Such Stuff As Dreams | Shakespearean Sleep Story

Walk the boundary between the real world and theatrical magic in this Shakespeare-inspired sleep story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy-inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel,

And I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story comes to an end,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan and meditation.

In tonight's story,

You are a magician and the master of a mystical island.

When shipwreck brings strangers to your shores,

You begin to experience strange phenomena,

Glimpses of another world just beyond your own.

Looking to your knowledge of magic for help understanding what's happening,

You discover that you are,

In fact,

An actor in a play.

The island is but a stage,

And your island bedfellows are castmates.

With this realization,

You find that you can walk seamlessly between the theatrical and ordinary worlds.

This story takes as inspiration William Shakespeare's The Tempest,

With the play as a jumping off point.

I've taken liberties with the characters and story to ensure an original and relaxing adventure.

I hope you enjoy.

Be not afeard,

The isle is full of noises,

Sounds,

And sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears,

And sometimes voices,

That if I then had waked after long sleep will make me sleep again.

And then,

In dreaming,

The clouds methought would open,

And show riches ready to drop upon me,

That when I waked,

I cried to dream again.

William Shakespeare The Tempest Lightning crackles and thunder breaks over the tossed ocean tides,

Unyielding storm stirring the waves.

Rain blends to current,

Blends to rain,

Indistinguishable.

The island is no stranger to such tempestuous climbs,

But its shores and forests and modest structures only lightly quake,

So accustomed is it to the shaking of the earth and the oceans.

Isle,

Refuge,

Paradise,

The island claims all these titles and more,

It is never one thing only,

And your feelings toward it are never of one shape only.

For this is the cursed land where you arrived so many years ago,

Banished from your duchy,

Removed from power,

Betrayed and usurped by your own brother.

These are the sands onto which you crawled from that carcass of a boat,

A little child in tow,

And where you had to learn survival on the limited gifts of the land.

Here your muscles ached as you,

Unused to manual labor,

Built your own shelter and accepted that you would never again see home.

But here,

Also,

Did you at last have the hours to spend with your beloved books.

Here you learned the art of sorcery from their waterlogged pages,

And here you scribed your own grimoire.

On these shores you came to command the spirits of air,

Water,

And earth,

To ensnare the hearts of the island's mysterious monsters.

Your mastery of magic is now unmatched,

And you stand on the shores,

Perfectly undampened by the curtains and swirls of rain,

Calmly observing the raging tempest.

How wildly the wind howls,

How fierce and white the waves,

And atop them,

Bouncing like a toy tossed by a child,

So small is a ship.

The waters dash against its sides and it groans,

The wood splintering,

But it does not break all to pieces.

No,

This ship will come to shore,

Bearing its passengers safely enough,

Despite the wreckage.

This you know,

For you know many things,

And after all,

It is by your art that this tempest came to be.

You've waited so long for this day.

The ship,

Tossed so recklessly upon those lashing waves,

Does not carry ordinary sailors or merchant mariners.

No,

On board are the very men who exiled you here.

With your magic,

You work your will upon the tides and draw them close,

So they might know the power you've acquired.

You have a sense of déjà vu,

You suppose,

Though perhaps it's only the frisson of knowing that your brother and the courtiers are snared in your web,

But all this carries the weight of destiny.

You imagine the fates,

Drawing,

Measuring,

And cutting the threads of life,

And yourself,

A spinner among them.

And the air is charged,

And not only with the force that precipitates lightning.

And soon comes a sky-splitting crash of lightning,

Followed by the deep rumble of thunder.

Your eyes flick upward toward the sky,

Brightly illuminated,

For a fraction of an instant.

And in that instant,

In that momentary tear,

It's as if you can see the very architecture of the stars,

The scaffolding on which they hang.

Were they placed there,

With elegant care,

By some unseen hand,

You wonder.

A shiver passes through your body,

Untouched as you are by the wind and rain.

Have you touched something so profound,

So close to the source of all magic,

That it has allowed you to glimpse beyond the known,

Beyond the perceivable?

You wonder if the witch,

Who once guarded this island,

Gone long before you arrived,

Leaving behind only a sun,

Ever touched such a thing as this.

But the moment passes,

And the skies knit themselves closed again,

Reveling in the stormy dusk.

And there,

The lighting atop the clouds,

Bouncing across the waves,

And fluttering through the sails of that little toy ship,

Is Ariel,

The graceful air-spirit in your employ.

He stirs the winds and rustles up the rain at your command,

Making the waters a milestrume.

All rises to a dizzying crescendo,

As in one last swelling wave,

The quaking ship is brought mercilessly to crash upon the shores below your vantage point.

You draw them close,

Spinner,

Master of magic,

Turner of the tides.

In time,

You whistle on the wind to Ariel,

Your sprightly servant,

To calm the waves,

To stem the churning of the ocean,

And to quiet the thunderous skies.

The clouds part and in-stream rose-gold rays of returning sun.

Skies are transformed to sparkling foam on the surface of the still,

Turgid waters.

What a spell it is,

The restless sea,

Just after a storm.

But you mustn't linger long here,

As soon the passengers will crawl from the wreckage of their ship,

Unharmed,

If badly shaken.

And you wouldn't want them to lay eyes upon you,

Just yet.

You sense Ariel at your shoulder,

A kiss of cool air,

As you turn away from shore.

He whispers tidings in your ear,

And claims success at having orchestrated the magnificent tempest.

None were harmed,

As you requested,

But now they wake,

Scattered and separated along the shoreline of the island.

You bid the airy spright make haste to spy upon the castaways,

And report back with what he learns.

He lingers like a moth,

Too timid to approach the flame,

And asks,

In a very small voice,

Whether he has yet fulfilled the terms of his bond.

Hope hides in his wide eyes those little lanterns,

And your heart grows tender toward him.

When first you washed up on these shores twelve years ago,

You discovered him entrapped within the trunk of a tree,

A boundless spirit,

Helplessly bound.

He was enclosed there by Sycorax,

The witch who once walked the island,

Working her magic,

As you do now.

Pity and power brought you to free him from the tree,

And he's toiled in your debt ever since,

But still he feels the ache of limitation,

The wish for absolute freedom.

Two more days,

You entreat him.

See my eyes and ears on the island,

Carry out my will for two days more,

And then I swear it by the sea,

You will have your freedom.

In a whirl of winds Ariel departs.

Even when he is not by,

You can sense Ariel's presence,

For his reach is everywhere.

His voice carries on a warm breeze,

Or through the rustle of trees and fronds from all corners of the island.

You can hear his song now as if it bounces off the clouds,

And you wonder to which of the castaways he teases.

Full fathom five thy father lies,

Of his bones are coral made,

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange.

Sea nymphs hourly ring his knell,

Ding-dong,

Mark,

Now I hear them,

Ding-dong,

Bell.

The plans are laid,

And actions taking root across the island,

And that same sense of twining fate and fortune tingles throughout your body.

You are aware of the curious sensation that someone is watching you.

Caliban,

You suppose,

Son of the witch Sycorax,

And this island's sole human inhabitant,

When you arrived,

He is always lurking somewhere,

Unasked for.

You reach for a frond of fern,

Hoping to catch him spying,

But as you pull back the oversized leaf,

Its texture turns strangely under your hand.

What should feel glossy and organic,

Yields to a soft velvet at your touch.

You're reminded of the damask curtains that once shaded your bed,

When you had such royal luxuries at the court of Milan.

And indeed,

On further look,

It is a velvet curtain,

And not a leaf,

Which you grasp.

Real as the morning,

Soft against your fingertips.

For an instant,

You are taken by the notion that the last twelve years can have been little more than a tempestuous dream.

That you wake now,

In your own bed,

In your own duchy,

Clinging to the curtains of your canopy,

The sounds and smells of the island trickling away,

To a blurred memory.

But beyond the curtain around which you peer,

Where moments ago you thought to find Caliban hiding in the bush,

There is a hazy,

Enchanting darkness.

At first,

There is nothing there that you can make out,

Not the flora of the island,

Nor the half-remembered furnishings of your courtly residence.

But the longer you look,

The more you seem to see vague forms at a distance,

And the flash of a hundred tiny lights,

Stars,

Perhaps,

Or sprites,

Cousins of Ariel,

Or the eyes of faraway watchers.

You lift your gaze to the sky above,

And you find you must shield your eyes from the warm brightness there.

When you can safely look again,

The source of the lights reveal themselves,

Lanterns or torches burning with a constancy you hardly understand,

Hanging from what must be metal pipes in the air.

And back you turn to the darkness past the curtain,

Where now you can discern faces wrapped,

Eyes lit with wonder and concern,

Dozens of them dazzled.

They are not watching you,

You determine,

But something nearby.

You turn and tune your ears to follow their observation.

Ah,

There,

In the spill of those hanging torches,

Light beams down in gold and blue upon two young people,

Apparently under one another's spell.

They speak in poetry and long-held gazes.

I might call him a thing divine,

For nothing natural I ever saw so noble,

Says the young woman,

Whom you recognize as your own child,

Miranda,

She who washed up on these shores only three years old,

And has never beheld another soul,

Save you and Caliban.

For the space of a sigh,

You too fall under the charms of the young people,

Meeting for the first time,

And yet,

Apparently already in love.

And then a little voice chimes at the back of your mind,

Not Ariel whispering on the wind,

But your own voice,

A gentle reminder that you are now expected to speak.

It's your cue.

They are both in either's powers,

But this swift business I must uneasily make,

Lest too light winning make the prize light,

You say below your breath,

Though it's as if another speaks through you,

As if you have no control over the words,

The poetry that escapes.

And then the very next moment,

The realization comes over you like a wave.

It's not that you've been glimpsing some unknown source of magic,

Reaching deeper into the profound mysteries of existence.

You haven't made a tear in your reality's fabric,

Allowing you to see the scaffolding of stars.

All at once,

You understand the silent watchers in the dark,

The velvet curtain in your hands.

All this time you've believed you were Prospero,

A master magician,

Steward of this enchanted isle,

Sovereign over its spirits,

But now,

As you speak the lines of a long-gone bard,

You remember who you truly are,

An actor.

This is no island,

But a bare stage,

The stars,

Those hanging torches,

Are a grid of lights that simulate dawn,

Dusk,

And tempest climes.

And beyond the proscenium arch,

Those hundreds of eyes are your audience,

How they hang on your every word and gesture.

This is how it feels to catch a wave,

To lose yourself in the character and the art.

You've never felt it quite so acutely before.

You play out the scene with a newly heightened awareness of your surroundings,

The presence of the spectators,

And the way your body moves through the space.

You're coming back to yourself as you play,

Engaging with the delightful artifice of theatre.

The play goes on,

The castaways make their entrances,

Some joining with Caliban in foolery and comic relief,

Others fall prey to conspiracy and machination.

You lurk in the corner of nearly every scene,

Oft unobserved,

Save when you want to be,

The puller of all strings of fate on the island.

You watch from the wings as the young lovers,

Miranda and Ferdinand,

Profess their affection.

Oh heaven,

Oh earth,

Bear witness to this sound,

Cries the youth,

And crown what I profess with kind event if I speak true,

If hollowly,

Invert what best is boded me to mischief.

I,

Beyond all limit of what else in the world,

Do love,

Prize,

Honour you.

When the curtain falls,

Signaling the start of the intermission,

You and your fellow actors leave the stage to congregate in the green room.

It is always a rather amusing sight,

Fully costumed performers,

Clad in shipwrecked rags,

Or in your case,

Stately robes,

Lounging on contemporary couches,

Playing at cards,

Or uncorking plastic water bottles from the fridge.

How strangely the mundane can infringe upon the magic of theatre,

The spell you cast upon an audience.

One of your castmates approaches you and places a hand on your shoulder,

Giving it a light squeeze.

Extraordinary,

He says,

I was watching you tonight,

And it's simply breathtaking,

Like you've caught something of Prospero's magic,

You're in the zone.

With some bashfulness,

You gratefully accept the compliment and join some of your fellows at the card table.

In a few minutes,

The stage manager's voice echoes over a speaker,

Calling places for act two.

The stage is set,

And the story continues under the blazing lights and magnificent set pieces.

Traps are laid,

Fools make bargains with strange bedfellows,

Marriages are set.

The air-spirit aerial alights on the wings of a storm,

This one conjured of light and sound effects to intimidate the usurping courtiers.

Pure poetry is spoken from the mouths of maidens and monsters.

Be not afeard,

Says Caliban,

The aisle is full of noises.

O brave new world,

Cries Miranda,

That has such people in it.

And goodly Ariel entreats you once more for his freedom,

This time with love in your heart for the spirit himself and the actor beneath the costume.

You promise it faithfully.

At last the tangled strings and webs of fate come untied,

With all the island's strange inhabitants brought together by the burgeoning romance of the young lovers.

A courtly marriage will ensue on your return to Milan.

A happy ending seems inevitable despite the tempestuous trials of the players.

The ensemble exit,

Leaving you,

Master of this island for only a moment more,

Alone in a single spotlight.

You step into the spell,

Which falls like golden sunset,

Hot against your face.

Your senses wake to the smell of sea salt and the feel of a tender breeze.

You look down at your sandaled feet,

Which sink ever so slightly into sand.

And again you look to the faces of your adoring audience,

But they have vanished,

It seems,

Into a hazy horizon of sand and sea,

Clear waters untroubled by storms or spirits.

You breathe in the magic of this island.

In your hands you grasp a staff,

The one you've used to command Ariel and the element,

And a book with tattered pages and leather binding,

Your treasured grimoire,

Your guide into the art of sorcery.

It is bittersweet,

All endings are,

But these cannot come with you back to court.

These are relics of your exile,

And you must start anew.

So with a heavy sigh and summoning of your strength,

You cast the objects into the tide which overtakes them instantly.

Deeper than did ever plummet sound,

The undertow will take them.

You have no regrets.

And you speak to the wind,

Or the water,

Or the unseen spirits of the island,

The following.

Now my charms are all o'erthrown,

And what strength I have's mine own,

Which is most faint.

Now,

Tis true,

I must be here confined by you,

Or sent to Naples.

Let me not,

Since I have my dukedom got,

And pardoned the deceiver dwell in this bare island by your spell,

But release me from my bands with the help of your good hands.

Around you the air sparkles,

The sea shimmers,

And the sand dissolves.

The light shifts,

Deepening in your surroundings,

So that only the small pool of spotlight remains.

You stand alone,

On a bare stage again,

Before a crowd of glistening eyes,

But still the enchantment courses through you,

And the poet speaks through your voice.

You address your audience.

Gentle breath of yours my sails must fill,

Or else my project fails,

Which was to please.

Now I want spirits to enforce,

Art to enchant,

And my ending is despair,

Unless I be relieved by prayer,

Which pierces so that it assaults mercy itself,

And frees all faults,

As you from crimes would pardoned be.

Let your indulgence set me free.

Your arms are outstretched in a gesture of supplication.

The spotlight falls to black.

For a pause,

Silence rings throughout the theater,

And then comes thunderous applause,

A tempest of exaltation.

In the black,

Below the cheers,

You can hear quiet footfalls,

And the rustle of clothing.

You feel the warmth of human presence on the stage with you.

When the lights return,

The burning stars above,

Your whole cast is there with you,

Shoulder to shoulder.

Together you beam and take your bows.

The audience are on their feet.

Your revels now are ended.

Offstage you shed the artifice,

The costumes and the makeup,

The affect and airs of your various characters.

There is a brief burst of activity backstage.

The celebration of a wonderful performance,

And the nightly tasks of resetting the spaces to write.

Costumes gathered up for dry-cleaning,

Props checked and stored.

A few of your castmates are making plans to meet down at the corner pub in a few.

They want to know if you'll join.

You let them know you'll try to make it down.

You just need a little extra time tonight.

Farewells and thank yous ring like song through the hallways and dressing rooms,

And swiftly the spaces empty,

Falling quiet and peaceful as people go.

Back in your street clothes,

And with your belongings packed up,

You are about to leave through the back door.

When you are quietly gripped by an urge to return to the stage,

You step out onto the bare stage in the empty theater.

It's already been cleared and swept for the night,

And the only light is a bare bulb enclosed in a wire cage mounted on a plain black pipe.

And the ghost light.

With your bag slung over one shoulder,

You stand in the glow,

Facing the empty seats.

There's something so enchanting about an empty theater.

A bare stage,

A row of quiet seats.

A canvas on which to paint untold wonders,

Limitless potential.

The words of the Bard,

Words you spoke resounding this very night,

Echo in your mind.

These,

Our actors,

As I foretold you,

Were all spirits and are melted into air,

Into thin air.

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capped towers,

The gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples,

The great globe itself.

Yea,

All which it inherit shall dissolve.

And like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on,

And our little life is rounded with a sleep.

As the sweetness of poetry slips through the spaces of your memory,

Another voice comes from the back of the theater.

You can't see the speaker,

They're cloaked in darkness,

But you know the voice.

The stage manager calling to you from the booth,

She's about to lock up for the night.

You smile and beg her pardon for lingering so late,

You'll be on your way.

You steal one last look at the ghost-lit stage before departing the wings.

In the crisp and subtle glow,

You catch the faint impression of an island,

A storm,

A distant kingdom,

A fairy masquerade.

This is a palace of dreams,

You think,

At last taking your leave.

But just for tonight,

Another show tomorrow.

Begin to settle down for the night,

Letting go of conscious thoughts or worries.

Take notice of the sensation of your body in space,

Scanning for areas of excess tension,

Anything you might be clenching or holding onto,

And let that go,

Breathing into it.

Instead of trying to find or achieve total stillness here,

Notice and embrace the little micro-movements of your body,

Little adjustments,

Responses to the atmosphere,

And of course,

The rise and fall of your body with the breath.

Notice those micro-movements and the waves of your breath as an engine of relaxation,

Filling up,

Rising,

Letting go,

Sinking deeper,

Physically into your sleep surface,

And deeper into the unconscious world.

Now,

If it feels good,

Visualize a doorway or a portal.

It can take any form that's meaningful to you.

The ivy-covered archway to a secret garden.

The proscenium arch in a theater.

The bending of trees in a forest.

Some kind of threshold standing before you.

And a few breaths just observing this doorway of yours,

Taking in the details.

Now see a veil of golden light shimmering at the corners under the doorway,

Or around the edges.

Notice how the light moves and dances through the cracks,

Indicating something magical that lies just beyond the threshold.

Breathe naturally,

Observing the light for a few more breaths.

Now,

Let yourself glide toward the doorway.

Take your time,

Moving in your mind closer to the threshold.

Breathe.

And when you're ready,

Pass through.

As you do so,

Imagine a sensation of tingling white light descending over you from above.

A sense of tranquility and magic washing over you from head to toe.

From the crown of your head,

Over your scalp,

Your forehead,

Your temples,

Your ears,

Your cheekbones,

Your jaw,

Down over your neck,

Across your shoulders and shoulder blades,

And to your right arm,

All the way down to your fingertips,

And your left arm,

All the way from shoulder to fingertips.

Tingling white light.

Now feel it pass through your chest,

Into your belly,

And sacrum,

Over your hips,

Into your right leg,

All the way down to your toes,

And your left leg,

All the way down to your toes.

Let this calm sensation of relaxation and illumination pulse through your entire body all at once,

Responding to your natural breath,

And relaxing your muscles.

Feel the presence of the doorway behind you,

In your inner space,

And understand that you are the source of the light that shines through to the other side.

Breathe.

Sweet dreams.