The Silver Branch | Celtic Mythology Sleep Story

In tonight’s Celtic mythology-inspired sleep story you are the high ruler of an island kingdom. One morning, you meet a mysterious stranger at an ancient monument. He offers you a magical gift: a silver apple branch that emits music so sweet it sends the hearer into blissful sleep. You accept the branch in exchange for three wishes, to be granted to the stranger in the future. You revel in the powers of the branch, but when the stranger returns, you find that his price is far too high. You pursue the stranger to his otherworldly domain to reclaim what is yours. In turn, you discover a wisdom greater than any magical object. If you’re still awake at the end of the story, I’ll guide you through a gentle meditation to help ease you into sleep.

Music & Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Interstice of Sound by DEX 1200, Via Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Visit the land of promise in tonight's Celtic mythology inspired 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. Follow along with my voice for as long as it serves you, And when you're ready, Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep. If you're still awake at the end of the story, I'll guide you through a gentle meditation to help ease you into sleep. In tonight's story, You are the high ruler of an island kingdom. One morning, You meet a mysterious stranger at an ancient monument. He offers you a magical gift, A silver apple branch that emits music so sweet it sends the hearer into blissful sleep. You accept the branch in exchange for three wishes to be granted to the stranger in the future. You revel in the powers of the branch, But when the stranger returns, You find that his price is far too high. You pursue the stranger to his otherworldly domain to reclaim what is yours. In turn, You discover a wisdom greater than any magical object. Sleep, Where in the waste is the wisdom? James Joyce, Finnegan's Wake Silver is the light of the silken morning, Flocculant clouds drift to obscure the secretive sun, And a twinkling mist hangs in the air. If you were not so keenly tuned to the shifting of the days and the changing of the seasons, You might struggle to know if it were morning or evening, Summer or winter. But as it were, Time is one of the many domains over which you hold sway. Under your leadership, The kingdom observes the rights of sowing and harvest, Raises livestock, And honors the gods. You command armies, Counties, Duchies, And marches. You are the banner under which the lesser kingdoms unite, The calendar by which they set theirs. Such high station affords you great privileges. You live well and happily at court, Dining on the best foods and enjoying the best entertainment. Your family wants for nothing. But this comes with immense responsibility. There are days when the weight of it all, The health and happiness of an entire kingdom, Feels too heavy. On days like this, You find solace in the majesty of your surroundings, Escaping the pleasures and demands of court. You will often wander beyond the walls of your palace to seek solitude and contemplation. Today is one such day, And you savor the mild, If moody atmosphere as you stroll. Tonight, You anticipate a great banquet, And while the allure of festivity is exciting, You slept fitfully last night, And you feel the need to withdraw, Just for a few moments, To reconnect with the landscape. The great hill upon which your palace sits is a site of ancient power and sacredness. For more generations than you can count, It has served as the seat of the high kings of this land. There is, At the apex of the hill, A great standing stone. Brought here from the northern isles by the great heroes of a bygone age, The stone will roar with joy in the presence of the land's rightful ruler. It was in the shadow of this miraculous stone that you were crowned, And near to it you lay the first lengths of timber that would frame your palace. And the hill is home to many more mysteries and miracles, Monuments of earthwork and stone. Legends abound about their origins, But in truth you cannot know how they came to be, Or when, And by whose hands. The presence of these enigmatic wonders is a reminder to you of the antiquity of this world, And the brevity of life. These are the relics of lost ages, Whose deeds and heroes are preserved only in the coded language of myth. All that remains of once mighty warriors, Kings, And communities are the scars they dug into the landscape. You wonder, What will remain when even you are only a distant memory? One of the most beguiling monuments upon the hill is only a short walk from the palace gate. You find yourself drawn to it now in the sheer light of morning. Before you, A grassy mound rises from the flat earth around it, And two unadorned standing stones mark the entrance to a narrow passageway. Within the earthen dome rest the bones of a hundred or more departed souls, Kings, Warriors, Poets perhaps. This was undoubtedly a hallowed burial place, And it is, For all intents and purposes, The highest place in the world. If you stand atop the mound, You can see to the ends of the earth, To the oceans, And far off rivers, As you approach the passage tomb, Breathing in the morning mists, You can almost feel the presence of the departed as gentle guides. You become aware of a shift in the quality of the light, And the clouds must have parted or diffused to allow a sliver of golden sun through. A shaft of sunlight stretches from the heavens to the earth, Appearing almost solid like a branch on which you could hang your cloak. You marvel as the sparkling sun streams toward the standing stones that gird the entrance to the tomb, Illuminating the passage. How perfectly the sun aligns with the narrow corridor, As if directed by a higher force. There's a hum in the air, A barely audible resonance that seems to warm your very soul. You feel yourself drawn forward toward the mound, Your mind and body pulsing with the frequency of light and sound around you. The world feels thin, Emergent. With your feet poised at the mound's sunlit entrance, You can see deep down the long, Narrow corridor. The light penetrates further than you might expect, Yearning down the passageway, And illuminating the ancient swirls and spiral patterns etched into its stone walls. Mysterious messages banded down the centuries, Protective charms or coded sagas. And as your gaze travels down the long hall toward the dying of the light's rays, You glimpse something unexpected, A human form in silhouette, Cloaked and shadowy. Who would be trespassing on such sacred ground today, You wonder. Summoning your most authoritative voice, You call down the passageway to the stranger, Bidding them show their face. You watch as the figure turns and comes slowly toward you, Stepping inch by inch into the light. He pulls the hood of his cloak down about his shoulders, Revealing a kindly, Wizened face. Dark eyes that shine with whimsy. In one hand, He holds a strange object, A staff or a wand, You think. The sheer oddity of the sight makes the back of your neck prickle. You wonder for a moment if one of those long-departed heroes from the distant past has risen with the sun. For surely the stranger is not of this world. He has a face like none you've ever seen, Etched with rivers of time and sagacity. The stranger steps out of the passage to come face to face with you, Smiling softly. Somehow, His presence puts you at ease. The ringing hum of the land fills your ears as if it's nearer now. A pleasant fuzziness settles over you, Reminiscent of the state you enter just before falling asleep. The bright shaft of sunlight envelops the stranger, Gilding his long, White hair and beard. Beneath his cloak is a shirt ribbed with gold thread, And on his feet are shoes of white bronze. This is no common wanderer, But a sage of exalted position. Now your eyes fall to the staff in his hand. No, Not a staff, You think, Nor a wand, But something in between. It is a sturdy branch round which his fingers curl. Its bark is silver-white, And from it twist knobby stems where hang nine apples of red and gold. It is a wondrous sight to behold, Resembling no earthly apple tree you've come upon. It must have been harvested from the famed Isle of Apples, Where no mortal has yet travelled. As you gaze upon the magnificent branch, Your ears filled with the song of the morning, It occurs to you that this object is the source of that strange and tender music. Yes, Now that it is in your presence, You're certain that the silver branch emits that sweet tune, Which so eases your world-weariness. Whoever this stranger is, He must be very holy or high-born to wear such threads and hold such a treasure. He seems, Also, To bear you goodwill. You ask the old man, From whence he hails, The Isle of Apples, Or some far-off country. The stranger's eyes twinkle, And he answers in a warm, Commanding voice, I come from a country very far and very near, Also. It is a land of truth and nothing more. The sun and moon never rise, Never set. There is no aging or decay, No ache of bones, No hunger or thirst. In my country, The cup is always full, The banquet always set. There is no sadness, No malice, No envy nor pride. Your heart swells to think of such a place. Here, At the seat of kings, Despite the many blessings you may have, There is always the heavy weight of leadership. There is always fear of revolt, Of famine, Of war. And time, Relentless time, Ravages all. A land without the passage of time, Without envy, Without conflict, Only cups overflowing with mead and eternal youth. You dream of a place like this. Surely, The stranger will agree to an alliance and grant you some access to the wonders of his country. You propose a friendship to the old man, For you are the leader of this great country and may have much to offer him. He gladly accepts your offer of alliance. All the while, The silver apple branch commands your attention. It sings sweetly and softly, Gleaming in the narrow sunlight. The stranger notices your interest in his curious regalia. And to your surprise and delight, Extends the branch toward you. As a token of our compact, He says, You shall have this branch. It is from my country, Where the most magnificent apple trees grow, And it will bring you good fortune in the coming days. Mesmerized by the beauty of the branch, You reach forward to grasp it round the middle. But the stranger does not yet release his grip. I shall ask, He continues, In exchange for the branch, That you grant me three requests. Now that you have your hands around the bark, You can truly say that this branch is an object of supreme enchantment. Your desire for it swells. Anything the stranger might ask for would be worth it to attain. So, You nod and agree to the stranger's condition. He lets go of the branch, Relinquishing it to you. It is substantial in your hands, But not as heavy as it looks, Even bearing the weight of the nine lovely apples. Though unattached to a living tree, It has a quality of aliveness, Even of breath. You feel it thrum in your body, Softening your heart. As you gaze on your prize, Enthralled with its beauty and enchantment, The light around you shifts again, The shaft of sunlight closing to the mists. The passage tomb falls once more into shadow. It is many moments before you discover that you are standing alone at the mouth of the burial mound, The stranger having evaporated as swiftly as the sunlight. But still, You clutch the silver branch, This warm and wondrous object from another world. Your energy renewed, You return to the palace to prepare for tonight's banquet. At evenfall, The great hall is alive with music and festivity. The platters are piled high with delicacies and fresh fruit, And every empty goblet is filled at once with the finest mead in the land. The heads of noble houses have come from all around to celebrate the turning of the season in your well-regarded court. At such gatherings, Marriage pacts are often made, New alliances forged, And pledges renewed. Tonight, However, Nothing can turn your guests' attention from the wonder you bear, The gleaming silver branch. Everyone in the hall senses its enchantment, Just as you did in the misty morning. A soft hum emits from it always, Ringing through the court with a pleasing frequency. Its beauty captivates all, And you boast of your encounter with its bringer, An emissary from a distant isle. Surely it's a powerful thing, Then, Someone calls out. No apple tree like it grows on this isle. Courtiers urge you to pass it around, Even to taste the apples. Perhaps they give uncanny strength or eternal youth. But you are loath to remove the glorious fruit of red and gold from the branch. So, Instead, You hold the branch above your head and call for your guests to quiet. Let us see, You boom, What magic this mysterious object commands. As a hush falls over the room, You give the silver branch a wave and flourish. As it swishes through the air, The delicate hum shifts and intensifies into a wistful melody. A music so hypnotic and alluring, Like none you've ever heard upon the earth. A music that can only be called sublime. It rings through the banquet hall, Reverberating off the walls and filling every ear with its unmatched sweetness. You feel a sense of utter serenity settle over you. Your shoulders drop and your face softens. As you look around at your companions and your family, You can see that they are experiencing a similar calm. Every face wears a dreamy smile and every eyelid droops. Your body feels light, Buoyant, And fuzzy. And any sense of heaviness or responsibility melts away from you. All bliss and comfort and contentment take over. The branch continues to hum its tranquil song, Even as your grip loosens and you release it onto the table. With a heaving sigh, You sit back in your chair, Letting your head fall to the side. All the guests of the sparkling banquet similarly slump over their plates as the song of the silver branch echoes on and on. Every soul in the great palace hall sleeps. For many weeks after the banquet, The great slumbering, As it comes to be called, Is the chief topic of conversation at court. Universally, The banquet guests report their experience as blissful, The forgetting of all earthly woes and cares, A surrender to dreamless, Restorative sleep. Fascination with the silver branch increases to a frenzy, With pilgrims traveling from across the nation to witness its miraculous powers and be temporarily soothed of their troubles. And as the months wear on, The magical object never loses its grandeur. The shining apples never wither or rot. The branch continues to glow with enchantment, Always intoning its divine hum. And within a few months, The silver branch is so widely known and you so widely loved for your generosity with its gifts that you refashion your coat of arms. A new banner is woven to display the silver bark and red and golden apples against a field of green. The branch becomes so synonymous with your reign that you put its former bearer out of mind, Almost to the point of forgetting the misty morning on which you encountered the stranger, Almost to the point of forgetting your promise to grant him three wishes. So when, A year to the day, From that morning on the hill, A cloaked wanderer enters the palace for an audience, You do not immediately recognize him. The wanderer kneels, Lowers his hood to reveal his long white hair and beard, And you gasp. I have come, Says the man, To make the first of my three requests, Which you may not deny me by right of the branch in your hand. You welcome the visitor, Thanking him for the blessings the branch has brought to your kingdom. Anything he asks will surely be more than fair repayment. The stranger speaks. I will have your daughter, Eula. Your heart sinks. It cannot be so. Though the branch is a magnificent thing, It cannot be worth the sacrifice of your child. You protest. Surely there must be something else the stranger desires. Gold, A title, A castle even. But the man from the distant isle will not be satisfied with anything less. As he goes forth from the court with Eula in tow, Your sorrow joins a chorus of weeping courtiers. Will you ever see the girl again, You wonder. As the stranger taken her to the Isle of Apples, Where you cannot follow. Overwhelmed with the collective grief, You raise the silver branch overhead and shake it, Welcoming the waves of bliss and forgetfulness it brings. You succumb to sleep, And the welcome, If brief, Respite from sorrow. In the year that follows, You hide the silver branch. Its use, Though bringing sweet relief to so many, Has caused great damage to your family. Perhaps you think, If you refrain from using its magic, The stranger will forget his second and third requests, Considering your deal fulfilled. At the same time, You consult the druids and seer poets of the land, Asking them to peer beyond the world, To search the winds for a way to the Isle of Apples, So you might be reunited with your daughter. The months pass, And the year yields, Mists rising and falling over the ancient earthwork monuments. You await the turning of the season, Dreading the stranger's return. Without fail, He arrives a year to the day since his last visit, Still cloaked and wearing shoes of white bronze. You demand to know the whereabouts of your daughter, But the stranger calmly asks for the granting of his second request. I will have your son, Carbra, He says, And he will hear no protest. The kingdom wails with sorrow as the stranger rides off to the Isle of Apples with your poor son in tow. They disappear into the mists before you can order your men to apprehend them. Plaintive cries echo throughout the kingdom, And your heart knows no comfort. Though you so recently swore against it, You retrieve the silver branch from its hiding place and wave it overhead. Your grief, And the grief of your kingdom, Rests for a time in the soothing slumber of the silver branch. Another year passes. You consult with the druids and poets of the court, Piecing together their verses and prophecies. There must be a way to the Isle of Apples, A way to retrieve your lost children. You feel you get closer to it every day, And still you await the third and final coming of the stranger and his third and final request. When he returns, A year to the day from his last visit to your court, You bear the silver branch as an act of defiance. Whatever he should demand this time, You will not surrender. You will follow him to the ends of the earth if you must. I have come, The stranger says, For the last of my three requests. I will have your queen, Ethna. You might have known this was what he would ask for, But having spent a year collecting the poetry and prophecy of your sages, Divining the course to the other world, You steal yourself. Very well, You say, You shall have her and be gone forever from this kingdom. And so the stranger, In the white bronze shoes, Takes his final boon. But as he rides away, With Ethna on the back of his horse, You follow swiftly behind. You bear the silver branch in one hand and a charm about your neck made by your chief druid. Your court bards chant their strange, Enchanted verse as you pursue the stranger into the settling mists which obscure the countryside. The poems become spells, Weaving a bridge to the other world that you may pass. Into the thick, Billowing mist you travel until you can see nothing but white all around. Even the grass and earth below you becomes like the surface of a cloud. You feel unmoored, Untethered to time or place. You grip the silver branch, Clinging to the steady hum of its vibration as a kind of grounding. Otherwise, You might easily float away. Onward you move through the mist, Directionless, Hoping against hope that your quarry is still within reach. From time to time, And it seems you are traveling for hours or days, You glimpse a shadow in the fog, The silhouette, Perhaps, Of the stranger's horse. You go on. A short time later, Or perhaps an age past, The mist begins to dissipate. Vague forms and colors take shape yonder, As if veils are being slowly lifted from over your eyes, One by one. But the landscape beyond the mist is not familiar. Nothing in the surrounding country you've viewed from the king's seat resembles it. Stepping out of the mist, You behold a world somehow more saturated in hue, Shining with the quality of moonbeams. And yet, Without sun or moon in the sky, Only a hazy silver cloud layer. The branch in your hand hums on, But its tenor changes subtly, Harmonizing with the barely audible music of this strange new land, As if it knows it has come home. You stand upon a great plain, With grasses emerald green and long enough to tickle your knees as they bend in the wind. It is wild country, With none of the farmland or earthwork that marks your home. No road cuts through the landscape, Though gnarled and ancient trees spring up in effortless patterns ahead. You find no hoofprints in the grass, No sign of the stranger or ethno ahead. But you push on, In the same direction, Trusting to the charm round your neck and the silver branch to guide your steps. You listen carefully to the hum of the branch, Tuning to its subtle alterations, Trusting them as clues to suggest you are on the right path. A shallow river joins you from the south and curves in the direction of your travel. You keep to the bank, Thankful for a landmark in this vast and curious land, Before long, You come upon a strange domicile, A house of white silver. Its roof is thatched with what first appears to be cloud fluff, So willowy and delicate it is. But as you draw nearer, You see that the thatch is made from the pure white feathers of birds. A quintet of carpenters are busy at work patching holes in the roof, Their arms full of fresh white feathers. But every time they complete a feather patch, There comes a sudden wind which blows all the feathers up in spirals again. The carpenters hang their heads and start anew. You watch with utter curiosity their bizarre task, Almost forgetting your purpose in this land. The workers take no notice of you, And by the time you've witnessed four ferocious gusts of wind, You feel called to move on. Some ways down the river, You spot a man on the opposite bank and smoke rising from a little fire. You hurry forth to get a better look, But perhaps it is the sandaled stranger who has taken your family. Alas, It is only a hermit you find with a meager fire on which to cook his dinner. You watch as the pitiful fire sputters out and the man sighs, Standing to fetch more kindling. Then you stare in amazement as the man gets his arms round the girth of a great oak tree and pulls it up by its roots. He flings the tree on the fire and at once the flames jump high and strong. But they consume the tree in mere moments, Once again diminishing to an ember. The man sighs again and he goes to fetch another tree. Considering this second strange phenomenon, You continue following the river. The silver branch hums, Its notes vacillating as you go. On the horizon a great hillfort rises. There, You hope, The object of your quest must be. The river bends once more to the south, Bordering the hillfort on one side. You ready yourself for the climb, Which appears steep and arduous. Surprisingly, Though, You traverse the hill with very little effort and come to think of it, You've been travelling through this landscape for many miles already without becoming in the least winded. It's as if you've regained the agility and stamina of youth and then some. When you reach the summit, You gaze upon a fortress with a silver-white wall. Impenetrable as it may appear, The silver gates are swung wide, Inviting you in. You pass through the gates to behold a palace, Mightier than your own by far. Before it lies a pool from which five springs diverge. The pool is ringed with nine hazel trees and as the wind plays through their leaves, They drop hazelnuts into the waiting water. You stand over the edge of the pool and watch as each hazelnut is caught and swallowed by a shining salmon. Sweetly, The music of the springs entwines with the hum of your silver branch. You pull yourself from the well to advance to the palace of white bronze, Feeling deeply that the ones you seek are within. You are welcomed into the fine house by a beautiful man and woman, Both tall and elegant, With flowing golden hair and bronze circlets on their heads. They are robed in gilded finery and their skin appears to glow from within. Never have you beheld two individuals of such awesome beauty and grace. They are certainly more than human. But there is something about the man of the pair, His eyes, His stature. You've never looked upon a face like this and yet you seem to know him. You search your memories for his identity, But you can find no touchstone. The lady of the house remarks that you must be famished from your journey. She calls for the cook to prepare a great feast and the cook begins a fire beneath a cauldron. While you wait, The couple show you to the great hall and bid you sit and rest. Strangely though, You still feel no inkling of weariness or exhaustion despite your long travels. You raise your voice to inquire about your family. Are they here? Have you come to the right place? All will be revealed, Your hosts assure you, In due time. You feel a peculiar sense of calm in their presence. The racing heartbeat, The knitted brow that have accompanied you since the taking of your daughter. Ease as you sink into a chair at the banquet table. It's as if your entire life has been leading you here to this inevitable palace in an immortal world. The urgency of your quest fades. All will be revealed. All will be returned in due time. The man of the house calls to the cook to inquire about supper time. But the cook enters, Bearing a fretful expression. My lord, He says, The cauldron will not boil. Of course, The man responds, It is an enchanted cauldron and it will not cook the feast until four truths have been told. So, We will have a truth from each. A curious custom you reflect. Would you recall many a banquet at which you demanded a tale of wonder before any guest would be served? Is this really so different? The first to tell a truth is the cook who relates the story of how he came by his profession. There was a man in this country, He says, Who kept the finest cows you've ever seen. One morning, I found the lot of them grazing on my land, Seeing how strong and beautiful they were and that they had come to me of their own accord. I claimed them as my own and brought them to the cattle pound. But my neighbor came to beg their release. He promised me a grand reward for the return of his cows, And I agreed. He exchanged that stock of cattle for a large pig. I thought at first I'd been cheated, But I soon found that the pig was large enough to feed the mouths of an entire kingdom. And not only that, For when the pig is killed and cooked and eaten, It appears alive again in the morning. And with this, The cook retreats again to the kitchen, Leaving you awestruck at the fantastical nature of his tale. Always you've heard folk stories of the other world, Where age is unheard of, And there is food and drink aplenty. You know now, Beyond a shadow of a doubt, That this is the land of promise alluded to by the stranger of the silver branch. I shall tell another true story, Says the comely man of the house. When we had newly come to this land from our earlier home, I sent my hardest workers to make the soil rich and suitable for planting. If we were to make a new residence here, We would need the earth to bear fruit to sustain us. But as soon as we found an appropriate plot of land and dreamt of sowing our crops there, We found the fields instantly plowed, Harrowed, And sowed with wheat. When came the reaping season, Before the workers went to the fields to harvest, We found the storehouse filled already with grain. From that day we have subsisted on that same harvest, And the stock of wheat remains as plentiful as ever. You marvel at the thought of a never-dwindling store of grain. What a boon that would be for a kingdom like yours, Where every season carries the fear of failed crop and famine. And now I shall tell my tale, Says the lady. I have seven cows, The milk of which would satisfy the thirst of every man, Woman, And child in the world. Each morning their udders are full again with milk, Sweeter than honey and more bountiful than breath. And I have seven sheep, Whose wool is softer than the finest silk. Once shorn, The wool is spun for the clothing of all who reside here, And by the morning their woolly coats are sprung up anew. Now the eyes of the beautiful lord and lady fall to you. What truth shall you tell to boil the cauldron? Three years ago, You begin, Or longer still, For I seem to have spent many a year in this country. A stranger came to the seat of my kingdom, Bearing this. You present the silver branch, Its apples still as ripe as the day you first laid eyes on them. The face of the man moves, Almost imperceptibly, As if he is resisting the urge to smile. You tell your story, From the appearance of the strange man in the mists and your rash promise to obtain the branch. You tell of the gift's marvelous powers, Its music and mystery, Its ability to wash away worry or care on waves of blissful slumber. And you tell of the stranger's return, How he rode off with your beloved daughter, Son and queen, In succession, How you pursued him into the mists and came to be here in this wondrous country. You recount the unusual sights you witnessed along the way, The men thatching a roof with feathers only to watch their efforts blow away in the wind, The hermit pulling whole trees up by the roots to feed his fire only to see it swiftly extinguished, And the serene pool outside the palace ringed with purple hazel trees that drop their fruit therein. The story brings you here, To the banquet table in the bronze palace. Every aspect of the tale is impossible to believe, But every detail is entirely true. I must confess, My friend, Says the Lord kindly, That many of the events of your story are already known to me. The branch you bear was once mine. You look into the eyes of your gracious host, Stunned that you had not realized it before. Here, In glittering finery, His face youthful and beautiful, His stature no longer stooped but tall and stately, Is the very stranger who first appeared to you at sunrise all those years ago. What you look upon now must be his true form, And the face of the aged wanderer only a disguise. If this is so, You say, Then you are no mortal, And this is truly the land of promise, The Isle of Apples. I, Your host, Declaims, I am Manannan, The son of Lear, And I am king of this country, Which is called Tirnanog. This is my wife, The Lady Fond. You scramble out of your chair to bend the knee, For you are in the presence, Not of kings and queens of equal stature to yours, But of gods. Manannan, Son of Lear, Lord of the seas and tides, And Fond, The fairy goddess of the waterways. But your hosts only laugh, And bid you return to your seat. Such honors are unnecessary here. But then, You say, A spark lighting in your belly, My family, They are here, Are they not? And at your words, The doors at the top of the chamber swing open, And in come Oila, Garbra, And Avna, Each bedecked in otherworldly finery, And radiating as beautifully as the king and queen. You embrace each other with tears in your eyes, And soon the cook and a coterie of servants enter, Bearing platters of meat and bread and fruit for the table. To you, Manannan presents an ornate goblet, Which a server fills with mead. You are struck by the intricacy of swirls and spiral patterns upon the cup, Which are reminiscent of those mysterious symbols carved into the walls of the passage tomb. You remark that this is a finely crafted cup indeed. There is more than beauty and craftsmanship about it, Says your host. This is a cup of truth. If three false words are spoken before it, The goblet will shatter into three pieces. If, Then, Three true words are spoken, It will mend itself. I offer this to take back with you, Along with your family and the silver branch, For you may find it useful as a judge of truth and deception at court. As you sup in the presence of the king and queen of Ternanog, Your hosts share more with you about the strange unfolding of events over these few years. The men you witnessed thatching the house with white feathers are the souls of those who collect material wealth, Cattle, And riches, Who, On leaving their earthly lives behind, Find all those possessions amount to nothing in the realm of the Eternal. And the hermit, Who fed his fire with full and mighty oaks, He was the soul of a young lord who spent beyond his means. Everyone else is served while he readies the feast, All profiting by his efforts, And nothing left for him. Lastly, The pool you came to as you approached the bronze palace, This is the well of knowledge. Whoever drinks from it gains precious wisdom, And knowledge flows too through the five streams it feeds. This is where all knowledge comes from, In this world and in every other. All of these occurrences, Your host continues, Beginning with our first meeting at the seat of kings, Were set in motion by me, All to bring you here to the land of promise, Where we might share in feasting and friendship. And though I will allow you to take your leave of Ternanog when it suits you, Taking along your family and the treasures you hold, Remember that all shall return to my court in the end. Your loved ones, Your treasured possessions, Yourself, We await you here, In the land of youth, Abundance, And joy. But why, You wonder aloud, Of the god's chosen you, Woven such intricate plans around you? Because, Replies Fond, You have the makings of a great leader, A legendary champion of the land and her people, Loved by your subjects and feared by those who would wish to invade. But you are held back from greatness. You are too much enamored with the spoils of court and the seeking of personal glory. Mananan speaks now, Only by losing that which you treasure the most, Your family, Could you put aside your pride and become the leader you were born to be. Your chest swells with a mixture of shame and relief. You see now how swept away you were by the trappings of power and wealth. How you came to see yourself as entitled to treasures like the silver branch or the loyalty of your vassals. How you held those things in such high esteem as to discount that which you hold most precious, The love you have for your queen, Your children. It is much like the love you have for your kingdom. It calls you to service, Responsibility, The head of a family, The head of a state, Does not rule, But serves. This is the great work you are destined for, Not to amass wealth and power, But to care deeply for all those in your charge, To sacrifice your pride in their honor. As you come to this realization, A blissful serenity settles over you, More profound than that induced by the silver branch. The grief, Worry, And fear of the last few years does not vanish or recede, But transforms. It crystallizes within you into something strong, Resilient. You know what it is to lose that which you love, And you know what it takes to recover what's lost. You know how devotion feels now, And it is sweeter, More humbling, More meaningful than any magical euphoria. You look into the eyes of your loved ones around the table, They who have not aged a day in this palace outside time, And you are overcome with tenderness for them. All else is a billow of white feathers in the wind. Full and sleepy from the feast, Your divine hosts escort you to lavishly furnished quarters where you may rest as long as you wish before returning home. The bed is so soft, The light so gentle, And your mind so at ease that you do not need to shake the silver branch to bring yourself to the edge of sleep. It slips over you like a wave, Swiftly and peacefully. You fall into an ocean of dreams. Far away, Mananan, Son of Lear, Drives a shining chariot over the sea. When you wake, Mist meets your eyes, Still full of sleep and slow to open. You stir softly against the silken sheets of your bed before realizing that you lie not upon silk but upon soft and swaying grass. The sun strains through heavy fog to cast an opalescent glow on your surroundings. You turn your head to see the entrance to the passage tomb where you first met the sea god and accepted his bargain. Your son, Daughter, And queen are stirring too. They lie a short distance from you in the grass. They still wear the robes of that otherworldly sheep's wool. In each hand, You hold an object. In your left, You grasp the ornate goblet. In your right, The silver branch. You look to the west, To the farthest ends of the earth you can see. Is it only an illusion of the rolling mists which billow and scud like ocean waves? Or do you catch a gleam of white bronze on the horizon? The hum of the silver branch rings over the valley tuned with the vibration of the golden sun. Your heart swells with love for this land of enchantment, This country entrusted to you for all her people, Animals, Trees, And waterways. In the light of the misty morning, You dedicate yourself to them anew. Deepen your breath in and out, Filling up your belly on the inhale and relaxing the whole body on your exhale. Let your body feel heavy against the surface you're resting on. Release the muscles of the face, Anything you're clenching. Just let go and soften into your space, Melting even. Turn inward and let the breath guide you as you gently, Slowly drop down like a hazelnut dropped from one of nine hazel trees surrounding the well of knowledge. Let yourself sink down deeper into the other world of sleep and dreams. Let your breath flow like mists over shining green country. Soften. Feathers settling on the wind, Floating gingerly down to earth. Drop inward. Soften the body. Soften the face. Ease the mind. As thoughts come, Let them be carried away on the wind or the mist. Spiral down. Spiral inward. I will count backward from ten. As I count down, With each number, Feel yourself turn and sink deeper down, Deeper inward, Dropping level by level toward the threshold of consciousness, Moving down that long corridor that tributary toward sleep. Breathe naturally. Seven. Good night.

Reviews

Thank you Laurel 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻So happy you are back with new stories. I have fallen asleep many times already, hearing just the beginning of the story. This night however, I am wide awake, hearing full stories to the end. It is what it is….🙏🏻🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🙏🏻

Hello Laurel, how I've missed your adventures and storytelling . I fell asleep with this one. So, I'll listen again. Much appreciation. Léna. ☺💕🙏🌻🍃🐱🐱

Powerful!

Best sleep stories! Thank you!

Only heard a bit of the story! Fell right to sleep. 😴 Happy to have a new story 👏👏