Unknown
Jennet enters the room, then sits in the rocking chair. Later in sadness she goes to the window to look into the darkness and to see the marshes; she presses her forehead against the glass, as if in an attempt to alleviate both the pain and the fever; her whole figure droops.
The stage is utterly black, and a song is played - very sad and mournful; the music gets quieter and quieter - at the same time the scene is slowly lit by the white-grey lamps imitating a moonlit scenery. The lights concentrate on a figure, entering the scene. The music stops playing when the lights are bright enough to show Jennet and her surroundings, but never too bright.
Jennet is pallid and wearing a black, long, shaggy dress (19. century) and a bonnet. We see a half dark child's room and the window. Jennet's almost white hands show her mental disposition.

She whispers

Nathaniel...Nathaniel...Nathaniel, where are you my wonderful child? Nathaniel? 

Lights may give an illusion of a child in a room.

Every day, every hour and every minute I can hear your weak voice pleading for rescue, and yet I am not able to help you, as I was not able to do it on that day. My whole body is shivering, my heart is throbbing, my legs ready to spring, but where, where? 

Unknown


And then, I was there, in the remote northerly corner of England, after my journey in the footsteps of young Arthur Kipps, from tremendously busy London's King's Cross station to slightly lethargic Crewe, and from Crewe to somewhat drowsy Homerby, where I found the branch line to rural, secluded and mystical Crythin Gifford.

I left London's November greyness, with inclement weather and short days; but yet vibrant with flashing neons, shop windows and cars’ lights, with Londoners preparing themselves for the Christmas Holiday, a festival of even more lights and fun; and I found myself in a picturesque tiny village, among houses tucked snugly back against the winds and rains, invading this village frequently from both the marshes and the sea.



Unknown
Every day, every hour and every minute I can hear your weak voice plead for rescue, and yet I am not able to help you, as I was not able to do it that day. My whole body is shivering, my heart is throbbing, my legs ready to spring, but where, where? Nothing can be seen, the treacherous fret approached suddenly blinding both the driver and the horse; the evil, maddening shroud fogged the place, cursed by the dead and the live alike, and nothing can be heard, only you, my little boy...

What a mother was I that I let it happen? My little son, I have lived in the abyss of despair. My love and my life, my beautiful child, I promised to love you and to take care  of you...will you be ever able to forgive me? Sitting in a rocking chair in your room, I watch the marshes, the place where I heard you the last time. I watch them and I hate them.