Sarah Does Bookish Stuff | The Buffalo Hunter Hunter: T...

The Buffalo Hunter Hunter: The Horror is Us

I finished The Buffalo Hunter Hunter by Stephen Graham Jones and I have... so many things to say. What a book. Incredible. So well written and haunting and creating something totally new in horror books I did not expect. Where do I even begin with this one?
The book is told in epistolary style, a series of journal entries within journal entries. We follow a woman in 2013 researching an old journal she found from a dead great-great-x grandfather of hers. It's about his life as a Lutheran pastor in Montana in the early 1900s and his encounter with a mysterious indigenous stranger named Good Stab.
From there, a cat-and-mouse tale begins. Between Good Stab and Arthur, Good Stab and the Cat Man, and so many other characters. The web is intricately woven and expertly tied off. Jones is an incredible, thoughtful, emotional writer who makes us contend with a very real history we sweep away in America. What colonizers did for decades to the indigenous tribes in our country is nothing short of massacre, genocide, and annihilation. Not only of the indigenous people but of everything that made them what they were. Their histories, ways of life, identities... colonizers of the American West in particular shredded and ruined so much indigenous life that the one overarching feeling I carried was shame.
I know that sounds preachy, but Jones deftly shows his reader and fearlessly makes you witness the reality of it all without feeling like it's preaching at you. He understands the complexity of modern racial and ethnic identity, the layers and layers on how we all ended up here in America, and he still unflinchingly says, "Yes, I know this, and still this is the story of my people."
I can't know what it's like to be an indigenous American. I know what it's like to be a descendant of Irish immigrants who came over in the early 1900s and a father who emigrated from the UK in the 1970s, but that's all. Jones gave me the opportunity to walk alongside an indigenous character and see what it was like for them to lose their land, their homes, who they were, their histories... it was heartbreaking and devastating.
And he used a fully reimagined concept of vampires to do it.
Yes. Vampires.
This is a vampire story that makes vampires terrifying again. Drinking blood from animals changes you differently than from humans. The identity he crafts gets weaker and weaker as he mixed blood from his people with colonizers and animals and you see how the blood changes him over time. It was an incredible metaphor for the diluting and loss of indigenous tribes in such a beautifully haunting, visceral way. We listen to Good Stab tell his story and Arthur slowly realize the role he played in it.
Then we see Etsy, his current-day granddaughter, unravel the threads of what he did and why Good Stab decided to tell Arthur his tale. She pulls apart the horror of knowing her kin could be part of this erasure and how she seeks forgiveness and restitution in a way that actually means something. Then we, the reader, are left understanding that what colonizers did to the American peoples can never give the restitution they deserve or require for what was done to them.
Jones shows his readers how the massacre of buffalo was the death sentence of the tribes. The careless, thoughtless ways men destroyed the once-prolific source of life into extinction and how it demolished a nation we claim to love as our own. Too many people don't know about how and why the buffalo were nearly extinct in the 1800s and Jones aims to correct that in this haunting, terrible story.
He made me consider myself, my role in the world, and stare into a national history that I might feel removed from, but is still a part of me whether I like it or not just as the suffering of indigenous people is a part of them whether they like it or not.
Beautiful. Incredible. And my favorite quote should tell you what kind of book you're getting into.
"I was America's worst nightmare. I was an Indian who could not die."

Let's go chapter 2!

I actually have a few chapters already written, I'm trying to get one done a week for this project at minimum give or take. I like this so far and I have a character in Book 2 conjured up that I am already so excited to get to. She's gonna be my favorite, honestly. Still. Gotta use this as a setup for the bigger breakout in the series. This is kinda fun, guys.
Chapter 2: Traitors
Castor stood outside the double doors to the throne room and took a long, steadying breath. The ritual he had perfected over the last ten years in service of his mortal enemy came so easily now. He breathed--slow and deep--and checked all the buckles and belts and fasteners on his armor. Counting as he went. Clearing his mind, smothering the fire that burned at the back of it as if the Dawn Emperor might see it someday. He touched the notches on the edges of his steel bracers - one for every member of his dead family, dead friends, dead court. One for every person he loved that the Dawn Emperor had taken from him.
He prayed for their strength, lifted his head, and nodded to the guards. They opened the doors on terrible, silent hinges and the throne room painted across his vision. The walk, as always, felt interminable. He kept a lazy hand on his sword and a lazier grin on his face as he approached the man seated on the golden sunburst of a throne. The Emperor leaned on his hand, watching Castor approach through half-lidded pale blue eyes under tightly trimmed black hair. His thin mouth was set in a permanent partial smile, as if he always found something vaguely amusing or was plotting something unspeakably wicked.
Castor usually found it was the latter.
The Emperor raised a hand covered in golden rings, sweeping the dark blue of his robes along the pale stone floor. Castor took the invitation and kneeled, kissing the serpent signet ring of his liege and bowing his head.

"Rise," the emperor sighed. "Tell me of the north."
He always sounded bored, which Castor assumed he must be. With two thirds of Moranthe now under the Dawn Empire, he was running out of places to conquer. He fought the urge to clench his hand into a fist and stood. He was no coward, despite what everyone said about him in the north. He looked the Emperor in the eyes when he spoke.
"Small pockets of rebellion, nothing we aren’t accustomed to," he clasped his hands behind his back to steady them. "Put down swiftly. The Forestmen are pillaging again, though. I believe the Ice Witches laid waste to some of their hunting grounds, the feral bitches. It’s forcing them through the Wastewood to pillage. I’ve got my men forming patrols and ending the bands when we find them."
The Emperor hummed his approval, scanning his cold eyes up Castor’s body the way a lord might eye a good horse. That’s what he was to this man, really. A prized stallion. Proof that even the strongest-willed of his enemies could be broken and cowed to the point of becoming a beloved general in his army. Valasen rallied the world to help close the Tempest Gate and beat back the demon hordes that surged across Moranthe and the Dawn Emperor took the moment to spread his army out and occupy any throne left unguarded. His little cousin had saved the world and the world rewarded her with a dead family and dead allies.
Castor was only a boy when he was taken into the emperor’s court as a ward. Eleven and frothing with rage, a wild creature all snapping teeth and raking claws. The Guard Captain was still missing half an ear. They had found him guarding the bodies of his murdered parents with a sword twice his size. The last living member of House Tartenna, ruling family of Valasen.
He wished they had killed him.
The Emperor remarked to his miserable son without looking at the young man fixed slightly behind the left side of his obnoxious throne, "General Tartenna is our greatest asset in the north. He knows the people intimately and is the only one the Ice Witches will entreat with."
"Yes, father," the young man watched Castor through frigid glacial blue eyes.
He took after his mother, the long-dead Empress Delia, thankfully. The only thing he inherited from his tyrant father were his eyes and his penchant for being an asshole. Prince Ciro was everything the court wanted from an heir. Just barely shorter than his father, an already towering man, he was broad-shouldered and carried himself with an easy confidence. Simple to do when you’re the future Emperor. He was sharp-jawed and high-boned as all good royal sons are, his thin silver circlet half hidden under a cornsilk forelock.
Compared to Castor, though, he might as well have been a boy. They were two years apart in age, but impossibly different in stature and appearance. Castor was the hulking mass of war, built like a battleaxe with pale blond hair nearly silver, kept far too long in a mess of braids and tangles he knotted atop his head to keep out of his face. Cold, bright green eyes fixed on the prince from under a weary brow. Castor’s nose had been broken more than once, a scar slashed across it that added a dash of menace into the wild attraction of him.
The two young men regarded each other with the disdain neither of them had ever bothered to hide. As boys, they had never made peace. As men, they interacted only as much as decorum demanded. Decorum, of course, being the Dawn Emperor.
"I should like you to stay for the opening ceremony of the Games, General," the Emperor waved a hand. "The additional guards will come from the ranks and they would be more receptive to you than the Captain, I believe."
Castor agreed. For all his hatred of the Dawn Emperor and his Day Prince, he held the undying love and admiration of the soldiers. He had fought for his place in their ranks, chosen to start where everyone else did despite the Emperor’s offer of command. He wanted to earn it. More than that, he wanted to owe the Emperor who had destroyed his family as little as possible.
It helped that he had a death wish and regularly threw himself in harm’s way during campaigns to save his men. He did it under the guise of honor and valor, but the truth was much simpler. He wanted someone to kill him. Whatever god had decided to make him their pet project, however, had not allowed for this. Instead, he found himself the center of many celebrations and a long and growing list of soldiers who owed him their lives. He couldn’t remember the last time he paid for a drink.
"Yes, your majesty," Castor thumped a fist to his chest and bowed enough to satisfy. "Anything else I can offer you, my Emperor?"
"No," he sighed and waved a hand, "you are dismissed. Attend the barracks and coordinate security with the Captain, please."
He turned on his heel and stalked out, controlling his gait the way he always did. Not too fast, not too slow. Languid, as though he loved his role as the Traitor General. The wolfish grin he paid the guards bought their belief and they gave him one back, loving his role, too.

Chapter 1: Exorcising demons
Exorcising demons was killing Icarus Ulrich slowly and painfully. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, chest heaving, the knife wound in his forearm a distant pulsing memory. The pile of ash erupted in a dim blue flame and reclaimed his attention. Vial in hand, he dipped it into the fire and captured the shimmering sludge within. When he straightened, he found the elderly couple staring at him wide-eyed in the doorway. He politely palmed the vial into his pocket and gave them a sharp nod.
"My secretary will be in touch for payment," he didn’t wait for them to respond and shoved his way past. The cold Dublin air bit at his skin despite his effort to sink back into the high coat collar of his long, wool coat. His stride was long and fast, escaping the shadow of the cramped row house until he found an alley he could use. He cracked open an ampule and let the iridescent liquid drip into one eye, then the other. Blinking, he leaned into the stone wall and slid to the ground.
The numbing wash of pleasure flooded his veins, empty smile on his lips. He knew what he looked like to any passers-by: sclera flaring brilliant blue, expression slack and joyful, skin just slightly thin enough to show his pulsing veins for anyone who cared to look hard enough. Fifteen minutes passed and the world ate away at the feeling until his vision cleared and his head was sharp again. He rubbed his eyes with a calloused hand, resting against his knees while the effects wore off in full.
Two more weeks until he would have to do that again. Two more weeks until the Rot tried to claim him and he fought back valiantly with a substance that would drive him mad someday if he let it. He shoved off the damp flagstone and brushed off the back of his coat halfheartedly. He needed a cigarette. Fumbling for a moment while the Eidolon wore off, he found a rogue tobacco soldier in his pocket and the last gasp of a matchbook with it.
It burned his lungs deliciously while he walked the uneven cobbles and slithered around the iron poles of unlit gaslamps lining the street. The rattle and shout of horses and hawkers crashed into him like a wave when he spilled out onto the main thoroughfare into the lifeblood of industry. He tugged the white Roman collar free and shoved it in the pocket with the vial. People tended to stare more when they spotted a priest with a cigarette between his lips and he did not much enjoy being stared at. He kept his head down while he walked, mindful that he would have to dispose of his vice--one of many, if he were being honest--far enough from his destination to avoid being chastised by his loving colleagues. He flicked the butt away, lamenting the loss of a third of it, and patted his coat until he found what he needed. Keys jangled in his hands when he reached the iron-barred door of the office tucked away on the busy Temple Bar street corner. It was not his first choice, Temple Bar, but nothing matched the price so this was where they were forced to set up shop.
Inside, a fire warmed the small offices upstairs against the prewinter chill. Heat carried all the way to the paned front door and he shut it quickly to stop it from escaping. He stamped the city off his boots and shrugged his coat onto a hook. A crackling, wizened voice called down from the top of the stairs, "Back so soon?"
He grunted affirmation and ran a hand through slightly-too-long hair the color of sodden wheat, "Hadn’t attached to the place too hard, one foot still in the Veil."
His boots fell heavy on the wooden stairs, amber lamps stretched his shadow too long across the floor. The woman at the desk was older than she had any right to be, but more reliable than the younger ones who had come before her. Edith was never late and always methodically locked everything up at the end of the day. Her calendars were clean, easy to read, and she had no problem shaking down clients who thought they could avoid the whole “half later” part of the “half now, half later” contracts they signed. Icarus liked her very, very much.
"Maren back yet?" He asked with a glance to the dark office nearest them. He knew the answer, the ask was a reflex.
Edith shook her perfectly pinned white head and peered over thick spectacles, "No. Any minute now. You have a visitor."
She jerked her chin towards his office. He paused, "Who?"
"Father Reed," came a familiar strained voice behind the cracked door. Floorboards creaked under the man’s feet when he rose and widened it. His face was drawn, eyes tired. He had the ever-increasing hunch of someone who saw too much too often.
Icarus took a deep breath and attempted--poorly--to hide a sigh. He placed the vial firmly on Edith’s desk, "Make sure Maren distills that. I’m running low. Father, lovely to see you."
"I’m most definitely sure it is not," Reed smiled warmly and moved out of Icarus’s way, closing the door behind him. He remained on his feet when Icarus sat behind the weathered wooden desk.
When Reed didn’t immediately explain himself, Icarus prompted him, "What brings you to the dregs of exorcist society?"
He exhaled and finally sank down into the chair opposite. He leaned on the simple silver-handled cane he carried and brushed imaginary lint from his sleeve. Though he liked Father Reed, Icarus had little patience for the Church’s unexpected visits. It took the older priest a long, studious moment of silence before he decided to speak. Icarus hid his growing irritation in the grip on his pencil while he filled out the remaining fields for his most recent client.
"There’s a case I’d like you to take. North of the city in Baldongan," Reed examined his gloves. He wasn’t making eye contact, already the sign of something peculiar that set Icarus on edge.
Storm-blue eyes snapped to him so sharp they could cut glass, " You, not we. Not a Church-sanctioned house call?"
He extended a hand for the yellowed folder Reed passed him and leafed through it. Eyebrow arched, he studied the details. Nothing stuck out to him as unusual. A woman showing early signs of possession, no spatial distortions, no evidence of anything other than a run-of-the-mill Bánánach trying to force its way in. The grainy black and white photo showed a buoyant woman in her late teens or early twenties, the one behind it a more recent version of her that looked a hundred years older. Jarring, but all the signs of a standard possession.
"This is child’s play. A baby Caldrist could do this. You don’t need a Nytherist to slap a Bánánach around," he dropped the folder with a clap. "Rejected until you tell me why this one specifically."
Icarus leaned back and steepled his fingers across his chest, boots thudding when they landed on the desk. The priest frowned at the impropriety, but ignored it. They had known each other long enough that Reed expected rudeness without being affected anymore. At one point, they had even been friends, "You think I didn’t already send one to handle it? The last thing I’d like to do is contract your services, you know that. The local bishop asked me to discreetly send someone more… gifted."
Icarus smirked, "And you had to admit that someone was me? I’m flattered. What about it’s different? You sure your Caldrist wasn’t just incompetent?"
"I’m sure," he shot back with a warning look. "Father Simon was efficient and effective, but this… whatever it is… couldn’t be shaken. It’s all the signs of a Bánánach, but it threw him clear across the room and broke his leg. Then it blew out all the windows and blacked out the town. Bánánach can’t do that."
"So you misclassified a demon," Icarus shrugged. "Happens to the best of us. Well. The best of you lot anyway."
"Icarus," Reed warned again, "don’t make me regret asking you. Just go investigate, at the very least. If it’s something Simon screwed up, I’ll double your contract fee for the inconvenience."
That made him pause. He did not like the Church, but he did like the Church’s money. He ran his tongue along his teeth and glanced at the clock ticking away at the back wall. Maren should be back by now. He would want her input on it, but Reed seemed twitchy about this case for some reason. It was unlike the man to hide his nerves, which made Icarus all the more intrigued. He sighed dramatically and dropped his feet to the floor. He put on a good show of thinking it through, bobbing his head eventually in a halfhearted nod.
"Fine," he thrust a hand at Reed, "I’ll take your ridiculously simple case and prove the Church fucked it up."
"Language, Father Icarus." Reed shook the outstretched hand in the style of makeshift deal that had often been made about these things between them.
"Father feels a bit formal," Icarus scrunched his face to hide his disdain. He got feet to show Reed the door, "Perhaps Brother? Cousin, maybe? Hell, Uncle might be more fitting."
Reed shot him a confusing paternal look and paused at Edith’s desk. He had taken a shine to her since she started two years back and it was very much reciprocated. The older woman beamed at the opportunity to settle contract terms with him. Beside her desk stood a figure Icarus was grateful to see again. She was only shoulder height to him, but that wasn’t her fault. Icarus had always been tall. Her limbs were long, body catlike, dark almost eyes perpetually narrowed as though she constantly scrutinized everything they settled on. She did, so it was fitting. She kept her straight, black hair pulled into a low ponytail secured at the nape of her neck. Her arms were folded over her black shirt, Roman collar flashing white in sharp contrast to the dark. She liked her collar. She also didn’t smoke.
He gave her a half smile, the best he could do, and she tilted her head at him. A silent conversation played out between them--what was Father Reed doing there, he would tell her in a moment, she hoped he got a good price, he absolutely did.
Reed started when he noticed her and offered a small smile, "Father Maren! My apologies, I didn’t see you, my dear. You’ve always been so quiet."
It was true. Maren had a magical way of going unnoticed when she wanted to, which was essentially all the time. Her expression stayed unchanged, but it relaxed when she looked at the old man, "A pleasure, as always, Father. I look forward to Icarus’s debrief."
They exchanged a pleasant farewell and waited until the small bell stopped tinkling before sealing themselves away in Icarus’s office. She never rounded on him, Maren was not the kind to get worked up easily. She would study, ask questions, be thoughtful. Explosive response was Icarus’s specialty. He leaned against the edge of his desk and passed her the file, waiting for her to finish her methodical evaluation.
"And the Church wants us to look into this?" She read through it again, her tone wary, "Seems fairly rudimentary."
He shrugged, "Beneath us, but he’ll double the fee if it turns out to be incompetence. So, there’s that."
"Hm," she nodded, "and we do like money."
"How’d it go in Clondalkin?" He watched her ever-placid expression, always hoping someday she would give something more away to him.
She put the file back down on his desk, "Fine. Nothing a Sídhe Binding couldn’t handle. Yours?"
"Throw some Pale Doctrine and blood into a seal and that tends to do the trick. Left you some raw Eidolon to distill, did Edith give it?" At her affirmative, he relaxed, "I’m nearly out. I’d like to live a bit longer before Rot takes me, if you don’t mind."
"Never do," she kept her focus on the closed file with suspicion. "Why do you think they asked for us?"
He breathed a laugh, "They didn’t. Reed did. That’s the strangest bit of it. He’s selling it as Church business and I’m fairly sure the Church doesn’t have the faintest idea."
Maren watched the frosted window behind him and listened to the sounds of the city. Carriages rolling, steam trams in the distance screaming along the rails, voices muffled by the early evening fog. She turned, hands shoved into her pockets, and went to leave the room.
"Tomorrow at seven there’s an early train north," she paused to look back at him, her tone firm from giving the same lecture too many times. "Do not be late, Icarus. Repeat it back. Do not be late."
He rolled his eyes, hands up in defeat, "I won’t be late, Father Maren."
He was absolutely going to be late.