"Products of the home from which they came, the sibyls were so many things: clever as they were prophetic, dangerous as they were lovely, and merciless as the man who’d made them."
A creepy little novella that mixes the violence hidden behind the curtains of suburbia with a fairy-tale-like sensibility. Half-parable about revenge, half-fable of breaking free from the role prescribed for one by one's society or one's maker, this little tale is atmospheric. It defies usual fairy-tale conventions by having no real main character, but instead presenting a Greek chorus of voices from the townsfolk, allowing us to see the patterns that none of them can individually see.
An angry old man makes little "sibyls" in his kiln, hoping for them to unlock the shape of things to come. When they remain silent as their clay, he angrily sells them to townsfolk. The story begins with twelve days of rain ("The town survived, but it was never dry again," we are told), after which the sibyls vanish and the town begins to change as something is unleashed throughout it.