The Book Of Merlin

In tonight’s sleep story, you uncover a weathered medieval manuscript among belongings passed down to you. The book transports you to the early Middle Ages, where you meet its scribe, the one and only Merlin. The wizard walks you through significant moments of his life, from his early enchantments to the building of the Round Table, imparting to you his gifts of history and prophecy.

Threshold visualization

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Magic Surroundings by Drift Far Away

Transcript

Walk,

Side by side,

With the legendary wizard Merlin in tonight's Arthurian Sleep 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 surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story winds down,

I'll guide you through a gentle visualization and body scan.

In tonight's story,

You uncover a weathered medieval manuscript.

Long belongings passed down to you,

The book transports you to the early middle ages where you meet its scribe,

The one and only Merlin.

The wizard walks you through significant moments of his life,

From his early enchantments to the building of the round table imparting to you his gifts of history and prophecy.

That story is loosely connected to two other pieces in the Sleep and Sorcery series,

The Holly King and the Oak King,

And the Pageant Wagon.

You don't need to have heard the other stories to listen to this one,

But you may recognize some of the places within.

I hope you enjoy.

Rest here,

Enchanter,

While the fire dies.

In a breath in an eyelet's fall,

You will see them,

The dreams,

The sword and the young king,

The white horse and the running water,

The lit lamp and the boy smiling,

Mary Stewart.

It's time to get back to the house,

You suppose,

Though your heart longs to linger in the lazy mildness of the late afternoon ride.

The air is spiced with fresh orange blossoms and the sun has a hazy golden quality that provides ample warmth and brightness without causing you to squint under its light.

It falls over the slopes of the great Iron Age hillfort a way off,

Turning the grassy slopes into rivers of gold.

You're glad you managed to get outside for a little while,

If only to refocus your eyes and reset your mind after long hours at work in the low light of the library.

There's more to do before you can call the task finished,

But you're proud of the progress you've made and sure you've more than earned a leisurely hour on the grounds of the estate.

Winifred,

Your horse,

Is happy for the outing as well.

She's been itching for a longer ride,

And with temperatures warming up,

You're both grateful for the fresh air and exercise.

You turn back toward the stately country house now,

Satisfied and ready to return to your project.

Earlier this week,

You began restoring the modest library of Coventry House,

The estate left to you last year by an eccentric uncle.

It's been exhausting work,

Cataloging and reorganizing books,

Repairing and often entirely rebuilding the shelves,

And thoroughly cleaning the corners and crevices,

But you're glad you've finally set about doing it.

Who hasn't dreamt of maintaining a library in their own residence?

You look forward to making it a cozy,

Dreamy place to relax with a book.

On quiet evenings or rainy days,

You dismount and lead Winifred back to the paddock,

Giving her a hearty scratch on the neck.

She nuzzles your hand with affection.

As you open the gate for her,

You turn your head in the direction of a high-pitched,

Chattering call from the holly nearby.

There's a dark silhouette of a bird atop one of the trees.

As Winifred saunters away,

You raise a hand over your eyes to see what creature is making such a call.

From its dark eyes and stature,

You deduce that it's a rather petite falcon,

With bluish-gray wings and a buffy,

Streaked breast.

The merlin,

If you're not mistaken.

You watch it for a moment or two,

Its tail twitching in the breeze.

The merlin swivels its head and stops,

And you could swear it's looking right at you.

You hold the falcon's gaze for a little while,

Till you feel the spiral of breeze,

Sudden and swift,

Sweep through your hair.

You shiver slightly,

Breaking the eyeline to pull your arms in tight against the surprising chill.

When you glance upward again toward the top of the holly,

The merlin is gone.

Winifred seems content in her paddock.

And you feel at once quite keen to get back indoors.

There was something about the way the merlin was looking at you.

Maybe it's all the work of your imagination,

But it seemed to know you,

To have a message for you.

There was nothing fearful about it,

But all the same it was uncanny.

You're not quite sure what to make of it.

By the time you're inside,

There are still goosebumps running all the way up your arms.

Perhaps by now,

After nearly a year of residence in the Georgian country house,

And more than one curious adventure within or outside the walls,

You should be accustomed to whimsical occurrences.

But you shake off the encounter with a nonchalant air and make for the library in the heart of Coventry House.

Your uncle,

Whom you only met once in your childhood,

Remains very much a mystery to you.

But through the careful restoration of the residence he bequeathed to you,

And the painstaking organization of all the belongings therein,

You feel closer to him each day.

You've pored over his curious journals,

Admired his collections of poetry,

And the works of Shakespeare and Marlow,

And sorted through countless knickknacks and decorative objects.

He was the kind of man who kept on the same bookshelf assorted tomes on ancient mathematics and the entire bibliography of Dr.

Seuss.

You like to think he was a studious person with an exquisite sense of humor,

Someone who loved to observe the natural world and its curious workings,

And who always had a witty remark to slice through the most complex matters of life,

Most of today,

Prior to your brief escape to sun-flooded hills.

You've been occupied with erecting a new bookcase to hold some of the oldest books in the library.

The musty,

Tattered tomes were languishing on a piece of furniture so deep in disrepair that it audibly groaned beneath their weight.

It must have been a beautiful piece in its time,

So it was a pity to dismantle it.

But you were able to salvage the charming,

Decorative tracery from the corners and incorporate them into the new shelves.

Gently lifting the new bookcase onto its base,

You find you're quite pleased with the outcome.

It needs some shimmying to stand flush against the wall,

But there seems to be something snagging it at the bottom,

Probably just a shard of wood from the old bookcase or some other debris wedged against the molding.

Crouching down and feeling round the back of the shelf,

Your hand closes around a small,

Jagged something made of cool metal.

Bringing it out to the light,

You reveal that it's a key,

Substantially weighted and made of what seems to be cast iron.

The key is larger than one you might use today for doors and cupboards.

You turn it over in your hands,

Inspecting its intricate,

Handmade decoration,

A familiar looking symbol with three spirals spinning out from a point at the center.

You're sure you've seen this symbol before,

Recently,

Perhaps even somewhere in the house.

It takes some time for the flame of recognition to ignite,

But once it does,

You leap to your feet without a moment's more hesitation.

You make for the banquet hall,

Which these days is more of a neglected storage space.

During the winter,

You spent day after day combing through the various curios stacked and scattered in the banquet hall,

Determining what to keep,

What to sell,

And what to dispose of.

You managed to clear most of the floor and get the room into decent shape,

But there's one item within that's had you stumped from the start.

A leather-bound chest with a tarnished bronze lock.

Swinging wide the banquet hall doors,

You stride across the room to the heavy chest,

Which you push to a corner,

Fearing you'd have to pry it open if you never found the key.

But now,

Your fingers buzzing with an almost electric anticipation,

You've found it.

This must be the key to the mysterious chest,

For there,

As you kneel before it,

Is the worn but still recognizable symbol,

The three interlocked spirals.

You can feel your heart beating excitedly in your chest.

You do your best to temper expectations,

For all you know,

The trunk might only contain broken baubles,

Ugly novelties,

Or loose confounding papers,

But then again,

You think,

It might contain untold riches,

Gold,

Lost treasures,

Or masterpieces.

Go on then,

You tell yourself,

Try to open it.

The iron key slides easily into the lock.

There's a rusty squeaking and minor resistance as you turn it,

But it does turn.

You take a deep breath,

And heave open the lid of the chest.

Before you can even see what's inside,

You're overcome with the sudden scent of meadow sweet,

A green,

Earthy freshness that's evocative of spring mornings.

It nearly knocks you back into a reverie,

But you're determined to investigate the contents of the chest,

Peering over the edge.

You look inside.

Books,

More books,

Of course.

You have to steel yourself against the twinge of disappointment.

You've seen so many books,

Donated so many to local booksellers and schools,

Squeezed hundreds onto the limited shelves in the library,

Cast so many away due to irreparable damage.

What on earth are you going to do with more books?

There are some loose scrolls filling the chest too,

Which you sweep aside to reveal a half dozen or so glass vessels at the bottom.

There are a few pieces of rusty looking jewelry,

Including a pendant with a quartz-like stone.

You remove the glass vessels gingerly,

Holding them up to the light to inspect their contents.

Each contains a mix of dried flowers and herbs,

And a few have small stones and crystals in the bottom.

They might explain the lingering floral scent.

How old might these items be?

You imagine that if you uncorked any of the bottles,

The botanicals might instantly disintegrate on exposure to the air.

The scrolls are delicate,

And the books are ancient looking.

You have half a mind to run and find some gloves,

But curiosity overwhelms caution.

You reach for the largest tome in the chest,

Bound in greenish leather and tied round with a narrow strip of the same,

Carefully retrieving it.

And examining the cover,

You observe the same spiraling symbol in faded gold.

Surely,

There is some significance to this volume,

So you cautiously unravel the twine and lift the cover to reveal the yellowed pages within.

The artifact is old,

Many centuries old.

You feel a thrill and a sense of mischief handling it,

And a voice within keeps urging you to set it aside until you can bring in a rare book trader to appraise it.

But you can't seem to put it down.

Something within the pages calls to you,

Whispers,

Really,

As though trying to draw you in.

When you find the first instance of writing,

However,

It's in a language and script you're unequipped to read,

Probably some form of Old Welsh,

Handwritten in a style with over-the-top embellishments.

You're about to set it down and look into the other volumes in the chest,

When you notice a flicker of movement from the pages.

It might be a trick of the shifting light through the tall windows of the banquet hall,

A cloud passing over the near-setting sun,

Perhaps.

You glance at the windows to confirm,

But the light has not significantly changed.

Instead,

However,

Your eyes land on the branches of an orange tree in the courtyard where a barrel-chested bird has just alighted.

It's the merlin again.

You blink,

Almost laughing,

To see the creature once more.

That same uncanny feeling washes over you,

The sense that the bird knows something about you.

You shake your head and look back to the pages of the manuscript where you expect to find the Old Welsh,

But there,

Before you,

The text is transforming,

Shape-shifting,

And straightening.

The unintelligible words are changing form,

Assuming familiar shapes,

Word by word,

And line by line until at last,

Miraculously,

They're gone.

They are legible.

The tome has translated itself to the language you most comfortably read and speak.

You can't help but gasp.

You flip to the inside cover,

Where the previously obscure handwritten title now reads,

The Life and Prophecies of Merlin.

Your whole body goes up in goosebumps as your eyes drink in the title,

Over and over.

It can't be,

Can it?

Do you hold in your hands the first-hand account of the life and prophetic visions of Merlin,

The legendary sorcerer who served King Arthur more than a thousand years ago?

You flip through the pages,

All of which are now easily readable in your language.

The swift movement of the pages creates an artificial breeze,

Which tickles your face.

But even as you stop on a particular page,

Looking to concentrate on a line of text,

The movement of the air continues,

Whipping into a vigorous wind,

Replete with flecks of moisture,

Like dew or mist.

You raise a hand to wipe the moisture from your face,

And also to confirm that it's more than an illusion,

And there,

Indeed,

Between your finger and thumb,

Are tiny beads of clear water.

You raise your eyes from the pages of the tome,

Seeking the source of the droplets,

But you discover an even greater mystery instead,

For your surroundings have changed,

Somehow.

Without your even noticing,

No longer do you kneel in the neglected banquet hall of Coventry House,

But on the blustery top of a great grassy mound.

In the open country,

The sky is gray and cloud-crossed,

And the air is so thick with heavy mist that it almost feels like rain.

You rise to your feet,

Awestruck and confused,

Whirling around to take in the surrounding landscape.

All around you,

For miles and miles,

Are green plains and slopes,

Forests beyond.

There's no sign of a road or a village nearby,

But there are some distinct,

Clearly man-made grooves in the ground surrounding the raised hill you stand on.

It's familiar,

Somehow,

Though you can't quite place this strange construction.

It's only now that you realize you're not alone.

How long has the tall figure been standing beside you,

Clutching the leather-bound book to your chest?

You look up at him.

He's finely dressed,

His robes embroidered across the breast with the shape of a heraldic dragon.

His hair and beard are long,

Mostly dark gray,

With streaks of white.

In one hand,

He clutches a towering staff,

Carved with intricate symbols and patterns.

But behind the finery and imposing stature is a soft expression and warm,

Crinkly eyes.

You feel an instant kinship with him,

A sense of total trust and safety that you can't explain.

But it's all so strange,

So overwhelming,

That you feel your knees grow weak,

And you nearly collapse.

The stranger's hand reaches out with relaxed confidence to steady you,

And where he touches your arm,

You feel a resonant heat.

What is this?

You ask.

Where am I?

The stranger's eyes travel to the book you clutch against your chest.

He gestures to it plainly.

I see you've found my notes,

He says in a voice that's clear and low.

Your notes?

You scan the stranger's face,

Noticing now the faint ghost of a symbol painted upon his brow,

Though it's faded and difficult to be sure.

You think it must be the same triple spiral yet again.

Then it's true.

You are Merlin,

The Enchanter?

I am he,

Says Merlin.

And what is this place?

You ask again,

Still puzzling over the familiarity of the natural terrain.

A simple question,

One might think,

Merlin responds.

No,

A simple answer will not satisfy in the most immediate.

You are upon Salisbury Plain,

But more to the point.

You are in a memory,

Or perhaps a prophecy.

How can that be?

You ask.

I will do my best to explain,

Says Merlin.

But for now,

The new king is approaching,

And with him his troops and attendants,

All expecting to witness a miracle.

I must pause our conversation in favor of some showmanship.

The king,

You say,

Turning to the west,

From whence indeed a company of soldiers approaches.

Can it be?

Further,

Comes Merlin's voice,

Resounding and sonorous,

Booming over the hills as though magnified by magic,

The troops,

Close enough now to make out the details of their stoic faces,

Gather near the base of the mound.

Merlin continues.

I have promised you a monument worthy of your most noble brother and king,

Ambrosius,

A monument that should stand forever.

That promise I intend to keep.

I have also claimed that I will bring forth the very stones of the Giant's Dance from far to the west.

Your men have doubted that I can perform such a task.

Let them witness my actions now,

So that there can be no more doubt.

With a clandestine glance to you and the whisper of a wink in his sparkling eyes,

Merlin raises his staff and his open hand toward the gray sky.

The air around him changes subtly,

As though every droplet of mist were at once brought to attention,

Called to become a current,

A conduit for his power.

There comes a rumbling from the clouds,

Drum-like and low,

But not thunder exactly.

The faces of the men below,

Led by the broad-shouldered Uther,

Are turned upward in expectation and inquiry.

A great cumulus cloud gathers directly over the plain,

Swelling and darkening as Merlin utters an incantation in an unfamiliar tongue.

Then,

When it seems the cloud cannot possibly hold any more,

It breaks like a dam and releases a tide of rain.

The torrent is concentrated over the raised hill,

Falling all around you and yet,

Somehow you remain entirely dry,

Untouched by the cascades of water.

You hold out an arm,

Fascinated to find that the curtains of rain seem repelled by you,

Jumping out of your way as two like magnetic poles repel each other.

You can see Uther's party,

Safe beyond the limited borders of the sudden storm,

Gazing with astonishment,

And Merlin,

Beside you,

Still chants in his rhythmic secret language.

And through the rain,

Here you observe is the miracle,

As though the raindrops are freezing,

Solidifying when they fall to the ground,

A silvery mass is forming.

Tiny masses,

In fact,

Like grains of sand falling into place,

Round and round the base to form a statuesque solid.

Stones,

The size of elephants,

Are forming from the rain.

Stones standing tall in concentric circles.

Of course you recognize it now.

Merlin's word,

Gesture,

And power are riding Stonehenge onto Salisbury Plain.

You've only ever seen the renowned monument as a ruin,

The sarsen and blue stones oriented to the solstice sun,

Impressive as it is in aged form,

With missing stones and fallen ones.

Now it takes shape as a stunning,

Complete temple,

As the lintels form atop the standing stones,

Connecting them like bridges.

The rain slowly dissipates,

Then evaporates.

The atmosphere,

Typical of the moments after a sudden and brief downpour,

Is silvery and cool.

The whole of the plain glows with a kind of pale luminescence.

Then the clouds break overhead,

And in streams golden sunlight,

Which catches the drops of moisture still suspended in the air.

At once it's like a thousand tiny rainbows burst about,

Bouncing off of one another and playing across the stones.

Stonehenge,

In its glorious fullness,

Absorbs the rays of sun and gleams in the infinitesimal and yet yawningly wide space of a moment between the stopping of the rain and the uproar of Uther's company.

You can feel a vibration in the earth beneath your feet,

And a sound is present in the air you're sure of it.

Though it's so much like silence,

It's hard to describe.

Like a quivering hum that originates at the center of the stones,

Or where the sunlight meets the stones and reverberates in the spaces between them.

To your ears it is the sweetest sound,

Like sacred,

Healing music.

But in an instant it's drowned by the voices of Uther and his men,

Exclaiming praise for the enchanter Merlin,

Whose power they shall never doubt again.

Now they are climbing the monument,

Encircling and admiring the stones.

You turn to Merlin,

Who looks pleased,

If a bit drained,

Hoping he'll tell you more about your peculiar position.

But Uther is approaching,

And the sorcerer's eyes are upon him alone.

Curiously,

Neither Uther nor his men pay you or your modern dress any mind.

In fact,

It seems they have not noticed your presence at all.

Your close proximity to Merlin,

And the seeming fact that you are imperceptible to the others on Salisbury Plain,

Means you are privy to the low-voiced conversation that commences between the two.

It is a worthy monument to him,

My friend,

Says Uther.

Behind the confidence and clarity in his voice,

You detect a swell of sadness,

Such as one who has known a great loss.

And,

To all those lost in this great battle,

How is it that you conjured these stones from the giant's ring?

Never mind that,

Merlin responds warmly.

There is no poetry in the practical details.

Only relish the magic for what it is,

And what it serves.

He was a good king,

Your brother Ambrosius.

You'll need to be strong and faithful to succeed him well.

Uther lifts his eyes to Merlin,

And the grief there melts to something like insecurity.

Then,

Deep resolve.

I will,

He says.

And henceforth I shall strive for peace with this monument to remind us of the price of war.

Merlin smiles.

There's something of the calm wisdom of a teacher in his words and manner toward Uther.

Very well,

He says.

You shall be crowned forthwith,

And take the style your brother once adopted of Pendragon.

Merlin places a hand on Uther's shoulder.

The king softens at the touch.

It is a pity,

Merlin says,

That he means so well,

And will fall so much into the shadows of history.

And even more the pity that this very site,

A memorial to his brother,

Will be the grave of his own son.

You're taken aback by Merlin's words,

But Uther's face does not change as if he hasn't heard them.

You realize presently that the words were only spoken to you.

Uther returns to his men,

And you are alone again with the enchanter.

How can you know that,

You ask?

How can you know his future?

Merlin's eyes shine with the weight of unasked-for wisdom.

This is the great gift and great curse with which I have been endowed,

He says.

History,

Memory,

Prophecy,

These are not distinct,

But interlocked.

Time is not a straight line.

All things are happening all at once,

All around us and beyond us.

Most cannot see,

But those of us who can bear a great burden and can access great wisdom.

Faintly,

You can still hear the humming of the stone or the earth beneath them,

The deep vibrations and echoes of the earth.

Walk with me,

Says Merlin.

I can show you more if you like.

Nodding vigorously,

Pursued by a flood of curiosity,

You leap to follow Merlin as he strides away from the immaculate stonehenge.

As you move,

The rolling grasses of Salisbury Plain dissolve and the blustery winds calm.

You step,

For a brief moment,

Into complete darkness,

As though moving through a blank void and then new surroundings materialize.

You stand before a castle,

Or at least the makings of one,

Atop a very steep hill.

Stone upon stone suggest tower and rampart,

But the whole thing appears at once under construction and in utter ruin.

A company of dejected laborers look on in despair as their work crumbles.

You turn to ask Merlin what it is you're looking at,

But instead of the tall,

Finely-robed sorcerer,

You find you are accompanied by a mere child of no more than ten.

He graces you with a moment's eye contact,

During which you recognize the same puckish,

Sparkling eyes,

Albeit younger by far.

Then the child turns to another figure looking on,

A richly-dressed nobleman.

No,

You think,

Observing the crown upon his head,

A king,

But he is nothing like Uther.

The king addresses the child,

Merlin,

As though speaking to a courtier.

My counsellors tell me that you possess the sight,

My boy.

If this is so,

What can you tell me of this calamity that plagues my efforts?

Have I not the finest engineers and architects in the mighty isle?

Why is it that every stone I lay in the building of this castle falls to the ground?

The boy,

Merlin,

Ponders the question,

Then crouches down,

Pressing a hand to the soil.

He stays there for some time.

You can see doubt and dismissal brewing on the king's face,

But after a while,

Merlin lets go a sound of amused recognition,

As if stumbling upon an unexpected,

Yet perfectly reasonable truth.

Would you like to see what's causing your troubles,

Your grace?

Says Merlin,

In a voice that's childlike but wise,

Beyond his ears.

The king is taken aback,

But he nods intently.

Merlin's breathing grows heavy,

Both hands still pressed to the ground.

Then slowly he rises,

Fingers taut,

Pulling something up from the soil,

As if he has marionette strings tied to each of his fingers,

And on the ends of the strings are two figures made of shining light,

Two miniature dragons,

One red,

One white,

Writhing and snarling and snorting at one another.

The king recoils.

What is this?

He says.

My lord,

Says Merlin,

Without a hint of fear or discomfort,

These are only reflections,

Exhumations of the true conflict that stymies your efforts.

You see,

Beneath this castle lies a lake,

And in that lake are two dragons,

Very like these,

Whose constant fighting causes your castle to collapse.

The more you try to build it,

The faster it will fall,

Until you can bring peace to the warring dragons in the deep.

You look closely at the two dragons of light,

Hung by shining threads from Merlin's fingers,

Like Gossamer.

You marvel at the detail in the conjuration,

And you try to feel the rumbling in the earth of the two life-sized creatures below your feet,

Waging their full war.

By what means,

Merlin continues,

Did you choose to build your fortress on this spot,

Your grace,

The king indicates that he was counseled by his wisest advisors,

Two of whom step forward,

Looking down their noses at the boy.

I will now unfold to you the meaning of this mystery,

Merlin says.

The pool is the emblem of this world,

The red serpent is your dragon,

But the white serpent is the dragon of the people who occupy this isle,

From sea to sea.

At length,

However,

Our people shall rise,

And drive away the invaders once they came,

But you must depart from this place,

For you are not permitted to erect a citadel.

I,

To whom fate has allotted this mansion,

Shall remain here,

Whilst to you it is incumbent to seek other provinces,

For you may build a fortress.

And with these final words,

The child Merlin,

With a flourish of his hands to release the light illusion of the dragons,

Moves away from the king and his flummoxed advisors,

Who immediately begin to argue amongst themselves.

He removes a stone from the crumbling foundation of the castle,

And departs.

You follow Merlin with a leap in your step,

Amazed by the young boy's defiance.

Are there really dragons beneath our feet,

You ask,

Nearly running to keep up as the child strides across the hill.

Before you his shape is changing,

He is growing taller,

Long robes begin to flow from his arms,

And his hair lengthens and greys,

And turns white.

The sky darkens at the same pace,

And night falls around you.

You catch up with Merlin,

Now aged many decades,

But still possessing the foundation stone.

Standing just before the hill meets its steep slope,

It is a mild night,

And the moon is only a faint curve among a bright multitude of stars.

The enchanter is gazing,

Wild-eyed,

Toward the heavens.

There's just enough visibility to observe the bend and shape of the landscape before you,

Forest and dale.

Even in the low light,

It's strikingly familiar,

Somewhere in the back of your mind.

You recognize it as the country you now call home,

As yet untouched by much development or age.

Look there,

Says Merlin,

Gesturing toward a point in the sky.

Your gaze follows until it lights on a very bright object,

Well above the horizon,

With a hazy tail of luminescence.

What do you see?

Ask the sorcerer.

A comet,

Isn't it?

You reply.

But as you continue to gaze on the phenomenon,

It seems to expand,

Shift,

And thrash in the sky.

The tail is like fire.

No,

A dragon.

You say,

Wrapped with wonder.

This beast is always with me,

Merlin says,

In the pool beneath the castle,

In the sky over Uther's war,

And in the eyes of Uther's son.

It reminds me of the cause I serve,

And all the blinding potential of kings,

Potential so often unmet.

What about King Arthur?

You interject.

Will we see him?

All my memories are of Arthur,

Utters Merlin.

And all my prophecies,

Too.

Even those in which he is unseen.

He is present like a shadow.

You follow Merlin again into the void,

And emerge in a new place,

Vaguely from the mountainous terrain and the distant lake.

You identify this as the Scottish Highlands.

It's afternoon,

And a reddish sun reflects,

Glittering over the water.

Below you is a wild forest.

So vast you cannot see where it ends,

Even from your elevated vantage point.

Here,

Merlin lays down the stone from the fallen castle,

In a flat place,

Upon the grass.

As it hits the earth,

You can almost see the silhouette of a great fortress,

Cast like a mirage,

Or an afterimage around it.

You can hear the whizzing hum again,

And atop it,

The voices of children at play.

At the same time,

On a lower frequency,

You can detect the oratorn sound of chanting.

It's faint,

But sounds distinctly ancient,

Magical.

What is this place?

You inquire.

This is a site of great and ancient magic,

Merlin responds.

The very earth and waters here are infused with it.

Since the dawn of time,

It has called to those who wish to study sorcery.

My own magic is insignificant to that of the lands.

The stone I have just laid is the first brick of a school I will build,

Have built.

In this place,

As the stones of the giant dance,

Were placed precisely to channel the power of the sun,

So shall this castle be raised,

To absorb and magnify the magic of this land.

I can see it,

You say.

The castle.

The school.

Before you,

The indistinct vision of the fortress,

Flickers in and out of shape.

And I can hear the voices of those who walked the land before us,

And those who are to come.

These last words form independently of thought,

But you know them to be true.

You can feel yourself standing on the precipice of time,

Observing past,

Present,

And future.

Then you are beginning to understand,

Merlin smiles.

I've waited some time for someone who could,

As those in your time are fond of saying,

Read between the lines.

As he says this,

While you contemplate the flickering matrix of time and space you find yourself at the center of,

You can also feel the book in your hands.

You can feel your knees folded against the hard floor of the banquet hall at Coventry House.

Even as you also stand tall in the highlands,

You feel yourself as an axis,

A center point,

From which many things originate,

From which time,

Space,

And magic unfurl in spinning spirals.

With this new sensation of grounded expansion,

You move through Merlin's world,

Unencumbered.

You find you can glide upon the spirals,

Like do along a spider web,

Until you find yourself in a magnificent hall,

At its center is a table,

Round and smooth,

Laden with place settings and urns of fresh flowers.

It's fit for a hundred guests or more,

And as many seem to be pouring in from the entrance hall,

One of them,

Attended by a cup bearer and counselors,

Is crowned and dons fine regalia.

His smile shines in the fullness of youth,

But there is a wisdom and a heaviness behind his eyes.

You seek out Merlin in the vision.

He accompanies the young king.

Is this him then,

You ask.

Is this King Arthur?

This is he,

Merlin replies,

Who is called Rex Quandum,

Rex Futuris,

The once and future king.

You follow Merlin and the king to their places at the round table,

Watching the faces of other knights and courtiers who take seats there.

On them you recognize deep affection and admiration for Arthur.

Your heart softens toward him too,

So noble and so burdened,

As in all the other visions you've received.

No one but Merlin acknowledges your presence,

So you move freely round the table,

Picking up conversations and gestures unseen.

The queen,

Guinevere,

Is seated by her husband,

But now and then you catch a furtive glance between her and one of the honored knights,

You know this to be Lancelot.

Another knight bears a curious green sash round the waist.

You hear whispers of a newcomer to court,

A harper called Tristan,

Who hails from Cornwall.

But a kind of magnetism draws you back to Arthur.

His face transforms as you observe him,

From youth to old age and back again.

You can see him all at once as the unassuming boy who pulled a sword from a stone,

The noble leader and warrior of his people,

And the king beneath the mountain,

Waiting to be reborn.

When you behold Merlin the same,

You see the strange child with second sight,

The powerful sorcerer who raised Stonehenge,

And the specter of a forgotten way of life.

Somehow as you've walked through Merlin's memories and prophecies,

He's imparted to you some of his gifts.

Pushing yourself along the spirals of time,

You pass through the whole life of the enchanter Merlin,

In an order that seems random at first,

But reveals itself to be quite deliberately designed.

You move from the feast at Arthur's court,

To an empty hall,

In which Merlin is at work constructing the round table for Uther Pendragon.

From here you step into the lands of Cornwall,

Where a lovestruck Uther begs Merlin to help him woo the Lady of Grain,

The future mother of Arthur,

By magic.

Then you find yourself once more in the Highlands,

Where Merlin trains an apprentice at the burgeoning school of sorcery.

She's a beautiful lady,

With much apparent potential for magical power.

At last you slide along the spiral to a peaceful,

Twilight grove of oak trees.

The figure of Merlin is nowhere to be seen in this vision,

But in the subtle vibrations of the air,

You can sense his presence all around you.

The stateliest oak,

With a girth as wide as a small house,

Resonates most purely,

Seeming to emit a golden glow and ringing hum.

A flicker of movement pulls your eyes upward,

To one of the tree's low branches,

A petite falcon.

Your Merlin perches there,

Bobbing its tail,

Then it flies away,

Over the trees and out of sight.

You stand for some time between the trees,

Breathing in the earthy scent of the grove and listening to the echo of wildlife in the forest beyond.

With each breath,

You gather up some of the energy that reverberates through the grove,

Then you feel yourself drawn back along the spiral,

Through the highlands and the banquet hall over Salisbury plain,

And the crumbling castle,

And at last to rest upon the familiar hill where you and Merlin watch the flame-tailed dragon comet in the sky.

You don't need to speak,

An unbreakable tether has formed between you and the enchanter of legend.

You've seen his whole life and stepped into the source and workings of his magic.

You can feel it buzzing in your body,

Warm and exciting,

But you've learned too of the solemn duties that accompany such power.

Merlin is not only sorcerer,

Prophet,

But threshold-bearer,

Mentor,

Advisor.

His own ambition and limitless potential are secondary to service to the Pendragon.

This realization prompts a well of affection and sympathy for Merlin.

What great restraint and selflessness is necessary to turn one's own gifts toward the flourishing of another,

And to do so in full knowledge of Arthur's looming fate,

Of his own fate.

This strikes you as altogether extraordinary,

More extraordinary even than sorcery.

But then you think of the people in your life who bore you across thresholds,

And rites of passage,

The caregivers,

Teachers,

And mentors who dedicated their time and gifts to shaping your upbringing.

Each of them was a Merlin.

Now you too can access such wisdom.

It's up to you to decide how you'll use it.

From your lookout at the top of Merlin's hill,

You and the enchanter watch as the stars move across the sky,

As the sun rises and falls a thousand times,

And castles are built and destroyed.

All of time is happening at once,

All around you,

Only you stand still at the center of all things.

When the moment calls for it,

You close your eyes,

Feeling yourself slide downward,

As though collapsing in on yourself,

Your body finds a kind of comforting stillness,

A solid foundation beneath your folded knees.

Before you open your eyes,

You feel the weight of the open book in your hands,

And you know you are back in the banquet hall of Coventry House.

It's the last glimmering gasp of afternoon.

Rosy rays of sun stream through the tall windows and dance across the floor.

You think of the way the sun passes beneath the lintels on Salisbury Plain,

Turning the monument to a ring of shadowy and illuminated portals.

There is a firm yet comforting weight upon your shoulder,

Like the reassuring squeeze of a caregiver's hand.

It is Merlin's hand.

Yet when you turn toward him,

You find that you are alone.

Well,

Not entirely alone.

Outside the windows,

In the fading light,

The Merlin Falcon still watches you,

Inquisitive and charming.

You run a hand along the pages of the book.

The words have returned to their original language,

But somehow you no longer find it strange.

In fact,

The words jump right off the page,

With complex,

Layered meanings that seem entirely organic to you.

On the open page,

You find Merlin musing on his future.

He knows,

With absolute certainty,

That he will be imprisoned in an ancient oak tree by the woman he loves,

Using the enchantment that he himself taught to her.

And yet he describes this fate not with grief,

But acceptance and curiosity.

He writes as though it will happen in some distant future,

And as if it has already happened,

As if he is there now,

And he accesses some universal wisdom through the branches and the root systems of his ancient oak.

You can feel warmth,

Vitality,

And resignation radiating from the pages.

At length,

You close the leather-bound tome and tie it once more with the tassel,

Safely locking it once more within its chest.

You string the key along the quartz pendant,

Hang it around your neck,

And tuck it under your garment,

Exiting through the banquet hall's French doors.

You relish the breezy onset of evening and the fragrance of the orange grove.

You find Winifred grazing,

And with a gentle voice,

You ask if she'd fancy an evening ride.

She seems to understand,

Because she responds with a playful snort and a nuzzle.

You feel unquenchably drawn toward the most imposing feature of the local landscape,

The Great Hillfort,

Just to the north.

You don't need to climb it,

Not tonight,

Just to get close,

To be in its shadow.

When you reach the base,

The sun has just begun its lazy descent beyond the mountains,

Dazzling pink and orange.

Exhale across the sky.

You bring Winifred to a halt,

But the grasses and leaves of the landscape continue to bend forward with the wind,

As if in response to your stillness.

You look up toward the top of the hill,

A vestige of the Iron Age,

About which much legend and speculation swirls,

To spot the ruins of a keep and stone ramparts.

But the longer you look,

The more you see.

An illusory structure is superimposed on the ruins.

It flickers in and out of view like spectral frames.

A grand fortress,

Then a crumbling one,

A stately castle,

Then a ruin,

Overtaken by dueling dragons.

The whole countryside rolling out beneath the hill comes alive.

With the sound and vibration of the past,

Present,

And future,

You can see it all,

Hear it all,

Feel it all in your bones.

Merlin was here,

Is here,

Will always be here.

You try to glimpse him atop the hill,

Wondering if some echo of the sorcerer still stands there,

Watching a serpentine comet spin across the sky.

At last,

You turn back,

Observing the burgeoning darkness that climbs the eastern slopes.

A hum of crickets underscores your ride home,

As you and Winifred move against the evening breeze.

You have a sense of great peace and kindled elation,

The feeling of having been let on to a wonderful secret.

Such has been the nature of your first year dwelling at Coventry House,

And in this magically charged part of the country,

It is a place of many secrets,

Wonders,

And doorways.

A spiral key,

A comforting weight around your neck,

Feels warm against your chest.

What other secrets might it unlock?

As you travel down the path of Merlin,

The country house is quiet in the dell.

On your approach,

You imagine its doors and windows shining,

Opening onto secret histories everywhere.

You think of the uncle who left you the estate,

Whose eyes sparkled so like the legendary sorcerers.

You think of how you are the sum total of all who came before you,

All who ushered you across threshold after threshold,

All who taught and advised you.

How their histories run through your veins,

Infusing your present and informing the future you create.

How one day,

You'll pass on everything you've learned,

And in that way,

You'll be immortal,

Shining like a legend or a star.

As you begin to settle down,

Letting go of conscious thoughts or worries,

Take notice of the sensation of your body,

Scanning for areas of excess tension,

Anything you might be clenching or holding onto,

And let that go.

Instead of trying to find total stillness here,

Embrace the little micro-movements of your body,

Little adjustments,

Natural responses to the atmosphere,

And of course,

The rise and fall of your body with the breath.

Use those micro-movements and the waves of your breath as an engine and embodiment of relaxation,

Filling up,

Rising,

And letting go,

Sinking deeper,

Physically into your sleep surface and deeper into the unconscious world.

Now,

Visualize a doorway.

It can take any form that's meaningful to you or feels right in this moment.

It might be a doorway from your own life,

Your own home,

An ornate door reminiscent of a palace,

An ivy-covered archway to a secret garden,

Or even the space between stones,

Standing in a circle,

Some kind of threshold that stands before you.

Spend a few breaths just observing this doorway of yours,

Taking in the details.

Now see a veil of golden light shimmering at the corners,

Under the doorway,

Or around the edges.

Notice how the light moves and dances through the cracks,

Indicating that something magical and radiant lies just beyond the threshold.

Breathe naturally,

Observing the light for a few more breaths.

Now let yourself glide toward the doorway,

Take your time,

Moving in your mind closer to the threshold.

Breathe,

And when you're ready,

Pass through,

Turn the doorknob,

Or simply move through the portal.

As you do so,

Imagine a sensation of tingling white light descending over you from above,

A sense of tranquility and magic washing over you from head to toe,

From the crown of your head over your scalp,

Your forehead,

Your temples,

Your ears,

Cheekbones,

And jaw,

Down over your neck,

Across your shoulders and shoulder blades,

Into your right arm all the way down to your fingertips,

And your left arm all the way down from shoulder to fingertips that tingling white light.

Now feel it pass through your chest and your heart space,

Into your belly and sacrum,

Over your hips,

Into your right leg all the way down to your toes,

And your left leg all the way down to your toes.

Let this calm,

Relaxed illumination pulse through your entire body all at once,

Responding to your natural breath,

Moving like a current across your body and relaxing your muscles.

Feel the presence of the doorway behind you in your inner space,

And understand that you are the source of the light that shines through to the other side.

Breathe.

Good night.

Reviews

Thank you for sending me back to sleep. Crazy dreams. 🙏🏼❤️

Another great story, great reading, and good night's sleep. Thank you.

I really loved this one one Lauren. ❣️❣️❣️😻😻😻

I listened to the end. Fabulous story. Thank you

Someday, I'll hear more than the first five minutes, but until then, track definitely works as intended

I only heard the beginning. I was out! Many thanks and blessings to you Laurel! 🕊️

Second time listening, such a great and helpful practice. Not sure if I will ever hear the end. Even when I can’t listen to a story my sleep is so much better. Thank you 🙏

A lovely story... Thank you...

I work nights and trying to sleep during the day can be difficult. Your sleep stories have been beyond helpful in winding down my racing thoughts and assisting me in drifting off into a truly restful sleep. You are very gifted and I have yet to find any story of yours that doesn’t lead me into a refreshing sleep. I do tend to have to listen a good number of times to finally make it to the end ( which is a compliment to your talent). Thank you for all your hard work.

Love this story and hearing all about Merlin’s life. However I’m still to hear all of it
Thanks you so much x

Another amazing Tale Lauren, so entertainingly narrated. We achieved the goal to peaceful slumber, so will listen again while on my walk. You're always welcome company for me as I go along so, Thankyou.👍🤗 🐱😺🌹🐨🙏🎆

Love all of the stories. Voice is so soothing and calming. Perfect for relaxing or sleep.

Wonderful! I loved the story and your telling of it. I really needed something to move away from my own swirling thoughts so I could return to sleep. Thank you for sharing your gift of story telling. ✨🙏🏼💜✨

Wow, that was breathtakingly magical. So good.Thank you for accompanying me throughout my nights🙏🏻🌟✨🌟💫🌟🙏🏻

This story is so good I fought myself to stay awake and hear the end but ended up drifting off anyway. Love your work!