One of the powers of great fiction is its ability to transport us to a different time and place and provide stark reminders of how different the world used to be. Andrew Krivak's Mule Boy (Bellevue Literary Press; 192 pages) takes us to January 1929, when Ondro Prach begins working as a mule boy at the coal mine that dominates the lives of everyone living in the patch. Ondro grew up at a time when men often died in mining accidents, child labor laws didn't exist, and the miners themselves were held in high regard. As Ondro observes, "They said if the miner stops mining, the entire world would come to a halt." Through a bold structural choice and the careful release of details, Mule Boy reminds us of the long-lasting effects of trauma and lost childhood.
Having previously worked as a spragger and a nipper in the same mine where his father died five years earlier, Ondro leads his mule into the coal breast to work with miners John Chibala and Śtefan Bozak and their buttys Matty and Emil. The novel immediately establishes that all five were trapped in the mine following an accident. The specifics of the incident are slowly explained by Ondro as he recounts the tragedy, and his life that followed, in old age as he's visited by three parties—first, the son, grandson, and great-grandson of Emil; second, the wife and daughter of Matty; and lastly, by the daughter of John Chibala (who is also Ondro's ex-wife).
The most striking aspect of Mule Boy is Krivak's choice to pen the novel in a single sentence. Or, perhaps a better description is that the novel uses only commas as punctuation. Such a choice might immediately turn off some readers, and occasionally it can take a moment to reorient when a break in time or place changes. The effect of the single-sentence structure is that, save for a short chapter at both the beginning and end of the book, the story is told from Ondro's first-person perspective, and the format makes us feel like Ondro is sitting next to us in front of a burning fire, telling one long story from memory. It reads like Krivak is drawing on the tradition of oral storytelling to completely immerse us in Ondro's experiences.
The novel's unique structure also naturally leads to a considerable amount of repetition in the language; although it's noticeable at times, it doesn't detract from the reading experience. The repetition can be minute; two of the characters, Matty and Emil, are consistently referred to as "the butty Matty" and "the butty Emil." In old age, as Ondro narrates the accident three separate times, he repeats much of the same account while giving us little crumbs of new information, yet still dancing around the edges of the full story until the end. It's the type of repetition we'd expect if we were sitting next to Ondro listening to him recount everything himself.
Those crumbs of detail are carefully laid out by Ondro, and Krivak deserves credit for the speed at which we learn new information about the accident. Early on, Ondro succinctly foreshadows the periods of life between being hired at the mine and the time at which he's telling his story: "A long time ago I carried a dark wholly absent of light, like a beast carrying its burden long a steel track, year after year, through the patch, where they despised me, through school, where they derided me, through work at het brewery, where I found a new burden, and into prison, where I found my freedom not just from the burden but from the war." Each time he remembers the disaster, tailoring it to the person receiving his story, he introduces new information tailored to that listener. He leaves us begging to know how he escaped the mine while the others did not. Krivak, with the speed at which we learn that information, chooses the right moment to drop the hammer.
Ultimately, most of us read fiction for moments. Moments in which the language moves us. Moments in which the build to action make us want to join in. Moments in which a character's heartbreak is felt in our own chest. Moments in which we celebrate a satisfying conclusion. And in the rare case, as with Mule Boy, moments in which we're kicked in the stomach and left breathless. To set up such a moment requires careful planning and the right amount of foreshadowing that the moment is earned, but not telegraphed. Ondro's telling us a story. Grip onto it at the beginning, hang on through the dips in pace, and be ready to be punched in the gut at the end. It's worth it.
We all have different preferences when it comes to reading fiction. For some, opening a book and seeing large blocks of text and a lack of punctuation might feel like a mountain not worth climbing. For others, it can be a challenge, but it's worth the reward. Mule Boy thrives as a tender retelling of Ondro's trauma through strong voice and original storytelling.
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