Day of the Arrow (1964) by Philip Loraine (a pseudonym for British author Robin Estridge) exemplifies the genre principles of folk horror; and, in many ways, that’s part of its problem. For the modern genre fan who is familiar with folk horror’s tropes of sacrifice and fertility, the novel’s plot is too predictable. Indeed, by the time I discovered Day of the Arrow in Valancourt’s catalog, I had already seen folk horror classics like The Wicker Man (1974) as well as modern entries in the category by Ben Wheatley; I had read Thomas Tryon’s Harvest Home (1973) and Adam Nevill’s The Reddening (2019): In other words, I knew that in these stories, blood would be shed for the land and the ancient gods who ruled it with the inexorability of a major natural process. In Day of the Arrow, Loraine amplifies this sense of inevitability through excessive foreshadowing which leaves little doubt about how the narrative will end. Still, what the novel lacks in suspense, it more than makes up for in salacious fun. Its representation of sexuality feels risqué even by modern standards and the characters’ complicated relationships make the Bellac Chateau feel like a Frenchified Peyton Place. Sucked in by the drama and the intrigue, I also enjoyed Loraine’s exploration of more “serious” subjects like the relativity of truth and, my personal favorite, the coercive power of building design. So while the outcome of the novel may seem like a fait accompli, there is never a dull moment in this folk horror classic. 

Scottish painter James Lindsey runs into his old flame Françoise as she exits a dingy hotel room with a man who is not her husband. Justifying her extra-marital affair, she explains to James that her husband, Philippe de Montfaçon, the Marquis de Bellac, hasn’t made love to her in years and refuses to leave his family’s isolated estate in the mountainous region of Auvergne. The Marquis’ sexual withdrawal and reclusive habits have been difficult for Françoise, a sensual and cosmopolitan woman. But what distresses her the most is Philippe’s unstated conviction that he is destined to die soon. Françoise urges James to visit her husband, who was once his close friend, and discover the cause of his malaise; and James–motivated by a strong desire to be near her–agrees to go. At Bellac, Philippe tells James that the grape harvest has failed for three consecutive years and the food crops are threatened by blight. The people of Bellac, he says, are struggling; and they expect him to fulfill his ancestral duty, which he plans to do, though the exact nature of this ancient commitment is left unspecified. Confused by the Marquis’ cryptic discourse on blood, soil, and obligation, James is increasingly convinced that Philippe is in danger. As eccentric guests gather at the chateau for Les Treize Jours, a festival that’s taken very seriously by the locals, James races to unravel the mysteries of the Montfaçon family. Can he shed light on their dark past and persuade his friend to leave the estate before it’s too late? 

Unfortunately, thick and persistent foreshadowing indicates with the boldness of a neon sign that the answer to this question is no. In the first third of the novel, the narrator makes Philippe’s fate clear: “‘One comes at last,’” the Marquis ominously concludes after inspecting his diseased vines, “‘to an acknowledgement of one’s responsibilities.’” What those responsibilities are, modern horror readers who are acquainted with the genre, can guess and–with the stark signage posted throughout the scene–even Loraine’s contemporaries probably had their suspicions. Nonetheless, closing all interpretive play, the narrator promotes the darkest and most fatalistic reading of Philippe’s statement by telling us that, “on looking back, James Lindsey was to remember it to his dying day” (44). Future James knows what will happen to his friend; and by repeatedly treating us to the wisdom of his hindsight–a perspective informed by regret and grief–the narrator limits Philippe’s horizon, inviting us to see his end in the beginning. 

The construction of the Marquis’ character also marks him as a deadman. With only a few appearances in the story, he’s a peripheral figure, distant and cold, inviting no emotional investment on the part of the reader. Characters like this are easily disposable and, indeed, authors create them just for that purpose. All of this is to say that the question of whether Philippe lives or dies isn’t the real source of suspense or interest in the novel. 

It’s entertaining because it’s so French, at least as that term signifies in the English (and American) popular imagination. For Loraine, a British author, the Bellac Chateau is a heavily upholstered playground of debauchery filled with sophisticates who take intrigue and sexual eccentricity as a matter of course. Foregrounding its thematic priorities, the novel opens with Françoise’s extra-marital affair, a powerful erotic hook that illuminates the triad of desire at the heart of the story. James is jealous because he still longs for Françoise, but he is also affronted on behalf of her husband, who was once his friend and maybe–at least emotionally–something more. He loves them both, he admits; and while he goes to Bellac to rekindle his relationship with the Marquise, he’s also drawn to the Marquis by a memory of their previously intense homosocial bond. He suspects that Philippe is misunderstood by his wife and resents her for coming between them. This three-way becomes even more entangled when James notices a surprising level of physical intimacy between Philippe and Christian, a beautiful and precocious teenaged boy who visits the estate. He wonders if this erotic horseplay is evidence of a change in Philippe’s sexual orientation. While these are the deeply personal questions and discoveries that propel the novel, it isn’t sexually explicit. Everything takes place off of the page and the erotic energy generated by implied (or imagined) encounters adds a frisson to every seemingly ordinary exchange. An uncontainable and dangerous desire floats through the narrative, caressing every interaction and multiplying its possible meanings.

Aside from the ending, everything about the book is seductively indirect. Characters communicate through quick glances and their clipped conversations are loaded with subtext. I was always searching for the truth behind the mask, the genuine passion behind the perfect pose; and the prospect of discovery is what makes Day of the Arrow an addictive read.

While sexual intrigue and titlation are the novel’s strongest suits, it also tackles higher themes. In particular, Lorraine is interested in epistemological questions about the relationship between belief and truth. For instance, if the people of Bellac believe that the land requires blood sacrifice, does that make it so? It’s true enough to structure major components of their culture–like how they perceive their work and spend their leisure time–and that’s a lot. Furthermore, Loraine exposes the seemingly arbitrary hierarchy of truth claims. What makes Bellac’s neo-pagan tradition any more fantastical than Christian beliefs in transubstantiation or the Trinity? What makes it more ridiculous than the requirements of that seemingly secular religion, patriotism? Is it better to die in war for the abstraction of “your country” or to give your life to the particular piece of land that has nourished your family for centuries? The idea that truth is relative certainly isn’t a new one, but Loraine’s skillful treatment of it adds depth to the novel. 

Day of the Arrow is also enriched by Loraine’s speculations on the link between architecture and personality. When James finds himself eavesdropping and indulging in conspiratorial thinking, he concludes that his new furtiveness and paranoia are an inevitable response to the Chatteau’s design: “Who could argue that places, that inanimate stones and wood did not dictate methods of behavior?” (39). He observes that the building’s dark passages, shadowy corners, and floor-length drapes provide perfect places for concealment–it’s as if they were built to suit that specific purpose. And it’s through this collapse of form and function that they coerce him into spying on Philippe’s guests. In other words, James becomes a liar because the space facilitates and practically requires deception. I’m drawn to the idea that Bellac possesses its inhabitants, not through a supernatural force or haunting, but through a series of material structures that cultivate habits. I wish this theme had been fleshed out.

Everything that makes Day of the Arrow an engaging read is missing from the film adaptation, Eye of the Devil (1966). James is gone, replaced as the protagonist by Catherine (Françoise in the book) and played by Deborah Kerr. In her hands, the character of the Marquise is not a liberated woman driven by passion but instead an uptight and asexual mother/detective figure. There’s no rekindled relationship with an artist, no extra-marital affair, no intimations of same-sex desire. In short, all of the “Frenchness” has been stripped away and, thus, all of the fun. As dry and British as a can of Spotted Dick, Eye of the Devil is a poor representation of Loraine’s original work. If you are choosing between the two, skip the movie and go with the book, which, at a slim 168 pages, is well worth your time.