Serafina and the Seven Stars

by Robert Beatty

  As Mr. Vanderbilt hurried away to organize the evacuation of Biltmore, Serafina grabbed Braeden’s arm.

  “We need to figure out specifically what’s causing all this,” she said.

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Down by the lake, when everything started,” she said, “do you remember how we could see all those stars that night? You were telling me what they meant. And then we saw the white deer running through the forest—”

  “You think it was a constellation…” Braeden said in amazement. “You want to use Biltmore’s Library….”

  “Unless you already know what we’re looking for, I think it’s our only hope.”

  Seconds later, as they ran through the Main Hall, dozens of guests were hurrying toward their rooms to grab what belongings they could. Others had abandoned their belongings entirely and were now fleeing directly for the carriages that were lining up at the front door.

  As she and Braeden dashed down the length of the Tapestry Gallery, maids and footmen rushed to and fro around them, battening down the window shutters and closing up the piano, others trying to protect the gallery’s fine furniture and its three hand-woven twenty-foot-wide silk and wool Flemish tapestries.

  Serafina could hear Mr. Vanderbilt’s voice in the distance behind her. “There’s no time for all that,” he ordered his staff. “Leave it and go!”

  The whole house was erupting with activity. It would be the first time in her entire life that they would attempt to actually empty this vast house of nearly all of its inhabitants.

  As she and Braeden entered the Library, the brass floor lamps glowed with amber light, reflecting on the gold-leaf titles of the books lining the shelves, and a gentle fire crackled in the marble fireplace. It was a peaceful sight, but the sounds of chaos filled the house behind them. She didn’t know how much time they had, but she knew it wasn’t much. And as she looked up at all the books, it just seemed so daunting. There were over ten thousand books on these shelves, and another twelve thousand scattered throughout the house. How could she find any answers in a place like this?

  “Astronomy…” Braeden said as he quickly went over to one of the shelves near the wrought-iron spiral staircase that led up to the Library’s second level. He tilted his head as he scanned the titles and then pulled out a dark leather-bound book.

  As they leafed through the pages, Serafina caught glimpses of Greek gods and goddesses, great Titans and epic heroes.

  “There are all kinds of myths and legends about the constellations,” he said, “but I don’t remember any stories about a white deer.”

  “What about the stars you were telling me about that night?”

  “We saw Orion…and the star of Aldebaran…and Pleiades…and—”

  “You were telling me about Pleiades,” she said. “The Seven Stars. Do you remember? They were very bright.”

  “My uncle said that the Seven Sisters were the daughters of Pleione, some sort of nymph or something.”

  Serafina listened to what he was saying, but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with what was happening at Biltmore. “You told me a story from the Bible where God says, ‘Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose the belt of Orion?’ Do you remember that? You said that nearly every culture in the world had old stories about the Seven Stars.”

  Outside the Library, at the far end of the house, something glass smashed onto the floor. They both jumped at the sound of it, but Serafina was determined to stay focused on what they were doing.

  Braeden hurried over to one of the shelves near the fireplace and pulled out a second book. “This one talks about how a Māori god named Tāne collected seven stars and then threw them up into the heavens to adorn the god of the sky.”

  “I don’t think that’s it, either,” Serafina said.

  “Then let’s try this one,” Braeden said as he pulled out a much thicker black tome and began flipping through the paintings of constellations, Cygnus the Swan, Taurus the Bull, Orion the Hunter, page after page.

  When she spotted a cluster of stars in a haze of glowing blue light, she stopped him. “That’s the Seven Stars.”

  They leaned in and began reading the text, descriptions of Celtic myths and druid priests, of witchcraft and long-forgotten lore.

  Now she could hear people shouting to one another in the distance. She wanted to go to them, to help them. We don’t have time for reading, she thought frantically, but then she came to this:

  There were seasons for all things, but autumn in particular was known as a time of change and calamitous events. Every fall, when the Seven Stars first rose high in the midnight sky, it was believed that the veil between the physical world and the magical world was at its thinnest. It was said that during this time if the Seven Stars were caught in a reflection, then they would reflect their magic into our world, while at the same time reflecting our world into their magic, like a mirror into a mirror. Whatever was occurring at the moment of the reflection—the good, the evil, the wondrous, and the vile—would become manifest in our world.

  As she read the words, it felt as if her thoughts were glowing with heat in her mind.

  “The reflection on the lake…” she whispered in astonishment.

  “And the meteor storm…” Braeden gasped.

  “It must have all started that night.”

  “But there’s still nothing here about a white deer,” Braeden said.

  They quickly continued to the next paragraph.

  It was generally believed, among the druid priests and the common people alike, that in some years the Seven Stars had the power to bring the dead into the realm of the living. This has long been thought by historians to be the origin of what we now observe as Halloween. It was also believed that in other years the Seven Stars had the power to bring spirit to that which did not have spirit. The exact stories varied from year to year, and from region to region, but they all had one aspect in common: Once the reflection of the Seven Stars faded, their magic faded with them, and the daylight world returned to normal.

  “But this can’t be right,” Braeden said. “There’s still nothing about a white deer. And if we were dealing with the magic of the Seven Stars, then it should have only lasted for a few minutes on that one night.”

  Gunshots split the air and echoed through the cavernous halls of Biltmore. She knew that people were in trouble, but she had to stay strong.

  What Braeden had just said seemed to eliminate the Seven Stars as a possibility for what they were facing, but she remembered the ethereal sight of the white fawn running through the forest that first night, and Joan of Arc charging toward them a few nights later, and all the other creatures that had come alive.

  “‘The power to bring spirit to that which did not have spirit…’” she whispered, trying to think it through. “It’s like the magic of the Seven Stars has been entwined with Biltmore.”

  Braeden looked up at her. “But do you realize what that means? It’s a reflection of ourselves at the moment when it occurred. The hunters shot the white fawn!”

  “It bespelled the entire house, the grounds, everything!” she said. “And it’s getting worse every night, twisting the stone of Biltmore with its own evil.”

  “No,” Braeden said. “With our evil, you mean. Our evil! Don’t you see? Like a mirror into a mirror. It’s a reflection of us, all turned against us! It’s the violence, the cruelty of that moment, turned against the hunters. It’s the killing of small, defenseless animals. It’s the terrifying feeling of being hunted. It’s all of it!”

  A bank of windows shattered in a nearby room.

  “And it’s reflecting into itself, spiraling out of control,” she said.

  “Especially when we try to fight against it, like Kinsley did.”

  “But it said that the magic would only last as long as the reflection.”

  “So why is it still here? Why is it still happening?” Braeden asked, his voice strained.

  A sickening, sinking
weight filled Serafina’s stomach, and her face must have shown it, for Braeden’s darkened immediately.

  “What?” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  “The white fawn was meant to die,” she said.

  “What do you mean, meant to die?” he said, aghast.

  “Not that the deer was meant to be shot by the hunters or that it deserved to die. But when the reflection of the stars in the lake faded, then the magic in the white fawn should have faded with it. The deer should have passed away or become stone again.”

  “Then why did she stay alive?” Braeden asked, but even as he said the words, she heard the hitch in his voice. “She stayed alive because I healed her,” he said, his words laced with the realization of what he’d done. “I used my healing powers to help her, to infuse her with life…. I’m the cause of all this!”

  “Braeden, you didn’t know,” she said. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t shoot the deer.”

  But what shocked her the most as she gazed up at the shelves of the vast library was that the answer to the puzzle had been here in these books all along. She’d been so close to it.

  She had admired the beauty of the star-filled sky a thousand times, but until Braeden had told her about it, she had never heard of Pleiades, or the Seven Stars, or known much about the glistening objects sweeping through the darkness of space above her.

  What if Colonel Braddick had known not to shoot the white deer? What if Braeden had known not to save it? What if Kinsley had known not to fight it during his heroic efforts to defend Jess?

  Serafina stopped.

  What if she had known any of it? She could have prevented this.

  But they were all just doing what they always did. Killing and saving and defending and clawing.

  A wave of screams rose up from the Main Hall, people running in panic. Serafina knew that they only had seconds left. But an idea sprang into her mind. “Braeden, did the Joan of Arc statue have any history behind it, any kind of dark past?”

  “No, my uncle had it made for the house,” Braeden said. “It was just a plain old stone statue.”

  “Was the real Joan of Arc a vicious fighter?”

  “My uncle said that she wore armor and carried a sword into battle, but she was more of a spiritual leader, to boost the morale of the French troops. I think mainly she wanted peace.”

  “She sure didn’t seem too peaceful when she was trying to kill us,” Serafina said. “And the lions didn’t act like real lions. They’re all being brought into motion by the power of the reflection…. But how do we fight them?” As she tried to think it through, she knew that whatever they came up with, they had to act quickly. “We just saw that we can kill at least some of them with weapons and claws, but we’ve also seen what happens when the power of our world mixes with theirs.”

  Braeden nodded. “The white deer is darn near indestructible thanks to me.”

  The smell of smoke filled the air, the acrid stench of woolen tapestries on fire.

  “I think we need to talk to her,” Braeden said, his eyes solemn. “We need to somehow communicate with her, get her to stop doing this. I healed her, so she knows me. She knows I wouldn’t hurt her. She’ll trust me. If she’s reflecting violence, then let’s not give her any violence to reflect.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work,” Serafina said. “I already tried talking to it the night the hunters were killed and it didn’t respond to me. And it’s not just the white deer, it’s statues all over the entire estate, the house, the gardens, the lake—”

  A large vase just outside the Library smashed onto the floor. Whatever it was, it was coming and would soon be here.

  “How do we fight the entire house?” Braeden asked in exasperation.

  “We can’t,” Serafina said. “We’ve got to think of some other way to stop it.”

  “We just need more time,” Braeden said, looking up at all the books. “The answer’s got to be here somewhere!”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  The rap of cloven hooves moving across the hardwood floor drifted down the Tapestry Gallery toward the Library.

  The hair on the back of Serafina’s neck stood on end.

  “What’s that?” Braeden asked.

  Experience was a peculiar thing. And reading books and asking questions and talking to one another…There were many teachers. But she feared that up to this moment, she had not been listening.

  She turned to the door, knowing that the killing creature would soon be there, and she said, “We’re out of time.”

  Tap-tap-tap.

  The sound of the tiny hooves grew louder.

  “Get back,” Serafina whispered to Braeden as she moved quickly forward to peek out through the archway of the Library’s open double doors.

  She looked down the length of the Tapestry Gallery, dark and full of shadows, the glow of the moon seeping through the sheer curtains on the tall, narrow windows.

  The white deer stood at the far end of the long room, the creature’s beady black eyes fixed on her. Its antlers rose above its head like a hovering crown of sharpened, deadly sticks.

  Serafina stared straight into the eyes of the white deer, locking on to its gaze, and breathed as steadily as she could.

  “Braeden…” she whispered without turning her head. “I want you to go out through the French doors behind us that lead to the South Terrace. I’ll hold off the deer as long as I can.”

  “I’m going to try to talk to her,” Braeden said, walking forward.

  “Braeden, no!” Serafina screamed, but it was too late. He had already stepped into view of the white deer and was now walking down the Tapestry Gallery toward it.

  Serafina wasn’t sure if it was the bravest or stupidest thing she had ever seen him do, but Braeden was determined. He walked right toward the white deer, raising his open hands in a conciliatory manner as he went.

  “There’s nothing to fear from us,” he said softly, his voice as smooth and soothing as when he talked to a spooked horse. “We welcome you here.”

  The deer pivoted its head and stared at Braeden. It made no sound. And its expression was utterly incomprehensible.

  “It’s not listening, Braeden,” Serafina whispered. “It’s not a true animal. You can’t talk to it. Please come back now, don’t frighten it, don’t anger it, just come back….”

  But Braeden took another step forward.

  “We mean you no harm,” he said gently. “We can help you adjust to this world. Whatever we have done, we can make amends. We can live in peace together.”

  The deer gazed at Braeden and took a step closer to him.

  “Yes, come…” Braeden whispered encouragingly.

  The deer took another step forward, just staring at him.

  It looks like it’s actually working, Serafina thought in amazement.

  But as she watched Braeden move slowly toward the white deer, it felt as if a snake were wrapping around her neck and tightening against her throat. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe.

  It’s a trick! she thought as she watched Braeden helplessly. Don’t go, Braeden. Come back! She gritted her teeth in fury and frustration, trying to break free of the deer’s gaze.

  Suddenly, the deer’s nostrils flared in anger. The deer raised one of its front hooves and slammed it down, sending a jagged ten-foot crack splintering through the hardwood floor.

  Serafina wanted to charge at the deer, but she was frozen, like helpless prey, by the deer’s spell.

  “Braeden, it’s not working!” she managed to hiss through the constriction of her throat, but Braeden took another step toward the deer.

  “Don’t worry, no one is going to hurt you…” Braeden said.

  From the Main Hall, far behind the white deer, the sounds of shouting people rose up into the air.

  Still staring at Braeden, the deer tilted its antlers down and shook its head once, then twice, and when its head came back up again the deer snorted loudly and stepped aggressively forwar
d, a warning, a threat.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Braeden said in his soothing tone, seemingly impervious to fear. “I won’t let anyone hurt you….”

  A woman’s bloodcurdling scream rose up from the Main Hall. The men, women, and children of Biltmore were rushing out through gaping front doors, fleeing for their lives. Something that sounded like a large wooden crate full of brass springs but was probably Biltmore’s massive grandfather clock crashed down and shattered into pieces on the floor. Men were shouting to each other, as if coordinating some sort of counterattack. Others were running with shrieks of terror. The bellowing snarl of some sort of unearthly mythical creature echoed off the limestone walls of the house. The smell of singed furniture and acrid smoke filled the air. Baby Nell wailed. Her mother cried out. The clatter of horses’ hooves stormed into the front hall.

  Serafina wanted desperately to charge toward the chaos on the other side of the white deer and help those poor souls escape, but she knew she couldn’t.

  As the deer stared steadily at Braeden with its wicked eyes, Serafina saw something emerging from the shadows behind it. She heard the sound of coming footsteps, a gentleman’s dress shoes, and then there he was, walking past the white deer and right toward her and Braeden. The walking man had black hair and mustache. It was Mr. Vanderbilt!

  And then she saw the deadness in his eyes, and a surge of white-cold fear shot through her body, breaking the deer’s spell.

  The footman Mr. Pratt came running from the Main Hall to get Mr. Vanderbilt’s attention.

  “Watch out, Mr. Pratt, that’s not him!” Serafina shouted, but it was too late.

  As Mr. Pratt came up behind him and reached out to touch his arm, the doppelgänger of Mr. Vanderbilt whirled around with a forceful, striking blow and slammed Mr. Pratt in the head with the iron fire poker clenched in its fist.

  The stunned Mr. Pratt stumbled backward on his heels, his arms flailing as if trying to catch himself, blood streaming from his eyes. When the backs of his calves struck a coffee table, he crashed down into the splintering pieces of it and fell to the floor, blood pooling beneath his head.