Licho Nie Śpi

** pronounce: Lee-ho **

Generations living near the Polish woods would heed the warning. Perhaps it was just folk legend, but nobody would risk going into the forest past nightfall. Some very superstitious villagers would not risk going into the forest at all, lest they come back yellow-eyed and crazed with the devil in their veins. They claimed some dogs that ventured into the woods in chase of a squirrel came back rabid and demonic. Of course, it was most likely the squirrel had rabies, though in the villagers’ minds, it was all the Licho’s doing. After all, what made the squirrel rabid in the first place if not the wood demon?

To air on the side of caution, people would burn white candles before bedtime to keep away black magic and creatures of the night. Parents would place icons of saints in their children’s bedroom windows and pray to Maria Matka Boska to ward off evil spirits. They would wear rosaries around their necks and keep holy water in their pockets to scare away all evil. It is unknown if folks truly wore garlic; Licho is not a vampire but some people probably tried it out anyway just in case.

Not a vampire, but the legend of Licho haunted villages bordering the Polish woods for centuries. It was a wretched, wrinkly old lady who would feast on ripped out hearts. It was a skeletal man who would grab anyone in his reach with his bony fingers. It was an incarnate demon with sunken, hollow eye sockets, made of moss and rotten leaves that could move like smoke and possess a body. For some even, it was a harmless deer until it lured someone into the depths of the forest where it would bear its teeth and rip them apart. Licho was every version of the boogeyman – many parents would tailor the story to their children’s worst fears. Nobody could agree on the details and each time, the legend changed a bit, but regardless of exaggerations, the main message that young and old alike believed stayed the same: Licho nie śpi.

“The devil never sleeps.”

Of course, as stories are carelessly passed down across an ocean where children never learn correct noun declension, suddenly the legend weakens. Suddenly it’s not “the devil” but “the wood demon.” Diabeł lasa turns into just czarownik lasa – “the wood wizard” – and by the time the legend reaches young Agnieszka – who hates the Polish version of her official name and calls herself Agnes – the most feared monster of the Polish wilderness has lost all its edge. The only thing she hears is: las nie śpi.

“The forest never sleeps.”

Not as daunting as the original version.

And coming from the city that never sleeps to her grandparent’s wioska village for summer vacation, she is bored out of her mind. Her younger cousins find great joy in milking the cows and chasing the chickens, but Agnes just misses the Wi-Fi. Why couldn’t her grandparents at least live in Warszawa? Not to mention she understands only about 60% of what people here say.

“Chodz, Agnieszka!” her cousins call to her to follow them into the field.

With a groan, she shoves her useless phone into her pocket and trudges through the tall grass. Her tight jeans stick to the back of her knees in the sweltering heat, and her favorite shoes are already muddied up. Worst. Vacation. Ever.

“Babcia chce, żebyśmy przynieśli ziemniaki na obiad!” Tereska, her youngest cousin, says.

Babcia wants what? Agnes blinks.

The two kids start digging up potatoes. Oh.

Oh.

That will so ruin her nails.

She wanders around the field, pretending to make herself useful. Swatting away flies and wiping the sweat off her forehead, she is miserable. Her gaze drifts to the wall of thick trees lining the perimeter of her grandparents’ farm. In the hot afternoon sun, it’s the only place out of the open field that would provide a little shade, and she starts in that direction.

“Nawet o tym nie myśl,” Tereska stops her, grabbing her arm.

“Why not?” Agnes asks, then realizes her cousins don’t understand her. “Czemu? Co tam jest?”

“Licho,” Tomek, her other cousin, replies.

“Licho?”

“Nie możesz tam pójść bez tego,” Tereska pulls out a gold crucifix from under her collar. What a surprise: her grandparents have a crucifix in every room of their house, and there are like, a dozen churches on every street here. It’s either the rooster or incessant church bells waking her up every morning.

Agnes rolls her eyes.

“Licho nie śpi,” Tereska shrugs, returning to the potatoes.

Now that’s something Agnes has heard before. She called it las though, but hey, all the words are a little different here. “The forest never sleeps.” She never knew what that meant before, but now that she’s spent less than a week in this dead-end village where nothing ever happens, she’s starting to get it and see the forest’s appeal. Anything’s got to be better than this.

In the evening, the family has an ognisko. Unable to sit through yet another rendition of Jesteś Szalona on Tomek’s guitar, Agnes volunteers to go get more wood for the campfire. Babcia wants her to stay and sing, but that was so not happening. At first, she plucks a couple of twigs around the field, but when Agnes is sure they are fully engaged in another off-key chorus of the disco polo song, she veers off to the left, toward the edge of the forest.

The line of trees is incredibly dense, thankfully silencing out another rambunctious repeat of “Jesteś szalona, mówię Ci.” What wonderful peace, Agnes sighs in relief. Inside the woods, she hears only the chirp of crickets and an owl hooting not too far away. Even in the night, the air outside is hot, but the fog hanging in the forest creates a refreshing cooling effect as her bare arms brush a damp branch. She should have hidden in here days ago.

Agnes doesn’t know how far she wanders into the woods, but at some point, she becomes aware that she should probably be getting back. Not that she wants to, but she’ll get in trouble if she’s gone for too long. As she promises herself she’ll be back the next day, she starts to turn around but quickly realizes her trouble. The dark stands still, obscuring her path. Everything looks the same in every direction, and she doesn’t remember which way she came.

“Okay, no big deal,” she says to herself – not worse than getting lost in Manhattan.

Slowly, she starts working her way through the twisting vines and branches, hopping over fallen logs and big rocks. But as she keeps walking and makes no progress, the welcoming woods suddenly start feeling suffocating. Agnes tries to make out the flicker of the ognisko but either she’s too far into the forest, or the forest itself is trapping her in. The coolness in the air drops to a chill, and she shivers.

“Hey!” she calls out into the void. “Hey, somebody? Babcia? Tomek?”

A twig snaps nearby and Agnes whips around, trying to make out anything but in the complete darkness, she can’t see anything.

Not entirely sure why, she starts to run. She doesn’t know which way she’s running but instinct just tells her to run anywhere. Over her heavy breathing and rapid footsteps, she can hear someone – something – else creeping up to her, catching up to her. The sound of gravel and dirt crunching, branches slapping out of the way, and a low growl chases after her.

Please be a bear, she pleads desperately but when she looks over her shoulder, she sees nothing but infinite shadows.

In her distraction, Agnes trips over a jutting log. She tumbles into the moss with a groan and when she looks up – eyes.

Deep, sunken yellow eyes stare into hers. She thinks she shrieks but can’t be sure if the sound ever makes it out of her mouth as she follows the eyes down to the body of the creature. Made of leaves and dirt and branches, she can’t tell where the monster ends and where the forest begins.

Or maybe it is one and the same.

Agnes realizes her grave mistake: Licho did not mean las.

Or again, maybe it is one and the same.