The small town of Ours is a haven for freed slaves. It’s tucked away in the woods a few miles north of St Louis, but it isn’t marked on the map and unwelcome visitors can’t reach it. That’s because the township of Ours is at least halfway enchanted, founded in the 1830s by Saint, an enigmatic “conjure woman”, and ringed by charmed stones that shield its rooftops from view. Every hostile traveller finds themselves turned about, circling back through the forest to the same clump of trees.
Readers are at least provided with a clearer path through Ours, the voluminous debut novel from the Chicago-born poet Phillip B Williams, although even here the route is never straightforward. There are diversions and digressions. The narrative doubles back. In the woods, off the trail, Saint’s flawed utopia remains safely hidden. On the page, it’s an exploded set, with every character exposed and explained, and every beat of its history held up to the light. Ours is a bold, ambitious, often beguiling piece of work – an epic folk tale of Black American emancipation. But the tale’s prolonged scenic ramble demands stamina and resolve.
