A Review of Vincent James’s novel Acacia: A Book of Wonders
The American search for God differs from all others, in that its emphasis is most often on the prophet. The American prophet’s mission differs from all others, in that their objective is the sway they hold and the preservation of their legacy. They are pioneers, they are visionaries, they are mouthpieces of the Lord. That is the narrative—the trick is making sure it sticks.
Vincent James’s biblical epic Acacia: A Book of Wonders examines the founding of a religious movement in the East Texas countryside, as told by its newest self-proclaimed rightful heir, runaway Petra Caldwell, who embodies all the necessary trappings of a New World anointed. Akin to previous Chosen Ones and along the lines of Joseph Smith of the Latter-Day Saints, William Miller of the eponymous Millerites, and Mother Ann Lee of the Shaker movement, the novel’s heroine is the author of her own destiny, though she claims that a higher power is at hand. Her origin story is at once humble and fantastic, filled with memories of school plays and TV reruns and Blakean glimpses into heaven. Joseph Smith received the Book of Mormon from an angel. William Miller claimed to have calculated the date of the Second Coming. Ann Lee set foot on American soil with the pronouncement that she was the incarnation of that Second Coming, calling herself “Ann the Word.” In the same vein, Petra Caldwell hails from a farm out in the sticks, the daughter of a Bible-thumping alcoholic. She stumbles upon a commune in the woods, where devotees dress in white linen and partake in candlelight processions toward the sanctuary known as the Pear House. The head of their number is called “Mother,” a woman named Salome Nightingale who, when not presiding over her flock, watches episodes of Three’s Company and Dynasty, eats Doritos, and smokes cherry tobacco from a churchwarden pipe. Their hymns are delightful derivatives of pop songs, “The Candy Man” and “Moon River.” Birds, namely vultures, are divine prognosticators.
The art of taking the divine throne is in its grandiosity. The question asked of a new messiah is, “How big can you make yourself?” In addition, perhaps, “How colorful are you?” “How much are you willing to suffer?” “For how long can you keep the narrative going?” And, foremost, “How will you survive a mutiny?” For Petra Caldwell, these queries are not posed outright, though they are necessary in order for any cult to sustain a pulse.
Vincent James’s prose is spot-on for this kind of narrative. To appreciate a divine vision, it is not so much about looking through a glass darkly, as the Apostle Paul affirms. It is to gaze upon the world as through a jadeite lens, or better still, a rose window. His style has a shimmer, a multicolored bioluminescence, making every word count and giving every word life, in the manner of scripture. The Lake o’ the Pines is given the same reverence of description and scholarship as the geography of the Old Testament. Acacia sits in the middle of the woods, armed by folk in white linen; the women bear candles, the men are rakes. The Nightingale is a Prophetess on her way out, and Petra Caldwell is her successor. She records all in a series of little notebooks purchased from Walgreens, and, as she says, “. . . like the amercements of Nebuchadnezzar, my writings were preserved by a power greater than I . . .” She must preserve her legacy, should the next prophet come.
Many writers of fiction tend to shy away from the spiritual, not understanding or perhaps not daring to broach the topic for its value, particularly in an American setting. James knows that to delve into an American fantasy is to work with its faith, and to work with its faith is to realize its character, which is ever-changing and yet always sure of itself, the real deal. And the work of Vincent James, to me, is the real deal.
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