I rarely find myself constantly looking up historical facts while reading thrillers. But when McCormick Templeman refers to unidentified ancient miracle herbs, discredited theories that gave rise to early 20th-century Wicca and horrifying serial killers who once rode with Joan of Arc within the first few chapters of Atlas of Unknowable Things, I had to know if she had done her homework. And she had; everything she cites is, in fact, real. My only quibbles, as an academic myself, are that while we may be odd, prickly and mildly ritualistic, we tend not to be genuinely unnerving; and a faculty filled with young, distractingly attractive people is as jarringly unrealistic as contemporary John Travolta reprising Grease.
But Atlas of Unknowable Things is not simply an exceptionally well-researched horror novel/conspiracy thriller, and Templeman is no latter-day Dan Brown. She’s better. Much better.
Robin Quain’s professional future is in shambles. Her dissertation was stolen by a colleague she once considered her friend. So she is researching folk monsters and squatting with her artist cousin, Paloma, when she stumbles on an opportunity to reclaim her academic reputation: a residency at Hildegard College, an isolated research institute in the Rockies (which, unlike almost everything else in this book, does not really exist). But right before Robin leaves, Paloma starts behaving oddly, claiming people are following her and changing her memories. Then she disappears, leaving only a note that she’s gone to California. At Hildegard, Robin then finds herself unexpectedly somnambulatory, while suffering from extraordinarily vivid dreams and hallucinations. And Hildegard itself is plagued with phantom howling in the night and altogether too many secrets, which Robin must puzzle out before it’s too late.
Puzzle Robin must, because Atlas of Unknowable Things is smart. Extremely smart, carefully plotted and well-researched. It’s also twisty, but for reasons necessitated by the plot rather than simply to maintain interest like a telenovela or an M. Night Shyamalan movie. And if the final tableau is less satisfying than the buildup portended, I for one am fine with it. Books like this don’t always need to be about the ending, after all: rather, they can be enjoyed for the journey, and Atlas of Unknowable Things is certainly a hell of a ride.
