Rhiannon

Kestrel awakens deep in the woods with no memory of who he is or how he got there. He’s not alone though, as a group of 12 strange and mysterious individuals, all of whom have masks and names like Lynx, Stout, Gannet and others, immediately begin a horrific sacrificial ritual. Soon he discovers he will be initiated via a similar anthropophagic rite, and journey with them through the hinterlands to the seat of cabalistic old gods. As Kestrel desperately tries to piece together what is happening to him, why no one seems to have any memories of their ‘former’ lives, why there are hunters tracking them, and what will really happen at their destination, he also must plot his escape from the cult.

The overall tone of the novel was a folksy, mysterious one that was at times frustrating. The writing is serviceable, doing a better than decent job of evoking the cold, inhospitable wilderness the small group must traverse to the appointed ‘sacred mountain’. And my curiosity about the meaning and objective of the group was definitely piqued. But the character interactions often felt deliberately obtuse and vague and rarely believable – I was hoping for more from the individuals. And because none of the characters seem to have any real memories it’s nearly impossible to care for any of them or their actions. They’re just propelled by this unwavering faith in a sort of rapture they’ll be in when they reach their destination.

The inclusion of a peculiar para-military group of hunters who are tracking them with an apparent goal of outright killing them was also bizarre. There’s a lot of enigmatic hints and whiffs of symbolism going on (a girl who carries her severed foot around her neck = a ‘lucky’ rabbit’s foot so that means she brings luck, and each of the group member’s names are supposed to evoke something about their personality or purpose), but in the end none of this ever really gelled for me.

The novel starts out promisingly enough but failed to engage me with either the finale or the characters themselves, none of which seemed to have any great development.

My thanks to NetGalley for the advance review copy which was provided in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.

Like the forests of the pacific northwest this collection of short climate fiction centres itself around, it is not so much esoteric but elusive and ephemeral… the stories are wisps of cypress and fir scented air: enticing, mysterious and beautifully transformative.

Having been raised in this very same environment, the collection feels at once familiar and evocative. I found myself quietly, wistfully content as each luminous and slightly disquieting story evoked an emotional, visceral response. There is an underlying subtle, amorphous horror to each, as the stories are ultimately the tales of the end of ‘us’ and of our mark left on the natural world, but told with the lush and reassuringly transformative vantage of aeons of time:

“…this mutability as salvation— that all our errors will, eventually, be re-absorbed…”

The writing is gorgeous and haunting, the pieces intriguing and provocative. I felt like I learned something (historically, scientifically, sociologically) different with each, while simultaneously falling into each individual story.

For me, Rebecca Campbell has become a firm favourite of speculative, weird fiction that also carries hopeful renewal. Somehow, finishing this, I feel a quiet optimism about the natural world’s ability to rebound that I didn’t think was possible.

The unhinged mayhem of this cosmic body horror is absolutely mad in the best possible way.

“The Divine Flesh didn't have real feelings. Well, that wasn't true. She had three modes. Bored, psychotically happy, and oh-look-I-found-flesh.”

out

My thanks to the author and Netgalley for the advanced reader copy.