The Old Alchemist Who Bottled Death

There once was an old alchemist who made his living by bottling beloved bedtime stories and the most cherished memories. This old alchemist knew stories were made from ink and imagination, but he also knew they had a smell and even a taste if you just knew where to look.

Some people would visit his shop and ask him to remove a particular memory and bottle it so they could lock it up and throw away the key. Although memories were precious, some were just too painful to live with. Others would ask the old alchemist to bottle their favorite childhood story so they could relive it through sight, smell, and even taste, allowing them to experience the story in a whole new way. It allowed them to return to their youth if only for a short while. Some would completely lose themselves in that state of nostalgia, drowning in what once was as they lost sight of reality. No matter the outcome the old alchemist would always comply. He knew the world was filled with stories and memories; that every single person had a story and was full of memories, which in itself was a story.

When the old alchemist was just a boy, he was able not only to see a story that his mother would read to him, but he could also smell the fresh blooming flowers that the princess would pick in the woods while humming to herself. He would hear the twigs snapping under the huntsman’s feet as he approached the princess from behind with a dagger in hand. He could even taste the bitterness of the poison once the princess bit into that fateful blood red apple. Stories had always been living things to him, and it surprised him that others could not see stories the way he could. He imagined it must be a sad and gray world for those who could not enjoy and feel the very essence of a story as he did.

When he grew older and became a man, he began to wonder if he could capture a story’s essence and bottle it so that others could see the story in the way he did. He would spend hours mixing and remixing stories, for sometimes he would add too much, and the story would alter, and the dragon would eat the princess before the prince could slay it and save the day. He would never throw these altered stories away. Instead, he would bottle them and store them on a dusty old shelf in his shop. Even altered stories were meant to be told, and he couldn’t bear the thought of throwing them away.

The old alchemist lived a full life of creating and bottling stories for the world to enjoy. As he grew older and his hair turned white with age, time became a nuisance, reminding him that he did not have much longer left with his precious stories. As he neared his end, he began to wonder if he could bottle Death. He could bottle precious memories and the most beloved stories - why couldn’t he also bottle the inevitable such as Death?

The old alchemist worked night and day trying to find a way to capture Death so he could lock it away like so many of his patrons did with undesired memories. One night as he was working late, the candles were already burning low, a cold chill swept through his shop. Mist and fog swirled and gathered around his work table, and the old alchemist looked up to see Death looming over him.

“It is your time, alchemist, and I have come for you.” Death's hollow voice filled the room with a chill. Frost crept across the windows as he drew breath to speak, but the old alchemist was unmoved. Instead he smiled as he interrupted Death with his challenge. “But it is not my time yet, for I have already bottled my death and locked it away,” replied the old alchemist.

Death was silent for a moment as he contemplated what the old alchemist had said. “How did you manage to bottle your death, old alchemist?” Death finally asked.

At this, the old alchemist smiled again. “Let me show you, dear death.” The old alchemist picked up a small glass bottle that had a faint greenish glow and presented it proudly to Death. He held the bottle up close to Death’s face and said, “if you look into the bottle, then you will see that it is true.”

Death remained silent, but his curiosity grew, and Death looked into the little bottle that the old alchemist held out to him. The faint greenish glow started to glow brighter until the room itself was filled with the bottle’s green light, bright and radiant. And then Death began to see himself gliding through the cold mist, and then he smelled the many aromas of burning incense that filled the old alchemist’s shop. Death heard himself say, “it is your time, and I have come for you old alchemist.” He watched as he took the old alchemist by the hand, leading him into the mist and guiding him to what waited beyond. Confusion filled Death as he watched the scene unfold before him.

“It is your time, and I have come for you,” Death said again.

The old alchemist smiled once more. “It is too late for I have bottled you up and locked you away,” he replied.

Death realized too late that he was no longer looking directly at the old alchemist but was looking at him through glass. When Death tried to reach out to him, the old alchemist gently placed the glass stopper back into the little bottle.

The old alchemist stored the bottle on one of his dusty old shelves between two of his favorite stories. “I’m sorry, dear death, but stories live forever, and someone must capture them so they can always be remembered and told through the ages,” he said with a sad smile.

So day after day, Death remained bottled, collecting dust on one of the old alchemist’s shelves. In the end, Death did not mind for now bottled alongside so many beloved and cherished stories he could be remembered and no longer feared. From his place on the dusty old shelf, Death watched as the old alchemist worked, mixing new stories and bottling old ones. Death, too, now had a story that could be remembered through the ages and shared with the world.

Death smiled.

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Copyright, Jessica Burns Piraino, 2021