Winterreise: A Winter's Journey

By G.F. Skipworth

Based on the poems employed by composer Franz Schubert in his famous song cycle, Die Winterreise, the Skipworth adaptation takes the reader on a 24 part path toward insanity as the central character experiences rejection before traveling the ancient world. Colorful and dangerous characters abound, such as Knochenfrau (bone woman) and Leirmann, himself. We all have to go into the woods sometime, but like this?

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.F. Skipworth
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311228963

G.F. Skipworth

George Skipworth has toured much of the globe as a concert pianist, symphonic/operatic conductor, vocalist, and composer/arranger. However, on the day he sat down to write a 4th Symphony, a novel came out instead. 12 books later, and he's still going strong

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WINTERREISE

G.F. Skipworth

Rosslare Arts International – Rosslare Press

Portland, Oregon

Copyright Jan. 2010 by Rosslare Press/G.F. Skipworth.All rights reserved. Printed in the United States. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, reports and reviews. For information, address Rosslare Press, 7660 SW Oleson Rd., Portland, Oregon 97223

First Edition 2010

Visit the Rosslare website at: www.rosslarebooks.com

ISNB (13) 9780982471029 (ISBN (10) 0982471025

To Barbara,

the only editor I know who could turn right around and sing the whole cycle

There is no soul in the wide cosmos that has solved all its own mysteries, nor is there a soul that is left utterly alone. There is a kindness that walks abroad, an interruption to hasty, ill-devised thoughts such as dying in the snow. One can only wonder at the vigils kept for our sakes, and for some, all it takes is a snowball.

Episodes

Gute Nacht (Good Night)

Die Wetterfahne (The Weather Vane)

Gefrorne Tränen (Frozen Tears)

Erstarrung (Frozen Delirium)

Der Lindenbaum (The Linden Tree)

Wasserflut (The Watery Flood)

Auf dem Flusse (By the River)

Rückblick (Looking Back)

Irrlicht (Will O’ the Wisp)

Rast (Stopping)

Frühlingstraum (A Dream of Spring)

Einsamkeit (Loneliness)

Messages Home

Die Post (Post)

Der Greise Kopf (the Gray Head)

Die Krähe (The Crow)

Letzte Hoffnung (Last Hope)

Im Dorfe (In the Village)

Der Stürmische Morgen (The Stormy Morning)

Täuschung (Illusion)

Der Wegweiser (The Signpost)

Das Wirtshaus (The Inn)

Mut (Courage)

Die Nebensonnen (The Mock Suns)

Der Leiermann (The Hurdy-Gurdy Man)

Epilogue

Winter’s Journey

Gute Nacht (Good Night)

Those who inhabit these forests were not so different from you. They sat by their fires into the night and heard the tales of their elders…thought of the great beasts watching the light of windows within the deepest woodlands…and trembled under the bedding. In winter and summer, they waited for their fathers, uncles and elder brothers to come off the mountain summits to village hearths and loving families. They were taught the stories by grandfathers and from their grandfathers, about the way of happiness and its undoing. Every child learned of the giving and taking away of strength, love and luck. The whole village, even the smallest among them, understood that light and dark would follow them all their days, bringing sudden ruin to joys, but then saving them from the precipice through some enticement…from love to apathy, wealth to poverty, vision to confusion and sweet homes to bitter journeys, just to save that little portion with which they began.

The great ruler from whom this life of caprice issues has no name or form. He…she, perhaps, will never be known, but the elders have always believed that if such a force were to allow untainted bliss to overcome them, they would fade into uselessness, devoid of fire as helpless disciples of dying passions. Perhaps, then, such a thing was necessary in their world…and yet, some would prefer that it be not so, for the ruthlessness with which their lives were treated inspired many to escape through death or insanity. Yes, they are the same. They have looked into love’s bright eyes one moment, only to find them a dead grey when next they meet. They have lost all that they had, and in that moment could almost hear the laughter of the Thief of Time, the Puppet Master. Like you, they have been sent on epic journeys, like it or no, to recover what was lost. For you, the journey is often an inward one, but for them, great distances must be traversed and battles must be fought, inwardly and outwardly…with the heart, the mind, the sword, staff and bow. Theirs was a dangerous world for such journeys. Unlike your mythologies, theirs straddled the real and unreal, appearing and disappearing at their leisure. More importantly, veiled as the great Thief may have been, his…her henchman walked upon their soil unseen and enslaved them to these journeys. He was as real and touchable as their own children but then in another instant more elusive than the cleverest will-of-the-wisp, more mysterious than the early morning fog over the valley…and more inscrutable than the most ancient of scriptures. It is to him that each of the forest people were obliged to go when they journeyed, and where he took them was not foretold and offered no guarantee of relief, or even of life. No one could ever guess at his fate when called by The Leiermann.

Wanderer was a young man and, for young men, such thoughts were a waste of time, unholy water thrown on the fires of youthful pursuits. His people were, to the last one, warriors, hunters and lovers. The first two came from the harsh realities of this world, and the third…no surprise there. They were the most like you in this regard. Despite the tales of the hearth, youth believed that all battles would, in time, be won, all journeys would end in restoration and that all love would be eternal. The young warrior believed that Leiermann could be easily bargained with and eventually out-smarted. None of the huntsmen could believe that the great right arm they thrust into the air today would ever wither. Its sword would be forever light, its fervor at the ready and its attending maiden forever breathless. All things bowed to them, nothing was written that they could not rewrite and their passion for beauty would be a lasting, reliable compass. It was in this state of exquisite stupidity that Wanderer met Tahhni.

To suggest that he met Tahhni in one moment of destiny would not be wholly true. Wanderer grew up with her. They were childhood playmates, and although a future match was often discussed, they knew nothing of such things. However, Wanderer was forced to leave the village for several years when Leiermann called his father to Autumn Journey. He had a deformed hand, and although he could fight, it was not possible for him to carry his weapons and provisions together, so his son accompanied him. He went off to confront Leiermann for taking away his mother’s good health, and despite his extraordinary valor throughout the journey and his best efforts against the most powerful forest deity, she did not live through the winter. Wanderer’s father returned home in such a despondent state, almost demented, that he could never again rise above it. Through the years his condition worsened, and he lived under Wanderer’s care ever after. His mother resided in a distant region of the forest, and they had not seen each other for some years. Wanderer never understood this, but in this culture, to ask would have been an affront to family. Of course, Tahhni had grown, but no one could have envisioned that this tiny goddess would flower from such a distant, raspy-voiced, clumsy child. That surprising transformation, and the desperate need for something beautiful in Wanderer’s life, sparked an attraction from which he never recovered…and may it always be so.

By your measurements, Tahhni stood just five feet and weighed barely one hundred and five pounds. Her face was bright and pixie-like, to put it into your mythology’s perspective. Her deep red-brown hair was cut sharply about her features in an other-worldly way, and fell straight and shining down the length of her back, almost to her knees. Beside her bright smile sat a freckle or two and her eyes were of a luminous green, past the power of any emerald upon your world. She spoke little, and rarely asked anything of anyone, gazing instead until she knew all she needed to know. She could stand for hours upon the highest peak locked in such a gaze, unaware of falling night or rising cold. On such an afternoon and evening were the two united in intention, and sought to depart the mountain for affirmation before Tahhni’s family, which is the forest custom. After this brief ritual, Wanderer was, by tradition, to take her for presentation to his father. His blessing was not crucial, but his obligatory adulation of his son’s entrance into destiny was of enormous importance. Indeed, they could never come to speak as two men without it, and that would have been an unbearable humiliation for them both. Even in his delirium, everyone felt certain that the ritual ran deeply enough within him as to bring him back to the living, if only for the moment.

From the peak’s uppermost tip, then, Wanderer and Tahhni prepared her family (and the whole village) for their arrival by blowing the shalka that always hung upon their belts. The shalka bears much resemblance to a ram’s horn, and no villager under a very elderly age has ever been without one. This should seem reasonable to anyone…after all, who knows when one will fall in love? As is customary, Wanderer blew the lower, single note four times, and waited for the echo to subside. Tahhni’s shalka repeated the pattern, four notes higher. At that point, everyone in the valley stopped whatever they were doing and waited in suspenseful silence…until it came…both shalkas at once…two notes, each one long and steady…the signal for a marriage feast. Mundane chores were abandoned at once, and a group of Tahhni’s friends scurried to her home to confirm that the family had heard the alpine call. At last, whatever city fathers could be mustered gathered before the town well at the center of the square, raising their shalkas and answering the couple’s announcement, inviting them to return.

That very night, they stood before Tahhni’s mother, father and three sisters. They were brought to the lodge home, fed and allowed to rest for a short while. The deep snow had given them a chill, and while Wanderer dried himself before the fire, Tahhni was taken away for a time, only to return in a resplendent, floor-length red shawl beaded with silver in the crest of her family, a great hawk in flight. Her hair had been braided into two full-bodied strands, one over each shoulder, and her green eyes flared with anticipation in the firelight. There is no traditional dress for an aspiring husband in this culture, for in such an arrangement, Tahhni represents the beauty to which each suitor is drawn. Wanderer was to be merely the seeker, already away on his first great symbolic journey. In the here and now, only Tahhni would decide the outcome. The groom and the bride’s family attended for no other reason than to witness her decision and to carry out her every want.

For a man who has stood with his father through Autumn Journey against Leiermann, Wanderer had little experience. He did not understand why he could never see what his father saw. When the older man was in combat, his struggles were, to Wanderer, aimed at the invisible air. When he encountered the forest spirits and creatures, Wanderer heard only his father’s voice…none other. In his search for the symbolic relics of his quest, a search that sent him digging through the forest soil and among the rocks, the son never beheld what the father claimed to have found. And, in his mighty duel with Leiermann, Wanderer saw no grizzled specter, such as the one that the man on journey described...no squealing, roaring or whispering that other men remember on their journeys, nor could he ever find a footprint in the snow that might convince him that there had been a battle. And so, there was little reason for the young hunter to recognize the summons when it came to the Great Lodge House of Tahhni’s family, at the very instant when they were to draw near for the sealing of their commitment.

The ritual required only that, at such a moment, Wanderer was to close his eyes. Tahhni’s family followed this direction as well, as only the bride was allowed to see. It has been said that brides of sufficient wisdom take this time to gaze far down the years and witness the destinies of husbands, children and friends of the small circle. Wanderer was certain that, for Tahhni, this was true. Everyone knew that she had the sight, although she was loath to employ or explore its full meaning, and that no one dared contradict her inner knowledge without great care. As he stood before her, eyes closed, Wanderer thought of the men standing in the snow around the house, young men of his own age who had worshipped Tahhni since childhood. He could hear their hearts break, and yet none had ever spoken their minds to her, or to each other. It was understood that Wanderer and Tahhni were of one another’s destiny, and to wage war against another’s destiny among this people is a sin against nature. Still, it would become Wanderer’s obligation to serve his friends in any reasonable way he could in the coming year as recompense.

When the air in the room went heavy, Wanderer could feel its effect on those outside as well, although he heard nothing. Not able to see, what he imagined took on the darkness of a smoky glass. Still, he did not give in to opening his eyes. That was not allowed until the time when Tahhni was to give the word. It had been a long while and Wanderer was concerned, although he really had no idea as to how long her mind’s journey was to take. His shoulders began to slump as if he had carried his pack for a long distance, and when Tahhni finally instructed him to look upon her again, it was both a relief and a distress, for her voice seemed unnatural and the air about them was filled with the presence of unknown and unelcome beings…You are not yet the man…now is not yet the time. Look upon me, and hear me.

Wanderer obeyed, but nothing was as it should have been. Tahhni’s mother and father were stooped under the weight he had felt, their heads hanging forward with eyes half open. He had only seen such a look among the young who drank too much clover mead at the festivals. Tahhni’s three sisters had all turned and faced away, and Grabiss the hound retreated from the groom-to-be, on the verge of a soft snarl. Tahhni spoke again, but the voice that Wanderer loved could no longer be heard. The tone was lower, full of grit and softly hissing breath. He tried to step back and break the contact between their hands, but the grip that held him to the floor was far stronger than he could ever have imagined. His efforts at calling for those outside the house failed, as his voice was wholly stifled…"You are called this night to Winter Journey…you have demeaned this maid through your shallow intentions – beauty as medicine for your drab life. You have brought the Winterreise upon yourself. Go this night – take no one with you – give no thought to where, or to what end – you will be led. The maid will sleep – think not to disturb her further. Come to me – we will reason this out through travel and trouble. I await – now go! The urge to ponder that which Wanderer heard was cut short by a circling wind that overtook the room. He was to remember the sight of Tahhni’s hair thrashing about as she turned to the steps leading upward and would ever recall her mother and father almost toppling from the force of the invisible gale. Before he could mark his next thought, however, he was outside in the snow, on his back, fully clothed for alpine walking, his pack beside him. Struggling to his feet, he rushed the heavy wooden door to reenter the house, but was met with three of the hunting hounds, all baring their teeth and showing none of their former familiarity. Not to be denied, Wanderer called Tahhni’s name, but each time he shouted, the hissing voice shot through his brain…Go! Trouble me no further... or the maid, ever again. You are not yet the man…this is not yet the time. She no longer finds favor in you. You are dead to her. Now go, or die!

Fremd bin ich eingezogen I came as a stranger zieh Fremd zieh ich wieder aus As a stranger I depart

Der Mai war mir gewogen May was good to me

Mit manchen Blumenstrauss with many flowers

Das Mädchen sprach von Liebe The Maid spoke of love

Die Mutter gar von Eh The mother of marriage

Nun ist die Welt so trübe But now the world is dull

Der Weg gehüllt in Schnee the way lies under snow

Ich kann zu meiner Reisen The journey’s destination

Nicht wählen mit der Zeit I cannot wait to choose

Muss selbst den Weg mir weisen I must choose the pat

In dieser Dunkelheit now, in this darkness

Es zieht ein Mondenschatten A shadowed moon

Als mein Gefährte mit travels with me

Und auf den Weisse Matten And in the white meadows

Such ich des Wildes Tritt I look for animal tracks

Was soll ich länger weilen, Shall I remain here,

Dass man mich trieb hinaus? only to be thrown out?

Lass ihre Hunde heulen Leave the dogs to howl

Vor ihres Herren Haus Before the master’s house

Die Liebe liebt das Wandern Love loves the wanderer

Gott hat sie so gemacht God has made it so

Von einem zu dem andern from one to the other

Fein Liebchen, gute Nacht! My fine love, then, good n

Will dich im Traum nicht stören I won’t disturb your

dreams

Wär schad um deine Ruh A pity to ruin your peace

Sollst meinen Tritt nicht hören My footsteps will be silent

Sacht, sacht die Türe zu! Soft, soft I’ll close the door

Schreib im Vorübergehen As I depart, I’ll write:

Ans Tor dir: gute Nacht Good Night on the gate

Damit du mögest sehen So that you will see

An dich hab ich gedacht I thought only of you

Die Wetterfahne (The Weathervane)

Insanity is not, by necessity, a gradual condition, if one is sufficiently shocked by his surroundings. Wanderer had, in his life, responded to every danger that the forest can present, but here,