The devourers

Review by New York Times Review

IT'S EASY TO GET LOST in the kaleidoscopic world-building of NINEFOX GAMBIT (Solaris, paper, $9.99), the first novel by the well-regarded story writer Yoon Ha Lee. Lee submerges readers without explanation into the hexarchate - a star-spanning far-future society whose culture relies on advanced mathematics to produce "exotic effects" that are nigh magical. A sort of unearthly physics, these can make select individuals functionally immortal, even as exotic generators churn forth monstrous vector-scrambling storms that disintegrate enemy soldiers down to component atoms. At the core of the technology is the high calendar. More than just a measurement of time, this calendar shapes the mathematical base of the exotic effects. Yet by changing the calendar and thus the underlying math of reality, dissidents can cripple hexarchate technology - a heresy to those in control, who punish dissenters by destroying them whole planets at a time. The disproportionate reprisals inevitably beget more heresy, so the hexarchate exists in a perpetual state of war in which it is too beneficially invested ever to end. Amid such brutal calculus, Lee (himself an Ivy League-educated mathematician) fortunately doesn't stint on character development or plot. The protagonist is Kel Cheris, a young soldier gifted in number theory, who is summoned from the battlefield for a strange new mission. She must partner with the disgraced General Jedao, possibly the only person in the hexarchate who can help reclaim the strategically critical Fortress of Scattered Needles and stop the looming threat of calendrical rot. Problem: Jedao has been dead for centuries, executed after he went mad and slaughtered thousands of his own people. Cheris must become host to this unstable genius's "ghost," or preserved personality - and once she does, she must immediately learn how to navigate her way through politics more ancient than the hexarchate itself. Meanwhile, if she slips even once in her self-control or calculations, her ghostly ally will drive her mad too. Or worse. The story is dense, the pace intense, and the delicate East Asian flavoring of the math-rich setting might make it seem utterly alien to many readers - yet metaphors for our own world abound. Mathematics is often lauded as a universal language, but this is blatantly untrue; for universality to work, adherents must believe in the same basic truths, or principles, to the same degree. Lee's quasireligious treatment of mathematics, and Cheris's need to simultaneously exploit and rely on Jedao, both serve as metaphors for colonialism. (As does the quiet, oblique rebellion taking place in the background amid the hexarchate's artificially intelligent servitors.) And the lesson of colonialism applies as well: Brute-force domination gets you only so far. For stability, trust is key. Readers willing to invest in a steep learning curve will be rewarded with a tight-woven, complicated but not convoluted, breathtakingly original space opera. And since this is only the first book of the Machineries of Empire trilogy, it's the start of what looks to be a wild ride. IN 2014, KAMERON HURLEY won a Hugo Award for her essay "We Have Always Fought: Challenging the ?Women, Cattle and Slaves' Narrative." The essay, in which Hurley processed her own reaction to realizing that women historically have made up significant percentages of revolutionary armies, tacitly pushed back against a common misapprehension in geek social circles that women (and by extension people of color, the disabled, transgender/nonbinary people and other marginalized groups) are somehow a recent and alien addition to geekdom. Hurley dismantled this misapprehension easily, with the judicious application of historical fact. Her point was clear: Women have always belonged within and contributed to spaces commonly thought of as "men's," and our societal failure to recognize this truth is an artificial and sometimes conscious erasure of reality. In her new essay collection, THE GEEK FEMINIST REVOLUTION (Tor/Tom Doherty, cloth, $26.99; paper, $15.99), Hurley expands on this initial conclusion, exploring life as an American woman and writer through personal anecdotes, plain-language feminist theory and further misapprehension-puncturing. The focus of these essays remains firmly fixed on geeky literature and media, though Hurley suggests - indeed, demands, in an introduction titled "Welcome to the Revolution" - that readers should see the genre as a microcosm of American society and even global politics. In token of this, Hurley ties together similar culture wars in gaming, fiction, health care, comics, even the comments sections of popular news outlets like The New York Times. The big picture of the essays coheres slowly but clearly: These culture wars are real, life-and-death matters, whose soldiers (of all genders) suffer lost opportunities, death threats and worse. More important, the existential struggles of fans and writers in the geekosphere are part of a battle for the Zeitgeist - for control over the stories that shape reality, over who gets to be treated as "people" in art and life, and over what constitutes true quality and mastery in any craft. These essays are funny; they are poignant; they are powerful. Many of them first found life on Hurley's website or other media venues like The Atlantic, so it is somewhat disappointing to find only nine new ones written for this collection. Still, those interested in a deep examination of subculture, womanhood and art through the lens of speculative fiction will be highly entertained. AMID THE CROWDED bustle of a present-day Kolkata night, Alok Mukherjee, a meek historian, is drawn into a discussion with a nameless stranger. The stranger spins him a meandering tale of shape-shifters who prey on humans, hidden in the shadows of society since the Greek myth of Lycaon. Mukherjee is skeptical, because the stranger insists the tale is true, but he is intrigued enough to ask for more. The rest of this tale is presented to him as translated ancient journals written on scrolls made of human skin. Thus begins Indra Das's THE DEVOURERS (Del Rey, $26), a chilling, gorgeous saga that spans several centuries and many lands, though the bulk of the tale is set in India of the Mughal Empire and today. The tale begins with cruelty: A shapeshifter, weary of his inherently destructive existence (they devour human souls to extend their own lives), commits the taboo of raping and impregnating a human woman out of the twisted urge to create something. The woman, enraged by the assault, seeks out other shapeshifters in her quest for vengeance, persuading them to help rather than devour her. The incident proves to be a watershed event for shapeshifter-kind, who have begun to dwindle amid the unsustainability and nihilism of their existence - and thus it is the half-human, half-shapeshifter product of this rape who must find some way to negotiate a new path between the magical brutality of his father's kind and his mother's beautiful mundanity. The frame tale of the professor and the nameless stranger is by no means the least important part of the saga, wending through the older story and eventually bringing both tales to a heartbreaking conclusion. Themes of hunger and hiddenness recur in all three narratives: the shape-shifters' yearning for human connection apart from violence; the self-protective camouflages of multiracialism and nonbinary queerness and womanhood amid patriarchy; the desperation of traditionalists when faced with inevitable change. Das imparts these messages delicately, as filigree on a story already gilded in rich imagery and harrowing conflict. The language is the true treasure here, though, as Das imbues even grotesque scenes of cannibalism with a disturbing yet sensuous weight. The all-too-human characters - including the nonhuman ones - and the dreamlike, recursive plot serve to entrance the reader as well. Push past the slightly disjointed beginning; it has a purpose, but this does not become clear until much later in the book. Once the stranger presents the human-skin scrolls, however, there's no escaping "The Devourers." Readers will savor every bite. N.K. JEMISIN'S new novel, "The Obelisk Gate," will be published this week.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [September 14, 2016]

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Review by Booklist Review

Werewolves. Skinwalkers. Shape-shifters. Demons. Devourers. An ancient tribal race of wanderers who disdain the accomplishments of mankind, sustaining themselves through the ages by consuming humans. Das' fantasy debut uses lyrical language to explore the interactions of two lonely souls searching for meaning and purpose. Alok, a professor of history, is seduced by tales of times long past told by a nameless man claiming to be half werewolf. The mysterious traveler then asks him to transcribe tales from bundles of well-worn materials left in his keeping. The narrative switches between the present and the past, from a contemporary style to Alok's foot-noted translations of historic epic tales. The archaic fables portray the journey of a self-exiled devourer who wished to explore the human side of his dual nature and the recorded experiences of the woman he used to do so. These glimpses into history only serve to draw Alok closer to the unnamed man, leaving him wondering what the stranger really wants. Readers who enjoy legends and mythology will be drawn to this twist on the werewolf story.--Lockley, Lucy Copyright 2016 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Das's brutal, intoxicating, and gorgeously visceral debut merges an often mythic sensibility with an appreciation for the coarse beauty of the everyday. This tale of shape-shifters connects Mughal India, under the shade of a newly built Taj Majal, to modern Kolkata while exploring the nature of story and history. Prof. Alok Mukherjee meets an extraordinary stranger who claims to be half werewolf, at a musical festival in present-day Kolkata. After the man gives him a strange, compelling story in the form of a vision, Alok agrees to transcribe two 17th-century scrolls for him. Within one is the story of Fenrir, a wanderer of the many-cultured ancient race of human-hunting monsters called vukodlak; the other holds the autobiography of Cyrah, a strong, defiant human woman whom Fenrir, against the strict taboos of his kind, does not hunt not as prey, but rapes to create his child. Das creates a feeling of urgency amid a sense of timelessness and feeds a fascination with the alien that is enhanced by dives into terrifying intimacy. Agent: Ron Eckel, Cooke Agency. (July) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

On a summer night in Kolkata, India, Asok Mukherjee meets a man who claims to be a werewolf. The two talk, and Asok gets drawn into a relationship with the stranger, who gives him documents to transcribe that tell the story of a 17th-century shapeshifter and the human woman with whom he becomes obsessed. The shapeshifter, who called himself Fenrir after the wolves of Norse myths, was fixated on the idea of having a half-human child and betrayed his two packmates by raping a woman named Cyrah. Gévaudan, one of Fenrir's packmates and lovers, agrees to help Cyrah seek her revenge. A sensual tale of violence and desire, Das's debut will take readers from the streets of modern Kolkata to the site of the construction of the Taj Mahal during the height of the Mughal empire. VERDICT For fans of Anne Rice's Interview with the Vampire but with a fascinating setting beautifully described. Occasional footnotes provide -historical context.-MM © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by School Library Journal Review

Told through transcription, flashbacks, and beautiful language, this novel subverts the typical werewolf story to weave an elaborate narrative built on history and mythology, creating an impressive and gripping work of fantasy. Filled with violence and love, this tale moves beyond expectations of the genre. Readers will dive head first into the plot along with Alok, a college professor who meets a man who relates an odd series of accounts, and will become obsessed with each and every turn. Covering a myriad of topics, including rape and violence, this title will appeal to mature teens who will appreciate the depth and honesty of Das's captivating writing. However, many will be unwilling to follow through to the finish. Alok's adventures are not for the squeamish; Das's descriptions are unrelenting. VERDICT A lyrical and unique offering that may entice more sophisticated readers, this unusual work will likely be beyond the scope of most teens.-Ashley Prior, Lincoln Public Library, RI © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

The line between what it is to be human and what it is to be a monster is frequently blurred in Das' compelling debut novel. In modern-day India, a lonely history professor named Alok is drawn into an unbelievable story of the past by a charismatic young man who introduces himself as "half werewolf." His mysterious new acquaintance hires him to transcribe the century-spanning saga of an immortal shape-shifter, Fenrir, whose rape of a prostitute in 17th-century India triggers a web of painful consequences for them both. Fenrir is fascinated by humans, in part because they are taboo as anything but prey for his speciescreatures who are the root of all mankind's myths and nightmares and who feed off mortals, both literally and metaphorically (the frequent descriptions of violent consumption are rendered in loving, grotesque detail). Fenrir's story becomes Cyrah'shis victim'sas she trails him on her own hunt for a reckoning. Interwoven through the quests for legacy and vengeance are Alok's present-day encounters with the man he refers to as "the stranger" and Alok's own alternating fascination and discomfiture with both the story he is reconstructing and its messenger. History catches up with the present as the stranger's identity is revealed (somewhat predictably), and he and Alok have their own reckoning and consumption. At its best, Das' narrative is lush, imaginative, and hypnotic, bringing to life scenes of savagery and moments of wonder. At its worst, it treads toward an overwrought fascination with its own gore and "the stinking dark of fermented history." Readers are left to draw their own moral conclusions as to where right and wrong lie amid the blood. Not for the squeamish, Das' debut is an ambitious, unsettling trip into our own capacity for violence. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 My part in this story began the winter before winters started getting warmer, on a full-­moon night so bright you could see your own shadow on an unlit rooftop. It was under that moon--­slightly smudged by December mist clinging to the streets of Kolkata--­that I met a man who told me he was half werewolf. He said this to me as if it were no different from being half Bengali, half Punjabi, half Parsi. Half werewolf under a full moon. Not the most subtle kind of irony, but a necessary one, if I'm to value the veracity of my recollections. To set the stage, I must tell you where I was. Think of a field breathing the cool of nighttime into the soles of your shoes. A large tent in front of you--­cloth, canvas, and bamboo--­lit from within. Electric lamps surrounding a wooden stage that creaks under the bare feet of bright-­robed minstrels. This tent is where the rural bards of Bengal, the bauls, gather every winter to make music for city people. It's raw music, at times both shrill and hoarse, stained with hashish smoke and the self-­proclaimed madness of their sect. A celebration of what's been lost, under the vigil of orange-­eyed streetlights. I am there, that night. Outside in the cold, in Shaktigarh Math, a city park. I watch the bauls and their audience through the fabric of the tent. Shadows flit across as they clap and cheer. The crowd extends outside, faces lit by cigarettes and spliffs. Hand-­rolled cigarette between my fingers, grass under my shoes. A stranger walks up and stands beside me. The street dogs are gathering by the field, their eyes hungry. It's one in the morning. "Afraid to go inside?" the stranger asks. "They may be mad, but they won't bite." He's talking about the bauls. I laugh dutifully. I'm afraid he wants a smoke, having seen my tin of cigarettes. I don't want to share; I rolled them very carefully. I tell him I prefer the night air to the tent, not thinking to bring up the fact that there's no smoking allowed within. I ask what he's doing outside. "The music's a little too shrill for my ears. I can appreciate it just fine from here." His voice is gentle, his words unhurried. He takes out his own hash joint. I glance sideways at him as he lights up. The flame illuminates a slender face, its glow running along hairless skin and brushing against the lines of shadow that hug his high cheekbones. I'm disarmed by his androgynous beauty before he even tells his secret. "I'm a werewolf," he says. Smoke flares out of his mouth in curls that wreathe his long black hair, giving him silver-­blue locks for a passing second. I don't see him throw away the match, but his foot moves to rub it into the soil. He's wearing wicker sandals. Dark flecks of dirt hide under unclipped nails on the ends of his long toes. Apparently the cold doesn't bother him enough for socks or shoes. Now, I wish I could tell you this man looks wolfish, that he has a hint of green glinting in his eyes, that his eyebrows meet right above his nose, that his palms have a scattering of hair that tickles my own palms as we shake hands, that his sideburns are thick and shaggy and silvered as the bark of a snow-­dusted birch at gray dawn. But I'm not here to make things up. "Need a light?" he asks, and I'm startled to find a new flame between his fingers, the hiss of the struck match reaching my ears like an afterthought. Afraid that I've been caught staring at his dirty toes and beautiful face, I nod, even though there's a lighter in my breast pocket. He touches the flame to my cigarette. "You heard right," he says, tossing the match. "Well, I'm actually half werewolf. But you heard right." "I didn't ask if I'd heard right." "You were thinking it, though," he says with a smile. "I wasn't, actually. I can hear just fine," I assure him. He keeps smiling. I get embarrassed. "Thanks for the light," I say with a cough. My lungs burn from too enthusiastic a first drag. "I suppose I shouldn't be boasting about my hearing. Wolves have great hearing, right?" "I'm not a wolf. And yes, they do." "There aren't any wolves near Kolkata. Are there? They're probably extinct in India." "Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they're not there," he says. I observe that his fingernails are as long as his toenails, and as dirty. Little black sickles hiding under them. I nod, light-­headed from the nicotine rush. "I've seen jackals in the golf greens at Tolly Club." He doesn't say anything. I feel compelled to keep talking. "My parents have a house. Like a weekend getaway. Outside the city, in Baniban. The caretakers there used to scare me when I was a boy, with stories about wildcats from the woods stealing their chickens. Now that you mention it, there might have been a wolf visit. I never really believed any of those stories. They scared me, though. I never even saw any of those animals. Except a snake, once." A true story. I still remember the gray coils of the serpent lying there by the flowerpots; it had been beaten to death by the help. They said it was venomous, though I certainly couldn't tell. "You're not afraid of talking to strangers. I like that," he says, swaying slightly now to the rising call of the bauls' voices. I feel shy now, which is absurd. "What's your other half, then? Human? Aren't all werewolves half human?" I ask him. He picks a bit of tobacco out of his teeth, which I don't think I've ever seen a smoker actually do. Spittle clicks between his fingertips and his tongue. "Family history can be a tedious business. Though family isn't quite the right word." And that's all he says. For someone who clearly wants to talk to me, he says very little. "When did you find out you were a . . . a half werewolf?" He shrugs. "I've been one all my life. Before we were called werewolves, really." "What's it like?" I ask, the questions flowing from my smoke-­soured mouth. I can't think of anything more awkward at this moment than standing beside this man and not responding to what he's just said to me. "You've seen the movies. I am master of my fortune. The moon is my mistress." "And cliché is your cabaret?" I ask. Intoxicated disbelief dulls me into self-­deprecation. I analyze my words, which seem nonsensical. I look around, checking to make sure the others standing around us in the field are still there, to run my eyes over the streaks of their shadows. The rhythm of the music snarls to the throb of light and shadow behind the walls of the tent. He doesn't growl at me. "Are you an English professor, by any chance?" "No. But close. I am a professor. Of history, actually. Started teaching a couple of years ago." His shapely eyebrows rise. "History? Tales. The weaving of words. A favorite discipline of mine. I congratulate you on your choice of profession, young though you seem for such an endeavor. To tell stories of the past to children who walk into the future is a task both noble and taxing." I feel a mix of resentment and pleasure from being called young by someone who looks younger than me. "Well, they're not exactly children, they're college students--­" "If only we had better storytellers, perhaps they would learn more willingly from the past," he says. "Maybe." "Am I speaking in clichés again, Professor?" A white kitten, its wide eyes rimmed with rheum, looks up at me as it crawls around us. It starts at the violent sound of sticks shattering against each other. I see children mock-­fighting with surprising malice nearby, their screams jarring and bodies lithe against the mist. The kitten stumbles and uses my ankle as cover. The street dogs skirt the edges of the field, pack instinct glittering in their eyes as they surround us. Muzzles peel back in tentative grimaces. Their teeth look yellow under the streetlights. They watch the kitten. "You like cats?" the stranger asks, looking at the kitten, which gingerly licks my fingers with a dry and scratchy tongue as I pick it up. Its little heart putters against my palm. I can feel its warm body shaking. Ash flutters from my cigarette as I tap it, brief lives twinkling and fading to gray by our feet. I take care not to burn the kitten. "Let me guess," I say. "I've had the blood of the wolf within me all along. You've come to initiate me into the ways of our tribe, to run with my brothers and sisters to the lunar ebb and flow. I'm the chosen one. The savior of our people. And the time of our uprising has come. We're going to rule the world," I say, my sarcasm blunted by how serious I sound. I surprise myself with the eagerness with which I tell this story of possibilities to the stranger. The dogs have come closer, ignoring even the threat of so many humans to get closer to the kitten in my hands. The stranger grins at me. It's the first time he seems animalistic. "I want to tell you a story. Let's go inside." "Won't it hurt your ears?" He takes one deep drag before licking the burnt-­out roach and making it disappear into one of his pockets. I realize that my cigarette has whittled away to the end, its heat tickling my cold fingers. The stranger strides toward the tent, through the scattered people smoking, past the food stalls with their cheaply wired fluorescents ticking to the patter of night insects. The sizzle of batter in oil and babble of voices only aggravates the sense that I am treading on the tune the bauls are playing--­everything here seems to be part of their music, as if the field itself were one stage, and all of us musicians. I toss the cigarette butt and follow the stranger. The dogs begin to follow as well, but stop. I can see more of them running around the field. Repositioning. I hold the kitten close to my chest and go inside. The tent is a different universe. The hot smell of electric lamps tempered by the chill, the sweaty damp of the crowd, the claustrophobic buzz of being inside an enclosed fire hazard. Minstrels' feet thump on the stage like drumbeats, twins to the sharper pulse of their dugi drums and tremulous drone of the one-­stringed ektara. Their saffron robes are ribbons of sound, twirling around their bark-­burnt bodies as they dance, their madness set aflame by their own music. My ears itch. Their voices are very loud. The stranger doesn't even grimace. Some of the spectators squat on the ground, some sit on folding chairs set in haphazard rows. We sit at the back of the tent. I can feel the cold metal of the chair through my pants. The kitten compresses itself into a ball in my lap, its trembling eased somewhat. Its head darts to and fro. The stranger is looking at the bauls, swaying his head, tapping his feet, curling his toes. "The story?" I ask. "Listen. Don't say anything. I'm going to tell you a story." "I know, I just said--­" He hisses, startling me into silence. The kitten almost leaps out of my lap. I clench my fingers around it, stroking its fur. "Listen," he repeats. He is not looking at me. "I am going to tell you a story, and it is true. To set the stage, I must tell you where I was." His words wind their way through the overwhelming sound of the music, which seems to rise with each passing second. The light inside the tent is gauzy. The interior moves in slow arcs as dizziness sets in. I close my eyes. Darkness, touched with blossoms of light beyond my eyelids. His voice, soothing, guiding me as the dark becomes deeper. The kitten is purring, vibrating against my hands. I can hear the scrabble of swift paws outside the tent, the anxious snarls of the dogs. It is very dark as the stranger tells the story. To set the stage, I must tell you where I was, he says. It is very dark. I listen. Think of a field. A swamp, rather. This is a long time ago. Kolkata. Calcutta, or what will be Calcutta. Maybe it is this very field, this very ground. It is different then, overgrown and marshy, the hum and tickle of insects like a grainy blanket over this winter night. It is cloudy, the moonlight diffuse as it sparkles on the stretches of water hiding under the reeds. The darkness is oppressive. There is no blush of electricity on the horizon, no vast cities for the sky to reflect. Somewhere beyond the dark, there are three villages: Kalikata, Sutanati, Gobindapur. They belong to the British East India Company. They are building a fort known as William. Things are changing, a new century nears. It will be the eighteenth, by the Christian calendar. The campfire is an oasis of light. The bauls gather around, flames glistening on their dark swamp-­damp skins, twinkling in their beards. They sing to ward off the encroaching darkness, their words lifting with the wood sparks toward the stars. They sing, unheeding of signatures on paper, of land exchanges and politics, of the white traders and their tensions with the Nawab and the Mughal Empire. Here in the firelight, they make music and tell stories to one another. To the land. To Bengal. To Hindustan, which does not belong to them, nor to the British, nor the Mughals. They know there are things in the wilderness that neither Mughal nor white man has in his documents of ownership. Things to be found in stories. Then again, they also claim to be mad. Excerpted from The Devourers by Indra Das All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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