Alchemy Lessons At Wizard School

In this sleep story, you attend Alchemy class at the school of sorcery. The eccentric professor shares wisdom from alchemical traditions around the world, leading the class in an experiment to transform one substance into another. At the close of the lesson, you come face to face with one of the rarest and most extraordinary creatures associated with alchemy: a phoenix.

+Body scan and mediation

Music/Sound: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw, Hard Charger by Christian Andersen, Epidemic Sound

Transcript

Study the roots of magic and the ancient practice of alchemy in tonight's relaxing bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

I am here to help you find meaningful rest.

At any time,

Feel free to let go of this story and make your way into sleep,

Knowing you can always come back.

If you're still awake as the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan and meditation.

In our story tonight,

You attend an alchemy lesson at the School of Sorcery.

The eccentric professor shares wisdom from alchemical traditions around the world,

Leading the class in an experiment to transform one substance into another.

At the close of the lesson,

You come face to face with one of the rarest and most extraordinary creatures associated with alchemy,

A phoenix.

Man is a microcosm,

Or a little world,

Because he is an extract from all the stars and planets of the whole firmament,

From the earth and the elements,

And so he is their quintessence,

Paracelsus.

You lay your quill down beside the scroll of parchment,

Stretching your hand against a developing cramp.

Picking up the parchment,

You blow gently on the still wet ink to speed its drying.

When it's sufficiently dry,

You roll the parchment up tightly,

Fasten a piece of twine in a knot around it,

And tie the scroll to the leg of your patient and inquisitive raven,

Nora.

She does not take off straight away,

But waits on the ledge,

Her head cocked at an angle and black eyes shining.

You roll your eyes,

Relenting,

And fetch a handful of crushed walnuts from your bag.

Nora nibbles at them contentedly,

Then affectionately nips at your hand before taking wing.

You watch her go,

The scroll of parchment secure against her leg,

Her wing beats fluid,

Black against a still slate-gray sky.

You watch her in flight,

Your loyal bird,

And imagine what it might be like to soar so.

You've ridden a flying broomstick before,

A liberating experience,

But still you envy the birds,

Their wings.

She's carrying a letter to a loved one back home.

With luck,

She'll return in a day or two with a response.

You're no stranger to being away from home,

This not being your first year at boarding school after all,

But at the moment,

You've been feeling somewhat homesick.

With Nora well out of sight,

You take a deep breath of the frosty air from the window and turn to leave the rookery.

A few of the other ravens croak to acknowledge you're leaving.

Down the spiral stairs you wind toward the sixth floor corridor,

Your book bag slung over your shoulder.

You're glad you had time to sneak up to the tower before class,

Though carrying around the prolific stack of books has proven burdensome.

You stroll through the hall of tapestries in an oft-abandoned corridor of the school during this part of term.

The hangings on either wall depict scenes in the life of the founder of the school of sorcery,

The great wizard,

Merlin.

There's a vivid tapestry you pass now which illustrates the young Merlin's prophecy at the court of King Vortigern,

Who could not successfully build a castle as every stone he laid came tumbling down.

Merlin spoke through his gift of the sight of two great dragons who battled in a lake beneath the earth,

One red,

One white.

Their struggle beneath that very ground was the reason the castle could not stand.

The tapestry depicts a crumbling stone tower beneath which the dragon's conflict rages,

Each beast threatening to break through the ground and swallow the tower whole,

The best part about the tapestries.

They're sewn with enchanted thread which breathes with enchanted life the pictures woven through them move,

Bringing into exquisite relief the action and energy of the stories you dally for just a moment,

Watching the red and white dragon vie for victory,

Their tails,

Long and serpentine,

Twist round each other,

Entwining here and there like the tangled roots of an ancient tree,

Their claws and teeth bared,

Though they're creatures of wrath and fire,

You can't help but find them graceful,

Beautiful even,

And then there's the quiet shifting of the thread itself,

Moving like waves on the ocean,

Colors blending and unfurling,

Gold and white and red and black.

On you go past the other tapestries,

One portrays Merlin,

Bearded and fierce looking,

Directing the construction of Stonehenge in the summer country,

In another the wizard withers between the enclosing brambles of a hawthorn bush as Nimue,

Lady of the lake,

Looks on in triumph,

But you can't tarry long,

Class is starting soon,

And indeed only moments after leaving the hall of tapestries,

As you bound up the stairs of the west tower,

Taking the stone steps two at a time,

The hourly bells begin to chime,

The bells clang and clamor,

Resonating deeply throughout the belly of the castle,

It occurs to you now that you've never in all these years,

Exploring the school and its grounds,

Discovered where those clanging bells reside,

But by the time the echoes ring,

Vibrating silently in the bones of the stones,

You're stepping into the classroom,

And you've forgotten that curiosity,

Once again,

The professor isn't anywhere to be seen yet,

Good,

You think,

That you weren't seen striding in a few moments late,

The classroom,

Usually sunny,

With all its westerly windows,

Is grayish in the grim weather of late,

A shuffle of books and papers all around you,

Mutterings of half-finished conversations,

As you and your classmates settle into your seats,

You always liked this classroom,

With its large pointed windows and gothic furnishings,

Usually it's here that you report for magical history class,

And it's outfitted accordingly,

With shelf after shelf of thick,

Dusty volumes,

And busts of famous witches and wizards of the ages,

But this term,

You're taking a special elective,

Only offered when there is enough interest from students at advanced sorcery levels,

Intro to alchemy.

From the very first lesson,

It was apparent that Professor Lovage,

The school's long-serving history teacher,

Is uniquely knowledgeable and passionate about the subject,

You can feel the enthusiasm dripping from every word,

Every gesture the teacher makes,

But thus far,

Most of the study has been purely historical,

An overview of alchemical tradition from around the world,

Egypt,

Ancient Greece,

Medieval Europe,

China,

And so on,

It's interesting,

Sure,

But it's not quite what you expected,

When will we start transmuting metals to gold,

You and your classmates have whispered,

When will we get a crack mixing the elixir of life,

The philosopher's stone,

All in due time,

The professor's sly smile seems to assure you,

You're quite excited about today's lesson actually,

Because Professor Lovage hinted,

That you might start to conduct your own experiments at last,

And that there was something of a surprise in store for the class today,

Already you're encouraged,

For each student's desk is laid in with an array of objects,

A small iron cauldron,

Three small bottles of powder and liquid,

And a feather,

From what you can see,

And everyone is glancing around the room,

Comparing objects,

There are a few different feathers about,

Yours is black,

Resembling a raven's feather,

Like Nora's,

But there are white feathers at some desks too,

Like that of a swan,

Even peacock tail feathers,

Iridescent cobalt,

Green and black,

There's some speculation among you as to the significance of the different feathers,

But now the classroom whispers have grown to full voiced questioning,

Where is Professor Lovage?

We ever punctual Professor Lovage,

All the teachers at the school of sorcery reside within the castle during term,

So it's not as if anyone has far to travel between classes,

The mutterings fall silent however,

When the heavy door of the classroom groans open,

Professor Lovage appears in silhouette within the doorframe,

Wrapped in a cloak and carrying something large and cumbersome,

It's difficult at first to see what it is,

But as the professor moves down the aisle between desks,

You discern that it's,

Well,

A birdcage,

It seems,

Covered by a shroud of purple velvet,

Professor Lovage sets the covered cage upon the table at the head of the classroom,

Lights the candelabra there with a wand flourish,

Takes a big,

Enthusiastic inhale,

And welcomes the class,

As if there were nothing at all unusual about this entrance,

Salt,

Says Professor Lovage,

Grasping and holding aloft a vial of white crystalline powder from a desk at the front of the classroom,

The word emerges with such finality and confidence,

That you find yourself looking about the classroom to gauge the responses of others,

As the lesson begun,

Is it a question to be answered,

Is the professor expecting a response,

But a moment later,

Sulfur,

The professor puts down the vial of salt and picks up another glass bottle on the desk opposite,

This one filled with a powdery substance of a pale yellow,

Mercury,

Another bottle held aloft,

This one made of a thick glass and containing a viscous,

Silvery liquid,

These are the building blocks,

The prime essences of the alchemical pursuit,

The Tria Prima,

The professor continues,

You lean forward in your chair,

Twirling the stem of the black feather between your two fingers,

Salt,

Lovage says,

Represents the base matters of the world,

Crystallization,

Condensation,

Force,

And the physical,

The element of earth,

The body,

Mercury,

This volatile substance,

Not just a chemical,

This volatile substance,

Not quite liquid nor solid,

Represents the mind,

The space between states,

The connective fluid,

Tied to the element of air,

It bridges states of matter,

And it bridges this world,

And the next,

Sulfur,

Agent of fire,

Of the spirit,

The soul,

This transcendent element,

In balance with mercury is,

At least in the minds of alchemists,

Like Paracelsus,

The prime material of all other metals,

If that's so,

It stands to reason,

The professor continues,

That adjusting the ratio of sulfur in any metal,

Lead for instance,

Could eventually produce gold,

But the principles were applied to medicine too,

You gently absentmindedly tap the lids of the three glass bottles on your desk as you listen,

Salt,

The body,

Mercury,

The mind,

Sulfur,

The soul,

You'll remember from the very first lesson,

Our guiding principle as alchemists,

Lovage says,

Leaving the statement open with an expectant smile,

A whisper snakes through the classroom as,

With varying degrees of confidence,

Each of you utters the simple recitation as above,

So below,

That which is above is like that which is below,

And that which is below,

Is like to that which is above,

The professor nods,

The rotations and revolutions of the stars,

And planets in their celestial abode,

The movement of us animals on the surface of the earth,

The tiny atoms and molecules arranging and rearranging in the unseen world,

That which is within,

And that which is without,

The professor is waxing lyrical and cryptic again,

This happens from time to time when discussing the opaque history of alchemy,

Talk of the cosmos and unknowable forces that govern the very large and the very small,

Your eyes linger lazily to the covered cage,

Sitting on the professor's desk,

Unremarked upon,

You wonder if others are as preoccupied with its presence as you are,

According to professor Lovage,

It's in the history of the alchemical tradition that the origins of magic as you know it can be found,

The pursuit of the secrets of creation,

The universe and its workings,

Once this manifold idea was seen as monolithic,

A unified effort by alchemists the world over,

But as the wheels of the modern world were set in motion,

Alchemy diverged,

The mystics,

Magicians,

And sorcerers retreated further into the shadows,

Creating from esoterica a library of spells,

Potions,

And transmutations,

They built schools for young witches and wizards and hid from the rest of the world,

But alchemy also lay the groundwork for natural philosophy and modern science,

Chemistry,

Medicine,

The arts that live in the light,

Alchemy even when the name of the art was sullied by charlatans at medieval courts,

Produced great geniuses like Isaac Newton,

Whose revelation of nature's physical laws transformed the way humans think about the world,

And how,

The professor wonders,

Is that not magic in itself?

It was Terry Pratchett,

You recall,

Who said,

It didn't stop being magic just because you found out how it was done that always resonated with you.

You imagine the history of alchemy as a dragon with its tail cloven into one side,

Burrowing deep into the ground,

And the other,

Reaching up into the heavens,

Yet each of the segments of the tail is so long in your mental picture that they spiral through the heavens and the underworld,

Returning to the surface of the earth so that the dragon might bite each end in its own mouth.

The practice of magic is not so very unlike the pursuit of scientific discovery,

And yet,

The two have been artificially separated for much of human history.

It's the appearance of two dragons battling beneath the foundations of civilization,

But that's only an illusion.

There's only one dragon.

Professor Lovage instructs you to open your copies of the Annotated Hermetica,

A vast compilation of texts attributed to the ancient alchemist Hermes Trismegistus,

With chapters added by medieval writers.

Your copy is second-hand at best,

Tattered and worn from years of use,

But you rather like it that way.

The faded marginalia and brittle-edged paper remind you of how truly old this information is,

How many hands the text has changed,

How many generations,

Puzzled over its messages and obscure symbols.

As you flip through the pages,

You kick up the sense of history,

Sulfur,

Smoke,

And a lingering sweetness.

You search for the chapter in question,

On symbols associated with the magnum opus,

Or great work,

The philosopher's stone.

This mysterious artifact,

Which comes up frequently in discussion of alchemy,

Is said to be a compound,

Sometimes liquid,

Sometimes solid,

Or even vapor,

Capable of catalyzing the ultimate transformation.

With this tool,

The alchemist could transmute base metals into gold and could even produce the elusive elixir of life,

A solution that grants eternal life to the drinker.

On the first page of the chapter,

There is an illustration of an alchemist at work,

Bent over a wheelbarrow of an unidentified substance.

Beside him is a large cauldron,

Over an orange flame.

Within the cauldron is a curious spectacle,

A small dragon,

Fire spilling out of its mouth as it nips at its own tail.

Sitting atop the dragon is a blue-black bird,

Wings spread,

And sitting atop the head of that bird is another,

Smaller bird,

This one pure black.

Once again,

You absentmindedly touch the raven's feather upon your desk.

The professor directs your attention to the following page,

Also richly illustrated with depictions of five birds.

You scan the page from top to bottom,

Taking in the colors and detail.

The raven,

The white swan,

The peacock,

The pelican,

The phoenix.

Wheels are beginning to turn behind your eyes.

These are the five birds of alchemy.

Professor Lovage explains,

Each of them unique,

Corresponding to virtues and properties of the physical and spiritual realms,

But each of them also represents a phase in the process of the great work,

The making of the philosopher's stone.

The professor reads now from the text,

With great embellishment and drama.

Darkness will appear on the face of the abyss.

Night,

Saturn and the antimony of the sages will appear.

Blackness and the raven's head of the alchemists and all the colors of the world will appear at the hour of conjunction.

The rainbow also,

And the peacock's tail.

Finally,

After the matter has passed from ashen colored to white and yellow,

You will see the philosopher's stone.

And then,

One by one,

The professor expounds on the significance of the five birds,

The raven,

Blackness,

The first stage in the process,

The time to set intention and to release the physical world,

Preparing to step into the etheric world,

The white swan,

The first transformation,

Accompanied by bright light,

The first step into the next world,

The peacock,

The turning point,

The alchemist's moment of inner revelation,

The pelican,

Distillation and sacrifice.

No alchemy,

No magic can be achieved without it,

As the pelican illustrated here feeds her young,

So you must give something of yourself to achieve the great work.

And finally,

The phoenix,

The final transformation,

Or completion,

The transfiguration not only of the substance,

Which should now gleam a deep and rubious red like the phoenix's feathers,

But of the soul of the alchemist who has given of themselves to create something new.

Much of this sounds familiar when it comes to the magic you've studied all these years at the school.

Everything,

As you learned in your magic fundamentals classes,

Begins with intention.

The hardest part of attempting any spell or brewing any potion has nothing to do with the power of your wand or your stirring technique,

And everything to do with clarifying the intention in your mind,

But sacrifice.

Until now,

You've always seen magic as a tool,

Used it to heal minor illness and injury,

Complete household tasks,

Or perform in a duel.

It's something you've practiced as a skill,

Learning the appropriate incantations,

Gestures,

Ingredients throughout your schooling.

But there's something about the way Professor Lovage talks about the magical side of alchemy as if it's not just a tool or a process of transposing materials,

But a spiritual pursuit,

A purification not only of metals and earthly substances,

But of the soul while you're simply captivated by it.

You recall earlier this year at Halloween,

During the school's annual celebration and carnival,

The head teacher led the students and staff through a Samhain ritual to release the past.

You were given a bundle of herbs,

Representing where you are on your magical and personal journey,

And you were invited to keep it,

Or to cast it into a bonfire,

Symbolizing a fresh start in the seasons ahead.

Unlike the spells and charms you practice in your classes,

This ritual didn't immediately produce a tangible result,

But it left you with much to contemplate and a path to walk into the future.

Is that what Professor Lovage means by giving of oneself,

By sacrifice?

Is this a gateway to some higher magic,

An alchemy of the soul?

You can feel yourself sliding into lyrical notions and cryptic thought.

You suppose that's natural in these circumstances.

Alchemy,

You've learned,

Is the pursuit of revelation,

The search for the high mysteries of the universe.

The answers lie before us,

Locked in secret codes,

Natural hiding places,

And the movements of stars.

All we need is to find the key,

The one,

The pure.

But now comes the time for experimentation.

The Professor directs your attention once more to the items you're equipped with,

The three prime substances,

Salt,

Sulfur,

Mercury,

The feather,

Which by now you should be able to identify as belonging to one of the five birds of alchemy.

Using these items,

Conscious of their symbolism and of the principles of intention and sacrifice,

Each student is to conduct an alchemical experiment.

And there endeth the instruction.

You and your classmates look around at each other,

Expecting someone to raise a hand or blurt out a question.

Is there no recipe?

What are we supposed to make?

These questions buzz through your mind but never make it to your lips,

For you implicitly understand that the lack of direction is the point.

But the Professor speaks,

Addressing the stunned silence of the class.

Do I expect you to come up with the philosopher's stone by the end of class?

Of course not.

It's an introductory course,

And most alchemists toil their whole lives long in pursuit of the magnum opus.

This is an invitation to play,

To inquire,

To investigate,

Make something,

Or make meaning.

There are a few more moments of confused silence than whispers and mutterings between classmates.

The Professor retreats behind the table at the head of the chamber to read from a nondescript volume.

Still,

No comment on the velvet-covered cage.

You don't join in any of the hushed conversations around you.

You're eager to start on your experiment.

Salt,

Sulfur,

Mercury,

The three prime substances that,

If you believe the alchemists,

Are all important to transformation and composition.

Naturally,

Your first inclination is to experiment with the ratios of the three substances to produce a solution of some kind.

Who knows what you'll produce?

Certainly not gold,

Barring a miracle.

But the point of the exercise is to simply try something,

Right?

But as you reach for the bottle of salt and begin to uncork it,

Something stops you.

You set the vial down and line up all three small bottles.

Then you look to the feather,

Then to your aged volume.

You pull the book closer to you.

Others around you are beginning to work,

Uncorking bottles and exclaiming at the powerful odor of the sulfur powder.

But there's something you remember from an earlier lesson,

Something that might be a guide in your process.

You flip through the pages of the Annotated Hermetica to a chapter on Paracelsus,

A Renaissance alchemist about whom Professor Lovage tends to drone on with admiration.

His work contributed significantly to modern medicine as well as prophecy and divination through alchemy.

The professor considers him a bridge between the scientific and occult schools of alchemy,

The rejoined tale of the dragon,

Using the metaphor in your mind.

And now you've found it,

A story,

A parable of the early career Paracelsus,

Demonstrating his theory of the Tria Prima,

The three prime substances.

In the demonstration,

Paracelsus burned a piece of wood and observed the effects.

Fire,

The combustible element,

Represented the work of sulfur.

The smoke,

A curious substance that behaves similarly to both liquid and vapor,

Corresponded to mercury.

And the ash,

Left behind,

Represented salt,

The body,

Mind,

And soul.

The solid,

The changeable,

And the combustible.

Now you draw your cauldron close,

But you push away the vials of salt,

Sulfur,

And mercury.

Behind you,

Vapors are rising from cauldrons already,

And colorful smoke fills the room.

But you can see what's in front of you clearly enough to proceed.

You draw your wand from the pocket of your robes,

The delicate alder wand,

Engraved with feather patterns,

Settles naturally into your grip.

You reach now for the raven feather,

It's shiny and black,

Reflecting blue tints in the candlelight on the teacher's table.

It makes you think of Nora,

Your loyal raven familiar.

She carries messages for you,

Keeps you company during late nights,

Practicing spell work,

Or writing essays on historical wizards and witches.

Her wings on the wind remind you of the promise of flight,

The transcendence of the earthly plane.

She's a bridge between the solid ground and the weightless air.

You wonder where she is now,

Whether she's brought your message home to your loved one,

Or still soars atop the clouds in the open country.

Closing your eyes,

You can see her shiny black tail feathers fluttering in the breeze,

And clear as day.

You realize this is the most focused intention you've brought to mind in some time.

She is your intention.

You breathe deeply,

Channeling the thought of Nora,

Your appreciation of her,

And imagining that intention sliding like liquid through a funnel from your head,

Down your neck,

And shoulder,

Through your wand arm,

Then consciously pushing that liquid intention all the way down into your wand,

This extension of yourself.

This is the best technique you've found for intention setting.

In your magical practice,

You've always been gifted with a vivid imagination,

And it only takes a few adjustments,

Some focus,

To transform the images in your mind into fluid,

Propulsive magic.

You can feel a tingling sensation in your wand arm,

Almost a radiant warmth.

Intention is set.

Now you must incorporate the Tria Prima into your experiment,

But not as your classmates seem to be doing,

By literally combining the substances salt,

Sulfur,

Mercury.

It's not so literal,

Or at least it doesn't have to be.

The parable of Paracelsus and the burning log showed you that all you need is the principle.

Fire,

Smoke,

Ash,

With your intention channeled,

Building with potential energy focused toward your wand,

You utter the incantation to cast fire,

Just a little,

Toward the raven feather in your other hand.

A tiny burst of flame shoots out of the tip of your wand and ignites the fine down of the feather.

You hold it to your face,

Revolving the feather between your fingers,

And your eyes sparkle in the wake of the small,

Licking flames.

Then,

When your hand just begins to feel the heat,

You drop the feather,

Lightly,

In the cauldron to continue smoldering.

Lastly,

Sacrifice.

To achieve true alchemy and transformation,

You must give something of yourself.

All around you,

Wisps of colorful smoke are erupting from neighboring cauldrons,

Flashes of bright light and small combustions,

Giggling and exclamations of surprise and delight.

Professor Lovage is smirking behind the table,

Not deigning to interfere in any of the goings on.

That's the point,

You suppose.

There are no expectations of the final product.

It's an invitation to think about the principles of alchemy,

To try your hand at something,

And to step into the shoes of those early,

Natural philosophers and mystics who groped in the dark for answers to the universe's great mysteries.

What can you give of yourself in this process?

Thinking of your familiar and of your loved one to whom she now carries a homesick message,

What can you surrender now?

In the service of higher magic,

In the service of self-transformation,

Closing your eyes again,

You reach inward,

Deep beneath the surface,

Into your very soul,

Where perhaps dragons battle,

Or stars work their celestial doings upon you.

You reach for that hidden part of you,

The part that can give just a little bit more.

Your mind is clear,

And your heartbeat is steady,

Serene.

Eyes still closed,

You can smell the slightly metallic tendrils of smoke rising from your cauldron.

The fire's gone out.

When you open your eyes,

You look first to the head table and see that Professor Lovage is looking over at you,

Brow lifted in curiosity.

You peer over the rim of your cauldron,

But you cast a shadow and can't see what's within.

So,

You lift the small but heavy vessel and tip it out onto your desk.

Out pours a fine powder,

Ash,

And nothing more,

As you expected.

The kind of magic you've created is not about immediate results,

But about setting in motion the wheels of greater change,

Within and without,

As above,

So below.

But then,

Is it just the wink of the candlelight,

A trick of the smoke-clouded chamber,

Or are there fine flecks of shimmering yellow and red and deep blue in the slate-gray ash before you?

Are there hints in the ashes of gold?

You run a hand over the powder,

Which is soft and fine.

It leaves a little residue on your fingertips.

And yes,

When you look closer,

There are tiny crystals there that gleam and glimmer in a hundred sparkling hues.

You're not sure what it means,

But a transformation has indeed taken place here.

You feel the concentrated heat in your wand arm diffuse across your chest,

Filling your torso and warming your heart.

You feel close to something new,

Though you're not sure what.

The professor is rising from the chair behind the table,

Coming toward you,

Inspecting the ashes on your desk closely,

Feeling the powder between two fingers,

A smile,

And a knowing glance that seems to say you're onto something.

The professor reviews the results of other projects around the classroom.

Some students have produced curious,

Crystalline compounds,

Others have merely generated billowing fumes,

A few wand waves,

And the smoke is quickly cleared.

All in all,

The professor is pleased with the class's willingness to experiment.

You'll come back to this exercise at the end of term to see how far you've come and how much you've learned.

But for now,

The lesson is nearly over.

The day is growing old,

And a silver dusk transforms the light in the classroom,

Making it almost shimmer.

With the brief illusory magic of evening,

Dinner will soon be served in the great feasting hall downstairs.

But before you depart,

Says Professor Lovage,

I've brought us a little surprise,

A rare treat,

And something I doubt many of you have ever seen in your lives.

The professor crosses to the head table.

Will the covered cage at last be addressed,

You wonder.

There's a preface to its unveiling,

As you might have expected.

The contents of the cage,

You learn,

Are on loan from the school's beloved gamekeeper,

Karadoc,

A friendly fellow with a well-known soft spot for cryptids and magical creatures.

Karadoc and Professor Lovage have a rather charming friendship,

And can be seen walking the school grounds together most evenings,

Discussing books and their travels.

As it happens,

Karadoc spent last summer in Greece,

Where he picked up an extraordinary artifact,

An egg,

So old it might have been petrified by time.

There was no expectation of it hatching,

But just last week,

On an unseasonably warm night,

When the wind howled through the great forest,

The miraculous happened,

The egg hatched,

And now,

After a long build-up and with dramatic flair,

The professor pulls the velvet covering from the cage within,

Blinking with silent curiosity,

Is a bird,

Unlike any you've ever seen save in books and reproductions.

It's very small,

Perhaps the size of a canary,

But its plumage is a deep ruby color,

With a tail not unlike a peacock's in its length and volume,

Here and there gilded,

As if dipped in liquid gold.

Exclamations of delight and awe erupt from across the room,

Along with sighs from some of the girls at its cuteness,

And the creature is adorable,

With big glassy eyes turned upward,

Sparkling,

Yet there's a fierceness and a resilience to it,

Too.

It's a marvel,

He's only a baby now,

Says the professor,

Gingerly opening the door of the cage and extending a hand toward the bird,

Who steps right onto the palm,

That he should grow to be the size of an eagle within the year.

Rare as they may be,

Birds of his kind are blessed with immortality.

He will grow old,

Like any of us,

And wither and weaken,

But then he will build himself a nest of myrtle twigs,

Kindle a flame within his heart,

And sacrifice himself upon the pyre,

Then,

From the ashes,

He will be reborn,

A child again,

To begin the cycle anew.

You can see,

Then,

Why the phoenix is the ultimate symbol of alchemy.

The professor,

Holding the tiny phoenix in the palm of a hand,

Carries the curious bird around the classroom,

For everyone to see up close.

Now and then,

The phoenix utters a weak coo,

As if he's learning to produce his first song.

Even in its feeble beginnings,

The sound resonates in your head,

Like the pealing of tiny bells.

It seems to soften your mind and body,

Making you feel at once open,

Vulnerable,

And ultimately,

Resilient.

When the professor brings the bird near you,

A kind of radiant warmth and love seems to wash over you in waves.

There's an audible gasp,

As the phoenix springs from the professor's hand,

Gently flapping his wings and whipping his long tail,

Which sparks and smokes behind him.

The phoenix lands upon your desk and pecks lightly at the ashes before you.

Without thinking or asking,

You lift a soft,

Steady hand to stroke the bird on his neck.

The downy red feathers are as the softest silk.

The bird responds by contracting his neck and ruffling his feathers,

Turning to you with eyes,

Slowly half-closing,

Unmistakably,

A smile.

You can feel your heart soften and melt even more.

What's his name?

You hear yourself asking,

As the phoenix returns to the professor's hand.

Hermes,

Says Professor Lovett with a grin,

Returning the phoenix to his cage.

Of course,

You think,

After the ancient alchemist and father of Hermeticism and the Greek counterpart of the Roman god Mercury.

Class is dismissed.

Most of the students,

Stomachs grumbling,

Make a beeline for the door and the steps down the tower.

You take your time cleaning up your station.

The professor drapes the velvet once more over Hermes' cage.

There comes a gentle cooing from within and then silence.

You decide to keep the ashes from your experiment and you funnel the fine powder into an empty glass bottle from your bag,

Sealing it with a stopper.

It may have some use in the future,

But for now,

It's a perfect souvenir of your first alchemical experiment.

Before you leave,

Professor Lovett calls out your name.

Excellent work,

The professor says.

There's more to it than riches,

Gold,

And everlasting life.

Few students grasp that so quickly.

You utter a word of thanks,

Wish the professor a good evening,

And make your way to the door,

Descending the spiral steps of the tower.

You take your supper in the feasting hall among friends.

A few of your alchemy classmates sit nearby and soon the whole table is wrapped in conversation about the genuine phoenix that now resides on the school grounds.

There's a great deal of excitement about how quickly the phoenix took to you,

Perhaps,

That portends something for you,

They suppose.

You feel your cheeks flush and you decline to comment,

But in truth,

Well,

It did feel meaningful to be approached by such a rare,

Magical creature.

It did make you feel somehow different,

Special.

You'll hold on to that feeling like a spark as you continue your magical journey.

After supper,

You and your friends walk together back up to the dormitories,

Still chatting about the day's events and lessons.

Your good friend Charlotte mastered a very advanced defensive spell in class today,

One she's been working on for a long time.

She can't wait to show you.

Once back in your room,

As your bunkmates prepare for bed,

You sit on the cushioned seat of a window,

Cracked open to feel a chilly but comforting breeze,

Watching the twilight grounds,

The lake,

The emerald green mountains of the highlands,

The forest,

Everything quakes with the passing wind.

It's still light enough to see the circle of standing stones on the grounds,

The gamekeeper's cabin and vegetable garden,

And you're fairly certain that the two figures you see walking near the edge of the forest,

One large,

One small,

Are the gamekeeper Caradoc and Professor Lovage.

Above them,

Flitting and fluttering,

Is a flash of crimson and gold.

Your eyes drift toward the darkening sky,

Where the first stars are beginning to emerge from a purplish pall,

And there,

Against the settling of night over the highlands,

Raven dark wing beats.

Nora,

Returning to you already,

A scroll of parchment tied to her leg,

A letter from home.

Relax into place,

Embracing a smooth,

Calm breath and steady pace,

Bringing soft awareness to your surroundings,

Your body,

The surface you're resting on,

A kind of soft focus that allows observations in without straining to perceive detail,

Or commenting,

Or judging whatever arrives on the breath,

Just openness and acceptance.

As you breathe,

Let the inhale fill the lungs and belly,

And the exhale allow you to relax more,

Settling into place,

Into sensation,

In the softness and openness.

Kindle a gentle warmth from your heart space,

Feel it as golden light,

The spark of focus,

Creativity,

Magic,

And transformation.

Breathe,

Let that golden warmth catalyze within you,

Warming you from the inside,

And sparking growth,

Change,

Setting wheels in motion.

Relax.

Now,

With each breath,

Let the warmth radiate out further,

Originating from deep within your chest,

And diffusing across your body,

Inhaling to charge your inner warmth and light,

And exhaling to let it spread just a little further,

Filling and warming the whole chest,

And the belly,

The whole torso.

Inhale deeply,

Let the warmth and golden light spread outward to the shoulders and the hips.

Breathe.

Now let the light radiate all the way from your center,

To the upper arms and upper legs,

And to the forearms and lower legs,

Now all the way to the hands and fingertips,

To the feet and toes,

Through the neck and the face,

All the way to the crown of the head.

Breathe.

And now,

Let the warmth,

Powered by your center,

By your heart,

Radiate outward,

Past the edges of your body,

Light spilling out from your fingers and toes,

Reaching beyond you to the rest of the world,

Dissolving those borders of where you end,

And everything else begins,

Like magic,

Originating within you,

With your intention,

And becoming manifest in the world around you.

Let the breath be a bridge,

And as you inhale,

Bring the light back within,

Along with the teachings of the world beyond.

Breathe in and out,

Exchanging breath and spirit with nature,

And what's outside you,

What's above,

And what's below the surface.

Feel the warmth inside,

And the comfort without,

As if you do not end,

But are instead part of the interconnected web of existence,

Mind,

Body,

And spirit.

Let that be a comfort,

And relax into your space,

Knowing the world cradles you in love,

Warmth,

And light.

Good night.

Reviews

I fell asleep soooo quickly! 💕🙏

I love your stories! Thank you so much!!

A very lovely story. Thank you!

This helped me get back to sleep last night and took my mind off of not feeling well. Will repeat. Thank you.

Awake or asleep, this is wonderful. I have listened many times, sliding in and out of sleep, never managing to hear the entire piece, but often wanting to return to it. This morning, rather than using it as a sleep story as usual, I listened to it as my morning meditation. Loved it! Feels so profound. Now I understand why I have been so drawn to it...... Thank you

Perfect as always.

Engaging, and yet relaxing. The perfect bedtime combo. So well written with rich language and a gentle voice. Extraordinary.

I really do like your bedtime stories although they are a bit long for me. Then again, I always fall asleep before the end of the story.

Keep writing and presenting these wonderfully creative stories.

Usually I instantly fall asleep while listening to your stories. This time, I listened to the whole thing and feel like I'm missing out by falling asleep!
I am quite grateful for your soothing voice and lovely stories.

Just so delightfully soporific… tonight I’m going to try on full repeat so any time I wake up, you are there in my dreams to soothe me back down… I hope young Arthur loves your stories as much as the rest of us! Blessings🥰

lovelorn stories! your voice is so calming. I even got my husband to listen, and he looks forward to your stories every night.

I love going to bed and closing my eyes, and letting you transport me into a world of magic. The art of Potion making was always my favorite thing since I read Harry Potter, and you have basically summed up all the best things about it. Not only that, but I love phoenixes, and you involved that too. Thank you so much for helping me sleep. Five stars ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Amazing 4 time listening to this and not heard the end yet

I feel asleep right away,I think the story was 👍

I love these!!! I've yet to be awake until the end of one!!