THE DUNGEONS BENEATH ČACHTICE
If anything, she had loved the more. Looking out from her tower, now the only remaining fortification against retribution and a deceptive one at that, Elizabeth saw but birds and trees of the field and men who knew nothing of love.
Had she lived, for instance, in classical times – had she been an Amazon warrior of the Phoenician or Ethiopian tribe, her skin blackened by the sun and her armor glistening from the fat of freshly butchered goats, yea, nobody would have blamed her.
Now they said she was a ghoul, a devourer of human flesh, or a witch, a dragon, a cannibal most foul, and a vampire who bathed in the blood of virgins. Ha! Had any of these maids been virgins? She doubted that.
A killer? Yes, undoubtedly. Her hand had raised the knife many a time, too often for the mind behind the hand around the handle to remember the name of each maiden, except for one, the first, her truest love.
This too, Elizabeth thought with some sarcasm, for what love had it been, what a title to grant this, a love so treacherous and frail and submissive to the view of the clergy and peasant – two not too dissimilar classes – that it would cast her out into this, a transformation more horrifying than any of Ovid’s fables.
The Blood Countess, the commoners called her… forever the name of Bathory would be stained by the blood of the innocent.
She sighed at first, and then she shrugged. What is a name, after all?
Maria, oh, had she been like the sweetness that drops from the honeycomb?
Elizabeth had worshipped her, the steps of her feet as she brought her the water in the morning and the wine in the evening, joyous steps, like the steps of the messenger who brings good tidings.
Supple breasts, and lips like grapes, and eyes so tender, so full of mercy, only slightly aged by the horrors of the world, only giving away in glimpses the menace that lived behind them, the soul.
Sweet like honey, yes, but with a sting of a thousand bees. How each word she spoke as she got up from the bed had pierced her.
The woman, pale from a year of incarceration and uncertainty and threat, turned her face from the window to observe the structures in the rocks that formed the wall, a pastime most enjoyable since she thought she saw in the random edgings of time the memories of naked bodies intertwined in passion.
Only this too was a short-lived pleasure, for soon she saw the bodies twisted in agony, with their backs broken or necks slit, and any random speck of dirt would appear to her like desiccated blood.
“You witch, you bewitched me. I would not have laid down with you had you not used your magic tricks on me. You may be a queen and I only a maid, but I am a holy and most righteous one, and the priest, my father, will also know, you put the demon in me to do this hideous deed in the sight of the Lord. I will tell on you, I swear.”
The words had echoed in Elizabeth’s mind, along with the sight of the wheel, the stake, the spike and the gallows, so often put into use against infractions against the holy order and, as her current state would testify, a threat to even the most noble of governors.
She had been like a wheat field on summer solstice, splendid in the sunlight, her skin glowing like a copper statue in the last rays of the setting sun.
Now the men that had left their scars on her would come for Elizabeth again, this time to draw more from her body than the blood, she feared. They would collect her cross, tie it to the belt of wandering death, and return it to Mayet.
Order would be restored, and not a moment too soon. Elizabeth felt, with her entire organism, the collapse of the order of the world, starting inside her blackened heart and spiraling out of her, even now as her hands were prevented from administering such death, such grievance, such bloom of unmarked graves on the misty fields around Trenčín.
Maria. Elizabeth spoke her name. But I cut her down with my sickle. I would have descended on her like sacred dew of morning, entered her like the grace of Athena after a sacrifice, and I would have protected her like Diana her deer and her nymphs.
Instead, I became like one of the furies. I buried her under the blood stained moon.
So much blood… on her hands, on her dress, on the floor and the walls and her conscience, that sentinel of Tartarus, Yahweh’s last trick on mankind and, ironically, womankind in particular.
Elizabeth hid her eyes in her hands. She had never had the strength to poke them out. Instead she had followed them to her doom, to the wheel, the spike, the stake and the gallows, the monuments of the holy kingdom, of which she was yet the sovereign, but only for a little longer and only for show.
Had Elizabeth been Sappho, surely she would not have fallen so far. Had she been Zeus, her detractors would be vanquishing instead.
At night they came to her, young and pale, with weed growing out of their muddy eyes… to sink their sharp teeth into her flesh, slowly draining her of life as if such cruelty would bring them theirs back.
It was no dream, of this she was certain.
In fact, what she experienced in her waking hours, the room itself, the fading colors of the drapery on the walls, her clothes and the food that sustained her… even her treasured view through the bars of the window, where she could on occasion see majestic raptors rising and falling on the wind behind the glamour of the rooftops of the town beneath – all this, she thought, could very well be interpreted as the dream from which she woke, as she descended the long and dreadfully dark staircase leading to the dungeons beneath Čachtice.
Alžbeta Bátoriová was accused of up to 400 murders of young women, but due to her nobility never tried, sentenced or convicted. She lived out the rest of her life, four years, under house arrest, walled up in her room at the castle Čachtice.
THE DUNGEONS BENEATH ČACHTICE
If anything, she had loved the more. Looking out from her tower, now the only remaining fortification against retribution and a deceptive one at that, Elizabeth saw but birds and trees of the field and men who knew nothing of love.
Had she lived, for instance, in classical times – had she been an Amazon warrior of the Phoenician or Ethiopian tribe, her skin blackened by the sun and her armor glistening from the fat of freshly butchered goats, yea, nobody would have blamed her.
Now they said she was a ghoul, a devourer of human flesh, or a witch, a dragon, a cannibal most foul, and a vampire who bathed in the blood of virgins. Ha! Had any of these maids been virgins? She doubted that.
A killer? Yes, undoubtedly. Her hand had raised the knife many a time, too often for the mind behind the hand around the handle to remember the name of each maiden, except for one, the first, her truest love.
This too, Elizabeth thought with some sarcasm, for what love had it been, what a title to grant this, a love so treacherous and frail and submissive to the view of the clergy and peasant – two not too dissimilar classes – that it would cast her out into this, a transformation more horrifying than any of Ovid’s fables.
The Blood Countess, the commoners called her… forever the name of Bathory would be stained by the blood of the innocent.
She sighed at first, and then she shrugged. What is a name, after all?
Maria, oh, had she been like the sweetness that drops from the honeycomb?
Elizabeth had worshipped her, the steps of her feet as she brought her the water in the morning and the wine in the evening, joyous steps, like the steps of the messenger who brings good tidings.
Supple breasts, and lips like grapes, and eyes so tender, so full of mercy, only slightly aged by the horrors of the world, only giving away in glimpses the menace that lived behind them, the soul.
Sweet like honey, yes, but with a sting of a thousand bees. How each word she spoke as she got up from the bed had pierced her.
The woman, pale from a year of incarceration and uncertainty and threat, turned her face from the window to observe the structures in the rocks that formed the wall, a pastime most enjoyable since she thought she saw in the random edgings of time the memories of naked bodies intertwined in passion.
Only this too was a short-lived pleasure, for soon she saw the bodies twisted in agony, with their backs broken or necks slit, and any random speck of dirt would appear to her like desiccated blood.
“You witch, you bewitched me. I would not have laid down with you had you not used your magic tricks on me. You may be a queen and I only a maid, but I am a holy and most righteous one, and the priest, my father, will also know, you put the demon in me to do this hideous deed in the sight of the Lord. I will tell on you, I swear.”
The words had echoed in Elizabeth’s mind, along with the sight of the wheel, the stake, the spike and the gallows, so often put into use against infractions against the holy order and, as her current state would testify, a threat to even the most noble of governors.
She had been like a wheat field on summer solstice, splendid in the sunlight, her skin glowing like a copper statue in the last rays of the setting sun.
Now the men that had left their scars on her would come for Elizabeth again, this time to draw more from her body than the blood, she feared. They would collect her cross, tie it to the belt of wandering death, and return it to Mayet.
Order would be restored, and not a moment too soon. Elizabeth felt, with her entire organism, the collapse of the order of the world, starting inside her blackened heart and spiraling out of her, even now as her hands were prevented from administering such death, such grievance, such bloom of unmarked graves on the misty fields around Trenčín.
Maria. Elizabeth spoke her name. But I cut her down with my sickle. I would have descended on her like sacred dew of morning, entered her like the grace of Athena after a sacrifice, and I would have protected her like Diana her deer and her nymphs.
Instead, I became like one of the furies. I buried her under the blood stained moon.
So much blood… on her hands, on her dress, on the floor and the walls and her conscience, that sentinel of Tartarus, Yahweh’s last trick on mankind and, ironically, womankind in particular.
Elizabeth hid her eyes in her hands. She had never had the strength to poke them out. Instead she had followed them to her doom, to the wheel, the spike, the stake and the gallows, the monuments of the holy kingdom, of which she was yet the sovereign, but only for a little longer and only for show.
Had Elizabeth been Sappho, surely she would not have fallen so far. Had she been Zeus, her detractors would be vanquishing instead.
At night they came to her, young and pale, with weed growing out of their muddy eyes… to sink their sharp teeth into her flesh, slowly draining her of life as if such cruelty would bring them theirs back.
It was no dream, of this she was certain.
In fact, what she experienced in her waking hours, the room itself, the fading colors of the drapery on the walls, her clothes and the food that sustained her… even her treasured view through the bars of the window, where she could on occasion see majestic raptors rising and falling on the wind behind the glamour of the rooftops of the town beneath – all this, she thought, could very well be interpreted as the dream from which she woke, as she descended the long and dreadfully dark staircase leading to the dungeons beneath Čachtice.
Alžbeta Bátoriová was accused of up to 400 murders of young women, but due to her nobility never tried, sentenced or convicted. She lived out the rest of her life, four years, under house arrest, walled up in her room at the castle Čachtice.
If anything, she had loved the more. Looking out from her tower, now the only remaining fortification against retribution and a deceptive one at that, Elizabeth saw but birds and trees of the field and men who knew nothing of love.
Had she lived, for instance, in classical times – had she been an Amazon warrior of the Phoenician or Ethiopian tribe, her skin blackened by the sun and her armor glistening from the fat of freshly butchered goats, yea, nobody would have blamed her.
Now they said she was a ghoul, a devourer of human flesh, or a witch, a dragon, a cannibal most foul, and a vampire who bathed in the blood of virgins. Ha! Had any of these maids been virgins? She doubted that.
A killer? Yes, undoubtedly. Her hand had raised the knife many a time, too often for the mind behind the hand around the handle to remember the name of each maiden, except for one, the first, her truest love.
This too, Elizabeth thought with some sarcasm, for what love had it been, what a title to grant this, a love so treacherous and frail and submissive to the view of the clergy and peasant – two not too dissimilar classes – that it would cast her out into this, a transformation more horrifying than any of Ovid’s fables.
The Blood Countess, the commoners called her… forever the name of Bathory would be stained by the blood of the innocent.
She sighed at first, and then she shrugged. What is a name, after all?
Maria, oh, had she been like the sweetness that drops from the honeycomb?
Elizabeth had worshipped her, the steps of her feet as she brought her the water in the morning and the wine in the evening, joyous steps, like the steps of the messenger who brings good tidings.
Supple breasts, and lips like grapes, and eyes so tender, so full of mercy, only slightly aged by the horrors of the world, only giving away in glimpses the menace that lived behind them, the soul.
Sweet like honey, yes, and youth, but with the sting of a thousand bees. How each word she spoke as she got up from the bed had pierced Elizabeth.
The ageing woman, pale from a year of incarceration and uncertainty and threat, turned her face from the window to observe the structures in the rocks that formed the wall, a pastime most enjoyable since she thought she saw in the random edgings of time the memories of naked bodies intertwined in passion.
Only this too was a short-lived pleasure, for soon she saw the bodies twisted in agony, with their backs broken or necks slit, and any random speck of dirt would appear to her like desiccated blood.
“You witch, you bewitched me. I would not have laid down with you had you not used your magic tricks on me. You may be a queen and I only a maid, but I am a holy and most righteous one, and the priest, my father, will also know, you put the demon in me to do this hideous deed in the sight of the Lord. I will tell on you, I swear.”
The words had echoed in Elizabeth’s mind, along with the sight of the wheel, the stake, the spike and the gallows, so often put into use against infractions against the holy order and, as her current state would testify, a threat to even the most noble of governors.
She had been like a wheat field on summer solstice, splendid in the sunlight, her skin glowing like a copper statue in the last rays of the setting sun.
Now the men that had left their scars on her would come for Elizabeth again, this time to draw more from her body than the blood, she feared. They would collect her cross, tie it to the belt of wandering death, and return it to Mayet.
Order would be restored, and not a moment too soon. Elizabeth felt, with her entire organism, the collapse of the order of the world, starting inside her blackened heart and spiraling out of her, even now as her hands were prevented from administering such death, such grievance, such bloom of unmarked graves on the misty fields around Trenčín.
Maria. Elizabeth spoke her name. But I cut her down with my sickle. I would have descended on her like sacred dew of morning, entered her like the grace of Athena after a sacrifice, and I would have protected her like Diana her deer and her nymphs.
Instead, I became like one of the furies. I buried her under the blood stained moon.
So much blood… on her hands, on her dress, on the floor and the walls and her conscience, that sentinel of Tartarus, Yahweh’s last trick on mankind and, ironically, womankind in particular.
Elizabeth hid her eyes in her hands. She had never had the strength to poke them out. Instead she had followed them to her doom, to the wheel, the spike, the stake and the gallows, the monuments of the holy kingdom, of which she was yet the sovereign, but only for a little longer and only for show.
Had Elizabeth been Sappho, surely she would not have fallen so far. Had she been Zeus, her detractors would be vanquishing instead.
At night they came to her, young and pale, with weed growing out of their muddy eyes… to sink their sharp teeth into her flesh, slowly draining her of life as if such cruelty would bring them theirs back.
It was no dream, of this she was certain.
In fact, what she experienced in her waking hours, the room itself, the fading colors of the drapery on the walls, her clothes and the food that sustained her… even her treasured view through the bars of the window, where she could on occasion see majestic raptors rising and falling on the wind behind the glamour of the rooftops of the town beneath – all this, she thought, could very well be interpreted as the dream from which she woke, as she descended the long and dreadfully dark staircase leading to the dungeons beneath Čachtice.
Alžbeta Bátoriová was accused of up to 400 murders of young women, but due to her nobility never tried, sentenced or convicted. She lived out the rest of her life, four years, under house arrest, walled up in her room at the castle Čachtice.