Experience Yuletide in a shopping corridor for witches and wizards in tonight's fantasy bedtime story.
Sleep and Sorcery is 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.
Listen to my voice for as long as it serves you,
And whenever you're ready,
Feel free to let go of the story and venture into sleep.
If you're still awake at the end of the story,
I'll guide you through a relaxing visualization exercise for rest and belonging.
In tonight's story,
It's Christmas Eve in the bustling,
Magical shopping corridor of Surrey Alley.
You are enjoying the holiday atmosphere with friends while shopping for last-minute gifts.
You drink tasty magical treats,
Explore fantastical gift shops,
And gather for the lighting of an enchanted Christmas tree.
At the end of a long day,
You return home to tell stories and exchange gifts by the fireside.
They lighted candles in the winter trees.
They hung their homes with evergreen.
They burned beseeching fires all night long to keep the year alive.
And when the New Year's sunshine blazed awake,
They shouted,
Groveling.
Through all the frosty ages,
You can hear them echoing behind us.
Listen.
The shortest day.
Susan Cooper.
There's fervor in the streets,
The melodic ring of people's voices lightly singing their Merry Christmases and Happy Holidayses.
Holly and evergreen deck every doorway,
Red ribbons tied on every lamppost,
Every window lightly frosted.
The scents of bayberry,
Orange,
And spices float on the sweeping breeze,
All tangled up with the pealing of bells and laughter.
Little noses and cheeks glow rosy in the cold.
The air is thick with the chilly anticipation of the long night and morning to come.
In all this splendid energy,
It can be no other day but Christmas Eve.
And there's nowhere you'd rather be on Christmas Eve than right here,
In the bustling corridor of Surrey Alley,
Where every shop is a magic shop and witches and wizards come to buy their wares.
You savor the feel of the cobblestones beneath your feet,
The cold air on your face.
You stay close to your best friend,
Brom,
So you don't lose each other in the crowds.
Though you're on holiday from the school of sorcery,
You both still don your cloaks bearing the school insignia,
Half out of pride and half because they're the thickest,
Warmest cloaks you own.
But underneath the cloaks,
You wear cable-knit Christmas sweaters,
Handmade by Brom's mother for each of you.
It was a kind gesture for her to include you in that family tradition.
You and Brom could be siblings in your matching attire.
Now that you're of age,
You're excited to venture to Surrey Alley on your own.
There's something so gleeful about coming by yourselves with your own gold to spend.
A delicious sort of freedom in this wonderland of endless delights.
And Surrey Alley does not disappoint at Yuletide.
The hidden promenade,
Tucked away behind London's Covent Garden,
Behind a magic veil that only those in the know can pass through,
Is positively alive with joy and cheer.
There are carolers on the corners and floating baubles in the sky above the street,
As though in search of a Christmas tree to hang themselves on.
Snow coats the rooftops of the little crowded shops and cafes like powdered sugar,
Making them look like frosted gingerbread buildings.
Many icicles shine like diamonds from awnings and eaves.
With so much excitement and such delights round every corner,
You feel almost overwhelmed.
But Brom nudges your arm and gestures off to the left,
Where you spot the famous bookshop,
Bob and Wheel Books.
Good idea,
You say,
As the two of you weave through the throngs to the bookshop's entrance.
The real mission today is to gather up last-minute Christmas presents for some of your friends and family.
Your other best friend,
Violet,
Who's spending the holiday with her parents in Australia,
Is an avid bookworm.
So Bob and Wheel is the perfect place to locate a gift for her.
A bell rings on the door as you step inside from the street.
Immediately a rush of warmth falls over you after the blustery cold of the alley.
You haven't set foot in this bookshop since your first year at the School of Sorcery,
As you've opted to have your school textbooks delivered ever since.
But the familiar smell of leather-bound books,
Vanilla,
And coffee bring back all sorts of childhood memories.
You think of how timid you were the first time you shopped here,
How much you've grown in the intervening years.
The bookshop,
By some enchantment,
Is larger on the inside than it appears from without.
Rather than a narrow red-brick building with two stories,
It's a cavernous space with spiral staircases and magical lifts that go to countless floors,
Each holding a vast inventory of books on certain subjects.
It's busy with customers flipping through pages,
Carrying stacks of volumes,
Or watching their Christmas gifts wrap themselves in neat little packages.
You and Brom split up to track down presents for Violet.
She has a voracious appetite for books,
So the real challenge isn't finding something she'll like,
But finding something she hasn't yet read.
As Brom disappears up a stairway toward the section on plant and herb lore,
You step on a hovering platform and say clearly,
Magical history.
The platform begins to slowly convey you upward,
Past stacks of books,
Toward your chosen floor.
You watch the customers and shopkeepers grow smaller as you drift up.
Clerks follow customers around,
Scrolls of parchment floating behind them,
Scribbled upon by quills that move independently.
Even years after your initiation into the secret world of magic and sorcery,
Such a sight still makes you swoon with delight.
The lift comes to a halt at the history floor,
Which is peaceful and quiet compared to the main thoroughfare.
You suppose history books aren't most people's idea of a thrilling Christmas gift,
But you can understand the appeal.
Enter a window into the great mysteries,
Movements of people and ideas across time.
You wind your way through the stacks of books,
Reading the lettering on the spines,
Biographies of great witches and wizards,
Monographs on magical empires.
The choices are seemingly endless,
But as you round a corner,
You find a small display table of books with brightly colored binding and covers.
It's a whole collection of books by a celebrated magical historian,
All reissued with beautiful designs and gold-trimmed pages.
You pick one up,
Open the cover and feel the spine pleasantly crackle in your hands.
It's the exhaustive history of the school of sorcery,
Founded centuries ago by Merlin himself.
You think of Violet,
Whose own copy of this book is second-hand,
Tattered and worn from pouring over it again and again.
Edges frayed,
Pages falling out,
Gold lettering faded on the cover.
There's a certain charm about that old book,
But you have to imagine she'd appreciate the opportunity to set it upon the shelf and crack open a beautiful new copy.
There are full-color illustrations within that move and wink as you flip through.
It's a beautiful addition.
You tuck it under your arm,
Feeling light and cheerful as you return to the lift.
You wish you could see her face tomorrow morning when she opens the package and sees the beautiful cover and the image of the renowned wizard smiling back at her.
You rendezvous with Bram in the checkout line,
Which snakes through the bookshelves behind the register.
The shop echoes with happy chatter as you slowly inch toward the front of the line.
Bram has selected a book of magical herbs and their uses in healing and medicine.
It's full of elegant botanical sketches and even has pages for the reader to fill out with their notes and experiments.
At the register,
The smiling clerk offers to gift-wrap your items and ship them directly to the recipient.
You watch as a shining red ribbon ties itself around the book of history,
And you scribble a short note for Violet.
Then the clerk drops both books into a small cabinet and closes the door.
You hear a sound like the tinkling of bells and see a puff of silver smoke rise from the cabinet,
And you know the books have been instantly transported to Violet's door.
You leave Bob and Wheel Books as light as you came in,
But with a wave of relief,
Knowing you've crossed such an important person off your Christmas gift list.
The sun is starting to set on Surrey Alley,
And lamps are springing to life around you.
The dim late afternoon brings a new surge of cold over you.
You shiver as you move down the alley with the flow of the crowd.
Tom's teeth are chattering,
And the two of you agree to duck into the first place you can find to procure some hot drinks.
As luck would have it,
You're only steps from Pepper's Pies and Potions,
A café that may look shabby from the outside,
But makes the most delicious pasties and drinks.
You step in off the street,
Relieved to see it's not mobbed with patrons.
The owner,
Pepper herself,
Is behind the bar,
Slinging drinks for the few customers at tables.
You order hand pies to snack on and peruse the menu of winter drinks.
There's hot mulled cider,
Hot chocolate with every flavor imaginable from peppermint to lavender,
And Pepper's famous mystery potion.
You've never tried the mystery potion before,
Afraid to go out on a limb when more familiar options are available.
But everyone you know who's tried it has described it differently.
Pepper claims the drink transforms to please the taste buds of the drinker at the moment it's drunk.
Today you're feeling adventurous.
You and Brom both order the mystery potion.
When he takes his first sip,
Brom's eyes light up,
It tastes like hot buttered rum with a sprinkling of cinnamon and something like cardamom.
Brom exclaims that he didn't even know he liked cardamom until now.
You take a cautious sip of yours,
And immediately you feel it warm you from the inside.
The taste is hard to describe.
It's somehow herbal and sweet,
Delicate and strongly spiced.
It makes your throat tingle and your head feel clear and bright.
You struggle to decide what it reminds you of,
But your mind fills with childhood memories and broken images of Christmas's past.
You thank Pepper for the delicious refreshments and breeze back out the door,
Drinks warming your hands.
Your cheeks flush as you meet the cold,
But it can't break through the spell of warmth cast by the mystery potions.
The lamps burn bright with flickering gas flames,
And the lit up shops lining the alley look like miniature buildings in a Victorian Christmas snow globe.
There's another gift you and Brom need to find on this trip to Surrey Alley,
And this one must be especially heartfelt.
You're looking for something for Brom's mother,
Who has graciously opened her home to you for the past six Christmases.
She's as dear to you as your own family.
A generous woman who makes every room she enters feel like home.
So off you traipse down the cobbled alley,
Inhaling the sugary,
Spicy fragrances that waft from the doors of cafes.
You carry your drinks in takeout cups,
Feeling the warmth against your own hands and warming you from the inside out with each sip.
A quartet of carols trill a sweet song.
You catch one or two lines of lyric which describe a magical Yule bonfire that burned for the whole month of December long,
Long ago.
There's a line out the door at the apothecary,
A tiny shop that sells cauldrons,
Potions,
And magical ingredients.
You spot a friend from school in the line,
Waiting with a small group of people who must be her family,
As they all sport nearly identical button noses and sparkling green eyes.
You and Brahm give her a cheerful wave as you pass by.
You peek briefly into a shop called Sight and Seer,
A dimly lit boutique that sells crystal balls,
Scrying glasses,
Casting runes,
Oracle decks,
And other supplies for the arts of divination and prophecy.
The shop smells of sage and incense,
And a faint haze seems to float in the air around you as you explore the displays.
While the objects certainly pique your interest,
You aren't sure anything here will do for Brahm's mother.
There's a ginger cat winding its way under table legs,
And it chirps merrily as it rubs against your leg.
You stoop to give the cat a friendly scratch on the head.
Back on the street,
Brahm nudges you to go with him into the hat shop,
Bettina's Best,
Intrigued by their window display.
Behind the glass is a charming tableau featuring mannequins made of snow,
Modeling increasingly elaborate hats and hair accessories.
You give Brahm a smirk,
And he insists he's heard his mother lamenting the state of her old hats.
The shop must have just the thing to delight her.
So you stumble inside out of the cold.
As Brahm heads for the classic witch's hats,
You marvel at the more extravagant headwear on display.
There's a fascinator made of realistic butterflies,
Flapping their iridescent wings.
A headscarf made of black fabric that shimmers like the night sky riddled with stars.
Brahm selects a pointed witch's cap in the traditional style,
Made festive by a decorative sprig of holly.
He asks earnestly if you think she'll like it.
You reassure him that it's just perfect.
But you still aren't sure what to get for her.
How do you say,
With only a small gift,
How thankful you are for a person's hospitality?
How lucky you are to be welcomed into the family?
Now a flush of blue evening casts its veil over the shopping corridor of Surrey Alley.
You're coming to the end of the main drag of shops,
But you haven't yet given up hope.
After all,
There's a little square just ahead where a magical Christmas market has sprung up around the great,
Festive tree.
You can see the tree now,
A great spruce stretching high into the darkening sky,
At least 20 meters tall and towering over even the tallest of structures around.
The chime of a clock tower suggests that it's already half past five.
There's plenty of time to get a good vantage point to watch the tree lighting ceremony.
A spiral of snow flurries are falling delicately around you,
Melting as they reach the cobblestones.
As you approach the square,
Your heart flutters.
Little wooden stalls,
Roofs dusted with blankets of snow,
Encircle the tree.
Food stalls sell hot pastries rolled in sugar and cinnamon,
Steaming sausages and fresh salted pretzels,
Mulled wine and hot cider flow.
Vendors sell handmade items and wares,
Rustic wands,
Unique broomsticks,
Pottery,
Candles,
Paintings,
And hand-carved marionettes.
You and Brom amble round the perimeter,
Eyeing the marvelous toys,
Gifts,
And magic supplies for sale.
You can't remember ever feeling so charmed as you do now.
It's as though you've stepped into a Christmas card.
And as you weave through the stalls,
Admiring watercolor paintings of Surrey Alley through the seasons,
Paintings with leaves or snow or rain that really falls before your eyes,
Or gasping at exquisitely made garments,
You keep your eyes peeled for a special gift for a very special person.
You know it as soon as your eyes fall upon it.
You don't say anything,
But you begin to drift effortlessly toward the tiny stall.
Brom has to hasten back to catch up with you after realizing you're no longer by his side.
There's nothing so magical about it,
Really.
But something about it catches your eye,
Captures your heart,
And doesn't let go.
Behind the stall's birchwood counter sits a small,
Middle-aged woman,
Bent over something in her hands,
Which move with a careful,
Deliberate activity.
All around her,
On the counter,
On shelves behind her,
On floating shelves and hanging from the ceiling,
Are hand-carved wooden nutcrackers,
Each unique and unalike as snowflakes.
There must be hundreds of them,
Every size,
Color,
Shape,
And style.
Some are classic,
Some minimalistic,
Some flamboyant,
And some fantastical,
Each alluring in its own way.
And from what you can tell,
There's nothing inherently magical about them.
But their charm is undeniable.
The maker sits there,
Carving away,
Not noticing you just over the counter,
With an expression of peaceful concentration.
She looks miles and miles away,
Unobservant of all the hustle and bustle around her.
The snow could be coming down in droves,
You think,
And she might not look up from her work,
So consumed is she by focus.
There's one nutcracker among the hundreds that you're drawn to.
It's small enough to fit in your hand,
You think,
And it hangs from a red ribbon on a hook within the stall.
It might hang nicely on a modest Christmas tree.
This nutcracker is intricately carved and hand-painted in shade after shade of green.
Around its arms twist tiny vines of decorative ivy,
And holly leaves and berries stick out of its white beard.
It wears a crown of holly too,
And a cape of luxurious green velvet,
Trimmed with fur.
As small as it is,
It looks regal and impressive.
Somehow you have no eyes for the other items in the stall.
This one alone calls out to you.
You approach the counter,
Hoping not to startle the woodworker,
But her eyelids lift slowly to meet your gaze,
Then wrinkle into a warm smile.
The piece in her hands is mostly unfinished,
But you can see the start of another unique creation coming to fruition there,
As though the nutcracker is emerging from the raw wood.
When you ask about the little green nutcracker,
The maker's eyes light up.
It's one of her personal favorites,
She says,
Pulling out her wand and summoning it down from its hook.
She wraps it in brown paper,
Ties the small package in green ribbons,
And hands it to you,
Bidding you take good care of the green man.
You thank her,
Tuck the package into the pocket of your cloak,
And depart.
You can't stop smiling.
You hope Brahm's mother will find the gift as enchanting as you do.
A crowd is gathering now around the base of the great spruce tree.
You and Brahm angle to get a good spot where you can see the whole tree without craning your neck.
The giant arbor is decorated with red and silver baubles,
Bows,
And candy canes.
All around,
Bright colors shine through the approaching darkness.
Voices ring clear and strong,
And a shiver of anticipation strings all souls together like one grand musical instrument waiting to ring out one silver note on the night air.
It's such a feeling as can only be felt this time of year.
A collective in-breath,
A quiet expectancy,
A quivering hopefulness,
Even on the darkest of nights.
The hour is approaching now,
And you wait with bated breath for the tree to be lit.
You've never witnessed this spectacle yourself,
Though Brahm has told you many times that it's the most magical thing he's ever seen.
The anticipation mounts as excited voices carry throughout the crowds.
Brahm checks his watch.
Only minutes to go.
As the seconds tick by,
You scan the crowd,
Taking in the cheery,
Rosy faces of everyone around you,
All waiting for the same thing,
The same moment,
All waiting to be amazed.
It's only been a few years since your initiation into this secret,
Magical world.
A mere moment in time,
Really.
But it feels somehow as though you've always been a part of this community.
Or rather,
That it's always been a part of you.
Like you and the world of magic,
We're only waiting to find each other,
Always just one step out of sync.
Now you feel attuned to the magic,
Inextricably bound to it.
It flows through you in every moment,
Infuses your every choice.
And here,
Among so many others,
Many who must have felt just as you did the first time they witnessed the miraculous,
It feels stronger than ever.
As though your magic reaches out to grasp others,
Creating a powerful ritual connection,
Even among strangers.
It's almost time.
A voice rings out from somewhere unseen among the throng,
Counting down from ten.
Ten.
Nine.
Another voice joins in.
And then another.
Eight.
Seven.
And more voices.
Six.
More voices still and more until the whole circle speaks in one strong,
Unified voice.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
And for just a moment,
The square goes entirely dark.
A hush falls over Surrey Alley and it's briefly so silent,
So dark,
You can't believe it.
It's like a dream.
And then with a burst of color and light and sound,
It begins.
The sparking of golden flames,
Dancing like ribbons or wisps of smoke from the base of the tree,
Circling it in spirals all around.
At first,
It appears only abstract,
Just an enchanted flame climbing the tree and yet not even singeing its needles.
But as it circles the tree once more,
Activating the twinkling lights it passes one by one,
You catch a glimpse of the form within the formlessness.
There,
Flickering in and out of visibility,
With a long tail whipping behind it,
Is a magnificent bird made of fire.
On its trail echoes a note of song so bright and beautiful,
It softens your heart and brings tears to your eyes.
The tree springs to life beneath it,
The baubles catching the light of the flame and sparkling like stars.
The bird ascends higher and higher around the great spruce,
Ringing out its joyful song.
Oh,
That song.
It's like the taste of the mystery potion,
Spiced and sweet,
Hopeful and nostalgic,
Evocative and elegiac,
All at once.
And at last,
Climbing higher into the night sky,
The bird,
The flame-tailed phoenix,
Comes to rest at the very pinnacle of the tree.
Its wings flutter and rustle,
Then settle into stillness,
Its tail relaxing.
And there it burns.
The boughs of the tree catch not the flames but glow greenish-gold under its constant flicker.
And then there is an eruption of sound,
Cheers and shouts from the crowd.
You clap your hands together with an unexpected ferocity,
Whistling your approval.
Laughter,
Cries of merriment,
And a milling and a mumbling and a marveling.
Slowly the celebration diminishes,
And the sizzle of sausages on the grill can once again be heard above the din.
The crowds resume their shopping.
The phoenix burns on above the square,
Little snowflakes dancing in the glow of its flame.
A halo of warmth remains in the wake of the ceremony,
Even as the crowds disperse,
And a heaving sense of denouement settles over you.
The anticipation passed,
You feel your muscles relax and your mind soften.
Now you feel a glowing tiredness and a longing to rest.
Brahm agrees and the two of you slip down a side street.
There's a station at the end where you can pay a penny each way to travel anywhere in the magical network of mirrors.
Sinking down from all the excitement,
Giddy with exhaustion,
You pay your fares and step through a narrow mirror,
One at a time,
Right into the den of Brahm's family home.
Before the room even materializes before you,
You hear an exclamation of delight from a familiar voice.
Then several more join in.
It's Brahm's mother who cries out first,
And she runs to embrace you both as your feet fall upon the rug.
There's a roaring fire in the hearth,
And Brahm's whole family is here.
Some lounge in armchairs by the fire or stretch out on the floor.
There's a small but richly decorated Christmas tree in the corner,
Surrounded by a pile of gifts wrapped in brightly colored paper and tied up with red ribbons.
It feels like home,
Like childhood,
Like magic,
Being surrounded by so much love and gratitude.
You're happy to take off your heavy cloak and sit before the fire.
You can feel your icy nose and fingers defrost in its radiant warmth.
Soon there's tea and a heap of cookies on the coffee table,
And there's music playing lightly under the cheerful conversation.
Brahm tells everyone about the tree lighting,
The best one yet,
He insists,
A rosy glow in his cheeks.
Someone starts describing a cherished Christmas memory,
And soon everyone is chiming in with jokes and stories from Christmas's past.
Brahm's father is eyeing the pile of presents clandestinely and even sneaks away from the table to shake one by his ear.
Brahm's mother,
With a knowing look in her eyes,
Suggests everyone should open one gift tonight,
A delighted surprise from her children.
There's laughter and glee as everyone makes for the pile,
Retrieving a gift with their name on the tag.
Your stomach fills with butterflies as you see Brahm's mother take the tiny package wrapped in brown paper.
You do hope she likes it.
You watch as she unties the ribbon and removes the green-clad nutcracker.
She looks up at you with glossy eyes and pulls you into a firm embrace.
She doesn't say anything,
But crosses to the tree and hangs the ornament from a prominent branch.
Then she squeezes your hand.
It seems for a moment that you can see in her eyes the same bright and moved expression as you noticed in the woodworkers when you selected the gift.
It gives you some pause.
The gift exchange continues until there's a clutter of wrapping paper strewn across the floor and a satisfied gleam on every face.
Brahm's brothers wave their wands to clean up the debris.
The music plays and the fire continues to burn.
You feel flush with warmth and pleasure.
You can see light snow falling outside the window.
It strikes you that this,
More than any spell or potion or charm,
Is true magic.
The delicate yet resilient ties that bind people together as family,
Blood or chosen.
The memories and private myths that spring from closeness over time.
A tapestry of sentiment,
The warp and weft of which creates something bigger than any one person or any group of people.
And at this time of the year,
With darkness creeping in at the corners,
These shining threads are more important than ever.
After a time,
Family members start heading up the creaky stairs to bed.
You're one of the last left in the den,
Feeling yourself swoon with sleepiness near the fire.
At last,
You too climb the stairs to the room made up for you.
Your eyelids droop as you climb and you waste no time collapsing into the soft pillows on your bed.
Your head swims in and out of consciousness and surrenders to sleep.
You dream that you're flying through the night over snow-sugared rooftops and smoking chimneys unfazed by winter's icy bite.
Behind you stretches a long fiery tail and in the flames are the images and shapes of all the Christmases you've lived and all the Christmases that ever were.
You soar,
Surging,
Spurred on by the strength of the magic that abounds in quiet places,
On modest boughs,
And in the eyes and hands of loved ones.
You shine on.
In your mind,
See a tranquil forest,
Evergreen,
Beneath a dark and starlit sky.
Snow is falling gently on the trees,
Clinging to the boughs.
Watch as the snow flurries bounce on a gentle night breeze,
Following irregular patterns from the sky down to the earth and the branches of the trees.
Notice the contrast between the brilliant white of the snow,
Lit by the moon and stars,
With the darkness of the night sky and the silhouette of dark green forest.
Like the contrast of festive gatherings and quiet reflection that both feel at home during the winter holidays.
Allow yourself to feel the same kind of peace and serenity of this quiet winter's night.
Maybe you're decompressing after work or recharging after a spirited get-together.
Let that energy and any stress dissipate as your body and mind find calm and flow.
Like those snow flurries dancing on the wind,
Gracefully tracing their unexpected paths,
Letting themselves be guided by greater unseen forces.
Continue to notice those paths and patterns,
Visualizing the journey of the snowflake.
Now turn your inner eye to the trees of the evergreen forest,
Collecting snow on their boughs.
They are spruce and fir and pine,
Tall and mighty,
An old forest.
They've been here a long time.
They are solid and solemn.
Their boughs can take the weight of blankets of snow.
They can weather storms,
Wind and rain.
Their roots hold steady in the ground.
They may bend and sway without breaking.
They are the silent observers of the ages,
The thriving and dying and renewal of year after year.
They store the mysteries of ancient pasts between their rings.
They go on.
This season can be so hectic,
But it can also invite rest and peace.
Calm reflection on the year that's come and gone.
In those moments when the world is moving fast around you,
You can always come back here to the quiet forest,
The gentle snowfall and the starlit night.
Cultivate a quiet forest within yourself.
A safe place to find stillness and peace.
Wherever you are,
Wherever you come from,
Whatever traditions you keep this season,
There is a place for you.
A place that's warm,
A place where you're welcome,
A place where you're loved.
Maybe holidays.
