The Vines

After years of drought, the vines dried up, kissing the ground. As the years passed, owners came and left, leaving the vineyard isolated and depressed. One day a young woman appeared, barefoot in a bohemian rose dress with fringe cascading from a shawl. Her wild red hair flowed and frizzed in the wind as she bent down and scooped dirt into her hands, thumbing the soil. Bringing the earth close to her freckle-accented face, she kissed it before giving it back.

'I will heal you', she whispered, tapping the soil, then rose up and floated off to the small cottage nearby.

The sun set while stars entertainingly danced above the crippled vineyard. As the night drew on, clouds began to form and a gentle fog rolled in from the Sacramento Canal, embracing the vines. The coolness of the water began to work its magic on the dried roots, never lifting all night.

In the morning, the woman walked amongst the vineyard, intentionally touching every plant. She sparkled in the sunlight while floating down the rows, emanating love. The grapes responded in kind.

Over the next year the deserted vines healed from their fog bath. Every morning she repeated the same action as the rows grew stronger, and when the grapes arrived they were vibrantly plump. After months of work, the mysterious woman picked her first grape, savoring the juices that filled her mouth with luscious flavors.

'You're a Merlot', she delightedly sang.

The wind whistled wistfully at the grapes, but they ignored the warning, reveling in ecstasy after years of neglect. The lady began singing to them every day.

Sweet little vineyard/I've come to save/compel you grow unhindered.

Grow ye ‘n flourish/fulfill my needs pray/never go barren or parish.

The lady came to harvest their fruit. Building a small cellar off the side of her cottage, she filled it with herbs and spices to begin crafting her wines at night. All the while the grapevines, giddy with love, continued to produce well past their normal season. They felt strong and unique. Every morning they would have fresh grapes. Their offerings to her love fulfilled them.

After five years, the vines grew tired, unable to stop producing fruit. Her hair was turning a deep reddish black. Where freckles once accented, wrinkles grew, and her floral dresses became monochromatic. The once young maiden who brought love and healing was now an old crone, willfully bending the vines for her potions.

One afternoon, a white van pulled up to her house. The crone wandered out to welcome the visitors, ushering them into her cellar. After disappearing for over an hour, they emerged with ornate bottles adorned with scripted labels. This regular ritual for visitors was followed by the harvesting of grapes before sunset.

The grapes grew suspicious and no longer wanted to produce for the crone, so they hatched a plan. Each morning when the sun rose, they would shake off their grapes, allowing squirrels to come and excitedly steal and take away the grapes. The next morning she gazed out from her window as the vines convulsed.

, a red car arrived to retrieve their order. The crone, with a bottle in hand, wandered over before storming to the grapevines to study the carnage.

'You think you can outsmart me? Clever vines. There's nothing you can do,' she smirked and pulled out a small gun from her dress pocket. Pointing it at the trees she shot down three squirrels and retrieved them by their tails. 'Squirrel stew!', she cackled, then wandered off into her cottage which would soon plume with smoke.

A thick fog rolled in from the canal, tricking the vines into a slumber. When the sun woke them there were nets draped at their roots, with silver reflective disks circling the vineyard, blinding all the animals. What once was the crone now resembled a young maiden again, as she sang her song sweetly to the vines. Confused, they drooped their limbs, weeping from the trickery. Over and over again they attempted to fool her and every time she would best them. They tried to fling the grapes into the canal, hide their leaves from the sun, some even broke off their own branches that produced the most grapes. But every morning they would wake from a thick fog, full of grapes ripe for the picking.

One day the maiden crone walked amongst the grapes, touching their now exhausted, drooping leaves.

'Time to go, I cannot stay. Rest well, my dears.'

With that the fog rolled in, and she dissipated into mist.

The next morning they were barren and clouds covered the sun, free from the clutches of the woman they feared. That afternoon a real estate agent and a young couple pulled up in a fancy car. They walked to the vines, observing the rows of absent grapes.

The agent told the potential buyers, “This lot of land has been vacant for ten years. The original owner is hungry to sell. They claim the land is cursed.”

'Cursed?' The blond, denim-clad woman questioned.

'They say a pregnant woman once came to this vineyard after her fiancée killed himself. She drank herself into a stupor and walked into the canal, never to be again. Every years she emerges to roam the vineyards to find her lover and child.' The agent shrugged her shoulders, 'I've never seen her.'

The dark burgundy-haired partner smiled, 'We'll take it!'

'Great, I'll draw up the paperwork.' With that the agent walked back to the car.

The blond turned to her partner, taking her hand, 'Are you sure?'

'Yes', she smiled, looking out at the water, 'I feel closer to her already.'

'Is the tale true?'

'Not , I'll tell you at dinner.'

With that they turned and followed the agent.

The fog returned that night.