Looking to reward myself for having, so far, a great
2020, I browsed the shelves at the local used book store hoping something
would leap out at me. And boy, did something ever: The Monstrumologist.
Normally, I’m not taken in by a book’s cover. I hate
99.9 percent of all the book covers I’ve ever seen, save for those funky
mid-70s psychedelic sci fi paperbacks I cut my literary teeth on. But this
cover intrigued me: early 17th and 18th century anatomical drawings buried
under oppressive coloration and blood splatters. What wasn’t to love?
I instantly bought and then read it over the course of
the next week. And even before I finished it I motored back to that store and
purchased up the other three books in the series.
Now I know little of the author Rick Yancey, and I’m
keeping it that way. I also know little of the Monstrumologist series, and
ditto. I am so enjoying this ride that I do not want any outside influences to
tilt or totter it one way or another.
So, what’s a “monstrumologist” and what did I think of
the book?
A monstrumologist is one who studies, and subsequently
deals with, monsters.
Yay!
The monstrumologist in question is one Doctor
Pellinore Warthrop, a bachelor renaissance man flourishing in the late 19th
century. 1890, to be specific, I think. The story is told through the eyes of
young orphan Will Henry, who is the good doctor’s apprentice. During the course
of the 400-page novel, we shadow the duo through a handful of set pieces and
interactions with other colorful characters.
The featured monster has historical weight to it, and
one that seems to have been forgotten by our culture: headless anthropoids with
razor sharp hooks for hands, a gaping toothy maw where a man’s stomach normally
sits, and merciless unthinking shark eyes at each shoulder. I nearly read of
such creatures four years ago when I perused (but did not finish) the Histories of Herodotus, written in 440
BC. Other ancient travelogues and histories mention them, mostly as inhabitants
of the African coast.
All I really do know of the series is that they’re
aimed at the “young adult” market, whatever that is, and after reading it, I
would not want the two young adults who live with me (ages fifteen and eleven)
reading it. It is violent. It is gory. If it was filmed, it would be one of
those NC-17 deals until the studio cut a handful of seconds of blood here and
there. It was much more gory that I first expected, extremely gory, Walking Dead gory.
Which, if I may add with a touch of guilt, I kinda
liked. I haven’t read such grossness in decades, probably since my late-80s
early-90s Clive Barker phase. But this was of a different caliber of gore – clinical gore, which somehow is so much
worse.
There were passing references to true historical
characters in the story, which I also enjoyed. Mason and Slidell, the two men
taken off the Trent during the Civil
War which nearly sparked a war with England, were somewhat maligned as being,
possibly, dealbrokers to bring these headless monstrosities to American shores.
And a passing veiled reference to Jack the Ripper – which I caught pages and
pages before the characters in the story! – was very nicely done and set up
potential conflict in other books downseries.
My only beef was that I felt it was a little two
wordy. Though there was lots and lots of action, there seemed to be lots and
lots of unnecessary exposition, too. But this is a minor complaint. A lot of
the exposition and the dialogue went into fleshing out the relationship between
the doctor – who in the eye of my mind is a persnickety twerp a la Bertrand
Russell – and young Will Henry. The orphan in over his head, hurting from the
horrifying loss of his parents, seeking love, affection, and affirmation from a
man simply incapable of giving it – or is he? I will continue reading the
series to see how their relationship grows, as each character does grow over
the course of the novel.
Grade: solid A.
In the next book, which I hope to get to in the
spring, the doctor and Will Henry travel into the woods to investigate the
entity known as the wendigo …
