Fevre Dream: A Novel

Fevre Dream: A Novel

by George R. R. Martin

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Overview

A THRILLING REINVENTION OF THE VAMPIRE NOVEL BY THE MASTER OF MODERN FANTASY, GEORGE R. R. MARTIN
 
Abner Marsh, a struggling riverboat captain, suspects that something’s amiss when he is approached by a wealthy aristocrat with a lucrative offer. The hauntingly pale, steely-eyed Joshua York doesn’t care that the icy winter of 1857 has wiped out all but one of Marsh’s dilapidated fleet; nor does he care that he won’t earn back his investment in a decade. York’s reasons for traversing the powerful Mississippi are to be none of Marsh’s concern—no matter how bizarre, arbitrary, or capricious York’s actions may prove. Not until the maiden voyage of Fevre Dream does Marsh realize that he has joined a mission both more sinister, and perhaps more noble, than his most fantastic nightmare—and humankind’s most impossible dream.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780553900989
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 09/28/2004
Sold by: Random House
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 368
Sales rank: 50,854
File size: 3 MB

About the Author

George R. R. Martin is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including the acclaimed series A Song of Ice and Fire—A Game of Thrones, A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords, A Feast for Crows, and A Dance with Dragons—as well as Tuf Voyaging, Fevre Dream, The Armageddon Rag, Dying of the Light, Windhaven (with Lisa Tuttle), and Dreamsongs Volumes I and II. He is also the creator of The Lands of Ice and Fire, a collection of maps from A Song of Ice and Fire featuring original artwork from illustrator and cartographer Jonathan Roberts, and The World of Ice & Fire (with Elio M. García, Jr., and Linda Antonsson). As a writer-producer, Martin has worked on The Twilight Zone, Beauty and the Beast, and various feature films and pilots that were never made. He lives with the lovely Parris in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Hometown:

Santa Fe, NM

Date of Birth:

September 20, 1948

Place of Birth:

Bayonne, NJ

Education:

B.S., Northwestern University, 1970; M.S., Northwestern University, 1971

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One


St. Louis, April 1857 Abner Marsh rapped the head of his hickory walking stick smartly on the hotel desk to get the clerk’s attention. “I’m here to see a man named York,” he said. “Josh York, I believe he calls hisself. You got such a man here?”

The clerk was an elderly man with spectacles. He jumped at the sound of the rap, then turned and spied Marsh and smiled. “Why, it’s Cap’n Marsh,” he said amiably. “Ain’t seen you for half a year, Cap’n. Heard about your misfortune, though. Terrible, just terrible. I been here since ’36 and I never seen no ice jam like that one.”

“Never you mind about that,” Abner Marsh said, annoyed. He had anticipated such comments. The Planters’ House was a popular hostelry among steamboatmen. Marsh himself had dined there regularly before that cruel winter. But since the ice jam he’d been staying away, and not only because of the prices. Much as he liked Planters’ House food, he was not eager for its brand of company: pilots and captains and mates, rivermen all, old friends and old rivals, and all of them knowing his misfortune. Abner Marsh wanted no man’s pity. “You just say where York’s room is,” he told the clerk peremptorily.

The clerk bobbed his head nervously. “Mister York won’t be in his room, Cap’n. You’ll find him in the dining room, taking his meal.”

“Now? At this hour?” Marsh glanced at the ornate hotel clock, then loosed the brass buttons of his coat and pulled out his own gold pocket watch. “Ten past midnight,” he said, incredulous. “You say he’s eatin’?”

“Yes sir, that he is. He chooses his own times, Mister York, and he’s not the sort you say no to, Cap’n.”

Abner Marsh made a rude noise deep in his throat, pocketed his watch, and turned away without a word, setting off across the richly appointed lobby with long, heavy strides. He was a big man, and not a patient one, and he was not accustomed to business meetings at midnight. He carried his walking stick with a flourish, as if he had never had a misfortune, and was still the man he had been.

The dining room was almost as grand and lavish as the main saloon on a big steamer, with cut-glass chandeliers and polished brass fixtures and tables covered with fine white linen and the best china and crystal. During normal hours, the tables would have been full of travelers and steamboatmen, but now the room was empty, most of the lights extinguished. Perhaps there was something to be said for midnight meetings after all, Marsh reflected; at least he would have to suffer no condolences. Near the kitchen door, two Negro waiters were talking softly. Marsh ignored them and walked to the far side of the room, where a well-dressed stranger was dining alone.

The man must have heard him approach, but he did not look up. He was busy spooning up mock turtle soup from a china bowl. The cut of his long black coat made it clear he was no riverman; an Easterner then, or maybe even a foreigner. He was big, Marsh saw, though not near so big as Marsh; seated, he gave the impression of height, but he had none of Marsh’s girth. At first Marsh thought him an old man, for his hair was white. Then, when he came closer, he saw that it was not white at all, but a very pale blond, and suddenly the stranger took on an almost boyish aspect. York was clean-shaven, not a mustache nor side whiskers on his long, cool face, and his skin was as fair as his hair. He had hands like a woman, Marsh thought as he stood over the table.

He tapped on the table with his stick. The cloth muffled the sound, made it a gentle summons. “You Josh York?” he said.

York looked up, and their eyes met.

Till the rest of his days were done, Abner Marsh remembered that moment, that first look into the eyes of Joshua York. Whatever thoughts he had had, whatever plans he had made, were sucked up in the maelstrom of York’s eyes. Boy and old man and dandy and foreigner, all those were gone in an instant, and there was only York, the man himself, the power of him, the dream, the intensity.

York’s eyes were gray, startlingly dark in such a pale face. His pupils were pinpoints, burning black, and they reached right into Marsh and weighed the soul inside him. The gray around them seemed alive, moving, like fog on the river on a dark night, when the banks vanish and the lights vanish and there is nothing in the world but your boat and the river and the fog. In those mists, Abner Marsh saw things; visions swift-glimpsed and then gone. There was a cool intelligence peering out of those mists. But there was a beast as well, dark and frightening, chained and angry, raging at the fog. Laughter and loneliness and cruel passion; York had all of that in his eyes.

But mostly there was force in those eyes, terrible force, a strength as relentless and merciless as the ice that had crushed Marsh’s dreams. Somewhere in that fog, Marsh could sense the ice moving, slow, so slow, and he could hear the awful splintering of his boats and all his hopes.

Abner Marsh had stared down many a man in his day, and he held his gaze for the longest time, his hand closed so hard around his stick that he feared he would snap it in two. But at last he looked away.

The man at the table pushed away his soup, gestured, and said, “Captain Marsh. I have been expecting you. Please join me.” His voice was mellow, educated, easy.

“Yes,” Marsh said, too softly. He pulled out the chair across from York and eased himself into it. Marsh was a massive man, six foot tall and three hundred pounds heavy. He had a red face and a full black beard that he wore to cover up a flat, pushed-in nose and a faceful of warts, but even the whiskers didn’t help much; they called him the ugliest man on the river, and he knew it. In his heavy blue captain’s coat with its double row of brass buttons, he was a fierce and imposing figure. But York’s eyes had drained him of his bluster. The man was a fanatic, Marsh decided. He had seen eyes like that before, in madmen and hell-raising preachers and once in the face of the man called John Brown, down in bleeding Kansas. Marsh wanted nothing to do with fanatics, with preachers, and abolitionists and temperance people.

But when York spoke, he did not sound like a fanatic. “My name is Joshua Anton York, Captain. J. A. York in business, Joshua to my friends. I hope that we shall be both business associates and friends, in time.” His tone was cordial and reasonable.

“We’ll see about that,” Marsh said, uncertain. The gray eyes across from him seemed aloof and vaguely amused now; whatever he had seen in them was gone. He felt confused.

“I trust you received my letter?”

“I got it right here,” Marsh said, pulling the folded envelope from the pocket of his coat. The offer had seemed an impossible stroke of fortune when it arrived, salvation for everything he feared lost. Now he was not so sure. “You want to go into the steamboat business, do you?” he said, leaning forward.

A waiter appeared. “Will you be dining with Mister York, Cap’n?”

“Please do,” York urged.

“I believe I will,” Marsh said. York might be able to outstare him, but there was no man on the river could outeat him. “I’ll have some of that soup, and a dozen oysters, and a couple of roast chickens with taters and stuff. Crisp ’em up good, mind you. And something to wash it all down with. What are you drinking, York?”

“Burgundy.”

“Fine, fetch me a bottle of the same.”

York looked amused. “You have a formidable appetite, Captain.”

“This is a for-mid-a-bul town,” Marsh said carefully, “and a formid-a-bul river, Mister York. Man’s got to keep his strength up. This ain’t New York, nor London neither.”

“I’m quite aware of that,” York said.

“Well, I hope so, if you’re going into steamboatin’. It’s the for-mid-a-bullest thing of all.”

“Shall we go directly to business, then? You own a packet line. I wish to buy a half-interest. Since you are here, I take it you are interested in my offer.”

“I’m considerable interested,” Marsh agreed, “and considerable puzzled, too. You look like a smart man. I reckon you checked me out before you wrote me this here letter.” He tapped it with his finger. “You ought to know that this last winter just about ruined me.

York said nothing, but something in his face bid Marsh continue.

“The Fevre River Packet Company, that’s me,” Marsh went on. “Called it that on account of where I was born, up on the Fevre near Galena, not ’cause I only worked that river, since I didn’t. I had six boats, working mostly the upper Mississippi trade, St. Louis to St. Paul, with some trips up the Fevre and the Illinois and the Missouri. I was doing just fine, adding a new boat or two most every year, thinking of moving into the Ohio trade, or maybe even New Orleans. But last July my Mary Clarke blew a boiler and burned, up near to Dubuque, burned right to the water line with a hundred dead. And this winter—this was a terrible winter. I had four of my boats wintering here at St. Louis. The Nicholas Perrot, the Dunleith, the Sweet Fevre, and my Elizabeth A., brand new, only four months in service and a sweet boat too, near 300 feet long with 12 big boilers, fast as any steamboat on the river. I was real proud of my lady Liz. She cost me $200,000, but she was worth every penny of it.” The soup arrived. Marsh tasted a spoonful and scowled. “Too hot,” he said. “Well, anyway, St. Louis is a good place to winter. Don’t freeze too bad down here, nor too long. This winter was different, though. Yes, sir. Ice jam. Damn river froze hard.” Marsh extended a huge red hand across the table, palm up, and slowly closed his fingers into a fist. “Put an egg in there and you get the idea, York. Ice can crush a steamboat easier than I can crush an egg. When it breaks up it’s even worse, big gorges sliding down the river, smashing up wharfs, levees, boats, most everything. Winter’s end, I’d lost my boats, all four of ’em. The ice took ’em away from me.”

“Insurance?” York asked.

Marsh set to his soup, sucking it up noisily. In between spoons, he shook his head. “I’m not a gambling man, Mister York. I never took no stock in insurance. It’s gambling, all it is, ’cept you’re bettin’ against yourself. What money I made, I put into my boats.”

York nodded. “I believe you still own one steamboat.”

“That I do,” Marsh said. He finished his soup and signaled for the next course. “The Eli Reynolds, a little 150-ton stern-wheeler. I been using her on the Illinois, ’cause she don’t draw much, and she wintered in Peoria, missed the worse of the ice. That’s my asset, sir, that’s what I got left. Trouble is, Mister York, the Eli Reynolds ain’t worth much. She only cost me $25,000 new, and that was back in ’50.”

“Seven years,” York said. “Not a very long time.”

Marsh shook his head. “Seven years is a powerful long time for a steamboat,” he said. “Most of ’em don’t last but four or five. River just eats ’em up. The Eli Reynolds was better built than most, but still, she ain’t got that long left.” Marsh started in on his oysters, scooping them up on the half shell and swallowing them whole, washing each one down with a healthy gulp of wine. “So I’m puzzled, Mister York,” he continued after a half-dozen oysters had disappeared. “You want to buy a half-share in my line, which ain’t got but one small, old boat. Your letter named a price. Too high a price. Maybe when I had six boats, then Fevre River Packets was worth that much. But not now.” He gulped down another oyster. “You won’t earn back your investment in ten years, not with the Reynolds. She can’t take enough freight, nor passengers neither.” Marsh wiped his lips on his napkin, and regarded the stranger across the table. The food had restored him, and now he felt like his own self again, in command of the situation. York’s eyes were intense, to be sure, but there was nothing there to fear.

“You need my money, Captain,” York said. “Why are you telling me this? Aren’t you afraid I will find another partner?”

“I don’t work that way,” Marsh said. “Been on the river thirty years, York. Rafted down to New Orleans when I was just a boy, and worked flatboats and keelboats both before steamers. I been a pilot and a mate and a striker, even a mud clerk. Been everything there is to be in this business, but one thing I never been, and that’s a sharper.”

“An honest man,” York said, with just enough of an edge in his voice so Marsh could not be sure if he was being mocked. “I am glad you saw fit to tell me the condition of your company, Captain. I knew it already, to be sure. My offer stands.”

“Why?” Marsh demanded gruffly. “Only a fool throws away money. You don’t look like no fool.”

The food arrived before York could answer. Marsh’s chickens were crisped up beautifully, just the way he liked them. He sawed off a leg and started in hungrily. York was served a thick cut of roasted beef, red and rare, swimming in blood and juice. Marsh watched him attack it, deftly, easily. His knife slid through the meat as if it were butter, never pausing to hack or saw, as Marsh so often did. He handled his fork like a gentleman, shifting hands when he set down his knife. Strength and grace; York had both in those long, pale hands of his, and Marsh admired that. He wondered that he had ever thought them a woman’s hands. They were white but strong, hard like the white of the keys of the grand piano in the main cabin of the Eclipse.

“Well?” Marsh prompted. “You ain’t answered my question.”

Joshua York paused for a moment. Finally he said, “You have been honest with me, Captain Marsh. I will not repay your honesty with lies, as I had intended. But I will not burden you with the truth, either. There are things I cannot tell you, things you would not care to know. Let me put my terms to you, under these conditions, and see if we can come to an agreement. If not, we shall part amiably.”

Marsh hacked the breast off his second chicken. “Go on,” he said. “I ain’t leaving.”

York put down his knife and fork and made a steeple of his fingers.

“For my own reasons, I want to be master of a steamboat. I want to travel the length of this great river, in comfort and privacy, not as passenger but as captain. I have a dream, a purpose. I seek friends and allies, and I have enemies, many enemies. The details are none of your concern. If you press me about them, I will tell you lies. Do not press me.” His eyes grew hard a moment, then softened as he smiled. “Your only interest need be my desire to own and command a steamboat, Captain. As you can tell, I am no riverman. I know nothing of steamboats, or the Mississippi, beyond what I have read in a few books and learned during the weeks I have spent in St. Louis. Obviously, I need an associate, someone who is familiar with the river and river people, someone who can manage the day-to-day operations of my boat, and leave me free to pursue my own purposes.

“This associate must have other qualities as well. He must be discreet, as I do not wish to have my behavior—which I admit to be sometimes peculiar—become the talk of the levee. He must be trustworthy, since I will give all management over into his hands. He must have courage. I do not want a weakling, or a superstitious man, or one who is overly religious. Are you a religious man, Captain?”

“No,” said Marsh. “Never cared for bible-thumpers, nor them for me.”

York smiled. “Pragmatic. I want a pragmatic man. I want a man who will concentrate on his own part of the business, and not ask too many questions of me. I value my privacy, and if sometimes my actions seem strange or arbitrary or capricious, I do not want them challenged. Do you understand my requirements?”

Marsh tugged thoughtfully on his beard. “And if I do?”

“We will become partners,” York said. “Let your lawyers and your clerks run your line. You will travel with me on the river. I will serve as captain. You can call yourself pilot, mate, co-captain, whatever you choose. The actual running of the boat I will leave to you. My orders will be infrequent, but when I do command, you will see to it that I am obeyed without question. I have friends who will travel with us, cabin passage, at no cost. I may see fit to give them positions on the boat, with such duties as I may deem fitting. You will not question these decisions. I may acquire other friends along the river, and bring them aboard as well. You will welcome them. If you can abide by such terms, Captain Marsh, we shall grow rich together and travel your river in ease and luxury.”

Abner Marsh laughed. “Well, maybe. But it ain’t my river, Mister York, and if you think we’re going to travel in luxury on the old Eli Reynolds, you’re going to be awful sore when you come on board. She’s a rackety old tub with some pretty poor accommodations, and most times she’s full of foreigners taking deck passage to one unlikely place or the other. I ain’t been on her in two years—old Cap’n Yoerger runs her for me now—but last time I rode her, she smelled pretty bad. You want luxury, you ought to see about buying into the Eclipse or the John Simonds.”

Joshua York sipped at his wine, and smiled. “I did not have the Eli Reynolds in mind, Captain Marsh.”

“She’s the only boat I got.”

York set down his wine. “Come,” he said, “let us settle up here. We can proceed up to my room, and discuss matters further.”

Marsh made a weak protest—the Planters’ House offered an excellent dessert menu, and he hated to pass it up. York insisted, however.

York’s room was a large, well-appointed suite, the best the hotel had to offer, and usually reserved for rich planters up from New Orleans. “Sit,” York said commandingly, gesturing Marsh to a large, comfortable chair in the sitting room. Marsh sat, while his host went into an inner chamber and returned a moment later, bearing a small iron-bound chest. He set it on a table and began to work the lock. “Come here,” he said, but Marsh had already risen to stand behind him. York threw back the lid.

“Gold,” Marsh said softly. He reached out and touched the coins, running them through his fingers, savoring the feel of the soft yellow metal, the gleam and the clatter of it. One coin he brought to his mouth and tasted. “Real enough,” he said, spitting. He chunked the coin back in the chest.

“Ten thousand dollars in twenty-dollar gold coins,” York said. “I have two other chests just like it, and letters of credit from banks in London, Philadelphia, and Rome for sums considerably larger. Accept my offer, Captain Marsh, and you shall have a second boat, one far grander than your Eli Reynolds. Or perhaps I should say that we shall have a second boat.” He smiled.

Abner Marsh had meant to turn down York’s offer. He needed the money bad enough, but he was a suspicious man with no use for mysteries, and York asked him to take too much on faith. The offer had sounded too good; Marsh was certain that danger lay hidden somewhere, and he would be the worse for it if he accepted. But now, staring at the color of York’s wealth, he felt his resolve weakening. “A new boat, you say?” he said weakly.

“Yes,” York replied, “and that is over and above the price I would pay you for a half-interest in your packet line.”

“How much . . .” Marsh began. His lips were dry. He licked them nervously. “How much are you willin’ to spend to build this new boat, Mister York?”

“How much is required?” York asked quietly.

Marsh took up a handful of gold coins, then let them rattle through his fingers back into the chest. The gleam of them, he thought, but all he said was, “You oughtn’t carry this much about with you, York. There’s scoundrels would kill you for one of them coins.”

“I can protect myself, Captain,” York said. Marsh saw the look in his eyes and felt cold. He pitied the robber who tried to take Joshua York’s gold.

“Will you take a walk with me? On the levee?”

“You haven’t given me my answer, Captain.”

“You’ll get your answer. Come first. Got something I want you to see.”

“Very well,” York said. He closed the lid of the chest, and the soft yellow gleam faded from the room, which suddenly seemed close and dim.

The night air was cool and moist. Their boots sent up echoes as they walked the dark, deserted streets, York with a limber grace and Marsh with heavy authority. York wore a loose pilot’s coat cut like a cape, and a tall old beaver hat that cast long shadows in the light of the half-moon. Marsh glared at the dark alleys between the bleak brick warehouses, and tried to present an aspect of solid, scowling strength sufficient to scare off ruffians.

The levee was crowded with steamboats, at least forty of them tied up to landing posts and wharfboats. Even at this hour all was not quiet. Huge stacks of freight threw black shadows in the moonlight, and they passed roustabouts lounging against crates and bales of hay, passing a bottle from hand to hand or smoking their cob pipes. Lights still burned in the cabin windows of a dozen or more boats. The Missouri packet Wyandotte was lit and building steam. They spied a man standing high up on the texas deck of one big side-wheel packet, looking down at them curiously. Abner Marsh led York past him, past the procession of darkened, silent steamers, their tall chimneys etched against the stars like a row of blackened trees with strange flowers on their tops.

Finally he stopped before a great ornate side-wheeler, freight piled high on her main deck, her stage raised against unwanted intruders as she nuzzled against her weathered old wharfboat. Even in the dimness of the half-moon the splendor of her was clear. No steamer on the levee was quite so big and proud.

“Yes?” Joshua York said quietly, respectfully. That might have decided it right there, Marsh thought later—the respect in his voice.

“That’s the Eclipse,” Marsh said. “See, her name is on the wheelhouse, there.” He jabbed with his stick. “Can you read it?”

“Quite well. I have excellent night vision. This is a special boat, then?”

“Hell yes, she’s special. She’s the Eclipse. Every goddamned man and boy on this river knows her. Old now—she was built back in ’52, five years ago. But she’s still grand. Cost $375,000, so they say, and worth all of it. There ain’t never been a bigger, fancier, more formid-a-bul boat than this one right here. I’ve studied her, taken passage on her. I know.” Marsh pointed. “She measures 365 feet by 40, and her grand saloon is 330 feet long, and you never seen nothin’ like it. Got a gold statue of Henry Clay at one end, and Andy Jackson at the other, the two of ’em glaring at each other the whole damn way. More crystal and silver and colored glass than the Planters’ House ever dreamed of, oil paintings, food like you ain’t never tasted, and mirrors—such mirrors. And all that’s nothin’ to her speed.

“Down below on the main deck she carries 15 boilers. Got an 11-foot stroke, I tell you, and there ain’t a boat on any river can run with her when Cap’n Sturgeon gets up her steam. She’s done eighteen miles an hour upstream, easy. Back in ’53, she set the record from New Orleans to Louisville. I know her time by heart. Four days, nine hours, thirty minutes, and she beat the goddamned A. L. Shotwell by fifty minutes, fast as the Shotwell is.” Marsh rounded to face York. “I hoped my Lady Liz would take the Eclipse some day, beat her time or race her head to head, but she never could of done it, I know that now. I was just foolin’ myself. I didn’t have the money it takes to build a boat that can take the Eclipse.

“You give me that money, Mister York, and you’ve got yourself a partner. There’s your answer, sir. You want half of Fevre River Packets, and a partner who runs things quiet and don’t ask you no questions ‘bout your business? Fine. Then you give me the money to build a steamboat like that.”

Joshua York stared at the big side-wheeler, serene and silent in the darkness, floating easily on the water, ready for all challengers. He turned to Abner Marsh with a smile on his lips and a dim flame in his dark eyes. “Done,” was all he said. And he extended his hand.

Marsh broke into a crooked, snaggle-toothed grin, wrapped York’s slim white hand within his own meaty paw, and squeezed. “Done, then,” he said loudly, and he brought all his massive strength to bear, squeezing and crushing, as he always did in business, to test the will and the courage of the men he dealt with. He squeezed until he saw the pain in their eyes.

But York’s eyes stayed clear, and his own hand clenched hard around Marsh’s with a strength that was surprising. Tighter and tighter it squeezed, and the muscles beneath that pale flesh coiled and corded like springs of iron, and Marsh swallowed hard and tried not to cry out.

York released his hand. “Come,” he said, clapping Marsh solidly across the shoulders and staggering him a bit. “We have plans to make.”

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Fevre Dream 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 124 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This is my second favorite vampire novel--after 'Salem's Lot. Martin takes the now-almost-trite vampire novel and injects with a healthy dose of originality and action. The melding of vampires and late-1800's riverboats is fresh, ingenious and inventive, and Abner Marsh is about as different from Ann Rice's genteel androgynous protagonists as is possible. Marsh is a man's man--a riverboat man, dammit, which is exactly what is needed when the story careens to its thrilling, action-packed climax. Don't go looking for deep literary themes or dark psychosexual metaphors here. This is a gripping page-turner of a yarn, blending horror fiction and fast-paced adventure in the tradition of the genre's grand old masters: Shelly and Stoker.
CWrightHT More than 1 year ago
Fevre Dream is a wonderful novel combining vampires and the days steamboats ruled the Mississippi. It takes you from the building of an ornate steamer to the history of the vampires and to an exciting takeover and chase down the Mississippi River. Abner Marsh is the widely revered Captain on the Fevre Dream and does all that he can to protect it from any danger. In a thrilling twist, he destroys another boat and outruns his own down the river. Fevre Dream has an ending that I never saw coming, and tied up the book perfectly. I enjoyed this book immensely. Fevre Dream is a book any vampire fan would love. Even if you aren't into vampires this book would be a great read. From the first chapter on I was captivated by the stories of the mighty steamboats of the rivers. I felt like I was actually on the rivers in the 1850's. George Martin should receive credit where credit is due, this book is fantastic.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this book many years ago, and it remains one of my absolute favorites. I own it in hardback and recently added it to my NOOK. I recommend it to anyone.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Fevre Dream is one of those stories that stayed with me. I dont plan to loan this one out. If you enjoy a good read, don't miss this one.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I am a huge fan of Anne RIce and George R R Martin's vampires are not Anne Rice's vampires but the story is excellent and sucks you right in. His version of how vampires exist is enthralling and magical. I wish there was a sequel.
tehsay More than 1 year ago
After having just finished reading the latest OSOIAF, I wanted more GRRM, and frankly, a novel with an ending. I had heard many good things about this novel, so I gave it a shot. What a great read! I felt 10x as fulfilled reading this than A Dance With Dragons, to be honest. It's the same classic liquid prose we're accustomed to with GRRM, and a story that actually wraps up! The characters are amazing, the action well-paced, and the ending one that I can be happy with. Definitely one of, if not THE best, vampire thrillers I've come across.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this book years ago after I had started reading the Ice and Fire series. I loved it so much I read it twice. Truly original and stays with you. A can't miss adventure.
Retorak More than 1 year ago
This was a nice departure from the land of Westeros. This was the first non-Game of Thrones book I've read by Martin. While it wasn't as good as GoT, it was still a very well written book. The plot was novel, most of the characters had depth, and it didn't use the standard horror/adventure/sci-fi vampire.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
No ice and fire, but a good take on vampire lore
John Kash More than 1 year ago
I picked up this book because I like grrm. I found the book to be good. I like the spin on vampires and I like the setting in the civil war era south. Grrm is a better writer today so the bar was high for this book in my mind.
RaceBannon42 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Imagine if Mark Twain had written a vampire novel, and you've got Fevre Dream by George R. R. Martin. The novel follows the story of Captain Abner Marsh and his dream of having the grandest steamboat on the mighty Mississippi. Unfortunately his dream has been shatter thanks to a hard winter destroying his fleet. Captain Marsh is thrown a lifeline, however, when a mysterious and eccentric benefactor named Joshua York offers to build him the ship of his dreams. Marsh of course accepts and they begin their maiden voyage. But once on the river York's eccentricities begin to rouse suspicions. Why does he only appear at night? What is up with his equally odd friends. Why does he leave the ship for days at a time, only to return with blood stains on his hands. Martin deftly weaves a tale that grows more engrossing the further I read. Not all is as it appears to be, and the amalgam he has created, between Life on the Mississippi, and Dracula was certainly interesting. He leads you to what you think is the climax of the story several times, before finally wrapping the story very satisfactorily. I liked the book, and Martin is my favorite author. I'm a huge fan of A Song of Ice and Fire, and I'm slowing getting around to reading his earlier works. While not up to the level of the other Martin novels I've read, Fevre Dream is definitely worth picking up. 7.5 out of 10
wizardsheart on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This book in my eyes...is a testament to GRRM's skill as a writer. I picked it up and thought...steamboats in the 1850's? Oh no. I wasnt sure how far I would get. But, I was soon enthralled with the story. I think that GRRM could probably make a washing machine manual interesting. I got really caught up with steamboat life. There are vampires in the book. And I loved GRRM's take on them. Not romantic and alluring. They are simply members of another species...doing what every other species trys to do: Survive. Very well done. And Very Very Highly Recommended.
AdonisGuilfoyle on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Bram Stoker's ancient race of urbane vampires meets Mark Twain's Mississippi in a beautifully told old-fashioned horror story. Riverman Abner Marsh strikes a deal with a mysterious gentleman named Joshua York to build the largest, finest steamboat ever to sail the Mississippi. Marsh names her the Fevre Dream and plans on racing her against the current queen of the waters, the Eclipse, but York has other, darker reasons for wanting to be a steamboat captain. He is the only one of his kind to master the 'thirst' for human blood, but there are other vampires in the south who are not so willing to surrender the night for the day. Damon Julian has been holed up in a decaying New Orleans plantation for years, feeding on the slaves and beautiful young Creole women that his human servant, Sour Billy, brings to him, only he cannot survive there for much longer. When Damon learns that York is on his trail, the ancient vampire decides to confront his greatest rival - aboard the Fevre Dream. Life on the river will never be the same for Abner Marsh, if he survives at all.Although vampires are ten a penny in horror novels, George R.R. Martin's gothic novel is set apart from the rest by an unusual premise and lyrical writing. Abner Marsh is an ugly and hornery old riverman, down on his luck, who goes into business with the suavest of vampires, and the clash of cultures is like reading a mash-up of Dracula and Huckleberry Finn. Both men are vividly portrayed in stark contrast to each other, Marsh's 'flat, pushed-in nose and a faceful of warts' against York's grey eyes, like 'fog on the river on a dark night' and 'long, cool face', but the Fevre Dream herself is a larger than life character. My only knowledge of steamboats comes from watching Showboat, a 1950s musical with Howard Keel, but the scale and majesty of the Dream is so lovingly detailed by Marsh that the reader can clearly imagine her steaming down the river in all her blue and silver glory. I found myself totally drawn into the colour and sensuality of the Mississippi in the 1850s, savouring Marsh's gargantuan meals and feeling the oppressive heat of the day. The vampires almost got in the way of a far more captivating novel about steamboats and the captains and pilots who ran the river, and I shall definitely have to read Mark Twain's novels to learn more about the history and personalities of the era which inspired Martin.
LJF on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A wonderful take on the vampire legend: Vampires as a superior race. The setting of the pre-Civil war South ads a touch of beauty to this otherwise frightening novel. I highly recommend it!
rbtwinky on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A very enjoyable gothic vampire novel set on the Mississippi during the height of steamboat glory. Martin employs several plot twists that keep the story interesting, but the question of hummanity is what really shines in this book. The two main characters complement and contrast each other in many interesting ways.
copefiend2 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Fevre Dream caught me by surprise! I am a fan of George R.R. Martin¿s fantasy works and picked this one up on a whim even though I¿m not a big fan of vampire stories. The first thing I noticed upon reading this book was that I was immediately sucked into the setting which is beautifully laid out by Martin. The characters were well written and colorful (Abner anyone) although I thought I could have had a little more background or connection with the ¿evil¿ bloodsucker. This was a quick easy read with a familiar vampire story with a little oomph. All in all this book is recommended for anyone that loves deep south vampire boiled thrillers.
yosarian on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I first read this book years ago and it stuck with me, when I got the chance to re-read it I did so almost reluctantly, would it be as good as I first remembered? Thankfully yes, it's everything a vampire story set in 1850's deep south America on a steamboat should be!Abner Marsh a river boat captain has a failing steamboat business when a stranger, Joshua York (I know - couldn't sound more like a vampire's name if he tried), contacts him offering to be his business partner and save his failing company. Together they build and run the Fevre Dream, one of the biggest, brightest and fastest steamboats on the Mississippi. For Abner it is a chance to live his dream of running the fastest boat on the river, for Joshua it is an opportunity to discover his past, where he came from, who he is and to try and help his lost 'family'.This is a great historical fantasy novel, the pace of the novel drives you onward, especially the chapters in the book when they are chasing and being chased down the Mississippi. There is not a great deal of depth to the characters, you have met them before but the story and the setting sets this apart from other horror or vampire novels. There is a wonderful sense of Deep South atmosphere throughout the book, you can imagine the accents, the heat, the fashion and architecture and hear the splash of the paddles on the river. It has been described as Mark Twain meets Bram Stoker and I couldn't agree more, fans of vampires will love this book.
craso on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Abner Marsh is a riverboat captain who has fallen on hard times. He meets a charismatic and hauntingly pale man named Joshua York. This mysterious figure offers to finance Marsh¿s dream; to own the biggest, fastest and most elegant steamboat on the Mississippi. All that he asks is that Marsh not question his strange behavior. Marsh accepts the offer, but soon York¿s unusual habits, unnerving companions, and frequent nightly stops along the river, cause great concern. Eventually, Marsh becomes involved in York¿s mission to save his people. The night people are depicted differently than the typical vampires from folklore and movies. They still kill people but the reason they thirst for blood makes them more sympathetic. They are an ancient dying race looking for a savior to stop the thirst and bring them together in a safe dark city.George R. R. Martin brings the steamboat era alive with visions of the Mississippi River crowded with huge majestic sidewheelers and exciting races between rival boats. There are vivid descriptions of the port cities; St. Louis, New Orleans and Natchez.I admired the character of Abner Marsh, the proud, strong willed and loyal riverboat captain. He is fat and ugly, yet he is the hero. The beautiful vampires are the villains. It¿s nice to read a novel in which you cheer for the underdog. Marsh is a very driven man who persevered and kept on going no matter what challenges he faced.
erinclark on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I loved this story. It kept my attention from beginning to end. George R.R.Martin is a wonderful storyteller. There are not that many books that I remember reading a few years later, but this is one of them. Highly recommended for fun and fantasy. A vampire with a conscience, I like it. It fulfilled my desire for a fully rounded tale.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Really enjoyed the book!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was one of those "oh why not" books, that turned out to be a true gem. I am a complete snob about horror novels, im the kind thats always saying, i want my miney back! This book was well written, the characters well fleshed out, and a new exciting storyline! You really come to like the characters and root for them, and the vampires are the bad guys, in the best possible way. An old time setting, a crusty old sea captain, and the out numbered good guy! Even the ending, whitch is the hardest part of of book, is great. I would love a sequel,but i doubt it would measure up. I dont live many books, so take my word for it, its good!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
While following some typical vampire tropes, this novel is alive with excellent characters and wonderful pacing and imagery, with just the right twist on the vampire mythos.
eagle3tx More than 1 year ago
Yes, It's vampires, If you like the genre, you will like this one. Interesting, imaginative, good characters, good story-line. Keeps your attention.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A total different perception in light of vampire genres. Dark, mysterious, and down right entertaining. After reading all the series of Fire and Ice, I wanted to check out another work of this author. It did not disappoint. Read it rather quickly. Loved the story, very vivid and was swept away in the story. (Of course, being a New Orleans native, I was quickly captivated by the steam boat on the river plot). I totally recommend this read!