I can’t say I was ever too close to my great-grandfather. I’d only ever met him a handful of times, all when I was too little to really talk to, or even remember much about him. He’d lived across the country in California all my life, while I’m East Coast born and raised. Even if I had been close enough to visit, as far as I know he barely spoke a lick of English, and I barely speak a lick of Chinese.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel sad when my mom told me he’d passed. He’d been around for so long, and even if I didn’t really speak to him it still felt comforting to know that there had been a living, breathing piece of family history. He had already seemed ancient when I was a kid, and according to my mom he was already ancient when she was a kid too.
What I did remember was that he’d been so wrinkled his skin looked cracked. He was hunched and short from the long years of his life, and had a kind of sickly-sweet odor of ginseng and honey that clung to him and his clothes. It wasn’t really a bad smell, just unique to him, like nothing I’ve smelled since.
Until yesterday that is. To everyone’s surprise my great-grandpa left me, in his will, the dusty, tiny old apothecary he’d insisted on maintaining all his life. He probably should’ve retired decades ago, and I can’t imagine the place was turning a profit. It was tucked away hidden in a tiny alleyway that was almost impossible to find if you didn’t know where to look. Even with the directions he’d left, translated by my mom, I still had a hell of a time finding the place.
When I got there it reeked of my great-grandpa’s smell. So sweet it was almost over-powering.
I had no clue why he’d left the shop to me of all people. My mom always said that whenever she spoke to him he’d ask after me, saying I was his favorite, but I kind of just assumed she was telling all of my siblings the same thing to make us like the old man better. The apothecary was the only thing in the will besides a really, truly tiny amount of money, some old calligraphy paintings, and the note.
The note was for me as well, never mind that it would inevitably be written in Cantonese and beyond any hope of me understanding it on my own. I still hadn’t opened it as I stood in the dusty, mote-ridden interior of my great-grandfather’s shop. I could imagine him moving through it at his slow, stooped pace, standing behind the counter, greeting customers, grabbing ingredients from the back.
I took the note out of my pocket as I headed to the shop’s storage room. It was sealed with a sort of amber, golden wax, and at the bequeathing there had been strict instructions to not open it until I was alone in the back of the shop. I had no idea why my great-grandpa had wanted that, especially seeing as alone I wouldn’t be able to read the thing.
The back of the apothecary was much smaller than I had expected. There was just a couple shelves lined with small stone jars, and two larger but otherwise identical pots. They were nearly the size of me and took up most of the space. I realized that it was these pots that the smell was coming from, as it grew stronger and stronger the closer I got.
I cracked the lid on one of the big jars and peered within. There was a golden and viscous fluid inside. I dipped the tip of my finger into it and put some on my tongue. It was so sweet, and I realized it was some kind of honey.
It made sense, honey has a lot of medicinal benefits and always has. Ancient cultures used it often for a myriad of purposes, and so it was no surprise that my ancient great-grandpa’s apothecary dealt in honey as well. What was weird was that he clearly had so much honey, it seemed like he must’ve had some yet-unknown, secret bee-keeping operation no one knew about.
Figuring now was as good a time as any, I cracked the letter’s seal and unfolded it. I thought I’d be putting it away just as quickly until someone could translate it for me, but to my surprise, it wasn’t written in Cantonese. Instead, English letters filled the page.
The handwriting on the note looked rushed, hurried, sloppy. As far as I knew my great-grandpa didn’t know how to write or read in English, so it seemed unlikely the letter was his. Why then had it been a part of his will, and been bequeathed to me of all people along with the apothecary? Hoping some of the answers to my questions lay within, I began to read—
“There is an old apothecary sheltered in an alleyway midtown. It is easy to miss if you do not know where to look. Its unassuming storefront is unmarked, and even if you find it there’s no guarantee the old Chinese proprietor will be there to have it open. He spends only a few days a month at the apothecary, if even that.
If you can find it, and if you’re lucky enough to come on a day when he is there, he’ll welcome you inside. He is a wizened, wrinkled old creature. Stooped low and crooked, he stands scarcely taller than most peoples’ waists. Do not be surprised if he doesn’t ask what you want, but instead gives it to you with a knowing grin. This is because there is only one thing that people ever come to his apothecary for. They come for the mellified man.
Sweet like honey. I am sweet like honey. For 14 days and 14 nights it is all I have consumed.
He’ll hand you a small jar, labeled not in Chinese but Arabic letters. The following instructions will be with it, handwritten on a slip of paper that he’ll slide you through quivering, wrinkled fingers. “Apply directly to cuts, wounds, and fractures. Repeat every few hours. Ingest sparingly.”
I have quenched my thirst and sated my hunger with nothing but honey. Sweet and golden, it coats me inside and out. My sweat, my breath, even my feces is now sweet like honey.
Ingest sparingly. That is the most key thing to remember, and he’ll remind you of this before ushering you out. There is no need for payment, at least not yet, and he knows you will certainly return. After your first use, your first taste, of mellified man there is no doubt you will be back for more.
It is all I will consume until the day comes that I too finally become honey.
It is a truly wondrous thing. Put it on a cut, a burn, even a scar and watch it fade and heal faster than you could’ve imagined. Eat it when you’re sick or feeling unwell and marvel at the energy and recovery that soon follows. With the many benefits of mellified man, it can be very easy to fall into the trap of habitually taking it. A pick-me-up at the end of the day, a boost of energy in the morning. There is no anxiety, or “comedown” or jitters. There is only the warmth, the sweetness, and the golden feeling of honey.
I will be the mellified man. For 100 years or more I will steep in my jar of stone. In it I will dissolve, fully, turning from human flesh and blood into sticky, sweet and golden honey. They will remove me to treat the wounds and ailments of future generations. There will be no remnant of the man who was sealed in the jar a century ago. Only the honey.
In many ways, it is almost inevitable that you will fall into that trap.
And so I will live forever, undying, in the honey.
Before long, you might realize that it tastes better, and leaves you feeling better, than eating normal food.
Sweet like honey. I am sweet like honey.
With mellified man now a garnish on every meal, you’ll find that soon your jar is empty, and you’ll have to search out that old apothecary once more. This time it will be easier to find, and without fail the old man will always be there. It seems he knows, or is able to sense, your desire for more jars, for more mellified man.
I will live forever, in the honey.
The jars from the proprietor will, inevitably, start to last you a shorter and shorter amount of time. The small annoyances of life, a stubbed toe or a broken nail, are so easily solved! Headaches are a thing of the past, muscle tension is erased with a liberally applied dollop to the requisite region. Your visits will become more and more frequent to the apothecary, from monthly to fortnightly then every week. The old man will always be there to welcome you. He still will not ask for payment, insisting that he bestows the mellified man only out of a desire to heal. Seeing you glowing with such a golden radiance is payment enough, he will say, smiling as he hands you a new jar.
I no longer can drink the honey by myself. They open my mouth to pour it through vast, endless sieves down my sticky-sweet throat. They bathe me in it, ladling its golden warmth over my inert form. They cut me to see how quickly from the wound my saccharine blood will flow. It never hurts anymore. The wound is always quickly sealed with the sweetness of honey.
“New” is a bit of misnomer when it comes to the jars. Each one is new to you, yes, but physically they are so old! Ancient stone cut by masons long ago in distant lands, there are tiny cracks forming along these pots that will grow sticky from the substance within. What a waste, you’ll surely think, as you see what little honey there is slowly seeping out, unused.
Today my eyes became honey.
You’ll bring this concern up to the proprietor, rather sheepishly and trying not to offend. Thankfully, he readily agrees with you, telling you he’s noted the same thing. With that in mind he will make his way to the back of the shop, taking far longer than he usually does. When he returns it will be with a larger, taller, and truly newer jar. So tall, in fact, that it is nearly the size of you.
They slowly dripped down my face, pooling in my open mouth.
It is the same shape as the others, and seemingly made of the same stone, but it looks and feels as if it was carved only the day before. Huffing and puffing the old man will set it down on the floor before you with an audible and weighty thud. He uncovers the lid to show you that it is filled to the brim with the sweetness you crave. No cracks, he’ll say grinning, and you know that finally none of it will go to waste.
My eyes were sweet like honey. They were honey.
Hauling the jar back home would normally be an impossible task, but just a spoonful of the contents within is enough to give you the strength you need. This supply will last a year, you’ll think, and it certainly should.
But it won’t, because with so much of the mellified man available to you, and with the confidence and painless life it gives, you’ll start to use it more and more. “Ingest sparingly” is a long forgotten concept, and why shouldn’t it be? You feel good, better than you have in all your life. You have plenty of mellified man to spare, and it makes quite literally everything better, everything you do more fun! Those first few months are always golden and sweet, and you won’t even notice how much your consumption is increasing. Or more likely you will simply choose not to.
Sweet like honey, they were sweet like honey.
As time goes on, and as the jar’s contents considerably thin, the sweetness of those first few months will start to fade. There will be an anxiety as you notice that what should’ve lasted a year appears to be more than half-way gone already. This anxiety, you will find, can only be quenched by taking more of the mellified man, and in doing so exacerbating the problem.
I will live forever in the honey.
You likely won’t want to go back to the apothecary so soon, but you’ll know you must. You’ll make your way there, seeking it out as you have so many times before.
But strangely, this time the store will seem as impossible, difficult, and convoluted to find as it was on your first visit. Even if you do find it, you’ll discover, to your shock, that for the first time since you’ve become a regular visitor the old proprietor isn’t there.
They lifted what remained of me today in their arms and carried me to my jar. I could not see or hear them, my ears having long ago turned to honey, but what remained of my flesh felt them take me from my bath. Sweet and golden rivulets fell down me, slowly, bringing with them the last bits of my skin. The shaking of their arms tells me they are afraid. Perhaps they are thinking of the day they too, will become honey.
Every time you try it’s the same story. The apothecary’s location either eludes you, or the old man isn’t there to let you in. Each time you’ll return home, desolate, fretting, and in need of what mellified man your rapidly depleting stores can afford you.
I am set in the jar, and it is filled with honey.
Slowly over time, although it may feel quick to you, that seemingly vast and bottomless jar will come down to its last dregs.
It covers what is left of my face, fills the holes and orifices where my nose, eyes, and mouth once were.
A small pool in the bottom, and what coats the sides of the jar’s interior will be all that remains.
It is so very sweet. Sweet like me. Sweet like honey.
Unable to find the apothecary, you might try to resist, quit, or cut yourself off from taking any more. As a result, headaches, nerves, and all the other daily painful occurrences of life that you’d forgotten will return with a vengeance like never before. Even the most minor inconveniences will feel overwhelming without your daily dose of mellified man.
I am sweet like honey. I live forever in the honey.
And so you’ll find yourself, bending over, stretching your arms and craning your body on tiptoes to reach that last sweet, meager pool at the bottom of the jar. Inevitably it will be just out of your reach. You’ll stretch further and further, leaning more and more over the brim until, equally inevitably, you fall in.
Join me in the honey.
If you’re fortunate enough to not break something with your sudden fall onto unforgiving stone, you’ll try to clamber your way out of the jar. You’ll scramble and squirm about in the tight, sticky confines, only to find that you can’t get any sort of grip or purchase on the walls. Desperately you will writhe, only becoming more and more entrapped within. Honey will begin to coat your face, your eyes, your mouth, your nose.
Live forever in the honey.
It is there, in that vast jar of mellified man, that the old proprietor will eventually come to collect you. If you are lucky, enough time will have passed that your mind will be too far gone to realize what is happening. If you aren’t, you will feel it as you are slowly surrounded by the honey. He will pour it over you in a vast, endlessly sweet cascade. It will rise around you, enveloping you in its golden, cocooning warmth. You will hear a final, dreadful and deafening grating of stone on stone as the proprietor seals you within. There you will remain.
I am the mellified man. In a 100 years or more you will take me from my jar and there I still will be. You will use me and I will coat you inside and out until you are as golden-sweet as me.
– and then the letter ended.
What the hell was this? A twisted joke by my great-grandpa? An elaborate fantasy about himself he’d had someone write?
A warning?
I stared at the jar I had opened, from which my great-grandfather’s familiar scent drifted. Despite the craziness of it all, the insanity of what the letter had described, I felt petrified. It couldn’t be real, but if it was surely that one taste… Just that one taste I’d had before of whatever this stuff was couldn’t hurt me, or be that bad for me right?
And surely just one taste more won’t make a difference.