His Name was Death
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5.0 • 2 Ratings
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- $9.99
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- $9.99
Publisher Description
Never before in English, this legendary precursor to eco-fiction turns the coming insect apocalypse on its head
A Wall Street Journal Best Science Fiction Book of 2021
A bitter drunk forsakes civilization and takes to the Mexican jungle, trapping animals, selling their pelts to buy liquor for colossal benders, and slowly rotting away in his fetid hut. His neighbors, a clan of the Lacodón tribe of Chiapas, however, see something more in him than he does himself (dubbing him Wise Owl): when he falls deathly ill, a shaman named Black Ant saves his life—and, almost by chance, in driving out his fever, she exorcises the demon of alcoholism as well. Slowly recovering, weak in his hammock, our antihero discovers a curious thing about the mosquitoes’ buzzing, “which to human ears seemed so irritating and pointless.” Perhaps, in fact, it constituted a language he might learn—and with the help of a flute and a homemade dictionary—even speak. Slowly, he masters Mosquil, with astonishing consequences… Will he harness the mosquitoes’ global might? And will his new powers enable him to take over the world that’s rejected him? A book far ahead of its time, His Name Was Death looks down the double-barreled shotgun of ecological disaster and colonial exploitation—and cackles a graveyard laugh.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
A man walks into the depths of the Mexican jungle in this sobering outing from Bernal (1915–1972, The Mongolian Conspiracy). At 49, the unnamed narrator carries with him a sense of defeat and general bleakness regarding the state of humanity ("I did not consider myself a member of such a ridiculous organization"). Finding sanctuary with a Mayan tribe, he enjoys a brief sense of balance, and the Mayans find in him an exemplification of intellect, calling him "Wise Owl." However, he soon succumbs to alcoholism. Perhaps as a result of a bender, he begins noticing different vibrations among the jungle's mosquitoes and spends eight months cataloging what he believes to be their language. As he communes with the insect kingdom, he befriends a mosquito named Good Sun, who claims to be part of a great insect council. It's through Good Sun that the narrator learns the mosquitos are planning on world domination. The narrative style can feel slightly antiquated, but Bernal's uncanny prescience about current ecological issues does not, and the pervading sense of personal and social oblivion becomes increasingly bracing. It's like Apocalypse Now with mosquitos, and surprisingly it works.
