Serafina and the Splintered Heart: Chapters 9–19

His heart seemed forlorn, his mood dark.

Clearly exhausted by the exertion of getting onto his feet, he rested there, leaning his shoulder against the column for a moment.

The metal brace tripped him up and he lurched off-balance.

She could see it in the shaking restlessness of his hands and legs, in the pained expression of his face, and even the unsettled way he was breathing. The mere closeness of her presence seemed to sadden and disquiet him.

He moved slowly, doggedly, his eyes mournful. He was going through the motions of his life, but his spirit was gone.

Essie’s books and newspapers weren’t on the nightstand by the bed. Essie’s drawings of flowers and plants weren’t on the wall. Essie’s clothes weren’t strewn across the floor and chair.

Her hand caused no shadow, but she could swear that the motes of dust whirled up in little clouds around the movement of her hand.

It reminded her of the dried, white, desiccated shell of a rattlesnake after it had shed its skin and become anew.

For the rest of the afternoon, she practiced moving particles of dust, shaping tendrils of steam, and causing candles to flicker as she studied the comings and goings of Biltmore.

Serafina was taken aback by the rudeness of Braeden’s behavior.

The last time she’d seen his room, it had been warm and tidy, but now it was messy and disheveled, with days-old food trays piled on the dresser and dirty clothes all over the floor.

All of a sudden, a gust of wind lifted her off her feet, trying to sweep her away with the blowing rain. She felt herself rising upward, pieces of her spirit, her soul, whatever it was, tearing away and disappearing into the gale.

It was becoming clear that the universe was taking her back, that her spirit only had so much more time to roam the earth before it faded into the elements from whence all things came.

You see that metal contraption in there? Mr. Olmsted asked me to rig up a steel basket and a sluice gate so that if there’s a big storm, and the creek water is all muddy and full of debris, then it won’t flow into the pond.

When we built this thing, Mr. Olmsted instructed his work crews to construct a long, winding brick tunnel called a flume under the pond.

So, now, when it rains hard and the creek overflows with muddy storm water, the metal basket fills with sticks and debris, the weight of it tilts the mechanism, the sluice gate opens the entrance to the tunnel, and the whole mess of it pours in.

As her pa finished his story, Serafina could hear the reverence in his voice.

And she hated the dark runnels of water sliding down the black, slimy, algae-coated walls like spidery tentacles.

Braeden’s movement was hampered by the metal brace on his leg, but he worked with a steady deliberateness.

Braeden lay at the edge of the creek in the torrential rain, exhausted and pulling in great lungfuls of air, but still gripping the metal box as if his very life depended upon it.

As Braeden gathered the garment in his hands, it began to writhe and rattle like a living snake.

Had Braeden somehow retrieved the clasp and reconstituted the black fabric of the cloak? But if so, for what terrible purpose would he bring such an evil thing back into the world? And if it had been remade, why was it so badly torn?

As he turned toward her, the hanging pieces of the cloak’s shredded fabric went wheeling outward, ripping the air with splintering black shadow, tearing through everything around her.

She could feel her droplets spreading apart, blending with the rest of the water, slipping into eddies, swirling behind rocks, seeping back into the universe.

She dreamed she was a droplet of water tumbling in the flow of a turbulent river, then drifting into the still waters of a placid lake, then lifting on the heat of the midday sun and sailing on a tumult of moisture-laden clouds, until she was rain, falling back down through the sky again, landing on a leaf, and then dripping down to the earth, and then running along the ground until she slipped into the flow of the river where she began.

She dreamed she was a droplet of water tumbling in the flow of a turbulent river, then drifting into the still waters of a placid lake, then lifting on the heat of the midday sun and sailing on a tumult of moisture-laden clouds, until she was rain, falling back down through the sky again, landing on a leaf, and then dripping down to the earth, and then running along the ground until she slipped into the flow of the river where she began.

Soon, she’d become so intermingled with the world, she would cease to be any semblance of what she had been before.

“Good-bye,” Serafina said wistfully, as Waysa and the black panther disappeared into the forest together.

He definitely wasn’t imagining his daughter as a whispery little haint blowing primordial dust, but she reckoned the principle was the same.

She could feel the muddy earth she was standing on slipping away beneath her feet, the inexorable pull into the all-consuming current.

As she continued her search for the sorcerer and the sun began to set, she came to a steep slope and followed it down into a wet area of bulrushes and cattails.

The bog exuded the dense, vaporous aroma of year upon year of amassed plants and thick black soil.

The moss felt damp and strangely buoyant beneath her bare feet as she walked.

Hunters who came to visit the estate called the birds woodcocks. Mountain folk called them bogsuckers or brush snipes.

She wondered what kind of name people had for what she had become. A haint, a haunt, a shade, a phantom, a spirit, a specter, an ethereal being.

She wondered what kind of name people had for what she had become. A haint, a haunt, a shade, a phantom, a spirit, a specter, an ethereal being.

When it reached the very top of its spiral, the woodcock hovered for a moment, as if held in the air, then sang out a liquid song. From there it began to fall, tumbling back down toward the earth, folding and fluttering like it had been shot with a gun, but all the while singing through its vainglorious display.

About fourteen years old, she had a pale complexion, dark red lips, and long red hair.

She had about her the feeling of someone who was hiding, diminished, but stoically unwilling to relinquish life, like a broken owl who no longer has the heart to fly.

She had about her the feeling of someone who was hiding, diminished, but stoically unwilling to relinquish life, like a broken owl who no longer has the heart to fly.