Tales From A Covenshire Christmas

Lose yourself in the folklore of the land in tonight's bedtime 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.

Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you.

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

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

I'll guide you through a visualization to welcome you all and celebrate community.

In tonight's story,

After inheriting a historic estate from an eccentric uncle,

You host your first gathering at the country house for winter solstice.

You celebrate with your new friends and community members,

Some of whom stay to help you tidy up at the end of the evening.

Once the house is back to rights,

You wind down by the fire.

Naturally,

Someone starts telling stories.

As tall but true tales unfold,

You begin to recognize patterns in the sometimes magical or supernatural occurrences in the region,

With your historic mansion at the heart.

If you enjoy this story and want to hear more of the magical goings-on at Coventry House,

I have several other sleep stories that revolve around this location and its characters.

Look for The Holly King and the Oak King,

The Pageant Wagon,

And The Book of Merlin in the Sleep and Sorcery feed,

Wherever you listen.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea,

Like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street.

And they stop at the rim of the ice-edged,

Fish-freezing waves,

And I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.

Dylan Thomas,

A Child's Christmas in Wales Holly hangs across the mantle,

Cinnamon and orange tangle with the aroma of evergreen and the tinkling of piano keys with the music of laughter.

Soon a chorus of untrained voices chime with the melody of Here We Come a-wassailing.

Someone has started a caroling circle in the next room,

It seems.

As you busily survey the food table,

Clearing up empty serving dishes and uncovering new trays of hors d'oeuvres and baked goods,

You hum along with the merry singers.

For the first time since you arrived in this part of the country,

The house is abuzz with people,

Activity,

And palpable human energy.

And though you are occupied with the frenzy of a first-time host entertaining a surprising amount of people,

You do your duties cheerfully,

Grateful for the newfound community.

Coventry House,

This venerable country estate,

Was left to you a few years ago in your uncle's will.

It came as a surprise.

You'd always liked the solitary fellow who brought the most exquisite gifts to family Christmas parties and had kind,

Crinkly eyes you remember well.

But it wasn't as if you were terribly close.

But the more you've come to learn about him since you came to live here,

The more you've realized that perhaps,

Given his reclusive tendencies,

You were in fact one of his closest and most cherished relatives.

He saw something in you,

He supposed,

That seemed to fit in with the eccentric and sometimes extraordinary nature of the Coventry estate and its surrounding landscape.

For this,

You've acquired a profound gratitude.

You've spent the better part of two years restoring the house to,

Or at least near,

Its former splendor.

Initially,

You had thought to sell the place once it was in shape,

But the more time you spent here,

The more it came to feel like your home,

Like it was always your home.

And in the bones of the land,

These beautiful and ancient hills,

You've felt stirrings of magic and wonder.

The kind of wonder that's rare and usually only accessible to children,

Adventuring through their woods and neighborhoods,

Looking for evidence of fairies.

But living by yourself in such an enormous estate,

Even kept company by your beloved horse,

Winifred,

Can be a lonely affair.

In recent months,

You've endeavored to get yourself out of the house and into the community.

Sometimes,

That's merely a trip to the market.

Other times,

That means bringing some of the more peculiar artifacts you've found around the house to the antiques dealer,

Speculating together over the items.

And lately,

You've sought to embed yourself more in community spaces,

Even joining a book club and taking long walks or horseback rides with local wildlife enthusiasts.

It's brought you immense satisfaction further planting your roots here.

Perhaps more than anything,

More than the awe-inspiring countryside or the welcoming community.

What keeps you here at Coventry is the unending curiosity.

Since moving in,

You've had a number of experiences that can't be easily explained.

You've brushed up against beings and forces you have no other word for than magic.

Especially at times of transition within the year,

The summer and winter solstices,

The changing of the seasons,

When the world seems to hum with liminality.

You rarely speak of these strange occurrences to others,

Not for fear that they might not believe you.

In fact,

There's an unspoken twinkle in the eyes of folks around here that suggests familiarity and comfort with the unknown.

But out of a sense of sanctity.

The things you've seen,

A sacred circle in the heart of the nearby woods,

Visions of the past and future through the pages of an old book,

And a Christmas visit from a medieval pageant wagon.

They all felt intensely personal,

Sightings meant for you and you alone.

A part of you longs to discover the causes and connections of these uncanny encounters,

Wants to put it all together like pieces of a puzzle.

But another part enjoys simply dancing in the mystery,

Never knowing what wondrous thing may happen next.

Tonight is the winter solstice,

The longest night of the year.

Through all the preparations of the day and all the festivities of the evening,

You've felt something of a prickling,

A thinness to the and turning to go into the other room,

Where voices trill and laugh.

You almost trip over a blur of fawn and white fur,

Which disappears as quickly as it came with the jingle of tags.

Then another comes waddling and panting behind it.

The Welsh corgis,

Ness and Poppy.

A moment later,

Their owner comes dashing in behind them.

I'm sorry,

Says Carrie,

Out of breath,

Scooping up the slow one in her arms.

You can't help but laugh at the little dog's face,

Split like a grin with her tongue hanging jovially out.

I tried to keep them out of the way of the food,

She says.

Ness went that way,

I suppose.

You respond in the affirmative and chuckle as Carrie heads toward the drawing room,

Where a cry of laughter indicates that Ness is getting up to more mischief.

This party has seemed to attract the most agreeable kind of chaos,

You think.

The kind that's rosy-cheeked,

Musical of voice,

And plump with sweets and pies.

Joy permeates this place.

So you follow Carrie into the room,

Where now echo the sweet strains of the holly and the ivy.

The great fir tree towers in the corner of the room,

Trimmed with red ribbon,

Twinkling lights,

And bright,

Reflective baubles.

David,

The town bookseller,

Is seated at the piano,

Tickling the ivories with elegant flourishes.

He's encircled by five or six of your guests in their finest holiday sweaters,

All belting out their favorite carols.

Other guests lounge on the sofas and armchairs,

Grazing on cheese cubes and biscuits from paper plates.

Carrie stands with her partner Gwen a few paces from the piano,

A corgi under each arm,

As they admire the music.

Candles flicker about the room,

Lending it a nostalgic light.

The whole tableau might be out of a Victorian Christmas card.

You're so pleased to be the one responsible for all this,

The coziness,

The camaraderie.

You can hardly think of a finer way to spend the winter solstice,

The longest night.

On the chime of the hour,

You tap a metal spoon against your glass to bring the party to a hush.

The guests all turn to you.

It's time,

You explain,

For what you hope will be a new tradition.

Rather than a gift exchange or any elaborate game,

You've asked your guests if they're willing and able to bring something with which to adorn the tree,

Something you hope that has meaning to each individual.

Your suggestion was met with enthusiasm as guests RSVPed,

And now you're excited to see what they've brought.

One by one,

And sometimes two by two,

Your guests approach the twinkling fir tree,

Bearing their small offerings.

A young couple you recently befriended share an ornament bearing the name of their firstborn in celebration of her first Christmas.

The baby herself is here,

Sleeping soundly in a sling against her mother's chest.

A friend of yours,

Who makes and sells her jewelry in town,

Drapes the fur needles with a simple gold chain on which hang a few colorful glass beads.

They catch the light and sparkle there.

David,

The bookseller and unexpectedly skilled pianist,

Offers a rolled sheet of paper tied with black ribbon,

A note he once found lodged in a secondhand book of poetry,

From a mother to her son.

More simple gifts follow,

Trinkets and tokens of the human experience,

Expressions of love,

Labor,

And friendship.

You are warmed by the gestures of your friends,

Who so freely share their hearts and stories.

When every item has found its place on the boughs of the tree,

You all stand back to admire the final picture.

You imagine the same scene several years from now,

With friends old and new placing this year's offerings on an empty branch,

Everyone reflecting on years' worth of material memory among the tinsel and lights.

You offer a few words of gratitude to your guests for their thoughtful offerings and for their sheer presence tonight.

You finish with a toast.

All raise their glasses and their voices in cheer and community.

Over the next hour or so,

The party begins to wind down.

Guests trickle out a few at a time,

While others hang around to admire what you've done with the old house.

This gathering serves a few purposes,

It seems.

It's a celebration of the season.

A get-together of people who genuinely enjoy each other,

And a bit of an open house for the Coventry estate.

In the later years,

Your uncle kept so to himself that no one set foot in the place in ages.

The folks who've lived in the area for some time are particularly impressed by your work in the grand ballroom and library,

Where you've restored furniture and refinished the floors.

Next year,

You hope to hold a much more decadent affair,

With some help from neighbours,

Perhaps even taking over the ballroom for a yuletide masquerade.

Soon,

However,

The energy wanes,

And the last of your party guests begin to drag.

To your great appreciation,

Carrie,

Gwen,

And David volunteer to stick around and help you clean up.

You try to insist that it's no trouble,

But inwardly it warms your heart to have their help and company.

Together,

You pack away the leftovers and snuff out the candles,

Pick up bits of tinsel and straighten the throw pillows.

A fuzzy exhaustion begins to creep over you.

With all the preparation,

You've been up since the wee dark hours of the morning,

And as joyous as the occasion was,

Your social battery is somewhat drained from entertaining all evening.

You feel infinitely ready to slow down and relax.

Still,

A twinge of sadness tugs at you with the thought of the last three guests leaving.

Over the last year,

You've come to find a close kinship with them,

All in different ways.

They're the kind of people whose company recharges you,

Boosts your spirit.

Now is the first time you've all four been together.

So,

With the house as close to rights as it can be tonight,

You suggest they stay for a nightcap or a cup of tea to unwind.

Your comrades are thrilled with the notion.

So,

You put the kettle on and light a fire in the grand fireplace in the sitting room.

The flames crackle and pop,

Reflecting against the glass of the large front window.

Pulling the curtains aside to admire the view of the landscape at night,

You notice light flurries of snow falling in the dark.

Your friends join you,

Settling into chairs and sofas.

Even the corgis,

Their energy at last expended,

Curl up to rest beside the fireplace.

Over tea and mulled wine,

You reflect together on the wonderful success of the party,

How gleeful the atmosphere was,

And how good the house looks.

You beam with pride,

And in the warmth of the hearth,

The conversation sweeps past pleasantries into the kind of comfortable rapport common among old friends.

You recall aloud your first time meeting Carrie while out for a ride by the lakes.

She was standing knee-deep in the shallows,

Her jeans rolled up,

Gathering fistfuls of watermint.

She introduced herself as the Lady of the Lake,

You say.

I had potions to brew,

Carrie laughs,

But that is what some people call me,

I swear.

No one calls you that but you,

Chides Gwen,

Who then adds with a smile,

But it suits you.

Especially after last spring,

Carrie says,

Knowingly.

At this,

You and David share a look of curiosity,

Then both turn back to Carrie.

Last spring,

David says.

What happened last spring?

Carrie's face lights up as if she's delighted to have the opportunity to tell this story.

She crosses her legs and leans forward a bit.

If I'm going to tell it,

She says in a hushed tone,

I need you to keep an open mind.

Everything I'm about to say really happened,

I promise,

I'm not out of my mind.

Well,

Gwen interjects jokingly,

And she's met with a playful shove by Carrie.

The fire plays across the sitting room floor,

Snow falling swiftly outside the window,

And Carrie begins her tale.

It was March,

Very close to the vernal equinox,

If not the night itself.

Gwen was off in Cheshire for a retreat,

So I was home alone with the dogs,

And I remember it was a full moon.

A super moon,

I think,

Because I caught sight of it through the kitchen window while I was washing up.

It was so enormous and orange,

I had to go outside and get a proper look at it.

Our house is a stone's throw away from the lake,

And on a clear night it's just gorgeous.

So I decided to go out to the shore,

But when I got there,

It wasn't such a clear night after all.

There was a heavy mist that seemed to have suddenly rolled in,

Just floating over the lake.

Not a cloud in the sky,

Just this mist.

So I could see the moon overhead,

So big I could have reached out and touched it.

But I could also see its reflection,

Not on the water,

But on the mist.

This glowy,

Golden ether,

Swirling there on the lake's surface.

It was hypnotic,

Really.

I couldn't pull myself away.

But then as I watched,

Frozen there and mesmerized,

The moon's reflection began to change.

It started to coalesce,

To come together into something denser than mist.

Something solid.

I watched as it gradually took on the shape of a woman.

A woman made out of mist,

Standing there in the center of the lake,

Her feet resting right on the surface of the water.

I couldn't make out her features just yet because of all the mist,

But I could see her silhouette,

Clear as day.

Then slowly,

The mist cleared,

Little by little,

Leaving her there in the middle of the lake.

She looked like she was made out of moonlight,

All pearly and gleaming.

Her hair was white,

Though I couldn't tell her age.

She seemed ageless,

Really.

Venerable and wise,

And also youthful and light.

I felt utterly and completely at peace in her presence.

No fear,

No apprehension.

As if the glow she radiated was warming me through,

Comforting me.

And then,

I noticed the raft.

I hadn't seen it before,

Perhaps because of the mist,

But there was a little raft bobbing there by the shore.

It seemed like a sign.

So I climbed onto the raft,

Untied it,

And rowed out to meet her there.

I remember she was barefoot when she touched down on the raft before me,

And she was radiant,

So beautiful it was difficult to look directly at her,

But I couldn't look away.

I thought she must be a fairy woman,

Or a goddess.

Being beside her was nourishing,

Somehow,

Like she was filling me up with energy.

I felt compelled to say something to her,

But I wasn't sure what to say.

So I told her my name.

She smiled and nodded,

As if she already knew.

Then she leaned toward me and whispered something in my ear.

Don't ask me what she said.

It might have been a different language,

For all I know,

But I don't remember it.

But at the moment she said it,

I had a feeling of absolute contentment wash over me.

A sense that everything was going to be alright.

But also,

That I had been given a mission,

A purpose,

I couldn't yet articulate.

I wanted to ask her questions,

To learn more about this unknowable purpose she'd endowed me with.

But she had vanished.

That's when I realized how cold the night was,

Still on the verge of spring.

So I rowed back to shore and hurried into the house,

To warm up.

The next morning I woke up much later than I normally do,

And Gwenny was already back.

She came in with breakfast,

And asked me what I'd done in the front garden.

I didn't know what she was talking about,

So I followed her out there.

And on the edge of the garden,

Out of nowhere,

There was a sapling.

I hadn't planted it,

But there it was,

With silver bark and budding branches.

I'd never seen a tree like it before.

I've just had this feeling ever since,

That the tree is somehow connected to my encounter with the woman of the lake,

The fairy,

Or whatever she was.

Like I've been tasked with caring for this tree,

For her.

I've gone back to the lake night after night since,

Just to look out and see if she returns,

So I can ask her what I'm meant to do.

I haven't seen her yet,

Nor have I seen that raft again,

But I have looked after the tree.

I'm certain there's something special about it.

In fact,

It bore fruit this past season.

Apples.

But the strangest,

Most beautiful apples you can imagine.

One side yellowy-golden as the sun,

And the other a whitish-silver like the moon.

Like the lady of the lake.

There's a crackling silence as Carrie finishes her tale.

You feel a shiver of synchronicity.

It seems you're not the only one here who's experienced the unexplained.

So,

Your nightly sojourns to the shore.

David speaks first,

His eyes bright.

That's why some people call you the lady of the lake.

It's all right if you don't believe me,

Carrie says,

Leaning back against the cushions.

No,

That's not it at all,

David says hurriedly.

I do believe you.

This part of the country is rife with stories like yours.

Really,

You chime in.

David,

Ever knowledgeable and well-read,

Begins to speak about the fascinating history and folklore of the region.

Not far from Coventry,

As you know,

Is an Iron Age hillfort.

Here,

Legend has it,

A king tried to build his castle,

But the foundations repeatedly crumbled until a young boy,

Gifted with prophecy,

Divined that beneath the hill,

Two dragons were locked in unending battle.

This conflict kept the castle's construction at bay.

That young boy was Merlin.

And only a short distance yonder,

There are the Abbey ruins,

A locus of so many legends.

One of David's favorite stories tells of a monk who resided in the Abbey in the 12th century.

One night,

At dusk,

There came the song of a nightingale,

Which was so sweet,

So entrancing,

That the monk followed the music out into the forest.

After a time,

The song ceased,

And the monk had not yet found its source.

So he returned to the Abbey.

But despite having been gone for what felt like minutes,

He found the place in ruins,

As if he'd been away for centuries.

I've seen things too,

Things I thought no one would believe,

David says.

But you and your company urge him to share,

And you listen with rapt attention,

As he begins his own tale.

I had finished closing the bookshop one evening.

This was a handful of years ago,

And I was on my way home through the town square.

I live close enough to walk to and from the shop.

It was a mild night,

In late summer,

And I decided to take my time on the way home.

When you've lived in the same place for as long as I have,

I suppose it's easy to take for granted the beauty around you,

The little curiosities.

I stopped here and there in the waning sunlight to admire the intricate details of a wrought iron gate,

Or the decorative drain covers,

And the like.

Well,

I took a moment to visit the fountain in the square.

The way the sunset was hitting the water,

It was casting these beautiful rainbows in the spray.

And there were children and families about,

Some of them tossing wishing coins into the water.

But as I looked into the pool,

I saw something so unusual,

So wondrous,

I thought at first I must be dreaming.

Instead of the stone bottom of the fountain pool,

Which I'd seen so many times before,

It was like I was looking through glass,

Through a window,

Into another world.

There,

Below the surface of the water,

Was a city.

Streets and alleyways,

And churches and fountains.

So very like the town in which I was standing,

But older,

And fringed with a golden haze.

I looked to those others who played near the fountain,

But no one else seemed stricken with the same vision.

I knew it might make me look like a fool,

But I reached in with one hand to touch the surface of the water,

Just to see if I could reach that strange subterranean city.

But as soon as my fingers disturbed the water,

The ripples washed the vision away.

I left,

Thinking I must have imagined it,

But it was only the angle of the light,

And the reflection of the buildings in the square,

Playing tricks on me.

I carried on as normal,

And all but forgot,

Until,

Several months later,

When I saw the city again.

This time,

However,

It wasn't in the fountain.

I had family visiting,

And I took them to see the ruins of the abbey,

Actually.

It was snow on the ground that day,

But the sun was shining,

One of those pleasantly crisp winter mornings.

And as we were strolling around the ruins,

I wandered in one direction,

While my family were observing the colonnades.

The sun came streaming through what remains of the tracery in Grand Archway,

And I swear it was as if,

Through that doorway,

There shined the other place.

I could just make out,

Through the blinding golden light,

A winding alley lined with structures.

It seemed to call out to me,

Inviting me in,

And I wanted to go.

But just then,

I heard my name,

And I turned round to see my family waving me over.

When I looked back at the archway,

The city had vanished again.

Sometimes I wonder if I missed my chance to pass through the portal,

Or if I really did only imagine it.

But deep down,

I believe I'll see the doorway again.

I'm not sure where or when,

But I'll find my way to the other place,

One day.

As David concludes his story,

Your eyes drift to the frostwork on the windowpane,

Where your imagination etches a map onto the burgeoning ice crystals,

Now illuminated in the glow of firelight.

You can see in your mind's eye the shining lake where Carrie's goddess touched down,

The garden where a silver apple tree now grows,

The town square where the fountain flickered with a sunken city,

The bookshop where David pours over volumes of lore,

The ruins of an abbey where nightingales sing,

An Iron Age hillfort,

Home of dragons,

The Wildwood where you once witnessed the turning of the Wheel of the Year.

Your inner gaze draws curved lines connecting the locations,

Settling into spirals,

Three spirals connected at the center,

And there at the center of this map is Coventry House.

Something more than a fire in the hearth is crackling now within this room.

There is new kinship forged here,

A network of invisible cities,

Beings,

Stories,

Binding you all together.

It was more than good fortune that brought you to cross paths with these fellows,

You think.

There was something of fate in it,

Too.

You can feel it now that with the people in this room,

On this dark night,

You'll learn to navigate the unseen worlds,

Those fairy realms and echoes of history that seem to slide in and out of focus for you,

With Coventry House at the heart of it all.

Snow tumbles softly beyond the pain,

Gathering and dancing in the darkness.

Midnight approaches,

The axis of the year.

It's far too late to send your comrades home through the whistling dark.

And the empty country house has rooms to spare.

But there won't be much sleep tonight,

You think,

For there are a thousand tales left to tell and secrets left to spill.

There are mysteries in every corner of Coventry.

There are hidden realms on every page of every book in the Grand Library.

This place,

This magical house that called to you across land and sea,

Extends its fairy reach,

Its spiral arms,

And gathers up stories.

Only you can say what will come in the next chapter.

Will you step through the archway,

Tend the sacred tree,

Weave the spell of friendship in elegant,

Rotational symmetry?

Tonight,

As the old year dies and the seeds of the new are sown,

As holly and oak king re-enact their ancient battle for the season,

As the sun sleeps,

Ready to wake brighter tomorrow,

Tonight,

Something begins.

The snow,

The falling snow,

Passes through tracery,

Waltzing between the notes of nightingale song.

The pine boughs shiver,

And the lake's surface trembles and glows under silent moon.

Deeply,

Sweetly,

The land sings its legends through you and your friends.

A new fellowship,

A new community,

A new circle.

Soft heart,

Soft limbs,

Soft face,

Eyes,

Soft focus.

Allow yourself to melt here,

And find ease.

Ease of breath.

Ease in your muscles.

Taking a moment to notice anywhere you can consciously let go,

Especially in the muscles of the face and neck.

Let the tongue loosen in the mouth,

And the jaw soften.

Just let the body be at peace here,

And let the mind follow.

Allow my voice to guide you over the oceans,

Over snow-covered landscapes,

To quiet countryside,

Rolling hills,

Blanketed with thick drifts of snow,

With even more flurries softly accumulating.

See the sun slowly set over the western horizon,

Its final rays dancing across the sparkling snow.

As night falls,

Gently place yourself within the landscape,

Your feet landing in the snow with a crunch.

It comes up to your ankles,

But you are bundled up and warm,

And the cold doesn't touch you.

Take in your surroundings here,

The vastness of the countryside,

The lights of a small village in the distance,

The black silhouettes of evergreen trees against the night sky,

And the sky itself,

Deep blue and all awash with stars,

Twinkling bright,

And some so densely packed they seem painted with a single brush.

Search the skies and find the moon,

And notice its phase,

Does it wax or wane?

Is it full,

Dark,

Or a narrow crescent?

Take a moment to reflect on what the phase of the moon in your mind's eye might be telling you.

Can you divine a message from the moon about this time of year?

Maybe something to bring with you into the new year.

Or something to leave behind.

Sit with this message for a moment if you like,

Perhaps crafting it into an intention.

Something to offer up to your unconscious,

To your sleep.

And now,

In the inner space of your visualization,

Look to your hands.

Notice that you are holding an unlit candle,

And with your message from the moon,

Or your intention,

Or simply your sweet imagination,

Light the candle.

Sense the flickering warmth that radiates from it.

The warmth that envelops you,

But also extends beyond you.

Warmth and light in the darkness.

Scan the landscape with your mind's eye,

And notice that somewhere in the distance,

There comes another light,

A little amber flame that springs to life in reciprocity with yours.

Notice that despite the distance,

You can feel the warmth of that far off candle,

And notice that it illuminates your world just a little bit more.

Know,

Deep down,

That it's held by someone who loves you,

And thinks of you.

No matter where they are,

They carry a light for you.

Lift your inner gaze to see another light appear in the glittering dark,

Another candle lit for you,

For others.

Notice as more tiny,

Flickering flames appear,

Lighting up the landscape,

Warming you,

Warming each other.

Know that your light,

However small,

Has infinite reach.

Has infinite potential to grow,

To expand the circle,

To nurture community.

That's the thing about fire.

Use your flame to ignite another's,

And you won't lose any light.

Bring your mind and body in alignment with the peace of this tranquil winter landscape.

Feel it in your feet,

The lower body,

The torso,

The arms and shoulders.

The head and the neck.

Peace and stillness throughout the body.

A pause,

An interlude in calming darkness.

Soften.

Trust your light,

Your love.

The candle you hold for your loved ones,

And the ones they hold for you.

Infinitely giving.

And like the sun,

Emerging after the longest night.

Inextinguishable.

Wishing you warmth,

Light,

Renewal,

Community,

And all the blessings of Yule.

End of the new year.

Good night.