Drift off with The Whirlpool by Lord Dunsany, a short, dreamlike fantasy of the sea, ancient gods and the Happy Isles, read aloud by Martin Hewlett on Books at Bedtime, the sleep story series from Calming Anxiety.
Going down one day to the shore of the great sea, our storyteller comes upon the Whirlpool himself, lying on the sand and stretching his huge limbs in the sun. "Who art thou?" he asks. And the giant tells his tale.
For a hundred years at a time, he stands on the ocean floor, midway between two cliffs, guarding the straits against every ship that seeks the further seas. He takes the waters in both hands and whirls them around his head, as the tall ships come gliding on with their sailors singing. In their last cry he hears all their songs and hopes and loves, and even the wind in the forests where their timbers grew.
The story
Transcribed from the audio, so the odd word may be off. Tap any line while it plays to keep the words in step with Martin's voice.
Books at bedtime by calming anxiety. The Whirlpool by Lord Dunciny. Once going down to the shore of the great sea, I came upon the Whirlpool, lying prone upon the sand and stretching his huge limbs in the sun. I said to him, "Who art thou?"
And he said, "I am named Newswimmer, the well-mer of ships, and from the straits of ponder obed I am come. Wherein it is my want to vex the seas. There, I chased the vieting with my hands when he was young and strong. Then he slipped through my fingers and away into the weed forests that grow below the storms in the dusk on the floor of the sea.
But at last I caught and tamed him. From there I lurk upon the ocean's floor, midway between the knees of either cliff, to guard the passage of the straits from all the ships that seek the further seas. And whenever the white sails of the tall ships come swelling around the corner of the crag out of the sunlit spaces of the known sea and into the dark of the straits, then standing firm upon the ocean's floor with my knees a little bent. I take the waters of the straits in both my hands and whirl them around my head.
But the ship comes gliding on with the sound of the sailors singing on her decks, all singing songs of the islands and carrying the rumour of their cities to the lonely seas. Till they see me, they have suddenly astride a thwart their course and are caught in the waters as I whirl them around my head. Then I draw in the waters of the straits towards me and downwards, nearer and nearer to my terrible feet. And here in my ears above the roar of the waters, the ultimate cry of the ship.
Just before I drag them to the floor of the ocean and stamp them a sander with my wrecking feet. Ships utter their ultimate cry. And with it go the lives of all the sailors and the passes of the soul of the ship. And in the ultimate cry of ships are the songs the sailors sing and their hopes and all their loves and the song of the wind among the masts and timbers when they stood in the forest so long ago.
And the whisper of the rain that made them grow and the soul of the tall pine tree or oak.
All this as ship gives up in one cry when she makes it the last. And at that moment I would pity the tall ship if I might, but a man may feel pity who sits in comfort by his bioside telling tales in the winter. No pity are they permitted ever to feel who do the work of the gods. And so when I have brought her circling from around my shoulders to my waist and vents with her masts all sloping inwards to my knees and lower still and downwards till her top mast penance flutter against my ankles then I, news one, well met of ships, lift up my feet and crample her beams of sander and there go up again to the surface of the straits only a few pro-continbers and the memories of the sailors.
And of their early loves to drift forever down the empty seas. Once in every hundred years for one day only I go to rest myself along the shore and to sun my limbs on the sand that all the ships may go through the unguarded straits and find the happy isles. And the happy isles stand midmost among the smiles of the sunny further seas. And there the sailors may come upon the content and log for nothing or if they long for ought they shall possess it.
There comes not time with his devouring hours nor any of the evil of the gods of men. Those are the islands where to the souls of the sailors every night put in from all the world to rest from going up and down the seas to behold again the vision of their off intimate hills that lift their orchids high above the fielding face of sunlight. And for a while again to speak with the souls of the old. Not about the dawn dreams Twitter and arise and circling thrice around happy isles set out again to find the world of men.
Then follow the souls of the sailors as at evening with slow stroke of stately wings the heron follows behind the flight of the multitudinous rugs. The souls returning find awakening bodies and endure the toil of the day such of a happy isles where unto few have come save but is roaming shadows in the night and for only a little while. But longer than is needed to make me strong and fierce again I may not stay. And as set of sun when my arms are strong again and when I feel in my legs that I can plant them fair and bent upon the floor of the ocean then I go back to take a new grip upon the waters of the straits and to guard the further seas again for a hundred years because the gods are jealous, less too many men shall pass to the happy isles and find content.
For the gods have not content.