Channel your magic into a mysterious amulet in tonight's medieval fantasy 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 surrender to sleep.
If you're still awake as the story concludes,
I'll guide you through a relaxing meditation for sleep and self-care.
This is the finale of Season 4 of Sleep and Sorcery.
Thank you so much for dreaming with me over the past year.
I'll be taking a short break to work on Season 5,
But stay tuned for remixes,
Bonus recordings for supporters,
And more during the off time.
In tonight's story,
You are the village healer,
A practitioner of natural magic,
And keeper of a renowned herb garden.
Things are changing in the realm,
And you are in need of a way to preserve your magical knowledge.
So,
You have recently taken on an apprentice.
Together,
You work to develop a powerful vessel,
A container for all the wisdom of your ancestors and plant guides.
But through your efforts,
You come to realize that wisdom cannot be fixed or contained.
It must spread,
Travel,
And age.
This story lives in the same world as the Dragonrider,
The Tavern Tales,
And the Heir Apparent from other installments of Sleep and Sorcery.
But it takes place several generations in that continuing story's past.
You don't need to have heard the other installments to enjoy this story,
But you may recognize some of the threads woven throughout.
Everything is made out of magic.
Leaves and trees,
Flowers and birds,
Badgers and foxes and squirrels and people.
So,
It must be all around us.
Amelia Hart,
Wayward You gather acorns at the riverside by the light of the moon.
They are the children of the oaks,
The most potent ingredient in fertility charms,
And dozens of them line the base of your basket.
The summer night serenades you.
A swell of crickets here,
The whistle of a songbird there.
The laughter in the interplay of water and the river rocks.
You are humming in harmony with it all.
An old ancestral tune,
A hymn to nature and memory.
Go down,
Go down,
Down to the riverside,
Darling,
Down to the riverside,
Darling,
When the moon is high.
You sweep another handful of acorns into the basket,
Along with a few fallen birch twigs and dry leaves.
You won't pull leaves or switches down from living trees,
But what's already fallen you consider a gift.
There's always a use for such things,
Either in charms or as kindling for the fire.
Will you try,
Will you try to meet me there tonight,
Darling,
When the moon is high,
Meet me down by the riverside.
Cool night breezes pass,
A kiss of moisture in the air.
Rain tonight may hap,
You think.
You want to get home before it starts.
I am dead,
Dead and gone,
Darling,
Down in the river's sweet song,
And my soul sweetly swims along in the water,
And the river forgives my wrongs.
With a final gathering of twigs and leaves,
Another acorn for good measure,
You lower your eyes in thanks to the trees,
In thanks to the goddess,
And start off home,
Singing still in chorus with nature's symphony.
And oh,
My love,
When the king wren softly cries,
You'll know that song is mine,
For the moon is high tonight.
The first drops of rain are just beginning to fall as you push open the garden gate.
Your night-blooming flowers catch the water in their cups,
Leaves drooping and springing back under the accumulation of droplets.
You make it inside with only a sprinkling of rain on your hair and shoulders.
You shrug off your cloak and swiftly light a fire in the hearth.
With the sound of summer rain against the roof and the pleasant crackling of the fireplace in the background,
You sort through your foraged treasures.
You toss dead leaves into the fire and polish acorns with the fabric of your clothes.
Tomorrow,
Your apprentice is coming.
You carry a mix of excitement and apprehension at the thought.
It will be so satisfying,
You think,
To teach another the ways of healing and natural magic.
To have someone by your side,
To achieve greater and greater things,
To serve your community all the better.
But this wisdom you carry,
Handed down through the generations,
And that which you taught yourself through consistent practice and listening to nature,
Is precious,
Even sacred to you.
How can you trust it to the hands of another,
A stranger?
How can you be sure that she will protect the wisdom as you have,
Honoring the long-held traditions?
Can you recall the day your mother began your formal training,
Here in this very house and garden?
The first poultice you made,
Using freshly harvested herbs to ease the pain of an ailing neighbor.
The first charms and tinctures you crafted together.
But truly,
You entered apprenticeship the day you were born,
For you were always immersed in her practice.
You toddled after her in the garden as she tended the plants,
From which most of her magic came.
You played alongside the babies that she had helped deliver.
By the time you were ready to step into training,
The magic already lived in your bones,
And your every action.
Perhaps it's why you feel so protective of it.
Truthfully,
That possessive feeling has only intensified of late.
The world has changed,
Swiftly,
And irrevocably,
Since the last of the elves left.
They built a barrier of twilight and crossed beyond it,
Hoarding their high magic in a realm all for themselves.
At the time,
You thought it selfish and cruel.
But you've come to acknowledge the role of humankind in pushing the elves away.
You believe magic,
In all its forms,
Comes from the great mother goddess of life,
Death,
And the land.
In other words,
From relationship with the natural world.
Participation and grounding within the natural world.
The very nature of human progress has damaged that relationship,
Leading to the destruction of forests and endangerment of species.
Many humans believe,
With increasing fervor,
That they have dominion over the land,
That they can harness and control it.
The elves warned that living out of harmony with the land would eventually drain all the realm of its natural magic.
But their pleas went unheeded for so long,
You can hardly blame them for taking what enchantment they had left and retreating.
It's now in the hands of people like you,
Who command lesser magics than the elves,
But who know how to live in relationship with the plants,
Animals,
And natural systems.
And you have a responsibility to share that wisdom,
That way of life,
With the next generation.
Tomorrow begins a new chapter in your life.
You will move into existence as an elder,
A teacher.
Tonight,
However,
You still think of yourself as a student,
As a youth,
With all your life and learning ahead,
Following in your mother's footsteps,
And her mother before her.
The fire dies,
And you retire to your bed,
Where the sounds of the summer storm gently lull you to a fragrant,
Dream-filled sleep.
In that sleep,
A seed of an idea is planted in your mind,
A strange and impossible idea,
Watered by wonder and mystery.
By morning,
The idea,
Quickened in the garden of your unconscious,
Is beginning to flower.
What if,
You wonder,
There was a way to preserve the generations of priceless wisdom,
To bottle it like a potion,
Or seal it up in wax?
Somehow the pages of a book,
A grimoire,
Seem all too fragile and penetrable.
And besides,
So few in your village learn to read nowadays.
You can only assume this pattern is similar across the realm.
This,
You think,
The preservation of magic is the work you were meant to do,
And your new apprentice will help you do it.
Her name is Prue,
And she comes from a neighboring village,
A girl of sixteen,
And the youngest of three sisters.
Her family is grateful that you've chosen to take her into apprenticeship,
Even if they understand little of your trade.
She's a good girl,
They insist,
Though she was often unwell as a child,
And never strong enough to work the family's land.
Perhaps her frequent bouts of illness,
You suppose,
Are what sparked her interest in becoming a healer.
Whatever the case,
You welcome her warmly,
And show her to the chamber you've made up for her,
With fresh linens on the bed,
And dry lavender hanging over the doorframe.
This will be her home now,
And you intend to care for her with the utmost hospitality,
As she learns the art of natural magic.
Prue is quiet and reserved,
But she comes out of her shell more and more with each passing day.
You take it slow with the formal lessons,
But you impress upon her one thing at the outset,
That everything you do,
From the work of healing,
To the preparation of meals,
And even the dusting of the floors,
Is done with the same intention.
Every action of life has its place in relationship with the work.
Prue comes with you on house calls to your neighbors,
Watching as you administer salves and potions,
Observing your bedside manner with the sick.
She listens when others come to see you for charms and spells.
A young couple comes to visit,
Hoping for a child.
Prue helps you tie up a sachet of herbs and acorns,
A fertility charm,
And takes note of how you advise the couple to continue their journey.
Together,
You are present for the whole circle of your neighbors' lives,
At births,
Through adolescence and matricence,
Into old age,
And even with gentle hands and soft words at the end of lives.
Prue sees how you accept payment for your services,
Not in gold,
But in kind.
Gifts of food and wine,
Fine garments,
Jewelry,
Or other items of small value.
Some have no means to pay you for the charms and the healing ointments you make.
Still,
You help them,
For the work is its own reward,
And the goddess will find her way to bring the goodwill round.
Most importantly,
You and your apprentice begin and end each day together in the garden.
Prue is a natural with plants,
And a quick study at the cycles of planting,
Tending,
And harvesting.
You teach her the names of each resident of your garden,
And how every part of the plant,
From root to blossom,
Has its own essence and effect.
The history of the plant,
How it relates to others,
Its seasonal cycles.
How to distill the plant essences and bring their healing properties together into potions,
Charms,
Tinctures,
And salves.
You teach her about the great mother goddess,
The land herself,
And the lady of life,
Death,
And rebirth,
From whom all things grow,
And to whom all things return.
There are few who still invoke her name,
You tell Prue,
But everyone who lives in relationship with nature knows her,
In some way.
She turns the seasons,
Like a great and wondrous wheel.
She sets with the sun,
Rises with the moon,
And guides the stars on their journeys.
What is the goddess's name,
Prue asks you.
She is called Arda,
In the days of spring and summer,
You say.
And when the year turns dark and cold,
She becomes Morana.
She dies and is reborn each year,
Renewing with the land in spring.
Our power to heal comes from that spirit of renewal.
Our magic comes from her soil,
And her daughters,
The plants.
In the moonlit stillness of the garden by night,
Prue's raven-dark hair shines almost blue.
Her eyes sparkle,
Lit from within by the goddess's tale.
It prides you to see that light in her.
Over the early weeks and months of her apprenticeship,
You've begun to think of Prue as the daughter you never had.
To see her embrace the work,
The service,
And the magic so fully,
It heals your lonely heart,
Gives you something you hadn't known you were missing.
With each day,
Prue's magic grows.
By the time the first breath of autumn rides the breeze,
She is able to practice independently,
Visiting with the sick,
Advising families,
And harvesting by moonlight.
Still,
You work together in the garden,
Studying the plants and moon cycles,
Crafting rituals,
And honoring the goddess.
On a cool night after supper,
You sit with Prue by the fire,
She is recalling her upbringing,
The sisters after whom she once toddled.
The family was poor,
But always rich in love and laughter.
Even through a childhood rife with ailments,
There was joy.
I would that I had known you then,
She says,
A childlike softness in her voice.
Why,
You smile,
So I might have healed you.
Yes,
She responds sheepishly,
And no,
I think it might have given me strength,
Just to know I had a purpose,
To know there was so much meaning in the land,
Beyond the hard toil of the farmer's life,
To know there was a place for me in it,
Even with my limitations,
That even the wounded may heal.
It touches your heart to hear her say this.
Now is the time,
You think.
She is ready.
There is something I hope to do,
You say,
Something that might give such hope to others across the world,
But I need your help.
You tell Prue about your fear of a world someday in the future,
Where the goddess is all but forgotten,
And the magic has died.
Where humans have entirely severed their connection to nature.
Where life is rudderless,
Ruthless,
And mechanical,
With no space for mystery.
To you,
Such a future feels inevitable.
Already the elves have gathered up their magic and departed for an unreachable shore.
Already,
The people of the realm forget what enchantment left with them.
Yet there might be a way,
You say,
To safeguard your wisdom,
Your magic,
The gifts of the goddess.
You've been developing a ritual to channel the essences of all your garden herbs along with all the wisdom that lives in your muscles and memory into a vessel.
What kind of vessel,
Prue asks,
Her eyes alight with interest.
It would need to be something strong,
Sturdy,
You speculate aloud,
And of no small value.
Something that might be passed through generations without being discarded or destroyed.
An item into which you could channel your magic,
And then your apprentice after you,
And on down the years.
There is a long silence,
During which you and Prue gaze pensively at the fire.
You are both deep in consideration.
Then you look to Prue,
Whose hand moves to her collarbone.
Then slowly,
Deliberately,
She pulls a chain from beneath the neckline of her shift.
At the end of the chain is a large amulet.
A gem gleaming in the firelight,
Its color shifting by the mutable flames between shades of emerald and amber and oxblood.
Where did you come by such a thing as this,
You ask,
Watching Prue's eyes which reflect the glittering jewel?
It was payment,
She responds.
For the care we provided to Miss Agatha's husband.
I was there to bring the last batch of his elixir,
And you recall how ill he was,
Not six weeks ago.
We thought he was past all help.
But this time the color was back in his face,
And he was up and walking even.
She told me we'd done her family such a kindness.
It was a miracle.
And then she brought me this.
Prue pulls the chain from round her neck and holds the jewel out toward you.
But you don't reach for it.
Not yet.
I told her I couldn't possibly take something of such value.
It is valuable,
Isn't it?
A gem that large,
And not a single flaw in it.
But she insisted.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you before.
And now you reach forward to take the gem in your hand.
It sits with a heaviness in your palm.
There's something uncanny about it.
For it resembles no stone you've seen in the world,
Or in the pages of books.
Its true color is impossible to discern through the myriad shifts.
And Prue is right.
Not a flaw to be found.
Holding it,
You understand why Prue waited till now to show it to you.
Keeping it hidden under her shift.
You feel an instinctive desire for the object.
A possessiveness.
Even a refusal to let it out of your sight for fear of harm coming to it.
Yes,
You think,
Such a gem would be a perfect vessel.
A ritual like this has never,
To your knowledge,
Been undertaken before.
You are writing it together.
With no guide but the goddess within.
You know one thing for certain,
However,
That it must be done in the garden.
The spark,
The inspiration is bright,
And you dare not let it wane.
You and your apprentice take to the flowers and herbs so fragrant by twilight.
The night-blooming flowers arch their heads toward the lulling moon,
Only a day past fullness.
Setting the gem between you on the damp grass,
You clasp hands with Prue,
Drawing a circle,
And calling in the goddess in her many aspects.
Morana,
The crone of winter,
And Arda,
The maiden of spring's renewal.
Her presence in the wind and rain,
In the trees and plants,
The rivers and streams,
The firefly and the flame.
You enrich the garden soil with your intention.
Channel the wisdom,
The teachings,
The magic of the plants,
And your practice into the gem.
Capture the uncapturable,
Preserving the magic in this perfect vessel for posterity,
For eternity.
Set yourselves as stalwarts for the conservation of magic in the land,
Holding firm against its inevitable depletion.
As the intention roots,
And the power of your dyad amplifies it across the garden,
You begin to see the magic manifest.
The flowers turn their heads away from the moon and toward the gem,
Toward you.
Wispy,
Effervescent threads draw outward from their blooms,
Twisting across the night.
Those flowers that close by night,
Too,
Cannot resist opening,
Breathing their essence visibly toward you.
From the leafy herbs and shrubs come strings and vapors of the same,
Each plant giving its magic,
Its healing nature,
As a gift to the vessel.
Coaxed out by your ritual.
This image of all your beloved plants glowing by the moonlight,
Sending soft mists of magic on spiraling breeze,
Is so breathtaking that it takes all your effort not to break concentration or your grasp on Prue's hands.
The ground seems to tremble beneath you.
Looking across at your apprentice,
Your partner,
You see a similar sparkling haze lifting from her chest and low from yours as well.
Just like the plants,
You are breathing your magic into the gem.
With your gift,
Your wisdom,
Comes the magic of all the wise ones before you.
All that instinct,
Born across the generations,
Filtered through teaching and practice,
Travels out onto your breath.
It's a fullness of magical expression no grimoire could hope to contain.
For a shining moment which feels the length of a season,
You feel the breath of the goddess in your lungs.
Her fire in your fingers.
You feel her arms about you like a mother,
And the feeling is one of unfiltered joy,
Profound bliss.
You are breathing all as one.
You and Prue and the plants and the river and the birds.
And the trees and the gem.
The gem pulsing before you.
Amber,
Emerald,
Onyx.
It is in this breath of a moment that you sense the enormity of the spell,
And you see,
For the first time,
A hint of its implications.
This is a ripple,
One that will move tides.
You feel Prue's grip loosen,
And for a split second,
You consider letting her break the connection.
Fault the ritual.
Turn back.
But a reflex takes over,
And you tighten your hold on her hands as the spell completes.
There is no going back now.
It's done.
All is still and silent in the garden.
Not a wind whistles through.
No nightingale hums.
The night washes Prue's face in pale silver,
Her hair shining quite blue.
You've done it.
In synchrony,
Your gazes track downward to the amulet,
The vessel which now contains the wisdom,
The essence you've so long yearned to preserve.
It is still as the night.
With waves of pride and a sense of accomplishment,
Comes another emotion,
This one more inscrutable.
It isn't quite regret,
But there's a pang somewhere deep,
A sense that you have touched something profound.
A magic that was,
Perhaps,
Better left undisturbed.
In the name of preserving magic in these dying days of the year,
In a land abandoned by the elves,
Have you inadvertently only hastened the end of enchantment?
Have you sealed the last of the goddess's gifts in an object,
Unchanging?
She who is the embodiment of change,
Of cycles,
Of life,
Death,
And rebirth.
In the days to come,
Winter winds herself round the village,
Bringing an early frost over the garden.
You and Prue continue your rounds and home visits to those in need for as long as the weather allows.
You take turns wearing the amulet.
It is heavy with the weight of all that wisdom.
To wear it,
You find,
Is to carry the power of centuries,
To feel invulnerable,
Ageless,
And immortal.
But as much as it is a great gift,
It is also a heavy burden,
And such a burden is lighter when it can be shared.
You begin to feel your age whenever you remove it at the end of a long day.
You sink into your chair by the fire.
Putting your feet up to rest your aching muscles.
Prue tends to you on such nights,
Preparing supper and ensuring that you have clean linens.
You do the same for her on the days she wears the gem.
After some time,
Even she,
Still barely of age,
Seems frayed at the edges,
Older,
Exhausted.
All magic,
You suppose,
Comes at a price.
To seal up so much power in one vehicle takes its toll on the wearer.
But as long as you and Prue care for one another and protect the amulet.
One evening,
In deep winter,
As the gem sits unworn upon the supper table,
Prue poses a question.
Was it worth it,
She asks.
You know exactly to what she refers,
And you cannot give her a straight answer.
Since the ritual,
She hasn't needed you as a teacher.
Neither one of you has acknowledged that aloud.
But it's true.
When she wears the gem,
She carries you and your ancestors.
You no longer take her to the garden each night,
Teaching her the nature of the plants.
You haven't guided her hand in the stirring of a potion for months.
You've missed that connection,
You realize.
The exchange you once shared.
You as guide and steward of wisdom,
Of course.
But even she,
Untested,
Had things to teach you.
She once asked questions that reframed your perspective.
Now,
No questions persist between you.
Nothing lies unanswerable.
No mystery remains.
All is within reach for the bearer of the gem.
All that ancestral magic,
That unteachable wisdom,
Dangles now at the end of a chain.
It is no longer something to be taught,
Shared,
Nurtured,
And worked for.
It is only to be possessed.
On this night,
Another kind of ritual begins.
But there is no formal circle drawn.
No question of the phase of the moon.
This is a ritual of renewal.
The renewal of curiosity and commitment.
Your heart skips as Prue goes to grasp the amulet,
Tossing it forcefully into the fire.
You feel a pang of loss,
But steel yourself with the understanding that it must be done.
You must release what you have so rashly imprisoned.
The stone does not burn,
Does not melt.
It simply flickers,
Blackens.
It is frightening,
Refusing to be unmade.
What is done cannot be undone,
You say,
Recalling the strength of intention that powered the original ritual.
Then how do we go on,
Prue asks.
We make a choice,
You say.
We choose to go on,
To move forward,
With or without it.
The logs crackle in the hearth,
Flames enveloping the blackened gem.
When the fire is out,
And the jewel is cool enough to touch,
When the snow breaks and the village sleeps,
You and Prue don your warmest clothes and go together to the river,
Singing an old familiar song in harmony.
Will you try,
Will you try to meet me there tonight,
Darling?
When the moon is high,
Meet me down by the riverside.
Even in the depths of winter,
The river still flows,
The strength of current breaking through crystals of ice that may form on its surface.
The river is in constant motion.
Change and flow,
It carves patterns in the banks,
Rises and falls,
Bringing fresh water from village to village,
All the way to the sea.
The river,
As you first told Prue many months ago,
Is like the goddess,
A shapeshifter,
A life-giver,
And a vessel of ever-changing memory.
If you cannot destroy the gem you've decided,
Then at least you can let it go.
Together,
You toss the amulet into the current,
Losing sight of it immediately in the rush of water,
In the dark of night.
With love in your heart for every curve of the land,
Every barren tree,
And every hibernating creature,
You recommit to your practice,
To the plants,
To the constantly evolving state of apprenticeship.
The plants are teachers,
After all,
And even you,
So wise with the ages,
Are a student of the goddess still.
You will keep magic alive,
Not with a vessel,
An amulet,
But with everyday learning,
Doing,
Practicing.
You will continue to change each other,
And the world around you,
For the better.
Every action infused with intention,
Every intention powered by kindness.
You will make miracles,
Rededicated in the light of the winter moon,
You clasp hands with pru,
And return safely home.
The amulet,
Heavy with ancestral wisdom,
Sinks to the river bottom,
Out of sight,
It remains unmoved by the powerful current,
Embedding itself in the sand.
The stone is unchangeable,
Yet it changes the water that runs over its smooth surface.
The trees,
That align the banks of the river,
Draw its water for their roots,
All the way to the sea.
The river nourishes oaks,
Alders,
And hazel groves,
Opening doorways in the twilight.
You never speak of the amulet again,
Never write of it in your journals or notes.
Within a generation,
It passes from memory.
Pru gives birth to a daughter,
Whom she initiates as apprentice.
They keep the garden.
The river flows on,
Beneath mountain peaks and dragon's fire,
Through ages and eras,
Past raucous taverns and through king cities.
There are many who work to keep magic alive.
But in time,
Even lesser magic becomes exceedingly rare.
Even the dragons disappear at last.
But there are still teachers and healers.
There is still community and kindness for those who care to find it.
Kindness can never be stamped out,
Despite those who would try.
Somewhere down the centuries of a disenchanted world,
Across mountain and forest,
A woman with sparkling eyes and raven-dark hair,
Dark as Pru's in the garden,
Gazes into the glass-like surface of a fountain pool,
A reflection distorted in the ripples.
She is named for an aspect of a goddess long forgotten in the realm.
Morana touches the amulet around her neck,
And for the first time in the wake of her visions in the water,
She senses all the generations of wisdom locked within.
The journey this stone has taken to find her.
All that wisdom contained,
As magic was never meant to be,
In this fixed and frozen gem.
Relax into your support.
Find an inner peace and calm that is supported by your natural breath.
Take a moment here to notice whether you are holding onto tension anywhere in your body.
Consciously send the breath to those spaces.
Using your deep,
Steady breath to slowly massage the tension away.
Just let everything soften.
I invite you to take a moment to visualize.
A ball of light,
Situated right around your heart space.
Feel the warmth radiating from it,
And notice what color this light is in your mind.
This is the color of magic.
There's no wrong answer.
And it may change as you visualize.
Let the warmth and light spread outward from your heart,
All throughout the body,
Into your arms,
All the way down to your fingertips,
Shining out from your fingers,
Spreading upward through your neck and your head,
All the way to the crown of your head,
Your face,
Your whole torso,
The back and the belly,
Your hips,
Your legs,
All the way down into the feet,
Shining out through the toes,
Until you are a beacon of enchanted light and your essence breathing through on the spirals of night,
Your whole body made of warm light.
Breathe deeply,
Softening.
Notice whether the light in your mind's eye changes color or quality as you breathe in and out,
Up and down.
Notice how it disperses through the space,
Reaching out to warm the world around you,
The world around you.
Know that this beautiful,
Warm,
Nurturing light is the real you,
The deepest,
Most loving,
Magical you.
Those who see it are so fortunate.
You have so much to give,
So much to share,
And even when your light feels dim,
Your cup feels empty,
You mean so much.
You still give so much to those around you,
Just because you're here.
You are so loved,
So needed.
Never forget that.
Relax the body and let your light soften,
Diffusing,
Rolling outward to shine as far as the eye can see,
This colorful,
Authentic light of you.
Let your mind be at peace,
Settling into your natural breath,
Easing toward sleep.
You carry this light,
This enchantment,
Within you,
And you are powerful,
Bringing joy to those around you,
Bringing enchantment to your world.
Breathe into this sensation of warmth and light,
Knowing your place within the tiny miracles we witness every day,
Every act of kindness.
Let your heart be open to such magic.
Breathe,
And settle down.
Carry your enchanted glow across the threshold into your dreams tonight,
Down the river,
And forward into every day of your life.
Good night.
