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Karen Russell, the bestselling author of “Swamplandia!” and “Vampires in the Lemon Grove,” returns with a magical new novel, “The Antidote” (available March 11 from Knopf), a Nebraska Dust Bowl-era tale of a prairie witch, who stores the memories that townsfolk don’t want to carry.
And with farms going bankrupt and a string of murders terrifying the town, there are lots of things these people don’t want to remember.
Read an excerpt below.
“The Antidote” by Karen Russell
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Prologue
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Harp Oletsky’s First Memory
It is nowhere you chose to be, and yet here you are. Papa steers your shoulders into the heart of the jack drive. Hundreds of rabbits stare at you through the wire around the fence posts. It feels like looking into the mirror. They do not want to be in this story either. Men have been working since dawn to herd the wild jacks into this pen. The town has gathered to solve the problem of the rabbits, who chew through rangeland and cropland, who eat the golden wheat your papa turns into money. Worse than the locusts, says Papa. Every hide brings a penny bounty. So many turnipy sweating bodies and a festive feeling in the air like a penny rubbed between two fingers, like blood shocked into a socket. A smell that reminds you of the room where babies are born. When you try to turn and run away, Papa grabs you. There’s Mr. O’Malley, Mr. Waldowko, Mr. Zalewski, Mrs. Haage. You can’t remember any more names. A hundred jointed arms come swinging into the pen that is alive with jackrabbits, the place of no escape. Now there is only madness. Terror of cudgels, terror of ax handles and hammers, terror of being trampled. “Papa! Help! Stop!” Rabbits run over your feet. “Settle down, Harp— ” Papa is angry. He pours your name over your head like scalding water. The rabbits are angry. The rabbits are crying and dying, the clubs coming down, down, down. “If you ain’t gonna help, stay clear of us, boy— ” You are six today. Your family will have a party after supper. The cake was cooling when you left for town. You feel sick thinking about it. Cherries come slopping out of the rabbits. Gray skins are splitting, slipping under bootheels and wooden bats. Papa shows you what to target: the skulls and the spines of the screaming jacks. It’s the fastest way to stop their screaming. There is another way, a voice cries out inside you. Smash it flat. You watch Papa click into his rhythm and begin to kill alongside the rest of the men.
You meet your baby sister’s gaze through the fan of her clean fingers. Lada is sitting on your mother’s lap. Three girls you know are watching from outside the fence. The girls are allowed to squeal and shield their faces. You wish you were a girl with them. Down, down, down come the clubs and the planks. Your stomach bulges and flattens. You are screaming with the rabbits. Your birthday wish is to get to the end of this sound. Quiet comes at last. The men’s arms rest against their sides like tools in a shed. Women are hanging the dead jacks to dry by their long ears. Every twitching rabbit’s foot has stilled. Inside of you, the screaming continues. It goes on and on and on. Papa finds you where you have hidden your eyes behind your hands, your tears inside your palms. “We can’t let the jacks overrun the whole prairie. No one likes it, Son.” This is a lie. Many had liked it. You shut your eyes along with the dead rabbits, because you did not want to see whose faces were smiling.
“Here,” says Papa. “One is still living. You cannot be softhearted, Harp.”
Your father puts the club in your hands. And after that, you are always afraid.
From “The Antidote” by Karen Russell. Reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2025 by Karen Russell.
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