A Stormy Night At The Gamekeeper's Cabin

In tonight's relaxing sleep story, enjoy tea with the gamekeeper of a magical castle. As a thunderstorm approaches, you and the gamekeeper wait out the storm in the cabin, swapping stories and enjoying each other’s company. Part bedtime story, part guided meditation, part dreamy adventure.

Tonight’s key ingredients:
Magical school
Soothing thunderstorm sounds
Comic egg visualization

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Hard Charger by Christian Andersen

Sounds by ZapSplat

Transcript

Welcome to Sleep and Sorcery,

A folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

This is your time.

Concentrate on my voice only as long as it serves you to do so.

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and journey into sleep.

In tonight's story,

While preparing for a new school year as a professor of magical history,

You'll take a break to have tea with your old friend,

The keeper of the school grounds.

You make your way to his hut at the edge of the forest,

Take a stroll around the garden,

Then retire inside to catch up.

He shows you souvenirs from his travels over the summer,

Including a mysterious egg thought to be that of a phoenix.

As a thunderstorm approaches,

You and the gamekeeper wait out the storm in his cabin,

Swapping stories and enjoying each other's company.

And before we begin,

Take a brief moment just to be aware of where you are.

Breathe deeply and drink in the here and now.

This is where you're supposed to be right now.

There's nowhere else you need to be,

Nothing else you need to do,

Just here and now.

Close your eyes if you haven't already and let your inner awareness roll like mist over the walls of this room,

Across the river or the sea to a secret world of magic and mystery.

Breathe.

Is there anything more comforting than the smell of old books,

You think,

As you open your trunk and welcome the waves of earthy scent that escape the venerable tomes?

A hint of vanilla or even coffee traces a dusty pattern on the air.

You remove the books one by one from the trunk,

Stopping to mindlessly flip through one or two of them before placing them in piles upon your desk.

You organize them by author,

Period,

And subject,

Scanning the shelves around the edge of the room to determine the best way to arrange them.

After a summer away,

The old familiar walls of the classroom are rather welcoming.

As much as you enjoy the travel and rest of the summer months,

The start of a new school year always fills you with a sense of great excitement and energy.

A new year is beginning.

It brings new faces,

Minds,

And opportunities to learn and grow.

You chuckle to yourself at the irony that you should be rhapsodizing over new beginnings in such a place as a thousand-year-old castle.

You cherish your classroom and its attached office.

It's a spacious chamber in the castle's west tower with generous windows and gothic appointment.

On those all-too-frequent nights when you find yourself up late reviewing essays on Merlin's prophecies and practical applications of alchemy through the ages,

You have the most pleasurable view of the sunset upon the highlands and the glittering lake.

In just a few days,

Term starts again,

And a new crop of students will be welcomed to the renowned School of Sorcery.

As excited as you are to introduce them to the study of magical history,

You do treasure these few quiet days and nights of preparation for their arrival,

Which you lovingly call the calm before the storm.

You've set aside this afternoon for the careful,

Considered reorganization of your books.

Space must be made for the new volumes you acquired during your research sabbatical and travels abroad.

The most tedious of tasks is,

To you,

Quite meditative and satisfying.

It's a beautiful day,

And you've propped open one of the large,

Pointed windows to allow in a late summer breeze and the music of birdsong.

As you're silently debating whether to shelve great witches of the nineteenth century with biography or the period of the Industrial Revolution,

You hear a distinct croak from the open window.

Turning around to discover what made the noise,

You're surprised to see a large black raven perched inquisitively on the stone windowsill.

You greet it with a curious,

Hello,

Then notice that there's something,

A scroll of paper,

Tied to one of its legs.

This is unexpected,

You think,

For with terms still not started,

It's unusual to already be receiving correspondence.

The raven cocks its head to the side,

Blinking and shifting along the sill.

You approach the bird,

Which sidles over to expose the scroll on its leg.

You untie it,

And the bird departs in a clatter of wings and whooshes.

You unravel the scroll to reveal a few lines of handwritten text.

With a smile,

You recognize the hand as that of the school's gamekeeper,

Karadoc,

With whom you share a long friendship.

In fact,

You attended the school together in your youth before reconnecting as colleagues.

The note acknowledges that he's home from holiday,

And he heard from the head teacher that you had arrived at the castle earlier that day.

If you're open to it,

He'd like to invite you to tea this evening.

He's got many stories to tell you from the summer,

And something special he'd like you to see.

You look out through the open window over the castle grounds.

From your vantage point,

You can see not only the highlands and the lake,

But the line of dense forest that surrounds the southern perimeter of the grounds.

Just steps from the edge of the wood lies Karadoc's cabin.

From here,

You now recognize puffs of silvery smoke floating wispily from the chimney.

Tea sounds quite pleasant,

Actually.

You decide to leave the reorganization of your volumes to the morning.

As the day wanes,

You feel less and less inclined to be stuck inside your classroom.

You draw your wand from your pocket and take a moment to magically dust a row of busts of famous sorcerers that sit on a shelf at the head of the classroom.

There's Merlin,

Of course,

But also Hermes Trismegistus,

Paracelsus,

Mother Shipton,

And others.

With one more wave of the wand,

You straighten the waterhouse painting that hangs by the entrance,

A depiction of a sorceress and her ravens attending to a smoking cauldron.

Satisfied with your preparation efforts thus far,

You pull a special book from one of your neatly stacked piles,

A medieval bestiary you acquired last month while visiting France,

Which you think Caradoc will rather enjoy perusing.

And you depart the classroom.

You take your time descending the west tower,

Moving at a leisurely pace down the spiral stairs and admiring the elegant stained glass windows.

Light flashes through them,

Spilling colorful light upon the stone steps and walls,

A kaleidoscope of vibrant hues.

The steps open into a wide corridor lined with tapestry and suits of armor under high,

Vaulted ceilings.

At the far end of the hall,

You see a figure engaged in polishing one of the suits.

It's the caretaker.

You call out to wish him a happy start of term,

Which he acknowledges with a friendly wave.

You continue to move deliberately through the castle,

Savoring the emptiness of the hallways and the quiet of the cavernous chambers.

In a few short days,

The corridors will be packed with students and teachers bustling their way through.

These brief moments are special,

Suspended in contemplative quiet and full of tremendous potential.

You like to arrive a day or so before most of the other faculty each year,

Just to soak in the singular stillness of the place and reorient yourself to the castle and grounds.

The castle itself is always a feast for the senses and the mind,

No matter how many times you've walked its hallowed halls.

It stands on an ancient site of magical practice.

In fact,

The original stone circle that marked the site as especially rich in the occult arts still stands on the grounds to this day.

From your research and understanding,

The circle may be as many as 3,

000 years old.

Ancient people recognized the source of magic deep in the highlands,

And over the centuries druids and sages made pilgrimages to the spot.

By the year 1000,

A rudimentary castle had sprung up overlooking the lake with the intention of serving as both fortress and school for the magically gifted.

It was continuously under construction for more than 500 years as subsequent generations added extra wings and towers to accommodate larger and larger populations of students.

All of this constant expansion led to the castle being a rather unusual mix of different,

Often conflicting architectural styles.

The oldest atrium is Romanesque,

Where the grander feasting hall is extravagant Gothic.

Newcomers often find themselves lost in the labyrinth of stairways and corridors which curve and twist in impossible patterns,

Even seeming to shift unexpectedly as though the castle has a mind of its own.

All this history swirls in your mind as you make your way down toward the great feast hall.

You peek your head in through the tall oak doors to behold it in all its magnificence.

Resembling the nave of a splendid Gothic cathedral,

Its high stained glass windows allow in the dazzling golden light of the last gasp of afternoon.

The entire hall is bathed in its halcyon glow,

And at the center of the hall,

Wand in hand,

Magically raising banners bearing the school's coat of arms,

Is the head teacher.

At the creak of the door,

She turns to you and asks if the banners look centered from there.

One of them,

You suggest,

Could move slightly to the left.

She thanks you for your keen eye and assistance,

And with a twitch of her wand,

Inches the banner aside.

There's a feeling of welcome to the openness of the hall.

Your mouth almost waters at the thought of the sumptuous start of term feast to come.

Puddings,

Pies,

And all manner of delicacies await.

You bid a good evening to the head teacher,

Who continues her inspection and preparation of the feast hall,

And you turn to leave.

Slipping out the front door of the castle,

You take a moment to admire the detailed bas relief that adorns the entrance.

Elegant carvings of winged horses,

Dragons,

And sorcerers dance above the doors.

Then,

Turning to take in the view from the outer doors,

You behold the splendor of the lake in the valley between two shimmering emerald mountains.

The low-hanging sun casts a sparkling reflection upon the dark water,

Then is briefly obscured by a passing cloud.

Your gaze falls upon a distant curtain of rain,

Which bends and twists over the highlands like a ghostly veil.

You breathe in,

Trying to sense the direction of the cooling breeze and whether the storm is headed toward you or away.

Below you to the south lie the thick evergreen forests and the gamekeeper's sturdy cabin.

A winding stone path through the grass takes you through the old stone circle.

A thin layer of moss grows on the north-facing stones,

And you notice a yellow butterfly that floats down to perch on the top of one.

It flits away as you move through the circle toward Caradoc's house.

Smoke no longer issues from the little chimney,

And in a few steps you can see why.

Inside the cabin is a modest yet impressive kitchen garden and an unparalleled pumpkin patch.

Among the massive orange pumpkins you see the figure of Caradoc,

Large and looming over the scene.

He's so tall and broad-shouldered that from your perspective the trees lining the edge of the wood could be miniatures in a diorama.

You call out to greet him,

And he turns and waves at you enthusiastically.

From the garden his grey Scottish deerhound,

Archie,

Comes running up the path toward you.

Archie sniffs around your feet,

Then bounds back to his master joyously.

You reach the pumpkin patch,

And you and Caradoc embrace,

Laughing.

He's thrilled you decided to join him this evening.

There's so much to catch up on since you saw each other last.

To start you ask what on earth he's feeding those pumpkins.

Even the smallest ones are the size of boulders.

Caradoc expects some might double in size by All Hallows' Eve when they'll be plucked and carved to decorate the castle.

He's experimenting with a bewitched fertilizer that guarantees gargantuan crops.

You remark that you might be able to live comfortably inside one of the pumpkins before long.

You share a laugh at the notion.

Caradoc,

Followed closely by Archie,

Shows you around the back of the new garden.

What may not be much to look at now,

He admits.

He's only just planted a round of root vegetables and hearty greens.

Beets,

Onions,

Mustard greens,

And carrots are germinating now for a late fall harvest.

Come spring he's got a whole slate of herbs and vegetables planned.

He beams with pride as you admire his efforts.

He asks what you've got under your arm and you display the cover of the bestiary for him.

He's eager to take a look once you head inside.

Beyond the lake the veil of rain warps.

Caradoc notes that it's moving closer.

The grounds are in for significant rain tonight,

He thinks.

The vegetables will be happy.

And indeed the air seems to be growing thicker with moisture as the storm approaches from afar.

There is a subtle electricity that hangs in the air.

A charge.

The sun beginning to set behind the western mountains is mostly shrouded now by thickening clouds.

The tops of the pines sway with a breeze that picks up into a rushing wind off the water.

A storm is certainly brewing,

You think.

You can feel it like a tingle at the back of your neck.

Caradoc recommends you retire inside.

He'll put on a pot of tea and you can swap your holiday stories.

With a sudden chill whipping through the air you welcome the suggestion and with Archie in the lead you make your way to the cabin's front door.

The structure is humble,

Built of hand-laid stone,

But there's an inherent charm and coziness about it.

Just two wooden steps lead up to the entrance,

A solid wood door carved with the school's heraldry.

As Caradoc lets you inside,

Archie slips through the door and runs to curl up at the foot of a massive quilt-covered bed in the far corner.

The interior of the cabin is just one room,

But there's more than enough space for the modest lifestyle of the oversized Caradoc.

In fact,

Though you've never pulled out a measuring tape to confirm,

You suspect that the inside of the cabin may be slightly larger than the exterior conveys.

There's a stone fireplace above which a burnished copper kettle hangs.

Caradoc waves his wand to ignite a fire among the logs and invites you to sit.

You take a chair at the little table in the center of the room and Caradoc utters a low grunt as he joins you there.

He asks to see the book you brought,

If you don't mind.

It's a heavy tome by your standards,

But in the gamekeeper's large hands,

It looks rather like a toy.

You explain that you discovered it in the library of a renowned magical university in Lyon and worked out a long-term loan for your school's purposes.

Secretly though,

You picked it up with Caradoc in mind.

Many marvels at the illuminated pages and detailed illustrations of all manner of cryptids.

There are chevald and eptune,

Horses with fins where their front hooves should be and long fishtails behind them,

The minoceros,

A chimeric creature resembling a unicorn,

And stately sphinxes with women's faces and wings.

Even more exciting,

You point out,

Are the informal illustrations in the margins which depict creatures you've never seen in the flesh nor in any book on cryptozoology.

Are they real beasts that hide in the remotest regions on earth,

Rarely seen and never formally documented?

Or are they the careless,

Imaginative scribblings of bored authors daydreaming at the quill?

Caradoc thanks you for bringing him such a delight.

If you don't mind,

He'd love to hold onto it for a while and return it once he's had a chance to study it carefully.

He's always had a profound affinity for magical beasts.

Had his life gone a different way,

You imagine he might have spent his days traveling the world collecting,

Studying,

And documenting specimens.

But the only thing more powerful than his love of magical animals you know is his connection to the school and the castle.

It's hard to imagine the grounds without his presence,

A constant comfort to his friends,

Colleagues,

And students.

You're thankful to count the gentle-hearted gamekeeper as a close friend.

The copper tea kettle begins to whistle from the fireplace and Caradoc jumps to remove it from the fire.

He hums to himself as he brews a tea made with dried herbs from last year's harvest of his own garden he boasts.

He sets a china teapot down to steep on the table before you,

Along with two mismatched teacups.

While you wait,

Caradoc asks you about France.

You tell him about your visit to Mont-Saint-Michel,

Your tours of Paris churches historically connected to the magical arts,

Dinner at a restaurant that resides in the historic home of Nicolas Flamel,

And your extraordinary time in Lyon.

After years of lobbying for the invitation,

You were at last welcomed to speak at l'Université des Arts Enchantés.

The most respected magical institution in Europe to present your research on a theoretical branch of alchemy.

For years,

You faced challenges even getting your work reviewed by the magical community,

Who often dismissed you for your position in an institution of elementary learning.

So it was immensely satisfying to speak to a group of world-renowned magical minds,

And even more thrilling to receive a standing ovation for your presentation.

You were even asked if you might consider applying for a position at the university.

You considered the offer for a while.

It was,

After all,

One of your greatest ambitions to teach and learn at Arts Enchantés.

You saw yourself robed in the school's regalia,

Addressing bright young sorcerers and shaping a generation of magical thinkers.

But something was missing from the fantasy.

When you really considered it,

You realized that,

Like Caradoc,

Your heart truly lives here,

At the castle in the Highlands.

Your greatest fulfillment comes not from being lauded by academics,

But from inspiring the magically inclined youth,

Some of which encounter magic for the very first time in your classroom.

There is simply nothing more soul-nourishing than the twinkle in the eyes of a child realizing the limitless enchantment of their world.

After you've concluded describing your travels and academic success,

Caradoc admits to feeling relieved that you're not up and leaving to teach at the university.

You acknowledge that something always pulls you back,

Like an invisible string,

To the strange and special halls here.

The tea should be well steeped by now,

And Caradoc pours a mug for each of you.

Steam rises from your cup,

Carrying with it the aroma of mint and lemongrass.

Enough,

You insist,

About you.

You can only boast about your research and standing ovations for so long.

Caradoc's correspondence indicated that he had something to show you.

The gamekeeper's eyes light up,

And he seems ready to burst with excitement.

Taking a cautious sip from his tea,

As though willfully slowing himself down so as not to spill the details of his story too quickly,

He heaves a small chest the size of a hatbox onto the table beside the teapot.

The chest is made of a scuffed reddish wood with faded hand paintings.

Looking closely,

You can see patterns of decorative flame and feathers along the edges.

Caradoc runs a heavy hand across the top of the chest and begins to set the scene.

He spent his brief holiday traveling through Greece.

Of course,

He admired the historical sights in Athens,

Which often made him think of you and your love of classical antiquity.

But the most exhilarating leg of his journey was his hike through the mountains of Thessaly.

Something about the place felt so old,

So inherently magical to him,

It reminded him of the highlands in that way.

He was even able to hike Mount Olympus itself,

Feeling close to the secrets of myth.

In the Meteora Valley,

Flanked by immense rock formations that resemble sleeping giants,

He visited a complex of monasteries built precipitously into the landscape.

They cling to the rocks like chimney swifts and overlook the green of the valley.

That night,

He enjoyed a drink in a tavern frequented by other witches and wizards when a sorcerer walked in,

Boasting about an incredible discovery.

He was carrying,

Keradoc explains,

This very chest.

It gives it a hearty thump.

The man approached patrons at the bar and at their tables,

Brandishing the chest and making extravagant claims about its origins.

Pulled from the depths of an ancient cave,

Blessed by the gods themselves,

Radiating with powerful magic,

Possibly the last one in existence.

Most of the patrons ignored him,

Absorbed in their own conversations or libations,

But Keradoc watched him from the corner with a keen eye.

If the claims were true,

He might be interested in seeing inside the chest.

When the man approached Keradoc,

He described the treacherous journey he took to retrieve the item,

Wandering through a maze of forests,

Excavating deep ruins.

Then Keradoc asked him to open the chest,

To prove that the contents of the chest really are what he claims.

With a smile,

The man agreed to show him the item.

He opened the chest.

Now while weaving the story in great detail for your benefit,

Keradoc too dramatically lifts the latch on the chest and begins to open it.

You imagine yourself in the Meteora Tavern on a warm summer night.

Your eyes widen as the lid of the chest swings open and reveals what's inside.

Roughly the size of the copper tea kettle and resting on a cushion of purple velvet,

The chest contains an egg.

It's smooth and dark,

Its surface an ombre of dark blue and deep emerald.

In the firelight it carries just a little bit of shine.

Above the chest,

Keradoc smiles down at the egg and looks at you as if to say,

Not bad,

But not bad.

Your first instinct is to ask what kind of egg it is,

But you hesitate.

Certainly not a dragon egg as those are very rare and wouldn't be found in Greece of all places.

You study the object for a moment further,

Then you utter a low gasp as it dawns on you what you're looking at.

After years of studying the cryptic symbols and illustrations in alchemical texts,

You wonder why you didn't immediately recognize the egg.

But how is this possible?

Most magical scholars believe the very last of these was hatched in the 17th century.

From outside the hut comes a rumble of thunder.

The storm is not quite upon you yet,

But it's drawing ever closer.

You ask Keradoc if you can touch the egg.

He nods,

Smiling.

He thought you'd be excited.

You run a hand across the smooth surface,

Marveling at how well this egg is preserved.

Gingerly you lift it from the chest and feel the weight of it in your hands.

It would seem to be authentic by your measure.

A genuine phoenix egg.

Femaleses,

Famously,

Are immortal creatures.

The magnificent birds live out a full cycle of aging,

Then at the end of a natural life die in a spectacle of combustion.

Then from the ashes,

The phoenix is born again,

And the cycle repeats ad infinitum.

They are naturally reclusive,

And thus it's rare to see one in the world.

But some are loyal to specific humans and serve as faithful companions.

Because of their otherworldly longevity,

It's near impossible to know the true age of a phoenix.

Some living today may be thousands of years old,

Or have experienced hundreds of complete life and rebirth cycles.

An egg,

Then,

Is exceedingly rare to encounter,

And the one before you could be of any age.

No one knows how long it takes for a phoenix egg to incubate.

This one could have been lying in wait for a century.

When will it hatch,

You wonder?

Rain begins to drum on the windows and roof of the cabin,

Slowly at first,

Then coalescing into a shimmering blanket of sound.

Another low roll of thunder underlies the storm.

Archie,

Still curled upon the edge of the bed,

Picks his head up,

Ears at attention.

Seemingly deciding he's safe,

The deer hound lowers his head and closes his eyes once more.

You place the phoenix egg back upon its cushion within the chest,

Handling it with the utmost care and sensitivity.

You thank Caradoc for showing this to you,

And silently you reflect on how truly special your friendship is.

With his affection for supernatural beasts and your devotion to magical history,

It's natural that the two of you would share an intense fascination with this object.

It's comforting to have a companion here who understands you so well.

Indeed,

Within your line of research,

Mostly in the obscure and theoretical practices of alchemy as they relate to the formalization of sorcery,

The phoenix is a deeply important symbol.

Often standing in for the philosopher's stone,

The phoenix can be seen drawn in the margins or illuminated manuscripts of the great alchemists.

Through transmutation of its body and regeneration in fire,

The bird is a powerful metaphor for the immortality granted by the stone and for its fabled ability to transform base metals into gold.

The development of the philosopher's stone is,

Of course,

The great work of the alchemist or the magnum opus.

You are not an alchemist,

Merely a historian and an educator,

But as you sit in the presence of such a powerfully magical and symbolic object,

You feel closer than ever to Paracelsus,

Flamel,

Saint-Germain,

And all the great names in the discipline.

The storm is picking up outside.

When you look through the window toward the west,

The landscape seems to blend in a swirl of green and black under the solid curtain of rain.

Caradoc remarks that he hasn't seen rain this heavy all season.

What an appropriate welcome home you jest after his travels in the sunny Mediterranean.

But as the rain comes down in buckets,

The warmth from the hearth and the sturdiness of the stone cabin make you feel safe.

There's nowhere else you need to be after all,

And the company of your old friend makes it all the sweeter.

The castle itself is a blackened blur beyond the heavy drape of rainfall.

The thickness of the clouds and the rain make it difficult to infer the time of day,

But through the darkness of the storm,

You suspect dusk has fallen.

You can see that torches are lit up at the castle as they cast their flickering saffron glow refracted through droplets of rain into out-of-focus orbs.

Caradoc notes that it's good to get such weather out of the way now.

Imagine the chaos that would ensue if this storm hit during term.

You chuckle at the thought of little witches and wizards running with their hands over their heads to get in from the storm.

It takes a few lessons before they can master basic enchantments,

Which means only the older students can magically dry their clothes or conjure umbrellas.

You move to the window seat,

Which is lined with fluffy pillows,

Clutching the warm mug of tea between your hands to watch the storm.

It's dark enough now under the cloud cover to be midnight,

Though you're sure it's only about supper time.

Speaking of which,

Caradoc begins to rummage through the little kitchenette cabinets for something to whip up.

You insist that you're not hungry,

There's no need to go to the trouble,

But he's already cooking up something mad and aromatic with whatever ingredients happen to be available.

The window seat is luxuriously cozy.

The smell of the herbal tea wafts toward you and fogs up a portion of the glass.

On the other side of the window pane,

Raindrops splash and roll downward,

Then accumulate and merge with each other on their serendipitous pathways.

The thunder rumbles low and luscious.

Caradoc,

Now splashing oil in a pan and crushing garlic,

Has more tales about his travels.

You listen contentedly to an amusing story of switched luggage at a European train station.

Caradoc managed to swap out the bags just in time to ensure that a non-magical traveler didn't take home an exceptionally rare Phoenix egg.

You offer an anecdote here and there as well.

In Lyon,

For example,

You attended the Nuit de Fourviere festival at an amphitheater dating back to the Roman origins of the city.

At the conclusion,

Audience members threw their seat cushions at the stage,

Apparently a show of appreciation.

You and Caradoc wait out the storm with laughter,

Food,

And conversation.

Archie,

Uninterested in your stories,

Snores quietly from the bed.

You feel more comfortable than you can ever remember.

There's an indescribable tranquility with the rain wrapping around the cottage like an embrace.

The glittering torchlight shining from the castle's windows and the fragrance of herbs from your tea and Caradoc's kitchen.

If you ever did leave the school for good,

To travel the world indefinitely or teach at a renowned university,

Oh,

How you would miss moments like this.

You feel suspended like this is a moment entirely outside of time.

It's a peculiar but pleasant in between.

Behind you lie adventures,

Opportunities,

Standing ovations,

Roman amphitheaters.

Before you,

Fresh faces,

New generations,

Sumptuous feasts,

Clogged corridors.

The cycle will begin anew.

As it always does,

The children will learn and grow and master new skills and graduate.

And new faces will arrive yet again.

Here in the middle,

You and an old friend swap stories and hold the anticipation of the moment.

You turn your eyes back to the painted chest.

It's still sitting open on the table,

Revealing the marvel within.

The Phoenix egg is a little secret you share,

At least for now,

With Caradoc.

He may offer a glimpse to others,

But he sent for you first.

It may never hatch,

But it might.

A new immortal life might be right here in reach of your fingertips.

It's a symbol of the power of your friendship and the strong ties that bind you here to the highlands and the castle and the school.

It's a symbol of potential,

Longevity,

And love.

You love your friend and your students and your classroom and the ancient magic that whispers through the boughs of the pines,

Between the moss-covered standing stones,

And through the millions of raindrops that fall,

Seep into the soil,

Then evaporate into the sky.

The cycle begins anew.

In your mind,

See a golden egg.

The egg is not solid,

But formed of a dense golden light.

It's small enough to fit in the palm of your hand.

Imagine the golden egg shining at the center of your heart space,

Radiating with subtle warmth.

Feel the warmth pulsing outward from your open heart,

Throughout your chest,

Into your shoulders,

Extending outward into your arms,

And throughout the hands and fingers,

Shining out through the tips of your fingers and beyond.

Feel the warmth radiating from your heart into your navel and your pelvis,

Expanding outward into your legs and throughout the feet and the toes,

Shining like each of your toes is a little flashlight with a beam of golden light extending from it.

Now feel the egg,

Made of cosmic golden light,

Dissolve and soften into you,

Spreading its warmth and peace throughout your body and your mind.

Now see a golden bird,

Made of the same glowing light as the egg,

Wings stretched upward,

Radiating soft,

Subtle heat and luminescence.

The bird flickers like a fire or the rippling surface of a lake under the sun.

Let the bird dissolve into a white lotus on a silver lake.

Let the lotus dissolve into rings of smoke issuing from the chimney of a small cabin.

Now soar through the window into the cabin.

See the four walls of the cabin,

The ceiling,

The floor,

The fire in the fireplace,

Flames dancing.

At the center of the fire,

Let the flames dissolve into a dense orb of light,

Into a golden egg.

Now feel yourself at the center of the egg,

The cosmic egg,

Surrounding you with golden light and warmth.

Feel the amniotic tranquility and infinite peace soften and relax into the warmth.

You are home and safe.

There's nowhere else you need to be.

Feel warm and cradled,

Surrounded by light and peace.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Another wonderful story by my favorite bedtime tale storyteller!

I enjoyed this and found the story calming and it helped me to sleep. Thank you 🙏

Wonderful! I fell asleep quickly.

A Phoenix Egg... How awesome would it be, were it only possible to behold something so magnificent? Well, Laurel at least our minds may wander & dream of it. Thankyou. 😘💕🍃🐱🐱🐨

Your stories are creative and beautiful. Thank you for creating them!

Very relaxing! I never got to the end. Your stories are my favorite to listen to because I love fantasy and mythology.

Fantastic!! Have yet to hear the end! Lovely voice and great storytelling!

Another great bedtime story!