The Nine Herbs Charm | Wizard School Sleep Story

Forage for herbs and brew a traditional potion under the stars in tonight’s Wizard School sleep story. In tonight’s story, you are preparing for an exam in your advanced potion-making class at the school of sorcery. Relocating your classroom for the evening to the edge of the wild forest, your professor challenges you to brew a classic healing potion, passed down for centuries. But first, you must forage for the ingredients yourself. This proves a test for many of your magical skills.

If you’re still awake as the story concludes, I’ll guide you through a visualization for rest and healing.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Beneath the Mist by Spirits of Our Dreams, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Forage for herbs,

And brew a traditional potion under the stars in tonight's Wizard School 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 you like,

And whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of this story and make your way into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a visualization for rest and healing.

In tonight's story,

You are preparing for an exam in your advanced potion-making class at the School of Sorcery.

Relocating your classroom for the evening to the edge of the wild forest,

Your professor challenges you to brew a classic healing potion passed down for centuries.

But first,

You must forage for the ingredients yourself.

This proves a test for many of your magical skills.

Nine powers of nine flowers.

Nine powers in me combined.

Nine buds of plant and tree.

Ahnes Bloodwith.

Translation by Robert Graves.

The castle is always aflutter at this time of year.

The afternoons blush swiftly to vespertine tranquility,

And students of sorcery love to linger on the grounds until the last of the light.

Drawing toward darkness,

There is a palpable sense of magic tingling in the air about the place even more so than in other seasons.

For this is a place of ancient magic,

Where centuries of young sorcerers have sought their training.

Traditionally,

Students are expected to be inside by nightfall,

Though with shorter days,

The staff grow lax about the exact timing of this retreat indoors.

But tonight,

A select few of you have been granted special dispensation to be about the grounds much later than usual.

This puts a quiet thrill in you that you can't quite explain.

Although you can't say you've been looking forward to midterm examinations,

You have to admit that the circumstances of this evening's gathering have piqued your curiosity.

Instead of meeting in the classroom in which you've spent weeks studying the art of herbalism and potion making,

You're expected to take the examination outdoors this evening.

The news arrived on the wings of one of the school's messenger ravens,

A note from Professor Bain with a meeting time,

Location,

And a reminder to bring your wand and dress for cool weather.

You haven't had the chance to confer with any of your classmates yet,

Today's schedule was packed with classes,

Cramming,

And homework,

But you're eager to find out what they think the exam will be.

The course,

Thus far,

Has been one of the more fascinating you've taken in your time at the school of sorcery.

The professor,

A renowned potion maker,

Brings intimate knowledge of wart cunning to the classroom along with an intuitive approach to brewing technique she's a marvel to watch in demonstration,

Combining the fundamentals of potion making with a poetic sense of the significance of each ingredient.

Never have you truly appreciated the properties of,

Say,

Ivy,

But after one lecture,

You feel deeply connected to both the mythological and medicinal significance of the plant.

So much so that any time,

While strolling the castle grounds,

You come upon a wall of climbing ivy,

You feel compelled to bow your head in reverence to it,

This driver away of ill spirits and symbol of the Roman god Bacchus,

And thusly,

Every potion you've brewed in the hands-on classes has been imbued with greater magic.

You've rarely felt more inspired.

As the hour draws near,

You close the potion's textbook on your lap and reach to your wardrobe for a knitted sweater to throw on over your shirt.

You pull your school robes on over that,

Tucking your wand safely in the inner pocket.

There's only so much studying you can do for this kind of exam,

You suppose.

Professor Bain isn't the type to expect you to have memorized a hundred recipes.

More likely,

You'll be challenged to demonstrate core skills and fundamentals of herbalism and potion-making.

At the last moment,

Before leaving the dormitory,

You reach for a little box under your bed.

Inside are several small items collected from your time here,

But there's one object in particular you seek.

A small bronze coin.

During your first ever class at the School of Sorcery,

This coin was part of a first level spell for good fortune,

And after a few years,

You fancy it still carries a bit of good luck,

Even if it's all in your mind.

You slip the coin in your pocket,

Hoping it brings you success in tonight's exam,

And with that,

You're off and out the door,

Passing by the portraits and landscapes on the walls.

You make your winding way down the steps of the old castle.

There's plenty of time,

You think,

To detour through your favorite corridor,

The one lined with dozens of authentic suits of armor.

They gleam in the golden spill of light afternoon light from the pointed windows,

Making them appear like something out of a dream.

There's a spiral stone stairway at the end of the hall,

Which leads straight down into the belly of the castle,

The grand feasting hall,

And the entrance.

It's early for supper,

But since you'll be out on the grounds until who knows how late,

You make a stop in the feasting hall to fill up on snacks before you go down to the meeting place.

During exam week especially,

The cooks make sure to have round-the-clock sustenance available.

You've certainly run down here at midnight to gather pastries and sandwiches during an all-night study session for alchemy.

A few others from your potions class seem to have the same idea as you,

They're stuffing their pockets with pies as you enter the hall.

Minutes later,

Having stashed as many items as you can fit in your robes,

You and your classmates depart the feasting hall together,

Making for the castle grounds.

Professor Bain's note instructed you to meet her at the mouth of the forest near the caretaker's cottage.

It's still just barely light as you start down the craggy hill toward the forest below,

So there's good visibility.

Smoke puffs from the chimney of the little cottage in the basin where the caretaker sleeps.

His garden is flush with fall florals,

Dizzying dahlias and zinnias abound.

And beyond that,

A homegrown pumpkin patch with some of the most magnificent pumpkins you've ever seen.

On your approach,

You catch a whiff of whatever is cooking inside the caretaker's cabin.

Something superbly spiced.

But on past the cottage and garden you go to the base of the great slope,

Where the grass meets the dark foliage of a big,

Wild forest.

As students,

Unless accompanied by a professor for educational reasons,

You're not allowed in the wood.

Rumor has it that all manner of magical creatures run rampant therein,

From unicorns to manticores.

You wonder if tonight's assignment will take you past the threshold of those bordered trees for the first time.

And there,

Set at equal intervals right along the grass at the edge of the wood,

Are nine wide-mouthed cauldrons hung over small piles of kindling.

Nine cauldrons,

One per student.

It is achingly picturesque,

The sight.

Something about it stirs an indescribable sense of magic within you,

Making your skin tighten into goose bumps.

Until now,

You don't think you'd noticed that there were exactly nine students in the advanced potions class.

And as you learned in a numerology primer last year,

Nine is a number of profound magical significance.

The nine worlds of the Norse cosmology,

Nine Greek muses,

Goddesses of inspiration,

Nine great Egyptian deities,

The Celtic ninth wave,

Which separates our world from the other world.

Beside each cauldron is a small platform,

A work surface complete with mortar and pestle,

Vials,

Droppers,

Knives,

A leather purse,

And stirring instruments.

But unless you are mistaken,

There are no ingredients in sight.

For all your musings on taking in the spectacle of the cauldron set up,

You almost miss the presence of Professor Bain.

She's standing hands on hips by the woodside with a stack of leather-bound books levitating nearby.

Come on down then,

She beckons to you.

I can see the rest are on their way.

You turn back toward the castle to see a smattering of students bounding down the hill in the waning light.

Professor Bain waves to them with a smile.

You can all take one of these,

She says,

Indicating the textbooks.

You step forward to take a copy for yourself,

Just as the professor politely asks that you not open them just yet.

Heeding her plea,

You run your fingers across the aged cover and the embossed title,

Laknunga.

I had to pull some strings with the bookseller to bring in this many copies,

Says the professor,

But I'm sure you'll all treat them with the utmost respect.

I want to return them in as good a condition as I received them.

Now she hands the final copies to the stragglers with a smirk as they come huffing and puffing to the edge of the wood.

You glance around and count in your mind.

Everyone's here.

A moment later,

The hourly bell chimes from the castle,

Clamoring in echo against the trunks of the trees.

The sun is quietly disappearing over the mountains and the lake,

Leaving amber and purple streaks across the sky.

The evening star is visible,

Blinking beside the emergent moon,

A pale pink crescent.

Well,

Says the professor,

I suppose we'll get started.

We've only a little light left,

And I'd like to get you on your way before too late.

She instructs each of you to select a cauldron.

They're all equally suitable for tonight's exam,

She assures you,

And each filled with pure water that was charged under last night's waning moon.

And open your books to the marked page.

This you do,

And are bemused to find that the page in question is not composed in your native tongue.

You almost go cross-eyed looking at the words,

Which are very nearly familiar,

But just a bit off.

Not to worry,

Says Professor Bain,

Regarding all the bemused expressions.

It's old English,

But I trust you all know the translation charm.

A few heads nod and wands come out.

You retrieve your wand and tap it against the page,

Muttering,

Translatio Anglia.

Before your eyes,

The letters briefly glow,

Then seem to flip over in place,

Unveiling the text anew in plain English.

You notice the classmate beside you,

Struggling to remember the incantation.

You are about to offer help,

When another student,

The famously brainy Charlotte,

Leans in to assist,

Tapping her wand inside the pages of his textbook.

You look back to the page,

And read the fine lettering at the top.

What you have before you is the recipe for something called the Nine Herbs Charm,

The professor says.

If you've paid attention in class at all so far,

You might remember me mentioning it.

This text is from the 10th century,

But the recipe is certainly much older.

It's a classic healing charm that works against venoms and poisons.

We work under the waning crescent,

A powerful moon phase for healing magic.

For tonight's examination,

I'd like each of you to create your own potion,

Using the ingredients laid out in the Nine Herbs Charm.

But here's my favorite part.

Here,

A smile of utter delight crosses the professor's face.

You'll see,

I haven't provided you with any ingredients,

Save the water.

That's because everything you need is out here,

In the forest.

You'll be gathering your own herbs this evening.

A well-timed shiver of cold breeze punctuates the professor's words.

You feel,

Again,

A strange thrill.

Now,

Professor Bain continues,

There's no need to worry about going into the wood at this hour.

I've been hard at work all day,

Placing protective enchantments and barriers to keep you safe.

If you come to the edge of the protected area,

You'll come up against a strong veil of magic.

Collect the Nine Herbs,

As laid out in the recipe,

But be mindful of their properties as you go.

Some may require extra caution.

You'll be evaluated not on a perfect recreation of the recipe,

But on your mastery of potion-making fundamentals while incorporating the proper ingredients.

You might discover an entirely new way of using the ingredients together toward surprising ends.

If you're called to creativity,

Embrace it.

Are there any questions?

As it turns out,

There are many questions,

But the professor has an answer for each.

Professor,

One classmate chimes in,

This recipe looks more like a poem.

The teacher's eyes sparkle in the dim twilight.

Ah,

She says,

With an edge of mystery gilding her voice.

Potions are poems.

Recipes are recitations.

Let the poetry guide you to each plant's inherent magic.

By the time the last of the light is disappearing over the mountains,

You're itching to begin foraging in the woods,

Contented with Professor Bain's precautions and instructions.

Once all the students are satisfied,

She turns you loose to seek the Nine Ingredients.

The very first thing you do is mutter the incantation to illuminate the tip of your wand.

Instantly,

It brightens,

Sending a beam of silvery light across the grass and toward the forest.

In your periphery,

You see several other wand tips spring to light and bounce off in between the trees,

Tucking the book under one arm and taking a few useful instruments from the table beside your cauldron.

You find an opening in the trees ahead and venture into the wood.

As you go,

The baubles of light from your classmates spiral off into other directions,

Soon vanishing from your sight.

The darkness of the forest settles around you,

Along with an unearthly quiet.

Yet it's oddly comforting.

You come seeking plants,

Listening for the messages they whisper.

So the darkness and quiet only amplify your senses.

Once you've gone a few strides into the thicket,

Scanning the forest floor with your wand light,

You begin to notice familiar foliage,

Mosses and flowers gathered round above ground roots.

You stop,

Reopening the textbook to the recipe for the Nine Herbs charm.

Your classmate was right.

Rather than a straightforward list of needed ingredients,

The text reads like Anglo-Saxon poetry,

With the poet addressing each plant in turn,

Praising its achievements and qualities.

Of mugwort,

They write.

You were called Una,

Oldest of warts.

You have power against poison,

And against infection.

And whey bread,

Or plantain,

They hail as mother of herbs,

Open from the east,

Mighty inside.

You are pleased to find that each and every herb listed in the recipe is one you've worked with or studied under Professor Bain,

Each with its own mythological weavings and medicinal uses.

Most of them you'd recognize on sight,

And the rest,

Fortunately,

Are illustrated on subsequent pages of the text.

And with delight,

You find the first of the plants you seek,

Speckling the forest floor about your feet.

You might recognize this plant anywhere for its daisy-like flowers,

White petals with bright golden eyes.

You've hung such flowers out to dry,

And steeped them into teas,

For rest and calm.

Its chamomile,

Bending down to gather armfuls of the flowers.

You softly swoon at the delicate scent,

So reminiscent of cozy nights by the fireside,

By the fireside,

Clutching a mug of hot tea.

Your mind spins back to a particular memory,

Of convalescing from a lingering cold,

When a beloved caregiver brought you chamomile tea,

And a warm compress for your forehead.

How your body tingled,

And mind went fuzzy after drinking it.

Sending you,

Sweetly,

Into a regenerative sleep,

From which you awoke with your fever broken,

A new energy.

It's right that this should be a chief ingredient in a classic healing potion.

You're not sure how much you'll need of each herb,

But you recall the professor's advice,

In an early gathering of the class,

To harvest respectfully,

Never taking more than half.

You're sure there are more patches of chamomile,

Sprinkled throughout the forest,

But still you have a mind to leave some for your other classmates.

So,

You carefully cut a few sprigs of chamomile,

And stash them in a leather bag,

One down,

You think.

Eight more to go.

Quite quickly,

You're able to find the footprints of several other required ingredients along the way.

Whey bread,

Or greater plantain.

Lamb's crest creeping over damp soil,

Entwined with a different silvery herb.

Chervil,

With its feathery leaves,

Which,

When rubbed between your fingers,

Release an oil with the aroma of myrrh.

Betony,

A miraculous plant,

With the ability to soften anxiety,

Arthritis,

Migraines,

And more.

Also a favorite of those who seek protection against dark sorcery.

The woods are quiet still,

Disturbed only by the distant warble of nocturnal birds,

And the music of soft wind through the canopy.

The trees here are old,

Some maybe thousands of years old,

Twisting together at their leafy tops,

And,

Perhaps,

Deep in the ground.

You make your own path now,

For the roots grow thickly above the soil,

Making obstacles and labyrinths to traverse.

An alley of oak brings you to a small stream,

Beside which grows a cluster of fennel flowers,

Another of your sought herbs.

You kneel to cut the stalks carefully,

Releasing the anise-like fragrance.

You recall Professor Bain's lecture on the curative properties of fennel and its cousins,

Their powerful aids for digestion,

And even able to improve one's eyesight,

But beyond the medicinal use.

You are reminded of fennel's place in classical mythology.

It was inside a hollow fennel stalk that Prometheus,

A titan,

Concealed the spark of fire to bring to mankind.

Though he was sorely punished for the theft of divine fire,

He was later venerated as a benefactor to mankind.

You like to think of the gift of fire as something like the gift of magic.

By bringing it to humanity,

Prometheus gave you the power to create change in the world,

To warm your homes,

To light the darkness,

To prepare food,

And yes,

To make potions.

As a breeze ripples the stalks,

Releasing more of their tantalizing scent across the trickle of water,

You can almost hear the fennel whispering to you,

Magic is everywhere,

Seen and unseen.

Continuing your search,

You come to wonder how far you've wandered into the forest.

You have something of an answer moments later,

When you glimpse a shining curtain of light straight ahead.

You draw closer to it,

Watching the way strands of light,

Like a luminous tapestry,

Twist between the trees,

Like a net floating in gentle waves of water.

This,

You suppose,

Is the enchanted barrier drawn by the professor for your protection.

Beyond it,

The expanse of forest is vague,

Blurry,

And inaccessible.

You wonder what manner of wonders lie in the darkness,

Beyond that shimmering veil.

Returning to the task at hand,

You refer again to the text to assess your outstanding ingredients.

There are only three left now.

You trudge through a thick blanket of fallen leaves,

Which litter the damp earth of the deciduous groves.

They're not all fallen just yet,

But those that lie are turning to compost underfoot,

Feeding the soil and the plants that grow here.

You come to the edge of a pool,

In which glitter the reflections of tree branches that bend together overhead,

And the handful of stars that peek through their twigs.

There's another bouncing orb of light moving toward you from the opposite direction.

As it comes closer,

You can make out the features of a friend in its wake.

The first time you've seen another student since stepping into the wood,

You acknowledge each other across the pool.

It's Charlotte,

The star student of your year.

How are you making out,

You ask,

Your voice louder than you expect it to be,

As it cuts through the silence and over the pool.

Oh,

Quite well,

She responds.

I've only one left to find,

And it seems I've just found it.

Here she moves her lit wand upward to indicate a tree near you.

She begins to edge around the pool toward it.

Wild apple,

She says.

You hadn't noticed it before,

But there,

Steps from where you stand,

Is a twisted tree laden with heavy,

Ripe fruits.

Charlotte reaches up with one hand to twist a single fruit from the branch and regard it thoughtfully.

The simple gesture which you repeat on your side of the tree resonates with powerful symbolism.

The apple has meant so much throughout the course of human history.

Myth and medicine,

The fruit of knowledge,

The golden boon for heroes like Hercules,

The gift bestowed on goddesses to launch legendary conflicts.

It's a fruit of love,

A delicacy,

And a health-heartening favorite the whole world over.

Such a fruit.

Certainly belongs in a healing potion.

Before Charlotte retreats,

You ask her,

How did you find everything so quickly?

She gives a characteristic sigh and replies,

With a locator spell of cores.

Simply speak the incantation and substitute the Latin name for each herb.

It leads you right to the closest occurrence.

With that,

She turns and disappears with her wand light back into the forest.

The locator spell.

Why hadn't you thought of that,

You wonder?

But then,

Doesn't that seem all too easy?

Using spells to find the ingredients is fine,

For those who choose that path.

But for you,

There's value in the search,

The intuition,

The connection with all the intricacies of the forest,

And the ways in which the many plants and trees coexist.

Sharing resources,

Contributing to the thriving of the ecosystem,

That relationship of the plants in the shared environment is similar,

In a way,

To the relationship of ingredients in a potion.

It's as if the forest,

Throughout your search,

Has been teaching you the recipe,

So that when you at last come to brew the potion,

It will be written in your very heart.

You've no doubt that Charlotte's attempt at the Nine Herbs charm will be excellent,

Precise,

And well-received.

But what was it Professor Bain said?

All potions are poems.

Our poems,

Your potion,

You firmly believe,

Will be like poetry.

Depositing the blush-cheeked apple into your bag of herbs,

Now nearly full,

You set your mind about discovering the final two ingredients.

Both are ground foliage.

So you turn your wand light to the forest floor again,

Searching the perimeter of the pool,

Before moving on into the wood.

Before long,

You come to a wild flowering patch of stinging nettle.

Leaves spined with little hair-like points which you know will sting to the touch.

It's quite the challenge to forage for such a plant.

Any contact with the skin will produce a reaction.

And now you regret not having worn gardening gloves.

But come now,

You think,

You know magic.

Surely there's something you can do to make the task more palatable.

There are broadleaf dock plants growing nearby,

Which often occur alongside nettle,

And can be a powerful remedy for stings.

You pluck a few dock leaves,

And rub them between your fingers to stimulate the oil.

For good measure,

You then point your wand at the bundle of leaves,

Speaking the incantation for an amplification charm,

Which should enhance the plant's protective abilities.

You know the spell has worked when the leaves begin to dimly glow.

You rub them once more over your fingers and palms,

Instantly feeling a cool,

Numbing sensation across your hands.

Now you're ready.

You bend to gather leaves of nettle,

Breathing a sigh of relief to know that your charm has worked perfectly.

Instead of stings,

There's only a light tingle against your fingers.

Picking the nettle this way reminds you of an old story.

A fairy tale,

Wasn't it?

About a young woman whose brothers were all turned to birds,

Swans,

And the only way to return them to their human form was to weave them shirts of stinging nettle,

Despite how the plant stung her hands.

Yet from such a fiery leaf comes great medicinal power.

The nettle is anti-inflammatory,

Reduces muscle pain,

And relieves stress.

It seems as if the nettle speaks to you.

Look beyond the expected to find the true source of magic.

Now there is only one more herb to be harvested.

The first one listed in the charm and hailed as the oldest of herbs.

Mugwort,

Known to you as Artemisia vulgaris,

Named so after Artemis,

The Greek goddess of the hunt.

Some myths tell that Artemis was born from a mugwort plant.

You can almost hear her footsteps in the untroubled silence of night,

Dashing through the forest with her companions,

The deer.

You wonder if you can hear the voice of Artemisia in the same way,

Just as you've heard the nascent whispers of the other plants on your herbal path.

You close your eyes and listen tenderly to the song of the forest,

Searching inwardly for the strain of mugwort's magic.

Your lips settle into a dreamy smile when you begin to understand.

Then you find yourself almost laughing.

How funny,

You think.

She was here all along.

It's true.

On every step of your journey tonight,

Silver green leaves of delicate foliage have crept their way into the patches of plantain,

Fennel,

And chervil.

You've had your hands in it,

Even while harvesting the other ingredients,

And never noticed.

That's a wonderful property of mugwort,

You suppose,

That it can grow anywhere.

It winds its way through a life,

Often unnoticed,

Spinning its magic threads.

Even now,

It springs up at your feet.

You follow spare patches of it several pieces,

As if you're tracking the footsteps of its goddess namesake,

Until you come to a sprawling blanket of it at the feet of an ancient yew tree.

Her fragrance is potent,

Sending your mind to sway.

Hypnotic,

How the spaces betwixt her lace leaves catch starlight,

How the moon is in her face.

I would know you anywhere,

She seems to say,

Fluttering and flashing the silver underbelly of her green leaves.

You're tempted to step into the mugwort meadow and lie down,

Curl up in her softness,

And drift to sleep.

It would be fitting.

This plant is also called dreamwort,

And is used in spell work for elucidating messages from dreams.

It's a plant of clarity,

Intuition,

And prophecy,

Oldest of words,

And most exalted of all the ingredients in the nine herbs charm.

With a loving hand,

You cut sprigs of the soft foliage,

Completing your collection at last,

With all nine herbs in hand.

You are almost sorry to leave the forest,

What a tranquil and restorative evening you've had among the trees and plants.

But there's a potion,

A poem to be brewed at the wood's edge,

So you must depart.

You think you know the way back,

But just in case,

With a flick of your wand,

You conjure a sparkling trail that maps the distance you've already traveled,

Magically retracing your footsteps to your delight.

Though you hadn't known it,

The path makes a winding helix,

A sacred spiral through this section of the wood.

On your way back,

Much quicker than the way in,

You say goodnight to the trees and the sleeping birds.

At length,

You emerge.

Only a few cauldrons are set to simmer already,

The glow of embers red in the darkening night.

Atop the hill,

The castle sits in silhouette,

Its windows flickering,

Suggestive of grand fireplaces lit in the dormitories.

You move to your cauldron and turn out the leather bag upon the table.

There are all nine plants,

Fruits and leaves and flowers.

Professor Bain happens by,

Counts the ingredients,

And gives you a nod to indicate that you've chosen well,

With a wave of your wand and a low incantation.

You send forth a spark of fire to light the wood beneath your cauldron.

As the water heats,

You prepare your herbs.

Some you crush with mortar and pestle,

Releasing plumes of fragrance upon the night.

Others you cut carefully with a ceremonial knife.

The apple you peel in one long corkscrew piece,

Hoping the pigment lends a pleasing hue to the potion.

And when the water begins to simmer,

You thoughtfully cast ingredients into its belly.

With each casting,

You consider the layers of meaning and magic in the plants,

The messages they whisper to you in the wood.

The steam rises,

Aromatic and potent,

Bewitching your senses.

You take great care to stir only when needed,

To allow herbs to steep well before adding others,

And to infuse your task with sincere intention,

The root of all magic.

As you work,

More students stumble out of the woods with overflowing satchels or armfuls of plants.

Some have nettle stings on their hands,

Which Professor Bain sets right with a salve she carries.

Soon enough,

A student is working at every cauldron,

Nine potion makers brewing in the night.

Under the light of the moon,

A potion is a poem,

You think.

This potion is a dream.

The recipe is written in your heart,

Derived from a ritual walk through the wood.

The communion with the plants you now toss into the cauldron,

Incensed with apple peel and fennel seed,

Deepened with betony and plantain,

Lifted with chervil and lamb's grass,

Stung through with nettle,

Softened with chamomile,

And lastly,

Spellbound with mugwort,

The dreamer's plant.

It's a potion to heal,

Certainly,

But you intend it most as a potion for sleep.

Mugwort taking the lead within the mixture,

A gentle agent to restore the mind and body through dreams,

Eight clockwise stirs,

Then one wither shins to set the potion.

The number nine,

Of course,

Is strong and magic.

On the final stir,

A veil of sheer gold settles over the top of the potion.

It might be invisible if it weren't for the mild light of the waning moon.

It's done,

As if she senses its completion.

Professor Bain appears only a moment later,

And peers over the brim of your cauldron.

She inhales the trails of steam.

There's a deep aroma of licorice,

Spice,

And candied apple.

With a graceful hand,

She ladles a portion into a small glass vial and holds it up to the light of the moon.

The liquid sparkles a deep green color with a halcyon iridescence.

She puts a stopper in the bottle,

And with the tip of her wand,

Inscribes your initials into the cork,

As if etching them with fire.

This she stashes in a basket with two other similar vessels.

When you're ready,

She says in a hushed tone,

You're dismissed.

You can take some with you if you like.

It's only now that you realize two of your classmates have left their cauldrons,

Finished with the exam,

And already back up at the castle by now.

Before she leaves to inspect the work of others,

Your certain Professor Bain gives you a wink.

She must have liked the look of your potion.

You'll know soon enough when you get your marks.

Feeling accomplished,

And also suddenly immeasurably weary,

You do decide to take some of the potion with you.

With a steady hand,

You pour a ladleful into one of the glass bottles provided,

Stopping it with a cork.

Then,

With a flourish,

You extinguish the fire beneath your cauldron,

Leave the textbook on the table,

And depart.

Halfway up the rocky side of the hill,

You stop and turn back to look at the forest and the threshold of cauldrons and smoldering fires before it.

From here,

You can almost see,

Or is it an illusion cast by the scutting of night clouds across the moon,

The shifting,

Shimmering barrier delineating the protected space of the wood.

In the caretaker's cottage,

A light in the window blinks out,

And a few final wisps of smoke escape the chimney.

You climb the rest of the way up to the castle.

As you push open the heavy doors to the entrance hall,

You're greeted with a curtain of warmth.

Your chilled fingers and toes quickly soften and tingle,

And a dreamy haze settles over your eyes.

Surely it's not very late,

But you're simply overcome with the desire to go straight to your bed and surrender to a long and fathomless sleep.

If only you could wave your wand and be there now instantly.

But with your mind and gaze soft,

You climb the many stairs to the tower that is your dormitory.

In the common space,

A few students are gathered to study for their exams before the blazing fireplace.

They greet you cheerily,

Asking if you'd like to join them.

But you wave nonchalantly and explain that you're off to bed.

Once within your room,

You think that nothing has ever looked so inviting as your mattress at this moment.

The plush pillows and thick blankets,

The brocade curtains that drape from the canopy.

You're ready to fall into the softness of it the moment you enter.

But you stop to steal the briefest glance out the nearby window.

The gleam of lit cauldron fire still pulses below,

And the waning crescent moon glitters in reflection across the lake,

Settling at last with a sigh into your bed.

You draw the glass bottle from the pocket of your robes.

Even now,

The potion within shimmers.

You unstopper it,

Take a deep inhale,

And immediately feel waves of relaxation cascade over your body from head to toe.

This potion is for dreamers,

You think,

And without hesitation,

You take a small sip,

Savoring the autumnal blend of flavors of the elixir.

It's a potion for healing through sleep,

And with heavy eyelids,

You settle back between the blankets.

Drawing closed the curtains around your bed,

You slip sweetly into sleep,

Like an ice cube melting in a glass of warm water.

Maguard takes your hand and leads you into the labyrinth of dreams.

Soften into place,

Letting your breath settle into a natural rhythm,

Letting the belly rise and fall with your inhales and exhales.

Imagine that the breath is carrying away any tension,

Any worry,

Anything you'd rather not take with you tonight into the land of sleep.

Just let it go,

Dissolving into the potion.

With your eyes closed,

Allow your body to become heavy in place,

Melting into your bed.

As you visualize a passage,

It might be a stairway or a tunnel leading downward.

This is the path to the dream world.

Every step you take down this path takes you closer to sleep,

As your mind slips down one level toward the unconscious world.

Furnish this portal in your mind with herbs,

Flowers,

Or gateway trees and let it be a welcoming passage,

Integrated with the natural world.

Breathe and take your first step down.

Inhale,

Noticing that at your feet there are patches of a silvery green herb which flutters lightly as you move.

This is Maguard,

Your companion,

And your initiator in dreams.

When you're ready,

Take another step forward and down,

Letting your mind soften deeper as you go.

Now speckling the path are a winding lane of broadleaf plantain with long spikes of flowers extending upward from a gathering of leaves.

Its presence clears the air,

Allowing your breath to become slower,

Deeper,

And more nourishing.

Take another step down your passageway,

Relaxing into your breath.

Step through a cluster of lamb's grass with green rosettes of leaves and delicate white flowers.

When you come close to it,

You feel your inner strength gathering,

Restoring,

Even as you soften,

Preparing for sleep.

Another step down when you're ready,

Sinking down a level in your mind toward the dream world.

Betony brushes the sides of your legs,

Heart-shaped leaves with stalks of sweet purple flowers,

Hand-in-hand with Maguard.

Betony is a dream protector.

She will keep your dreams happy,

Productive,

And safe.

Take another step down your herbal passage,

Slipping down another level toward the unconscious,

Until you move through a meadow of chamomile flowers,

Gold and white,

Like tiny daisies all about you.

Breathe in their mild,

Familiar scent,

Feeling it relax your mind and body,

Settling you closer to sleep.

Move another step down,

Sinking deeper toward the dream world.

Find,

Flanking the path,

Tall plants of nettle.

Just by passing through,

Feel how the nettle promotes a sensation of cool,

Relaxation,

A slowing of your breath.

Take another step when you're ready,

And look up to see the trees along the path,

Full-fruited with apples.

Their presence bolsters you,

Restores your constitution on the path to sleep.

Now another step down the natural passage,

Sinking deeper down into your dream world,

Until you step through wild patches of chervil with soft,

Feathered leaves.

It gives off a resinous aroma that relaxes you,

And allows you to settle into a state of serene contentment.

Breathe.

Take another step down your path,

Finding at your feet,

Large,

Flowering stalks of fennel,

Giving off an anise-like aroma.

Being in its presence deepens your sense of relaxation and calm.

It clarifies your inner sight so that the way forward into sleep becomes easy,

Effortless to navigate,

To linger here if you like for a moment longer,

And when it feels right,

A step forward and down,

Crossing the threshold with nine herbs as your guide,

Beyond your plant-furnished passageway and into the sweet expanse of sleep.

Sink.

Down.

Deep.

Down.

Settle.

Breathe.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Thank you for this beautiful story. I couldn't fall asleep though too interested in outcome. Next time I will fall asleep. ❣️❣️ 🙏

Lovely and put me right to sleep! Thank you and Blessings 🕊️🌲

The nine herb charm has a page on Wikipedia! Did you know that?

I love this soothing story and learning about the herbs. I don't think I've ever heard the end so there must be a touch of magic in the weaving of the story too, as in all of Laurel's tales. Nothing else has helped me fall sleep as consistently and delightfully. I am so very grateful!

No idea what happened after the first 20 minutes - it worked like a charm 😀

I got maybe six minutes in before falling asleep. Thank you!

Loved it!!! How wonderful to be back at Wizard School! 💖

Love this series so much, the school of sorcery is my favorite

Did the magical work of getting this hardened insomniac to sleep… ahhh , I’ll keep listening for the end. Thank you thank you for shifting the sleep paradigm with your fine sorcery 🧚‍♂️🧙‍♀️🔮 and a perfect recipe to dream with… most of these beauties grow around my farm but I don’t know lamb cress— I will try to lovingly recreate this, thank you!☺️

Thank you, Laurel🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻This story felt very satisfying, for whatever I was able to capture of it throughout the night🙏🏻🌟✨🌟💫🌟🙏🏻

An absolutely 'enchanting' story--one of your best. Thank you so much! 🌘🌱🌿🍃🍎🍲🛌