Blood Wine
The staff in the tasting room became accustomed to the sunless rolling shadows created by the soft candlelight, which she designed as a sensory experience for customers who came to try their softly toasted chardonnay, the sultry pinot noir, and the mischievous red blend, which always seemed to come alive in the dark more than the light. A creature of the dark herself, she traveled down the gravel dirt road early in the predawn morning before anyone else at the winery to set up for the day. During the hustle and bustle of the day, she volunteered to do the barrel tastings for VIPs in the catacombs of the misty Cimmerian cellar while the rest of the staff enjoyed the warm fireplaces and limited hues of light from the dusted charcoal-tinted windows that if seen anywhere else sent chills up their spine but somehow instead of being afraid everyone felt right at home in Pandora’s box. Her jet-black hair flowed around her face, framing her obsidian skin with blushes of blue, so flawless it glowed as if made for the darkness. Her perfect pearly smile was welcoming and menacing, like the Cheshire Cat who’s found new prey. Her period pieces of velvet purple pleated skirts and black lace blouses cinched underneath a sable Renaissance floral bodice made many wonder if they’d come during Old Hallow’s Eve. Still, they soon came to admire her like the staff did, as if she’d stepped out of antiquity.
The owners equally appreciated Pandora’s addition, which brought cohesion between the front of the house, where they sold their wines, and the back of the house, where they produced their wines. She volunteered for Night Harvest and during the graveyard shifts when there was the most danger of newly fermenting wine overheating. When it’s too hot, the yeast can start to die, fruit flavors can begin to taste cooked or stewed, and aromatics can be lost. Warm ferments also make it easier for unwanted microorganisms to thrive. Enough creepy crawlers were lurking around the vineyards and winery, and the last thing the owners needed was to create anymore. The frequent lightning storms caused power outages, so it was nice to have Pandora to rely on when the computer systems that generally monitored these processes during winemaking went down.
The fall at most wineries is a magical time of bustling activity. Fully matured grapes are being harvested, while the once flourishing leaves, which, like a good mother, produced the nourishment the little bundles of grapes needed, but have now been sucked of all their vitality and begin their beautiful slow transformation from the green solar panels to a canopy of shades of crimson and yellow before dropping from heights their work made possible back to the earth to be swallowed up by ever ravenous dirt that calls them to the underworld. A celebration of nature’s cycle from life to death is unwittingly being toasted in the tasting rooms as an onslaught of eager consumers rush to experience the fruits of years past efforts by the custodians of fertile fields. Pandora loved watching these cannibals engorge themselves with the essence of the vines’ immortality.
This particular day proved extremely productive for her staff, and she could see the signs of strain as they ground their teeth with politeness and fervently tried to get the last drunken group of bachelorettes out the door. Like clockwork, however, the sun started to dip below the highest ridge, sending a current of cold air running through the valley and casting darkness that can only be felt by a child whose parents turn off the lights for the first time, kissing them goodnight, giving the child only option for recourse to retreat beneath the covers into a darker abyss. The party of women left forthright. Instinctually, every guest felt this entity approach and left expeditiously. The workers perceived it, too, currying to finish up before the darkness came. Fifteen minutes to close, and Pondora’s staff finished their goodbyes and headed to the parking lot, leaving her to close up. This was when she would pull back the heavy blackout curtains and open windows as she finished the clean-up for the day. Taking her favorite position at one of the sliding glass doors that overlooked the ancient vine Zinfandels that more than one person at the winery believed were possessed but offered an uninterrupted view of a slightly sloping hill that crested between two larger slops of cascading mountains in the distance. The sun migrated to the convergence of these points as it disappeared, leaving the warm glow of molten iron and none of the harsh rays of high noon just as she went to place her delicate hands to her face to feel the sun’s kiss, a voice with a baritone tenor called from the entrance.
“Are you still open?”
The first thing Pandora noticed wasn’t the man or the cool night air but the shroud of shadows playing around the man. It was as if someone lit him aflame with black fire and then doused him with accelerant. Yet, his white alabaster skin remained unburned. On the contrary, she noticed as he hesitated another step, displaying a congenial smile, almost apologetic, that he was very well-kept. I’m not a drunkard looking to fit in one more fix before days end. The weft and webbing of his tailored shirt seemed out of place at this unpretentious winery. He’d fit in better at one of the wineries secluded on the mountains, sticking up their nose on those from the valley floor. Still, his tweed coat and corduroy pants signified to her that he was the professorial type, coming on an expedition to learn firsthand the secrets of the vines.
In affirmation, he held up an expensive digital camera with a compact but telescoping lens that, held by anyone else, would have looked grandiose but looked minuscule in his large hands and towering stature before saying, “If you’re done for the day, I was hoping you might let me get a few pictures from this vantage point.” Before she could grant any permission, he’d snapped away, taking several photos of her, and then added, “Remarkable!”
“Yes, the view is magnificent, especially in solitude.”
Somehow, he’d closed half the distance between them and now licked one of his long protruding canine teeth as he grinned a grin shed given many times before replying, “I wasn’t talking about the view, but that’s nice too. I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m sure the vines won’t be too happy with me interrupting their maiden’s visit, but it has been so long since I’ve visited. I am sure they have forgotten me, but I thought I must try to gain their recollection.”
For a moment, she could imagine him a conquistador pillaging his way through the new world, but the sorrow of loss in his eyes told her he was more like a Spanish monk who’d lost their faith. So she asked, “Why have you lost your faith?”
He turned away, and the darkness wrapped him like a blanket. “I remember when the blood of the vine was so sweet you thought surely it must be nectar, but alas, this natural beauty has been made up with lipstick like a pig, and all of its glory is masked in wood and spine.” His eyes tensed into slits and beat the air with a fist. “I am not talking about the sweetness tinged with the hard labor of peasants forced to cut cane so over-gorged buffoons can add tremendous dollops to their tea. No, I am referring to the elegant refinement of an old vine whose cast productivity off in search of perfection. I seek the stained lips of a boy cramming fresh Blackberrys, Boysenberrys, and Brambleberrys in handfuls in his mouth that can only come from a faithful steward of the divinity placed in front of them. I fear that, in all my travels, this, above all, has been lost.” A cruel smile manifested on his face. “I fear there is only one ailment for my torment. I fear I must take drastic measures. I fear that you are my only hope.”
It had been a long time since Pandora felt any kinship with another, but as she stared into pools of his deep blue eyes that, in their reflection, reflected her black pupils as if they were life rafts weathering turbulent seas, she made a decision. “Come, I have something for you to taste.”
Once behind the tasting bar, she stared at the man with an odd sense of lust and trepidation before bending down to pull two polished glasses from a rack. In the distance, the rumble of thunder could be heard, and as she placed a glass in front of the man, she looked to the opened sliding glass door to see the first drops of blood stain the patio. She quickly closed her eyes, blinking away the vision, and when she looked again, only water beaded from the terracotta tiles on the roof edge as she dared not to look to the floor again. He, too, seemed to see something in the vineyard, but neither of them spoke a word. Instead, she turned away from him, willing herself to remain calm, and opened a wine refrigerator, sifting through the countless bottles at various stages of emptiness to find what she was looking for, tucked in the very back. She turned back, trying to imagine him as a boy-faced stained, but instead, drips of blood flowed from his canines down the crevices of his soft, luscious lips and into his greyed beard, making him look more wolf than man.
She placed the shiner between them like a talisman. She always liked the comfort of holding a shiny black bottle filled with the dreams of men and the land. It soothed her to know something else carried on a history most had forgotten. She watched as he studied the bottle as if trying to dissect its contents or mesmerized by the twisting of his reflection the bottle created. She imagined the ping-ping patter of the rain coming much harder now matched the sound of his heartbeat as he patiently waited for her to pour. His ferocity was barely contained; she feared her delay might force him into action, grabbing the bottle and devouring its precious contents. Contents she could not replace as they contained the blood of her master. Summing all of the wiles of a seductress, she tried not to fear his animality and to only look on him as a prize Buck.
She cooly circled the top lip of the bottle with one finger before asking, “Do you smell it?”
She poured his.
She could tell the man felt the electricity from the wine as it hit the glass. His long, bushy arm hairs stood on end as a strike of lightning flashed between them. She watched as he took long, ragged breaths like a steed at the end of a race, still too amped up for the stables. She willed him to calm himself as she, too, labored to keep her breath even. She usually blew out the candles by now, and she could see many of them had gone out on their own, leaving a few to burn where they were.
“I can smell the freshly wet grass, the autumn leaves, and the damp earth.”
“Go deeper.”
She poured hers.
This time, he took one long inhale, turning his head in the air, nose turned up, and nostrils flaring. “Blackberry, cranberry, sweet dark berry with rich dark leathery scents and hints of maple syrup?” He questioned.
“Yes, now deeper!”
She swirled her glass, which appeared more blood than wine in the low light.
The man put his head in his hands, and she wondered if she’d gone too far, but his grin returned after a moment. “There’s a tinge of iron.”
She licked her lips.
He sucked his teeth.
“Now taste it.” She demanded.
Initially, he was hesitant, like a feline batting around its prey when young—swirling, swirling, swirling. Then calming, trying to see if he could fit it in his mouth whole like a python, then sucking it in like a silverback uses a long blade of grass to fish out a colony. The sound of the moments before a disaster, mobile homes torn asunder, and the haunting sounds of the hallows emanated from his mouth but came from his soul.
Chills ran up her body, but she continued. “What do you taste?”
He chomped. He chewed the wine in his mouth before swallowing hard and eyeing her as if the answer he gave could haunt him for eternity. Yet, more assured this time, he began, “I taste fresh blueberries, black cherries, and more. Yes, more, he added with delight. It’s spicy, with smoky flavors and sweeter tones of dark chocolate, baking spice, and vanilla bean.”
“Is that all?” She said.
He could see she would be a cruel mistress.
He did not let it deter him. Instead he tried to gain the upper footing. “Alicante Bouschet! Yes, it must be.”
A long moment passed, and he turned to the vineyard. She looked out, as well, masking the faintest of smiles. Another crack of thunder and the spark of lighting made them both turn back. Neither of them acknowledged the hundreds of eyes they witnessed during the flash. He took another sip and steadied himself. The few candles left illuminating his glass waivered as they ran out of wax.
“I’m so close.” He added with a long groan.
“Yes,” came the reply.
The tension was at its peak, and she could see him starting to unravel, but she pushed him anyway. “Keep going.”
He closed his eyes, and she thought maybe it was too much and he’d left this place, but then he added quietly, “Delicious aromas of mature black fruit, yes, it has that. Aromatic herbs, perhaps some licorice, and more spicy notes like pepper, it has that, too.” A single tear dripped onto his cheek. “Jammy Blackberries, I taste the jammy Blackberries, alright.”
She almost felt sorry for him, watching his faith return, but she’d already made up her mind, and it had been such a long time for her, and she did not want to waste the effort, so she ground past his stifled mutterings. “You taste the Monastrell but missed something. It’s an experimental block. I congratulate you on having a remarkable palate. And maybe once you have lived as long as I have, you will taste what makes this vineyard like no other. Before your people first came to the valley and even before those who followed the buffalo, this was the hunting ground of my people. The blood we’ve spilled enriches the soil, the roots, and the vines. We have been known by many names, and you will have time to learn all of them.”
“I will?”
“Yes, you will.”
“But I thought I missed something.”
“You did, but it can be forgiven as you haven’t developed a palate for it yet.”
“What is it?”
Some secrets are meant for the dark, and as the last candle extinguished, she growled,
“Blood.”
