“Another sheep, mangled and bled out, her innards not yet crusting and vapours rising from her like a steamed pudding.” All kidding aside with the title, the opening line to Evie Wyld’s All the Birds, Singing is one that captivates from the start. All the Birds, Singing tells of one woman’s experience through guilt, punishment and the search for forgiveness. How long should one punish themselves for their past? How much must one person endure in the search for a clean conscience? Maybe those who have punished themselves have suffered enough, or maybe they should have never suffered at all. Emotionally haunting and grotesquely beautiful is the only way to describe Jake’s story.
Jake Whyte, the story’s protagonist, has isolated herself on a remote British island. Resolving herself to a lonely but contented life raising sheep with her dog, creatively named Dog, Jake has found a safe haven from the past she has outrun back in Australia. Recently, something has slowly begun to pick off her sheep and like anyone with a past full of demons, this begins to make Jake uneasy. The sheep are killed in a gruesome fashion and even Dog senses something is wrong. Jake has her suspicions: The bored and vulgar teenagers of the island looking to have a little fun? Someone from her past finally caught up with her? Could it be the drunken man who stumbled his way onto her farm? The events Jake experiences become more invasive and frightening, almost supernatural and evil in nature. We begin to wonder, like the other sheep farmers and townspeople, if Jake is losing her mind. Why doesn’t anyone else see it? Why just Jake’s sheep?
Interlaced between chapters of the present are glimpses of the events leading up to Jake’s eventual isolation. The past chapters begin with more recent events down to the most traumatizing and sorrowful tragedy of her childhood. Jake is a damaged woman, both physically and mentally. We begin to understand what the scars on her back mean, her reluctance to trust, her fierce independence. From violence to prostitution, the miserable path chosen after that fateful day back in Australia has been one of penance for Jake. The escape to seclusion is the only way she can begin to let go.
Wyld uses nature as a way to tell Jake’s story. She is deeply intertwined with her natural environment. From the background noise of birds, whether singing or otherwise, to the primal fear of the sheep, to the daft rambunctiousness of Dog, each emotional event is accompanied by its own animalistic response. Jake moves from the hot, sticky, suffocating heat of Australia to the lush, damp farms of Britain, the latter providing more promise and relief than her home ever did. Jake herself seems to have embraced her primal instincts, favoring suspicion to social niceties.
Wyld writes with precision and grace, making even the goriest of details sound poetic. She builds a slow tension with the movement through time but never rushes. The transgressions of Jake’s old life are told through a slow unraveling rather than a big reveal. As the book comes to close, Jake may finally get the chance to face what has been haunting her. The ending, although somewhat abrupt, shows promise for Jake; in the face of the unknown, Jake may not only become a survivor but can maybe even begin to live.