"Beasts of Carnaval" by Rosália Rodrigo (2025)

 **A deeply atmospheric historical fantasy inspired by Taíno (pro-Columbian Caribbean) culture.  An interesting mix of dark vibes and uplifting messaging that works way better than I'd have guessed**

I love a book with a really good bibliography at the end.  No . . . really, I'm not being sarcastic.  From "Some Desperate Glory" and its compilation of books about fascism throughout history, to "Chain Gang All-Stars" and its list of research papers and news articles discussing incarceration around the modern world.  Although I often read, and almost exclusively write about for this blog, speculative fiction . . . the best speculative fiction is the kind that is grounded in the real world.  And I love when the author has clearly put in the research, and invites us to follow in their footsteps

So, "Beast of Carnaval" finishes with Rodrigo's bibliography, a list of resources she used as she studied Taíno culture.  In the process, she also explains the heartbreaking tragedy of the Taíno people.  See, we don't actually know how many Taíno are still alive, because most of the records were destroyed either accidentally or willfully (addressing my point above, I don't even know why we need dystopic speculative fiction when the real world does just fine in the genre):

Some historical narratives claim the Taíno became “extinct,” with some records indicating there were fewer than five hundred Taínos remaining by 1548. The reality is much more complicated, resulting from a combination of mestizaje, Taínos taking refuge in remote areas, forced cultural assimilation, and a phenomenon termed “paper genocide,” in which a group of people are forcibly erased through the intentional destruction or alteration of documents and records related to them. For example, even though Taíno slavery was officially abolished in 1542, a Spaniard could reclassify an enslaved Taíno as African in order to continue exploiting their labor.

All these factors contributed to the myth of extinction, a sense that the Taíno people are in the past—that we are in the past. Though I was aware of this part of my heritage growing up, like Sofía, I struggled with knowing how much of that identity I was “allowed” to claim as a person of triracial ancestry. If this part of Sofía’s story spoke to you in any way, I truly and sincerely hope you know you are enough.

And yet, and yet.  As awful as this all is, Taíno culture has managed to remain alive in the Caribbean, through song and dance and festival.  Carnaval traditions still celebrated today can trace their origins back literally thousands of years.  In fact, there's a lot of evidence that these traditions even strengthened during the early days of Spanish occupation, the ultimate form of nonviolent protest, keep traditions alive, a quiet rebellion hidden within the loudest of celebrations

That is where our novel begins, with this strange phenomenon of a people visited by tragedy yet who respond with revelry.  Although the anger is still there, for sure . . .

So, our novel.  I saw this novel pitched as historical fiction, and I think that's fair, the setting is heavily inpsired by 19thish century Puerto Rico.  Our main character is Sofía, a recently emancipated slave.  Emancipation is recent, and the novel makes it clear from the very first chapter how much that means . . . and how little:

It always surprised Sofía, the myriad of ways her new freedom came with qualifiers. The unwritten clauses in the laws that two years ago relinquished their claim over her body, but not the ties that bound her. Tonight, freedom meant buying passage on the trolley, but being charged twice the coin. Having the liberty of traveling without a master’s company, but fearing the dangers that could befall a mestiza alone.

But what has she chosen to do with her freedom?  What she's wanted to do for years--go find her brother, who went as a slave with their former master to the legendary "Carnaval"

As Sofía (who, by the way, is wonderfully autism-coded) catches a boat to go out to the islands and find Carnaval (joined by our novel's deuteragonist, Adelina, her former mistress) to track down her brother, she finds herself immersed in a world she doesn't totally understand--in more ways than one:  The dark magic and mysticism the island's inhabitants use to create this never-ending party and the world of rich white patrons, of which she knows she'll never be a part (sorry for all the parenthetical interjections in this sentence)

What does she discover there, what does she find?  I guess that's where the plot summary has to end.  Part mystery, part personal journey, a whole lot of deliberately over-the-top prose to discuss the majesty of the celebration

I loved this book because of its commitment to the bit, to portraying this Carnaval as an incredible celebration of culture:

They worship her with story and rhythm and craft. With the dough they bake over the fire, and the babes they grow inside their wombs. To her, they tithe creation.

And yes, the other themes are quite heavy.  This book is unapologetically woke, dealing with the legacies of colonization and slavery.  It's no coincidence that it's sent shortly after emancipation, and the novel has no shortage of characters who think that means everything's settled.  Sofía and those like her, obviously, aren't so enamored:

“The laws have changed.”

He fixed her with a look, resolute and grave. “And have the people? I might get paid my due wages, but would I be any less a slave?” Sofía’s head dropped. What could she say to that? 'Give it time'? 'Have hope that things will get better'? Endure until one day those who hold your chains deem you sufficiently a person'?

What do we do, in times like these?  As the arc of history attempts to bend towards justice, what is still left over?  How do we measure the lasting trauma of these injustices?  And what do the people do with the anger the still lingers?

“On this day three hundred years ago, on the nineteenth night of the eleventh moon, three ships blew into our shores . . . and loosened onto our lands an infestation.” Her words rose above the din, mighty as the easterly winds. “We shared our fire with these strangers. Offered them salves for their sun-seared skin, fresh fish and good drink, a seat of honor, from where they could watch our dances and hear our songs. We led them to our rivers when they asked after our gold, showed them our cotton trees when they praised our weave, gave them shelter after many nights knowing only the harsh, cold spray of the sea . . .” A pause, leaden with grief. “Within six moons, more ships came. And by the next year’s harvest, they had a fleet parked at every coast.” 

Is this book perfect?  No.  It's the author's first novel-length work, and it definitely shows.  There are some parts where the pacing is off (including some key parts, sadly).  A few of the side characters aren't as developed as they are, a few of the minor plots aren't resolved satisfactorily.  First novel stuff

But what is done well, is done really well.  That balance of anger and joy, that conflict between a desire to punish and a desire to move on

I loved this book

“This is how we show them that though they took our lands, they could not take our stories. With our dances, we reclaim our bodies, with our songs, we take back our voice . . . Our joy is a radical act of rebellion.”