Short Take: Horror that hurts in the best and deepest way.
(*Note: I received an advance copy of this book for review.*)
Hello lovelies, and welcome to my least favorite week of the year. I lost an hour of the weekend, plus there’s a new virus running around that sounds like it’ll be targeting me and my crappy lungs personally. It’s all the makings of a Mostly Miserable Monday, and my body is convinced that I absolutely should not be awake right now.
Spoiler alert: I’m awake. And not terribly happy about that.
But if there’s one thing that can always lift my mood, it’s digging into a delicious book by an author I hadn’t read before. The thrill of discovery is second only to the marvelous sensation of being completely consumed by a story, and oh my sweet nerdlings, this is one that will swallow you whole and leave you shuddering for days.
Ten years ago, four young Native American men did something stupid, and careless, and wasteful, as young men of all ages and ethnicities do. But these four young men were spitting in the face of forces they didn’t fully understand and now, they are going to Pay The Price for their actions.
I’m not going to elaborate on the story, because although it’s great (seriously, the plot and pacing and characters were all spot-on), the story itself is almost secondary to the world Mr. Jones has created (or maybe re-created?) on the page.
(I’m going to add some personal context here that might elicit a “well duh” from more than a few, but I really do live in an extremely culturally isolated place, so bear with me, k?)
I have always lived in an area where the Native population is virtually zero. Sure, some people may be part Cherokee or whatever, but that’s meaningless here. It’s like being part Irish – it’s met with indifference or an “oh that’s cool” and the conversation moves on. Which means that in this part of the US of A, we aren’t exposed to any of the Native heritage, the myths and tribal customs, the language and the dances. But we also don’t see the ugly parts of being Native today that are too common elsewhere – the discrimination, addiction, and poverty.
So while I’ve been aware of these things at a civics-class, sort of absently-intellectual level, I never really FELT the beauty of Native culture, or fury at the injustices that are still being done today, and that’s where Stephen Graham Jones kicked my pasty nerd hiney up one side and down the other, because The Only Good Indians is a full-body immersion in both sides of Native life in the 21st century, and it’s absolutely breathtaking.
And it’s that blending of ancient myth and modern-day just-getting-by that makes the horror of the story so effective. I immediately found myself caring so much about these flawed but oh-so-human and sympathetic characters, and peeking over my shoulder in case [spoiler] might be back there and getting closer, and maybe gasping just a little as I felt the heat of the sweat lodge, knowing what was lurking in the shadows.
But the real beating heart of The Only Good Indians is the author’s voice. The story is told in a stream of consciousness style that feels somehow urgent but also like a deeply personal conversation, a late-night sharing of secrets, a heartfelt truth that makes even the fantasy elements feel so real.
And oh yeah, it’s damn suspenseful and scary and all the other things you want in a horror novel too. Trust me, I’m too tired and cranky to lie.
The Nerd’s Rating: FIVE HAPPY NEURONS (and a gallon-size jug of antibacterial hand soap. Wash ‘em, people!!)