Serena: A Novel (P.S.)

by Ecco

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  • The year is 1929, and newlyweds George and Serena Pemberton travel from Boston to the North Carolina mountains where
    they plan to create a timber empire. Although George has already lived in the camp long enough to father an illegitimate
    child, Serena is new to the mountains--but she soon shows herself to be the equal of any man, overseeing crews, hunting
    rattle-snakes, even saving her husband's life in the wilderness. Together this lord and lady of the woodlands ruthlessly
    kill or vanquish all who fall out of favor. Yet when Serena learns that she will never bear a child, she sets out to
    murder the son George fathered without her. Mother and child begin a struggle for their lives, and when Serena suspects
    George is protecting his illegitimate family, the Pembertons' intense, passionate marriage starts to unravel as the
    story moves toward its shocking reckoning.

    Rash's masterful balance of violence and beauty yields a riveting novel that, at its core, tells of love both honored
    and betrayed.

    The Gift of Silence: An Essay by Ron Rash

    When readers ask how I came to be a writer, I usually mention several influences: my parents’ teaching by example the
    importance of reading; a grandfather who, though illiterate, was a wonderful storyteller; and, as I grew older, an
    awareness that my region had produced an inordinate number of excellent writers and that I might find a place in that
    tradition. Nevertheless, I believe what most made me a writer was my early difficulty with language.

    My mother tells me that certain words were impossible for me to pronounce, especially those with j’s and g’s. Those
    hard consonants were like tripwires in my mouth, causing me to stumble over words such as “jungle” and “generous.” My
    parents hoped I would grow out of this problem, but by the time I was five, I’d made no improvement. There was no
    speech therapist in the county, but one did drive in from the closest city once a week.

    That once a week was a Saturday morning at the local high school. For an hour the therapist worked with me. I don’t
    remember much of what we did in those sessions, except that several times she held my hands to her face as she
    pronounced a word. I do remember how large and empty the classroom seemed with just the two of us in it, and how small
    I felt sitting in a desk made for teenagers.

    I improved, enough so that by summer’s end the therapist said I needed no further sessions. I still had trouble with
    certain words (one that bedevils me even today is “gesture”), but not enough that when I entered first grade my
    classmates and teacher appeared to notice. Nevertheless, certain habits of silence had taken hold. It was not just
    self-consciousness. Even before my sessions with the speech therapist, I had convinced myself that if I listened
    attentively enough to others my own tongue would be able to mimic their words. So I listened more than I spoke. I
    became comfortable with silence, and, not surprisingly, spent a lot of time alone wandering nearby woods and creeks. I
    entertained myself with stories I made up, transporting myself into different places, different selves. I was in
    training to be a writer, though of course at that time I had yet to write more than my name.

    Yet my most vivid memory of that summer is not the Saturday morning sessions at the high school but one night at my
    grandmother’s farmhouse. After dinner, my parents, grandmother and several other older relatives gathered on the front
    porch. I sat on the steps as the night slowly enveloped us, listening intently as their tongues set free words I could
    not master. Then it appeared. A bright-green moth big as an adult’s hand fluttered over my head and onto the porch,
    drawn by the light filtering through the screen door. The grown-ups quit talking as it brushed against the screen,
    circled overhead, and disappeared back into the night. It was a luna moth, I learned later, but in my mind that night
    it became indelibly connected to the way I viewed language--something magical that I grasped at but that was just out of

    In first grade, I began learning that loops and lines made from lead and ink could be as communicative as sound. Now,
    almost five decades later, language, spoken or written, is no longer out of reach, but it remains just as magical as
    that bright-green moth. What writer would wish it otherwise.