Hunting Midnight by Richard Zimler

By Richard Zimler

In Zimler's striking story, John Zarco Stewart is an impish baby of daring inquisitiveness, the unwitting heir of a religion shrouded in three hundred years of secrecy. darkish and sour occasions positioned an finish to his innocence and virtually smash him, yet he's healed by means of the arriving in his family of a mysterious younger guy from Africa. hour of darkness is a freed slave dropped at Porto through John's seafaring father, and he turns into John's maximum buddy, eventually picking out the process his existence. yet as John grows to manhood middle of the night is misplaced to him, Napoleon's armies invade Portugal, and John's fragile peace is shattered as he uncovers truths and lies hidden through these he so much enjoyed and relied on. ultimately he leaves for the US, to seek for desire in a land shackled by means of unforgivable sin. This brilliant new literary epic, a relocating love tale crossed with sweeping historic novel, is a valuable successor to Zimler's The final Kabbalist of Lisbon, released in 1998 to very large luck, and to date promoting over 60,000 copies with reports to compare. Pre-publication, looking hour of darkness has already attracted a lot consciousness and appears set to do even higher.

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He carried a silver cane under his arm. “Blessings unto you, my child,” he said with heavy sincerity. He took a pinch of snuff from a silver box and inhaled sharply into both nostrils. ” Daniel demanded. ” Removing his hat, he displayed its interior to us, then swirled his hand inside and extracted a foot-long indigo feather. Leaning forward, he offered it to me. “I have been watching you for quite some time, little one. So please accept this gift of heartfelt esteem. ” I shook my head in refusal.

A granite crucifix above the hearth caught my attention. The Savior’s visage was painted over in a ghastly array of colors. I never asked Daniel who did it, but it occurs to me now that he was the likely culprit. We kept neither cross nor rosary at our house, my father dismissing any and all objects of Christianity as tokens of superstition. Raising his eyebrows mischievously, Daniel led me into a slightly larger room, where a cracked window at the back wall allowed a gloomy light to filter through.

A score of masks nestled in among the old clothes. Some had antlers, others horns. A few had serrated mouths, like the teeth of a wolf, and one had the pointed snout of a mosquito. We decided to bring the masks of a frog and a deer with us to my tarn outside Porto. Daniel also took from beneath his straw pillow a tiny canvas pouch with a drawstring opening. He slipped it over his neck. “There’s a charm inside,” he explained to me. “A monk wrote it out for Ma to give to me. She says I have to wear it to protect me when I leave the city, because there are lots of witches hiding in the countryside.

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