shirt, my bra was soaked with sweat and chafed against my skin. “But this village, it is one of the only places associated with Báthory that advertises the link,” continued Maria. “Her castle at Sárvár, her former home in Vienna, even Beckov, just down the river from here, they all try to ignore her. They have nothing in their museums, or in the literature on the ruins, that mentions her.”
“But why?” I panted. “Wouldn’t they want to promote it, get the tourist revenue?”
Maria let out a light laugh, then a sigh. “Things are not, or at least were not, all about the money. Báthory was hated and feared among the peasants, and at the end ostracized by the Hungarian nobility. It is still not popular to speak of the Blood Countess in some areas.”
Maria slowed her pace and slid her small hand around my waist, undeterred by my sweaty torso. “But Čachtice, it is different. It is good you are here, Dani.” She wiped a trickle of sweat from my temple. Her fingers were cool, her touch light. “In ten years here, it will be as commercialized as it is in Transylvania, Wallachia. Buses full with tourists, with cameras around their necks, overrunning the sites. Like the tours to Bran and Pele?.” She pulled her arm away from my waist and picked up her pace again, despite the incline and the heat. “You will see how Čachtice is now, no commercialism.”
The path reached the top of the hill and flattened out, a grassed-over furrow that seemed to lead nowhere. We kept walking for a few minutes. Then the ruins of the castle rose into view, two tall towers and formidable stone walls. Because the structure was positioned on land slightly lower than the path, we couldn’t see it until we were about twenty feet away. The walls were about fifteen feet high, made of grey, now-crumbling stones. The two turrets, kitty-corner from each other, rose three times higher than the walls. The tops of both towers had caved in. The larger tower was missing a wide seam of stones, top to bottom, as if an enormous vulture had gutted it with a talon.
Maria led me through the winding, crumbling walls. She kept hold of my hand as we picked our way through half-buried steps and remnants of firepits. “From the local teenagers,” she said. “This is a place they gather.”
“A hangout?” I asked. “Čachtice isn’t preserved as a historical site?”
“There are many castles in these mountains, Dani. There is not money or interest enough to preserve them all. Here.” We stopped in front of the tallest tower, stepped inside through the cleft of missing stones. Maria pointed out where the masonry patterns indicated a door, a staircase, a floor. “This,” she pointed twenty feet up, “would have been the middle of the tower. Probably the royal chamber, for the lady. Where she would have died.”
A thick scattering of poppies, with a few pansies and bluebells, carpeted the ground where we stood. I wondered how many people’s blood had fertilized the soil. The red petals frilled like petticoats, each a girl cut, spilled.
We walked through the flowers, farther into the ruins. Maria stepped ahead under a dilapidated archway made from crushingly heavy stones. The mortar that held the rocks together was cracked, half of it chipped away. A crow landed, took off from the top and loosed a smattering of pebbles. I hesitated.
Maria was on the other side. She turned back to me. “You come all this way to be halted by some little stones? You are not serious, Dani.” Her hair shone, ruby waves against her mustard gold sundress. She looked at the rocks. Each lens of her dark sunglasses reflected a curved, contorted image of the arch. “It will not fall. Stepping through, it is hardly a risk.” She took three steps towards me, extended her hand underneath the stones. I held her hand and jumped through.
Chapter Seven
After I pay for my spider lashes, Maria and I go for lunch. She leads me through a series of quick lefts, rights,
“But why?” I panted. “Wouldn’t they want to promote it, get the tourist revenue?”
Maria let out a light laugh, then a sigh. “Things are not, or at least were not, all about the money. Báthory was hated and feared among the peasants, and at the end ostracized by the Hungarian nobility. It is still not popular to speak of the Blood Countess in some areas.”
Maria slowed her pace and slid her small hand around my waist, undeterred by my sweaty torso. “But Čachtice, it is different. It is good you are here, Dani.” She wiped a trickle of sweat from my temple. Her fingers were cool, her touch light. “In ten years here, it will be as commercialized as it is in Transylvania, Wallachia. Buses full with tourists, with cameras around their necks, overrunning the sites. Like the tours to Bran and Pele?.” She pulled her arm away from my waist and picked up her pace again, despite the incline and the heat. “You will see how Čachtice is now, no commercialism.”
The path reached the top of the hill and flattened out, a grassed-over furrow that seemed to lead nowhere. We kept walking for a few minutes. Then the ruins of the castle rose into view, two tall towers and formidable stone walls. Because the structure was positioned on land slightly lower than the path, we couldn’t see it until we were about twenty feet away. The walls were about fifteen feet high, made of grey, now-crumbling stones. The two turrets, kitty-corner from each other, rose three times higher than the walls. The tops of both towers had caved in. The larger tower was missing a wide seam of stones, top to bottom, as if an enormous vulture had gutted it with a talon.
Maria led me through the winding, crumbling walls. She kept hold of my hand as we picked our way through half-buried steps and remnants of firepits. “From the local teenagers,” she said. “This is a place they gather.”
“A hangout?” I asked. “Čachtice isn’t preserved as a historical site?”
“There are many castles in these mountains, Dani. There is not money or interest enough to preserve them all. Here.” We stopped in front of the tallest tower, stepped inside through the cleft of missing stones. Maria pointed out where the masonry patterns indicated a door, a staircase, a floor. “This,” she pointed twenty feet up, “would have been the middle of the tower. Probably the royal chamber, for the lady. Where she would have died.”
A thick scattering of poppies, with a few pansies and bluebells, carpeted the ground where we stood. I wondered how many people’s blood had fertilized the soil. The red petals frilled like petticoats, each a girl cut, spilled.
We walked through the flowers, farther into the ruins. Maria stepped ahead under a dilapidated archway made from crushingly heavy stones. The mortar that held the rocks together was cracked, half of it chipped away. A crow landed, took off from the top and loosed a smattering of pebbles. I hesitated.
Maria was on the other side. She turned back to me. “You come all this way to be halted by some little stones? You are not serious, Dani.” Her hair shone, ruby waves against her mustard gold sundress. She looked at the rocks. Each lens of her dark sunglasses reflected a curved, contorted image of the arch. “It will not fall. Stepping through, it is hardly a risk.” She took three steps towards me, extended her hand underneath the stones. I held her hand and jumped through.
Chapter Seven
After I pay for my spider lashes, Maria and I go for lunch. She leads me through a series of quick lefts, rights,
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