Entry III: Alchemist’s Mead, A Story of Beautiful Grief

Recorded by Aisling, Keeper of Memories

The way the trees speak in the Celestial Grove never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes, the memories are fleeting moments. Other times, they are lifetimes distilled.

Everything felt heavy that day. I should have known. The autumn equinox sun hung high. The air was wet. I journeyed where the Grove called me.

A willow by the eastern river stood out as I walked. I approached. Its sprawling branches veiled the trunk in a curtain of vermillion. It called me deeper still. I parted the branches and pressed my hand against the gnarled, glorious trunk. I knelt between two roots and leaned into the bark, grateful for the shade. A ripple shimmered above my head, easy to mistake for sunlight through the canopy. A silver seed coalesced softly into existence. The leaves hushed.

It had been a month since sorrow last planted a memory in the Celestial Grove. As a keeper, I carry every memory. But sorrow always brings me to my knees. It is necessary. It is difficult. And it is my honor to be changed by each one.

I closed my eyes, breathed deep, and took the seed in hand. The Grove fell away.

When the memory settled around me, I realized I had shape-shifted without knowing. I felt warm. I stretched out my hand: a small paw covered in midnight fur.

Forty years since I’d last been a cat. And it had been even longer since I’d Dream-walked and shape-shifted at once.

I padded through a small cabin. In the corner by the hearth, an old man sat scribbling at a desk, his pen strokes sharp and erratic. The room hummed with quiet tension. My ears twitched. I leapt onto the desk. Calloused hands lifted me from the desk and shooed me away. Language was useless here, so I observed instead.

An extra plate sat on the table. A quilt wrapped around the man’s shoulders; two names embroidered near the neck: Ambrose and Rosemary. A pit formed in my stomach. The scent of cleaning supplies still clung to the air, mixed with a sickly sweetness and a layer of perfume. Someone had tried to mask grief with hickory smoke instead of fresh air.

I climbed a nearby shelf and peered down at him. A gold ring glinted on his left hand. He sniffed, sighed, rubbed his eyes. Pages littered the desk; notes, recipes, unfinished letters. On one, he paused. At the end, he penned a final line:

“I only wish we’d had more time.

With all my love,

Ambrose.”

He exhaled a long, deflating sigh. A kettle squealed. Ambrose stirred, almost laughing through a cough. Then came the flinch of an idea. He rose, retrieved a pot from a cabinet, and hurried outside.

That’s when I realized: the hum I’d been hearing was bees.

Ambrose returned with purpose. He set the pot on the stove and added water from the kettle. A fragrant warmth filled the room. Rosemary, but sweeter than usual, and something spiced lingering beneath.

I leapt to the windowsill above the stove. Inside the pot, rosemary steeped with honeycomb and strands of thyme, honey drawn fresh from the hive.

A few minutes passed. Ambrose returned, spoon in hand. He stirred, blew gently, and tasted.

A smile bloomed, then broke. Tears spilled silently as he dropped the spoon. At first, his sobs made no sound. He only trembled in agony. When he finally gasped to breathe, a wail, raw and hollow, accompanied his shuddering.

I ran to him, nudging his hands with my head, trying to say with my whole being: you are not alone.

His breath hitched again, but this time, he exhaled slow and shaky. He gathered me in his arms, held me close, and whispered, “Thank you.”

I opened my eyes. The willow tree surrounded me once more. Tears spilled down my cheeks. I pressed the seed to my heart as I let Ambrose’s grief seep into my body. His sadness pooled into a leaden weight on my chest. I struggled against it, refusing to breathe. When I finally gasped for air, my ragged breaths turned to keening.

When I composed myself, I parted the willow’s curtain and returned to the heart of the Grove. Downriver, I found a clearing and planted the seed. I offered the seed a memory as I buried it, the last time I saw my father. The name of the seed rang like a bell as I spoke it.

Alchemist’s Mead.

Instead of a tree, a massive rosemary bush took root, larger than any I’d seen, its purple blossoms glowing silver at the center. The air filled with the same perfume from the cabin: rosemary, honey, and thyme.

There was no trunk to tap for ichor. So I clipped a single branch.

A golden drop clung to it.

I reached into my bag, pulled out a vial. The moment the drop touched glass, the bottle brimmed full.

In awe, I sealed it and turned to leave.

The scent of rosemary followed me home.