J. Deery Wray

Patterns are a part of life, and the human mind is excellent at seeking them out. In fact, humans are so good at imposing order on seeming chaos that we invent it where sense cannot be found. Why? Because patterns are comforting. Patterns make it seem like there is a purpose to everything, a purpose to our suffering. For some reason, it’s easier to bear a burden if we know there’s a reason for it. But patterns can also become cages of comfort.

What is a monster, and what is it for? In The Butcher of the Forest, Premee Mohamed almost holds her monsters in abeyance, crafting the kind of atmosphere and dread that cue us to expect—at any moment!—the arrival of a horror that will rend an unsuspecting innocent in two. But she never quite lets that happen.

The statue of that gorgeous and beloved tyrant, my father, stands in a valley where the weather has only ever been snow. The valley is low, the statue high, and any distinguishing features—trees, houses, civilisations—have been smoothed over like filler in a wall. I cannot say how tall the statue is. Against the white void it has entirely become landscape. You might as well ask how tall the sky. My father has expanded to fill a vacuum: nothing remains to compare him against.