Neal Barrett - Through Darkest America

Neal Barrett’s THROUGH DARKEST AMERICA is a masterpiece. What’s sad is not enough people know it. The book came out, got great attention, and then fell into Davy Jones Locker, deep down beneath the sea, tucked in a treasure chest wrapped in chains.

And there’s no reason for it.

This is one of Neal Barrett’s best novels. It ranks up there at the tippy-top as far as apocalyptic and dystopian novels go, and it should be on the shelf beside a lot of well known masterpieces, and it need not blush. It’s that good.

This e-book edition should go a long ways to improving the book’s reputation. Breaking those chains, floating up that trunk, throwing it open and revealing something that can only be described as Neal Barrett’s gooey center of goodness.

I won’t push that analogy too much farther, least it turn nasty. But this book is frightening, funny, inventive, amazing, and original in the way it’s presented. It’s in line with a number of Neal’s darker short stories, but that’s for another discussion.

Do yourself a favor. Read this book. It doesn’t matter if you like Science Fiction or Fantasy, or don’t. It’s just a damn good book, which is exactly what makes Neal one of the best.

Neal knows how to write with an honest, personal, and memorable style. And his stories are just that—stories. He’s one of the last of the true storytellers. He knows how to hook you and reel you in. It sounds easy. It’s not. Most writers are heavy plotters, or constructionist, but they are not engaging in the least. Those of Neal’s ilk are rare as blue jeans that fit.

Sure, plot is here, but it’s the voice. It’s the style. It’s the characters. It’s the fact that you never feel caught up in plot, but instead, you are caught up in a feeling of truth. Not a truth you would want to live yourself, but something you greatly enjoy viewing through a protective glass. It’s a wonderfully strange world that Neal has invited you into, and it will hold your attention and surprise you and startle you, and even make you laugh. It’s all Neal Barrett, Jr.

Please open this fine sea chest and climb on in.

Pleasures, both light and dark, both sweet and sour, await you.

When Howie was twelve, Papa took the whole family downriver to the fair in Bluevale.

“Suppose it’ll be the same as ever,” Papa winked at Howie’s mother. “Growler’ll dust off his stuffed nigger and ’spect everyone to shell out a copper for it.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Like they never seen one before.”

Howie’s mother gazed out over the river and let her eyes touch deep water. She was a small woman, slim as a girl, and younger than Milo. Web-fine hair fell to her waist in dark disorder, and hid eyes that were feather soft, and sad as ashes. Howie thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Papa told her she was, too, and sometimes whispered things to her and laughed his big laugh. Then she would turn away or look down and twine her small hands together and this would make Papa laugh again. Howie liked to watch them together. The things they said, or didn’t say, to each other made him feel good inside.

“Milo…” She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on the water. “I guess Jacob’ll be there, won’t he?”

Papa’s face clouded, then he grinned and squeezed her hand. “Don’t you trouble yourself about Jake,” he said roughly. He looked past her to Howie and his sister, and ran a big hand through Howie’s hair.

“Colonel Jacob’ll be on a horse , Howie. Now that’ll be somethin’ to see, won’t it?”

His father knew it would. Howie nodded and Papa grabbed up Carolee and set her squealing on the rail of the barge. “You’re to have a good time,” he said to his wife.

His voice was deep and heavy, but the gentleness was there, like it always was. “That’s what fairs are for.”

“It’ll be new to the children,” said Howie’s mother.

The day was mild, and a fair spring breeze touched the water. It seemed to Howie as if the whole world had decided to take the day off and laze about in the sun. He leaned over the railing and watched the bargemen dip their long poles into the canal. The poles bent like fine bows with every stroke and he asked one of the men if they might not break in two. The man grinned through his beard and assured Howie this never happened. The poles were stout ash and up to the task.

Young cotton grew nearly to the shore on both sides of the river. He could see women and children weeding the long rows, bent in an easy rhythm. A boy his own age looked up and waved; Howie waved back. He thought the boy must wonder where the barge was going. He wished he could call out and tell him they were going to the fair, and would see a nigger and a real horse, and that Papa had promised him and Carolee they could have red sugar candy. He watched until the fields were far behind and the boy was still following the barge with his eyes.

After noon, the canal made an easy curve and veered south-east. Cotton gave way to young grain and the small shoots nosed out of the rich earth like tiny green daggers. A narrow creek wound, into the canal, adding blue water to muddy brown. Its banks were lined with stubby oaks and tall cottonwoods. A trunk had fallen over the shady mouth and a big mossback turtle slept there, just out of the water.

Howie automatically reached for the bow on his shoulder. His mind leaped ahead, feeling the tight hum against his arm as the shaft sped away. He could see the green shell split dead center—the arrow thrumming in dead wood.

The picture vanished abruptly as he touched his neck and remembered the bow was still at home. He felt near naked without it, but Papa said you didn’t take weapons to the fair. When Howie asked why, he said you just didn’t. Later, though, when the baskets were packed and they were ready to start for the barge, he saw his father slip a small skinning knife in the top of his boot. Howie didn’t wonder at this greatly. There were rules for grownups and rules for children and they weren’t always the same. Though he was twelve and over, now, and that was near a man.

The barge passed the creek and the turtle slid easily off its perch. Howie wished he could join it in the water. The creek made a quiet pool under the deep shade where it joined the canal and there was a fine swinging tree nearby. That was the only bad thing about going to town, he guessed: you couldn’t carry your bow and you had to dress different. His mother had patched his best trousers, which he hadn’t worn more than twice and which were too small for him. They pulled at his crotch something awful, but mother said he could stand to look decent for a day or so. He wore his regular shirt, the blue homespun, but she’d starched it until it felt like old corn shucks stitched together. He was certain he’d itch to death before they ever even got to Bluevale.

He looked away from the shore and back to the barge; under the broad canopy strung up across the bow. His heart swelled with pride at the sight of his mother. She had on a new fair dress, one she’d never worn before. It was store- cloth instead of homespun, patterned in tiny yellow flowers on the lightest of blue. She’d made Carolee one exactly like her own. Howie wished she hadn’t done that. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought, but—dang it all—a dress like that should be special! For her, and no one else. So everyone in Bluevale could see just how beautiful she was.

They would anyway, he decided. Carolee was nine and no one was likely to notice her—no matter what kind of dress she wore—not with his mother about. She was pretty enough, he guessed, and looked like a sister was supposed to look. All right, but nothing special.