Quiver by Holly Luhning Page B

said. The paper was still almost white, and the only visible mark was a thick crease down the centre that the frame did not quite flatten out. I moved closer and tried to decipher the writing in the low light.
    Maria laughed. “I am sure you will not get anywhere, squinting away at it like that. It is in Hungarian. It says nothing very interesting. He is away with the soldiers, he asks after what has been happening at the estate in Sárvár.”
    Another framed print, a reproduction of a painting, hung beside Ferenc’s picture. It was a torture scene: winter, in a castle courtyard. At one end, Báthory was seated in a throne, dressed in layers of thick robes, and again wore a stiff white collar around her neck. In front of her, several women writhed, naked, in the snow. A crew of black-robed, white-hooded men were grabbing another naked girl, who dug her heels into the snow and resisted their attempts to throw her down. Several figures, all dressed in dark clothing, watched from the side of the courtyard, and an old, kerchiefed woman threw a wash-bucket of water over the supine bodies.
    “This,” said Maria, “is important. It is by a Hungarian artist, nineteenth-century, István Csók.” She pointed to the signature in the corner. “It is a portrayal of the ice-torture I told you of. In winter, she had the girls stripped bare. They poured water over them until they froze, like statues.”
    One of the women lying on the snow looked lifeless; another’s eyes were rolled back and she was straining her head upwards, gasping; another was sitting on her haunches, looking upward as well, seeking some salvation that presumably never came. The countess reclined leisurely, with a contented half smile.
    “Now,” said Maria, briskly, “we go to the castle.”
    Maria led me to the edge of the village and took me down a narrow paved road that led into thick deciduous forest. The canopy of leaves shaded the asphalt and cut the heat. After a couple of miles, the pavement stopped and the path turned into a steeper, ragged dirt trail that meandered among a more open area of brush and tall grasses. Dust and grass stains dirtied my sneakers.
    “Are you sure this is the right road?” I asked.
    “Just a little farther now,” said Maria.
    The sun was still relentless, the mid-afternoon air heavy with the smell of tilled earth and sage. “Maria,” I said, “why did you start researching Báthory?”
    “The question would be more, I think, why someone would not. She was so...human. Only a few people have the power she did, to do exactly what she wanted. What would others do, if they had that chance as well?” She glanced back. “And you, why are you interested?”
    A wasp flew out of the bush and began to circle me. “Well, she definitely is disturbing, but immediately attractive. I don’t know.”
    “You do not know? But you are here, climbing a mountain to see her ruin. You must know,” said Maria, walking faster.
    I didn’t immediately reply. I was drawn to Maria, excited to be around her. But I wasn’t sure if I should confide in her my fascination with the destructive extreme, my fixation on Báthory’s story.
    Finally I said, “I’m intrigued by her ruthlessness. She pursued beauty as a visceral experience. She’s like a reverse fairy tale.”
    Maria stopped and turned to face me. Despite the sun and our pace, she was barely flushed. “I understand. But, Danica. She was not a fairy tale. She lived. Here.” She stomped her foot lightly, then continued up the slope.
    We tromped on for a few minutes and then came upon a sign, the first one posted along the path. It read Čachtichý Hradny Vrch, and a paragraph of Slovak ran below it. Below the sign, there was a photo of Báthory’s portrait, with Museum Čachtice written across the top.
    “They must get lots of tourists,” I said.
    “They are trying. Not so many now. Austrians, Germans, mainly.”
    The slope was getting steeper, and we slowed our pace. Under my