I’ve ended up, there was no sign I could see at the entrance to the town, and I can’t make heads or tails of where I am on my map. But I figured hey, I’m hunting castles, and here’s a castle, so maybe somebody upstairs is trying to tell me something.”
“Well, I can help you in one capacity, at least. The town you’re standing in is called Nevazut. In Romanian, it means ‘unseen’ — a reference, no doubt, to its isolated nature, and the fact that it attracts so few visitors. I confess, I had some trouble finding the place myself when first I came, as if the roads themselves resisted bringing me. So perhaps there’s something to your theory you’ve been brought here for a reason.”
There was some steel behind that last sentence, as though he wished me to intuit some intent behind his words, but whatever it was, it was too subtle for me to understand. A threat? A warning? Some kind of coded cry for help?