In this stylish book, real character is born. The deliciously gauche narrator, an envoy of a very English God, is caught up in a labyrinth that is celebratory, sinister, divine and sordid. He wants to be holistic but he cannot help but be conventional, as he battles a personification of temptation. The book is a fusion of the alien and the familiar. We recognise the hunter, but we are as lost as he is in his habitat of carefully crafted ruses. Beard reveals himself to be a master of Gothic deferral, in which provocation is laced with good humour. This is the warmest midnight ever evoked in literature. The diabolical is made affable and cosy and this instils a faith in the superficial, in the attraction of soil over sky. Despite serious literary homage throughout the work, this is unlike anything else I have ever read. Read this, disable landscape, and enrich yourselves with a most uncomfortable identifying phosphorescence and alchemy. This is intelligence for the everyman, friendly and accessible and hopeful, a pilgrimage of all sorts. Beard's novel is craft and history and theology and fraternity, at turns of the labyrinth both sparse and evocative. Follow the deacon along a possibly ill-chosen and ill-judged path, for there is an intricate architecture to pilgrimage. A strange, beautiful and necessarily secret masterpiece. Be in on it.