Lilija: We were but children, Katinka and I,
in the cottage ‘Szirinj’ by the wood.
The springtime brought lilacs, the summer the heat,
the fall blazing leaves and the smell of burnt peat,
and Yule all the snow that it could.
We climbed to the treetops, we swam in the creek,
we sang with the birds in the sky,
we hid in the stables, we ran through the meadows,
always shunning the Slumbering Wood’s twisted shadows
and not even wondering why.
Narrator: Is the snowmelt, the new moon, the east wind to blame?
What evil can springtime arouse?
Emerging from nightmares, oppressive and old
she discovers her sister’s bed empty and cold
and, searching, she pads through the house.
Lilija: Katinka? Where are you? The night is so dark
and no stars pierce the blackness around!
Are there wolves in the yard? There’s a strange, vicious bark,
there’s a scratching of claws on the ground!
Katinka: Be calm, little sister, the stars are asleep
and soft clouds deck the sky in their stead.
Good old Vasja keeps vigil – all the others dream deeply
and we, too, should go back to bed.
Narrator: Meekly, she follows her sister’s warm voice
sensing other soft feet on her heels,
for this hour is different – the shadows are breathing
just outside her view something’s writhing and seething
and familiar shapes seem surreal.
Lilija: Katinka? It’s mother! She’s crying in fear,
there’s a struggle outside by the gorse!
Katinka: All is well, it is only the screech owl, my dear;
it is naught but the hooves of the horse.
Lilija: Katinka? I’m scared! You’re a whisper, a hum,
yet unseen – only sound, never sight.
Katinka: Hush, hush, little sister, if the morning won’t come
let my song be your star in this night.
Narrator: And she sings in a tune spun from longing and light,
in the voice of the wind in the trees,
but a scent softly blends in, suffusing the room,
more heavy, more sweet than the lilacs in bloom
and ineffable words taint the breeze.
Lilija: Katinka? I’m numb, see? My lips will not pray.
I am trembling and do not know why.
Katinka: You are cold, little sister: huddle up in the hay,
dream of bonfires in summers gone by.
Lilija: Katinka? They’re here! Our stairs moan and creak
and a cold, lidless gaze hunts its prey!
Katinka: Come, little sister, we’ll play hide-and-go-seek,
and you’ll see – it’ll soon go away.
Narrator: Katinka is searching, the little one’s hiding
and waiting, her eyes open wide,
in and out of strange dreams, half-awake, half-asleep,
enwrapped in despair, in a dread blind and deep,
adrift in time’s viscous, dark tide.
Lilija: Katinka? At last! The unending night ends,
pale, grey dawn light creeps over the wall,
painting patterns and shapes – come, pray let us join hands
for I still cannot see you at all.
Katinka: Farewell, little sister, I must go with the day.
It’s the way it should be – I comply.
Now go, little sister, there is naught left to say,
keep on going, don’t turn and don’t cry.
Don’t turn and don’t cry. . .
Narrator: All is still. She’s going, eyes forward and dry.
Anxiety growing, eyes forward and dry.
Her feet stick to the gravel, eyes forward and dry,
sense and reason unravel, eyes forward and dry,
waste and ash like the seams of a rabid, red dream,
splintered benches and tables, a stench from the stables,
something’s sprawled near the gorse – she is staying her course
on through thickets and fens, over bridges and glens,
doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn back nor cry – – –
though faintly wondering why.
Lilija: The years now are passing like songbirds in flight.
I’ve forgotten as well as I could.
But mem’ries are fickle, their sleep is too light –
when the lilac’s ablaze they’re drawn back to those days
in our farm by the Slumbering Wood. (Katinka: Awakening Wood. . .)
Then, once more, I’m padding the silent, dark house,
eyes wide open, though no longer dry,
listening, calling the names of the dead,
and waiting, forlorn, between yearning and dread,
wistfully wondering why, (Narrator: Don’t cry! Lilija: Oh, why? Katinka: Good-bye. . .)
forever wondering why. (Katinka: Why?)