He shifted his head to see it better. “You think that’s what it is?”
“I don’t think it, Huck. Ismellit.”
Huck made a face as the wind wafted it in his direction. “Oh goodGod—now I do too.”
“Maybe we should wait for a car or a bus... something that doesn’t involve dung?”
“Dung-free would be good,” Huck agreed.
After a quarter hour passed, we spotted another cart in the near distance, this time pulled by a single horse, driven by a man in a dark hat. The cart itself was not only dung-free but laden with crates of clinking bottles.
“Smells like flowers,” Huck said as we increased our pace and headed toward him.
It did. Roses. Perfume? Rose oil? Whichever, it was miles better than manure. “Maybe he’s a trader.”
One who took a suspicious look in our direction, guided his cart to a crossroad, and cracked a whip on his horse. We ran to try to catch him, waving frantically, but were only able to watch in disappointment as his clinking cart disappeared over a hill.
“Rose Valley,” I said, breathless. “In the Balkan Mountains. Bulgaria is famous for its roses there.”
“Is it?” Huck asked, incredulous.
“Bet you anything that man came from Rose Valley and is taking rose oil to market.” And where there was a market, there was civilization. Maybe even other carts that would give us a ride. Or single horses. Cars? Cars would be nice! “We should follow him.”
Yet, by the way the trader sped away from us—as if we were demons, freshly ascended from the netherworld—I privately wondered if findinganysort of ride might be a problem. We didn’t speak Bulgarian. We were stranded in the middle of nowhere. And I had only a single Turkish lira to exchange for services.
Maybe we should have tried to flag down the dung cart, after all.
Best not think of it now. As Huck said, something would work out. It always did.
We followed the distant sound of the trader’s clinking cart until we could hear it no longer. Then we rambled blindly in its direction. And rambled. And rambled. The initial excitement of escape had worn off, and I was no longer watching over my shoulder, expecting Mr. Sarkany’s white dog to come barreling across the dreary landscape. Even hunting for the ghosts of Vlad’s victims was getting dull.
An hour or more after we’d left the train, we gave up on ever finding the trader again. Or a market. Maybe not even civilization. Dispirited, I finally gave up the chase and set down my satchel in patch of non-muddy grass, forcing Huck to stop with me. “Do you have a compass?”
“No. Why?” he said.
“Because if we could figure out which direction we’re going, maybe we could find the Danube. It runs across the southern border of Romania and is one of the longest waterways in Europe. How could we have lost an entire river?”
“Either we’re extremely talented or complete morons,” he said, stripping off his flat cap and surveying the landscape through squinting eyes. “Not sure which.”
“Can you tell which way we’re going from the sun’s position?”
“What sun? All I see are clouds and gray sky. I can tell by my watch that we’ve got little more than an hour before sundown.”
I whimpered. Ireallydid not want to be stuck out here after dark.
“Hey, running from the train was your idea. I seem to recall you saying this would be an adventure.”
“This isn’t an adventure. It’s a tribulation.”
“Same difference.”
“Is it, now? You’re the expert, I suppose. And what exciting adventures have you been on for the last year and half in Belfast, pray tell?”
“I’ve been working at an airfield, if you really must know.”
“Doing what? Smuggling hooch over the border?”
He looked away and stared into the distance. “I’ve been doing engine maintenance.”
