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.
As you probably know by now.
I love trains.
And I also love you.
Storytelling.
And I also love you.
History.
And so tonight.
I have decided to combine all three.
You will be aboard a train.
On a stormy night.
And as you walk from carriage to carriage.
You will meet a different storyteller,
From a different time in each carriage,
From an Egyptian scribe to a medieval monk.
This is a story of deep rest.
And something to keep you a little curious.
As you move closer and closer towards sleep.
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.
Cheers.
Let go.
A little more now.
Nein.
You 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.
To warm.
And cosy places.
To places that enable and support.
You are 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.
Or tension.
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 bomb.
For kindness.
To yourself.
And to your body.
Seven.
The day is.
Whatever has been.
Has 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.
Sort.
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.
Sir.
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 beautiful old train.
It's a stormy night.
The train is candle-lit and cosy.
And you are welcome aboard.
Too.
Checking in with your body one more time now.
Finding the places you are holding still.
And allowing yourself to be.
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.
The rain found the train.
Somewhere after the last lit town.
And it did not let go.
You are aboard the night train of ages.
And you have come to it.
The way one comes to all the best things.
Without quite knowing how.
There was a platform in the dark.
And a long row of old carriages.
Breathing warm light from their windows.
And a guard with a lantern.
Who looked at you and simply said,
Yes,
You.
Come aboard.
You look ready for a story.
And now here you are.
Settling into the front carriage.
While outside.
The storm comes down upon the dark field.
And the rain runs down the glass.
In long silver threads.
Every carriage on this train.
The guard told you.
Holds a story teller.
And every storyteller.
Comes from a different age of the world.
A different age in history.
You may walk forward through the train at your own slow pace.
Carriage by carriage.
Century by century.
And in each one.
A different voice from a different time.
Will tell you his story.
To carry you down toward sleep.
You needn't hurry.
The train runs all night.
It is always exactly as far along.
Needs to be.
The carriage rocks.
It is the gentlest motion in the world.
Side to side.
Sigh.
To side.
The way a cradle rocks.
And the wheels beneath you.
Keep their soft and certain rhythm.
Two notes repeating.
Going down.
Going down.
Going down into the warm dark of the night.
There is no electric light anywhere on this train.
Every carriage is lit by candles.
Candles in brass holders along the walls.
Candles and glass lanterns.
Swaying gently on their hooks.
GUNDOS in clusters on the little tables.
And the light they give is soft.
And goal.
And living.
Moving the smallest amount.
As the train sways.
So that's the whole warm space.
Breathes with itself.
Slow.
Amber glow.
And the shadows in the corners are deep and kind.
And full of rest.
Outside.
Far away across the fields.
A long fork of lightning unfolds.
Silence.
And silver.
Lighting the underside of the clouds.
And then folds itself away.
You can.
The way you did when you were small.
Three.
And descend.
When it comes.
Is low and rolling and gentle.
A sound with no edges to it at all.
Somewhere far behind the hills.
The storm is keeping its distance.
The storm is only company tonight.
And you are warm.
And you are dry.
And a candle flame is bending the smallest amount beside you.
And somewhere ahead of you.
Through all the swaying golden carriages.
The first.
Storyteller is waiting.
The first carriage.
The Egyptians.
The first carriage is warm and close.
And smells very faintly of cedar.
And of something older underneath it.
Like sun-warmed stone.
The storyteller here.
Is an old Egyptian scribe.
And he sits cross-legged.
And a low cushion.
With a roll of pale reed paper across his knees.
Though he does not look at it.
Where he knows his stories.
The way he knows his own breath.
Is,
Perhaps.
70.
His head is shaved smooth.
And his eyes are lying.
With a little dark coal.
Do as a road.
Of fine white linen.
And a single broad collar.
Of blue and gold beads.
Lies across his shoulders.
Catching the candlelight when he moves.
His hands are stained at the fingertips.
With the soot black ink of his trade.
He has,
He tells you.
Served in the great temple by the river.
Copying the words of the gods onto the temple walls by lamplight.
And he has watched the river Nile rise and fall.
Through more floods than he can count.
And he has learned.
In all that time.
That's the best.
Stories.
Are the quiet ones.
He says.
And his voice is dry and warm.
Like wind over warm sun.
The night is long.
And the river.
Is patient.
And so are we.
Let me tell you of the boat that crosses the sky.
And he begins.
In the old land.
Beside the grave.
Green river.
There stood a house.
Of warm mud bricks.
With a flat roof.
And a little walled garden.
And in that house there lived a girl named Ty.
And her grandfather was a maker of fine linen.
And theirs was the most peaceful household.
By the water.
All through the long hot day.
The house kept cool and dim.
Behind its thick walls.
And in the heat of the afternoon.
When the sun lay heavy on the land.
And the river.
Ran slow and golden.
The whole household would rest.
Die.
This day.
Could not settle.
For she was small.
And the world was full of interesting things.
And so?
When the cool of evening came at last.
Her grandfather.
Took her up.
Onto the flat roof of the house.
Where the family slept on warm nights.
To watch the day.
Go down.
Over the river.
The evening was soft and warm.
The sun had sunk low.
And turned the whole wide river.
To a sheet of beaten copper.
And the date palms stood black and still.
Against a sky of rose and gold.
And far off.
The fisherman was pulling home along the bank.
Is oar dipping.
Slow and silver.
A warm breeze came up off the water.
Smelling of river mud.
And Lotus.
And the dust of the day cooling.
And it stirred the linen warnings on their poles.
And it touched Ty's face.
And she felt the busy heat of the day.
Begin to loosen and lift away.
Her grandfather.
Laid out the sleeping mats on the warm roof.
Thick and soft.
And a light woven cover for each of them.
For the nights by the river.
We're gentle.
And the household cat.
A lean and golden creature with green eyes.
And a great dignity.
Came adding up the steps.
And settled itself.
In a warm curl at the foot of Ty's mat.
Very softly.
And I lay back on the soft mat and looked up.
And above her.
The first stars were opening.
One by one.
In the deepening blue.
More and more of them.
Until the whole great sky.
Was scattered with them.
Rain across the threshing floor.
Her grandfather sat beside her in the warm dusk.
And in his low and easy voice He began to name the stars for her.
And to tell her.
The old,
Quiet stories of them.
The patient ones.
The slow turning ones.
The ones the boatmen steered by.
And his voice rolled on.
Soft and warm and unhurried.
And the warm breeze blew.
And the awnings stay.
And the cat purred at her feet.
And the great slow wheel of stars.
Turned overhead.
And far below.
The river murmured against the bank in the dark.
And Ty's eyes grew heavy.
And her grandfather's voice grew soft and far away.
And she felt herself.
Held in the warm palm of the evening.
Safe on the roof of her own home.
With all her family near.
And the whole gentle world.
Breathing slow around her.
And she sank down.
Down.
Into a deep and easy sleep.
While the warm night blew softly over her.
Into the stars.
Wheeled slowly on.
And her grandfather.
Sat a while longer.
In the warm dark.
Content.
Watching the river run gold.
Under the rising moon.
After listening to the first story teller.
You rise.
The floor rocks softly underfoot.
And you pass forward through the swaying door into the next carriage.
The second carriage.
The medieval monk.
At once.
The air is different.
Cooler.
Stiller.
With the faint,
Sweet smell of beeswax.
And old stone.
The storyteller here is a medieval monk.
And he sits at his slanted writing-desk.
With a candle at his elbow.
And a great book open before him.
Its pages painted at the edges.
With vines and birds.
And tiny gold suns.
He is a broad,
Calm man of middle years.
Round-faced and easy.
With a fringe of grey hair.
Around a smooth ground.
Dewares a habit of undyed brown wool.
With a knotted cord at the waist.
As fingers.
Like the scribes before him.
Are stained with ink.
But his ink.
Is many colors.
There is a fleck of gold leaf caught on his sleeve.
That glints when the candle flickers.
He has spent his life.
He tells you.
In a quiet monastery.
And a green hill.
All the way back in medieval times.
Copying and painting books by the window.
And tending the bees.
And singing the slow hours of the night.
And he has learned.
That there is no peace on earth.
Quite like the piece of a small tassel done slowly and well.
Come and sit by the candle.
He says warmly.
And pats the bench beside him.
The nice outside is wild.
But in here.
All is well.
And I have a tale for you.
Of a winter long ago.
And a guest house.
And a fire.
That never went out.
And he begins.
I on a green and lonely hill.
Far from any town.
There stood a small Monastery.
And beside its chapel.
There stood.
The Guest House.
And it was the task of one gentle brother.
Brother Aelfric was his name.
To keep the guesthouse ready.
All the year round.
Or any traveller who might come.
It was the deep of winter.
Into the snow.
Lay soft and sick.
Over all the hill.
And so win.
Sighing round the eaves.
And Brother Aelfric kept the fire burning in the guesthouse hearth.
And waited.
As he always did.
To see who the night might bring.
And the night brought a traveller.
There came a knock at the door.
Soft and weary.
And brother Aelfric opened it.
And there stood a stranger.
Wrapped in a snow-dusted cloak.
Cold to the bone.
And tired past speaking.
And Brother Aelfric did.
What his order had done for a thousand winters.
He took the stranger in.
As though he were the most honored guest.
In all the world.
Beset the traveller by the fire.
And drew off his wet boots.
And sets them by the hearth to dry.
He brought a basin of warm water.
Bathed the cold from the traveller's feet.
He fetched a bowl of barley-brus.
That had been simmering.
All the long afternoon.
And war.
And savoury.
The piece of new bread.
And a cup of spiced and honeyed wine.
Warmed at the edge of the fire.
And he asked the traveller nothing at all.
At his name.
Nor his road.
Nor his business.
For he knew.
That a tired guest wants warmth and quiet.
Are more than questions.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth.
The snow ticked at the dark window.
And slowly.
By the war.
And suppress.
And the honeyed wine.
And the deep kindness of being asked for nothing.
The cold and the weariness.
Began to leave the traveller's bones.
For the railfrick made up the bed in the corner.
With clean linen and warm wool blankets.
And it covered it.
Stuffed with soft goose down.
And he set a warming pan of glowing coals Between the sheets.
To take the chill from them.
And he banked the fire.
So it would burn low and steady.
Through the whole long night.
And never go out.
Sleep now.
He said gently.
You are safe here.
And warm.
And well.
There is nothing in all the world you must do tonight.
Rest.
The fire will keep.
The morning will come when it comes.
And until then.
You may sleep as deep.
And as long as you please.
For you.
I guess.
In the house of peace.
And no harm.
And no hurry can reach you here.
And the traveller.
Warm at last to the very centre of himself.
Sank down into the soft,
Deep bed.
And pulled the down coverlet to his chin.
And watched the low gold fire.
Breathing in the hearth.
And felt the snow shut the whole world.
Softly away outside.
And fell into a sleep so warm.
And so complete.
And so utterly without care.
That he might have been a child again.
In his mother's arms.
The third carriage.
The Greek.
Forward again.
Through the gently rocking door.
And into a carriage warmer than the last.
Where they can do light.
Pores on draped white cloths.
And the air smells of olive oil.
And wild thyme.
The storyteller here is an ancient Greek.
The woman this time.
The teller of tales from the islands.
She reclines easily on a low couch with a cup of watered wine resting in her hand.
She is somewhere past.
50.
Brown and strong and amused.
With grey threaded through dark hair.
That is bound up loosely with a band of plain cloth.
And she wears a simple draped gown of soft undyed wool.
Pinned at the shoulder.
With a small bronze brooch.
She has,
She tells you.
Sailed between the islands all her life.
From hopper to hopper.
Under the great blue sky.
And she is sat in a hundred courtyard and a hundred warm evenings.
Telling the old stories.
Where the lamps were lit.
And the children fell asleep on their mother's laps.
And she knows exactly how to let a tail grow soft.
And slow.
Until it carries the listener down.
Into dreams.
Night back.
She says.
And her eyes are warm and knowing in the candlelight.
Let the wine and the words do their work.
I will tell you of a shepherd boy.
And an island.
And a sleep that the gods themselves looked kindly on.
And she begins.
On a small green island.
In the wide warm sea.
The Lifty Shepherd.
Name.
Like us.
And he kept his flock on the gentle hills.
Above a quiet bay.
And his was the most peaceful life.
That anyone on the island could remember.
Each morning.
He led his sheep up on to the hillside.
Where the grass grew soft and sweet.
And starred with little flowers.
And the bees worked the wild thyme.
And the sea lay far below.
Blue and calm.
And sparkling.
All the way to the edge of the sky.
And there he would sit in the shade of an old olive tree.
On a flat,
Warm stone.
Worn smooth by years of shepherds before him.
And he would watch his flock race slowly across the hill.
And he would want for nothing at all.
In the heat of the long afternoons.
And the cicadas sang in the dry grass.
The whole island.
Seemed to drowse.
Lycos would lie back against the cool roots of the olive tree.
And the warm breeze would come up off the sea.
Smelling of salt and thyme.
And the leaves above him would whisper.
And the bees would hum.
And the distant sheep bells.
Would chime soft and slow.
And he would feel his eyes grow heavy.
And it was said.
On that island.
That's the gods themselves.
Loved a shepherd's sleep.
That there was no rest in all the world.
More pleasing to them.
Than the easy afternoon sleep.
Of a man who has done his simple work well.
And lies down content.
Under his own familiar tree.
And so they sent their gentlest gifts to watch over him.
They sent the soft breeze to cool his brow.
They sense the shade.
To keep the sun from his eyes.
They sent the long,
Slow hum of the bees.
And the far chime of the bells.
To weave the nets of drowsy sound around him.
And they bid the cares of the day.
Step back.
And leave the sleeping shepherd be.
And like us.
Sink down.
Through the warm afternoon.
Into a deep sleep.
And dreamless rest.
Is breathing slow.
His shoulders eased against the cool earth.
The olive leaves.
Whispered silver above him.
And the warm sea.
Breathed far below.
And the whole bright island.
Held him gently in the palm of its hand.
Is cheap.
Grazed quietly nearby.
Untroubled.
Needing nothing.
And nothing in all the wide world.
Stirred to wake him.
He slept the easy golden sleep.
Of the shepherd on the hill.
While the warm wind blew.
And the bees hummed on.
And the kind old gods of the island.
Kept their watch.
And let him rest.
And rest.
And rest.
The forest's carriage.
The Japanese.
You move forward once more.
And the next carriage is dim and serene.
And secundo light here.
Pools on plain dark wood.
And a single branch of blossom in a slender vase.
And the air smells faintly of green tea.
And clean rain.
The storyteller here is an old Japanese poet.
A small and graceful man of great age.
Who kneels very upright.
And very still.
On a flat cushion.
With his hands folded in his lap.
His head is shaved.
And his face is deeply lined and serene.
And he wears a robe of soft,
Slate grey silk.
Was darker grey at the colour.
And beside him on the floor.
Lie a brush,
An inkstone,
And a single sheet of paper.
On which a few characters have been painted with great care.
He has spent his long life,
He tells you.
Walking the mountain road.
And the quiet temple gardens.
Writing small poems about the moon.
And the rain.
And the falling of the leaves.
And he has learned.
That the deepest peace is often found.
In the smallest.
And most ordinary things.
Be still a moment with me.
He says softly.
Listen to the rain on the roof.
It is the same rain.
That has fallen for a thousand years.
I will tell you of an inn.
In the mountains.
Traveller.
And a night of rain much like this one.
And he begins.
In the high mountains.
Beside an old stone road.
There stood a small inn.
And it was kept by a kind old couple.
That welcomed weary travellers there.
For more years than they could remember.
And one evening.
In the gentle rains of autumn.
Traveller came walking up the misty road.
Tired from a long day's journey.
And he stopped at the inn to rest for the night.
The old innkeeper and his wife welcomed him warmly.
Brought him in out of the rain.
They showed him.
To a small,
Clean room.
With soft straw matting on the floor.
And a paper screen at the window.
And they brought him a basin of hot water.
To wash away the dust of the road.
And a soft grey robe to wear.
And the traveller.
Felt the long miles begin to loosen from his shoulders.
Then they brought him a tray of supper.
A bowl of steaming rice.
A little dish of pickled vegetables.
Bull love.
Clear,
Hot breath.
And a small iron pot of green tea.
And TA.
Slowly.
Kneeling by the low table.
Listening to the soft and steady patter of the rain.
On the roof above.
And it seemed to him the most peaceful sound in all the world.
That rain.
And even.
Endless.
Washing the mountains.
Washing the old.
Stone.
Washing the whole tired world clean.
And quiet.
In the dark.
When he had eaten.
The innkeeper's wife came and laid out his bed.
Upon the matting.
A sick,
Soft quill.
Below.
And a war-light quilt above.
And a smooth,
Cool pillow.
And she set a small paper lantern in the corner.
Where it gave just enough light.
To rest by.
And then she bowed.
And slit the screen close.
And lift him to his peace.
The traveller lay down upon the soft quill.
And drew the warm cover over himself.
And he listened to the rain.
It fell upon the roof.
And it dripped softly from the eaves into the garden.
And somewhere far off in the misty dark.
Temple bell.
Rang once.
Low.
Around.
And slow.
And then was silent.
And the traveller felt himself held.
In the very heart of the quiet mountain night.
War.
And dry.
And safe.
With the soft rain all around him.
And the soft lantern.
Glowing love.
And to the whole world.
Us.
And at rest.
And his eyes grew heavy.
And his breathing grew slow.
And the sound of the rain.
Wove gently through his drifting thoughts Until they do.
Became soft.
And formless.
And slow.
Like mist.
On the mountainside.
And he sank down.
Into a sleepless deep.
And is peaceful.
As the still pools of the mountain.
While the autumn rain fell on.
And endless and kind.
All the long night.
Through.
The last carriage.
The storyteller of no time at all.
You rise.
One last.
And you pass through the final swaying door.
Into the very last carriage of the train.
And tears.
There is no storyteller of any one age.
But only a kind-faced stranger.
In a cloak.
They seem ageless.
And the candlelight seems to rest on them and soften.
And their face is kind.
And their eyes hold all the warmth of every fire.
That has ever been lit against the night.
They've been on this train,
They tell you.
Since the very first night it ever ran.
And they will be on it still.
Long after this night is done.
And their only task is to tell the last and shortest story of all.
To whoever has walked the whole length of the train.
And is ready now.
To sleep.
You've come a long way tonight.
They say gently.
And their voice is the warmest sound you have ever heard.
Love.
And sucked.
And full of rest.
Through Egypt.
And the cold green hills.
And the warm island.
And the Misty Mountains.
You've heard the scribe.
And the monk.
And the shepherd.
And the poet.
And now there is only one story left.
And it is the easiest of them all.
And it is this.
And they tell you the last story.
Once.
They say.
There was a tired traveller on a train in the rain at night.
And the train was warm.
And the candles were soft and gold.
And this storm was kept far away.
On the other side of the cool dark glass.
And the traveller that walked the whole length of the train.
Through all the ages of the world.
And it heard his story in every carriage.
Now.
At last.
The traveler was ready to rest.
So the traveller lay by.
In the deep,
Soft sea.
In the warm gold candlelight.
And felt the gentle rocking of the carriage.
Side to side.
Sigh to sigh.
And heard this soft and certain rhythm.
Of the wheels going down.
Down.
And the rain ran in long silver threads.
Down the dark glass.
And secundo flame.
Spent the smallest amount and burned on.
Warm and steady.
Kind.
And there was nowhere the traveller had to be.
And nothing the traveller had to do.
And no part of the traveller.
That was holding anything anymore.
The traveler let go.
The traveller let the sea.
Take all the weight of the long day The traveller let the warm gold light shine.
Fill up the whole of the dark.
Behind closed eyes.
The traveller let the rocking of the train and the falling of the rain.
And the soft,
Low rhythm of the wheels.
Carry every sort away.
One by one.
Gently.
Like leaves on a slow stream.
Until there were no thoughts left at all.
Only the words.
And to this sir?
Sound.
And the rest.
And the old storyteller of no time at all.
Sat quietly by the single candle at the back of the train.
And watched over the sleeping traveller.
Content.
As the night went on.
And the train rolled on.
There is a war.
Gold dark.
Carriage by carriage age by age.
Candle by candle.
While the rain fell soft on the glass.
And the storm woke.
Far away.
Across the field.
And it carried the sleeping traveller.
Gently on.
And earn.
And on.
All the long night through.
Down.
Through the deep.
All the way.
Until.
.
.
Warning.
