But this ragtag family is, in fact, residing outside of Eden, not within it — an exclusion symbolized by the serpents a blacksmith incorporates into his stylized design for the gate to the new house. Vaark, for his part, eventually comes to profit from slavery, albeit at a distance that serves as salve to his conscience. He will die of smallpox before he can take up residence in his grand home. The blacksmith’s arrival will also accelerate the disintegration of Vaark’s household. Florens becomes infatuated with the craftsman, a freed black man who serves as a key catalyst in several of the book’s subplots. The blacksmith, we learn also has skills as a healer, but his interventions tend to reshape the psyches as well as the bodies of those he cures.
As we have come to expect in Morrison’s work, her narrative circles in on her subject, defying conventional notions of chronology and pacing. In the fullness of time, Morrison gives you everything you need to know, but she is especially skilled at withholding information, letting you see the effects long before you understand the causes. She does this repeatedly — and effectively — during the course of this short novel. But especially in the closing pages of A Mercy, Morrison sets in place the final bricks that this structure needs to stand firmly. At the same time, Morrison concludes the book with a satisfying resolution that also connects the ending with her opening gambit.
Morrison lets each of her key characters control the narrative at some point in A Mercy. In lesser hands, these frequent shifts in perspective would impart a disjointed, scattershot tone to the whole. It is to Morrison’s credit that she creates a strongly unified work out of the juxtaposition of such dramatically different perspectives. Even more striking, Morrison retains her own distinctive style — with her characteristically potent imagery and overtones of Biblical language — while also allowing each of her characters to develop an identifiable voice and worldview.
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