Hello my friend.
Welcome to your sleep story.
My name is Stephen Dalton.
I'm an Irish storyteller.
And it's my great privilege.
To be the voice that you listen to.
As you go to sleep tonight.
Many of you over the years have commented that your doctor recommended my stories to you as a way of finding sleep And I suppose those comments have given me the idea for tonight's sleep story.
It is about a kind doctor.
A doctor of sleep.
Called dr penny feather who helps a great many people in the village of bumble town find the sleep of their dreams And I hope tonight's story brings just that for you.
But first,
Let's do the relaxation session,
Which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story.
I'm going to count down from ten to one.
And as I do.
.
.
Allow yourself to let go.
More.
And more.
Feel the support.
Of the bed beneath you.
Or the floor.
Or whatever you lie upon tonight.
And beneath what you lie upon.
Feel a deeper support.
The support of the Earth.
Our home.
Our constant support.
And as you become aware of that support,
See if you can.
.
.
Sink into this moment a little more now.
Jess.
Let go.
A little more now.
Nein.
Ew.
Are safe.
Allow my voice.
To be an anchor of safety tonight.
To be a friend.
To be a gentle guide.
A guide that only ever brings you to safe places.
Too warm.
And cosy places.
To places that enable and support You're asleep.
Trust.
That my voice is a friend tonight.
Feel into your body now.
Notice where you might still be holding tonight.
Notice.
Where you may have pain.
Or tingling Retention.
Notice anything.
Maybe you feel something in your feet.
Or in your lower legs Resize.
Or your belly.
Your chest.
Shoulders your neck You're back.
Arms.
Hands.
Or maybe you're like me.
And you hold tension in your face.
Just see if you can soften a little now.
This is a time.
For kindness.
To yourself and to your body.
Seven.
The day is.
.
.
Whatever has been.
It's been.
.
.
Whatever will be.
Will be.
But right now.
.
.
All you have is this moment.
Your thoughts can't change what has gone before.
Your thoughts can't change.
What will come tomorrow.
Your brain.
Needs rest now.
So as thoughts come and go now.
Don't fight them.
Don't chase them away.
See them for what they are.
So it's.
.
.
Then just.
.
.
Watch them go.
Like leaves.
Floating away on a moonlit river.
Or clouds.
Passing through a starlit sky.
Six.
This is your moment.
This.
Is your time.
You have earned this moment of kindness to yourself.
You deserve to have peace in your life.
We all do.
So,
As you become aware of that fact As you.
Come to the understanding.
That we all deserve peace.
See.
If you can settle into this moment.
.
.
A little more now.
Letting your body know.
That it's really time for rest.
Peace.
Lives within you.
It is a constant friend.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be felt.
Where does it live within you?
Maybe it's in your heart.
Maybe it's in your head.
It's up to you to find it.
But I promise you it's there.
Perhaps allow a little gratitude now.
Gratitude.
For the simple things.
For your body.
For the shelter you have tonight.
For the ones you love.
And who love you.
For the beauty and wonder of this world.
Of this planet.
That you can find.
When you look for it.
Three.
Begin to engage with your imagination now.
Begin to see a rainy little village.
And in that little village a doctor's surgery a crooked little building welcoming and warm and ready for its next patient Checking in with your body one more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself to give in To allow the tension to ease away.
Your body has worked hard for you today.
It's time.
To give it rest.
And one.
Completely letting go now As I tell you.
Tonight's sleep story.
In this small and damp town of Little Bumble Down.
Tucked away in a green and forgotten corner of the English countryside.
They live.
A most peculiar man by the name of Dr.
Archibald Pennyfeather.
He was very tall and very thin,
With long fingers and a nose like a drooping candle,
And eyes the colour of weak tea.
He wore a long grey coat that reached almost to his ankles and a hurt.
That was too tall for his head and shoes that were too big for his feet.
And he walked with a gentle,
Shuffling sort of walk that made almost no sound at all.
Dr.
Pennyfeather was not an ordinary doctor.
He did not treat cuffs or colds or sore throats.
Or tummy ache?
He did not listen to chests with a stethoscope or tap knees with a little rubber hammer or shine torches into ears.
Dr.
Pennyfeather treated one thing and one thing only.
Be treated.
Sleep.
That is to say,
He treated people who could not sleep and people who slept too much.
And people who slept at the wrong times.
People who slept in the wrong places.
And people who had bad dreams,
And people who had no dreams at all.
And people whose dreams had gone missing and people whose dreams had been stolen by magpies His surgery was in a tall,
Narrow house on the edge of the town,
Where the last of the cobbled streets gave way to a long,
Muddy lane that led nowhere in particular.
The house leaned slightly to the left.
As though it had been listening too long at a keyhole and its windows were small and round like portals and its roof was covered in thick green moss that smelled on rainy days of old books and wet dogs And it was almost always a rainy day in Little Bumble Down.
The rain fell on the roof of dr pennyfeather's surgery with a soft and steady patter and it fell on the cobbles outside.
And it fell on the ivy.
That climbed up the walls.
And it fell on the little wooden sign that hung above the door which read in careful gold letters Doctor A.
Pennyfeather.
Doctor of sleep.
By appointment only.
Please tiptoe.
Inside the surgery was very quiet and very warm.
There were thick rugs on the floor the colour of moss and honey and there were heavy curtains at the windows the colour of old wine And there were lamps with green glass shades That gave off a soft and sleepy glow There was a large grandfather clock in the corner that ticked so slowly and so gently.
That it sounded like someone breathing in their sleep In the waiting room there were deep,
Deep armchairs.
The sort you could sink into and never come out of.
And little tables stacked with books with titles like the encyclopaedia of yawns and a brief history of nodding off and one thousand and one nights of perfectly ordinary sleep.
There were cushions everywhere,
Plump and soft.
And there were blankets folded neatly over the arms of the chairs.
In case anyone should feel a little drowsy while waiting their turn.
And a great many people did feel a little drowsy while waiting their turn.
In fact,
It was not unusual at all for Dr.
Pennyfeather to open the door to his waiting room and find every single one of his patients.
The sleep before he had even seen them.
Oh dear.
He would whisper to his assistant.
Miss Mildred Moss.
Who was a small and round woman with spectacles and a voice like a warm bath They've all gone off again.
Shall we wake them up do you think or just leave them be leave them be doctor miss moth would whisper back leave them be they've come all this way for a bit of sleep it would be a terrible shame to wake them up now And so,
Dr.
Pennyfeather would tiptoe back into his consulting room.
And have another cup of chamomile tea and miss moth would tiptoe around the waiting room drawing curtains and tucking blankets.
And the rain would go on falling.
Softly softly.
On the roof.
Now,
On the particular evening when our story begins.
.
.
A young boy by the name of Oliver Pembleton was walking up the long,
Muddy lane towards Dr.
Pennyfeather's surgery.
Oliver was nine years old.
And he was small for his age and he had hair the colour of toast and his wellington boots made a lovely squelching sound in the mud as he He was holding his mother's hand and his mother was holding a black umbrella and the rain was falling all around them,
Pattering on the umbrella.
Pattering on the leaves of the hedgerow.
Puttering on the little stream that ran alongside the rain.
Said Oliver.
Is the sleep doctor going to fix me?
I very much hope so,
My dear,
Said his mother.
What if he can't?
Then we shall try someone else.
But Mrs.
Hodgkins at the bakery says Dr.
Pennyfeather is the very best.
She says he cured her cousin's husband's uncle,
Who hadn't slept for three years and seven months,
And was beginning to look like a piece of burnt toast.
Goodness,
Said Oliver.
The problem with Oliver was that he could not,
For the life of him,
Fall asleep every night he would lie in his bed and stare at the ceiling and count sheep And count elephants.
And count penguins.
And count all the countries of the world in alphabetical order,
And still sleep would not come.
His eyes stayed open.
His mind stayed busy.
The hours ticked by.
And the moon rose and set.
And the birds began to sing in the morning.
And still.
Oliver had not slept awake.
He had tried warm milk.
He had tried cold milk.
He had tried goat's milk.
He'd tried hot baths and cold baths and no baths at all.
He'd tried boring books and boring music.
And boring conversations with his great-aunt Petunia about the history of buttons Nothing worked.
At last.
His mother had said.
That's quite enough of this.
We're going to see Dr.
Pennyfeather.
And here they were.
Squelching up the lane with the rain coming down in long grey threads.
And the sky the colour of old porridge.
And the little house leaning forward as though it was eager to meet them.
Oliver's mother rang the bell which did not make a ringing sound at all but a soft distant sort of chime like a bell being rung underwater.
The door was opened by Miss Moth.
Who smiled and said,
In her warm voice.
Good evening,
Master Pembleton.
Good evening mrs pimbleton do come in out of the wet mind your boots there's a deer Yes,
Just there on the mat.
That's lovely.
Now,
Would you like a cup of something warm before you go in?
We have chamomile and lavender and passion flower.
And a very nice one made from hops and honey that i mixed myself this morning Oliver said he would like the one made from hops and honey because it sounded the most interesting.
And his mother said she would have the chamomile.
Thank you very much.
They sat in the waiting room.
Which was even warmer and sleepier than it looked from the outside.
And Oliver,
Sip tis hops and honey tea.
And his eyes went round and round,
Looking at everything.
There was an old cat curled up on one of the chairs,
Fast asleep,
With its paws tucked under its chin.
There was a tortoise on the mantelpiece that oliver thought might be a statue until it Slowly.
Very slowly blinked one eye at him there was a large aquarium in one corner and in the aquarium were not fish but Small grey round creatures that looked a bit like floating pebbles,
And which Miss Moth later told him were called dreamlets,
And which Dr.
Pennyfeather kept for his experiments.
What sort of experiments?
Whispered Oliver.
Oh,
Said Miss Moth.
All sorts he's a very clever man the doctor he knows things about sleep that no one else has ever known He knows,
For instance,
That dreams weigh almost nothing at all.
But that a bad dream weighs more than a good one.
And a nightmare is the heaviest of all.
He knows that there are seventy-three different kinds of yawn and that the great yawn of the himalayas is so enormous It can make entire villages fall asleep at once.
He knows where sleep comes from and where it goes when it leaves you and why some people have too much of it.
And some people have too little.
Goodness.
Said Oliver.
He is,
Said Miss Moth.
Very solemnly.
A remarkable man.
Just then the door to the consulting room opened and a long thin figure appeared in the doorway it was dr pennyfeather himself He looked down at Oliver over the tops of his spectacles,
Which were perched right at the very end of his candle nose,
And he smiled a slow,
Kind sort of smile.
Mr.
Pimbleton.
In a voice like distant thunder.
Wrapped in a blanket.
Do come in.
Do come in.
I've been expecting you.
The consulting room was the most wonderful room Oliver had ever seen in his life.
It was shaped like a circle,
And the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves,
And on the bookshelves were hundreds and hundreds of small glass jars,
Each one labelled in neat copperplate handwriting,
And each one containing something strange.
And soft.
Swirly.
There was a jar labelled Yawn's Common Garden.
And a jar labelled Yons,
Imported Egyptian.
And a jar labelled size light.
And a jar labelled size.
Heavy.
And a jar labelled snores for adults only And a jar labelled Dreams Assorted and a jar labelled Dreams Chocolate Flavour and a chore label.
Dreams.
Involving penguins.
And many Many more.
In the centre of the room was an enormous armchair upholstered in dark green velvet with a footstool in front of it and a little table beside it and a lamp above it that cast a soft golden circle of light.
The rest of the room was in a gentle,
Dusky half-darkness.
The sort of darkness you get just before you fall asleep,
When the edges of things go soft,
And the middle of things goes cosy.
Behind the armchair,
On the far side of the room,
Was an enormous window.
And through the window you could see the rain falling falling falling on the garden and a small wooden bench.
And a stone birdbath.
And a weeping willow whose branches trailed in the wet grass Sit down,
My dear boy,
Said Dr.
Pennyfeather.
Sit down in the chair.
Go on,
It won't bite.
Although it has been known on occasion to hum.
Oliver climbed into the green velvet chair.
It was so big that his feet didn't reach the footstool,
And so deep that he almost disappeared into it altogether.
It was.
.
.
Without question.
The most comfortable chair you'd ever sat in.
Now then.
.
.
Said the doctor.
Drawing up a small stool and sitting opposite him.
Tell me everything.
From the beginning.
Do not leave anything out.
Not even the smallest,
Silliest little thing.
And so Oliver told him.
He told him about the sheep.
And the elephants.
And the penguins.
And the alphabetical countries.
Into the warm milk.
And the cold milk.
And great aunt Petunia and the buttons.
He told him about.
How his eyes wouldn't close.
And how his brain kept thinking.
And how the night seemed to stretch on and on forever.
Like a long grey road that never came to an end.
Doctor Pennyfeather listened very carefully.
He did not interrupt.
He did not take notes.
He did not say,
Mm hmm.
Or I see.
Or Go on.
Like ordinary doctors do.
They simply listen.
With depth,
With his long fingers steepled beneath his drooping chin and his weak tea eyes fixed on Oliver's face.
And the only sound in the room was the soft patter of rain on the great window behind him When Oliver had finished,
There was a long,
Thoughtful silence.
My dear Oliver.
Said the doctor at last.
I think I understand your problem.
I think I understand it perfectly.
You do.
Oh yes.
You see,
Oliver.
Sleep is.
.
.
Not a thing you catch.
It is a thing you let in.
And somewhere,
Somehow.
.
.
You have learned.
To keep it out.
Your mind has become a very fine and very busy little castle with all its doors bolted and all its windows shuttered and poor sleep is standing outside in the rain knocking and knocking.
And getting no reply.
Said Oliver.
Is that bad?
It is not bad at all.
It is very common.
A great many people are like this their minds are so busy so full of thoughts and plans and worries and wonderings that there is no room left for sleep to come in What we must do,
You and I,
Is teach your mind how to open the doors.
How to pull back the shutters.
How to welcome sleep inside.
And offer it a chair.
And make it a cup of something warm.
How do we do that?
Well,
Said Dr.
Pennyfeather,
We shall have to perform a small experiment.
I,
Tomless,
Quite painless.
Are you willing?
Said Oliver.
Splendid.
Then first.
.
.
We shall need some drowsy mist.
And a pinch of calm.
And a spoonful of forgetting.
Bend.
Nice thing.
Just the tiniest sprinkle of rain.
The doctor rose from his stool.
And went to his shelves.
He reached up with his long,
Long arms and took down a jar from the very top row.
It was labelled drowsy mist autumn He unscrewed the lid very carefully,
And inside was what looked like a soft,
Grey cloud,
No bigger than a tennis ball,
Drifting slowly around and around.
He reached up again and took down another jar,
Labelled Calm Summer Pond.
And another labelled forgetting,
Gentle for children.
And finally.
A small bottle with a silver stopper.
Which was labelled simply Rain.
Now then.
Said the doctor first the drowsy mist hold out your hands oliver cup them together there that's right Oliver held out his hands.
And the doctor gave the drowsy mist.
A little nudge.
And it drifted out of the jar.
And settled into Oliver's cupped palms soft and cool like holding a handful of clouds now Breathe it in.
Slowly.
Through your nose.
That's right.
And out through your mouth.
Lovely.
Once more.
In And out.
In And.
.
.
Oliver breathed the drowsy mist in.
And he felt his arms go heavy.
And his legs go heavy And his eyelids begin to droop.
Just.
.
.
The tiniest little bit.
Excellent.
Said the doctor.
Now the calm.
He took a small pinch of something from the calm jar and sprinkled it on top of Oliver's head.
And Oliver felt it settle into his hair and trickle down the back of his neck.
And he thought it was like being gently patted.
By someone who loved him very much.
And now?
A spoonful of forgetting.
Open wide,
Oliver.
Just a tiny taste.
There.
The forgetting tasted like warm milk and honey.
And a song his grandmother used to sing when he was very small.
And as Oliver swallowed it,
He began to forget.
He forgot about the boy at school who had been unkind.
He forgot about the homework he hadn't finished.
He forgot about the sound of the traffic on the road outside his bedroom window.
He forgot for a moment.
Even his own name.
And it was a lovely,
Soft.
.
.
Floaty sort of forgetting.
And now.
Lust of all.
The rain.
The doctor uncorked the little silver bottle.
And a sound of it came out.
Not a liquid,
But a sound.
It was the sound of rain.
The softest gentlest Sleepiest rain you ever heard.
It filled the room.
It fell on the rugs and on the bookshelves and on the jars and on the armchair and on oliver's hair and on Oliver's eyelids.
It fell inside his head.
And inside his chest and inside his stomach.
It fell everywhere.
Can you hear it?
Whispered the doctor.
You hear the rain.
Whispered Oliver.
It is falling on a little house.
A very small,
Warm little house.
At the edge of a wood.
And inside the house.
There is a fire.
Burning in the grey.
And there is a soft bed by the window.
And the rain is falling on the roof of the house.
But,
But.
And the fire is crackling softly in the grey.
And the wind is murmuring in the trees outside.
There is no one there but you.
No one to bother you.
No one to worry you.
No one at all.
Just you.
And the bed.
The fire.
And the rain Oliver could see it.
He could see it as clearly as if he was there.
The little house.
The fire.
The bed.
The window with the rain running down it in long slow streams The pet has a thick blanket,
Whispered the doctor.
A very sick,
Very heavy blanket.
The colour of moss.
And the pillow is full of feathers.
And it smells of lavender.
And it is just the right shape for your head And when you lie down on the bed And when you pull the blanket up over you,
The blanket is warm.
And the pillow is soft.
And the rain is falling.
And the fire is crackling.
And nothing.
Nothing in the whole world.
Kanto Chiu.
Oliver's eyelids were growing heavier.
And heavier.
And heavier.
And now.
Whispered the doctor.
Softer than a whisper.
Softer than the softest thing you can imagine You may close your eyes just for a moment.
Just.
.
.
For a little moment.
Just to see how it feels.
Oliver closed his eyes.
And he fell asleep.
He fell asleep so completely.
And so.
.
.
Deeply.
And so peacefully.
That he did not wake up when the doctor stood up.
He did not wake up.
When Miss Moth came in with a blanket and tucked it carefully around him.
He did not wake up.
When the grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven.
And D.
And nine.
He did not wake up when his mother peeked in and gave a little gasp of delight.
He did not wake up at all.
He slept all through the evening.
He slipped.
All through the night He slept right through to the next morning.
And when he finally did wake up,
It was to the smell of buttered toast.
And the sound of Miss Moth humming in the kitchen.
And the pale grey light.
Of an English morning.
Slipping in through the round portals of the windows.
Oliver Sutter.
A blink.
He looked around.
He was still in the great green armchair.
With the thick blanket tucked up to his chin.
The rain was still falling.
And he felt better than he had felt.
In years.
Dr.
Pennyfeather was sitting in the stool opposite him.
Reading a book Good morning.
Master Pimbleton.
Said the doctor.
Without looking up.
Good morning,
Doctor.
Said Oliver.
Did you sleep well?
Oh yes.
Said Oliver.
Very well indeed.
Splendid said the doctor.
Absolutely.
Splendid.
Now you might think that this is the end of our story.
But it is not.
Not by a long way.
Because Oliver.
.
.
As it turned out.
Was not the only patient at Dr.
Pennyfeather's surgery that week?
Oh,
No.
Indeed,
The doctor had a great many patients of all shapes and sizes.
Was it great?
Many different sorts of sleep troubles And if I were to tell you about them all,
This would be.
.
.
A very long story indeed.
But I shall tell you about one or two more.
Because I think you will like them.
There was,
For instance,
Mr Tobias Thistlewood,
A retired postman,
Who would come to the doctor complaining that he slept too much.
Mr Thistlewood would sit down to his breakfast and fall asleep with his face in his porridge.
He would go for a walk in the park and fall asleep leaning against a tree.
Yet once,
He said,
Fallen asleep while riding a bicycle.
And woken up in a headroom,
With the bicycle still spinning its wheels in the air beside him.
The trouble with you,
Mr Thistlewood,
Said the doctor,
After examining him very carefully.
Is that your yawns are of the wrong sort?
You have been collecting yawns all your life.
From all the poorest you have delivered.
Because there is nothing,
Nothing in the world So full of yawns as a piece of post Bills are full of.
.
.
Jons.
Official letters are full of yawns,
Tax forms.
Are full of yawns.
Local council notices.
Are of the very sleepiest yawns of all.
You have been breathing them in for forty years,
Mr Thistlewood.
And they have built up inside you.
Until there is no room for anything else.
Goodness.
Said mistress thistlewood What shall I do?
We shall have to draw the yawns out of you.
Said the doctor.
It is a slow process,
But a very gentle one.
You shall sit in this chair,
And I shall give you a cup of liveliness brewed from cockerel's crows and spring mornings,
And we shall sit together and read the most exciting books we can find.
And little by little.
The yawns will leave you.
And so.
.
.
Mr.
Thistlewood sat in the green velvet chair and the doctor brought him a steaming cup of liveliness and they read together a book about pirates and a book about mountaineers and a book about a man who crossed the sahara desert on a camel named beatrice And with every page.
A yawn crept out of mr thistlewood Very sneakily.
Very quietly.
And drifted up through the window and out into the rain.
And by the time they had finished the third Mr.
Thistlewood felt as bright and as wide awake as a new penny.
And he went home.
Whistling.
And he did not fall asleep at breakfast.
Ever again.
Then there was little Beatrix Bunbury,
A girl of seven,
Who had come to the doctor because her dreams had gone missing.
Every night,
She told him,
She would go to sleep,
And when she woke up in the morning,
There would be nothing there.
No dreams at all.
Just a blank empty space where the dreams used to be It's horrid.
She said.
I used to have the loveliest dreams.
Dreams about flying and dreams about talking to the fish in the pond and dreams about a house made entirely of cake Now there is nothing.
Darkness.
Nothing.
Oh dear.
Said the doctor Oh dear,
Oh dear This is a serious case.
A very serious case indeed.
Let me think He sought for a long time.
He walked up and down the consulting room.
He looked at his shelves.
He muttered to himself,
He pulled on his long drooping nose.
At last he clicked his fingers and said,
I have it.
What is it?
Magpies.
Said the doctor.
It is magpies.
I am quite sure of it.
Magpies you see are very fond of shiny things and there is nothing shinier than a dream They have been coming in through your window while you sleep and they have been stealing your dreams.
One by one.
And carrying them off to their nests.
We shall have to get them back.
Can we?
Oh yes,
It is a simple matter.
We shall lay a trap.
And so.
Dr.
Pennyfeather explained to Beatrix How to lay a trap for a dream-stealing magpie?
You had to leave the window open just a crack.
You had to leave a small silver dish on the windowsill.
In the dish you had to place one lovely shiny fake dream made from silver paper and moonlight and the whisper of a lullaby.
Bye.
And when the magpie came to steal the fake dream it would be caught in a net and beatrix could ask it very politely to return her real dreams The doctor made a fake dream for her right there and then.
Out of ingredients from his shelves.
It was beautiful.
Glittered.
It hummed.
He put it in a little silver dish and he gave Beatrix a net as fine as spider silk.
And he sent her home with instructions.
And it worked.
Of course it works.
It was Dr.
Pennyfeather.
Three nights later.
Beatrix caused a fat,
Glossy magpie in her neck.
And she asked it very politely to give back her dreams and the magpie very sheepishly flew back to its nest and returned Every single dream.
One by one.
And Beatrix slept the loveliest sleep she had ever slept.
And she dreamed about flying.
And talking to fish.
And a house made entirely of cake.
And then.
.
.
One particularly wet and dark evening towards the end of autumn.
There came to the surgery a case that Dr.
Pennyfeather Would remember for the rest of his long Long life.
It began with a knock at the door.
The gentle under-water chime of the bell but a real old-fashioned knock knock knock Three slow heavy knocks.
That echoed through the whole house.
Miss Moth opens the door.
On the doorstep.
Stood an enormous man As tall as a lamppost.
And as broad as a barn door.
With a long coat.
And a taller hat and eyes like two lumps of coal.
Behind him in the rain stood a long black shining carriage pulled by two long black shining horses with steam rising from their flanks.
I am come to see the doctor.
Said the enormous man.
In a voice that sounded like gravel rolling down a hill.
Do you have an appointment?
Whispered Miss Moth.
No.
Oh dear,
I'm afraid,
Dr.
Pennyfeather only sees patients by appointment.
He will see me.
Said the enormous man.
You will see me tonight.
Tell him it is a matter of the most urgent importance.
Tell him.
It concerns the king.
Miss Moth's eyes went very wide behind her spectacles.
Oh oh my Oh my goodness,
One moment please.
She tiptoed away,
And she came back and she said,
The doctor will see you.
Please come in.
Mind the match.
Boots off,
Please.
Yes,
Just there.
The enormous man took off his boots,
Which were so big they looked like two small black boats sitting side by side on the mat.
He took off his hat,
Which was so tall it nearly touched the ceiling.
And he followed Miss Moth.
Very carefully.
So as not to step on the cat or knock over the tortoise into the consulting room.
Good evening,
Said Dr.
Pennyfeather.
Please sit down.
Please sit down if you can fit.
Perhaps the floor.
Yes,
The floor will do nicely.
There.
The enormous man lowered himself onto the rug.
Where he looked rather like a great black bear crouched in front of the fire He pulled from inside his coat a letter,
Sealed with red wax,
Stamped with a crown.
From his majesty,
He said,
And handed it over.
Doctor Pennyfeather read the letter.
He read us once.
He read it twice.
He read it a third time,
Very slowly.
And then he folded it up.
And put it down on the little table beside him.
Well well well.
His Majesty the King.
Has not slept in sixty-two days He's tried every doctor in the kingdom.
He's tried every portion and every pill.
He has tried counting his subjects,
Which took several hours.
And made him more awake than ever.
And now he has heard of me.
I see.
And he wishes for me to come to the palace.
I see.
Very well miss moth my coat if you please and my bag and perhaps a flask of something hot for the journey we have some work to do Now I will not tell you everything that happened at the palace that night,
Because a great deal happened,
And a great deal of it was secret,
And a great deal of it is not suitable for a sleep story.
But I will tell you this.
When dr pennyfeather arrived at the palace he was shown into the royal bedchamber where the king lay propped up against a great pile of pillows with dark circles under his eyes,
The size of teacup saucers.
And a face as pale as flower and a crown slipped sideways on his head because he was too tired to hold it straight Doctor,
Croaked the king,
Help me.
I have not slept in sixty-two days.
I've signed treaties in my sleep.
That I was not asleep.
I was awake.
And I signed them badly.
I have given speeches that made no sense.
I have appointed the wrong people to the wrong offices I have confused my left foot with my right foot,
And I have tried to eat my soup with a butter knife.
And I have gone mad,
Doctor.
I am mad with tiredness.
Help me.
Dr.
Pennyfeather looked at the king very carefully.
He examined his eyes.
He felt the weight of his sighs.
He counted the rings around his pupils.
He listened to the sound his breathing made when he blinked.
Your Majesty,
He said at last.
I can help you.
But I must ask first.
One question.
Anything.
What were you thinking about,
Your Majesty?
On the night you first could not sleep The king thought for a moment.
I was thinking.
About everything.
I was thinking about the kingdom.
About the wars,
About the treaties.
About the taxes,
About the peasants.
About the weather.
About the price of bread.
About my great-great-grandfather who lost half the Empire about my great great grandson.
You might lose the other half.
About whether I was a good king.
Or a bad king.
Or an indifferent king.
About whether the history books would remember me at all.
Whether anything I did mattered.
Whether anything,
Anyone.
Ever did,
Murdered.
And once I started thinking,
Doctor.
I could not stop.
I see.
Said the doctor very gently.
Yes.
I see.
That is the trouble.
Your Majesty has a mind.
Too full of kingdom There is no room in it for sleep.
We must empty it out.
Just a little.
Just for the night.
And he reached into his bag.
And he took out his jars.
And he took out his little silver bottle.
And he began.
Very softly.
Very slowly.
Brew a remedy.
He mixed a pinch of calm.
And a spoonful of forgetting.
And a handful of drowsy mist.
And a whisper of lullaby.
And a crumb of childhood bedtime.
And he stirred them all together in a silver cup And he added the very last drop.
From the little bottle of rain.
And then he sat beside the king.
And he told him a story.
It was a very small story.
It was about a little wooden boat.
On a little wooden lake.
And about how the boat rocked gently.
Gently.
Gently on the water.
And about how the water was dark.
And smooth and warm.
And about how above the boat.
There was a sky full of soft stars.
And about Now the rain was falling very lightly.
Very kindly.
On the lake.
And on the boat and on the little sleeping fisherman Curled up inside the boat.
With his cup over his face.
The king listened.
His breathing slowed.
As I let.
.
.
Bloody.
His crown.
Which had been slipping sideways.
The rest of the way of.
And landed.
With a soft thumb on the pillow beside his head.
And the king.
Who had not slept in sixty-two days well asleep.
For seventeen hours.
He slept through the morning.
And the afternoon.
And into the next evening.
He slept through a thunderstorm.
And a cavalry parade.
And a small earthquake that shook the south wing.
He slept.
So deeply.
And so peacefully.
That the royal physicians gathered around the bed.
Had to check three times that he was still breathing.
And when at last he woke up,
He was a new man.
His face had colour.
His eyes were clear.
He sat up in bed.
And he stretched.
And he yawn An enormous,
Healthy yawn.
And he said,
My goodness.
That was the best sleep.
I have ever heard.
In my entire life.
Where is Dr.
Pennyfeather?
I wish to thank him.
I wish to knight him.
I wish to give him half the kingdom.
But Dr.
Pennyfeather was gone.
He had left in the early hours of the morning.
In his long grey coat.
And his tool hat.
And his big shoes.
And he had walked.
Shuffling and silent.
All the way back.
To little bumble down in the rain.
Because that is the sort of doctor he was.
The king did send him a present,
Of course.
A large and handsome chest of gold.
But Dr.
Pennyfeather did not keep the gold for himself.
He gave it to Miss Moth.
To buy new cushions for the waiting room.
And new jars for the consulting room.
And new tea for the patients.
And a very large and very comfortable new bed.
For the little room upstairs.
Where he sometimes slept himself when he was tired.
Which was not very often.
Because Dr.
Pennyfeather,
You see,
Did not need much sleep.
He had spent his whole life giving sleep to other people.
And he had,
Somehow,
Without meaning to,
Collected a great deal of wakefulness on his own.
But he did not mind.
He liked being awake in the quiet hours.
He liked sitting in his consulting room in the middle of the night with the lamps low.
And the rain falling on the roof.
And writing in his great leather-bound books about all the people he had helped and all the sleeps he had given And o'er the dreams he had saved from dream-stealing magpies.
And sometimes.
.
.
On very quiet nights.
When the rain was falling softly on the mossy roof.
And the grandfather clock was sticking gently in the whore And Miss Moth was asleep upstairs with her spectacles still on.
Dr.
Pennyfeather would pour himself a small cup of something warm.
And he would sit in his green velvet chair.
And he would watch the rain.
Streaming down the great window And he would sing.
About all the sleeping people.
In all the sleeping houses.
In all the sleeping towns.
In all the sleeping countries of the sleeping world.
And he would sing.
How lucky he was.
To do the work he did.
And don't say.
The rain would go on falling.
Softly.
Softly softly on the roof and on the garden.
And on the weeping willow.
And on the muddy lane that led nowhere in particular.
And on the whole of Little Bumble Down.
Which was.
.
.
Bye now.
First sleep.
Every window dark.
Every bed.
Warm.
Every dream safe.
And the rain falling.
And all the good people.
Of the world At last.
Asleep.
