Every daughter contains a part of her mother. An imprint buries deep down, binding the two together, indelible. For Margot, the young protagonist of Lucy Rose’s dreamlike, visceral horror novel The Lamb, the connection with Mama is bloodsoaked, painful and unrelenting. Can a child ever sever herself from her mother?
Mama and Margot have lived in the woods ever since Margot can remember. Apart from the occasional lost soul looking for shelter, they are alone. Mama calls the lost people “strays,” with a certain amount of affection. She eagerly settles them in the house, feeds them and serves them wine. It’s not until it’s too late that the hemlock in the drink takes deadly effect. Then, Mama and Margot can feed. Sometimes they have a lot to eat, and sometimes they go hungry. When times are bad, Mama is inconsolable, violent and harsh. Margot covers the bruises with her coat as she rides the bus to school. However, when a new stray named Eden comes to the woods, an entranced Mama welcomes her into the family. Margot feels a change come over the house with Eden’s presence, something she’s not sure if she likes. She must decide what sort of future she wants, but will it mean leaving Mama, Eden and the gruesome truth of their lives far behind? It may be the only chance she’s got for something new.
Rose’s use of Margot’s first-person perspective in The Lamb allows for full authorial control over the shifting tones and feelings within the cabin. Much of the story happens in only a handful of locations, imbuing the plot with a sense of claustrophobia. Margot can’t escape the horrors of the house, how strays are harvested and eaten as the cycle continues. These happenings are at once terrifying and perfectly ordinary, the only thing she’s ever known. This is the genius of Rose’s folktale: She blurs the lines between hunger and gluttony, human and animal, love and revulsion. It’s hypnotic, grotesque and beautiful all at once.
Rose’s writing confidently carries the reader through some seriously disturbing moments, with blood and more staining nearly every chapter. Coming-of-age shouldn’t be this bloody, should it? Maybe it’s the only way—feeding on what came before, new and full at last.
