Of trees and trains in Transylvania

I emerged from the Cluj Napoca train station in Transylvania to a cacophonous murder of crows above my head.  The great black cloud writhed and clenched like the churning thoughts of a maddened brain and I was mesmerised. 

My first significant stop was Sighisoara (above) to visit the Breite Oak Reserve, home to ancient oaks many centuries old, including one venerable king of 800 years.

When I arrived on the serene plateau, the sacredness was palpable.  I set off with my map to find the King of the Oaks, but found my way blocked.  There was a skeleton of a tree in the other direction who insisted on my attention before I could proceed further.  He was long dead and with an aura of rot.  Woodpeckers had drilled holes around the trunk like cavities in a tooth and silver slug trails glittered around the fungi-laced openings through which insects crawled on business of their own prerogative.  Flies crept upon the mould that lined every crevice and spiders both dead and alive littered the ground where his gangrenous feet plunged into the earth.  He was hideous and yet somehow beautiful.  He was the ugly gatekeeper and without passing his test I would never have been allowed into the ephemeral world of the oaks.

 

 Before long I felt another tug upon my mind, both strong and insistent.  An oak some way off held my vision captive, demanding my next encounter.  I set off indirectly and she chided me, "Is not the straightest path the surest?"  I arrived to find a distraught old lady with half her side hollowed out and burned to ash.  She was desperate for communion and within seconds of putting my hands on her, I felt a torrent of emotional pain.  Never before have I experienced another mind swimming so suddenly in mine and I began immediately to cry.  Like a battered woman who is accustomed to being abused by every man who touches her, this sweet old tree was so used to being hurt that her anguish was overwhelming.  Just as humans overflow with emotion when moved by a loving touch, she poured her sorrow and grief into me and even now, recounting the experience causes me to weep freely.

Afterwards she gave me a leaf to put in my pocket and then I was allowed to approach the king.  I headed in his direction but when I drew near I felt strong opposition.  "No further!"  I turned around and put my bags on a stump surrounded by stinging nettles, then opened a drink so that I might be courteous and offer him a libation.  I took a sip to demonstrate that it was good (royal etiquette), but when I approached him again, he bade me, "Take off your shoes and hat."  How like a king.

I did as I was commanded and he let me come near the third time but I knew that I was not to touch him.  I did not need to.  I stood as close as possible and very soon, exquisite tremors began to go up and down my spine. I stood for a while in ecstatic paralysis, then eventually became aware that there was something I needed to find.  I found nearby a staff of his wood that had a smooth patch for my hand and peeling bark everywhere else that made the dry sound of a rattlesnake's tail when I walked.  With this staff I was permitted to go where I liked, tread the ancient paths between the trees and meet whom I pleased.  After another hour of doing exactly this, I returned to the King and laid the staff against his trunk, for to do otherwise would be most unseemly.  I embraced the wounded lady one more time and walked back to town in the dying light.

My next destinations were marred by inclement weather.  In Sibiu there was a mountain chill that sank into my marrow and despite voyaging into the Cindrel mountains, I saw none of them.  Apparently they are beautiful when not shrouded heavily with cloud.  Brasov was much the same, and the rain turned quickly to snow that fell silently and steadily until there was no point in staying to visit castles or forests.  My train to Bucharest was scheduled 2.20pm - 5.10pm.  At 6.00pm we were still in the station, watching the world freeze through a seamless veil of falling snow.  Eventually we set off, only to become stuck in the mountainous middle of nowhere with fallen trees on the tracks ahead.  As midnight crept closer, the tension on the train heightened and I sat watching, waiting and nervously sanitising my hands.  Near 11.00pm I escaped with two men and caught a taxi through the mountains and 150km into Bucharest.  The driver was fond of high speeds and passing trucks on the bend.  I was lucky to survive.