39. Fatherly Advice

Paul - Piatra Craiului Mountains
Often compared to the back of a dinosaur, the imposing ridge of Piatra Craiului has a fairytale appearance, more of a creation taken out from the fog of heights than a shaping of the earth. Considered the pearl of the Romanian Carpathians, these mountains overwhelm through their charm, silence, and mystery, with delicate flowers that color the pastures.
I stop the car where the asphalt ends. There’s quite the climbing awaiting me ahead. The track is pretty easy as long as you stay on the tourist trails. But after I reach 1000 meters in altitude, I have to go straight through the forest.
The morning sun rays peek over the narrow ridge resembling a saw. I’d forgotten my jacket on the backrest of that chair, so I trudge over the slope through the chilly mountain spring air just in my shirt.
My shoes are not made for climbing, rendering my endeavor even harder. They don’t provide any grip on the mixture of ice and snow that covers the ground. Here, the sun warms enough to melt the remains of the winter only in the middle of the summer.
I try to focus on my footsteps instead of letting my mind wander. Having left Laura like that, even more dismay creeps into my heart. After three weeks, I thought I had found the strength to break the bond that was tying me to her. I felt exhausted from the stress alone. I want to keep my end of the bargain and be there for her, but I can't do that without wanting her. If I bite her, I might kill us both.
Looking around, I remember old stories about this place. Legend has it that these places were once ruled by a king much loved by his people. Because he had no children to succeed him on the throne, he decided to choose an heir from among the young men of the land.
A very clever shepherd also entered the tournament. He was the quickest on the mountain's winding trails and the most considerate in settling the people's problems, becoming the new lord of the land. As a result, these mountains became known as Piatra Craiului (The Philanderer's Rock).
It took me more than a half-day to complete the ascent. I eventually arrive at my father's cabin after passing through a hallway in the mountains where the light shines through round holes in the stone ceiling. Despite its age and nature's wrath, the cottage is in excellent condition.
Even though my strides are light, I know my father. He probably sensed me a while ago and is already preparing something to drink.
As I enter the cabin, I see him standing near the stove. Firewood crackles under two pots. Tuica (moonshine) is boiling in at least one of them since the fragrance has taken over my sinuses and is itching right into my head.
“Welcome, son!” He comes and hugs me, slapping hard on my back. If I were a little weaker, he would have taken me down with that. “Tea or tuica?”
“Tea," I say as I sit on a wooden chair. "I’ll descend before the sun goes down and I’m driving.”
“You can leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow night is a full moon, and I have to be with my pack.”
“You have the time to get there if you leave straight to the meeting grounds.”
It’s hard to refuse him when he wants something. Finally, I give in. “Tuica then.”
He nods, smiling, and I watch him preparing it. Black peppercorns drop into the boiling alcohol. Solely the smell of the concoction makes me dizzy. This thing warms your insides and keeps you hot even on a freezing winter night.
After the second shot, he asks, “What brings you here, son?”
With my thoughts jumbled by the alcohol, I stop for a moment, searching for the answer at the bottom of the glass.
“I think I’m falling in love again.”
Saying this aloud surprises me more than my father. This level of honesty bewilders me until I see my refilled glass. Yes, tuica does that to me. “I know your advice by rote now. Do not trust women. They will only divert your attention from what is truly important.”
"It took me years of seclusion, meditation, and howling at the moon to realize how vital love is. By ignoring it, you hurt yourself and those you care about." His hazel eyes crinkle, as do a few creases that indicate his age. "My advice was wrong. There's only one person to blame for letting your mother's smile fade away. I became engrossed in my routine and failed to attend to her needs and demonstrate my affection for her."
I lower my head. As I feel powerless, my hands shove inside my hair in an attempt to pull something, my teeth gritting in frustration.
"You don't understand, father," I whisper more to myself. "She is a strigoi—"
He comes closer, his hand removing mine. His palm rests gently on top of my head. My father was never a caring man. The few times he touched me were either for a hug, like now when I arrived, or for a slap when I was young and used to fool around. His proximity puzzles me as much as my previous declaration of love.
“Son, I would have loved your mother even if she were a strigoi. But I was unable to express my feelings. Don’t make the same mistake as your foolish father. Appreciate the small things, how you feel and how you make her feel, cherish those and keep them alive. That’s what you should do.”
When I look him in the eyes, the certainty in his hazel gaze silences me. "It's too late for me now. But you're still young. It is not too late for you to make a change."
We keep drinking for the rest of the day and half of the night, each of us thinking of our own faults. I wouldn’t have ever expected this from my father. The rules I believe in are not made of hardened steel, but of a molding dough that bends depending on one's point of view. My world and my convictions are turning upside down, or is it just because of the moonshine?