Discovering Hearts and Havoc in The Axeman’s Carnival
When I first heard about The Axeman’s Carnival by Anna Chidgey, it felt like fate nudging a fellow farmer’s child. As a Pākehā New Zealander, steeped in the rhythms of rural life, I couldn’t resist diving into this narrative that promises to intertwine the complexity of family with the rawness of the land. With an animal narrator in the mix, I was intrigued by how this would unfold—especially since so many beloved childhood tales came to mind.
The story introduces us to Tama, a chick raised by Marnie, who lends a surprisingly heartfelt yet chaotic lens through which to view human relationships. Tama’s early existence is steeped in vivid imagery, pulling us into the not-human world that feels strikingly familiar. Chidgey’s opening lines immediately transport you into a blend of innocence and survival, beginning with Tama’s first sensations of warmth and safety. "A long long time ago, when I was little chick…"—this incantatory, almost poetic tone pulls you straight into the heart of the narrative.
As the story unfolds, it cleverly navigates the dual lives of Tama and his human family, particularly Marnie and her husband, Rob. Here, we witness the increasing strain on their marriage shaped by the unforgiving farming landscape of Central Otago. Rob’s bitterness over farming pressures adds a palpable tension, especially as he struggles against societal perceptions surrounding his work—a reality I deeply resonated with, given my own experiences from the farm. Chidgey captures this beautifully, showcasing not only the dedication but the deep-rooted frustrations of rural life.
What I found particularly striking was the way Tama navigates both his avian instincts and human language. He absorbs snippets of human life—the banter, the tenderness—and his narrative unfurls with an innocent honesty that kept me chuckling in parts and reflecting in others. Moments like when Tama hears Marnie’s endearments or takes in the absurdity of a local talent show deliver a humorous touch, creating a delightful balance against deeper, darker themes like jealousy and resentment.
One scene that lingered in my mind was during dock season, where Rob expresses the hopelessness many farmers feel amid ever-changing consumer demands. Chidgey writes: "Apparently we’re monsters," and you could almost hear Rob’s frustration echoing across generations of farmers. It’s a sentiment that resonates with many who feel bound to a land that is both a source of pride and a relentless adversary.
This book expertly marries elements of High Country gothic with vibrant pop culture, brilliantly realized through Tama’s perspective. Not only is he a narrator, but he embodies the tension of belonging and not belonging—a theme that threads through our rural lives. By the end, when Tama makes his choice to return to Marnie, it left me contemplating the nature of home and kinship.
The Axeman’s Carnival is a singular reading experience, rich in language and layered in meaning. I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone who cherishes stories that dig deep into familial bonds, explore the struggles of rural existence, or simply enjoy a fresh perspective on life through an unexpected lens. This book doesn’t just work its way into your thoughts—it makes a nest in your heart. As I read it, perched in a quiet corner of Hawkes Bay surrounded by the whispers of nature, I felt an undeniable connection to the land and its stories, marking it as one of the most engaging reads I’ve encountered in a long while.