Good evening.
Thank you for joining me for tonight's sleep story.
Inside the Great Library.
Make yourself comfortable.
And lids.
Begin.
The rain began.
As you were crossing the old town square.
Few drops at first,
Darkening the pale stone beneath your feet.
Then a steady shower,
Gathering along the edges of the rooftops.
And spilling into the narrow streets.
Now beneath the evening sky,
The whole square shimmers.
You draw your coat a little closer in.
Follow the pavement past a row of shuttered shops.
Water glints on their windows.
Above you,
The wind stirs the branches of a tree,
Releasing a soft rush of droplets from its leaves.
Just ahead,
Beneath a broad stone archway,
There is a light.
He stepped toward it,
Grateful for the shelter of the arch.
Hear the rain falls beyond your shoulders.
Leaving you a moment to brush the water from your sleeves.
A pair of tall wooden doors stand before you.
Their panels are.
Carved with leaves and wood.
Curling branches.
And at their center.
Two brass handles.
Have been polished smooth by generations of hands.
Beside the entrance.
A small plock reads.
The Great.
Library.
Through a narrow window beside the doors you glimpse a lamp,
A wooden desk,
And shelves stretching beyond the reach of its light.
You try to handle.
The door opens easily.
Warm air meets your face as you Step inside.
There is the faint scent of timber,
Old paper and.
.
.
Something.
Pleasantly spiced.
You close the door gently beside you.
The rain becomes a softer sound now.
For a moment you stand on the entrance mat.
Listening as water drips from the hem of your coat.
Someone.
Looks up from the desk.
The librarian has been repairing a book.
For length of linen thread lies beside their head.
And a small pool of lamplight.
Falls across the open pages.
I set their work down.
And smile at you.
Come in,
They say.
You have arrived just in time.
To get out of that rain.
I hope you don't mind,
Owls.
Looking for somewhere to wait.
Of course,
They say.
Their eyes and gesture towards a coat stand.
Leave your code here.
It'll dry more comfortably than you will wearing it.
You slip it from your shoulders without a damp weight.
You become aware of how tightly you have been holding yourself.
There's tea if you'd like some,
The librarian adds.
You thank them.
And they disappear through a doorway.
Behind the desk.
Only then.
Do you look up?
The room extends far above you.
Stone columns rise to a vaulted ceiling where slender ribs meet in patterns like the branches of winter trees.
Wooden galleries run along the upper floors.
Their railings carved with the same leaves you'd notice on the entrance doors.
On each level.
Lamps glow between the shelves.
Some illuminate the gold lettering on a row of leather bindings.
Others shine over desks where books lie open.
As though their readers have just stepped away.
At the far end of the hall,
A broad staircase curves upward and disappears behind an arch.
He had expected a room to shelter in instead.
He'd found a building large enough to wander through for days.
The librarian returns carrying a tray.
Steam rises from a cup,
Bringing with it the scent of cinnamon and orange peel.
Is the library closing soon,
You ask?
They glance towards the window,
Where the rain runs down the glass.
You're welcome to stay here tonight if the weather keeps you,
They say.
There's a comfortable chair down there we can sit on.
Make up a fire.
You take the cup in both hands.
Its warmth reaches your fingers.
And until then.
.
.
Well until then they say.
Have a look around,
The librarian smiles.
The books have been waiting considerably longer than you have.
You look towards the nearest isle.
A narrow runner stretches between the shelves.
Its woven colors soften by years of footsteps.
Halfway along it,
A limb.
Lights the spines of a collection of little blue books.
Holding your warm cup,
You take your first slow steps.
Into the library.
The carpet softens your footsteps as you enter the aisle.
Close beside you,
The little blue books.
Stand in a neat row.
Their cloth covers have faded.
In different ways.
Are almost grey,
Along their edges others.
Still hold a deep blue in the folds beside their spines.
You lean closer to.
Read the lettering.
Journeys.
Gardens,
Letters from distant places.
One volume sits slightly forward of the others,
You ease it from the shelf and.
.
.
Open it with your free hand.
Inside is a drawing of a courtyard.
A tree grows at its center.
Spreading its branches above a low stone bench.
Around the drawings,
Someone.
Has made small notes in brown ink.
Recording where the sunlight falls at different hours of the day.
You imagine the person who sat there.
Watching the shadows move.
Then you close the book and return it to its place.
Further along the aisle opens into a circular room.
Tall windows follow the curve of the outer wall.
Rain traces wandering paths down the glass and beyond them.
You can make out a sheltered courtyard.
Ferns grow around an old fountain.
It's shallow basin gathering the falling water.
Inside,
A broad oak table stands beneath a hanging lamp.
Upon it rests an atlas.
Open to a map.
Of rivers.
You set your cup on a small coaster beside the book and lean over the page.
Pale blue lines wind through the valleys and forests,
Meeting,
Separating.
And widening as they travel towards sea.
Little bridges cross them.
Towns gather along their banks.
Near the bottom of the map.
An artist has drawn a boat.
With a folded sail.
You follow one river with your eyes,
From a spring high in the hills so broad.
Quiet estuary.
The paper has the soft.
Ivory color of something kept carefully for many years.
At one corner,
A crease has been repaired with a strip so fine.
You can barely see it.
Someone has taken the trouble.
To preserve.
This page.
You lift your cup again and.
.
.
Walk towards the staircase.
Its steps are wide and shallow.
Worn into gentle hollows at their centres.
The wooden handrail is smooth beneath your fingertips.
As you ascend the room below.
Slowly opens around you,
Revealing the tops of the shelves and the pattern of the rugs between them.
From the gallery you can see the librarian.
At the entrance desk.
They are bending over the book again.
Drawing the linen thread carefully through its binding.
Beside them.
Your code.
Hangs beneath a lamp.
The familiar sight makes the great room.
Feel easier to wander through.
You turn along the gallery.
Here the ceiling is close enough for you to see the details of its painted borders.
Small birds perch among curling vines.
Between them.
Stars have been painted in a blue that has softened.
The artist has given each bird a slightly different posture.
One tucks its head beneath a wing,
Another leans towards a berry.
Under the painted birds,
A window seat rests in a deep recess.
Its cushions are governed in green fabric.
And a folded blanket lies at one end.
You sit for a little while.
The cushion.
Yields beneath you.
You rest your cup on the ledge and watch the rain touch the courtyard below.
From here you notice water collecting.
On the broad leaves of the ferns.
Each leaf.
Holds its little weight.
Until a droplet falls.
And the leaf.
Rises.
Slightly again.
The fountain receives them all.
You take a sip of tea.
It is cold enough for its flavor to settle softly on your tongue.
Somewhere below,
A page turns.
You remain at the window until the last of your tea is gone.
When you rise.
You follow the gallery a little further.
Beyond an archway,
The shelves.
Give way.
To a smaller room lined with glass cabinets.
Within them are handwritten manuscripts.
Their pages open upon.
Padded wrists.
One is filled with careful lines of script.
Another.
Has a delicate drawing of a leaf.
With its veins branching towards the edges.
A third holds a piece of music.
Its notes arranged across the page like a conversation waiting to be heard.
You pause at each.
Letting your eyes wander over the marks.
At the end of the room stands a wooden writing desk.
Its surface holds a clean sheet of paper,
An ink bottle,
And a pen laid neatly beside it.
The chair is drawn back a little.
Ready for whoever might need it.
For a moment,
You imagine sitting there and writing a letter.
You hear a quiet voice from the doorway.
Huh,
There you are,
The librarian stands beneath the arch.
Holding a book against their side.
How old is this place,
You ask?
They look around the room before answering.
The oldest part is the whole downstairs.
The galleries came later.
This room was added by someone.
Who thought the library ought to have a good place to write.
The hand rests briefly.
On the back of the chair.
People have always found something to add.
You look once more at the waiting paper.
Then turn towards them.
I can take your cup,
" they offer.
And if you're ready,
I found some dry logs for the hearth.
You hand it over and follow them back.
Along the gallery.
As you descend the staircase.
The librarian carries a book tucked beneath one arm.
Its cover is a deep brown.
Its corners rounded by use.
What have you chosen?
You ask?
A collection of all teachings and stories.
There's one in here I thought you might enjoy.
You reach the ground floor together.
Beyond the last row of shelves,
An arch opens into an alcove.
Two armchairs face a broad stone fireplace.
A low table stands between them.
And beside one shares a food stall.
Covered in the same faded fabric.
Librarian places the book on the table.
You settle into the nearer chair while they.
.
.
Kneel beside the Harphan.
Arranged the kindling.
Soon a small flame takes hold.
It moves along the edge of a curled shaving.
And catches another.
Brightening the stone behind it.
Librarian has a slender piece of wood.
And watch us until the fire is steady.
Warm light begins to reach across the rug.
You lean back.
Rest in your head.
Against the chair.
Feeling comfortable.
Outside the rain continues and here.
.
.
You can hear the first.
Quiet crackle.
Of the fire.
The librarian rises and.
.
.
Unfolds a blanket.
Across your knees.
You nod.
They draper gently over you,
Then sit in the other chair and.
.
.
Pick up the brown book.
For a while.
You both watched the fire.
The librarian risks the book.
Upon their knees.
It reads an original expanded retelling.
Inspired by the Buddha's raft simile.
The librarian rests the book upon their knees.
For a little while,
They turn its pages slowly,
Passing a finger beneath the line here and there.
You watch the firelight move across the worn cover.
Then they find the page they want.
This one begins with a traveller beside a river,
They say.
Comes from an old teaching of the Buddha.
He used the raft to describe the teachings themselves.
Something that helps us cross sentence.
That we must learn to hold wisely.
They adjust the lamp beside their chair and look at you.
Would you like to hear it?
You settle a little deeper beneath the blanket.
Yes,
I would.
Librarian looks down at the page and.
.
.
Begins.
Long ago,
A traveler came to the edge of a wide river.
He had been walking for many days,
Following a path through.
Wooded hills.
And on the opposite bank.
He could see open country.
With the road leading.
Gently towards the mountains.
Here the ground was tangled with roots.
Beyond the water there was space to continue his journey.
He walked along the bank.
Looking for a bridge.
He found the place where Heron stood.
In the shallows and.
.
.
Another were the branches of a willow.
Brush the surface.
He found smooth stones warmed by the afternoon sun.
But the river was too deep to wade across.
And there was no boat.
Waiting to carry him.
At last.
He sat beneath the willow.
For a while he watched the water pass.
Then his eyes came to rest.
On a fallen branch nearby.
There were other branches along the shoal.
Carried there by earlier reigns.
Long grasses grew behind him.
And further upstream he had noticed a tangle of vines.
He stood and began to gather what he needed.
He chose the wood carefully.
Some pieces were too brittle.
Some were heavier than he could manage.
Others floated well.
When he placed them in the shallows.
These he brought together beneath a tree.
He laid the branches beside one another and bound them with vines.
Where the bindings seem loose.
He added another tune.
Where a sharp edge might catch his clothing.
He smoothed it with a stone.
By evening,
A small raft rested.
At the water's edge.
It was uneven.
And one end was broader than the other.
Yet when he pushed it into the shallows.
It floated.
He tested it with the weight of his hands.
Than one knee.
Than his whole body.
The branches dipped.
And held.
He brought his small bundle aboard and found a long branch to guide him away from the shore.
Then he began to cross.
At first he could still touch the riverbed with his pole.
Further out,
He laid it along the raft and… used his hands and feet to move through the water.
He worked steadily.
Watching the opposite bank,
Draw nearer.
The raft supported him.
The bindings held.
Beneath him the branches rose.
And settled with the movement of the river.
At last.
His feet touched sand.
He stepped into the shallows and drew the raft onto the bank.
For a moment he stood with water running from his clothes.
Feeling the firmness of the ground beneath him.
And he sat down.
And laughed softly.
He had crossed.
The traveller spread his clothes upon a warm rockin'.
Ate a little food from his bundle.
Evening light reached across the river.
From this side.
He could see the willow.
We are sad.
Its long branches moving above the water.
Beside him.
Lay the raft.
He looked at the knots he had tied.
At the places where he had strengthened the bindings.
He remembered choosing.
Each piece of wood.
How fortunate he had been to find them.
How well they had served him.
When his clothes were dry.
He folded them into his bundle.
And prepare to leave.
Then he paused.
The raft was still beside him.
You could hardly abandon something.
That had carried him so faithfully.
Perhaps another river lay ahead.
Perhaps you would need it again.
And even if he did not,
Surely.
Something so useful deserved to remain with him.
He gathered some links of vine and.
.
.
Made a strap.
With a little effort.
He lifted the raft onto his back.
Its weight surprised him.
In the water.
It had carried him easily,
But here on the land he.
.
.
Had to bend forward to carry it.
Still,
He adjusted the strap and began to walk.
The path rose gently from the riverbank.
After a few steps,
The lower branches of the raft brushed the ground.
When he turned,
Between the two trees,
Its wider end caught against a trunk.
He stopped.
Shifted it.
Try it again.
Soon his shoulders began to ache.
He looked ahead at the road winding through the open country.
Then he looked back towards the water.
He lowered the raft beside the path and.
.
.
Sat upon a stone.
For some time he considered what to do.
The raft was the same raft.
Its branches were sound.
The knots were firm.
Nothing had happened to make him value it less.
Yet the work before him had changed.
At the river,
He had needed something to float upon.
On this road,
However,
He needed his feet beneath him.
And room to move between the trees.
He ran a hand over the bindings,
As though walking away might somehow He raised the help he had received.
When he closed his eyes.
He could still feel the movement of the water.
He could remember the first touch of sand beneath his feet.
Those things.
Would remain with him.
The raft had helped him reach this shoal.
You could acknowledge that fully.
Even with his hands resting empty on his lap.
He sat a little longer.
There might indeed be another river ahead.
He could not see that far enough to know.
But carrying the raft along every mile.
Would make this whole road harder.
And if he reached another crossing.
He would be able to look at it.
As he had looked at this one.
He had learned to notice the current.
To choose the wood.
To test a binding before trusting it.
That knowledge.
Was already coming with him.
The traveller stood.
He lifted the raft once more and carried it down to a clear path beside the river.
They are elated upon the bank.
We are arrested securely.
Among the wraiths.
He loosened the strap he had made for his shoulders.
For a moment.
He rested his palm upon the wood.
Then he picked up his small bundle.
And return to the path.
His shoulders took a little time to relax.
He'd been bracing them against the weight.
And they seemed slow to believe it was gone.
But as he walked,
His stride became easier.
He could turn his head and see the hills.
He could pass beneath a low branch without stopping.
When the path narrowed.
There was room enough for him.
Near the top of the rise,
He looked back.
The river shone between the trees.
The raft lay at its edge.
Small now in the evening light.
He felt grateful.
And when he turned towards the road again.
That gratitude.
Went with him.
Librarian pauses.
You hear a long siddling in the fireplace.
They keep the book open for a moment.
Their hand resting lightly upon the page.
Then they lift their eyes towards you.
Sometimes,
They say.
The difficult part is recognizing.
That we have reached.
The other shore.
You look into the fire.
A slender piece of wood glows along its edge.
Beneath it,
The embers hauled deep.
Steady warmth.
The Traveler's Raft remains in your imagination.
The patient work of making it.
The relief of being carried.
The moment when his hands were free again.
You shift beneath the blanket.
Allowing your shoulders to settle.
Against the chair.
The librarian closes the book gently.
For a while.
I sit with it.
Resting upon their knees.
You listen to the rain against the windows.
Into the small sounds of the fire.
The road.
Can wait.
Until morning.
The librarian places the book on the table between you.
For a while,
Neither of you speaks.
The fire has settled into an even glow.
Along the underside of one log.
Little points of amber brighten.
And fade.
You watch them for a few moments until your gaze begins to soften.
You ease your fate.
Onto the footstool.
The blanket moves with you.
Warm across your knees and your draw its edge closer around your waist.
The chair supports the length of your back.
When you let your head.
Rest against the cushion,
You find a place that feels comfortable enough.
To stay.
Across from you,
The librarian opens.
Another book.
They read quietly.
Turning a page now and then.
It is easy to share the silence with them.
Your eyes move towards the shelves beyond the alcove.
From here.
You can only see a few of their titles.
And the small circle of light beneath the lamp.
The galleries above have grown dimmer.
Has a good evening.
Has deepened.
You remember the river.
Winding through the atlas.
The Little Painted Birds.
The rain gathering.
On the fern leaves.
There are still rooms you have not seen.
You leave them for another time.
A gentle rustle comes from the other chair.
Librarian sits their book aside.
And rises to tend the hearth.
They're just one of the logs.
Then place a screen before the fire.
Its fine mesh catches the light in a pattern of small golden squares.
And they turn back towards you.
Their voice.
Is soft.
I'll be here for a while.
Rest as long as you like.
Ye thank them.
Though your voice has gone quiet too.
By return to their chair.
Outside the rain is easing.
You can hear the drops separately now.
Tapping against the window.
Slipping from the stone ledge into the courtyard below.
A little warmth reaches your cheeks.
Your hands rest beneath the blanket.
Their fingers loosely curled.
Your jaw relaxes with your head supported.
The muscles at the back of your neck.
Begin to ease.
You feel the next breath arrive.
Than live in its own time.
The chair holds your weight.
Somewhere near the entrance,
Your coat is drying.
Your carb.
Has been taken away.
Lies closed upon the table.
Everything you brought into the library.
Can remain where it is until morning.
You think once more of the traveller resting beside the river.
With his hands empty in his lap.
For a moment,
The image is clear.
The willow on the distant bank.
The evening lights upon the water.
Then it softens.
Your eyelids.
Lower.
Through them.
The lamplight becomes a warm blur.
You open your eyes briefly.
Seeing the Half.
And the familiar shape.
Of the other chair.
Then you let them close again.
Librarian turns a page.
You hear it faintly.
Followed by the gentle.
Settling of the fire.
There is something comforting about those small sounds continuing.
While you rest.
Someone reading nearby.
Rain touching the courtyard.
Warmth gathering.
Beneath the blanket.
Your breathing.
Grows quiet.
Space between one thought and the next.
Began to lengthen.
A few images drift through it.
Blue cloth bindings.
A green cushion beside a window.
A little boat.
Drawn.
Upon a map.
They pass.
Without needing to lead anywhere.
By morning.
The courtyard will be washed clean.
Sunlight will find its way through the taller windows.
Reaching the oak table.
In the open atlas.
There will be time then to collect your cards.
And continue your journey.
For now.
You settle a little deeper.
Into the Chair.
The blanket rests softly around you.
Beyond the window a few last drops fall from the leaves.
You hear the faint rustle of another page.
As sleep draws closer.
The Library.
Grows quiet.
Around you.
