Weavers Of The Night Blankets, A Sleep Story

What if the night sky wrapped around your house like a blanket made from stars? And who would weave it? This stream-of-consciousness sleep story winds and weaves like yarn on a loom, read in a soothing, slow voice, to help you drift off to sleep.

The narration is accompanied by Sleep Music vol.. 16 by RelaxingTime.

Transcript

Hello,

I'm Fran,

And this story is for sleep.

It weaves and meanders without a plot,

Like we're dreaming.

It allows your mind to wander off to wherever it wants,

It doesn't want to keep you here.

It's a little guide,

Walking by your side into sleep.

Take all the time you need to relax and get cosy,

Ready to drift off,

It's okay.

The night wraps itself around the house,

Soft and endless,

Like a blanket made of stars.

Did you know that it really does?

The night transforms into a giant,

Crocheted piece of fabric,

Woven from a million stitches out of thick,

Navy yarn that's sprinkled with silver threads.

It's different to a blanket that you or I could make though,

Because the yarn can change its colours to thousands of different combinations.

Of deepest midnight blue,

To greyish black,

Through milky blue and purple and orange in the morning when it turns into day.

We don't really think of the day being like a blanket though,

Do we?

Is that because we like to wear a blanket at night when we go to bed?

So the night seems to suit it much better.

I suppose on a very dreary day,

When the winter is chilling everything to a stop,

And it's all grey and frosty outside,

You might want to bundle up in a big thick throw or duvet.

In the deepest summer,

Especially in very muggy places where the humidity makes the heat unbearably sticky,

The day can become like a blanket,

Can't it?

But a blanket you don't want to wear,

One you'd like to throw off if you could.

Perhaps you could exchange it for a nice crisp cold bath in the coolest water.

How long do you think it would take to knit or weave or crochet a blanket for the entire house?

And who would want to take up the task?

Maybe it's actually the nocturnal animals that volunteer to do it,

Showcasing some hidden talents that none of our best wildlife experts have managed to catch on camera.

The owls and foxes and hedgehogs,

Every night,

Gear up ready to take the hues of the daytime sky,

And with their magic,

Turn them into the darkest,

Deepest colours and bind them together into yarn.

And then,

Stitch by stitch,

Turn it into a huge swathe of fabric.

Or perhaps they borrow the night time from the other side of the world,

And spin it into yarn to use for their nightly project.

Maybe that's why,

When the night is longer here,

It's shorter on the opposite side of the world.

They've simply borrowed a bit more night time.

And then the opposite seems to happen when our nights are short,

And theirs are long.

It happens so gradually though.

How do they know to organise it so perfectly?

I wonder who trained them to do it.

Or whether it's an instinct type of thing.

Like knowing what predators to avoid,

Or how to build the perfect nest.

There are teams dedicated to each house,

So that they can work together and weave something that perfectly fits each building.

After all,

What if someone didn't get the memo from wherever they get their memos from,

And didn't make enough night blanket to wrap around that little bungalow on the corner of the street?

Would the people cuddled up on their sofa watching the evening telly think that the sun had finally set,

Only to go to bed and then be met with a blinding orange sunset?

Then what would they do?

I suppose it'd be like when you see a black cloud coming over.

The sky goes all moody.

But you look in the opposite direction and it's a beautiful blue sky.

So that's why I imagine the animals must have some kind of arrangement to make sure slip ups like this don't happen.

Imagine the admin.

The reports they'd have to file.

How would they stop the people getting the word out about what had happened?

Suppose that nobody would believe them if they did tell someone.

Especially as each home has its own little night blanket.

It wouldn't be possible that someone else would have seen the sky in exactly the same way as someone else would.

So how would they prove it?

The animals must have such a complex and intricate system to make sure every blanket they weave is just so.

Every species of nocturnal beast must lend their hand to creating this nightly ritual.

Because think how many houses there are,

Even in your street.

Each kind of animal must have its own skill set,

Just like people do.

I imagine the mammals with their little hands and feet must be the best at weaving together the actual blanket itself.

Badgers,

Moles and rats all taking up their own little crochet hooks,

Weaving looms and knitting needles.

Because of course the sky looks different every night,

So they must do different kinds of fibre art and then connect them somehow.

Do the creatures each bring their own equipment?

Or do they have company issued ones?

I'm a crafter,

And if you are as well,

You know what I mean when I say this,

But there's nothing quite like using your own crochet hook,

For example.

You could try using someone else's,

But it feels a bit awkward,

Even if it were the same make and size.

And that's another issue entirely.

Does anything affect the thickness of the yarn,

I wonder?

If the yarn is extra thick then the holes in between the stitches might be smaller,

Which could account for those cloudier nights when you can't see a single star.

That's assuming we can look through the night blanket and see the stars beyond.

But then again,

What are those silver strands in the yarn for,

If not for constellations?

Perhaps those silver strands are stitched in with the most delicate touch,

Embroidered carefully by the tiniest pores and the nimblest of claws.

Maybe the tiny,

Tiny mice are in charge of that part,

Scurrying up and down the finished rows,

Selecting just the right glimmering threads to weave into place.

Do they hum little songs to themselves as they work?

Or do they listen to the hushed sounds of the world settling down,

The distant hoot of their owl friends,

The whisper of the wind through the trees,

The rhythmic rise and fall of all the people in their houses breathing deeply in their sleep.

Perhaps there's a special spider guild,

Who contribute their own threads spun with such skill,

That they shimmer like distant galaxies when the moonlight catches them just right.

Do they work in shifts,

Spinning and stitching,

Passing their gleaming creations to the next in line,

So that by the time the sun dips below the horizon,

The blanket is ready to be unfolded once more?

What happens to yesterday's blanket?

Do they unravel it at dawn?

The threads dissolving back into the morning light,

Given back to the other side of the world?

Or does it carefully get wound up,

Stored away,

Somewhere beyond the clouds perhaps,

In case it's needed again on a night when the sky can't quite decide which shade of blue to wear.

I wonder if anyone has ever seen the changing of the blankets.

If there's just a fleeting moment where the old one is pulled away,

And a new one is put in its place.

Maybe it happens in the blink of an eye,

So seamlessly that we never even notice as we go about our human tasks.

Or perhaps it's a gradual shift,

So slow that it feels like the world exhaling,

Like slipping deeper into dreams without realising you've left the waking world behind.

I think that if you listen very carefully,

On the stillest nights,

You can hear the gentle clicking of knitting needles,

Looping of crochet hooks and the tiny rustle of weaving looms.

Maybe that's what we mistake for the rustling of trees or the breeze against the window.

Maybe it's the quiet work of the night weavers,

Stitching together the sky.

And perhaps when the last few stitches are tied off and the final shimmering strands are put into place,

The blanket settles over each house,

Wrapping you up in its warmth.

It certainly doesn't mind if your thoughts wander,

If your dreams begin to take shape in the space between the threads.

It's there to encourage you to drift,

To let you sink into softness,

To let you go wandering into sleep.