"A Little Wine for Your Stomach, Part One"

In late 2018 or early 2019, I started drafting outlines for three books in a new BryonySeries called Limbo.

All three stories feature themes of rebirth in a location, the fictional Northern Michigan fishing village called Munsonville, that has grown stagnant, where growth has stopped.

The first book in the series, called The Phoenix, explores a theme I've always found fascinating and that's the idea of two or more people trapped in a room, a premise foundational to many escape rooms.

The British comedy trio The Goodies built an entire episode on it, and it's one of my favorite episodes.

In the case of The Phoenix, I contrast two different groups between alternating paragraphs.

One is a family (George and Isabella Clare and their precocious tweleve-year-old daughter Marie) chasing a dream. They are stuck in a room at Munsonville Inn when the father becomes seriously ill.

The second are two vampires in a nearby mansion who are trying to figure out their new existance.

Ironically, I started working on The Phoenix in earnest when I had a few days off during the Christmas holidays in 2019.

Several months into the pandemic, I realized that I was working on quarantine stories both at work and for my hobby, which really made 2020 a surreal year for me, since I sheltered in place quite a bit, too.

I wrote the excerpt that I'm sharing today early in the pandemic, before vaccines, before masking rules, before mandates, etc.

The argument is over blood transfusions, which were considered experimental by some at the time (late nineteenth century), especially since the time frame in this piece is before the official typing of blood by antigens.

Re-reading this piece, I'm struck by the thought that there really is nothing new under the sun.

Enjoy!

CHAPTER ELEVEN: A LITTLE WINE FOR YOUR STOMACH, PART ONE

And he shewed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb.

 

With a weary sigh, Dr. Parks removed the clear tube from her papa’s arm and bandaged the wound with carbolated gauze.

During the entire water infusion, Isabella sat on the bed at George’s left and Marie did the same on his right, inducing Dr. Parks to mutter, “the two thieves” when he set up the procedure, a remark Isabella appeared not to hear.

But Marie heard it. She studied each of Dr. Parks’ movements and ruminated on the man who executed them. Did this man have discernment? And to what depth did he cultivate it?

The outside of George remained washed in, not the Blood of the Lamb, but his own blood and that of Leo’s, which had shot from his body with alarming force shortly after lunch on New Year’s Day, so shortly that the dishes were not yet cleared from the table, and the bottle of 1860 Bordeaux was not completely drunk.

It was the sight of that bottle that caused Dr. Parks to stop short in the doorway, hat and medical bag still in his hands, and stare at that bottle as if he’d never seen a bottle in his life and the very sight frightened him. All the while his patient, with Isabella cradling his head, continued to heave nothing into the bedpan, as he had nothing left to heave.

“Don’t just stand there!” Isabella had screamed. “Help him!”

“It’s too soon for Leo to donate again. I’ll need to find…”

“No! No! No! You will not give him any more blood!”

That’s when Dr. Parks sprang into rapid action, not even stopping to remove his overcoat. Within minutes, he was infusing George with saline solution.

“It’s to replenish the lost fluids,” Dr. Parks had said to Marie although she had not asked the question aloud.

 But even after Dr. Parks completed the transfer he looked very, very, very worried. 

“’For every one that thirsts, come you to the waters,” Isabella murmured as she rubbed George’s hand with both of hers. “I will cleanse their blood that I have not cleansed: for the Lord dwelleth in Zion.”

Water was pure, Marie thought as she clung to her papa’s cold blue hand. Water was lifegiving. Surely water would restore health and vigor to her papa.

For I will pour water upon him that is thirsty, and floods upon the dry ground… you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.

 Dr. Parks mixed the clay with water as clear as the water that had infused life back into his patient. He offered the beaker to Isabella and raised an eyebrow. She accepted it, her answer, and nudged the rim to her husband’s lips. But George refused it.

“Bring wine,” George mumbled.

Dr. Parks drew a sharp breath and narrowed his gaze, not at George, but at Isabella. “No. Wine.”

“Doctor,” George gasped. “Please.”

“Good God, man! Do you want to die?”

George turned blanched, clutched his stomach, and retched loudly onto the covers, producing only noise. Panting, he raised his eyes. “Wine for you, good doctor.”

“I’ll bring the wine, Papa.”

Marie slid off the bed and headed for the trunk, where she brought forth a clean goblet. She then carefully filled half of it with some of the Bordeaux from lunch. Any less would make them ingrates; more might be wasted if Dr. Parks practiced temperance, a possibility as he didn’t finish the last glass she’d offered him, the night he’d transfused Leo’s blood into her papa.

She returned with the goblet as Dr. Parks removed the stethoscope from his ears. The empty beaker, insides coated with chalk, sat on the nightstand. Isabella lay against the headboard, cradling George against her breast.

“For you,” Marie said, hand outstretched.

But Dr. Parks only looked inside the goblet, as if hypnotized by its ripples, and she wondered what he saw: the wine’s deep color, almost black with a plum blush near the top, or something beyond the wine. 

For if one peered closely, one might perceive nuances of its bouquet: elegant, smooth, and mature, a wine to be savored in all its complexities. A more reflective person might detect the high regard the family had for its head – and the head’s physician – since only the best was served up to them. One who pondered spiritual truths might understand the medicinal depths this wine represented, both to the drinker and the one who poured.

But most people didn’t look that far. She extended her arm to full length.

“Dr. Parks,” she said clearly and without emotion. “For you. For healing my papa.”

He jerked his head toward the nightstand. “Over there.” Then he nodded curtly at Isabella. “Please move.”

She settled George against the pillows with a loving little pat and eased off the bed, glaring at Dr. Parks.

Marie placed the goblet next to the beaker. An empty glass of clay, a half one of wine. One for the patient who needed healing, one for the healer. Sure God would approve works wrought in such faith.

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.

Dr. Parks wrapped the cuff around George’s arm. Isabella was pouring water into a basin, and George, white as bismuth, followed her movements with anxious eyes.

“My dear, take some wine for you, too. You’re disquieted and tense. Little Marie, pour a glass for…”

“George, don’t vex yourself. I’m fine.”

 “My devoted Isabella, so concerned for my care. Please - a drink.”

“Soon, George. When you’re refreshed.”

Satisfied, George plunged into heavy slumber. Dr. Parks packed up his supplies and then picked up the wine and drained it in three gulps.

Isabella, gathering fresh towels, did not look up from her task as she said flatly, “Dr. Parks, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He set down the empty goblet and reached for his coat. 

“Doctor Parks, please wait.”

He froze.

Uncertain, Isabella faced him and stammered, “He…he seems so weak. Are you certain the water will help him?”

“Maybe.” He turned around. “But a blood transfusion…”

“Humph! You and your blood transfusions. I’m so sick of hearing about blood transfusions. Look at him! Much worse since the ‘transfusion.’”

“Because of the wine you gave him. Not the transfusion.”

She clenched her fists. “Wine nourishes the stomach.”

“Wine also eats it away.”

 “Dr. Parks, how does your ‘fountain’ gush forth fresh water and bitter water?” She took a step toward him. “How can you bring both blessing and cursing?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but Isabella held up her hand. “Your vile reputation is well-known, even if my husband won’t admit it. Yet it’s also clear the spirit of the Lord is upon you, that he has anointed you to bring healing. Why do you persist in opposing the God who’s gifted you?”

“Mrs. Clare, it’s you who are blocking your husband’s healing. Why do you persist in giving this man alcohol when it’s clearly detrimental for him?”

“Not ‘alcohol,’ Doctor. Wine. And not just any wine. Not even the highly touted tonic wine, but pure wine of the highest quality, wine my own father…”

“Wine is still alcohol. Your husband’s stomach is wounded. Giving him wine will…”

“…bind his wounds, as the Samaritan did for the poor beaten man at the side of the road. And calm his stomach, as it did for young Timothy, disciple of Paul.”

Dr. Parks’ features hardened, and deep lines appeared near his mouth. He took a deep breath and then quoted, “’He shall separate himself from wine and strong drink, and shall drink no vinegar of wine, or vinegar of strong drink.’”

Isabella tossed her head. “Dr. Parks, I’m not interested in hearing you twist scripture to support your intemperance theories. Drink lightly, if you must, but don’t force your beliefs on us. You are here to treat my husband, not moralize.”

“I’m speaking as a medical doctor, as one who’s observed the detriment of alcohol abuse in his patients. I implore you…”

She cut him off with a wave of her hand, her eyes flashing.

“Any good medicine that’s abused, Dr. Parks, will cause detriment. My own cousin developed a craving for laudanum after her physician prescribed it for her insomnia. However, the wine my George drinks is not ‘abuse.’ He drinks to calm his afflicted stomach. God’s very word recommended it, and …”

Dr. Parks sighed and rolled his eyes. Isabella flushed with rage, took another step, and raised her voice.

“…and the Messiah himself has visited and instructed us. We cannot disobey!”

Dr. Parks picked up his hat and bag. “Mrs. Clare. Please. Do not give this man any more wine. I’m not even certain the infusion and bismuth will be sufficient. Not this time. He really needs more blood.”

She lifted her skirts and ran across the room, grabbing his arm as he reached the door. “The only blood my George needs is the blood of his Savior! Which comes from wine! Which God Himself hath given to us!”

Dr. Parks set down his bag and hat on the table and tried again. “Mrs. Clare, alcohol increases acid secretion. It…”

“Wine protects the stomach!”

“This acid has eaten a hole in his stomach.” He leaned into her, his nose hovering just above hers, his face taut. “Do you understand? The continual consumption has left this hole bleeding and raw and full of tiny spiral-shaped creatures that are having a ‘continual feast’ at the peril of your husband.”

“You…you vivisectionist! Of course, you’d know that. You dice people into bits to satisfy your morbid curiosity! The only holes in people’s stomachs are the ones you brutally chop into them!”

“I learned about the detrimental effects of alcohol by treating its aftereffects in fools like you and your husband.”

Isabella pointed to the door. “Get out now!” She stamped her foot. “Now!”

Marie held her breath, her heart racing. Her mama was nearly purple with rage. Her eyes bulged. The cords on her neck looked ready to snap. 

Miraculously, George did not stir. He lay still and white as smooth stone, mouth slightly parted, breaths faint.

Dr. Parks reached for her hand, but she yanked it away. He took a breath, and then he took a longer one before speaking.

“Mrs. Clare.”

“Shut up!”

“Mrs. Clare,” he said again, punctuating each syllable with his hands. “He’s bled so much he’s in danger of death, and you won’t even allow me to replace the blood. The most we can do is hope, and that is hope only, no guarantees, that the fluid I’ve replaced, along with rest and time, will allow your husband’s body to heal and recreate his own blood.”

Isabella’s shoulders sagged. She lowered her head, thinking – or praying. Then she looked back up at Dr. Parks, her face brightening.

“Yes,” Isabella whispered. “That is the best way. For we are fearfully and wonderfully made.” This time, she took Dr. Parks’ hand, and he did not withdraw. “I do thank you, Doctor, for being the channel of healing for my George. Don’t you see? He now only needs a little wine for stomach. Remember God always says, ‘Give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish, and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts.’”

“No. More. Wine.”

“But God Himself has advised us!”

“Look, all scripture is based on personal interpretation. It’s not as if God himself returned to earth…”

“But he did! The Messiah himself sat next to us on a train and spoke to us, face to face, one person to another.”

His jaw dropped.; incredulity spread across his face. “Mrs. Clare, do you actually expect me to believe that the Lord Himself came down from heaven to join your family on a train?”

“Well, of course not.”

“Good. Because I was beginning to think…”

“We were on our way to Denver when George became afflicted. As George writhed in pan, the conductor approached us and said the Messiah was on the train and, if we so desired, he would send for him at once.”

Dr. Parks dropped into a chair and rubbed his face, all words gone. Isabella, keyed up with the story, hardly noticed his retreat as she babbled away.

“George asked his name and he responded with ‘I am.’ Then he asked where we stored the wine. The Messiah blessed all of it, selected one bottle and called out for a loaf, which a customer fished out of a bag. Then he blessed the wine, gave thanks to the Father, and told George to drink. After a time, he blessed the bread, gave a portion of it to George to eat. This bread, blessed by God, did not cause him distress.”

Dr. Parks raised his eyes to her. They looked stunned, mystified, as if they disbelieved what his ears were hearing.

“He told us George’s affliction was his ‘thorn in the flesh,’ but he exhorted him to ‘take a little wine for his stomach’ that he may bear it. So how dare you, Doctor, to contradict the will of the Almighty God?”

Slowly he stood, thinking hard on the way up.

“Mrs. Clare, you’ve spent your lives chasing down the scoop that will make the world notice your husband’s ingenuity and talents. Now why, in God’s great name in heaven, did your husband not interview ‘the Messiah’ when he had the opportunity? And please don’t tell me the Messiah refused!”

“The delicate nature of George’s health often interferes with timely reporting. This has been his great frustration. Why do you think we’re here, if not to report on the birth of John Simons’ child? And even that opportunity was stolen from us by the repugnant Henry Matthews! As for interviewing the Messiah, do you think we are gullible? Naive?”

The look on Dr. Parks’ faced showed exactly that.

“Impertinence!” Isabella dug her fingers into her hips. “How dare you disrespect me! Do you know who I am? Do you know who my father was? Do you realize how much money he donated to John Hopkins? Dr. Parks: we knew this man was the Messiah because other newspapers had already reported it. I’m assuming you read newspapers? A story from George about the Messiah would not be fresh news! A story about the Messiah would not advance The Dream!” She sighed. “Besides, it’s too late. He’s returned to the Father.”

Dr. Parks shook his head, dazed. “Mrs. Clare, I’m so confused.”

“The Messiah. He went to Mexico this year and vanished, just as he did forty days after His resurrection.”

Dr. Parks rubbed his face with both hands. Then he rose and picked up his hat and bag. After glancing at his patient with a mixture of grave concern and pity, he trudged to the door and opened it. 

Then he paused and turned around. His face looked kind. But the anger in his eyes, terrible.

“Mrs. Clare, his stomach needs rest,” Dr. Parks said quietly, “If you pour him another drop, I’ll send for the constable.”