Red Wine from Heaven(Charles E.J. Moulton) Red Wine from Heaven

By Charles E.J. Moulton

***

The flickering dance of a hundred little flames had mesmerized him for an hour now. The fire telling him secrets of past lives. It was almost as if this change had given him new insight into what the long road had been leading up to.
His inner fire mirrored what the fire in the outer world up to here had been about.
Never had fire fascinated him so.

The good news sent him headlong into the deep relaxation of having arrived. His house almost a guest mansion, a temporary lodging, until today. But now? The board manager had been official and friendly and cordial, but the news had taken all the pressure off his chest. Did the angels have something to do with this? Oh, yes. One angel in particular.

The effect it had on his girls was obvious. No more quibble, no more female bickering. It meant everything to them. Security, friends, success, plans made that could be carried out. His daughter's boyfriend. His wife's acquaintances, the salsa practice and the trips to the opera. No packing. No new surroundings. No adjustment. No questions.

"You mean, it's official?"

Pedro had understood, with all the hugs and kisses and whooping going on, what this meant to them. He had hoped and wished for it, but hearing it dumbfounded him. And so, while his girls planned the upcoming paella evening and what would become a Flamenco Festival, Pedro went into the sitting room, turned on some flamenco, sat between bear skins and African statues, repeating over and over:

"This is mine. This is actually mine."

The echoes of voices in the warm night, the echoes of laughter in the restaurant by the lake, the chirp of the crickets, the realization that this house was not just a temporary gig. It felt like a tapestry of love that laid him into a bed of roses by the open fire of his soul. Like the passion of that pentatonic chord, a musical version of the moric Alhambra. A dancing burst, an uneasy flicker, a need for love. A sensation so deep that even the longing was pleasure.

The pain of never getting the break he deserved, that had not been it. Okay. He had gotten the break he deserved.
But it had all been about coming home. And now, he was home. His soul was home. Spiritual restlessness transforming into divine light.

"Toca me," an angelic voice whispered.

The person he remembered, her dark brown eyes and nougat complexion, had never appeared in his current life.
Her long red dress, her castagnettes and the vineyard they founded together back in the 18th century. It had flourished into the finest of northern Spain. And the universe had sent him back here. To the place where he once had lived.

The pictures of the vineyard in the web, how familiar the place had seemed. And the spirit he remembered inspired him to fight for that job at the ripe Calahorra. He had always felt lost, but that the universe could be that literal surprised him. Find the lost founder. Or did it? Had he not always known? Known the reason for his restlessness?

Then, one day, the only Ruiz Winery heir, Alejandro, died, leaving him the temporary executive. He had been a lost cousin and the reincarnation of the lost founder. And now, today, the thing he thought impossible had happened. It was like a song that had been played a long time ago now reverberating again.

"Un corazon como fuego."

The fire of restlessness.

The Spanish background guitar music Pedro had put on had a steady and penetrant rhythm. It would have been a song like this one Pedro would have played back when he had founded this place, back during that other life. A frequency as trustworthy as spring water, as warm as an Andalusian embrace given by a voluptuous lady.

A feeling that invited angelic visitors, spirits fascinated by the human soul, loving how they could help them put together puzzles. Spirits inside beauty. It was a beauty that called him, called him to see his own beauty. The beauty of his own confused extremities: his own Yin and Yang, poverty and wealth, greed and abundance, confusion and clarity.

Pedro Ruiz now saw that the flicker possessed the answers to his life's mystery. The warmth on his skin was like the sun rising over Calahorra, across the vineyard he now managed. A sunrise as yellow as the Spanish soul, more orange than the summer sand at the Costa Brava, as red as the blood inside his bull-like veins. Like the foot stomps of a toreador, rising to the occassion.

Como sangre de torro.

He listened to the sweetheart voices of his girls, realizing they were his guiding light. His conscience. And the fact that he now had found his own peace gave them peace.
No more screams, menopause against puberty, no more four letter words.
There was talk of rice and vegetables, beef and pork and saffron and ginger. And that calm wind of change that came with love. A love that had blossomed. But the angel told him to see the beauty even in his wife's anger, in his daughter's teenage outbreaks, in the screams, the slamming doors, the disconnection that streamed into connection. You will only know harmony when you have known disharmony, he told himself.
"A woman will demand a lot from a man, because she wants him to be the best he can be," his angel spoke softly, "often, women incarnate to help a man solve a troublesome karma. A spiritual blockade can only truly be solved by a woman."

Stone floors, El Greco tapestries, Madrid bulls, Dali originals, Figueres guitarras and the moon on the rise over the vineyard. They all pointed toward a transformation. A change was on the rise, led by Madam Moon and a glass of Rioja.
Luisa would not have to switch schools, Pedro would not have to move to that other French vineyard as a minor executive. Susanna, well, it seemed all those plans she had been making with her daughter about creating a Flamenco Festival on the grounds could become a reality. Now that they were on speaking terms, that seemed to become a possible reality.

The paella in the kitchen smelled like Spain. It was the mixture of different ingredients that came together to form a unity. Like the Arabic influence in Spain, like the oak barrels and grapes of the Rioja, like three people in a family guarded by a female angel.
Luisa had agree to cook her classmates a dinner just in case they could stay. This was the try out. Only his girls were more real.

Pedro would be the first CEO of the company that was not in a direct line from father to son.
"A cousin that has managed the vineyard so well in the past year is an excellent choice as a replacement for our deceased heir."

Somehow, the luscious deep color of the wine was like a life leading back to where he belonged, longing for the light. To the Rioja, dark and temptuous. The color darker than blood, lighter in texture, more fluid, somehow was richer than cream. Pedro felt the Spanish soul inside that liquid. A flamenco that would be playing here on the grounds next year, Luisa and Susanna on two guitars and dancers from Alicante, was innately a part of it, the eternal energy that was Rioja, barrel dried, luscious like the blossom of the anima. Hot and wild and time honored.

Pedro had become this wine, ripening with age, as characteristic as an oak barrel flavor. The firey conquistador. Knowing, eternal, hot, passionate. A road warrior just like the Hispanic soul, a lover of tantilizing flavors. As exotic as a pentatonic scale.
This wine was a dedication to female love. To Dali, El Greco, Picasso, Antonio Banderas and castagnettes.

Gazing through his wine, the light of the yellow flame, the orange candle and the golden candle holder mingled together inside the epicurian bliss of grape juice. It was uncanny how everything seemed to blend into oneness inside the haunting liquid. Everything became clear, even when it was fuzzy. Just like his life, it now seemed crystal clear.

Pedro kissed the edge of the glass, feeling the sharp edge, pouring streams of the rich liquid into his gums. The wine had that familiarly spicy flavor, like little dancing sparks on his tongue. It was warm and sweet like a senorita's passionate kiss, a smooch that shot right to his head, the energy somehow circling his head like a blanket, a cozy cashmere laid across smooth latina shoulders. His warm mistress Lady Wine took him way down into his deepest soul, laying him down on red satin sheets. The grape slowly trickled down his throat. He felt it warm up his belly.

And then, a vision, a premonition, a  familiarity. The waves of friendship and love from bygone days, souls residing in other bodies, laughing by the grapevine before long nights making love on sheepskin rugs. The flame of the candle flickered and reminded him that souls that feel love always find their way home.

Pedro stood up from his brown leather arm chair, feeling the sensual skin of the arm rests as he stood up, the leather caressing his palms. His Prada shoes clicked on the marble as he stepped up on the landing, holding his wine in his right hand. As he opened the glass door to his Hacienda balcony, she stood there yet again, more beautiful than ever, tastier than Calvados, as ravaging as a whiskey, creamier than Bailey's. And richer than a luscious dream.

Was this time travel? A spiritual vision? A shift to a parallel dimension? Regardless, it was exhillerating, because it always happened when a transformation was due.

His hands circled the waist that had manifested into physical form before him, memories of a life before tragedy, love before demise. His lips, hungry for the love of a past life, his soul remembering eternity where all was love, warmth and tenderness.

Her mouth still tasted of dry, oakbarrelled and sumptuous wine, making him realize that even angels have tasty kisses. And every confused moment of his life seemed to culminate into this clear one. Like a flame close to a kiss, a divine orgasm that sent them both to heaven, tongues circling one another, the moon shining on their love hungry cheeks. Her angelic love touched his heart and flew as blessings directly to his family.

"I am a reminder that souls never die."

And the kiss tasted like compassion.
They had not kissed for two hundred and eighteen years. And she still looked as young as she had back then. Back in royal Spain in the year of the blood moon. The one that took her from him. And him from this world.

The sound of her opulent mezzo rang in his head. It was as if the words were transported through her hot kisses into his soul.

"Love is a flower, my dear. And the point of life is not to avoid touch, but succumb to it. As husband and wife, as wife to wife, husband to husband. Even if we don't make love, we give love. Friend to friend, mother to daughter, father to son, colleague to colleague, performer to listener, therapist to patient, believer to atheist, agnostic to cleric. For where there is love, there is truth. Where there is truth, there is beauty. Where there is beauty, there is growth. Where there is growth, there is a future in the now. That is the fire, the heat and the soul of Rioja. The only rule is respect. For if you are able to blend, physically and spiritually, as two equals without power games, just to share love to experience it, you already have what is yours in heaven. Becoming one. Make love to be love. Be the loving creator of your own heaven."

As she withdrew yet again from his lips, her eyes opened to sparkle into his.

"I am restoration," she spoke, her voice softer than a Costa Brava breeze, more tender than blossoms offered at the bay of Gibraltar. One well manicured hand caressed his face, inspiring a knowing smile. "Remember," she sang, the moon making love to her illusive black locks, "I am a spark of lightning in the sky, a blessing for your family. My kiss is the radient universe restoring faith."

She put her angelic finger on the place where his heart was.

"I never wanted you to die the way you did," Pedro whispered, his voice as soft as Madrid rain. "I have carried the weight of your death with me as pain in my soul through the centuries. And, for a long while, I did not know why. But now... I dive into eternity."

Rosita grew silent, the face of the spirit that was her fluttering in a wind of realization. He could see through her, the stone wall and the olive tree, the dahlias, her favorite flower, the statue of the crane, her favorite bird. And yet, she was real. Here. A messenger.

"Pedro," she continued, "our reputation was cleansed, our purity proven after our death. We kept a distance from the poverty and helped them anonymously. You died, accused of murdering a poor man, but only because you were associated with me. We made this winery flourish. Thanks to us, this area blooms. Let the past go and be happy the universe has united us all. You are letting go."

"I remember the walks in the park. The one I had never seen on a photograph. I remember your favorite flower, your favorite bird, your favorite ship, your favorite dance. I remember you, Rosita. When I came here many years ago, I realized I had been here before. And then, you started reappearing in my dreams."

Rosita turned around, looking up at the moon, as if Lady Luna was a messenger from God, telling her that her visiting hours in this dimension were coming to end.

She looked up at him, that warm Rioja-like smile trickling down past his larynx like the liquid sounds of a colibri singing for the first time.

She caressed his mouth, her fingers feeling his lips. A guest on Earth touching the world on a whim.

"You picked up the clues, Pedro," she sighed, "now pick up your spirits. You realize life is energy, love the answer and that my death in your earlier life the reason for your insecurity. Unfair games," Rosita whispered, looking down, "that year of the blood moon, 1793, led you to forget your own life, accused of crimes you did not commit. So you became the carrier, Don Pedro, of a family karma in this life, a burden that was never yours. My death was not your fault, Pedro. It was the blade of confused vigilantes. They wanted to blame local poverty on someone. I was the obvious choice, a rich Spanish Rioja-heiress honored by you, her devoted lover, and her best friends."

Pedro looked over at the rose garden lit up by the full moon, Rosita's white silk night gown sweeter on his skin than the red wine in his throat. Again, he had a spontaneous regression of an evening's wine tasting in the main hall, a minute's walk from where they now stood, a year before her death.

"My old house, Pedro, will flourish through you in a new body, a future life with a new family. A wife and a daughter. Let go of your past and let me shine a light into your soul. My kisses are those of the light. Your truth should behold a centre of family."

She leaned over and kissed the fabric of his white shirt above his heart. A light appeared there that spread into his spirit.

"The light an angel gives you will bless everyone you love."

She smiled again, that familiar warmth returning.

"Let me go and I will become one with you and eternity."

There was a flutter of wings, thoughts to behold, a physical form dwindling.

"La transformación espiritual cambia todo el universo."

Yearning inspired his heart.
A longing to find meaning.

"Lead me," Pedro crooned.

"You need no one to lead you. You are in position to be the light, Pedro. And light leads the way. You have gone through pain to understand pain, to heal it. To show what love can do. Love is the wind of change. In it, we prosper. We make love, Pedro, to share love, the electromagnetic emotion called love a mirror of heaven. We wish to blend as we blend in heaven. We wish to kiss like we kiss in heaven. And so, love is the heaven you make. Children are the fruit of this heaven. The whole universe is made out of love, Pedro, and you are the creators of that love. I know you will keep me in your heart. Every time you lift one of your Rioja bottles to pour red wine into a glass, you will think of the love I pour into you, blessing your family through you."

Rosita made an effectful pause, somewhat earnest now.

"Just promise me one thing."

Pedro raised his eyebrows, noticing female worry even in this angel spirit's tender voice.

"Anything, my dear."

She raised her angelic finger to his nose, giving it a peck.

"Never lose faith."

He shook his head in worry.
"This is not a good bye, is it?"

She laughed a bouncey laugh.
"No. It's a hello."

The soft fabric of her night gown felt like the wind, her kiss like the moonlight and her skin like the roses in his garden.

And as suddenly as she had appeared, as quickly did she disappear again.

Rosita was still here, though, guarding him, guiding him, loving him, in the moon, in the stars, in the wind, in the fire. Like love itself, she was eternal.

Pedro emptied the glass, the strong taste of ripened grape trickling down his throat. He held the gorgeously formed glass in his hand, realizing how he had fought to build his empire, for some reason calling the wine by a name as haunting as a previous life he was yet to discover.

And then she appeared in a dream, making him realize how magical eternity was.

His wife and daughter arrived, having finished in the kitchen. Their smiles were sweet, their hearts had that gorgeous glow.

"Buenas noches, mi amor."

Pedro smiled, warmth in his heart again rising to his eyes.

"Te quiero."

"Was she here again?"

He looked up at the star that had reappeared in the sky.

He nodded, looking at the light spreading light over his large winery.

Pedro's wife Susanna had gotten used to Rosita returning from time to time.
Her own dreams were now transforming warm emotions to clear memories. They had all been together then. And they were all together now.
Pedro, Susanna, Luisa and Rosita.

Pedro's wife embraced her husband, a beam of love entering their spirits and making them one, their daughter Luisa laying her head on her father's shoulder, knowing that she, too, had been there, as her best friend namesake.

Luisa fetched a bottle from the terrace rack.
Soon enough, the rich family raised a toast to the star in heaven they knew was taking care of them.

"Rioja de Rosita," Pedro sighed. "The fountain of youth."

Luisa pointed to the skies.
"Look, Papa."

A star that had risen was now shining brighter than before.

Never before had the family felt so fulfilled with the magic love of divine eternity.

And the wine tasted like heaven.

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