The Song Of Stonehenge

In tonight’s sleep story, you travel to Stonehenge, the iconic prehistoric landmark in the United Kingdom. On the way, you contemplate the history and mystery of the monument. On arrival, you find yourself drawn to and amused by the population of birds at the crowded site; you follow one through an invisible portal and find yourself alone on the Salisbury Plain, witnessing a magical sunrise at Stonehenge and listening to the music of the monument. Followed by a soothing visualization.

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Gentle Winds by Ethan Sloan, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Visit a prehistoric monument and get closer to its secrets in tonight's folklore-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.

Listen to my voice for as long as you like,

And when you're ready,

Feel free to let go of the story and relax into sleep.

If you're still awake as the story comes to an end,

I'll guide you through a relaxing meditation for rest.

In tonight's story,

You travel to Stonehenge,

The iconic prehistoric landmark in the United Kingdom.

On the way,

You contemplate the history and mystery of the monument.

Upon arrival,

You find yourself drawn to and amused by the population of birds at the crowded site.

You follow one through an invisible portal and find yourself alone on the Salisbury Plain,

Witnessing a magical sunrise at Stonehenge and listening to the music of the monument.

The band of silver paleness along the east horizon made even the distant parts of the great plain appear dark and near,

And the whole enormous landscape bore that impress of reserve,

Taciturnity,

And hesitation which is usual just before day.

Thomas Hardy,

Tess of the D'Urbervilles Outside the window of the coach,

There seems no end to the undulating hills,

Dappled with hazy sunlight through the clouds.

Countryside whizzes by,

Farmland here and there,

Sheep and cows in the distance,

And the occasional roadside inn or ramshackle house from a century past.

It was an early departure,

But you've been on the road from central London for some time now and the landscape shows it.

Looking out at such vast stretches of undisturbed green,

You couldn't feel further from the frenzied activity of city life,

Despite the busy capital being only a few leagues behind you.

There's been a pleasant quiet aboard the bus since the departure,

Apart from some idle chatter,

Or the muffled spill from another passenger's headphones.

You suspect a few of the other travelers are catching up on sleep,

While others find their own entertainment to pass the lengthy travel time.

You've almost nodded off a few times yourself,

Lulled by the gentle rocking of the coach and the tenderness of the vistas outside the window,

But instead of succumbing to sleep,

You've hovered in this sweet,

Restful place of soft awareness,

A meditative state,

All the way.

And it's just as well,

Now the tour guide Alice picks up the microphone once more,

Delicately rousing the attentions of the passengers.

She wants to draw your attention out the left-hand window,

Where you can get a look at Windsor Castle as you pass by.

And sure enough,

You can see the stately royal residence,

Albeit from a distance,

Its grey stone rotunda and ramparts peeking above the surrounding trees.

Soon that too is behind you,

And the countryside stretches on ahead.

Once or twice,

You nearly nod off to the rhythm of the road,

With the idyllic scenery dancing behind closed eyelids.

Indeed,

You must succumb to sleep at some point,

Coming to as the coach rounds a tight curve,

Because Alice is speaking on the mic again,

Her voice smooth and soft over the speaker.

It won't be long,

She says,

Before you approach the monument,

And she wants to give you some background information and instructions before you arrive.

It's true that Stonehenge is one of the most famous Neolithic monuments in the world,

She says.

And perhaps made all the more fascinating for the mystery that surrounds it.

Who built the earthwork structure and the ring of standing stones?

Where did the stones come from?

And what was this prehistoric site used for?

We have answers to some of these questions,

But many raise further curiosities.

I think you'll find,

When we arrive,

That Stonehenge lends itself nicely to such mystery.

You'll see for yourself.

Alice goes on to describe what's known of the monument's history,

With precisely the enthusiasm you'd expect from someone in her line of work.

Her role in the tourism industry is helping to fund her studies in archaeology.

She explains the agreed-upon timeline of Stonehenge's creation,

Beginning in the Neolithic period with the digging of a circular ditch enclosure.

This was around 3000 BC,

But it wasn't until nearly 500 years later that the first stones,

The large sarsen stones and trilithons of the outer ring,

Went up.

In between,

There's evidence of a timber structure,

And the site may have been used for funerary rites.

But it's the blue stones,

The smaller stones that make up the inner ring of the monument,

That pique most people's interest,

For these igneous rocks are not found in or near Salisbury.

They originated,

Rather,

In Wales,

Nearly 250 km away in what's now Pembrokeshire.

So how did the massive stones manage to travel that long distance?

While theories of the stones being carried along in the movement of glaciers has been recently dismissed,

It's possible they were rolled along the distance or carried by large groups of labourers for the express purpose of erecting the monument.

In any case,

Alice says,

They were certainly brought to this part of the country by concentrated human effort.

When you try to imagine the kind of intention and dedication such an arduous task must have required,

What were they like,

You wonder,

The people who built the monument?

What thoughts filled their minds as they moved the immovable across this great expanse?

The answers to these questions,

It seems,

Are lost to time,

As the culture that put up the stones left no records behind.

But new evidence and discoveries continually emerge,

Alice continues,

Shining new light on the deep past.

There are some things we wonder,

Some we suppose,

And some we dare say we know about Stonehenge.

Public opinion has evolved continuously about the function of the site as well as in regard to the builders.

Twelfth-century writer Geoffrey of Monmouth claimed that Merlin,

The legendary magician and advisor to King Arthur,

Built Stonehenge using his advanced knowledge of machinery and natural philosophy.

He claimed that Merlin brought the stones from Ireland,

Recreating a monument called the Giant's Dance on Salisbury Plain to commemorate the fallen soldiers of Uther Pendragon's army.

Interestingly enough,

Alice says,

We now know that the stones came from a great distance and from the West,

And that Stonehenge may have been a burial ground at some point.

But other theories suggest the stones were erected by the Druids,

The Romans,

And even the Vikings.

These have largely been discounted.

Then there are the more out-there suggestions,

Like the assistance of cultures from beyond the stars.

We err in my opinion,

Alice says,

When we begin to suggest that such monuments can only have been constructed by supernatural or extraterrestrial means.

We underestimate our ancestors this way.

Remember that at the same time as Stonehenge was being constructed,

The Great Pyramid of Giza was underway.

Humankind is capable of extraordinary things,

Especially when working as a collective.

To me,

Knowing our predecessors came together with sheer will and determination to build this long-lasting monument makes it all the more magical.

One thing we do know is that the monument's construction and orientation is mathematically precise,

And whoever erected the stones intended to align them with the movement patterns of the sun,

She continues.

Thus,

Stonehenge is a famous place to observe a sunrise at summer solstice and a sunset in midwinter.

To this day it's held as a sacred festival site for this reason,

Though we still have many questions about whether and how our ancestors worshipped here.

It's undeniable that Stonehenge holds a mythic draw to visitors from all over the world.

I think when we arrive,

You'll be able to sense why,

Even if it can't be easily explained.

It isn't long before the coach turns off the road into the bustling visitor center's lot.

The anticipation mounts as you slow to a halt and hushed,

Excited chatter fills the bus.

Alice passes back tickets and information brochures before directing the passengers to exit and gather outside.

Once you've disembarked,

She offers a few tips and turns you loose with two hours to explore the monument,

Visitor center,

And exhibitions.

She checks her watch and gives everyone a precise time to meet back here.

Some of your tour group make first for the visitor center,

But eager to at last lay eyes On the mysterious monument,

You take the path leading upward to the stones.

It's a strange sort of thing that happens as you climb the ascending path,

Lined with ropes and bordered by long,

Rippling grasses.

When you exited the coach,

You found yourself in the midst of a mild,

Unremarkable spring day.

But with each step toward the stones,

The weather seems to shift.

Moisture droplets form in the air,

A subtle chill wakes,

And the wind rises to run its fingers through your hair.

By the time you reach the highest point,

The atmosphere seems almost to hum or vibrate.

And there,

Beaming under a moony cloud cover,

Silvery and strong against a pale sky,

Is the unmistakable silhouette of Stonehenge.

A shiver runs up your spine,

And a tingle arises at the nape of your neck.

You stop here,

Several paces back,

For a time,

Just to take in the uncanny splendor of it.

You brush the hair from your face,

Whipped by a friendly yet chaotic wind.

You are one of many on the elevated plain,

A steady stream of visitors climb the path and curl around the perimeter of the stone circle.

Watching from this distance,

The people shrink and mill about,

Each moving at their own pace on this quiet spiral dance,

Rolling hills and forests beyond.

Your feet feel heavy on the ground,

And the grasses tickle your ankles.

It's as if something is alive and enchanted here,

Something that binds you to mystery.

Stonehenge has called to you,

Across land and sea.

But the string of curious,

Perambulating tourists are not your only company here on the plain.

Calls and whistles hang on the wind,

And a bevy of glossy black birds graze in the grasses,

Perch on the stones,

Or take wing against the clouds.

Some gather conspiratorially in groups of three or four,

While others keep to themselves.

But in whatever occupation they take up,

It seems to you that each of these birds is deeply aware,

Keeping their shiny eyes on the visitors.

Aloof and ever-watching,

They appear to you as guardians of the stones.

The brilliant first impression cast upon your memory as if in burnished bronze.

You begin to move with the crowds,

Closer to the monument.

You trace the same circle,

Feeling your footfalls meet the same soil,

Trod upon by years,

Generations of visitors.

How much,

You wonder,

Can the ground have changed since those Iron Age laborers first stacked the stones?

Surely much of the old world remains intact beneath your feet,

Broken pottery buried deep,

The descendants of ancient microorganisms in the soil,

Despite the world evolving at a breakneck speed above.

One of the vocal black birds keeps a curiously close distance.

It seems like every time you turn your head,

Shielding your face from the wind or observing a shift in the light,

The same creature is still hopping along a few paces behind you.

It's amusing,

Like being followed by an inquisitive puppy.

This particular bird is distinguished from the mob of crows by a pale patch near the base of his beak,

Signaling to you that he is,

In fact,

A rook.

The subtle dance continues between you.

You'll take a few steps,

Stop to admire the curve of one of the massive sarsen stones,

Then look to see the rook inch closer to you once more,

Cocking his head as if to pretend nonchalance that he hasn't been following you with keen attention.

Rooks are intelligent and social birds,

But you can't say you've ever thought of them as particularly interested in humans.

You haven't got any open food in your pockets it might be scrounging after.

What is it then,

You wonder,

That this persistent bird sees in you?

But after all,

The rook isn't causing you any harm or distress,

And more than anything,

You find its interest endearing.

So you carry on,

Observing the majesty of the monument.

Stonehenge sparkles from every angle,

It seems,

A marvel of resilience and longevity.

You are struck most by its taciturn opaqueness.

The silent stones,

Upright and crosswise,

Holding vigil in their broken circle,

Invite endless inquiry,

Yet solemnly refuse to unlock.

To behold them is to surrender,

You think,

To a benevolent stoicism.

They do not yield,

Neither to fierce gales nor to fierce interrogation.

They do not relent.

Something about this is hopeful,

You suppose,

The reminder that while much is lost on the march of time,

Some things,

However maddeningly mystifying,

Remain.

You've nearly made your way round the far side of the circle,

Opposite the path you climbed to reach the plain's highest point.

You consider the myths about Merlin,

King Arthur's legendary enchanter,

Who,

According to some,

Moved or magicked the stones here from Ireland to recreate the Giant's Dance.

From where you stand,

The towering sentinels might be giants,

Frozen in the midst of festivity.

How strange to see movement,

Dance,

In such a symbol of stillness.

Yet there it is.

This place is working its wonders,

Deep within your mind.

The rock,

Still nearby,

Pecks at the grass.

And then,

With the spontaneity of the earth's most unburdened creatures,

He launches from the ground and takes flight,

Passing so low and close to your shoulder,

You can feel the wind stirred up by his wingbeats.

You watch as he makes a lazy circle,

Buffeted by the breeze above the monument,

Releasing a chirping caw.

Then he circles lower and lower until he nears you once again.

He hangs there for an instant,

Seemingly hovering at your eye level,

Before whizzing forth to fly between the sarsens and under one of the lintel stones,

Like one passing through a door.

Then he's gone.

At first you think he's made up such speed that you've missed him zooming out of sight.

But there in his wake remains a strange disturbance in the air,

Like ripples in a pond.

You look around to see if anyone else can see what you're seeing,

But no other visitor seems peaked.

Yes,

You think,

There underneath the lintel,

If you shift your gaze a little,

The color of the air changes subtly,

Like looking at a hologram.

It's as if there is a barely perceptible film stretched taut between the stones,

A veil which faintly shimmers under the overcast sun.

And the rook,

Your curious companion,

Has just crossed that nearly invisible barrier.

But to where?

The longer and more intently you behold the glimmer between the stones,

The less apparent it is,

The more it fades or evaporates like late morning dew.

You consider that it all might be a trick of the light,

Elicited by your state of mind here in this ancient,

Sacred place.

You almost move on,

But something in you can't quite let it go.

The uncanny shifting of the nigh invisible veil,

And what feels like the beckoning of the rook from beyond.

Whatever is stretched under the lintel,

Glinting gauzily,

And whatever lies on the other side,

The window is swiftly closing.

It's a gust of dewy breeze that brings your hand wringing to an end,

Lifting you from immobility.

A wind rises to your back,

Twining under your arms like satin ribbons,

Pushing,

Tugging you toward the circle of stones.

A gentle nudge is all it takes.

Without a further thought,

And without concern for the English heritage workers who might come running to stop you,

You step over the rope barrier and make a blissful dash for the doorway.

You follow the rook.

It is a sensation like tumbling through cool,

Rushing water,

Or a whirlwind of breeze.

Passing through the invisible veil,

Your whole body erupts in fuzzy tingles which slowly disperse as you find yourself on the other side of the threshold.

At the moment of the crossing,

You involuntarily closed your eyes,

And you open them now,

Blinking rapidly as they adjust to the sudden darkness.

Not a pitch black,

But a reserved gray,

In which all forms flatten to fuzzy hues like a dream.

There is such exquisite stillness on this side of the doorway,

None of the blustery winds or vibrating moisture of before,

And none of the chatter or movement of tourists.

And yet,

You are still in the same place.

Yes,

As the shapes emerge around you,

They are unmistakable.

You stand among the stones,

Within the circle,

Alone.

With slight hesitation,

You place a hand upon the nearest stone.

It's cold to the touch,

But there's something about it that grounds you,

Warms you,

Makes you feel centered.

It's now that you realize you're not,

In fact,

Alone.

Perched atop the lintel,

Silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky,

Is your rook.

His presence comforts you.

He led you here,

To this place of peace.

Rooks and their cousins,

The crows and the ravens,

Have a reputation in folklore as psychopomps,

Stewards of the liminal,

And shepherds to the other world.

He is a guide,

A guardian,

And a companion.

You're grateful that he chose to light the way for you.

The quality of the darkness is changing around you now.

It takes some time to acclimate,

To determine whether your vision is simply adjusting,

Or if,

As it seems,

Light is returning to the sky.

The textures of your surroundings are becoming more distinct.

Feathers of fine rosy pink over the eastern horizon soon answer the question.

And indeed,

All the land,

Even the stones,

Seem to thrum with the ancient,

Gentle anticipation of sunrise.

This is what they wait for.

You can feel the vibrations of the earth in your feet.

In time,

A thread of liquid sunlight crests over the distant hills,

Crimson on the dark.

Your rook greets the first glimpse of light with an emphatic call,

Then flits into the air,

Soaring eastward.

He is all black against the sky,

Which lightens to a pale,

Pinkish gradient.

You watch the line of his flight,

Graceful and smooth,

His wings fluid,

Until you must squint at the increasing sunlight,

And the bird vanishes.

You wonder if you were meant to follow him,

But your body,

Feeling immensely relaxed and heavy,

Resists taking any step forward.

You're like one of the stones,

You think,

Held here in the stillness and silence of sunrise.

And soon,

You hear the call of your feathered companion again,

This time a twittering song.

He returns,

His silhouette growing from a minuscule speck on the horizon to a fluttering presence,

The sun scaling behind him.

It's like he's drawing the sun forth on his wings.

As he approaches,

You can see that,

In a sense,

He is.

Tied around his feet like a length of thread is a golden string,

Bright as the dawn.

He is tethered to a sunbeam.

It stretches taut,

Emerging from the heart of the rising sun.

He draws it onward,

Coming closer,

Till at last he reaches the monument and you.

The rook glides through the nearest trilith,

Bearing his glowing golden thread.

He passes overhead,

His feathers glossy blue in the changing light.

Under another lintel,

Across the circle he goes,

Then quickly changes direction,

Stringing the beam of light around the sarsen.

On he flies,

Stretching the string between sarsens and bluestones in an elegant,

Star-like pattern.

The rook loops gracefully round the heelstone to complete his masterpiece,

Tying off the string of sunlight there and coming to rest upon it.

As the sun rises beyond,

The stones shimmer,

Picking up peach and silver hues.

The strings gleam,

Almost too bright to look upon.

You are immersed in the heart of a pulsing web of golden threads,

Stretched tight like strings on a loom.

You think of the string games you played as a child,

Like Cat's Cradle,

The intricate play of fingers and strings,

Xs and loops that unfold into more and more complex designs.

And then,

With a feeling of warm familiarity,

It strikes you that what the spectacle most resembles is an enormous stringed instrument.

The earth shivers beneath your feet.

You reach out with one hesitant hand,

Expecting to feel immense heat from the nearest string.

But to your surprise,

It radiates only a welcoming warmth.

Then,

With a gesture decisive and firm,

You pluck the thread of sunlight as you would the string of a harp.

What follows is the sweetest,

Most sublime of sounds,

A tone so clear and warm it resonates deep in your chest,

In your limbs,

And in the place where your feet meet the soil.

It sends shivers down your spine and sets the blades of grass to stand on end.

You watch the string oscillate,

Riding a wave which slowly diminishes to a quaver and stillness.

But the note rings for a long spell and its echo against the standing stones for longer still,

Generating harmonics that form a sonic container.

When finally something like silence resumes,

You can still feel the physical effect of the vibrations within,

As if something within your body has shifted,

Risen to meet the song.

You pick up your heavy feet from their place of comfort on the grass and move to reach for another length of string,

This one stretched between a trilith and a smaller bluestone from the inner ring.

You grasp the thread and strum.

A new note emerges,

Brighter and higher in pitch,

But no less blissful to the ear.

At the sound of it,

Your chest swells as if you've taken the deepest,

Most satisfying breath of your life.

You feel lifted and inspired as to the very clouds.

You raise your eyes and ears to the sky where it seems the note aspires and listen for its echo on the unseen stars above.

You move forth to try another string and another,

Experimenting with the sounds to create the most euphoric melodies and harmonies.

All the while,

Your rook companion observes from the heelstone,

Which reverberates back its own harmonics.

Standing in the center of the sun-strung stonehenge,

You are bathed in music,

In mellifluous tones.

The frequencies entwine with your thoughts,

Your breath,

Your heartbeat,

Tuning you to a celestial harmony.

All is sweet and shining within the web.

Here,

You could be made of light and sound,

Wave upon wave.

You might well be within the very center of the universe,

Radiating the unending music of the spheres.

When the strings at last hum into stillness and the final resonant echoes diminish into the silence of the stones and soil,

The sun crests over the monument.

Your rook guardian leaves his post at the heelstone and comes to rest upon your shoulder.

His gentle weight there works upon you like the muffling of a drumhead.

He absorbs some of your trembling and you his.

Together you stand watch,

Part of and within stonehenge.

Here,

In the soft light,

For the first time,

You recognize the completeness of the monument.

It is not the ruin you approached from the visitor's center,

But the fullest achievement of construction.

There are more stones,

More lintels,

An unbroken colonnade.

None have fallen or weathered.

But you understand that you are outside of time here,

Not in some distant past,

But carried into the deepest expression of the monument's purpose.

You are,

You think,

Inside the song of its soul.

You breathe together with the rook and the sun and the grass and the strings.

You are at peace.

How long you remain here,

Standing sentinel among the stones,

You can't say.

Some other force,

Beyond your sheer will,

Eventually moves you from the spot.

Left to your own devices,

You might never have wanted to move.

Perhaps the rook lifted you on his wings and pushed you back through the portal,

A glittering veil spread beneath the lintel.

The awareness comes back to you slowly,

Gradually,

Like waking from a dream or rousing from the deepest meditation.

It's the delicate breeze between your fingers that first alerts you of the change in your surroundings.

The quiet stillness,

The quivering hesitation of the other world is gone,

Replaced with mist and chatter.

Crows gather on the sarsens,

Watching the constant rotation of visitors around the outer circle.

You stand before the great trilithon,

Searching for a shimmer that's no longer there.

The rook pecks at the grass near your feet.

A voice,

Like a bell,

Sounds behind your left shoulder.

Marvelous,

Isn't it?

It's Alice,

The tour guide.

No matter how many times I visit,

There's always something new to discover.

Makes you sort of hope we never really understand it.

You know what I mean.

You take in a deep breath and contemplate her words.

The air is moist and energizing.

Yes,

You say.

I know exactly what you mean.

Somewhere deep in your chest,

A song still resonates.

It floats in your head like wisps of gauzy light,

And you reach for it,

Unable to quite grasp the melody.

But your heart still beats to that song,

And it always will,

No matter how far you travel from this spot.

With a half smile etched across your lips,

You resume the ambling spiral around the stones.

The dance of visitation,

Inquiry,

And ultimate amusement.

The march of radical mystery.

Take a deep breath in,

Filling your lungs and belly completely,

And exhale slowly,

Releasing any tension or stress.

Inhale deeply,

And imagine that with your breath,

You are calling in the healing energy of your surroundings,

And with your exhale,

You are releasing whatever is no longer serving you,

Creating an exchange of energies.

Begin to visualize your breath as a wave of light,

With crests and troughs glowing brighter on your inhale,

And dimmer on your exhale.

Let the changing light be smooth and fluid,

Light flowing to darkness to light again,

Letting your body relax more and more as you go.

Now as you breathe deeply,

Imagine that your breath has a musical sound,

A warm resonant tone that's unique to you,

Calming and beautiful.

With each inhale,

Let that blissful tone nourish you through and through,

And with each exhale,

Let your music reach out into the universe,

Mingling there with the songs of all other beings,

And creating the most elegant harmony.

Feel how the music you make with the universe calms and relaxes you,

Grounds you,

Makes you feel safe.

And feel also how it nurtures the world,

Your friends and family,

Your passions,

Your environment.

Feel how you ring in harmony with the whole of the universe.

As you continue to breathe,

Bring your awareness to your toes,

Allowing the calming energy to flow through them.

Feel the tension melt away as this cosmic harmony works its way up through your ankles,

Calming and soothing every muscle it touches.

And let this gentle wave of relaxation move up through your lower legs,

Knees and thighs,

Leaving a trail of harmonic tranquility in its wake.

Now let this feeling of warmth and relaxation move through your hips,

Pelvis and lower back.

Sense the resonant tone spreading through your abdomen,

Releasing any stress you're storing there.

Allow this soothing energy to flow through your chest,

Your shoulders and down your arms.

Feel the gentle waves of cosmic harmony moving through every muscle and joint,

Bringing a sense of ease and relaxation.

And allow yourself to surrender to stillness,

Even as your breath provides a constant source of exchange with the universe.

Feel how even at rest,

You are intertwined with the music of the cosmos.

You are a center point,

A creator and a participant in the most sublime harmony.

So,

Ease into deep relaxation,

Breathe,

And tune in.

Sweet dreams.

Reviews

Always the best stories.

Blessedly I fell asleep! Loved what I heard and will definitely listen again! 💫😴🙏🌀💫🙏

I fell asleep right away

Thank you, Laurel🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻Night after night, I have been falling asleep with anticipation, yet never quite making it further than the start. This morning, I realized how little I had picked up of this beautiful, enchanting, mesmerizing story. Totally delightful. It made me look through my photo albums to find my pictures of Stonehenge…what a way to start Easter morning!🙏🏻🌟💗🌟🙏🏻

Another deeply moving, emotionally nurturing episode. These stories are so healing. Thank you!

Love it, Laurel. Alice seems to have some special knowledge as well as our narrator and one wonders if the rook once befriended her too… a beautiful story ❤️

Amazing— as always you bring richness and magic to reality… thank you and Bright Blessings💥💐🙏🏽