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416 pages, Hardcover
First published January 21, 2025
“Faith’s only part of it. There’s more fire in me than blood. You pull on my red-string it’s liable to lead you to Old Scratch himself. You want to be a witch?” Motheater hissed, eyes wide. “For magic, you have to tie yourself to something greater, to a baptism. You bind yourself to power, an old creature, an ancient thing; the Witch-Father, the Devil’s Wife, the Moon Raker, the Drunken Child, the Last Bride. The old witches, the nightly powers. Then you give, and they give back.”
The moths were a Milky Way above them, soft silverine stars dotting the ceiling.
"Ain't about God." Motheater's voice was sharp as sin on a conscience. "This about you. You got your own faith? Your own certainty? The love under you?"
"I think all the Psalms are about love," Motheater said, and Bennie knew that her face was full hot now. "And not about God at all."
Bennie swallowed, her eyes wide. Her hearr was beating faster, caught in between the winds of a blue jay and the ground.
"Because she is at my tighy hand, I shall not be moved."
Kire breathed under their hands. Not with flesh and lungds, and not with air, but the steadiness of a creature at rest, the non-zero movement of all things. It was the ebb of a tide, the wane of the moon, the revolution of the world, ready to break apart if Motheater just gave it the smallest nudge in the right direction. . . .
Kire stepped up, out of its cradle and spread its arms, the many-arms, the many-hands, the shifting cleavage and planes that made up the old titan of the new world, and stretched.
... The storm was still hanging around. Weather wasn't a thing that happened; it was a thing that surrounded you.
{This is a review of an advanced reader copy, made available through NetGalley.}What nuance could she expect from a creature who was older than coins and currency, a creature who was older than the idea of humankind? It only held what it was given.I am not of Appalachia or of the South (or even of the so called 'United States' if you truly cogitate on it). However, I come to queer literature through Morrison, Faulkner, McCullers, and O'Connor, as well as through a raising in Catholicism that deeply acquainted me with that text required for understanding 65-90% of "Western" writing. This explains my patience and my joy in a work such as this one, which has its queer and its fantasy but is hard won and far from flashy and doesn't give anyone all of the answers or resolutions or climaxes wrapped up neat in a viral bow.
You have mined suffering like a capitalist and now you dream of freedom.I'll admit, I was rather wary of the choice of a Black protagonist. However, as the criticisms stemming from the louder reviews do not focus on such, I'll leave it for more authoritative musings than mine. For there's the impatience to consider. With the plot, the prose, the closure, as if the question of the imperial exploitation of a settler state colony turned Spanish Tragedy is going to have a solution fit to be mouthed by LGBT spokespersons performing alongside cops in their parades of corporate funding. True, there was repetitiveness that could've been trimmed here and there, and certain respects never quite escaped the pall of tokenization. However, this work treats with the small victories of the living, the unconsummated justices won, the knowledge that not only have you not 'saved the world,' you don't even know what that means.
“You have on your history," said the artist, "and we're not used to that, believe me. Not to history. Not to old she-wolves with livid marks running up their ribs and arms, and not to the idea of fights in which people are neither painlessly killed nor painlessly fixed up but linger and die—slowly—or heal—slowly.
Joanna Russ, 'Picnic on Paradise'