Hotel Del Luna OST12「Done For Me (by PUNCH)」Piano Cover

Anyone new to the BryonySeries blog might wonder why I post piano music on Sundays and how that fits into the BryonySeries world.

That's because one character - John Simons - was a nineteenth century world-renowned pianist and composer before he died and became a vampire.

I listened to this piece a lot when writing the solitary Simons Mansion scenes in "The Phoenix," the first book in the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy.

Here is a piano cover of the "Done for Me" by Punch, which appeared on the soundtrack of the 2019 South Korena drama "Hotel de Luna."

Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=leCz_j0mTfA

Ghost of a Rose- Blackmore's Night Piano Cover

Anyone new to the BryonySeries blog might wonder why I post piano music on Sundays and how that fits into the BryonySeries world.

That's because one character - John Simons - was a nineteenth century world-renowned pianist and composer before he died and became a vampire.

This is a brisk, haunting piece that fits the mood to "The Phoenix," I think.

Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2QaoS6Obfe4

BryonySeries: Limbo Trilogy

I think vague ideas for the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy started coming into my mind in 2018.

I wanted to explore what happens when a place becomes frozen in time.

But I didn't start jotting thoughts (none saved anyway) until spring 2019.

However, I realized as I wrote the three books in the Limbo trilogy ("The Phoenix," "Call of the Siren," and "House on Top of the Hill") that the value of this series was more than a fun exploration of the activity in a seemingly stalled and stagnant locale.

The Limbo series actually connects the ends of the original "drop of blood" young adult vampire trilogy and its prequel (the five-installment "Before The Blood"), filling in the blanks, answering (and raising) questions, and creating a seamless story loop without any real beginning or end.

As I wrote at the end of my second writing retreat in 2024:

Now, I could be wrong about “House on Top of the Hill” being the last novel. But at age sixty-three, I want to be sure I finish these other BryonySeries books, while I’m still able to finish them. So I'm definitely not bidding creative writing good-bye. I have plenty of book projects to last me a long time.

Also, for anyone who has read the BryonySeries, this "House on Top of the Hill" brings the series to a nice full circle. 

You see, if one starts with the drop of blood trilogy (“Bryony,” “Visage,” and “Staked!”),  the five installments of “Before The Blood” becomes a terrific prequel to the series. Limbo then fills in the time period between “drop” and BTB, the eighty years when nothing seemingly happens.

Or if one reads the books in chronological order – beginning with “Before The Blood,” and then moving onto to Limbo and then “drop of blood,” the novel “Staked!” gives a nice finish to the series. 

And if you start with Limbo, you can read BTB and “drop” to see what happened before and what happens after, which also works quite logically, especially since "drop" seamlessly follows "House on Top of the Hill."

Now, I don’t want to forget HOW to write a novel. And who knows? I might have another lurking in my brain somewhere, just waiting for the right time to show itself.

Or perhaps I’ll co-write a novel or helps other authors polish theirs. But from my viewpoint on this Monday morning, “House on Top of the Hill” is likely my last novel.

Of course, I did say that after “Before The Blood,” too. 

And if we want to travel down that path, I really only intended to write one novel, “Bryony.” But the story was too big for one book. 

Fine, I thought. I’ll write a sequel. But the story was too big for THAT book, too.

Fine. A trilogy then. Except now I had all this background backstory and my little band of fans for “drop of blood” wanted to read the series back story, which turned into an eight-year project for the five installments.

So there you have it. A series that overtook itself much like the poisonous bryony took over Simons Mansion, the Simons estate, and worked its way into the woods (which wasn’t Simons Woods after all, as you shall see in "House on Top of the Hill").

And with that, here is a summary of the trilogy, along with the back cover copy of all three books.

Limbo

Its tagline reads: "What happens when time stops in a fishing village in Northern Michigan? The supernatural reigns."

This BryonySeries trilogy - in three separate and very unique novels - explore the time period of the very late nineteenth century through nineteen seventy-five, when all progress appears to stop in Munsonville, Michigan, giving the illusion that time has also stopped.

The first novel spans a few short months. The second two span approximately forty years each. 

The third has an unusual structure: each chapter is (almost) a separate short story that (most of the time) moves the greater story forward. You would have to read it to know what I mean.

The Phoenix

Late 1895 in Munsonville, Michigan is all about survival and rebuilding: for the fishing village still reeling from deadly tragedies, for twelve-year-old Marie Clare who is grounded at Munsonville Inn with her dying father, and for two newly turned vampires foraging their meals from a dwindling supply of villagers. 

But to rise strong and unscathed, some will be sacrificed along the way. Who gets to live and thrive? And who decides?

Call of the Siren

Sue Bass is haunted by dreams of her father, who died in a boating accident before she was born, alluring dreams of water and song. But then a soft-spoken outside man with an inside plan comes to town, and Sue's sleepwalking fades, only to resurface with greater magnetism when he leaves. 

Two voices beckon. Which one will she heed?

House on Top of the Hill

Change comes slowly to Munsonville, and for Steve Barnes, who spends his entire life in the village, that's just fine. From boyhood to manhood, he savors the slow pace and friendly smiles, even while working by his parents' side from sunup to sundown to run the family diner.

The only blight is this fishing village's preoccupation with an empty mansion in the woods, whose tales of former glory and catastrophe fueled a rampage of ghost stories. Steve doesn't believe them, but some do – and no one can deny the power the crumbling old building holds over them.

Especially when it changes everyone, including Steve, forever.

PHOTOS (and more): WriteOn Joliet Open Mic 2025

On September 25, WriteOn Joliet held its first (and only) open mic at event for 2025 at Critical Grind Board Game Cafe in Shorewood.

It was also our first mic event since 2023 - and we held two that fall, shortly before the Book and Bean Cafe in Joliet closed - and we're thrilled to have found a new cafe home.

Critical Grind hosts a writer meetup on alternating Saturdays called Inkwells and Espresso, which WriteOn members have attended from the event's inception in early 2024.

WriteOn Joliet Charter Member Duanne Walton served as emcee at this first open mic at Critical Find and read some of his stream of consciousness works.

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, gave a dramatic recitation of his original poem.

Steve Cordin read an original crime thriller short story.

Holly Coop read her inspirational poetry.

Danny read some of his micro fiction.

Guest Nancy Calkins shared intriguing stories from her career as an art teacher.

Diana Estell gave a dramatic performance of original poetry.

Mauverneen Blevins read original poetry.

Our guest Chloe shared original poetry.

Barbara Eberhard, organizer of "Stories R Us" read original poetry.

"Stories R Us" takes place at 6:30 p.m. every third Wednesday at Nik & Ivy Brewing in Lockport.

Duanne, Diana, and Holly spontaneously reprised a three-part reading from the BryonySeries novel "The Phoenix," called "A Little Wine for Your Stomach," Part One.

These three also performed that reading in WriteOn Joliet's first radio-style theater performance in 2023: "An Evening With WriteOn Joliet: Readings to Entertain and Inspire You."

And Duanne and I reprised his piece (from the same radio play): "The Beast of Venice Pier."

And somewhere in the mix, I read part of "A Little Wine for Your Stomach, Part Two" from the BryonySeries novel "The Phoenix."

But alas, no photo exists of that reading since I was the one (overall) taking the photos (Timothy caught this one of Duanne and me).

So here's a glass of wine instead, one of my "teaser" photos for "The Phoenix."

Happy Thursday!

This Song Has No Title (Remastered 2014)

Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara: Chapter Seven of "The Fifth"

The other night Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara sent a new chapter seven for his upcoming sequel to "Ruthless."

He also sent the sequel's new title. It's no longer called "Tu Ruthless." It's now called "The Fifth" and it's a play on several "fifth" concepts (I'll task Ed with the explanation in another blog).

The readers gets a subtle introduction to one explanation in chapter seven, which is called "The Munsonville Five."

Munsonville is a fictional fishing village in Northern Michigan and a "hub" of the series.

In this chapter, Ed plays with the BryonySeries character supernatural super sleuth Cornell Dyer for the first time. Cornell meets with a vampire crime lord in a meeting reminiscent of Cornell's meeting with John Simons in "Visage" and Kellen Wechsler's meeting with Cornell in "The Phoenix."

The chapter shows some crossing, some double-crossing, and a really large pizza.

But I really love the first line. It really summarizes quite a lot why certain things happen the way they do in the books.

The first line is: "Munsonville just doesn't play by the rules."

Well done, Ed!

32 Quotes from "The Phoenix"

When we were getting ready to release Bryony back in 2011, my daughter Sarah (who did a lot of the marketing for me) suggested I pull thirty teaser quotes from the book that she could post on Facebook, one each day.

We did the same for the second book, Visage, which is also part of the BryonySeries.

But for some reason, I never did the same for another book.

So now I am catching up.

Here is the synopsis and chapter headings for The Phoenix, (the first book in the BryonySeries Limbo trilogy), followed by thirty-two quotes, one from each chapter.

Enjoy!

Late 1895 in Munsonville, Michigan is all about survival and rebuilding: for the fishing village still reeling from deadly tragedies, for twelve-year-old Marie Clare who is grounded at Munsonville Inn with her dying father, and for two newly turned vampires foraging their meals from a dwindling supply of villagers.

But to rise strong and unscathed, some will be sacrificed along the way. Who gets to live and thrive? And who decides?

Prologue

George gasped, choked, and convulsed; blood shot from his mouth, spattering the fish loaf, boiled cabbage, apple pudding, and the cheese he had scorned and staining the white tablecloth with tributaries of scarlet.

Chapter 1: A Sick Man and His Dream

“Simons Mansion!” Dr. Parks exclaimed. “I rescue you  from the brink of hell, and you ask about Simons Mansion?”

Chapter 2: Night Crawler

A deathly quiet surrounded him, a silence not broken by the pounding of his heart or the roaring of his breath in his ears as he used to know deafening silences. It was just Henry and the dog, and neither was alive anymore.

Chapter 3: Lake of Fire

They choked on smokes; they dodged stampedes and gunfire. They waded through whispering corn; they poured the wine, slept in brothels, and bought their spring wardrobe, their summer wardrobe, their fall wardrobe.

Chapter 4: Stripe for Stripe

Faraway from inside the colonial, a clock struck two with solemn gongs.

The hour of the demon.

Or so he always wrote.

Chapter 5: River of Life

“What would Dad think if we let his good friend die?” Leo said quietly as he rolled up his sleeve to the shoulder. “Would he rejoice in heaven? Smile down at our good sense?”

Chapter 6: Red Meat

He cared about blood. 

Not family blood, but the blood of families laid out in their beds like quail on a serving platter. He flinched and shuddered at the thought of that delicate bird roasted in its juice with black pepper and allspice. The only quail that quickened his palate was raw, bloody, and ebbing from life.

Chapter 7: Weeping Cometh by Day

Healthy residents retire at night; a random few expire before dawn. Could a mutated tuberculosis be the cause? A new plague from distant lands that migrated to these soils?

It seems unlikely the cause is demons, not with a rumored vivisectionist practicing in their midst, who could easily stake and dismember any prowling vampires.

For the safety of all, a quarantine remains in place, which all are heeding.

Except the vampires.

Chapter 8: From Cellar to Ceiling

Kellen Wechsler, John’s manager, was lounging in a wingback far away from the fire, sulking and smoking a cigar. He wore only black, the same shade as his hair, eyes, goatee, nails, everything except his waxy skin, which was pale as death. Unlike John, Kellen sported a certain “freshness,” like when a butcher presses blood into spoiled meat for reselling

Chapter 9: A Place of Perdition

"You dream by night; you know the nature of dreams. When dawn arrives, you eagerly allow dreams to fragment and disperse in favor of daylight and sunshine. Well, Little Marie, I am like a man wakened from a long sleep. It is time that I, too, walk in the light. Have you no comment?”

Chapter 10: The Dead Should Be His Own

So Kellen clawed his way out of his crypt with his phony vampire kit in his hand and reemerged behind Simons Mansion, ready to do his evil deed, which Kellen assured himself was really a good deed, like culling deer.

Chapter 11: A Little Wine for Your Stomach, Part One

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. 

Chapter 12: A Little Wine for Your Stomach, Part Two

“Look, you can cultivate elegance and civility like a decent human being.”

“I’m neither decent nor human.”

Chapter 13: Brain Fever

But although Marie dutifully bent her head over her grammar, sparks of panic disrupted the pathway between her mind and the written characters, and she spent most of the time stomping them out.

Chapter 14: None Greater Can Be Conceived

When he finally reached the top, he turned left for the opportunity to turn right was gone; he must only turn left; he was incapable of turning any other way.

Chapter 15:  When Even Words Won’t Stir Him

Isabella had not washed or changed her clothes for many days, and she smelled as grubby as she looked, nothing like rose water. 

Chapter 16: Small Bites

“Leeches?” Henry, curious, stepped closer. Sure enough, the glass jars held leeches, not worms. “I don’t recall leeches as part of New York and Chicago’s polite society, but perhaps the rules are different here at Simons Mansion.”

Chapter 17: In Which a Discourse Arises Between Dr. Parks and Little Marie

For the Grim Reaper stood ready with his scythe, and he cast a wide veil over their hope, even though they’d put their whole strength at keeping George Clare on the green side of life.

Chapter 18: Bad Fruit

Henry ravenously tore into one body after another. Kellen squatted on Henry’s death chair, like a frog preparing to catch flies, and urged Henry and John to hurry with rude, sarcastic remarks: “Come on, eat up!” “Don’t let anyone go to waste!” “This will help you grow big and strong!” and “Tastes just like chicken!”

Chapter 19: Man to Man

Just one glance at Dr. Parks’ companion, and Marie immediately knew Death had an enemy, a force more robust, more sinister than Death had yet encountered, a force that smelled, not of brimstone, but of aromatic pipe tobacco.

Chapter 20: Father of Lies

He paused at the Schwechten, tracing a gaunt finger through its burr walnut swirls as if noticing them for the first time. He and his piano: both well-played. 

Chapter 21: Sabbath Day

“I used to dream,” Luther said. Then he cocked his wrist and flicked the rock across the lake. It skipped, skipped, skipped, skipped, leaving widening circles in its wake. “But I don’t anymore.” He looked pointedly at Marie. “And If you wish to live at ease with yourself, I advise you to do the same.”

Chapter 22: Thorns with Poison

I know you are quite alone in the world, and that you are in-dependent and freethinking, but even modern women need to con-sider their reputations, and you are no exception, especially since “he” appears to have no regard for it at all.

Chapter 23: The Dead Man Rises

George’s shoulders sagged, and he ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Can you not look at me? Because you see a monster?”

Chapter 24: Drawing Back the Moon

“The grieving John Simons,” Dr. Gothart remarked to Kellen one night. “Each note perfectly executed and devoid of warmth, like chimes of ice.”

Chapter 25: The Prodigal So

Today, he was both doctor and patient, and the latter filled him with dread and unease. He’d rather strip naked and strut across Main Street than bare his soul. Vulnerability did not suit him.

Chapter 26: Redefining Life

Great. Flashbacks. That’s what Henry needed right now, a visit from the Ghost of his Evansville Past. Henry was dead; Horace wanted to be dead, and Henry was here to get the job done, not stroll down Memory Lane.

Chapter 27: Scrap Tossed to the Winds

Mostly, the essence of her papa’s vibrancy was gone. Marie saw what the others did not: a semi-forced gaiety. He no longer had hope in his eyes. Just the color blue.

Chapter 28: A New Gastronomy

He kept one eye on the next step in the recipes while nibbling here, tasting there, and licking his fingers, as any cook secretly does when no one is watching.

Chapter 29: Hope and a Future

Whereas some men had intelligence and skill, Dr. Parks also had discernment. And where some physicians recovered the bodily health of their patients, Dr. Parks restored the entire man. She knew why people condemned his vivisectionist activities. One can’t see into a person without inflicting pain. Stay on the surface, be at ease, as Luther might say. But then never be whole.

Chapter 30: The Wolf Shall Dwell With The Lamb

He thought of Pa, so like the illustration of a reed from an old botany textbook: slender, bendable to winds of misfortune, and, like any invasive species, equipped with a tenacious ability for survival by suppressing competitors, including his own family, wherever he rooted himself. Pa took what he wanted, including Henry’s mother. 

Epilogue

Except for the royal blue and dark hair, she was a miniature replica of her mother, and she stopped and looked up at him from beneath the brim of her regal hat, and the look was blank and devoid of connection. It wasn’t trusting. It wasn’t knowing. It wasn’t a look of anticipation for the future or thankfulness for his role in facilitating that future. It was simply a look.

Two Chapters Left: "Call of the Siren"

Two chapters.

That's all I have left in a novel that's given me a great deal of trouble.since I began it in earnest a year ago.

In fact, my muse never really sprang into action around the Christmas holidays. And even then, I've struggled, although the struggle was less, and the progress was real.

This novel isalled Call of the Siren and it's the second book in the Limbo trilogy. (The first is The Phoenix, and you can find a copy of it here).

Everything in bold at the bottom of this blog is nearly ready to go, self-editing-wise.

Everything in italics shows where work is still required.

But when the editing is done, I have a couple more passes over the text to make.

One is a granular pass to ensure the new characters are properly developed.

And then I need to make a "feng shui" pass over the entire book, which is a new type of editing for me. In fact, I might have invented this type of editing. Maybe it's worth its own post.

My original goal is to have the book ready for formatting by early April. That's an unrealistic goal at this point. But late May or early June feels very possible.

Cover art is by Nancy Calkins, wife of Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara.

I'm certain this novel has close to zero value, commercial-wise.

But it's the novel I intended to write. And it's a satisfying feeling, for me, to have a vision of a story I want to write, and then write the story in my mind.

Stories can be elusive beings, clear in our imagination but defiant of precise words. But that isn't so strange when you consider all the many strands that make a story: the characters, the plots, the arcs, the settings, the moods, and so forth - and then when you consider all the strangs that make each character, each plot, each arc, each setting, each mood, and so forth some more.

It's nothing short of amazing that writers can take these threads and weave them into something coherent, much less magical.

Amazing, indeed.

CALL OF THE SIREN

Sue Bass is haunted by dreams of her father, who died in a boating accident before she was born, alluring dreams of water and song. But then a soft-spoken outside man with an inside plan comes to town, and Sue's sleepwalking stops, only to resurface with greater magnetism when he leaves.

Two voices beckon. Which one will she heed?

Prologue:

PART ONE: WATER

Chapter 1: Lullaby

Chapter 2: Music or Madness

Chapter 3: Town Mouse

Chapter 4: Country Mouse, Monday Sept. 13, afternoon (spot places to fill in)

Chapter 5: Water, Butter, and Wine

Chapter 6: Little Girl Lost

Chapter 7: The Lure of Their Eyes

PART TWO: FIRE

Chapter 8: Flames and Frost

Chapter 9: Even The Sparrow 

Chapter 10: Bewitched By Her Sweetness

Chapter 11: House Calls, Saturday 

Chapter 12: Coin for the Passage

Chapter 13: Plaintive Cries 

Chapter 14: As Sharp as Spears

Chapter 15: The Meadow of Skeletons

PART THREE: AIR

Chapter 16: Gates of Horn and Ivory

Chapter 17 Ask, and It Shall be Given You

Chapter 18: Seek, and Ye Shall Find

Chapter 19: Knock, and it Shall Be Opened Unto You (1/3 edited, 2/3 drafted)

Chapter 20: The Stain No Storm Could Wash Away (1/3 edited, 2/3 drafted)

Chapter 21: A Stone and a Serpent 

Chapter 22: Treading Water 

Chapter 23: Last Dream of my Soul 

PART FOUR: EARTH

Chapter 24: On Solid Ground 

Chapter 25: Ideal – and Worthy of Envy  

Chapter 26: Sue’s Diner (edited)

Chapter 27: In Dark Depths Lurking (edited)

Chapter 28: The Abyss Beckons (edited)

Chapter 29: : No Breath of Wind, No Ripple of Water (edited)

Chapter 30: Ferry and Scythe

Epilogue 

Back to the Books: "The Dracula Book of Great Vampire Stories"

This book is one of my most favorite books of all time.

It obviously pre-dates the internet age, where most of these stories can now be read.

But back when I was growing up, if you wanted to read good vampire stories, you had to hunt them down.

I had checked this book out of the New Lenox Public Library when I was fifteen and devoured it.

And then my mother surprised me with this book on Christmas 1984, the day before I learned I was expecting my third child.

A couple weeks later, in January 1985, I was lying flat on my back on the living room couch, re-reading all these favorite stories.

I was flat on my back because that was the only way to keep from getting sick. Despite all the children I've had, pregnancy does not agree with me.

And I was indulging myself in the book because my two-year-old and eight-month old were both asleep at the same time, a rare occurance.

At one point, I set the book down and wondered if I could write a vampire novel. I had always wanted to write a novel and had down quite a bit of research on witches and vampires when I was fifteen in the hopes of writing that novel.

So I lay there, musing on the type of story I would write.

I thought about how so many of these stories came out of the Victorian era.

I thought about how many people tend to think of the Victorian era in very romantic terms.

So, what if I wrote a story about a teen girl who feel in love with a vampire from the Victorian era, except she refuses to acknowledge what he really is?

By the time the kids woke up, and I was changing their iapers, I had a skeleton story in my head. 

I started and scrapped many drafts throughout the years. But I finally wrote the novel in 2008 and self-published it at the end of 2011. Yes, it's "Bryony."

That one book spawned an entire series and inspired a creative stroke in another BryonySeries novel.

Take a look at the lettering on the opening paragraphs - and the font - in the excerpts below.

I wanted to pay homage to that as best as I could without having access to fancy tools. So I consulted with Rebekah who does my book formatting, and I think she did a great job, as you can see scrolling through these images.

She was not able to build the letters with the fantastic detail as the original book. But she cut up pieces of pictures I'd taken of objects with interesting texture and cobbled them together as images, which she inserted near the text.

The first three pages are from "The Dracula Book of Great Vampire Stories."

The second set of three are from the BryonySeries novel "The Phoenix."

The last page has the list of stories and their authors, in case you want to find any of them online and read them, too.

One last bit of homage: I named BryonySeries character Algernon Demars after Algernon Blackwood, even though the two share nothing in common except the name.

But that's OK, I think.

Final note: the book I own is not the one my mother bought for me. I had lent it to a friend and never saw it again.

I most likely bought my current copy from Amazon. You can, too.

"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.”