Story #15
Knight of Cups
She’d never really fit in. Her family loved her, she knew that, but as sweet as people believed her mother to be, she always had a way of making Sephie feel like she just couldn’t measure up. Sephie didn’t hate her for it. She knew she meant well. Her great-grandmother and grandmother had both been alive before the bombs had gone off, and frequently reminded her of the atrocities they’d lived through, the many ways the world had changed, and how blessed Sephie was. Though her life had never seemed like one of particular privilege, she appreciated the old women and the anchor they provided for the family. They held onto their heritage with an iron grip. Her great-grandmother used to call her ‘black Irish,’ with a click of her tongue, as if Sephie was cursed. She used to stare at her reflection, pale skin, a sprinkling of light freckles across her nose, and green eyes that didn’t seem so different from her cousins, excepting the mop of soft, sable brown curls atop her head where the majority of her family prided themselves on a whole color palette filled with shades of red. When her father was around, he would dismiss the old woman’s words, and rumple Sephie’s hair, so much like his own coal black locks. In the early days, her dad was often her sanctuary.
When she was born, Sephie’s mother had wanted to name her Sarah, a good, strong, Catholic name, a name from the Bible, she’d said. Sarah had been a loving and faithful wife, she’d said. Her father had reminded her that Sarah’d been childless, then asked by the Lord to have a baby at 90 years of age. He didn’t figure that was much of a life. In the end, he compromised with Seraph because, as he said, he wanted his baby to fly. At some point, it lovingly morphed to Sephie. She used to linger over pictures of seraphim in the old, thick Bible that her mom treasured. The angelic creatures with six red wings were beloved in heaven. They were special. She wished she held the same status on Earth. She’d had moments when feeling like an outcast felt isolating, crushing even, but eventually she learned to tune out the passive aggressive comments and focus on the moments that brought her happiness, including making sure no one around her ever felt left out. Her gift for incredible kindness and thoughtfulness made it almost impossible to resist her quick smile and charm.
It was her insatiable curiosity that got her into the most trouble, but eventually set her free. Many of the underground bunkers in rural Texas that a handful of families had survived in after the bombs had eventually been connected. The tunnels ran for miles, and created communities. The underground roadways protected residents from radiation, scorching heat and punishing winds, and finally, raiders, who plundered what they could. It was in these tunnels where Sephie’s father taught her about ancient magma and lava flows, igneous rock, sedimentary formations containing layers centuries old, and metamorphic rock changed by heat and pressure and time. By lamplight, her father would take her deeper into the tunnels, sharing his geological knowledge of the area. She’d kept a book full of their findings, and a case full of samples. Her mother disapproved of her “getting in the way,” but her dad would just wink and take her anyway. By age 13, she had a deep connection with the Earth, could read the archives folded and tucked into each stone.
