The Pines

Reading Robert Dunbar’s THE PINES is an odd, often disorienting experience. Not because it is badly written, but rather because it is not effectively written. That is, its stylistic reach exceeds the grasp of the story.

The setting is the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey, an area akin to the mid-western Ozarks. It’s native residents, “the Pinys,” are illiterate, often inbred hillbillies. And they live as though the 20th century had never happened. But there are also people like Athena, an urban-born widower who lives in her grandmother’s house in the Pine Barrens with her mentally retarded son, Matthew, and her sister-in-law, Pamela, whose husband is in prison.

Athena is part of the crew that operates the local ambulance service. And between the local hunting wounds, car crashes and the seasonal careless campers, there is usually enough to keep them busy. But then a series of brutal murders grips the area. At first, they are attributed to a pack of feral dogs. But Athena senses a monstrous presence in the pine woods. She fears it is after her, especially as its victims include members of her family and close friends. What’s worse, she suspects that Matthew has some kind of psychic connection with the monster.

From the very outset, with its Walt Whitman epigram and later section heading quotes from the likes of Faulkner, Melville, Poe and other sources, Dunbar obviously wants us to take his novel seriously, even though the opening chapter is a fairly standard setup of a young woman fleeing from unwanted sexual advances in a car parked near the woods, only to become the victim of the murdering being.

The real problem is Dunbar here and throughout writes in a highly impressionistic style that seems to take forever to make its point, is often difficult to follow, and frequently dampens its intended effect. While this style serves him best when he describes the dense, suffocating menace of the pine woods, he seems to forget — or almost deny — that he’s telling a horror story. Much of the first half of the book busies itself with descriptions of various minor local characters, their relationships, and their lives in the Pine Barrens. It’s not until well into the second that the notion of an unworldly being — quiet possibly the Jersey Devil of folklore and urban legend — might be the culprit.

But it takes a good deal of patience to get to this point. Once there, we are treated to long-winded discussions of the monster’s history and possible origin, which includes everything from lycanthropy to Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky.” And the latter is supposed to be a subtle clue to Matthew’s connection to the monster, although it’s never explained how the boy could have read, much less understand, the Carroll poem.

While there is nothing wrong with trying to bring some high literary style to a horror story, the feeling here is slightly contemptuous of the genre and its readers. This is especially true when Dunbar’s biography on the inside back cover states that he “does not define himself as a genre writer but rather a literary artist … who sometimes works in horror, science fiction and suspense.” A more secure writer would demonstrate this in his work rather than rationalize it.

So it’s not at all surprising that the actual horror elements of the novel happen in the last 50 pages, including a final showdown with the monster, and a quick epilogue that tries to tie things together while leaving the door open for the monster’s continuing presence.

There’s all the ingredients of a truly fine, memorable horror story here. But Dunbar seems to regret that he had to stoop so low as to tell it to horror genre fans. So let’s not waste anymore of his time and instead read the works of those who appreciate the genre for what it can really achieve. —Alan Cranis

Buy it at Amazon.

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