Here Be Dragons | Sleep Story
Have you ever wondered what lies at the edge of the known world? In this sleep story, we return to the candlelit rooms of 16th-century patient makers of maps, the cartographers, and follow them as they trace familiar lands and mark the places that remain unknown. Drawing on the rare historical phrase "hic sunt dracones", here be dragons, this story reimagines dragons as the calm keepers of the unknown. Blending history, imagination, and a soothing body scan, I invite you to snuggle in, roll up the map of your day, let unanswered questions rest, and drift into a deep, peaceful sleep. Story by Susan Guttridge Music Credit: Liborio Conti
Transcript
Hey there,
Thank you for tuning in for this bedtime story.
My name is Susan,
And I'm glad you're here.
In this sleep story,
We'll explore an old phrase once associated with maps and uncharted lands.
Here be dragons.
While these words appear rarely on actual historical maps,
The phrase has come to represent the way we mark the edges of what we know.
Tonight,
Dragons are not dangers.
They are simply symbols of the unknown.
The places not yet explored.
The questions not yet answered.
I'll be using this old cartographic imagery as a metaphor for our own nervous system.
The way we hold emotion in our body.
And for the places we don't need to resolve as we fall asleep.
You don't need to hold on to any of this information to try to remember it as you listen.
Simply let it settle into the background.
Like a map folded and set aside as the story carries you towards sleep.
If you happen to wake in the night and you notice your mind beginning to stir,
Press play again.
Let your thoughts drift into the background.
Follow the sound of my voice and allow yourself to ease back into sleep.
This is your time to rest.
You don't have to figure out anything right now.
So settling into this moment.
I'm letting your breath mark the shift from the day that's ending into the rest that's beginning.
With the room comfortably dark around you.
And if it feels right,
Your eyes closing.
Give your body a stretch.
Sinking even more deeply into your bed.
You could notice the temperature around you,
How it feels just right.
The sheets or blankets resting around you,
Their weight soothing and steady.
Like a hug.
Feeling your head settle even more onto the pillow.
Your neck and shoulders softening,
Supported.
As you settle in for rest,
I invite you to hold a simple intention in your mind.
Just a little reminder.
I give myself permission to let the day melt away.
This is my time to rest.
And repeating it one more time,
Just to yourself.
I give myself permission to let the day melt away.
This is my time to rest.
And now,
Let's begin your story.
To understand this story,
We must first meet the cartographer,
The maker of maps.
The one who listens closely to the shape of the world.
A cartographer gathers what has been discovered.
The feel of the land beneath steady feet.
The rhythm of water moving along a shore.
And slowly,
Thoughtfully,
Gives it form.
They are guided by curiosity rather than urgency.
By patience rather than force.
They learn the world by paying attention.
And then translate what they've noticed into lines gentle enough to rest upon paper.
Tonight,
The cartographer works in a quiet room.
Sitting in a comfortable chair at a wide wooden table.
Candles made of beeswax,
Their flame glowing softly against stone walls.
The faint scent of dried lavender rests in the air.
Stretched out before him on the table are sheets of parchment.
Smoothed by careful,
Unhurried hands.
Brass instruments lie nearby.
A compass that opens and closes with a gentle click.
Rulers worn smooth at the edges.
And a quill made from the feather of a wandering bird.
The cartographer's work is patient work.
It asks for steadiness.
A willingness to sit with what is known without rushing toward what is not.
Curiosity guides the hand.
Creativity finds its own pace.
And nothing is forced into shape before it's ready.
And hour by hour,
The quill moves easily across the parchment.
Guided by an expert hand and a keen eye.
Coastlines take shape,
Tracing the memory of ships that have returned safely to shore.
Rivers find their way across the page.
Following paths long familiar to the land.
Mountains rise in careful strokes of ink.
Each one shaped by journeys already taken,
Already survived.
These are places that have been walked,
And sailed,
And known.
The cartographer recognizes them at a glance.
And then there are the edges.
At the far reaches of the parchment,
The ink grows lighter.
The lines slow,
Then pause.
Beyond them lies what has not yet been traveled.
Not empty,
Just unnamed.
You see,
Long ago,
When people were still learning how wide,
How vast the world could be,
When much of it had not yet been walked or sailed,
Cartographers did not leave these places blank on their maps.
Instead,
They filled the unknown with symbols.
Winding sea creatures drifting through open water.
Great shapes curling near the borders of land.
These markings were not declarations of danger.
They were acknowledgments,
A way of saying,
Our knowing ends here,
But the world continues.
On one small globe,
Made more than 500 years ago,
Near the far edge of what was known,
A cartographer etched a few words in Latin,
Which translated,
Read,
Here be dragons.
It's a phrase that has captured imaginations for centuries,
Though it appears only rarely in history.
Picture that small globe now in your mind's eye.
It wasn't a large,
Imposing map,
But actually a delicate sphere made of copper called the Hunt Lennox Globe,
Crafted around the year 1510.
And it has an elder twin,
Even more remarkable,
A map etched into the delicate surface of an ostrich egg,
Dating back to around 1504.
Its surface,
Pale and smooth,
A fragile shell holding the entire known world,
Both small enough to be cradled in two hands.
And at the same time,
Others were mapping on a grander scale.
In the quiet libraries of Rome,
During 1527 to 1539,
A man named Olaus Magnus crafted the Carta Marina.
Nine vast sheets of parchment,
Five feet wide,
Filled with the geography of the north,
Mountains,
Churches,
And seas,
Where dragons were drawn as magnificent sea creatures,
Curling through the waves.
Whether etched on a tiny egg or a giant map,
These symbols were not warnings.
They were a way of marking mystery.
Over time,
The telling of the phrase grew.
What had begun as a rare inscription became a shared story,
Passed from map to memory,
From history into imagination.
Writers,
Storytellers,
And dreamers carried it forward,
Letting those dragons linger at the edges of their tales,
Where curiosity could gather.
And perhaps that is how it was always meant to be,
Not as a warning,
But as an invitation to wonder,
A reminder that there may be more to this world than we see at first glance.
As you lay here in bed,
Your eyes heavy,
Preparing for sleep,
Feel that same invitation unfold within you.
Like the vast five-foot sheets of the Carta Marina,
You have a wide open space inside,
A place where there is plenty of room for everything you are and for everything you don't yet need to know.
All those years ago,
Most maps used no words at all.
Instead,
The creatures at the edges did all the speaking.
They said,
Our knowing ends here,
But the world continues.
They honored what had not yet been mapped.
The cartographer in this room understands this deeply.
He knows that every map has a center,
Places traced again and again,
Paths softened by familiarity.
These are the regions where travel feels steady,
Where the body recognizes the way.
And every map has edges,
Not dangers,
Just limits of knowing,
Places where exploration belongs to another time.
Tonight,
The cartographer does not lean toward those borders.
There is no need to press outward.
The center of the map is warm and complete.
As you rest,
You might imagine this map as something familiar,
Not something to study,
But something that knows you.
The parchment lies open,
Supported by the table beneath it,
Solid,
Trustworthy.
Along the outer margins,
The dragons appear,
Not fierce,
They are ancient and slow.
Their movements unhurried.
They curl themselves gently around the edges of the map,
Tails looping,
Wings folding in like soft velvet curtains.
Their breath is a slow,
Rhythmic hum,
A quiet vibration that you can almost feel.
Steady and low,
Matching the quiet beat of your own heart.
They are not guarding against anything.
They're holding.
Holding the questions,
Holding the unfinished lines,
Holding what can wait until morning.
And now the cartographer's work is finished for the day.
The cartographer leans back slightly,
The chair giving a soft creak beneath his weight.
He lets his hands rest in his lap,
Palms open as his eyes take in the map as a whole.
The center is clear,
The paths are steady,
The edges are held.
And in this quiet moment,
A thought stirs,
Settling into his awareness.
It's an understanding that doesn't arrive as words,
Only as ease.
A knowing that the map does not need to be finished in order to be enough,
That the edges do not threaten the center,
They simply define it.
The dragons resting along the margins are not waiting to be faced or feared or fought.
They are already doing their work,
Holding what is unfinished,
Unknown,
So the rest of the world can be at ease.
The cartographer smooths the parchment once more,
Then rolls the map carefully,
The edges turning inward.
The candle flame flickers,
Softens and fades,
Leaving the room wrapped in a deep amber quiet.
Nothing more needs to be known tonight,
The unknown has a place to rest.
The dragons settle,
The map is closed.
The quill is returned to its center,
Stand,
The brass compass still and clicked closed,
And you remain safely within the known,
Held,
Drifting beyond the lines,
Beyond the words,
Into the wide unmapped peace of sleep.
If you find yourself still awake,
Linger here longer,
Resting comfortably in your bed.
There's nothing to do,
Nothing to catch up on,
Just resting as the story settles into your body.
Noticing the rhythm of your breath,
Not trying to change it,
Just following it as it flows in.
And as your breath keeps that rhythmic pace,
I'll guide you through a body scan to help you drift off to sleep.
Begin by noticing the places where your body is supported,
The weight of your body on the mattress,
The sheets around you like a hug,
Just as the map was held by the table beneath it.
Not changing anything,
Just noticing what is already there and held.
And bringing your awareness to your feet,
Noticing how they are so comfortable,
Already heavy,
As though they've reached a familiar,
Well-worn place on the map.
Letting your calves and knees soften and relax.
Imagining the tension dissolving like ink in water,
Allowing that sense of ease to flow upward like a quiet tide.
Filling your belly and chest with a slow,
Steady calm.
With each breath,
Notice how the center of your chest remains steady.
Slightly longer exhale out.
If you notice any area of tension,
Consider it just as a dragon in the margin,
Not something to be fought,
But something to be held with patience.
The breath arrives,
Stays for a moment,
And then leaves again,
Taking any remainder of tension with it.
Your shoulders can loosen,
Your arms resting easily,
Peacefully at your sides.
The hands that held the day's tasks are now open,
Relaxed,
Fingers soft,
Palms comfortably warm.
Like the cartographer's tools set aside on the wooden table,
Your hands have no more work to do tonight.
They are already at rest.
Your neck and jaw can relax.
The muscles around your eyes soften.
Your forehead smooths as though the ink itself is drying and settling.
And if you notice any places of tightness,
Any areas of tension,
Just notice how the breath arrives,
Reaches there,
And leaves.
And when the breath moves on,
When you exhale out,
Anything that's ready can soften with it.
Nothing forced.
Everything in its own time.
Just as the cartographer allowed the edges of the map to remain,
You might imagine the dragons resting nearby.
Not to fix or fight or figure out,
But to hold with patience.
Nothing more needs to be known tonight.
Remember,
The dragons were really never about danger.
They were about wonder,
About pausing at the edge of certainty,
And honoring what had not yet been named.
The dragons are holding the questions of the world with patience now.
Like those ancient maps,
Our inner worlds also have places of knowing and places still unfolding.
But nothing more needs to be known tonight.
The unknown is allowed to rest.
The dragons are keeping watch.
And you are free to drift safely within the known into the quiet,
Unmapped peace of sleep.
Here be dragons.
Good night,
And sweet dreams,
Friend.
5.0 (8)
Recent Reviews
Jackie
January 26, 2026
This helped me return to sleep when I woke in the middle of the night. Thank you.