Next week, Wolsak & Wynn will publish Grotesque, the latest book by Elliott Dunstan , the Ottawa-based “poet, historian, author, cook, proud anarchist, drag performer, and otherwise man of many hats.” To mark the occasion, we have an excerpt to share with our readers. The novel is a “darkly erotic fairy tale of death and redemption. Here’s the full synopsis:
Bedhyndann is a small seaside town in Cornwall. A town that travellers feel uncomfortable in. A town where sailors often choose to stay on their ships rather than coming into port. A town where the golem Denvyth has lived for nearly two hundred years and where he has been waiting for his master, the sorcerer Arderne, to return for one hundred and fifty of those. To pass the time he amuses himself at the siren Victoire’s private club, helping the humans around him fulfill their most dangerous desires. Until he crosses paths with Summers, a client who wants more from Denvyth than he should and who has the clues to unlock the secret of Arderne’s disappearance.
But Arderne sought to release an old god and once Denvyth follows his master’s last instructions and finishes the sorcerer’s spell, what he unleashes could make him the monster he’s always feared being and destroy the world.
*
In years long past, when Bedhyndann was still a fishing village and the only names I knew from my master were pet or girl, the house we lived in stood alone at the top of the hill. The stairs had been carved into the cliffside some decades before by some diligent shepherd, but I put them to use, trudging dutifully between my master’s home and the village below. Sometimes I was dispatched to collect cod oil from the fishermen; other times, saffron, wine and whisky from the apothecary. Heather, gorse and mustard seed I gathered myself from the moors atop the cliff, as well as animal subjects for his experiments. Rabbits were the easiest – frogs and toads were slippery at best, and squirrels had a knack for squirming out of my traps. Other subjects we acquired from the asylum a few towns over, the inns and taverns, or – only very rarely – the village’s population themselves, but remaining tolerated required a certain amount of delicacy. My master had never said why he’d come here instead of remaining in Scotland, but I suspected he’d made that exact error when it came to sourcing human materials.
On a normal day, the fog rose long before the sun did, bathing the cliffside in gauze-and-chiffon clouds. I didn’t sleep, but still felt like I was rising from a dream when I opened the door, sweeping gathered dewdrops from the threshold and doorknob, then tucking the latest list into my pocket. In the early days, I’d worn dresses, but over time I’d found the dresses interfered with my duties – and my master was too distracted to care. By this time, the twenty-third year of King Charles, anno Domini 1648, I’d started wearing men’s clothes. Truthfully, I liked them more.
I made my way down the stairs with particular care. I’d fallen before, and it didn’t hurt especially, but there was the matter of getting back, and my master had not been kind to me upon discovering I needed fixing. “Do you think acquiring your parts is cheap?” he’d raved, cheeks red and shaking bent pieces of brass and copper in my face. “You’ll be useless for a whole month! And this – oh, well, I suppose I can melt it down and use it elsewhere. Maybe as a filler for –”
I’d made the mistake of smiling a little at that, at which point he wagged it at me again, broken screw at the end jingling as he did. “Wipe that smirk off your face, pet. You’re still in trouble.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
Still, there were better ways to earn his attention. Not for the first time, I wondered if it’d be worth it to put a rail in. I made it most of the way down the stone steps, stopping for a moment just above the worst of the fog, where it thickened into a dense coat I could hardly see through. If luck and the weather held, it’d clear by the time the sun had risen a little higher in the sky. One of the lovely quirks of the ocean – it sent its ghosts to us in the form of sudden storm winds and fog that tasted like salt water.
Well, fog or not, I had –
“Oh!”
I startled at the voice, and managed to catch my balance on the cliffside, feet scrabbling against the wet stone. The figure below ran up the steps to catch me, hands steadying me at the elbows, and I caught a brief impression of a face under his broad-brimmed hat – dark-skinned with a neatly trimmed goatee.
“I’m so sorry for startling you, s – uh, hm.”
I tried not to laugh. It wasn’t the first time I had confused others. “If you’re searching for an indication of my gender, good sir, you won’t find one. But woman suits me as well as anything.”
“That is an odd way of putting it. Nevertheless, I am terribly sorry for startling you.”
I glanced up at him again. He was dark-skinned – my eyes hadn’t deceived me. I’d encountered other travellers from different lands in the Bedhyndann port, but my experiences had been limited largely to Spaniards, Irishmen and Scotsmen, and a memorable stopover from a ship of Indian and Arabian tradesmen.
“My name is Phillip,” he offered, and then with a small smile added, “You may stare all you like, but wouldn’t you rather get off these stairs? They seem dreadfully treacherous.”
“Uh, yes, of course. You were going –” I stopped. “You’re going up?”
“Well, yes. I’m informed there’s a man with many skills who lives at the top of the cliff.” Phillip sighed, tugging at the kerchief around his neck. “Of course, I might have been misinformed. The villagers seemed rather keen to get rid of me. Not the first time.”
“No, no, your information’s correct.” I peered past him. “I doubt he’ll be in any sort of mood for visitors if I don’t get my errands done.”
“Ah, I see how it is.” That sparkle in his eye was back, and he gave a little bow, offering me his hand. “You work for the wizard. In that case, I offer my aid on your errands, and hopefully he’ll be willing to hear me out.”
“I’ll accept that deal. If you think I’m holding your hand, though, you’ve vastly overestimated the width and general capability of these stairs.”
“That’s a fair assessment. I withdraw the hand, but not the gesture.”
“You’re very charming. Move.”
*
Elliott Dunstan’s Grotesque is due to be published by Wolsak & Wynn on October 13th.
