The Magician's Apprentice

Step into the staves of a familiar legend as you fall asleep. Tonight’s bedtime story is lovingly inspired by the beloved poem by Goethe, in which a young apprentice sorcerer bites off more than they can chew. Sleep & Sorcery is one part bedtime story, one part guided meditation, and one part dreamy adventure. Fireplace sounds/Fantasia vibes/Sleep countdown
Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Something Magical by Christian Andersen from EpidemicSound | Sounds by ZapSplat

Transcript

Step into the staves of an old,

Familiar legend as you fall asleep.

Tonight's bedtime story is lovingly inspired by the poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,

In which a young apprentice sorcerer bites off more than they can chew.

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.

If you are still awake,

As the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing meditation and sleep countdown.

In tonight's story,

After completing a long day of study under the tutelage of a powerful sorcerer,

You are left to complete the evening chores.

Eager to practice your magical skills and hastily complete your arduous tasks,

You enchant an old broomstick to carry water from the well outside to fill the sorcerer's cauldron.

Losing control of the broomstick,

You must call for help to reverse the enchantment.

Before we begin,

Bring your attention to the sensation of your body on your sleep surface.

Wherever you are,

Whether it's your own bed,

An airplane,

Or anywhere else you're hoping to find meaningful rest,

Take a moment to really feel your body in space.

Wiggle your fingers.

Wiggle your toes.

Roll the head from side to side.

Then find stillness.

And give your mind the same opportunity to be still.

Feel the day's worries or your to-do list or stresses roll off of you like water.

Breathe.

The old sorcerer's face is like something out of a dream.

Looming over the brim of his enormous black cauldron,

Which bubbles,

Smokes,

And emits a shifting green and purple glow that lights the undersides of his features,

He mutters unintelligible incantations.

His hands,

Almost disembodied in the clouds of smoke,

Move fluidly through the air with exquisite grace.

In one hand,

He grasps a wand which traces elegant patterns in the smoky air.

You study his motions and try to make out the words upon his lips.

For the practice of magic requires,

As you've observed,

Great specificity of language,

Movement,

Intention.

You follow along as best you can in the pages of an ancient text.

But you're still learning to interpret the arcane language of symbol in which it's coded.

You absorb little from the text.

It will come with time,

Surely,

As the sorcerer has assured you.

Slowly the smoke from the cauldron begins to coalesce into unified shapes,

Wrapping around the arms of the sorcerer like a silvery gaseous rope.

As it continues to form,

The rope-like swirls of smoke take on the shimmering,

Splashing quality of water streaming through the air.

Looking closely at the patterns,

You can see dozens of small,

Translucent dolphins leaping through the streams.

Upon the sorcerer's lips,

Do you detect a puckish smile?

Though imposing and immeasurably powerful,

The sorcerer has proven to be a surprisingly whimsical fellow.

Since he took you in as his sole apprentice the first time he's ever opened his sanctum to a pupil,

He's made the effort to teach you the theoretical,

And in your opinion,

Tedious fundamentals of magic.

But he's also delighted in playful display and spectacle,

More for your enjoyment than your magical education.

You've come to regard him as a grandfatherly figure,

Stewarding your passage into the world of the enchanted arts.

But beyond your amiable relationship with the old man,

You find that a little flame of ambition burns deep within you.

Every parlor trick he pulls off for your amusement seems a mere distraction from the more powerful,

Elusive magics you know he's capable of.

You slog through the foundational studies,

Pore over opaque volumes,

And practice lengthy meditation in nature.

Ostensibly,

It all leads to the mastering of a sorcerer's greatest skill,

The calling and controlling of spirits from the beyond.

To do one's bidding,

Serve as familiars,

Or support an immense magical effort.

You think often that if you could just try to conjure a spirit,

You could pull off something magnificent.

You sense that within you,

Powered by that little flame of ambition,

Is enough power to surpass the old man.

Surely,

He must have seen something great in you,

Great enough that he took on his first apprentice.

But the sorcerer insists,

Day after day,

On returning to your tedious lessons.

The closest you've come to touching the wellspring of true sorcery is in the observation of his demonstrations.

Like tonight,

In brewing a curious potion,

He's called forth minor spirits to enchant the elements.

It's a rather unsophisticated gambit,

He admits,

But it illustrates a few key techniques you'll one day use.

One day.

With a flourish of the sorcerer's wand,

The streams of watery smoke replete with splashing dolphins suddenly freeze in space,

Crystallizing into minuscule beads of ice that hang upon the air.

The crystals reflect and refract the quivering candlelight about you,

Creating a glinting cascade of rainbows.

They revolve slowly around the arms and wrists of the sorcerer,

In the same direction as the smoky waves.

You have to admit,

This elemental transfiguration is quite impressive.

With another gesture and a quiet benediction,

The ice crystals melt into tiny water droplets,

Suspended for an instant in position before evaporating once more into dissipating smoke.

The sorcerer looks self-satisfied,

As though he might even take a bow after tonight's display.

He explains that he's now released the spirits back to their hiding places with his gratitude.

These particular spirits won't be called upon again for some time,

Allowing them space for ample rest.

They're friendly entities,

Minimally powerful but frequently willing to collaborate if they feel appreciated,

He says.

There is something rather endearing about the way he describes the spirits he invokes.

It's as though he knows their personalities and their unique characteristics,

And as though he genuinely cares for them.

Though this makes a sort of sense to you,

The spirits have aided in his ascent to becoming the most powerful sorcerer in the world.

Their allegiance to him must have cultivated a fondness,

A mutual loyalty,

If you will.

You close the pages of your book.

Perhaps tomorrow the symbols will begin to make sense.

Perhaps they'll fall into place in a moment of pure revelation.

Tonight,

They are still indecipherable.

The sorcerer,

Pleased with your participation in today's studies,

Reminds you that there are additional chores to complete tonight.

As every night,

You are expected to tidy the chamber,

Return any books to the library,

And organize your supplies.

But in preparation for tomorrow's demonstration,

Tonight you must also fill the cauldron with water from the garden well.

An arduous task,

You think.

To reach the well,

You must climb the steps of the sanctum cellar.

The sorcerer insists that magic is most potent when practiced underground,

Close to the earth.

From there,

You must fill buckets from the well,

Two at a time,

As full and heavy as you can carry.

Then return to the cellar,

Descending the steps with the added weight.

The cauldron,

Deep and wide,

Can hold an enormous volume of liquid,

So filling it requires multiple trips.

It's not the first time you've been asked to prepare the cauldron thus,

And as your education shifts into more practical demonstration,

It's likely to become a more frequent demand.

Stifling a groan,

You acquiesce.

The sorcerer releases a wide yawn and thanks you for your work.

He wishes you a speedy completion of the night's duties and a pleasant rest.

Then he climbs the stone steps.

His robes of purple velvet flash out of sight at the top of the stairs.

You find yourself yawning,

Too,

In his wake.

The moon must be long-ridden by now,

You imagine.

There's an illustration of the moon phases,

You recall.

In the book you're still holding,

You flip to the intended page.

Tonight,

If you understand it correctly,

Should be the waxing crescent moon,

The one that looks a bit like the sorcerer's roguish smile.

You'll confirm when you exit to the garden.

You become acutely aware of the silence of the empty chamber.

Without the sorcerer's dramatic presence,

Which tends to command all of one's attention when he enters a space,

The curiosities of the room can sing for themselves.

The cauldron is the focal point of the chamber.

It rests upon an elevated stand at the center of the room.

All other items,

Furniture,

And objects seem to revolve around it.

The sorcerer's favorite chair,

A high-backed beechwood throne carved with occult symbols and patterns,

Sits not far from the cauldron.

Your eyes scan the shelves about the chamber lined with arcane artifacts.

A glass prism containing a natural quartz crystal.

An emerald tablet inscribed with words in an unfamiliar language.

Astrolabes,

Orbs,

And telescopes.

Someday you'll ask the sorcerer what purpose each of the objects serves.

With a sigh,

You set about the evening's chores.

For today's studies,

You retrieved only two volumes from the library,

Which is in fact just another corner of the vast cellar chamber.

Lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling,

This part of the chamber smells of earthy sweetness,

The musk of the ancient pages mingles with a melange of fragrances the books must have absorbed from the cauldron's vapors over many years.

There's a hint of vetiver,

Perhaps,

Hanging in the air tonight.

You locate the homes of the books you carry,

Returning them to the empty spaces and straightening any crooked books you see on the rows.

You dusted the shelves last night so the stacks still look pristine.

It's one less chore for tonight,

Which gives you some satisfaction.

Next you set about tidying the space.

There are a few items to return to their shelves,

A few loose scrolls of paper to organize.

Tonight's demonstration left a thin layer of residue in the base of the cauldron,

And knowing the sorcerer,

That will be unacceptable for tomorrow's practice.

The ingredients can mix unfavorably,

And specificity is key,

As always,

To successful magic.

You retrieve a rag and lean forward into the basin,

One hand gripping the brim so as not to tumble head first into the cauldron,

And one hand wiping away the purplish dregs.

It doesn't take you long,

But the task requires some effort,

And you must roll your shoulders a few times to release the tension.

Next you get to sweeping.

There's a sturdy old broomstick resting against the wall in a corner.

It's a unique broom,

For its handle is wider than the shaft,

And its bristles are uncharacteristically long.

For a moment,

You have the amusing impression that if you squinted your eyes,

The broomstick might resemble the shape of a man,

A little head atop a slender body with long,

Sweeping legs.

You've been thinking about magical spirits too much,

You chuckle.

Everything looks like it has a soul.

You gather up the broomstick and begin to sweep.

After seeing about the floors,

You rest the broomstick against the wall once more,

And look around at your handiwork.

The chamber is in rather a good state,

If you do say so yourself.

Of course,

This only means there's no more procrastination.

It's time to take on the strenuous task of filling the cauldron.

Two wooden buckets sit by the wall at the base of the stairwell.

Reluctantly,

You take one in each hand and begin to climb the steps.

You've spent so many hours of this day in the cellar that it feels almost exhilarating to ascend from the depths.

At the top of the cellar stair is a narrow corridor that forks in two directions.

One leads,

As you know,

To the upper level chambers of the Sorcerer's Sanctum,

The residential chambers.

Later tonight,

You'll retire to your rooms in that direction.

First,

However,

You must take the opposite fork,

Which leads to a door to the outside,

The night garden.

You walk down the hallway and step outside.

The cool night air feels gentle and pleasant against your skin.

You hadn't realized how stuffy the cellar was tonight.

You take in a deep,

Cleansing breath.

The night blooming flowers of the garden trace the breeze,

Bathing you in their relaxing fragrance.

For a moment,

You consider dropping the buckets where you stand and finding a comfortable place to curl up within the garden.

But the sooner you start the task at hand,

You remind yourself the sooner you'll finish.

And there's a comfortable bed waiting for you in your room,

Just above the garden.

You can take in the breeze and the scent through the open window as you fall asleep.

Emboldened by the incentive,

You approach the stone well at the center of the garden.

Lowering the first of the two buckets,

You fill it to the brim with clear water,

Then heave it upward.

It splashes a bit as you set it down and repeat the task with the other bucket.

With both filled completely,

You bend down and groan as you lift the two heavy vessels.

And take deep breaths as you step forward.

The job requires strength,

Of course,

But also balance,

Control,

And slow determination.

It can't be rushed,

Lest you should spill the water and be forced to start again.

Look inside the corridor.

You navigate to the mouth of the cellar stairs.

Slowly,

Deliberately,

One step at a time,

You descend the ten steps down.

You count down in your head to motivate the careful movement.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Your feet meet again on the cellar's solid stone floor.

You breathe a sigh of relief,

Having gotten this far.

The buckets weigh heavy on your arms and shoulders.

You steel the muscles of your chest and belly to support the effort.

Eyes on the cauldron at the center of the room,

You move forward.

When you reach the cauldron,

You set one bucket down to heave the other up to the level of the brim.

You pull upon deep,

Slow breaths to lift the heavy bucket up over your shoulder line.

Then carefully pour it into the basin,

Trying to avoid excessive splashing and spilling.

One down,

You think.

The next bucket is even harder to lift,

And you feel your arms shake with the effort.

But with care,

You pour the water into the basin.

Peering over the edge,

You're discouraged to see the fruits of your labor.

The two buckets of water have filled less than a quarter of the cauldron's depth.

You are in for a long night.

You stretch your arms overhead,

Flex your fingers,

Take one bucket in each hand,

And prepare to make the next trip to the well.

But as you turn around,

Your gaze lights upon a small item resting on the seat of the sorcerer's chair.

You turn back to confirm its presence.

Surely it wasn't there while you were cleaning,

Was it?

Or had you simply overlooked it before?

You approach the beechwood throne,

And your eyes widen as you recognize the object.

That's nothing more or less than the sorcerer's wand.

You hesitate only for a moment before reaching for it,

Eagerly.

Here in your hands is the old man's arcane focus,

A tool capable of channeling his magical efforts and calling forth spirits from the deep.

It's thin and delicate,

You reflect,

Turning it over in your hands.

Strange that an object so small should be so powerful.

When in a moment of sudden,

Rushing clarity,

You know what to do next.

With this much power and might at your fingertips,

Why should you endure the laborious effort of the chore at hand?

Why should your muscles ache with the weight of the well water when you carry the means to invoke great magic?

With a burst of insight,

You realize that the sorcerer must have left the wand here on purpose.

Certainly he would have noticed its absence by now were it accidental,

To give you the opportunity to test your knowledge.

Yes,

That must be it.

The mislaid wand is your first practical examination.

It's up to you to find the way to do it.

Recalling a recent demonstration in which the sorcerer called upon a powerful spirit to animate an object,

Namely a glass whirly gig that now sits on a low shelf in the chamber,

You head to the library stacks to find the text in question.

It had,

As you remember,

A crimson binding and was kept among a set of six nearly identical volumes.

Your heart leaps when you locate it.

You flip through the pages,

Grateful that this book is at least in a familiar language.

When you come to stop on a chapter describing the invocation process,

Sorcery is specificity,

You say to yourself,

Searching for the exact combination of language,

Gesture,

And intention to accomplish your task.

You'll need an object,

You realize,

Through which to invoke the spirit to do your bidding.

What object would fill the need?

You whirl around searching the chamber for something fitted to the task.

Another rush of pure revelation hits as your eyes land upon the broomstick.

Its curious handle,

Its slender body,

Its long,

Sweeping legs.

Expressing your word and gesture in alignment with the text,

You hone your intention on invoking a spirit to animate the broomstick.

It requires tremendous concentration.

You can feel a trickle of sweat on your brow as you tighten the muscles of your face.

Come forth,

You think.

Assist me,

You hope.

But your efforts seem to be in vain.

The broomstick remains rigid and lifeless against the wall.

You nearly abandon hope,

Resigning yourself to resuming the chore.

One more try,

You think.

In this attempt,

You call upon the little flame of ambition to light the way for the spirit.

Instead of tightening your muscles,

You inhale deeply and exhale slowly,

Allowing your body and mind to completely release and relax.

You focus your gesture with the wand.

Finally,

The words of invocation.

Your voice is somehow different as it escapes your lips.

It's your voice,

Certainly,

But it feels like a stranger's.

By my wishes,

I've now bound you.

A cool,

Tingling sensation sweeps through your whole body like a wind.

Something has happened.

You've touched something,

A wellspring.

Before you,

The broomstick,

Once inanimate,

Softens and swells.

It breathes and stands upon its bristles.

The wood at the center of the stick splinters into two twig-like arms.

Your jaw drops as the broomstick marches toward you,

Stopping to pick up the two empty buckets.

Then,

Without hesitation,

It spins around and heads matter-of-factly up the cellar stairway.

In a kind of shock,

You follow it out to the garden,

Where it's already engaged in filling the buckets.

It's marvelous.

Really marvelous,

You think.

Your first practical attempt to invoke real magic is,

Resoundingly,

A success.

You follow the broomstick,

Which carries two full buckets of water under its wooden arms back down to the cellar,

Beaming with pride.

You can't wait to tell the sorcerer that you passed his little test.

Surely he'll have more confidence in you going forward.

No more inscrutable books or boring lessons.

Your ability is undeniable.

Back in the cellar,

The broomstick lifts the buckets two at a time and pours them over the brim of the cauldron,

Spilling not a drop.

You'll never need to do chores again,

You think.

The spirit seems only too happy to serve.

Watching the broomstick march up the stairs once more,

You decide to take the opportunity to relax.

After all,

The spirit seems to have things well under control.

You take a seat in the sorcerer's chair and settle in.

The broomstick marches back in after a minute or two,

Dumps the buckets over the edge of the cauldron,

And marches back out.

You feel incredibly comfortable in the chair,

Especially thinking of the backache.

Your solution has saved you.

The broomstick comes back two more times,

Filling the cauldron with water from the well.

Meanwhile,

You peruse the more advanced magics in the back of the volume on invocation.

The task is probably near complete,

You think.

From your seat,

You can't quite see over the edge of the cauldron,

But you suspect one more bucket fill will be enough.

The broomstick marches back in,

Carrying two splashing buckets of well water.

You get to your feet just as the broomstick lifts another bucket,

And gasp as you realize the cauldron is already full.

The water splashes and spills over the edge,

Soaking the floor around the base.

Then,

To your surprise,

The broomstick lifts the second bucket.

You order it to stop,

The task already finished,

But it pours the water into the basin.

More water spills over the edge and onto the floor.

Then,

The broomstick once again picks up the empty buckets and steps through the puddles toward the stairs.

You follow behind closely,

Pleading with the broomstick to stop its madness and go back to being an object.

You order the spirit to leave the broomstick and return to its hiding place.

You wave the sorcerer's wand vaguely,

Mumbling combinations of magical words,

Hoping to stumble on the solution.

But the broomstick marches on,

Into the garden,

To the well.

Once back in the chamber,

You run to the invocations book as you hopelessly watch the broomstick spill more water onto the chamber floor.

In your haste,

You cannot seem to find a counter spell or a banishing incantation for the spirit.

No,

You think,

More desperate measures are called for now.

An inch or so of water now coats the floor,

So you step carefully through the cellar in pursuit of something.

The broomstick is already marching back up the stairs.

On one of the shelves,

Lined with occult artifacts,

There's a wedded axe.

This will put a stop to the madness,

You think,

Grasping it by the handle.

There's no time to wonder about the meaning of the Celtic designs engraved in the head of the axe.

Ankle deep in water,

You wait for the sound of bristles on stone,

The belly of the axe in your palm.

When the broomstick re-emerges at the bottom of the staircase,

You swing wide and land a heavy blow against it,

Cleaving the handle straight down the middle.

The two halves of the broomstick fall with a splash and a clatter into the puddles on the floor.

The buckets fall to the floor beside the halves.

It's done,

You think,

And let out a sigh of relief.

You look around at the state of the room,

And your shoulders slump as you realize the cleanup that lies ahead,

Especially if you don't want the sorcerer to find out.

The books on the bottom shelves in the library are surely soaked.

Perhaps there's no saving them,

But at least you can find some way to soak up the standing water.

You replace the axe on its shelf,

Though you imagine it will come to light that you used it,

Given the cloven broomstick.

The sorcerer didn't have any great attachment to the broom,

You assume,

But he will ask questions.

You look at the two halves of the broomstick lying in the water and shrug.

There's nothing to be done about it.

Then,

Before your eyes,

Something very unusual happens.

At first,

You believe it's only a trick of your mind and the dim candlelight,

But there it is.

The two halves of the broomstick are twitching,

Moving slightly,

And now they're standing up,

With half the handle and half the bristles,

Each side begins to comport itself like an individual.

Each one reaches down,

Grasps the handle of the waterpail closest to it,

And just like that,

Marches back up the stairs.

This is not to be believed,

You think.

The spirit remains,

And now you've two enchanted broomsticks to contend with.

You chase them back to the night garden,

But they move with such swiftness that they simply breeze past you,

Buckets already full to the brim and return to the cellar.

Back and forth and back and forth,

You follow their rhythmic march and choreography.

Bucket after bucket is pulled from the well.

Bucket after bucket splashes over the cauldron,

While you fruitlessly incant and gesture with the sorcerer's wand.

It feels less and less powerful in your hands.

The two broomsticks continue their well-worn path,

Repeating the motions with no sign of ceasing,

As the chamber steadily fills with water.

You attempt to climb the stairs back up to the garden,

But you find yourself swept away by the water,

Which now reaches out to your chest.

Mercifully you see that the sorcerer's chair is floating like a piece of flotsam,

And you swim over to it,

Climbing atop to stay afloat.

Water-lobbed books and arcane objects bob along the surface of the water,

Which continues to swell with the unceasing march of the broomsticks.

Be a broomstick as before,

You cry out in desperation as you float above the gushing,

Overflowing basin.

You find yourself longing for the tedium of study,

For the dull and arduous tasks of cleaning and organizing.

You wish your hands had never touched the wand,

And you think how powerful they are even without the aid of magic and familiar spirits.

Your hands can hold books and buckets,

Can dust a shelf,

Can scrub a basin,

Can feel the night breeze,

Can pet a friendly cat,

Can caress the petals of a night blooming flower,

Can reach out for help or comfort.

If only you had known the limitless expanse of your own power.

The chamber tide reaches such a height that it extinguishes the candles on even the tallest shelves.

For one somber moment,

The chamber is all dark and quiet save for the lapping of water against stone walls and your own breathing.

But an instant later,

The chamber is alight once more.

There's something bright as moonlight coming from the cellar stairs.

With surprise,

You feel swift movement in the water beneath you as the cellar begins to drain.

The water level falls until you,

Still clinging to the back of the chair,

Rest upon the wet stones.

Before you,

The two halves of the broomstick lay still.

To even think you can see two wisps of smoke escape the wood and dissipate before your eyes.

Silhouetted against the pale light in the stairway is the impressive form of the sorcerer.

He glides down the steps,

His purple regalia entirely dry and flowing about him.

Then he kneels at your side.

In his eyes,

There's no anger,

No disappointment,

Just recognition.

The spirit in the broomstick has his gratitude and permission to rest,

He explains,

Helping you to your feet.

Following the old man up the cellar stairs,

You take the fork in the corridor toward the residential chambers.

Hearing you shiver under wet robes,

He asks if you have something of his.

Sheepishly you surrender the wand.

He waves it deliberately and you feel as though all the water is slowly wrung out of your clothing and hair,

Leaving behind a pleasant sensation of toasty warmth.

Before you part ways toward your rooms,

You must ask the sorcerer a question.

Was it all a test?

To see if you were up for practical magic and invoking spirits?

Or was it a test to see if you would follow instructions and leave the wand alone?

To see if you could resist the temptation?

Clearly,

No matter the intention,

You failed the test.

With a twinkle in his eye,

The sorcerer chuckles.

There was no test,

He insists.

He simply misplaced his wand before retiring.

He only came running when he heard your cry for help.

He hadn't even realized the wand was missing until he found you.

You ask if he's disappointed in you.

The sorcerer lays a hand upon your shoulder.

Ambition is not something to be ashamed of,

He assures you.

That's why he took you in as a pupil after all.

He sees in you the same wild abandon of his youth,

The same desire to thrust yourself head first into the world of magic.

Your ambition is admirable,

But so is your ability to ask for help when you need it.

With a smile,

He reminds you that there is always someone who can help.

At this,

He wishes you a good night and departs for his room.

Feeling strangely lighter,

You turn toward your own bedchamber.

Before climbing into bed,

You light a fire and sit by the window a while,

Looking out over the hedges into the night garden.

The well sparkles,

Winks with hidden depths.

Above you,

The waxing crescent moon seems to smile a puckish smile,

Watching over you,

Feeling warm and soothed after your conversation.

You extinguish the fire and slide between the blankets into your cozy bed.

You feel your body and mind relax in a tingling wave rushing through you.

You are looking forward to tomorrow's study,

Even if it includes lengthy reading and transcribing,

Or slow,

Tedious chores.

You'll be able to do something with your hands and your mind.

There's nothing wrong with taking it slow.

You don't have to master everything,

Not right away.

You have so much time.

There will be a time for sorcery,

You think,

Letting your eyes fall closed.

Now is the time for sleep.

Imagine that you're standing at the top of a staircase.

The steps are made of stone.

They lead downward into a chamber illuminated only by soft,

Flickering candlelight.

Breathe deeply.

As you descend the staircase,

One step at a time,

I will count down from 10.

With each step,

Feel yourself descend as though you're sinking down a level into your sleep surface,

Dropping down into the realm of sleep.

Take the first step down 10,

9,

8,

7,

8,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

7,

6,

5,

4,

3,

2,

1.

1,

2,

3,

4,

5,

4,

3,

2,

1.

1,

2,

3,

2,

1.

Sweet dreams.

Bye.

You

Reviews

Beautifully told story - put me right to sleep! Thank you ☺️

Thank you Laurel very good story .I followed it til the end and didn't fall asleep... . But great.

What a lovely retelling of this familiar story! My favorite part is the Wizard’s reaction. We are blessed by your creativity, generosity, gentleness and grace. Thank you.

Great story ❤️

Great telling of a great story. I was so focused on it the first time that I forgot to go to sleep. It has been easier to relax and fall asleep now that I have heard it several times.

Thanks for another wonderful bedtime story, Lauren. 💖👏😀

Whimsical, hilarious and illuminating— another great one!

Beautiful voice! I fell asleep quickly and when I awoke in the morning,I saw there was 16 min left . I listened and it was just as I remembered long ago. Wisdom and magic 🪄 Ty! Recommended!!!

Good night story for grown ups. It works.