The Nixie Of Mill Pond | A Gentle Bedtime Story

Welcome,

Dear listeners,

I'm so glad you're here tonight.

In this episode,

I'll be reading The Nixie of the Mill Pond,

A traditional tale collected by the Brothers Grimm.

This will be a gently adapted bedtime version,

Rewritten to soften the edges,

Ease the mood,

And help create a peaceful,

Dreamy experience as you drift off to sleep.

Now,

Let's take a little time to ease the body and quiet the mind.

Go ahead and settle into a comfortable position,

Whether you're lying in bed or nestled somewhere cozy.

Allow your shoulders to soften,

Your jaw to release,

Your hands to rest easily,

Wherever they've landed.

Take a slow,

Gentle breath in through your nose,

And exhale softly,

Letting the breath carry away the weight of the day.

Again a soft inhale,

And a slow,

Unhurried exhale,

As though you're quietly sighing in to rest.

Feel yourself supported by whatever you're resting upon,

Held securely,

With nothing to do and nowhere to be but right here.

Now,

Imagine above you a peaceful,

Moonlit sky,

The moon glowing softly,

Casting a gentle,

Silvery radiance over everything,

Like a soft,

Cozy blanket.

Let that moon glow drift down over you now,

Settling across your shoulders,

Your chest,

Your arms and legs,

Feeling it soothing you,

Easing every muscle,

Loosening every thought,

And bringing your body and mind into quiet rest.

Your breath is easy,

Your body is relaxed,

And your mind is settling into a gentle stillness.

And when you're ready,

Let's begin.

There once lived a miller and his wife in a quiet,

Pastoral valley,

Where the turning mill wheel hummed like an old,

Familiar lullaby.

For many years,

They had lived with comfort and contentment.

Their cupboards were full,

Their fields generous,

And their hearts light.

Each season seemed kinder than the last,

As prosperity gently smiled on their home.

But time has its own quiet tide,

Sometimes generous,

Sometimes withdrawing,

And over the years,

Their good fortune slowly ebbed away.

The wealth that once seemed endless,

Thinned and faded like mist in the morning light.

The miller became restless with worry,

And each night,

As he lay in bed,

Instead of dreaming,

He turned and sighed and stared into the darkness,

Hoping for calm that would not come.

One early dawn,

When the stars were fading and the first hint of gold touched the horizon,

He rose from his troubled sleep and stepped out into the quiet world.

Perhaps,

He thought,

The morning air would soothe his burdened heart.

As he crossed the small bridge over the mill pond,

He heard a gentle,

Rippling sound as though the water itself were speaking.

He turned,

And there,

Rising softly from the shimmering surface,

Was a woman of extraordinary beauty.

Her long hair fell like silken water over her shoulders,

And her voice was as delicate as wind over reeds.

He knew,

Instantly and without doubt,

That she was the Nixie of the mill pond,

The water spirit who dwelled beneath the surface.

But her voice was warm,

Kind,

And strangely comforting.

Why do you walk in such sorrow,

Good miller?

She asked,

Calling him by name as though they were old acquaintances.

The miller,

Surprised by her gentleness,

Found his voice and told her everything.

How joy had once filled his home,

And how worry now pressed heavily against his heart.

The Nixie listened with serene patience.

Then she said softly,

Take heart,

I can make your life prosperous again,

More than it has ever been.

All I ask is that you give me the young creature that has just been born in your house.

The miller hesitated only a moment.

Surely he thought she must mean a small animal,

Perhaps a puppy or a kitten,

So he agreed.

With a graceful motion,

The Nixie slipped beneath the water once more,

And the pond became calm and silvered again under the waking sun.

The miller walked back to his home with a lighter step.

But before he even reached the door,

His maid hurried out to him with joyous news.

His wife had given birth to a little boy.

The miller stopped where he stood.

In that moment,

The truth washed over him.

The Nixie had known,

And had asked for him.

His heart tightened with fear and sorrow,

But there was nothing to do but go inside and see his wife and child.

She greeted him with glowing happiness,

Unaware of the promise he had made.

When she asked why he did not rejoice,

He confessed everything.

She held their baby close and tried to comfort him,

And though their relatives murmured and tried to reassure the miller,

All felt the same uneasy concern.

Yet,

In the days that followed,

Something remarkable happened.

Fortune began to return to their home.

Crops flourished,

Trade prospered,

Money filled the coffers almost mysteriously,

As though abundance drifted in on the night air.

Everything the miller put his hand to seemed kissed by good luck.

But though prosperity returned,

The miller's heart remained unsettled.

Each time he passed the still pond,

He quickened his steps,

Afraid the Nixie would appear to claim her due.

As the boy grew,

The miller warned him gently,

Never touch the waters of the pond,

My son.

Promise me that.

Years passed.

The boy became strong and bright-eyed,

And when he reached manhood,

He apprenticed to a skilled huntsman.

In time,

He became one of the finest in the region,

Patient,

Steady-handed,

And kind,

And he fell in love with a young woman of the village,

Tender-hearted and radiant,

With laughter that felt like sunshine.

They married,

And together built a cozy home.

They were happy,

Truly happy,

And lived with the simple joy of shared days,

Shared meals and shared smiles.

Then one afternoon,

While hunting in the woods,

The young man followed a swift deer across the land.

In his chase,

He did not notice how near he had come to the pond of his childhood,

The quiet,

Gleaming surface reflecting drifting clouds above.

When he knelt to wash his hands in the cool water,

A ripple stirred,

And from beneath,

The Nixie rose.

Her eyes shimmered like deep green glass,

And before he could speak or draw back,

Her arms,

Cool as water,

Circled him and pulled him gently downward.

The surface smoothed over with a sigh.

Evening came,

And when he did not return home,

His wife grew anxious.

Guided by instinct,

She went toward the water.

There she found his hunting pouch lying on the shore,

And her heart knew what had happened.

She called for him softly at first,

Then louder,

Then with tears,

But only the moon gazed down in quiet reflection.

Still,

She did not abandon hope.

She walked the shore,

Pacing it over and over,

Whispering his name,

Searching the water's surface as though love alone could draw him back.

At last,

Exhausted,

She crawled upon the grass and fell asleep beneath the moon.

In her dreams,

She found herself climbing craggy rocks through the wind and thorn,

Until at last she emerged into a quiet meadow,

Green and peaceful,

With a little cottage nestled in flowers.

An older woman with white hair beckoned kindly from the doorway.

When the young wife awoke with dawn,

She felt certain her dream was a message.

She followed the path,

Exactly as it had unfolded in sleep,

Up rocks,

Through the brush,

And found to her astonishment the very same cottage.

The kindly old woman listened to her sorrow,

Then pressed into her hand a golden comb.

When the full moon rises,

She said gently,

Sit at the pond,

Comb your hair with this comb,

And lay it at the water's edge.

The young wife returned home,

Waiting for the moon to be whole again in the sky.

At last,

The night came,

Pale and quiet.

She sat at the edge of the pond,

Combing her dark hair with slow,

Graceful strokes.

The sound of the comb through her hair was soft as feathers.

When she finished,

She laid the gold comb upon the shore.

The water stirred,

Like breath beneath silk,

Then,

Slowly,

The head of her husband rose above the surface.

He looked at her with deep affection,

But could not speak.

Just as he reached toward her,

Another wave washed up and lowered him out of sight again.

She wept softly,

But with tears of love rather than despair,

For she had seen him.

He was alive.

The next morning,

The dream returned,

And once again she journeyed to the cottage.

This time,

The wise woman gave her a golden flute.

When the full moon returns,

Said the old woman,

Play a tender melody,

And leave the flute upon the shore.

The young wife waited,

And when the time came,

She sat again by the pond.

She played a gentle,

Wistful tune,

Full of longing,

Yes,

But also full of unbroken devotion.

When she finished,

She set the flute near the water.

The pond stirred,

And the head and shoulders of her beloved rose forth.

He reached toward her,

Arms open,

But still,

The waters claimed him back before he could touch land.

The wife pressed her hands over her heart and whispered,

I will not stop,

I will not give up.

A third time she journeyed to the wise old woman,

Who placed in her hands a golden spinning wheel.

Spin the spool full beneath the full moon,

She said,

And then set the wheel at the shore.

And so she did.

Under the bright white moon,

She spun the flax with steady patience,

Threads winding onto the spool with a hushed,

Rhythmic whisper.

When the last thread was wound,

She placed the wheel upon the shore.

This time,

The water surged,

Not violently,

But with rising force.

A great wave swept up,

Gently carrying the spinning wheel down into its depths.

And then,

In a tall column of sparkling water,

Her husband rose entirely,

Stepping onto the shore.

He clasped her hand,

They ran,

Hearts pounding with joy,

Not looking back.

Only when they were far across the fields,

Did they hear the pond swell with a roaring crest and pour forth across the land.

The wife called out for the wise woman's aid,

And in a moment of shimmering transformation,

The two became a frog and a toad.

The rushing waters could not harm them,

Only carry them to safety far away.

When at last the waters receded and the land grew calm again,

They returned to human form.

But now,

Distant mountains lay between them.

They found themselves among strangers in unfamiliar parts of the world,

Each believing perhaps the other had been lost forever.

To sustain themselves,

Each tended sheep,

Gentle,

Quiet work beneath wide skies.

Many seasons drifted by,

Wearing away sorrow like water's smoothing stone.

Then one spring afternoon,

Beneath a warm and blossoming sky,

Two flocks drew near to one another in a broad green valley.

Their shepherds,

A man and a woman,

Felt inexplicably comforted in each other's presence,

Though they did not yet see why.

They began to meet there each day,

Resting with their sheep in the same quiet shade,

Sometimes speaking,

Sometimes simply sharing the peaceful silence.

One evening,

Below a glowing full moon,

The shepherd removed from his coat a small flute,

Worn by time but still golden.

He played the same tender melody that had once floated over the moonlit pond.

The shepherdess listened,

And tears filled her eyes,

For that sound,

She whispered,

Was the very song I once played upon this same flute when I saw my beloved rise from the water.

And in that moment,

As though a veil lifted,

They saw one another clearly,

And recognized the love they had once held so tightly.

They fell into each other's arms and in pure quiet relief,

Hearts finally at home again,

And on that peaceful moonlit hillside,

They knew that their wandering was ended,

Together at last,

And never to be parted again.

And that concludes our story for this evening.

I hope it brought you a gentle sense of quiet and comfort.

You can let the details drift away now,

And allow your body and mind to continue settling,

Softening,

And resting.

If you're still awake,

There's no need to try to fall asleep.

Just enjoy this feeling of calm,

And let sleep come naturally,

In its own time.

Like a leaf,

Slowly,

Slowly,

Drifting down through the air,

Gently finding its place of rest.

Thank you so much for being here and for listening.

It truly means a lot to share this space with you.

I wish you a peaceful night's rest.

Sweet dreams,

My friend.

Sleep well.