“Aye. That makes two of us. But hopefully that won’t be an issue. Tomorrow is Thursday, and Bucharest isn’t all that far, right? We still have plenty of time to make it to the hotel by Fox’s deadline.” Huck rested his arms on bent knees. “And today was tough. Perhaps we both said some things we regret...”
“Did we?” I mumbled, sneaking a glance at his face.
He cleared his throat. “The important thing, though, is that we got away from that devil and his big white wolf.”
“Yes. No more Carpathian wolf dog is a very good thing,” I agreed, tipping my cup to swallow the dregs of my brandy. And, as if by magic, Valentin appeared with more.
“Hello, friends,” he said cheerfully, sitting in front of us on the ground cross-legged and insisting on refilling our cups. “Did I hear you talking about a white wolf?”
“A wolf dog,” Huck said. “But yes.”
“White wolves are very good luck,” he told us, gesturing for us to drink up. “They are said to be the spirits of the ancient people of the Carpathians and the Black Sea—the Dacians. Do you know about them?”
“Oh, yes! The Kingdom of Dacia,” I said, excited. “They ruled Transylvania before they were conquered by the Romans.”
Valentin nodded. “Do you know the stories about their wolves?”
I knew a few things. “When I was a girl my mother told me that the Carpathians were once called ‘the land of the wolves.’?”
“And the Dacians were the wolf people,” he said, animated. “There is an old story of a mountain priest who could talk to animals and gave sermons to the Carpathian wolves, who began to think of him as their master. A Dacian god named Zamolxis saw this, and he turned the priest into a white wolf. Do you know this story?”
“Is this the origin of werewolves?”
“Now you’ve done it, brother,” Huck murmured to Valentin while smirking at me with slanted eyes.
“No werewolf,” Valentin said, shaking his head. “Not a cheap story about the full moon. Imagine a man’s soul inhabiting the body of a great beast—one who could lead the mountain wolves to help the people of Transylvania in battle. If anyone was in danger, they could trust a Carpathian wolf to appear and save them. They were not beasts to be feared. They were friends. Helpful friends.”
“Lucky wolves,” I said. “They shared a bond.”
He nodded. “For years the Dacians trusted the great white wolf and his pack. Until the Romans came to conquer them. And because the Romans were tricky, they put doubt in the Dacians’ hearts, and they said the white wolf was evil, a monster to be feared. They promised the Dacians a land deal if they would get rid of the white wolf’s pack—kill the wolves, keep their land.”
“Did they take the deal?” I asked, unfamiliar with this part of the story.
Valentin lifted his cup, nodding. “Unfortunately so. The Dacians turned on the Carpathian wolves, slaughtering them with their swords, until they were no longer a threat to the Romans. The giant white wolf priest was forced to flee. He took shelter inside a holy mountain, where he stood with the god Zamolxis and watched with sadness as the Dacians were defeated by the tricky Romans, who never honored the deal.”
“That’s a sad story,” I said.
“Sadder that the wolves no longer listen to us. Back in those times, there were many stories of people of the old ways... people who could perform miracles and talk to animals. Now? Only a few,” Valentin said quite seriously.
Huck lifted an eyebrow. “People who talk to animals?”
“You don’t believe me. That is fine. I have no proof to give you, only faith,” Valentin said before finishing his drink and pouring another. “But I do know one who follows the old ways. She knows the tongue of the beasts, a wisewoman in a village near Bucure?ti. Her name is Mama Lovena. The Romanian locals call her ‘mother of the forest.’ They also call her avrajitoare—a witch.”
“Muma Padurii,” I murmured.
“You know her?” Valentin asked, brows raised.
“I know the legend,” I said, feeling light-headed from both the drink and the conversation. “In stories she’s said to be an ugly old hag who kidnaps children and eats them. To the Germans, she is the witch inHansel and Gretel. In Russia she is Baba Yaga.”
“And in the Balkans she isGorska Maika,” he said. “But Mama Lovena isn’t a legend. She is a real person.”
“Who speaks to animals?” Huck said, incredulous.
“Many say she does,” Valentin assured him. “She is descended from old blood. Old money. Her sister is titled—a baroness—and Lovena herself is well educated. But she left her inheritance to live alone in a small house in the woods outside a village north of Bucharest. A famous church is there too, one that tourists like to see. But to the locals Mama Lovena is more famous,” he said with a smile.
A witch in a cottage in the woods. How captivating!
I wanted to hear more, but before long Ana had joined our little group, and Valentin was leaving wolves and witches behind and telling us other stories—about how he and Ana met and how this trading group came to be, farmers and craftsmen who crossed the Danube to sell their wares. He also asked us a million and one questions about where we lived in New York and all the places we’d traveled. And maybe because the brandy was bringing out Huck’s gregarious nature, he was eager to trade tales of life on the road.
