Speaker 1: Hello, and welcome back to Sleepy Stories. I'm your host, Lucy,
and my friends and I will be reading you a
sleepy bedtime story every week to relax you and to
help you to drift off into a RESTful sleep. From
time to time, we will also read you a relaxing,
peaceful meditation that will take you somewhere beautiful and calming.
Once we have read the stories, we will then read
them a second time, but this time they will be
ready even slower. This will help you to relax even more.
Before we begin, I would like you to close your
eyes and breathe in and out nice and deeply. Take
a few seconds to inhale, and then hold your breath
for a few seconds more, and then release and breathe out.
Do this a few times if you need to. While
you listen to the music and you listen to my voice,
give yourself time to let your body relax and your
mind settle. It's important that we allow time for us
to feel safe, cozy, and completely at ease. And now
it's time for this week's story.
Speaker 2: The Island of Borrowed Dreams, far out on a quiet
stretch of ocean, where the waves preferred whispering to roaring.
Their sailed a sailor named Arthur Bellamy, who had developed
a very unusual problem. Arthur could not remember the last
time he had properly slept. This was not for lack
of trying. He had tried hammocks, blankets, warm tea, counting stars,
counting waves, and once in a moment of desperation, counting
extremely slow sea gulls. But sleep always hovered near by,
like a polite guest who had somehow misplaced the door.
Arthur's ship, a modest blue vessel called the Patient Tide,
drifted slowly across the dark water beneath the sky, so
wide and deep that even experienced sailors sometimes felt like
very small punctuation marks in a very large sentence. The
sea was calm that evening. It rose and fell in long,
thoughtful swells that seemed less interested in traveling somewhere and
more interested in remembering how to breathe. Arthur leaned against
the railing and stared out at the horizon. A lantern
swayed gently above him, its light rocking back and forth
like a sleepy pendulum. Another evening, then, Arthur muttered to himself.
The ocean did not reply. The ocean almost never replied. Still,
sailors often spoke to it anyway, because the sea had
a way of listening that made a person feel slightly
less alone. Arthur rubbed his eyes and sighed. Being awake
for too many nights in a row had made the
world feel slightly out of focus. Cloud drifted slowly across
the moon, like quiet ships passing through silver fog. Somewhere
far away, a whale exhaled with a deep, patient breath.
Arthur watched the ripples spread across the water. Then he
noticed something strange. A faint glow had appeared on the horizon.
It was not the sharp white beam of a lighthouse,
nor the orange flicker of another ship. This glow was softer.
It shimmered gently, like lantern light filtered through fog and
old memories. Arthur leaned forward. Well now, he said, quietly,
that is new. The patient tie drifted closer. The glow
grew larger and warmer, until the dark outline of land
slowly emerged from the mist. An island. Arthur frowned thoughtfully.
He had sailed these waters many times and knew the
charts almost by heart, Yet he did not remember any
island sitting here in the middle of the quiet sea.
The island was small. Soft hills rose from the shoreline
like folded blankets. Strange lanterns hung from low trees, their
golden lights swaying gently in the night breeze. The entire
island seemed to glow the way a room glows when
someone has fallen asleep beside a fire. Arthur scratched his beard.
I suppose I could take a closer look, he said
to the ocean. The ocean continued, being very calm about
the whole situation. The patient tide drifted toward the shore,
as if it had already decided this was an excellent idea.
Soon the ship bumped softly against a small wooden dock.
Arthur stepped down carefully. The dock creaked politely beneath his boots.
Warm light from the hanging lanterns spilled across the sand
and drifted out over the water like slow moving honey.
Arthur walked a few steps along the shore. The sand
felt strangely soft, as if it had once been clouds
and had only recently decided to try being sand instead.
Beyond the beach stood a small collection of cottages built
from pale wood and smooth stone. Their windows glowed warmly.
Thin trails of smoke curled lazily from their chimneys. Yet
the island seemed very quiet, not empty exactly, just peaceful,
in the way a house becomes peaceful when everyone inside
has fallen asleep. Arthur wandered slowly along a narrow path.
The lanterns hanging from the trees gave off a gentle,
humming sound, almost like someone breathing very slowly. As he
reached the center of the island, he noticed a small
wooden see sign beside the path. The letters had been
carved with careful, patient hands. Arthur leaned closer to read it.
Welcome to the Island of Borrowed Dreams. Arthur blinked. Well,
that sounds promising, he murmured. Just then a voice spoke
behind him, You look like someone who could use one.
Arthur turned slowly. Standing beside a crooked little cottage was
an elderly woman wrapped in a long sea green coat.
Her silver hair drifted softly in the breeze, and her
eyes held the quiet sparkle of someone who had seen
many interesting nights. Married a lantern shaped like a sleeping
moon Arthur removed his hat politely. Good evening, he said,
Arthur Bellamy. The woman nodded warmly. Keep her Eliza, she replied,
you arrived at a good hour. Arthur glanced around the
peaceful island. I must admit, he said, I did not
expect to find an island here. That is quite normal,
said Eliza. Most people don't find it until they need it.
Arthur considered this. That sounds mysterious, he said. It is
also quite practical, she replied. Arthur smiled faintly. I haven't
slept properly in weeks, he admitted. Eliza lifted her lantern slightly.
Its warm light flickered like a gentle heartbeat. Yes, she
said softly. I could tell the moment you stepped on
to the dock. Arthur looked surprised. You could, of course,
said Eliza. The island notices things like that. She gestured
toward the glowing cottages. Every dream you see here has
been borrowed, she explained. People arrive when their sleep has
wandered away from them. They borrow ad for the night,
and in the morning they usually remember how to sleep again.
Arthur looked slowly across the lantern lit village. Somewhere in
the distance, he thought he heard the soft murmur of
people dreaming peacefully. That sounds almost too helpful, he said.
Eliza smiled knowingly. It works better than most remedies sailors try,
she said. Arthur laughed quietly. That may be true. Eliza
turned and began walking down the path. Come along, she said, gently,
We keep the dreams in the lighthouse. Arthur followed her
through the soft glowing lantern trees. Ahead, at the far
end of the island, a tall, round lighthouse stood watching
the sea. But instead of shining a bright guiding beam
across the water, the lighthouse windows glowed with hundreds of slow,
drifting lights. They moved gently inside the tower, like fireflies
made of moonlight. Arthur stopped in amazement. What are those,
he whispered. Eliza lifted her lantern toward the tower. Dreams,
she said, softly, borrowed ones waiting for sailors who had
forgotten how to rest. Arthur stared at the glowing tower
for the first time in many nights. He felt the
quiet beginning of sleep gently knocking at the door of
his mind, and somewhere high inside the lighthouse, one particular
dream flickered a little brighter, as though it had been
waiting patiently for a sailor named Arthur Bellamy to arrive.
Arthur stood quietly for a moment at the base of
the lighthouse, while the soft, drifting lights moved behind the
tall round windows above him, like slow, thoughtful fireflies. The
tower hummed very faintly, not loudly enough to hear exactly,
but just enough that the air seemed full of patient breathing.
Keeper Eliza opened the wooden lighthouse door with the calm
familiarity of someone who had done so for many quiet years.
Inside a spiral staircase curved upward through the tower walls
like a path winding through a tall seashell. The glowing
lights drifted lazily through the open center of the staircase,
rising and falling in gentle circles. Arthur removed his hat
and stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of salt, warm
lantern oil, and something else that was harder to describe.
It smelled like the moment just before sleep arrives. Eliza
began climbing the steps slowly. Arthur followed behind her. As
they climbed, the drifting lights smooth moved around them. Some
floated past Arthur's shoulder, Others hovered near the staircase railing,
as if curiously observing the new arrival. Arthur noticed that
each light glowed slightly differently. Some shone pale blue like
moonlit waves. Others glimmered warm gold, like distant windows on
a winter evening. One flickered softly in shades of lavender
and silver, like fog illuminated by starlight. Arthur paused half
way up the stairs. Each one is a dream, he said, quietly. Yes,
said Eliza, borrowed from travelers, sailors, wanderers, and the occasional
insomniac baker. Arthur nodded thoughtfully. I imagine bakers have very
complicated dreams, he said, mostly about bread that refuses to behave.
Eliza replied. They continued climbing. The staircase eventually opened into
a wide, circular room near the top of the lighthouse.
Here the lights floated more freely, drifting through the air
like slow glowing lanterns carried by an invisible tide. Arthur
stepped carefully into the room. The dreams moved gently around him.
One drifted close enough that Arthur felt a faint warmth
against his cheek. What happens now, he asked. Eliza set
her lantern on a small wooden table. Now you choose one,
she said. Arthur studied the floating lights. There were dozens
of them, perhaps hundreds. Each one pulse softly, as if
breathing in its own quiet rhythm. How do I know
which one to borrow? He asked. Eliza smiled, You usually don't,
she said. That part rarely works the way people expect.
Arthur folded his arms thoughtfully. Just then, a soft golden
dream floated slowly past his shoulder. Inside the he thought
he could see the faint shape of a quiet beach
beneath a sunset. Sky Waves rolled gently onto the sand.
A hammock swayed between two palm trees. Arthur watched it
drift by. That one looks pleasant, he murmured. Before he
could reach for it, the golden light drifted lazily away
toward the far side of the room. Arthur shrugged. I
suppose dreams have preferences, he said. Eliza nodded calmly. Some do.
Another dream drifted past, This one glowed a cool, deep
blue inside it. Arthur glimpsed the slow, drifting shapes of
enormous whales swimming through a star filled ocean. He leaned closer.
That one seems peaceful, too, he said. But the blue
dream floated upward out of reach, like a curious bubble,
rising toward the ceiling. Arthur scratched his beard thoughtfully. I'm
beginning to suspect they are avoiding me, he said. That
happens sometimes, said Eliza, They're simply deciding. Arthur looked around
the room again. The dreams circled slowly through the lighthouse,
like quiet thoughts moving through a sleepy mind. Then one
light near the center of the room flickered slightly brighter.
It was smaller than the others, a soft silver glow
with hints of pale green drifting through it like morning mist.
The little dream floated toward Arthur, slowly, not quickly, not dramatically,
just calmly, drifting closer until it hovered in front of him.
Arthur leaned forward. Inside the light, he could see something unexpected,
a small wooden boat rocking gently on calm water beneath
the sky full of slow, steady stars. The boat looked familiar,
very familiar. Arthur tilted his head slightly. That looks like
the patient tide, he said softly. Eliza glanced at the
dream and smiled. Ah. She said that one has been
waiting here for quite a while. Arthur looked surprised waiting,
he asked, Yes, said Eliza, some dreams belong to people
who haven't arrived yet. Arthur watched the small glowing light carefully.
Inside the dream, the little boat drifted peacefully across silver water.
Lanterns swayed gently, The sky was calm, the sea breathed slowly.
Arthur suddenly felt a deep quiet settling over him, like
a warm blanket. That one feels right, he murmured. The
dream flickered once, as if nodding politely. Arthur reached out
the moment his fingers touched the silver glow, the dream
dissolved softly into the air, like mist touched by sunlight.
The lighthouse room grew very quiet. Arthur blinked once, then twice.
A slow, comfortable sleepiness rolled through him, like a calm
tide returning to shore.
Speaker 1: Oh.
Speaker 2: Arthur said softly, that works quickly. Eliza chuckled quietly. They
usually do, she said. Arthur's eyelids began growing heavy. The
warm lantern light, the drifting dreams, the soft hum of
the lighthouse, all of it wrapped around him like the
gentlest lullaby. Eliza lifted her lantern again. Come along, she said, softly,
there's a small room downstairs where travelers rest. Arthur nodded
sleepily and followed her down the spiral staircase. The drifting
dreams above continued their slow, peaceful dance inside the lighthouse.
Soon Arthur lay in a small wooden bed beside a
round window overlooking the calm ocean. The silver dream had
settled gently in his mind. He could already feel the
quiet boat drifting across calm water beneath patient stars. For
the first time in many long nights, Arthur Bellamy closed
his eyes and allowed the tide of sleep to carry
him away and far above in the lighthouse tower, the
remaining dreams floated quietly onward, waiting patiently for the next
weary traveler who might some day wander ashore in need
of a borrowed night of rest. The island of borrowed dreams,
far out on a quiet stretch of ocean, where the
waves preferred whispering to roaring. Their sailed a sailor named
Arthur Bellamy, who had developed a very unusual problem. Arthur
could not remember the last time he had properly slept.
This was not for lack of trying. He had tried hammocks, blankets,
warm tea, counting stars, counting waves, and once in a
moment of desperation, counting extremely slow seagulls. But sleep always
hovered nearby, like a polite guest who had somehow misplaced
the door Arthur's ship, a modest blue vessel called the
Patient Tide, drifted slowly across the dark water beneath the sky,
so wide and deep that even experienced sailors sometimes felt
like very small punctuation marks in a very large sentence.
The sea was calm that evening. It rose and fell
in long, thoughtful swells that seemed less interested in traveling
somewhere and more interested in remembering how to breathe. Arthur
leaned against the railing and stared out at the horizon.
A lantern swayed gently above him, its light rocking back
and forth like a sleepy pendulum. Another evening, then, Arthur
muttered to himself. The ocean didn't reply. The ocean almost
never replied. Still, sailors often spoke to it anyway, because
the sea had a way of listening that made a
person feel slightly less alone. Arthur rubbed his eyes and sighed.
Being awake for too many nights in a row had
made the world feel slightly out of focus. Clouds drifted
slowly across the moon, like quiet ships passing through silver fog.
Somewhere far away, a whale exhaled with a deep, patient breath.
Arthur watched the ripples spread across the water. Then he
noticed something strange. A faint glow had appeared on the horizon.
It was not the sharp white beam of a lighthouse,
nor the orange flicker of another ship. This glow was softer.
It shimmered gently, like lantern light filtered through fog and
old memories. Arthur leaned forward. Well now, he said, quietly,
that is new. The patient tide drifted closer, the glow
grew larger and warmer, until the dark outline of land
slowly emerged from the mist. An island. Arthur frowned thoughtfully.
He had sailed these waters many times and knew the
charts almost by heart, Yet he did not remember any
island sitting here. In the middle of the quiet sea.
The island was small. Soft hills rose from the shoreline
like folded blankets. Strange lanterns hung from low trees, their
golden lights swaying gently in the night breeze. The entire
island seemed to glow the way a room glows when
someone has fallen asleep beside a fire. Arthur scratched his beard.
I suppose I could take a closer look, he said
to the ocean. The ocean continued, being very calm about
the whole situation. The patient tide drifted toward the shore,
as if it had already decided this was an excellent idea.
Soon the ship bumped softly against small wooden dock. Arthur
stepped down carefully. The dock creaked politely beneath his boots.
Warm light from the hanging lanterns spilled across the sand
and drifted out over the water like slow moving honey.
Arthur walked a few steps along the shore. The sand
felt strangely soft, as if it had once been clouds
and had only recently decided to try being sand instead.
Beyond the beach stood a small collection of cottages built
from pale wood and smooth stone. Their windows glowed warmly.
Thin trails of smoke curled lazily from their chimneys. Yet
the island seemed very quiet, not empty exactly, just peaceful,
in the way a house becomes peaceful when everyone inside
has fallen asleep. Arthur wandered slowly along a narrow path.
The lanterns hanging from the trees gave off a gentle,
humming sound, almost like someone breathing very slowly. As he
reached the center of the island, he noticed a small
wooden sign beside the path. The letters had been carved
with careful, patient hands. Arthur leaned closer to read it.
Welcome to the Island of Borrowed Dreams. Arthur blinked. Well,
that sounds promising, he murmured. Just then a voice spoke
behind him, You look like someone who could use one.
Arthur turned slowly. Standing beside a crooked little cottage was
an elderly woman wrapped in a long sea green coat.
Her silver hair drifted softly in the breeze, and her
eyes held the quiet sparkle of someone who had seen
many interesting nights. She carried a lantern shaped like a
sleeping moon. Arthur removed his hat politely. Good evening, he
said Arthur Bellamy. The woman nodded warmly. Keep her Eliza,
she replied, you arrived at a good hour. Arthur glanced
around the peaceful island. I must admit, he said, I
did not expect to find an island here. That is
quite normal, said Eliza. Most people don't find it until
they need it. Arthur considered this. That sounds mysterious, he said.
It is also quite practical, she replied. Arthur smiled faintly.
I haven't slept properly in weeks, he admitted. Eliza lifted
her lantern slightly. It's warm light flickered like a gentle heartbeat. Yes,
she said softly. I could tell the moment you stepped
on to the dock. Arthur looked surprised. You could, of course,
said Eliza. The island notices things like that. She gestured
toward the glowing cottages. Every dream you see here has
been borrowed, she explained. People arrive when their sleep has
wandered away from them. They borrow a dream for the night,
and in the morning they usually remember how to sleep again.
Arthur looked slowly across the lantern lit village. Somewhere in
the distance, he thought he heard the soft murmur of
people dreaming peacefully. That sounds almost too helpful, he said.
Eliza smileild knowingly. It works better than most remedies sailors try,
she said. Arthur laughed quietly. That may be true. Eliza
turned and began walking down the path. Come along, she said, gently,
We keep the dreams in the lighthouse. Arthur followed her
through the softly glowing lantern trees. Ahead, at the far
end of the island, a tall, round lighthouse stood watching
the sea. But instead of shining a bright guiding beam
across the water, the lighthouse windows glowed with hundreds of slow,
drifting lights. They moved gently inside the tower, like fireflies
made of moonlight. Arthur stopped in amazement. What are those,
he whispered. Eliza lifted her lantern toward the tower. Dreams,
she said, softly, borrowed ones, waiting for sailors who had
forgotten how to rest. Arthur stared at the glowing tower
for the first time, and many nights he felt the
quiet beginning of sleep gently knocking at the door of
his mind, and somewhere high inside the lighthouse, one particular
dream flickered a little brighter, as though it had been
waiting patiently for a sailor named Arthur Bellamy to arrive.
Arthur stood quietly for a moment at the base of
the lighthouse, while the soft, drifting lights moved behind the
tall round windows above him, like slow, thoughtful fireflies. The
tower hummed very faintly, not loudly enough to hear exactly,
but just enough that the air seemed full of patient breathing.
Keeper Eliza opened the wooden lighthouse door with the calm
familiarity of someone who had done so for many quiet years.
Inside a spiral staircase curved upward through the tower walls
like a path winding through a tall seashell. The glowing
lights drifted lazily through the open center of the staircase,
rising and falling in gentle circles. Arthur removed his hat
and stepped inside. The air smelled faintly of salt, warm
lantern oil, and something else that was harder to describe.
It smelled like the moment just before sleep arrives. Eliza
began climbing the steps slowly. Arthur followed behind her. As
they climbed the drifting lights moved around them. Some floated
past Arthur's shoulder, others hovered near the staircase railing, as
if curiously observing the new arrival. Arthur noticed that each
light glowed slightly differently. Some shone pale blue like moonlit waves,
others glimmer warm gold, like distant windows on a winter evening.
One flickered softly in shades of lavender and silver, like
fog illuminated by starlight. Arthur paused half way up the stairs.
Each one is a dream, he said, quietly. Yes, said Eliza,
borrowed from travelers, sailors, wanderers, and the occasional insomniac baker.
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. I imagine bakers have very complicated dreams,
he said, mostly about bread that refuses to behave. Eliza replied.
They continued climbing. The staircase eventually opened into a wide,
circular room near the top of the lighthouse. Here the
lights floated more freely, drifting through the air like slow
glowing lanterns carried by an invisible tide. Arthur stepped carefully
into the room. The dreams moved gently around him. One
drifted close enough that Arthur felt a faint warmth against
his cheek. What happens now, he asked. Eliza set her
lantern on a small wooden table. Now you choose one,
she said. Arthur studied the floating lights. There were dozens
of them, perhaps hundreds. Each one pulsed softly, as if
breathing in its own quiet rhythm. How do I know
which one to borrow? He asked. Eliza smiled, You usually don't,
She said. That part rarely works the way people expect.
Arthur folded his arms thoughtfully. Just then, a soft golden
dream floated slowly past his shoulder. Inside the glow, he
thought he could see the faint shape of a quiet
beach beneath the sunset sky waves rolled gently onto the sand.
A hammock swayed between two palm trees. Arthur watched it
drift by. That one looks pleasant, he murmured. Before he
could reach for it, the golden light drifted lazily away
toward the far side of the room. Arthur shrugged. I
suppose dreams have preferences, he said. Eliza nodded calmly. Some do.
Another dream drifted past. This one glowed a cool, deep
blue inside it. Arthur glimpsed the slow, drifting shapes of
enormous wails swimming through a star filled ocean. He leaned closer.
That one seems peaceful, too, he said. But the blue
dream floated upward out of reach, like a curious bubble,
rising toward the ceiling. Arthur scratched his beard thoughtfully. I'm
beginning to suspect they are avoiding me, he said. That
happens sometimes, said Eliza, They're simply deciding. Arthur looked around
the room again. The dreams circled slowly through the lighthouse,
like quiet thoughts moving through a sleepy mind. Then one
light near the center of the room flickered slightly brighter.
It was smaller than the others, a soft silver glow
with hints of pale green drifting through it like morning mist.
The little dream floated toward Arthur, slowly, not quickly, not dramatically,
just calmly, rifting closer until it hovered in front of him.
Arthur leaned forward. Inside the light, he could see something unexpected,
a small wooden boat rocking gently on calm water beneath
a sky full of slow, steady stars. The boat looked familiar,
very familiar. Arthur tilted his head slightly. That looks like
the patient tide, he said softly. Eliza glanced at the
dream and smiled. Ah. She said that one has been
waiting here for quite a while. Arthur looked surprised waiting,
he asked, Yes, said Eliza, some dreams belong to people
who haven't arrived yet. Arthur watched the small glowing light carefully.
Inside the dream, the little boat drifted peacefully across silver water.
Lanterns swayed gently, The sky was calm, the sea breathed slowly.
Arthur suddenly felt a deep quiet settling over him, like
a warm blanket. That one feels right, he murmured. The
dream flickered once, as if nodding politely. Arthur reached out
the moment his fingers touched the silver glow. The dream
dissolved softly into the air, like mist touched by sunlight.
The lighthouse room grew very quiet. Arthur blinked once, then twice.
A slow, comfortable sleepiness rolled through him, like a calm
tide returning to shore.
Speaker 1: Oh.
Speaker 2: Arthur said softly, that works quickly. Eliza chuckled quietly. They
usually do, she said. Arthur's eyelids began growing heavy. The
warm lantern light, the drifting dreams, the soft hum of
the lighthouse, all of it wrapped around him like the
gentlest lullaby. Eliza lifted her lantern again. Come along, she said, softly,
there's a small room downstairs where travelers rest. Arthur nodded
sleepily and followed her down the spiral staircase. The drifting
dreams above continued their slow, peaceful dance inside the lighthouse.
Soon Arthur lay in a small wooden bed beside a
round window overlooking the calm ocean. The silver dream had
settled gently in his mind. He could already feel the
quiet boat drifting across calm water beneath patient stars. For
the first time in many long nights, Arthur Bellamy closed
his eyes and allowed the tide of sleep to carry
him away and far above in the lighthouse tower, the
remaining dreams floated quietly onward, waiting patiently for the next
weary traveler, who might someday wander ashore in need of
a borrowed night of rest. The island of borrowed dreams,
far out on a quiet stretch of ocean, where the
waves preferred whispering to roar there sailed a sailor named
Arthur Bellamy, who had developed a very unusual problem. Arthur
could not remember the last time he had properly slept.
This was not for lack of trying. He had tried hammocks, blankets,
warm tea, counting stars, counting waves, and once in a
moment of desperation, counting extremely slow seagulls. But sleep always
hovered nearby, like a polite guest who had somehow misplaced
the door. Arthur's ship, a modest blue vessel called the
Patient Tide, drifted slowly across the dark water, beneath a
sky so wide and deep that even experienced sailors sometimes
felt like very small punctuation marks in a very large sentence.
The sea was calm that evening. It rose and fell
in long, thoughtful swells that seemed less interested in traveling
somewhere and more interested in remembering how to breathe. Arthur
leaned against the railing and stared out at the horizon.
A lantern swayed gently above him, its light rocking back
and forth like a sleepy pendulum. Another evening, then, Arthur
muttered to himself. The ocean did not reply. The ocean
almost never replied. Still, sailors often spoke to it anyway,
because the sea had a way of listening that made
a person feel slightly less alone. Arthur rubbed his eyes
and sighed. Being awake for too many nights in a
row had made the world feel slightly out of focus.
Clouds drifted slowly across the moon, like quiet ships passing
through silver fog. Somewhere far away, a whale exhaled with
a deep, patient breath. Arthur watched the ripples spread across
the water. Then he noticed something strange. A faint glow
had appeared on the horizon. It was not the sharp
white beam of a lighthouse, nor the orange flicker of
another ship. This glow was softer. It shimmered gently, like
lantern light filtered through fog and old memories. Arthur leaned forward.
Well now, he said, quietly, that is new. The patient
tide drifted closer, the glow grew larger and warmer, until
the dark outline of land slowly emerged from the mist.
An island. Arthur frowned thoughtfully. He had sailed these waters
many times and knew the charts almost by heart, Yet
he did not remember any island sitting here in the
middle of the quiet sea. The island was small. Soft
hills rose from the shoreline like folded blanks. Strange lanterns
hung from low trees, their golden lights swaying gently in
the night breeze. The entire island seemed to glow the
way a room glows when someone has fallen asleep beside
a fire. Arthur scratched his beard. I suppose I could
take a closer look, he said to the ocean. The
ocean continued, being very calm about the whole situation. The
patient tide drifted toward the shore, as if it had
already decided this was an excellent idea. Soon the ship
bumped softly against a small wooden dock. Arthur stepped down carefully.
The dock creaked politely beneath his boots. Warm light from
the the hanging lanterns spilled across the sand and drifted
out over the water like slow moving honey. Arthur walked
a few steps along the shore. The sand felt strangely soft,
as if it had once been clouds and had only
recently decided to try being sand instead. Beyond the beach
stood a small collection of cottages built from pale wood
and smooth stone. Their windows glowed warmly. Thin trails of
smoke curled lazily from their chimneys. Yet the island seemed
very quiet, not empty exactly, just peaceful, in the way
a house becomes peaceful when everyone inside has fallen asleep.
Arthur wandered slowly along a narrow path. The lanterns hanging
from the trees gave off a gentle, humming sound, almost
like someone breathing very slowly. As he reached the center
of the island, he noticed a small wooden sign beside
the path. The letters had been carved with careful, patient hands.
Arthur leaned closer to read it. Welcome to the Island
of Borrowed Dreams. Arthur blinked. Well, that sounds promising, he murmured.
Just then a voice spoke behind him, You look like
someone who could use one. Arthur turned slowly. Standing beside
a crooked little cottage was an elderly woman wrapped in
a long sea green coat. Her silver hair drifted softly
in the breeze, and her eyes held the quiet sparkle
of someone who had seen many interesting nights. She carried
a lantern shaped like a sleeping moon. Arthur removed his
hat politely. Good evening, he said, Arthur Bellamy. The woman
nodded warmly. Keep her Eliza, she replied, you arrived at
a good hour. Arthur glanced around the peaceful island. I
must admit, he said, I did not expect to find
an island here. That is quite normal, said Eliza. Most
people don't find it until they need it. Arthur considered this.
That sounds mysterious, he said. It is also quite practical,
she replied. Arthur smiled faintly. I haven't slept properly in weeks,
he admitted. Eliza lifted her lantern slightly. It's warm light
flickered like a gentle heartbeat. Yes, she said softly. I
could tell the moment you stepped on to the dock.
Arthur looked surprised. You could, of course, said Eliza. The
island notices things like that. She gestured toward the glowing cottages.
Every dream you see here has been borrowed, she explained.
People arrive when their sleep has wandered away from them.
They borrow a dream for the night, and in the
morning they usually remember how to sleep again. Arthur looked
slowly across the lantern lit village. Somewhere in the distance,
he thought he heard the soft murmur of people dreaming peacefully.
That sounds almost too helpful, he said. Eliza smiled knowingly.
It works better than most remedies sailors try, she said.
Arthur laughed quietly. That maybe true. Eliza turned and began
walking down the path. Come along, she said, gently, We
keep the dreams in the lighthouse. Arthur followed her through
the softly glowing lantern trees. Ahead, at the far end
of the island, a tall, round lighthouse stood watching the sea.
But instead of shining a bright guiding beam across the water,
the lighthouse windows glowed with hundreds of slow, drifting lights.
They moved gently inside the tower, like fireflies made of moonlight.
Arthur stopped in amazement. What are those, he whispered. Eliza
lifted her lantern toward the tower. Dreams, she said, softly,
borrowed ones, waiting for sailors who had forgotten how to rest.
Arthur stared at the glowing tower for the first time,
and many nights he felt the quiet beginning of sleep
gently knocking at the door of his mind, and somewhere
high inside the lighthouse one particular dream flickered a little brighter,
as though it had been waiting patiently for a sailor
named Arthur Bellamy to arrive. Arthur stood quietly for a
moment at the base of the lighthouse, while the soft,
drifting lights moved behind the tall round windows above him,
like slow, thoughtful firefly. The tower hummed very faintly, not
loudly enough to hear exactly, but just enough that the
air seemed full of patient breathing. Keeper Eliza opened the
wooden lighthouse door with the calm familiarity of someone who
had done so for many quiet years. Inside a spiral
staircase curved upward through the tower walls like a path
winding through a tall seashell. The glowing lights drifted lazily
through the open center of the staircase, rising and falling
in gentle circles. Arthur removed his hat and stepped inside.
The air smelled faintly of salt, warm lantern oil, and
something else that was harder to describe. It smelled like
the moment just before sleep arrives. Eliza began climbing the
steps slowly. Arthur followed behind her. As they climbed the
drifting lights moved around them. Some floated past Arthur's shoulder,
others hovered near the staircase railing, as if curiously observing
the new arrival. Arthur noticed that each light glowed slightly differently.
Some shone pale blue like moonlit waves. Others glimmered warm gold,
like distant windows on a winter evening. One flickered softly
in shades of lavender and silver, like fog illuminated by
star light. Arthur paused half way up the stairs. Each
one is a dream, he said, quietly. Yes, said Eliza,
borrowed from travelers, sailors, wanderers, and the occasional insomniac baker.
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. I imagine bakers have very complicated dreams,
he said, mostly about bread that refuses to behave. Eliza replied.
They continued climbing. The staircase eventually opened into a wide,
circular room near the top of the lighthouse. Here the
lights floated more freely, drifting through the air like slow
glowing landns carried by an invisible tide. Arthur stepped carefully
into the room. The dreams moved gently around him. One
drifted close enough that Arthur felt a faint warmth against
his cheek. What happens now, he asked. Eliza set her
lantern on a small wooden table. Now you choose one,
she said. Arthur studied the floating lights. There were dozens
of them, perhaps hundreds. Each one pulsed softly, as if
breathing in its own quiet rhythm. How do I know
which one to borrow? He asked. Eliza smiled, You usually don't,
She said. That part rarely works the way people expect.
Arthur folded his arms thoughtfully. Just then, a soft golden
dream floated slowly past his shoulder. Inside the glow, he
thought he could see the faint shape of a quiet
beach beneath the sunset sky waves rolled gently onto the sand.
A hammock swayed between two palm trees. Arthur watched it
drift by. That one looks pleasant, he murmured. Before he
could reach for it, the golden light drifted lazily away
toward the far side of the room. Arthur shrugged. I
suppose dreams have preferences, he said. Eliza nodded calmly. Some do.
Another dream drifted past. This one glowed a cool, deep
blue inside it. Arthur glimpsed the slow, drifting shapes of
enormous whales swimming through a star filled ocean. He leaned closer.
That one seems peaceful, too, he said. But the blue
dream floated upward out of reach, like a curious bubble,
rising toward the ceiling. Arthur scratched his beard thoughtfully. I'm
beginning to suspect they are avoiding me, he said. That
happens sometimes, said Eliza, They're simply deciding. Arthur looked around
the room again. The dreams circled slowly through the lighthouse,
like quiet thoughts moving through a sleepy mind. Then one
light near the center of the room flickered slightly brighter.
It was smaller than the others, a soft silver glow
with hints of pale green drifting through it like morning mist.
The little dream floated toward Arthur, slowly, not quickly, not dramatically,
just calmly, drifting closer until it hovered in front of him.
Arthur leaned forward. Inside the light, he could see something unexpected,
a small wooden boat rocking gently on calm water beneath
a sky full of slow, steady stars. The boat looked familiar,
very familiar. Arthur tilted his head slightly. That looks like
the patient tide, he said softly. Eliza glanced at the
dream and smiled. Ah. She said that one has been
waiting here for quite a while. Arthur looked surprised waiting,
he asked, Yes, said Eliza, some dreams belong to people
who haven't arrived yet. Arthur watched the sma more glowing
light carefully. Inside the dream, the little boat drifted peacefully
across silver water. Lanterns swayed gently, The sky was calm,
the sea breathed slowly. Arthur suddenly felt a deep quiet
settling over him, like a warm blanket. That one feels right,
he murmured. The dream flickered once, as if nodding politely.
Arthur reached out the moment his fingers touched the silver glow,
The dream dissolved softly into the air, like mist touched
by sunlight. The lighthouse room grew very quiet. Arthur her
blinked once, then twice. A slow, comfortable sleepiness rolled through him,
like a calm tide returning to shore.
Speaker 1: Oh.
Speaker 2: Arthur said softly, that works quickly. Eliza chuckled quietly. They
usually do, she said. Arthur's eyelids began growing heavy. The
warm lantern light, the drifting dreams, the soft hum of
the lighthouse, all of it wrapped around him like the
gentlest lullaby. Eliza lifted her lantern again. Come along, she said, softly,
there's a small room downstairs where travelers rest. Arthur nodded
sleepily and followed her down the spiral staircase. The drifting
dreams above continued their slow, peaceful dance inside the lighthouse.
Soon Arthur lay in a small wooden bed beside a
round window overlooking the calm ocean. The silver dream had
settled gently in his mind. He could already feel the
quiet boat drifting across calm water beneath patient stars. For
the first time in many long nights, Arthur Bellamy closed
his eyes and allowed the tide of sleep to carry
him away and far above in the lighthouse tower, the
remaining dreams floated quietly onward, waiting patiently for the next
weary traveler, who might someday wander ashore in need of
a borrowed night of rest.