Sour Cherry

by Natalia Theodoridou

I could write an essay on why I dislike the term “literary horror,” but it marries two things that readers instantly recognize — exceptional writing and chilling situations — and that makes it the perfect descriptor for SOUR CHERRY (Tin House, 297 pp., paperback, $17.95).

The story begins with Agnes, a woman hired as a wet nurse by a wealthy family after the death of her own son. After “the boy,” as Agnes calls him, or “the little lord,” grows up and stops breastfeeding, Agnes stays on as caretaker of the quiet, mysterious child. Years go by — the boy grows; his mother disappears; a blight strikes the local crops and then vanishes, only to return even stronger years later. Through it all, Agnes is there, filling the space of the missing mother and watching her charge’s journey into manhood, marriage, lordship and eventually exile.

But that’s only the first part. Eventually, the narrative switches focus from Agnes to the little lord and his wife before changing again to chronicle the life of Tristan, the little lord’s own son. The changes don’t stop there, but I won’t spoil the rest.

“Sour Cherry” is a murder ballad sung in a dark room — it’s slow, haunting and strangely beautiful. Overall, this novel is about how inner darkness plagues generations of men of a peculiar family, and the impact that has on everything around them. And while the cursed lineage trope can be clichéd, Theodoridou’s lyrical prose takes otherwise disposable lines and turns them into poetry: “A boy raised by wolves, his father a tree, his mother a fiction.”

Although Tristan’s story is longer than it needed to be and the changes in voice and breaking of the fourth wall can feel awkward and unnecessary, this hallucinatory novel is a sad, violent, horrible delight.