“The serpent steals a womb to warm her brood… there’s no devilry in that.”

I’ll start the review by admitting that I’m biased. I’m a Coy Hall fan. I love the stories he crafts, which are as beautiful in their occult atmosphere as they are terrifying, anchored in deeply disgusting and dread-filled earthliness. I love his style and verbiage, how he tells his tales in accessible form, though often peppering in sentences with period-accurate vocabulary that help build a real world. Often in historical fiction, there’s an inescapable condescension, even without being intended. I have never felt that way about Hall’s books, which are primarily historical fiction. To boot, they’re mostly set in the Medieval era, a period which is often so alien to describe that even most nonfiction works about the era feel like High Fantasy rather than reality. His commitment to accessible storytelling, more than anything else, is what makes Hall one of the great authors of historical fiction. 

Now, to the subject at hand: Devilry in Godling Wood, Hall’s newest novel, which comes out on October 23rd of this year. I think it may very well be my new favorite Coy Hall work (a spot that’s been occupied for years by Grimoire of the Four Impostors, which is an absolute must-read for any readers of occult/horror fiction). In the woods of 1151AD Germany, we first meet our protagonist, Damiano, who goes by the nickname Orecchio d’Argento or “Silver Ear” due to a silver prosthetic he wears in place of a missing one. As we follow his movements around the small village of Ingunsteine, the threads of his personal history (and the stories he tells about it) begin to unravel rapidly. Those threads, to keep the metaphor going, then begin to rewrap themselves around the history of the town itself and the royal family who live above it.

There will be no spoilers in this review because, well, I want people to read Devilry in Godling Wood for themselves. And because, like anyone who’s read the Wikipedia for Blue Velvet or Fitzcarraldo can attest, explaining the narrative points of a story never does it even a fraction of justice compared to the author’s presentation. That being said, the aspects that I love most about Devilry are hard to relay without attaching context that may provide spoilers.

But I’ll try. 

The most incredible thing about Devilry is present in many of Hall’s other works: the ease with which he is able to make characters that are nearly 1,000 years old relatable, without cheapening them or breaking kayfabe by using modern phrasing. The characters in this story–from Wenzel, a gruff but soft-hearted miller, to Graf Hagen, the stern and mysterious local count, to Damiano, the lecherous and pretentious goliano–all feel like real people. But their worldviews, their beliefs, and their actions all keep them firmly anchored in their time period. It’s similar to Robert Eggers’ The Northman, in which the characters feel relatable while also nonchalantly committing acts of violence that are so monstrous to our contemporary age that they present as horror. In Devilry there’s a similar sensation of the reader being in the moment with the characters, immersed in the worldview of the period, while still being cognizant of their own foreignness. Again, it’s hard to convey this specific sense without giving more details that may serve as spoilers. But it’s a rare accomplishment that Hall has succeeded at nearly constantly.

Similarly, an aspect of Devilry that I love is its humanness: the ways in which it is brutish, beautiful, chaotic, bleak, hilarious (yes), and heartbreaking. The novel presents its characters’ flaws without rose-colored glasses. The reader feels the agony of loss, the terror of gaining forbidden knowledge, the confusion and anger of inexplicable violence. When a character is a violent misogynist, for example, the reader is made to carry the full weight of that violent misogyny: not as a cheap plot device to scare or shock, but as a demonstration of its awful power, in the real world as well as the literary. And when characters strip away their own humanity, they exhibit so in vile ways not so different from those in our own times: elites flaunt their abhorrent predilections and religious men wield their faith as a weapon in service of ulterior motives.

Devilry, at its core, is a tale as old as the written word: light, dark, and the nebulous, ever-changing middle ground between. It’s a horror story. It’s a fable. It’s a perverse passion play. Its form may not be new, but in that lies its brilliance. In its use of familiar form and imagery, it raises red flags when things veer off course; in its use of trope, it allows the reader to follow along comfortably before subverting expectations in spectacularly violent and grotesque ways. This is what sets Hall apart from his contemporaries: not the story itself but the atmosphere he’s able to capture in vivid synaesthesia. It’s what makes him a master of the craft. 

For fans of: The Wicker Man, Agustina Bazterrica’s novels, Bloodborne, Wolves in the Throne Room

Some choice quotes:

“Did you know crocodiles weep as they eat men? Even as they shred his flesh, they cry for his soul. Even a monstrous creature like this can feel remorse. That astonishes me.”

“I don’t need your protection. God protects me.”
“No, He doesn’t. He abandoned you long ago.”

“Some days you just think of it… You wake with it on your tongue. Then you find nobody wants to hear it, and it falls back into your belly again, waitin’ for another dream to sneak into.”