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448 pages, Hardcover
First published March 18, 2025
Good Stab fell to his knees, pressed his forehead to the floor and he screamed too, and I daresay our screams harmonized, at least in how much they pained us.---------------------------------------
This, I believe, is the story of America, told in a forgotten church in the hinterlands, with a choir of the dead mutely witnessing.
“Your tore out the heart of my people, Three-Persons,” Good Stab said into the floor.
“I’m sorry,” I said back, I knew how weakly. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.”
“Is it wrong to kill?” he asked then, again, sitting back on his haunches, his bared arms hooked around his knees. “Is this what you tell your people who come each Sunday?”
“Yes,” I said.
What I am is the Indian who can’t die.The vampire genre has a new dark star. Far from the European roots we all know, Stephen Graham Jones has created a uniquely American, a uniquely Native American version of the tormented and tormenting blood-sucker. The novel is rich, not only with the horrors of the genre, but with the very un-magical horrors of the time. No vampire could possibly compete with the mass slaughter of the American Bison, nor of the Native American peoples. This envisioning of an American vampire includes a remarkable twist, new to the genre, at least as far as I am aware.
I’m the worst dream America ever had.
Good Stab’s damnation comes with a wickedly satisfying pair of rules: he must feed on his prey until it’s dry—sometimes causing his side to literally burst open—and he grows to resemble whatever he’s feeding from. - from the PW interviewThe structure is frame within a frame within a frame. Etsy Beaucarne is our outermost, in 2012, a struggling academic, the descendant of a pastor from the 19th century. Arthur Beaucarne, a Lutheran, ministered to the religious needs of the residents of Miles City, Montana. His journal, stowed in 1912 was recently found in an old parsonage undergoing renovation (cheekily referred to as revamping). In this journal, Arthur, the second frame, relates the tale told to him by a strange Native American man, Good Stab. The Indian appears at the back of his congregation, in dark clerical garb, wearing sunglasses, and wanting to talk. His tale is terrifying and compelling.
The thing had a thin white face with intelligence to it, and at first I thought its chin and mouth were painted for ceremony, but then I saw that it was just that it ate like a sticky-mouth, where it made a mess, and then let that blood stay like it was proud of it, wanted all the other four-leggeds see what it could do. Its mouth looked like it was pushing out too far, too, bringing the nose with it. But I told myself that was just because the dried blood made it look that way.We follow Good Stab's tale through decades, as told to Pastor Beaucarne, as he struggles to survive, and finds purpose in taking down those who seek to kill “blackhorns.” There are many adventures along his journey of discovery, and many internal struggles. He is a complex character who seems at times inured to the havoc he inflicts, but one who manages to sustain a kind, caring heart, at times anyway. We feel his pain in being an outsider as he yearns to connect with his people.
Its eyes were like mine, like I see you seeing, and its hair was hanging in its face, and it was naked so we could see it was a man, or had once been a man.
But it was no man
You don’t know this yet, but once a generation, once a century, someone is born with a kind of blood no one else has. If you drink from that person . . . how to explain it? It’s like the difference between an animal and a person. But the person is the animal now, and this new one is above them. Their blood, you do anything for it. I’ve only tasted it twice so far in all my years. She’s going to be the third time.”Review posted - 2/27/25