The Secret Masquerade

In tonight’s sleep story, you and a friend travel to New Orleans, where you believe a secret treasure is buried. You explore many historic sites in the city. That night, you are drawn to the sound of otherworldly music, the source of which is a spectacular masquerade ball. As you dance the night away, it becomes clear that the ball has something to do with the treasure.

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

Transcript

Undertake a modern treasure hunt and join a mysterious masquerade in tonight's magical bedtime story.

Sleep in 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 in Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I'm here to help you find meaningful rest.

Whenever you're ready,

Feel free to let go of my voice and surrender to sleep.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a breathing exercise for balance and rest.

In tonight's story,

You and a friend travel to New Orleans where you believe a secret treasure is buried.

You explore many historic sites in the city,

From Jackson Square to the tomb of Marie Laveau.

That night,

You are drawn to the sound of otherworldly music,

The source of which is a spectacular masquerade ball.

You join the festivities believing you've only stumbled into an exclusive local event.

As you dance the night away,

However,

It becomes clear that the masquerade has something to do with the treasure you seek.

Before we begin our story tonight,

Take a moment to quiet your mind.

Breathe naturally,

Noting the sensation of the breath in through your nose.

Breathe out through your mouth.

Let yourself slow down.

As you settle into a calm,

Natural breath,

Notice the sensation of your body wherever you are.

Wiggle your fingers and toes.

Move your head from side to side.

Feel the shoulders if it feels good.

And find stillness.

Just be present.

Breathe.

And relax.

There's nowhere else you need to be.

Nothing else you need to do.

Your suitcase lies open on your bed,

Nearly stuffed to the gills already as you contemplate your next move.

Everything for this trip is unlike packing for any other.

In addition to changes of clothes,

Toiletries,

And other travel essentials,

You've given yourself the added challenge of squeezing a few key books,

A metal detector,

Collapsible shovels,

Compasses,

And several other treasure hunting tools and devices.

This is no ordinary weekend away,

After all.

It was your friend Henry's idea in the beginning.

He bought you the copy of the book that sparked your passion in a way you never thought possible.

A book that you're now trying to fit in your suitcase,

For it's the most critical item you need to bring on this trip.

Of course,

It's thick,

Heavy,

And hard cover.

You'd rather bring it in your carry-on backpack,

But that bag is also bulging at the seams.

Well,

You think?

This is only a puzzle,

And you love puzzles.

One by one,

You remove a few items from your backpack and from your suitcase.

Then,

Meticulously and strategically,

You rearrange them in their places,

Swapping some carry-on items for those in your larger bag.

Finally,

Stretching your backpack open,

You slide the book into a narrow,

Tight spot.

Satisfied?

You exhale.

It'll be better to have the book close to you during the flight,

So you can stay occupied while continuing to go over the clues.

First published in the 1980s,

The book is a guide to a modern treasure hunt,

Designed by the author,

Percy Fellows.

It's a cryptic text that,

Once solved,

Can lead to a valuable,

Buried treasure.

Fellows,

An eccentric,

Buried miniature chests in cities across North America at significant sites.

Each chest contained a curious object,

An amulet of sorts,

Made of gold and jewel encrusted,

Each in the shape of a different animal.

Then,

He wrote this book as a kind of treasure map,

But to find each chest,

Treasure hunters would have to solve a series of puzzles.

The book contains beautifully mystifying images,

Each corresponding to one of the cities in question.

Meanwhile,

The author wrote a series of poetic verses to accompany the images.

The combination of verse and image would reveal the location of the treasure chests,

That is,

If the hunter could correctly interpret the enigmatic clues.

And indeed,

The puzzles have proven to be more confounding than Fellows anticipated.

In the years since the book's publication,

Not one of the buried chests has been recovered by a treasure hunter.

With the author's untimely passing,

No one alive knows for sure the location of the other ten.

Now,

Decades later,

Interest in the treasure hunt has become a hobby or obsession for a small community of people.

The book went out of print,

But enthusiasts keep hope of recovering the treasure in online forums and meetups in the suggested cities.

Your copy of the book is an old first edition that's in remarkably good shape for its age and history.

Henry found it in an online auction and thought it was perfect for you.

You're always looking for interesting puzzles or mental challenges.

You pass through several hands before reaching yours,

As evidenced by the notes in the margins,

In multiple ink colors,

And various hands.

You find the notes charming and intriguing,

Especially since the book is still so pristine in condition.

You spent many hours poring over the pages,

Puzzling over the clues,

And the handwritten notes feel like whispers from the past.

As though you have an inside track on the treasure hunt from generations of searchers who came before you.

In a way,

You are in conversation with them.

You like to imagine their lives,

Their families.

You wonder how close they came to finding the treasure.

Fellowes structured his treasure hunt around a wonderfully whimsical theme.

He supposed that with the great movement of people from the old world to the new,

So migrated their folklore and superstitions.

Their fairies,

Goblins,

And fables also set sail across the Atlantic to find new shelter in the Americas.

These fair folk brought their precious treasures,

Jewels,

And gemstones.

But finding the Americas an unwelcome place for fairies,

They eventually went into hiding,

Taking their treasures with them.

These are the gemstones concealed underground and coated into the paintings of the book.

You know it's just a story,

A clever conceit intended to add mystery and weight to his idea.

But some part of you,

The part perhaps that used to build fairy houses in your garden and believed in dragons and unicorns longer than most,

Wants to think there's some truth to it,

That the clues to the buried treasure also allude to the location of some hidden world full of unseen magic.

That's really what you long for in the end,

Not the treasure,

The sense of mystery and adventure,

The closeness to something magical and otherworldly.

It's something you've been dearly missing in your life.

The book lit something within you,

An ember that's brought you more inspiration,

Joy,

And motivation than you've felt in a long time.

You began spending more time immersed in the treasure hunt in the last few months.

And after weeks spent deciphering one of the verses,

You began to feel as though you'd hit a wall,

As though you'd already made all the connections available within the pages.

You're certain that the clues in one of the paintings all point to one North American city,

New Orleans.

The image in question depicts a hare face decked with a carnival mask who dances beneath a smiling moon.

There are people dancing in the frame of the image,

Each masked as though at a 15th century ball.

Among them are figures whose masks resemble the sun and moon,

And others with more elaborate,

Abstract masks and characters.

In the background,

An intricate grandfather clock points a few minutes to midnight.

It's a lively,

Surreal image,

One that attracted your eye right away.

The crescent of the moon was the first clue that tipped you off to the location,

For New Orleans is known to some as the Crescent City.

But other patterns emerged once you zeroed in on New Orleans.

A mask whose outline resembles the shape of Lake Pontchartrain,

For example.

And the angle of a dancer's arm that lines up perfectly when overlaid with a map to the curve of Canal Street.

Obsessively,

You've poured over the tiniest details in the image and the hints that arise from the associated verse,

References,

You think,

To famous New Orleanians hidden amid the flowery poetry.

The verse reads,

In the shadow of the queen,

A songbird flutters with the ghosts.

Music floats from seventeen kings preserved among the ancient host.

Where weeping trees line boulevards,

The fae are gathering for the night.

The hour shining like the shards revive to whirl in sparkling light.

Where the spirits do abound,

Here your treasure shall be found.

It all seems plain to you now,

With the Crescent City in mind.

The queen must be Marie Laveau,

A famed Voodoo queen,

Healer,

And midwife who lived and practiced in New Orleans in the 19th century.

The reference to kings suggests the name Louis,

Born by seventeen kings of France.

Louisiana gets its name from Louis XIV,

The Sun King.

Saint Louis Cathedral is one of the most recognizable landmarks in the city.

And of course,

Louis Armstrong is one of the most notable names produced by the city.

And the poem mentions music and dancing.

So you're convinced you're on the right track.

But without actually going there,

Walking the streets and comparing landmarks to the image and poem,

There's not much further you can go in your search.

So on a whim,

You asked Henry if he'd fancy a trip to Louisiana.

Being the loyal friend that he is,

He agreed immediately.

And he was impressed with your newfound spontaneity.

Though you withheld the fact that you'd been researching such a trip for a month or so.

Now bags packed at last,

You prepare to leave for the airport.

A feeling of excitement mounting.

It's a comfortable flight and it passes quickly as you flip once more through the pages of your book.

Henry,

Unused to waking up early,

Snoozes quietly beside you.

It's only mid morning by the time you land,

But the hotel graciously allows you to check in early.

You've booked two rooms in a charming hotel on Dauphin Street within the French Quarter.

The 19th century building has the characteristic lacy cast iron balconies associated with the quarter.

And the interior is richly decorated with red velvet and paintings in gilded frames.

To get to your rooms,

You cross through a verdant courtyard.

At its center is a magnificent magnolia tree,

Its leaves a bright gold,

And it's surrounded by butterfly bush and angel trumpets.

You savor a balmy breeze that sweeps through the courtyard shaking the leaves.

You think you must have chosen the perfect time of year to visit Louisiana.

Autumn,

With its mild temperatures and thinner crowds,

Feels warm and welcoming here.

You spend only a few minutes unpacking items and freshening up before meeting Henry again in the courtyard.

You're both eager for breakfast and coffee,

Which you find on the waterfront at the famous Café du Monde.

You sit under the green awning and enjoy café au lait with pillowy,

Hot beignets straight from the oil and doused in a thick layer of powdered sugar.

Nursing your warm drinks in the shade,

You and Henry discuss how you'll approach the short time you have here.

You open your book to the marked page and begin to list landmarks you'd like to visit,

Places of interest for the treasure hunt.

Henry nods agreeably while adding unrelated stops to your itinerary,

Restaurants,

Jazz clubs.

He'll humor you on your hunt,

Of course,

But he intends to make the most of his visit to the big easy.

The Mississippi River sparkles in the sunlight.

A tour boat cruises by.

One of the sites you're most interested in is nearby,

Only steps from your seat at Café du Monde.

Jackson Square.

As you explain to Henry,

There's a character in the corner of the painting wearing a mask that looks like the profile of the horse in the equestrian statue in the square.

Every tiny detail is significant,

You insist,

In response to his sidelong glance.

But whether or not the reveler's mask is a clue to buried treasure,

Neither of you can dispute that Jackson Square is a lovely place for a stroll.

St.

Louis Cathedral towers over the square,

Its distinctive white facade and three gray steeples reaching higher than any other building around.

You think to yourself that in a certain light,

It might almost resemble a fairy tale castle,

Something from another,

Older world.

The park itself is lined with lush palms,

Still strikingly green in this latter part of the year.

A caretaker is raking fallen leaves from the square's deciduous trees into a pile.

A woman walking her dog nearby has to hold them back from jumping into the pile of leaves.

For the rest of the day,

You wander through downtown New Orleans,

Stepping into museums and gift shops,

Searching public parks for things that might match up with your clues.

You can understand why people are drawn to this place.

Even in the light of day,

New Orleans has a dark charm that's difficult to explain.

It's lively and spirited,

Yet it runs with an undercurrent of mystery.

So much history and legend is woven into the threads of the city that you can almost feel it vibrating beneath your feet.

You stop for lunch at a cafe near City Park,

A sprawling urban green space with botanic gardens,

Museums,

Lakes,

And playgrounds.

Over po' boys,

You run Henry through your theory that the treasure might be buried in a section of City Park called Storyland.

It's a children's attraction,

Almost an amusement park inspired by fairy tales and nursery rhymes.

There,

The stories come to life as statues and interactive playgrounds.

The Little Mermaid,

The Three Little Pigs,

And Snow White are all accounted for.

So it might fit with Percy Fellow's frame story about the Fair Folk.

Then there's the line in the verse about weeping trees lining boulevards.

Storyland is full of trees that are positively dripping with Spanish moss,

Which hangs from the branches,

Almost like the tendrils of a weeping willow.

There's some sense to your theory,

Surely,

But it's not quite there.

It doesn't quite add up.

Henry looking puzzled squints at the page you have the book open to.

He chews on the phrase,

Weeping trees line boulevards,

For a moment.

There's something about it that doesn't quite click with the tucked away playground of Storyland.

Then his eyes light up suddenly.

It's the first time you've seen him take more than a passing interest in the treasure hunt,

Rather than merely following you.

Mardi Gras,

He says,

Weeping trees.

And then it clicks for you too,

Where weeping trees line boulevards.

It doesn't refer to weeping willows or Spanish moss,

But the practice of throwing beaded necklaces about during the Mardi Gras festival in New Orleans.

As the beads are tossed or discarded by wearers,

They make their way onto the branches of trees lining the boulevards of the city,

Making all the trees appear like sparkling gold and green and purple willows weeping.

It's a little spark of genius from Henry,

And proves he's invaluable as an outside eye on this little venture.

So,

If that rules out Storyland and suggests a connection to Mardi Gras,

Perhaps the treasure's location lies more centrally,

Namely,

Near Bourbon Street.

You look back to the verse and try to make some sense of the cryptic clues.

How do they inform the image?

It's as though you are standing before a locked door,

And you know that within lies the answer,

And you're carrying a ring of a thousand or more keys.

Any combination of clues could produce a solution.

You're just missing the puzzle piece that fits everything together.

Clearing away your lunch,

You flatten a city map across the table and pull out a pen.

In the shadow of the Queen,

You still think,

This must be Marie Laveau.

On the map,

You mark with a star the sites you know of,

Connected with the Voodoo Queen.

The site of her original cottage on Rue St.

Anne.

Her grave in the St.

Louis Cemetery.

While you're doing this,

Henry is looking closer at the image.

With a note of amusement,

He makes a remark about the eye color of the hair in the painting.

A bright and striking turquoise.

He's never seen a rabbit with blue eyes.

Have you?

You're about to wave this away as only a little thing.

It's probably only telling the reader what kind of jewels are in the New Orleans treasure.

Turquoise,

Maybe aquamarine or blue topaz.

But then something comes to you.

You slide the book over to you so you can see the image clearly.

Yes,

The hair's eyes are a brilliant blue.

But so are those of some of the other masked figures.

There's a woman wearing a mask like the moon.

A man wearing a mask covered in bird feathers and closing to a bird's beak.

One with a mask covered in music notes and another with a mask covered in leaves and vines.

Each of them has bright blue eyes so noticeable against the dark eyes of the other characters in the painting.

And yet it never meant much to you until now.

And each blue-eyed character is gazing off the page in a different direction.

Hastily you grab your pen and using the map as an edge you draw straight rays from the eye lines of the characters to the verse on the opposite page.

Henry can hardly believe you draw on the pictures in your book so glibly.

But in a few moments you can see what you're doing.

When the lines are complete each eye line connects with a word of clear significance.

Queen.

Songbirds.

Ghosts.

Music.

Preserved.

Then,

Looking back to your map,

You search for the missing pieces.

You've marked the home of the queen and ghosts the cemetery.

What's left?

Songbirds,

The home of John James Audubon the famous naturalist who wrote and illustrated Birds of North America.

Music.

The music of 17 kings.

You draw a star in Louis Armstrong Park.

Lastly,

Preserved.

You think for a moment scouring the map of the French Quarter.

And then your heart swelling with excitement you draw a final star upon a small building on St.

Peter between Bourbon and Royal Street on the famous historic jazz venue known as Preservation Hall.

Your whole body is buzzing.

Looking at the map you've just drawn a pattern emerges between the stars.

You place it over the painting in the book then hold the page up to the afternoon light.

The stars line up perfectly with the shape of the hair's face,

Mask,

And ears.

Somehow even in the mild sunshine and still air you feel as though a cool breeze has whipped up around you,

Tussling your hair and sending goosebumps up your arms.

You've cracked it.

Well almost.

All at once an unexpected feeling comes over you.

You embarked on this adventure on a bit of a lark.

Sure you want to find the treasure who wouldn't want to discover a hidden masterpiece and prove themselves cleverer than generations of puzzlers.

But you never really thought it would be you.

This in your mind it was a bit of fun.

A way to occupy,

Amuse,

And challenge your mind.

A vague and unformed thing.

Now faced with the reality that you,

You might soon hold the treasure in your hand.

There's excitement and anticipation of course but also a bittersweet realization that this quest you once saw as never ending might actually resolve and sooner than you thought.

Well you think.

There's no guarantee you'll find it.

Perhaps you've only cracked the first puzzle in a series of them.

You've put together some easy key that others figured out in minutes,

Not months,

And the real challenge still lies ahead.

So what's next?

Henry asks.

You think for a moment.

What indeed?

Well certainly you'll have to visit each of the sites you starred.

Perhaps one of them is the treasure's location.

Or maybe there's a clue you need to collect from each of the sites.

Some key that will unlock the mystery for you and lead you to the real destination.

Henry likes the idea.

Even if you don't walk away with gold and jewels,

It'll be an enjoyable walking tour.

Having refueled,

You take to the streets again,

Returning to the French Quarter,

Where jazz buskers are out in full force.

Indeed New Orleans almost explodes with music,

Issuing from cafes and hotel lobbies and street corners in a glorious medley.

There's a pleasant briskness in the afternoon as the sun turns away.

You stroll through the St.

Louis Cemetery,

Its gravestones weathered and moss covered.

It's quiet save for the exuberant song of a mockingbird,

A life-affirming sound amid the stones.

You wander between marble and brick mausoleums,

Silently reading the names and dates.

A tortoise-shell cat,

Languid and unfazed by your presence,

Winds its way about the monuments,

Sometimes stopping to sniff curiously at dandelions springing from the earth.

It's exquisitely peaceful as the afternoon yawns slowly toward evening.

There are flowering roses that bring color and life to the silent,

Grayscale sight.

Now as the sky takes on a dimmer shade and the air begins to smell of spice and smoke,

The city transforms before your eyes into the New Orleans of your imagination,

All spectral and mysterious,

Dripping with southern gothic appeal,

Haunting yet inviting and irresistible at the same time.

While the light remains,

You stumble at last upon the tomb of Marie Laveau,

The queen of fellow's verse.

The mausoleum itself is unremarkable compared to some in the cemetery,

But you know it straight away by the adornments.

Wreaths of flowers and potted roses and narcissus surround the bottom of the monument,

But upon its whitewashed surface are countless handwritten Xs,

Surely written by the mistress of magic's many visitors in hopes that she might grant their wishes from the beyond.

You and Henry stand there for some time,

Taking in the sweet tranquility of this place,

Knowing that only steps away,

Crowds are beginning to gather for their nights on the town.

Night will soon cascade over New Orleans,

Bringing to life so many of its charms.

But there's something delicate about this hour that's so bewitching and so fleeting in its harmonic quiet.

The waning sun makes long shadows loom over the cemetery.

You watch them sweep over the grass and paved walkways,

With eyes sliding out of focus.

In the shadow of the queen.

Now you come back to yourself.

As the shadows fall on the ground,

You remember the line from the verse,

In the shadow of the queen.

Your eyes track the movement of the shadow cast by Marie's monument.

And sure enough,

As it slowly stretches,

You see it move toward a marker of some kind in the pavement.

You walk over to the marker and recognize that it's a small square of inlaid bronze,

Only a few inches across.

Kneeling down beside it and brushing away weeds that creep around its perimeter,

Breaking as they do all over this place through the pavement as though nature longs to take back the man-made.

You recognize that the bronze inlay is cast with the image of a running rabbit or hare.

For a moment,

Stunned and amazed,

You think you've found it.

You almost dig through your backpack for one of the collapsible shovels.

For surely this means the treasure is buried here.

But then a voice of reason speaks to you.

Of course it isn't here.

The treasure wouldn't have been buried someplace so impossible to dig.

But the bronze inlay is a sign that you're on the right track,

That you're close,

Closer your heart tells you than any have come before.

Referencing your map once more,

You orient it to the direction of the running hare,

Lining it up to the places you starred.

You even confirm with a compass its direction down to a degree.

On your map,

You draw a straight line southeast.

The line intersects perfectly with two significant sites,

Preservation Hall,

The Jazz Venue,

And St.

Louis Cathedral,

The three-steeple church overlooking Jackson Square.

The light is starting to fade now.

So you and Henry depart for the heart of the French Quarter.

You can feel your body humming as though you're being pulled by an invisible string along the axis of this adventure.

As though you are no longer in control but a puzzle piece yourself waiting to be slid into place.

Even Henry is more than just along for the ride now.

You're both part of something bigger than yourselves as the mystery unravels with elegant restraint.

The quarter is indeed springing to life as you join the throngs on Bourbon Street.

The pedestrian corridor sizzles with the sounds and smells of jazz and Louisiana cooking.

Even in the autumn,

It's lively and well-populated.

A velvet darkness hovers just above the bustling street,

Which flickers with lights both neon and warm.

You decide to visit Preservation Hall,

Which should,

You hope,

Have a concert tonight.

There must be a clue inside the historic building.

And as Henry suggests,

You can't visit New Orleans without taking in some live jazz.

As you round the corner,

However,

Onto St.

Peter,

Your faces fall.

The old Preservation Hall building,

By no means an especially flashy exterior to begin with,

Looks especially dim and dark even as the buildings around it light their lamps and open their doors.

The tattered facade and wrought iron gate of the hall look ready to collapse,

And a handwritten sign over the gate reads,

Closed until further notice for renovation and repair.

The building looks to have suffered some recent damage.

Disappointed but determined,

You search the bricks of the sidewalk and the road for any clue like the bronze inlay at the cemetery.

Nothing stands out.

You're sure that whatever the clue is,

It's inside Preservation Hall,

And there's no chance of getting in tonight.

Henry gives you a reassuring pat on the back.

You've come so far.

Maybe there's another clue at one of the other sites that would help.

But surely,

You think,

You can't solve the puzzle without every piece.

Still,

You remind yourself that this was nothing more than an adventure,

A chance to gather some clues,

Yes,

But more importantly,

A chance to explore a beautiful place with a good friend.

You won't let this disappointment spoil a perfectly splendid night in this jewel of a city.

If you don't manage to dig up a treasure on this trip,

At least you'll enjoy yourself tonight.

You can always come back.

So you and Henry decide to find somewhere that does have live music tonight.

A trip to New Orleans wouldn't be complete without it,

After all.

Cheering up,

You turn on your heels back toward Bourbon Street,

Its iron balconies and shining lights already in sight.

But you stop before turning the corner.

At first,

You're not sure why you stop,

But Henry stops,

Too.

A moment later,

You realize that the noise of the Bourbon Street crowd has faded into the background,

Still present,

But muffled and quiet.

Floating over it is another sound,

One that takes some time to notice.

And once you do,

It's familiar and comforting,

As if it's been there all day,

Through all the stops on your quest,

On some hidden channel,

Or from a great distance.

Music.

Trumpet music,

Floating on the night air with brassy warmth.

The sound of it fills your ears now,

Feeling at home.

It's the sound of the sparkling Mississippi,

Reflecting the lights of a slow-moving riverboat.

It's the sound of powdered sugar falling like snow onto hot beignets.

It's the sound of an herbal tincture anointing your temples to heal aches.

It's a melody you've never heard before,

You're sure.

And yet,

As it unfolds,

You can guess the next note and the next,

Feeling the song rap around your heart.

Now you turn around to face Preservation Hall again.

Henry is at your side.

Lamps are lit lining St.

Peter's Street,

And in their flickering amber glow,

You realize now that you can see the music,

Floating like liquid over the street,

Streaming toward you and away from you all at once.

You know Henry can see it too because he's squeezing your hand.

You've never seen or heard something so beautiful,

You think.

And now you see that Preservation Hall,

Once dilapidated and closed off,

Is lit from inside.

Its gates swung wide.

The liquid music,

The sparkling,

Sugary trumpet song is streaming to and from its doors.

You and Henry look at each other.

His eyes twinkle and you can see your reflection in them,

Mirroring his expression of ecstatic awe.

The path before you is clear.

You'll simply have to go inside.

As you pass through the Iron Gate into the revived Preservation Hall,

Your jaw drops at the otherworldly spectacle.

Instead of a run-down,

No-frills music hall,

You behold a richly adorned ballroom full of people,

A hundred or more dressed in stunning finery.

Each one wears a fine carnival mask.

It's like the painting from your treasure book has come to life before your eyes.

You feel overwhelmed with the majesty of the scene,

Your eyes trying to drink in the detail of it all,

While your mind hurriedly tries to process.

It's impossible,

Surely,

But here you are,

And Henry beside you,

Marveling just the same.

You've stepped into a masquerade ball.

You cling to the outskirts of the ballroom together.

No one seems to have noticed your presence,

And you're happy to simply observe them dancing.

A jazz trio plays jubilantly in the corner as the guests whirl about the hall.

It must be one of those secret events,

You and Henry decide.

Exclusive parties held in the corners of big cities for the invited and initiated.

Certainly,

Someone will be demanding you display your invite any moment now.

But then,

Your eye falls on one of the guests,

Dancing alone in the center of the ballroom.

A tall,

Thin man in a crisp suit and unusual mask,

A mask with rabbit's ears,

Just like the hair,

The centerpiece of the painting.

A tiny seed has begun to sprout in your mind,

A tiny grain of understanding.

Like the treasure hunt puzzle,

You're still missing a few of the pieces,

But the mystery is falling into place around you in a syncopated rhythm with the music of the ball.

The rabbit-masked reveler sees you,

And for a moment,

Your eyes locked across the room,

Time stills.

The jazz quartet lingers on a hovering note,

A drop of warm honey in the air.

The rest of the guests seem to halt in their tracks,

Frozen with arms and skirts of flutter,

Like a still frame,

A photograph,

Or a painting.

And an instant later,

All movement resumes as if it never slowed or stopped.

The rabbit-masked dancer is drifting toward you through the crowd.

You and Henry grasp each other's hands.

When he reaches you,

The hair bends forward in a bow,

A signal of deference,

Respect.

You're surprised and relieved.

He gestures toward the corner of the ballroom,

Near the still joyous musicians.

You follow him to a small table,

A pedestal really,

Upon which sit two carnival masks.

Up close,

They're quite astounding,

Beautifully wrought with jewels and fine thread.

One of the masks,

Silver and sparkling like dew on gossamer,

Is evidently crafted to resemble the moon.

The other,

Gold with dazzling rays,

Evokes the sun.

The hair indicates that these masks are yours,

As though they've been waiting for you.

Henry lets you choose first,

The sun or the moon,

The gold or the silver,

Day or night.

Being moved inexplicably,

You choose and fasten the mask over your eyes.

Henry takes the other,

Placing the mask upon his face.

Peering now through the eyes of the mask,

Everything seems a shade brighter yet hazier,

As though strings of light shine through every reveler,

Gleaming and effervescent as though from within.

You look down at yourself,

Where once were only street clothes worn through from a day's long urban exploration.

Now you behold rich finery,

Befitting of the masquerade ball.

Henry too is decked in impressive formal garments.

All is beginning to make a strange kind of sense.

Where weeping trees line boulevards,

The fae are gathering for the night,

The hour shining like the shards revived to whirl in sparkling light.

Soon,

As the music changes pace,

You're swept into the center of the ballroom.

You move as though possessed by the dance,

As though your limbs are pulled like the strings of a marionette.

You know the notes yet unplayed,

And you know the moves yet undanced.

It's a marvelous kind of freedom,

Feeling yourself move with clarity and grace amid the revelers in the ballroom.

It seems to you catching glimpses in the corners of your eyes and through the openings in your mask as you whirl,

That the feet of your fellow dancers rarely touch the ground.

And even,

Can it be so,

That from their shoulders sprout gossamer wings which catch the light of twinkling crystal chandeliers and cast prismatic color on the floor?

Fierce magentas and fluttery purples and blues.

When you try to look at them straight on,

They vanish.

But it's only a trick of refracted light and constant motion.

Are you merely caught up in the magic,

Bewitched by the music and majesty of New Orleans?

Or do you dance in the presence of the Fae,

The fair folk who traveled alongside those who came here long ago,

Who clung to those families who still believed in them,

Put out saucers of milk and butter to please them?

You think of the story around which Percy Fellows twined his armchair treasure hunt.

The story of the magical folk who thrived as long as they were acknowledged,

Heeded and appeased by people.

The story of their slow withdrawal from a new world that became less superstitious with each passing year.

A world of people who threw themselves into work and industry and over time forgot the fair folk of the old world.

The tales told by their grandmothers and caregivers.

What hours ago you saw as only a whimsical frame device now spins and swirls before you and around you on the ballroom floor.

It takes shape as a sorrowful,

A triumphant tale of persistence.

Here in New Orleans,

The locus of such innate magic and power,

The fair folk gather still.

Fellows must have seen it.

And there are other cities too,

Where they can still drink of such energy.

Places that still hold some sacred mysteries in their soil,

However far mankind has come from believing it.

The music goes on,

Lively and bright,

But time slips away.

It's only when you notice the shape of the grandfather clock against the back wall of the ballroom that you even think to wonder at the time.

The sight of the clock,

Tall and stately and clearly antique,

Seals your understanding.

It's just like the one in the painting from your book.

An ornate moon dial crowns the clock face,

Its delicate hands ticking slowly toward midnight.

You find yourself transfixed from across the room,

Watching the pendulum weight swing within the glass case.

Then you see it.

You take Henry's hand and glide across the room toward the clock.

The dancers seem to slow down around you,

Their movements leaving behind traces,

Like an afterimage in your periphery.

Gossamer wings,

Crystal chandeliers,

Blues and purples and bright magentas.

The pendulum waits behind the beveled glass,

Intricate etchings in the mahogany trunk and hanging behind the weights,

Where a similar clock might feature a traditional pendulum bob and lyre.

It hangs a solid gold hair encrusted with blue gemstones.

You feel your heart flutter and your chest swell,

The treasure.

But as you come closer to the astonishing grandfather clock and your eyes and Henry's reflect the sparkling blue of the jewels,

The clock hands tick and land upon the midnight hour.

At once,

A deep and resonant chime issues from the belly of the clock.

The music stops and all the revelers let go their dancing.

A chorus of voices cheer for the striking of midnight.

You turn to look at the partygoers who one by one remove their masks,

Revealing their faces,

Impossibly beautiful faces with elongated features and bright eyes.

A flutter of gossamer wings and with their unmasking,

Moments later,

One by one they vanish,

Leaving only the reflected light of the crystal chandelier in patterns across the floor.

One by one they vanish into light.

The clock finishes its midnight refrain,

But the chime leaves a humming vibration in your body.

You look back at the clock in time to see it too fade and vanish.

For an instant,

The gold jewel-encrusted hair remains floating there in front of you.

And you think to reach out and grasp it.

But you hesitate,

And then it's gone as well.

You and Henry stand in the center of an empty,

Quiet hall.

The only light is the bright moon through an open window,

Which throws a glowing shaft across the floor.

You don't need to say anything.

After a time,

You're not sure how long,

You leave Preservation Hall the way you came,

Stepping into the artificial gleam of the French Quarter.

You'll talk about it in the morning.

For now,

You feel a heavy wave of exhaustion come over you.

You need to sleep.

The bourbon street partiers seem only dreamlike figments as you stride back to your hotel.

Jazz floats across the balconies and hangs like Spanish moss,

Or beads weeping from the trees.

There's a quiet understanding between you and Henry,

An awareness of the magic you've just witnessed,

And a reticence to spoil it with words of disbelief.

You part ways in the courtyard of the hotel,

Making loose plans to meet for breakfast in the morning.

Your eyes linger on the moonlight that falls so precisely on the magnolia tree,

Giving its golden leaves a sheer opalescence.

You breathe in the scent of flowers and earth.

It's so quiet here.

Flowers from the city's festive heart.

And then you make your way to your room.

You sit for a few minutes against the upholstered headboard,

Looking at the pages of your book once more,

Drinking in the fine details of the painted masquerade.

You see so much more now.

The expressions of the dancers,

The shadows cast on the checkered dance floor,

Gossamer wings,

The grandfather clock,

Its case and pendulum obscured by the shoulder of a partygoer.

Your fingers trace the outline of the clock absentmindedly.

Then,

Squinting at the person whose arm hides the treasure's place,

You think,

Well,

It couldn't be.

The person's features.

How could you not have noticed it before?

The person looks like you.

You blink and refocusing your eyes on the person,

You find you can't quite identify the resemblance anymore.

It was only a momentary illusion.

Your eyes are getting tired.

So you close the book,

Place it by your bedside,

And flick off the bedside lamp.

You sink between the plush covers and nestle your head into the pillow.

The sheets smell like vanilla and honeysuckle.

You let out a long exhale and close your eyes.

You'll have much to say,

To think about tomorrow.

For now,

It's all a whirlwind of images and fragments of revelation.

You feel no regret over leaving the treasure.

In fact,

You feel like you were meant to do exactly what you did.

As though you were welcomed into this mysterious masquerade because the Fair Folk knew that you would do just that.

Leave the hair where it is and treasure the moment instead.

As your mind slowly slips in and out of consciousness,

You feel a smile across your lips as you remember a cliché from your childhood,

An old adage from field trips or hiking trails.

Take only pictures.

Leave only footprints.

Maybe you think the treasure of the Fair Folk is only a catalyst.

It's not a trinket to be won or a puzzle piece to place,

But a key.

One that unlocks the doors to a place,

A city for the seeker.

To find it is to search for the things that make a city tick,

That give it its character,

To pay respect to its history,

Its people,

And the immortal legends that preserve its living flame.

May your ordinary days be sharing all the stories you read and colleagues described Settle into your calm,

Natural state.

Settle into your calm,

Natural breath.

In and out.

And as you breathe,

Visualize that at the top of your head is a vibrant sunburst.

Warm,

Energetic,

And nourishing.

And beneath the soles of your feet,

Visualize a full silver moon.

Serene,

Pure,

And healing.

Feel yourself in between these two energies.

And breathe into the balance of sun and moon.

As you breathe in,

Imagine the sun's warmth and nourishment gliding inward on the breath,

Filling you up with energy and vitality.

And as you breathe out,

Feel the moon's cool serenity and delicate grace.

Breathe in strength.

Breathe out softness.

Breathe in sunlight.

Breathe out moonlight.

As you breathe in,

Feel the sun's warmth travel from the crown of your head down to the soles of your feet.

And as you breathe out,

Feel the moon's restful energies rise upward from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head.

Breathe in vitality.

Breathe out reflection.

Breathe in courage.

Breathe out peace.

Breathe in light.

Breathe out glow.

Feel the balance in your breath between the two loving,

Healing energies of sun and moon flowing in an eternal exchange in and out,

Up and down.

Feel nourished and strengthened.

And begin to release the tension in your body from the top of your head to the tips of your toes,

From the soles of your feet to the crown of your head.

Let yourself relax and feel the balance between the energies of the sun and moon settle within you,

Diffusing out,

Spreading into all corners of your body.

Let your body surrender to the natural rhythms of your breath.

You are exactly where you're supposed to be.

Everything you need is within you.

Rise in motion,

Seeking balance.

Breathe.

You have everything you need already within you.

Sweet dreams.

I hope you enjoyed this video strong realized by a scholar like me.

Reviews

💕🙏

Fell asleep and then hear the ending. Will have to listen to it again sounds very interesting.Namaste

Love all of these stories. Really help me fall asleep. Your voice is perfect.

Very effective, still to hear the whole story... 💜

Your stories are both interesting and so hypnotic! I never make it to the end of the story before falling into a deep sleep. Now I want to go back and listen to hear how the story ends! Happens every time 😴🙏🏼💗

Awesome!!

Such a magnificent mental space these series hold. Laurel's voice and pace is amazing for sending one off to sleep.
They're perfectly prepared and centred... Just what I've been looking for in a sleepytime wind down.
I have to be honest in that I struggle to get to the end without falling into a deep sleep - but that's what they're for!!
This title bought me back to one of my favourite cities in the world, NOLA, and my time at mardigras. Perfect to fall asleep too.

Fantastic! Thank you! Right to sleep!