PREMISE: A diary, written in 1912 by a Lutheran pastor is discovered within a wall. What it unveils is a slow massacre, a chain of events that go back to 217 Blackfeet dead in the snow. Told in transcribed interviews by a Blackfeet named Good Stab, who shares the narrative of his peculiar life over a series of confessional visits.
Look at me, being all professional and writing this literally straight after I’ve finished it. It’s almost like I do this shit for a living. I say ‘straight’…it’s been 24 hours or so. I kind of like to let a book settle in after I’ve finished it. Like letting a big meal go down before I hit the gym or go out fell running. Hahahaha…like I do either of those things. But I do like to digest a book (like a big meal or a solitary scotch egg) and kind of figure out how much I liked it and why. And when books are as tasty as a scotch egg (your bog-standard scotch egg that is, none of this artisan shit where they make it with black pudding or chorizo) they are worth savouring.
This one was actually a slow-burner for me and, weirdly, I find myself thinking about it now much more than I did whilst I was reading it. It’s fantastically written, but understanding a lot of the language – particularly the native American terms – is all part of that slow burn. It’s probably not for everyone as it’s graphically violent and, ultimately, is a horror story at heart but it’s vastly different from any horror story (and most non-horror stories) I’ve read and I really enjoyed it.
Portable Wonderland 