The Nine Lives Of A Bookstore Cat | Sleep Story With Music

In this magical sleep story, you are closing up your independent bookstore at the end of a long day: a Halloween festival on Main Street. You do the books, put down food for the shop cat, and decide to catch up on your reading. As night falls and you prepare to turn in, however, something unexpected happens: for the first time, the shop cat begins to speak to you. He invites you into his past lives and the great histories he’s witnessed throughout time.

Music: Clairvoyance (Syntropy) The Sleep/Binaural Overlay/Romeo Alpha (Joseph Beg) Cosmic Dreams/Dream Focus Beta Waves/Nordic Sunrise/Thymotic Moments (Bruce Brus) Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Take a voyage into the past lives of a beloved bookstore cat in tonight's magical bedtime story. Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series. My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey. Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story, One part guided meditation and one part dreamy adventure. Listen to my voice for as long as you like and when you're ready, Feel free to let go of the story and make your way into sleep. In tonight's story, You are closing up your independent bookstore at the end of a long day, A Halloween festival on Main Street. You do the books, Put down food for the shop cat and decide to catch up on your own reading. As night falls and you prepare to turn in, However, Something unexpected happens. For the first time, The shop cat begins to speak to you. He invites you into his past lives and the great histories he's witnessed throughout time. I love cats because I enjoy my home and little by little, They become its visible soul, Jean Cocteau. Five o'clock comes with a wisp of orange sunset and not a moment too soon. Not that you haven't thoroughly enjoyed the fall festival that runs the length of Main Street with its trick-or-treaters, Families and rush of excited customers. It's just that after all these hours, Your candy bowl is empty at last and with only you to mind the shop, There's no way to run out and secure refills. So with a sigh of relief and the kind of contented exhaustion that only comes from a wonderfully productive day, You step onto the sidewalk and snap closed the chalk sandwich board, Inviting folks into your quaint little bookstore, The candle and the quill. Next however, You stop to admire it one last time. You take pride in the whimsical illustrations you make each day, Paired with puns or poetry. Today, In accordance with the festivities, You chalked a jack-o'-lantern, Bats, Spider webs and, Of course, A black feline with its back arched in the classic posture. You're no Picasso, But you fancy it's a keen approximation of Tybalt, The beloved cat who prowls the stacks of the shop day after day. His name is better known than yours by shop regulars, Despite you being the sole proprietor of the place. Of course it wasn't always your shop, It's only for the past six months that your name has been on the lease instead of Maggie's. After the 40-some-odd years that she ran the candle and quill, She became something of an institution in town. She created space for community gatherings, A launchpad for local authors and illustrators, And a gateway to discovery for readers of all ages. You feel fortunate to have come up in her shadow, Serving as an apprentice bookseller for the last years of her time here. You learned so much from her, Not just about the intricacies of the trade, But also about how a physical space brought up in love can bring compassion and restoration to a community. Mags and Tybalt the cat were practically local celebrities, And you loved simply being part of the wondrous thing they made. They were such a harmonious pair that you'd often hear Maggie talking to Tybalt, Having elaborate one-sided conversations with him, As if he might actually respond. The more time you spent with the two of them, The more you expected him to one day open his mouth and talk back. When Maggie announced her retirement, For a little while it looked like the last call for the cherished local bookshop. The township paper decried the end of an era, And locals even formed petitions to keep the store open in her absence. You yourself couldn't bear to see this place disappear, Selling out its stock and withering into memory, So, With Maggie's advice and a great deal of scrimping and saving, You arranged to take over the shop, And even sign a lease for the studio apartment upstairs. With it, Since you'd built a bond, And the candle and quill wouldn't be the same without him, Came Tybalt. In those early months of running the place yourself, Through the hardships and growing pains, He was a constant companion, A reminder that you were never alone. Maggie comes to visit often, And the amiable black cat chirps and springs to her heels, But you fancy you've become a close second in his heart. When he's not prowling among the back shelves or sleeping on a sunny windowsill, He spends most of his days near you. You tuck the sandwich board inside the door and wave to a few passers-by, Under their Halloween costumes, You recognize them as baristas from the coffee shop next door. The light of late afternoon is twisting through the flame-crowned oak trees that line the main street. Crispy leaves lift lightly on the breeze, And settle in untidy piles on the sidewalk. The door of the coffee shop swings open, Creaking at the hinges and letting out the mingled aromas of mulling spices, Coffee, And vanilla. There are more activities planned for the festival after sundown, And the charming atmosphere you encounter on the sidewalk tempts you out into the world. But on the other hand, There's accounting to do, And you're looking forward to a quiet night in, After all the day's hustle and bustle. There's time to decide, You suppose. Freshly rosy-cheeked, You step back into the shop, And with a satisfied sigh, Lock the door behind you. You close the blinds in the front window, Then flip the sign in the doorway to the side marked closed. We'll see you next time. There's some tidying to do of the displays, Which were all knocked off kilter in the excitement of the festival day. You straighten up around the shop, Knowing you'll thank yourself when you come down at opening tomorrow and have it already done. You water the houseplants in the windows, Then you take up residence behind the checkout desk to count the cash drawer and reconcile the day's business. As if sensing you've finally sat down for the first time in several hours, Tybalt comes trotting from behind one of the shelves with a squeak and leaps effortlessly into your lap. You reward him with several pets from head to tail, And a scratch under the chin that elicits a sonorous purr. You've grown accustomed to working with him in your lap, Or seated on the desk, Or even snoozing on the paperwork you need. The two of you have a sort of pas de deux about the business, Dancing together through your days. As you meticulously count up the bills in the drawer, The weight of the purring cat in your lap acts as a relaxing and grounding force. You feel immeasurably secure, And it helps to see that you've done one of your best sales days in months. Running a small business comes with significant challenges, But you count yourself extremely favored to have the support of this community. It's a testament to Maggie's work and the effort you've put in to sustain her vision. When at last you're finished with the end of day accounting, You let your shoulders drop, Roll your neck, And stretch your arms to the ceiling. Another good day, Buddy, You say to Tybalt, Scratching him behind his ears. What should we do now? Tybalt's eyes close, And his face settles into what looks like a dreamy smile. Whoever said black cats are bad luck must never have had the pleasure of meeting one. This one, At least, Is unendingly affectionate, And has brought you rather good fortune. Now, In anticipating your rise from the chair, He jumps from your lap and slinks off into the bookshelves like a swift-footed shadow. Tonight, You have the perfect excuse to stay inside the shop rather than joining the late night festivities. You've been in talks with a small regional publishing house about hosting one of their debut authors for a signing and book launch event. They send over an advanced shipment of the writer's novel for your stock, And you've been meaning to give it a read so you can interview them at the event. With the light through the blinds turning to amber sunset, You're in just the right mood to catch up on some reading. You slide the box out from under a table in the modest storage room in the back, And untuck the cardboard flaps puncturing the shrink wrap, And removing one of the immaculate paperbacks is immensely satisfying. You love getting new books in, Especially by first-time authors, Just like it was for Maggie. It's a personal aspiration of yours for the bookshop to be a place that launches new voices from all walks of life. Every time you hold a new book in your hand, You're holding someone's dream come true with your copy in hand. You head to the reading lounge near the back of the shop. You sink into a large, Wing-backed chair upholstered with forest green velvet. You light the vintage standing lamp for extra reading light as the shadows of the bookshelves begin to lengthen. The spine of the book crackles pleasantly as you open it for the first time and begin to read. Old books may have the enchanting smell and feel of history, But new ones are special too. There's something satisfying about being the first to open a volume and set eyes on a page. The novel begins in an unrecognizable world. You know enough to understand that this novel toes the line between science fiction and fantasy, But little more. With a young woman protagonist who's curious about an unexplained earthen structure at the outskirts of her town, There's a palpable sense of mystery and myth woven into the first chapter, Pulling you in quickly. After she searches for clues to the nature of the monument, The main character is followed home by one of its inhabitants, A feral cat. You nestle deeper into the chair, This is off to a very intriguing start. Night settles over the shop and the main street, Faintly from beyond the bookshelves, You can hear a twinkle of seasonal music punctuated by laughter and muffled speech into a microphone. Any urge you had to venture out into the party, However, Is extinguished by your growing investment in the young author's novel. You read on and on and on, Flipping pages faster and faster as you become increasingly engrossed in the story, So engrossed, In fact, That your surroundings seem to fall away into a sepia haze. Is it any good, Comes a voice from between the bookshelves, You start looking at once toward the door of the shop, Were you so absorbed in your reading that you hadn't heard the tinkle of the shop bell, But no, You're sure you locked it when you came back in, Didn't you, And didn't you turn the sign around, But stranger still, There appears to be no one there between the door, Desk and displays, No customer wandering in from the festival and ignoring the shop's closure, You slide a bookmark in between the pages and stand, Going to the door to ensure there's no one there, And to double check the lock. Sure enough, The door is securely bolted, So had you only imagined the voice shaking your head as if to rid yourself of the delusion, You start back toward your chair, Eager to find out what happens next, To the young woman and the curious feline, Sitting there at attention in the center of the chair however, His tibbled, His green eyes sparkling in the lamplight, Move over then, You say to him, I'm on a roll with this one, So it is good then, This is the same imagined voice, You blink hard, Drawing a sharp intake of breath, It seemed, For a split second, As if tibbled's mouth moved as the voice manifested in your head, As if indeed the cat were speaking to you, For a moment, Your mouth sits agape and you simply stare at tibbled, Waiting to hear the voice again, In typical feline fashion, The black cat doesn't blink, Holding you to an impossible staring contest, I'm sorry, Did you just, You begin, Trailing off when you realize how ridiculous the question will sound, But then, From the mouth of the bookstore cat, Comes an answer, About time you listened to me, Says the voice, There's no mistaking it now, Tibbled is actually speaking to you, As if that were completely ordinary, What, You stammer, At a loss for anything more sophisticated, All this time, Continues tibbled, I've just been waiting for you to start paying attention, For good, You've come around, This can't be happening, You say, I must have fallen asleep while reading, I have to snap out of it, Please, Tibbled interrupts, Don't go pinching yourself, Yes, I can talk, Always been able to, Just most people don't listen, Can't listen, It takes time for them to understand, I know, I know, It's a bit of a shock, But isn't it fun, That we can finally have a chat, Really, I'd rather skip all the I'm dreaming, I'm losing my mind, This isn't real fluff, The last part he hastily adds, Noticing your left hand, Beginning to form a pincer, You relax, Come now, He says, A hint of the resonant purr, Beneath his velvet voice, Why don't you make a cup of tea, Calm the nerves, And then I'll explain everything, Dazed, You find yourself nodding, Then retreating to the storeroom to turn on the electric kettle, At the cat's suggestion, You watch the water slowly bubble to a boil within, Then pour it over a bag of chamomile flowers, And returning to the reading lounge with the hot mug between your hands, You approach with caution, Tybalt is poised on the end table beside the green velvet chair, Casually licking his paws, He looks up when he hears you coming, For a moment you think it must all have been a dream, Or a hallucination, That you've returned to find your cat perfectly normal, Dispossessed of any human language ability, But that perception is instantly shattered, Is that better now, Tybalt says, Why don't you have a seat, You do sit down, Never taking your eyes off Tybalt, Whose fur gleams under the golden light of the lamp, It's really not such a big deal, He says with an edge of reassurance, Maggie and I conversed all the time, Of course, She was something of a cat whisperer, I wasn't the first one she could speak to, Somehow, Amid all the amazement, You recall Maggie's elaborate, One-sided conversations with the black cat, Now those memories glisten with new light, Tybalt was talking back, The whole time, You just couldn't hear him, Can, You begin to ask, Unsure what the question will be, Can all cats talk, Yes, He says, Almost puffing out his chest with pride, Well, We all can, Not that we all do, And it takes some time to learn your languages, Often whole lifetimes, As a matter of fact, We learn by being close to people, And then, The rest is up to you, Whether you're one of the few who can hear, Now he leans in, And his eyes sparkle, Like someone imparting a delightful secret only the best people can, Maybe it's the soothing scent of chamomile, Or the gentle tones of Tybalt's voice, Or the comfort of the familiar velvet chair, But you are becoming increasingly at ease, More than that, Your astonishment at the sheer reality of the situation is swiftly giving way to your curiosity, Your mind slowly catches up with everything he's said thus far, Wait, You say, Your wheels turning, You said it can take lifetimes to learn human speech, So does that mean the thing about having nine lives, Tybalt's eyes glitter, Oh yes, He says, It's true that cats have nine lives, And what's more, We can remember our past lives, Not right away, But the longer we live, The more we can see of our former selves, How we've changed, And how the world has changed, I can even show you, If you like, Show me, All at once, It seems like the atmosphere in the shop is suspended, You can no longer hear the sounds of festivity from the street, Time seems to slow, Or altogether evaporate into mist, Look into my eyes, Tybalt says, You look, Staring deeply into the emerald green eyes, The lamplight reveals golden flecks inside the green, Two sparkling gemstones against the black velvet of his fur, As your focus deepens, A darkness creeps in around the corner of your vision, Letting the backdrop of the bookstore fall away into void, Then, Moments later, Void is replaced with soft light and gentle sounds, The cry of an unfamiliar bird overhead, The voices of children playing, The sound of fire crackling in an oven made of clay, Finally, You break your gaze with Tybalt to take in your surroundings, Instead of in the cozy corner of the candle and quill, You now stand outside, In a courtyard, In a foreign land, Shade falls over the ground from a mud brick house, A young woman slides a roll of bread dough into the oven, A pair of children play at a table game with an intricate board and wood carved pieces, They're clad in white linen shifts and their heads are mopped with sweet black curls, Tybalt winds his way around your legs, In a figure eight, What is this place, You ask, Egypt, He responds, My first life, You are still taking it all in, When a flash of rusty brown darts across the courtyard, The woman attending to the oven lets out a little cry and calls after it in a language you don't understand, Then, A moment later, A slender brown cat emerges, Licking its lips, A beautiful cat with a pair of very familiar gold flecked green eyes, Is that you, You ask the black cat at your feet, That was you in your first life, The woman stoops to stroke the cat who purrs and closes his eyes, Everyone knows cats were worshipped in ancient Egypt, Tybalt says, It's true, But for us house cats, Life was simple enough, They loved me for keeping mice and pests out of the house, I loved them for simply being them, You watch the children abandon their game to run over to the brown cat who instantly drops to the ground, Rolls over and shows his belly, The sound of laughter rings like music through the courtyard, And slowly, Softly, The setting dissolves, Like sugar into a glass of water under your back in the dimly lit bookstore, Your first life was as a house cat in ancient Egypt, You say, Almost in disbelief, Tybalt inclines his head in something like a nod, Well, You say, That would be like me being Cleopatra or Julius Caesar in a past life, Funny you should mention that, Tybalt says, Would you like to see another? You nod eagerly and gaze once more into the cat's green eyes, Your surroundings fall away, Replaced by a bustling street, Though it's not the kind of modern street to which you're accustomed, Pedestrians draped in rustic dyed fabrics clog the way, And market stalls border the sides, Straight ahead is a marble pillared rotunda, Indeed all the structures around are built of marble and the like, Marked by architectural features like arcades, Columns, And pediments, Tybalt swings along by your feet as you follow the flow of foot traffic toward the imposing rotunda, Tybalt, You say, Is this Rome in the year 44 BC to be precise, He says, My second life, There I am in fact, You follow Tybalt to the steps of the rotunda through a break in the crowd, Lounging in the shade are no less than three cats, A smoky grey, And two calicos, One of the calico cats is a kitten, Likely only a few months old by your estimation, Being groomed behind the ears by her mother, Her eyes are green and gold, This was a hard life, Tybalt says, But still a good one, As he speaks, An elderly man ambles over to the shady patch of stairs, He leans down and leaves a bowl of water beside the cats, The grey one stands first and begins to lap the water before he is joined by the other two, The Romans respected us, Even allowed us in their temples when they shooed away all other animals, And as a family, We ruled the streets and alleys of Rome, You smile to see the affection shared by the little trio of cats, There's some sort of a commotion beginning from the top steps of the building, But you can't understand the language, The cats don't seem to take much notice of it, Come along, Says Tybalt softly, I have more to show you, As he walks away from the crowd you follow, And the streets of Rome dissolve into an entirely different landscape, The Mediterranean heat gives way to misty moorland with blustering winds, You step through the long damp grasses toward the crest of a hill, Upon which a formidable rock stands in silhouette against a pale sky, As you draw closer, You perceive something to be sticking out of the rock at a cockeyed angle, Nearer still with Tybalt by your side, You recognize the protruding item to be a sword, No way, You say breathlessly, Is this, You've reached the top of the hill, From which vantage point you can see two figures, Three slowly ascending from the other direction, One is tall and cloaked, Bearing a staff, The second small and lanky, No more than a child, The third is a cat, Pure white, The snow, The whole drama plays out before you, With exquisite brevity, The cloaked man accompanies the boy who would be king to the enchanted stone, The child, Shaking with nerves, Grasps the hilt, And with a flash like lightning, Pulls the sword effortlessly from its rocky prison, The cat stays close to the older man, Rubbing its sides against his legs, You were Merlin's cat, You say in disbelief, Ah, I saw so many wonders in that lifetime, Tybalt says wistfully, In those days it seemed like magic lived in every moment, Dragons hid beneath every mountain, And the golden age would last forever, I saw only a fragment of his reign, But if a king's rule may be measured by how he treats the cats in his kingdom, Arthur was a good monarch indeed, From here, As the young king Arthur brandishes his sword, You catch a glimpse of the white cat's reflection in its blade, The green eyes gleam, And to shadow Merlin, The enchanter, In his most magnificent ears, Tybalt continues, Well, I dare say I had a role in his magic, Some say we cats can travel beyond the veil in and out of this world and the spirit world, But the truth of it is, We learn to walk in both, Given the charmed spectacle of what Tybalt has shown you so far, You are in a good mind to believe that statement, This way, He says, Nudging you at the ankles, There's much more to see, You follow the black cat into spiraling darkness, Which reassembles into a stone chamber, Dimly lit by flickering torches, An austere window open to the night lets in a flood of moonlight, Which falls over an older man, Seated at a hearty oaken table, Before the man lies a massive tome with thick pages and leather binding, You move closer to peer over his robed shoulder, Observing that he paints with a narrow brush at the edges of the page, It's a dazzling document, The chapter page of an illuminated manuscript, As a bookseller, Naturally, You become instantly engrossed in the beauty of the page, And the process, You've seen many pictures of such medieval manuscripts, Embellished with flourishes, Illustrations and gilding, Even seen some behind glass in museums, But to witness it this close, And in progress, No less, Is entirely exhilarating, You are so mesmerized by the strokes of the brush and the details on the inner page, That it takes you some time to recognize what it is the artist is painting in the margins, And beyond that, He's painting from life, A skilled artist is decorating the outside margin of the page, With the form of a silver tabby curled up on an open book, Your eyes find the far end of the work table, Where the same image comes to life, A small silver tabby, Snoozes lightly on the open pages of a small volume, Most like him, Didn't care for us cats, Thought we were suspicious or evil, Says Tybalt, But many came around when they realized they needed help to keep mice out of the monasteries, And in turn, We became a favorite for representation in their holiest texts, This one was very kind to me, As I recall, And he taught me my love of books, You follow Tybalt to his next life, Which peaked aboard a ship on a wind-tossed ocean, He was a black and white stowaway, Living off the stored grain of the travelers and hitchhiking rodents, He was one of the first of his kind to set foot in the Americas, Where his closest kin were the prowling mountain lions, In the next life, He looks most like himself, A sleek black house cat with a tuft of white across his chest, Golden green eyes shining through the pass, He's the companion of a young woman who receives visits at her home from families suffering fever, Injury, And illness, The cat curls up in the patient's laps, Bringing them profound comfort and well-being as the lady prepares herbal poultices and tinctures for healing, And in the next, He's a pampered, Well-fed Angora, Curled on a crimson damask pillow on the mantelpiece of an elaborate rococo chamber, Below him a dozen or so powdered noblemen converse in French, One so heavily adorned with capes, Sashes, And medals, That you must assume him a king, Beneath the window, A royal French garden extends as far as the eye can see, Versailles, You inquire, Amazed, 18th century, Tybalt responds, Well before the revolution, Of course, You follow him through to one more life, And you're surprised to find yourself again on the streets of Rome, Now, However, The bustle of ancient life is replaced with modern, Cosmopolitan energy, The streets once trod only by pedestrian and horse are filled with luxury cars and sightseeing buses, But ahead, Behind glass stanchions and sunken a story below, Is an excavated ruin, Dappled with cypress trees, You recognize some of the columns and structures from the opulent Roman buildings you saw in your earlier vision, This is, If you're not mistaken, The same site, One of the wonders of Rome, You think, Is the preservation of such sites as the modern world grows up around them, The living side by side of past and present, And the constant reminders of the formerly grand empire's provenance, But the most enchanting thing about this site, You realize, Is that here and there, On broken marble steps, Or in the shade of columns, Or under the cypresses, There are cats, Dozens of them, The place is almost overrun, But a more languid conqueror would be difficult to find, In their astounding number, The cats of the ancient ruins sleep, Or bathe, Or graze, Unbothered by the goings on of city life, This is Largo di Torre, Argentina, Says Tybalt, And it contains the remains of the theater of Pompey, On whose steps I enjoyed much of my second life as a rascal, It's there, You see where that tree grows, That Julius Caesar was betrayed on the Ides of March, And now it's a cat sanctuary, You ask? In the shadow of mankind's greatest achievements, Both its triumphs and its tragedies, You'll always find us enjoying the shade, That's me, Over there on the steps, The tortoiseshell, You really came full circle, You say with a smile, You could say that, Tybalt says, Now, Shall we go back? You nod, And Tybalt leads you through the swirling darkness, One last time, Until your surroundings settle once more into the familiar shelves and shadows of the candle and quill, Tybalt sits again upon the end table, And you in the green velvet chair, You lived so many extraordinary lives, You say, You were there for legendary kings, Immortalized in manuscripts, Assisting healers, It's amazing, But there's something sticking at the back of your mind, Your brow furrows, But then, This is your ninth life, You say with a twinge of sorrow, And it's such an ordinary one, The gold fleck, Green eyes glitter, Not so, My friend, He says sincerely, You see, I'll let you in on a little secret, Every cat, The whole world over, Even those of us who have been fed on caviar in France, And worshipped in Egypt, Longs to wind up where I am now, Only the best cats, Can be reborn as bookstore cats, You feel moisture spring to the corners of your eyes, He goes on, I have the company of books, The company of books, More books than ever I saw in my previous existences, I have affection from friends and strangers alike, I have the comfort of attention and solitude in equal measure, And as for this being my last life, Well, I have a feeling it's going to be a long one, And also a blessed one, Especially now that you've learned to listen to me, Such sweet words from the visage of your constant shadow, The ever-present mascot of the candle and quill, A being who, Until tonight, You never suspected could hold such beautiful ideas, Brings deep waves of emotion over you, It's a rush of pure instinct and love that inspires you to scoop up the slender black cat, Wrap him up in your arms, And pull him into your lap, I'm glad you chose to live your life here, You say, Stroking his fur and scratching behind his ears, Tibble to purrs, So, He says, Now that that's out of the way, Is the new book any good? It is not the night you expected to have, But with the autumn winds whistling outside the windows of the bookshop, And the distant sounds of the fall festival melting into a chorus of mysterious voices, You settle deeper into the green velvet chair, And embrace your feline companion for the rest of the evening, You read aloud, Sharing in the wonder of books, Building a home together, Thought of stories, The shelves around you sing of the ancient world, The ways of healing, And the legends of great kings, Their stories intertwine and meet in tibble, The humble anima, The very soul of the candle and quill.

Reviews

All your stories are wonderful: I listen to them at bedtime every night, and also often in the afternoon. Thank you for your efforts.

This was such a beautiful touching story!! I thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you for reading it ❤️❤️❤️

As a cat lover I utterly loved this story. Thank you so much.

I love how varied your stories are, I love how calming and soothing your voice is. You’re so talented. I listen to one of your stories at least three times a week. Thank you.

Great story, great sleep!