The Faerie Portal This guided audio recording will help to gently guide you into a deep state of relaxation from where you will have the option to drift off to sleep.
In a few moments,
You will embark on a pleasant and gentle journey of visualization that will take place within your mind.
To begin your journey,
Find a comfortable place where you will not be disturbed and sit or lie down.
Close your eyes and take a few long,
Deep breaths,
Allowing yourself to relax.
Just fall into a natural breathing pattern and enjoy this immersive experience.
You are relaxing at the end of a peaceful day.
You have been pottering about your house,
Taken a walk to the village shop and now you sit in your garden,
Watching the gentle evening fade towards sunset.
The air is still mild.
You hear from the faerie wood the sound of a nightingale.
You hear from the faerie wood the sound of a nightingale.
And further away,
The curl and withdrawal of the sea in the cove,
Beyond the village.
So quiet.
It is like the air breathing.
You consider taking a last walk down the lane and later are not sure if you did or you fell into a doze in your chair.
You think that you get up and walk slowly out of your garden,
Into the little lane.
The moon is up in a sky dappled with melting clouds.
You hear the night sounds of crickets in the hedge and your own quiet progress.
An owl calls from somewhere and a moment later you see it swoop along the line of the faerie wood,
A pale shape against the trees.
At the gate in the field you pause.
The short grass seems silvery in the moonlight.
At the bottom,
Near the village,
The standing stones are dark sentinels.
Above them,
The air seems bright,
Faintly glowing,
As if they are tapping into some power deep in the earth and casting it skyward.
As you gaze at it,
A quick movement causes you to turn your head and you see,
Paler than the moon,
The white stag bound out of the small wood opposite your house.
It runs into the middle of the field,
Then raises its head.
Even across the distance,
You can feel the weight of its eyes upon you,
Before it leaps away again toward the faerie wood and vanishes into its depths.
You have never entered the faerie wood without an invitation,
And this one seems very clear.
Opening the gate,
You close it behind you and follow the path of the white stag.
In the wood,
It does not seem dark.
There is a gentle illumination,
Like starlight or moonlight,
That makes the winding trail you follow easy.
The air is filled with fresh scents,
Layers of them,
Leaves and pine and earth,
Moss and water.
The stag keeps ahead of you,
Walking now slowly and with purpose.
The trees open to the ancient tumulus of the faerie mound,
A place of deep magic,
But not the deepest.
There is a swirl and a shimmer as the form of the stag melts away and the ruler of the fae now walks,
Their long robes like a drift of starlight.
You have a sudden thought that this is a dream,
As it seems perfectly normal and natural.
When they pause and turn,
They reach out a hand,
Beckoning you to their side,
And they lead you down the path to the grove of the yew tree.
It dominates the wood,
As if it has always been there and always will be.
Impossibly ancient,
A presence so old that it feels neither benign nor threatening.
It simply exists,
Like a gravity well that pulls everything toward it.
You feel its pull,
Different than the time you came here before and were welcomed into its secrets.
This tree came from another world,
Or perhaps a parallel dimension.
The one thing you do not feel is any fear.
To be invited here is an honour.
The old lady has mentioned that although people live in the haven and are protected and safe here,
Very few have ever come into this wood.
Once,
You sat within the tree's embrace.
This time,
Under the direction of the fae,
You are led around the huge trunk.
Yew trees can split and grow outward,
Their branches delving into the ground and growing out so that,
Over thousands of years,
It almost walks across the land.
And now,
You see what looks like an archway made from one of those great branches.
The opening is filled with a delicate,
Shining mist.
A hand on your shoulder guides you almost into the arch,
And then you stop,
Under the soft pressure which is not exactly a warning,
But makes it clear that you are to stand here.
A little puzzled,
You wait.
And as you do,
The mist begins to thin and clear as fog wisps away under the sunlight.
Through the arch,
You see a land stretching away to thickly wooded hills and a chain of high mountains beyond.
Far away,
As if at the end of a long road,
The white pillars and spires of a great castle or palace reach into the sky.
It has an unreal look,
As if it is not tied to the pull of gravity.
Sweeping walkways and bridges connect the slender towers,
And as the sun strikes them,
It sets the topmost spires flashing,
As if they are set with diamonds.
You hear the sound of wind in the grass,
Birdsong,
And then,
Approaching hoofbeats.
They come closer,
Not far from where you are is a track or road,
And a procession of riders on horseback passes.
They are going at a canter,
Robes and hair streaming,
Gems flaring tiny points of light.
You watch as they grow more distant,
Approaching the palace,
And begin to notice other things.
The branches of the yew tree reach out into this other world,
And you think that it's a bridge,
A connecting point between your world and this place.
It exists in both.
You lay your hand against the wood,
And smell its bitter,
Spicy smell.
Deep under the song of the land,
You think you can hear a muffled,
Slow heartbeat,
That of the tree itself.
Then,
The mist begins to rise again,
Filling the portal so that the view of the other world gradually vanishes.
You feel the fey ruler's hand on your shoulder,
Which you had almost forgotten,
And you turn back.
Is it,
You ask,
A dream?
A vision?
Or a memory of a long-lost world?
A strange smile comes into their eyes.
They say that it is all those things,
But also more than that.
No other human,
They tell you,
Has seen it.
There are so few doorways now.
They guide you back,
Past the ancient yew that seems to slumber now,
Retreating into a watchful sleep.
The path through the woods undulates like a dropped silver ribbon,
And you seem to glide along it,
Through the trees,
Out into the moonwashed field,
And then soar and glide across it,
Toward your home.
You open your eyes.
Somehow,
You slept,
You think,
Until you realise that you are in your own comfortable bed.
Not sitting outside in the garden.
The breeze whispers in the trees,
And your eyelids grow heavy again,
As if weighted by gentle magic.
You think of a glittering palace,
And riders out of legend of the bright power in the eyes of the fey.
A dream?
Or was it real?
You will think about it in the morning,
You decide,
As you let the sound of the leaves in the wind array you into sleep.
