Vielle Vignes

From the depths of the damp Limestone cave, a fine vintage was selected. The cellarmaster carefully decanted out the Caramel amber liquid away from the coagulated sediments. I chuckled at the ceremony, as it reminded me of a monocled mad scientist; The oversized beaker, iron apparatus that cradled the mold covered Jeroboam, a reeded silver funnel- lined with a virgin handkerchief, and a vigil candle below the bottle's neck.

Hell of a ritual, just for a drink.

I fiddled with the Solutrean flint pendant around my neck, out of boredom.

“A glass of this a day keeps us forever young!” -The Chateau’s Patriarch boasted. His premier cru Pouilly Fuisse’ was then graciously poured into crystal glasses for the cloaked and masked village elites.

“Santé!”

“To the harvest!!”

We toasted…

The wine was potent like fire.

My legs felt like a freshly baked Gateau de menage.

My vision turned hazy, and grey like the morning mist.

The vortex of intoxication spiraled me to the ground.

I was out, cold…

Sudden shaking of my surroundings, and the pulsating metallic vibrato- woke me from my drunken slumber.

“...How long was I out?”

Disoriented, with my head pounding, I tried looking for my glasses. There was no light. Complete darkness, -other than a faint red light seeping through by my feet. The noxious smell of sulfur and diesel, as well as the creaky sound of old springs brought me to a terrifying realization-

“Wait, is this.. a trunk?”

In the dark tight space, I would find the main culprit of my discomfort; I was lying on top of a spare tire. The rim jammed into my ribcage, with each bump from the road. The exhaust fumes were suffocating. I began to scream and kick, thrashed around to get myself free, but then realized that my hands and legs were bound tightly. I desperately tried to bite onto my flint necklace to cut the rope around my legs..

The car suddenly came to a screeching halt.

Footsteps.

The trunk door creaked open, and there was a dark figure illuminated by the red brake lights that stood over me. Before I could react, I was clobbered with a blunt object.

I was out, cold. Once again…

I awoke to being thrown down a dirt pit below the century old vines.

“You’ll become a fine vintage.”- One of the cloaked figures above ground said, reassuringly…

They began to shovel soil over me.

As I desperately tried to keep my face from being buried, thousands of gnarly, serpent-like Rhizomes constricted my limp body, piercing skin, slithered into any opening my body had, and found my arteries.

I tried to scream, but my mouth, my nose, and my ears were all infiltrated by dirt, and these pulsating subterranean plant stems. Then finally, a pair of barbed roots plunged through my eye sockets, through my skull.

Darkness…

They began their feast, painfully draining my lifeforce.

Being part of the vines now, it was a different feeling. I knew I was dead, and yet strangely- I felt more alive.

I felt everything.

I saw everything.

I heard everything.

I tasted, everything.

I now had the ability to be everywhere all at once.

All I had to do was extend my roots, deeper, wider, further.

I have gotten stronger, with each passing day.

I will wreak vengeance.

Eventually…

The problem was, -speed. Even with my newfound powers, I could not transfer my nourishment to growth fast enough. There wasn’t much more sustenance I could extract from my old husk of a body, - nor from snacking on all of the burrowing rodents, rootworm larvae, and Phylloxera eggs.

I needed more to eat.

Something more substantial.

I began to set bigger traps.

My vines grew with curved jagged thorns, so when the vineyard workers would come by in January to prune, they would bleed onto me.

In February, I altered the mustard greens that I allowed to florish in between my vines to have leaves as sharp as razor blades, thorny branches and their roots to have anticoagulant toxins. Oh how I relished every whimpering and cries of pain. Their blood stained my soil, but it wasn’t enough!

I wanted more.

I had a hankering for something to chew on.

The Chateau, where I had my very last drink, and where that trickster Patriarch resided was on the other side of the Soultre’s massif. As spring arrived, I took advantage of the warming days to have all of my serrated branches swell, revealing sprigs of bright maroon. I also rushed up the rock mountain, wrapping around it, bit by bit from under ground. As the seasons progressed, so did my plan for retribution. The Soultre’ mountain area was also a destination hiking location, as well as where the village farmers herded their sheep. I made certain to lay my traps of softened soil, with my hooked roots yanking in anything down for me to feast on. I smothered and drained everything along the way.

Consider it a toll, for trampling through my land.

In late May, when the Sun shined the longest, my garnet-colored carnivorous flowers morphed into bullet shaped grape clusters with a mahogany hue. Just coming in contact with them caused blisters and scarring. I gleefully relished the fear and suffering I was causing the vineyard. The sleepy town in southern Burgundy was up in arms about the influx of unexplainable attacks, deaths and disappearance of their loved ones all around the vineyards’ property. Insurance skyrocketed. Visitors stopped coming. Business struggled. Even the country's appellation control threatened the Chateau of stripping their prestigious status, if my wild vines weren't maintained.

Not a chance!

The autumn season came, where all of my crimson red grapes were ripe for the harvest. Yet no one dared to pick them, -no matter how much the vineyard offered in payment. My grapes began to rot on the vine, emitting putrid, repugnant fumes that traveled around the neighboring towns of Vergisson, as well as Davaye, and made all of the villagers ill. The festering juices also made the soil toxic and uninhabitable for anything else but me. My ground assault asphyxiated and devoured everything in my path. Each day, my roots gained more ground, getting closer to the Chateau. In response, the Patriarch hired contractors to uproot my vines.

Oh they want to control me? Is this their idea of retaliation??

They will face the full force of my invasion!

His yearning for vitality and prosperity ran deep, but my hate, -and my roots run deeper. My final plan was under way. Patriarch’s goons attempted to set me aflame, and as some of my grapes burst and sizzled, I tightened my roots, contorting all around a central area.

I pushed, and pulled.

Tugged, and yanked.

Finally, there was a thunderous crackle above, on top of the Soultre’ mountains. With the ground shaking, the lime rock peak gave way.

As the mountain crumbled downward, they clustered and gained speed- like a Tsunami of unstoppable earth. It completely obliterated and buried everything in their path.

The Chateau, and the village around it were below ground.

My roots found the immobilized and began our feast.

No salvation.

No forgiveness.

Simultaneously, I scoured below the rubble and earth, in search of the patriarch.

…I finally found him sheltering under a flimsy table, in the corner of his limestone cellar cave.

My roots broke through the cracked wall, and sprawled throughout the arched ceilings, like Bastille Day fireworks. My Rhizomes proceeded to contort, and crush each pillar, which threatened to collapse the cellar inside.

But death will not be quick for him.

I was just getting started.

I needed him to know that his wineries failure, the accident prone harvest, the missing staff and villagers, and the mountain coming down- These were not your average natural disasters, global warming, or some other series of unfortunate events.

It…Was..All…ME!!

The one that he has sacrificed.

My pikestaff roots harpooned through the brick floors where he crouched, and skewered through his heel, his Achilles, and dug into his pathetically old calves. He screamed in agony.

The roots continued to drill through to his shoulder blades, and forced the old man to sprout upwards- smashing his head through the table of safety in the process.

I needed him to be standing for what came next…

In front of him, I had my thorny vines manifest a bundle of husk in my former image as a human. Around the neck, I slid around my old leaf shaped Solutrean pendant.

I could see his horror in realization of who, or what I am.

YES, you fool! You, made me into THIS.

If I could laugh triumphantly, I would!..

-However, the best this cursed Vitis Vinifera could do is shake the ground with great exultation.

Just the way these vines and roots ravaged me last harvest, I would do the same to him.

I will not have some hired thugs to do the dirty deed, as this coward did.

“A glass a day keeps us forever young, right?!”

I drained him painfully slow, for months.

In a world renowned viticultural region- known for their elegant white Chardonnays, my thirst for bloody revenge has created the regions’ first ruby hued concoction.

It became highly sought after by Oenophiles and world leaders alike. My hate, was delicious to them. Vintage after vintage, these fools would spend fortunes at black market auctions to obtain my wines that they believed made them more youthful, more powerful, and interesting.

Little did they know, that they are now part of me. I have taken root into their shallow souls and I would extract everything out of them.

What a splendid harvest this turned out to be indeed.

Bonne santé!