In One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow, Olivia Hawker returns with a tale as stark and poetic as a frostbitten prairie morning. Set in the Wyoming Territory of 1870, the novel spins a haunting tapestry of survival, betrayal, and healing between two families thrust into intimacy by violence. Hawker, also known for The Ragged Edge of Night, proves once more that she is a master of immersive historical fiction—her prose is lyrical, deliberate, and profoundly human.
This is not a novel of sweeping action or high drama. Rather, it is a study of stillness—the kind that falls after a gunshot or before a thaw. With quiet intensity, Hawker explores the harsh truths of pioneer life, the complexities of womanhood, and the difficult work of forgiveness. It is a book best read slowly, much like the days it describes—measured by snowfall, the turning of the seasons, and the persistence of grief.
Plot Summary: A Harsh Land, an Unforgiving Winter
The story begins with a crime of passion. Ernest Bemis shoots Substance Webber after discovering him in a compromising situation with his wife, Cora. Ernest turns himself in, leaving the Bemis and Webber families to survive the coming winter alone. That alone would be a heavy burden, but the weight becomes unbearable when the only viable solution is one that demands intimate cooperation between the betrayed and the betrayer.
Nettie Mae Webber, stern and prideful, and Cora Bemis, guilt-ridden and wilting, are forced into a shared existence. Together, they must raise children, work the land, and tolerate each other’s presence—not out of forgiveness but necessity. Their children, Clyde and Beulah, also grapple with their shifting roles: Clyde becomes the man of the house overnight, while Beulah, only thirteen, carries herself with the wisdom and wildness of someone shaped by isolation.
Slowly, tensions thaw. Not quickly, and never completely. The emotional landscape of the book is as rugged and frostbitten as the land itself. Trust is hard-won. Love emerges tentatively between Clyde and Beulah, straining the tenuous truce between the women. But beneath it all, the core of the novel lies in a single, immovable truth: life on the frontier doesn’t pause for grief.
Characters: Silences That Speak Louder Than Words
Hawker’s characters are defined not by what they say but by what they endure. This is especially true of Nettie Mae and Cora—two women drawn with opposing energies yet equal narrative weight.
Cora Bemis
She is the embodiment of regret. A woman whose dalliance with Substance springs not from love but from loneliness, boredom, and a deep longing to feel desired again. Her guilt is all-consuming, and for the first half of the novel, she is nearly a ghost—haunted, silent, and useless to her children. And yet, through small acts—getting up from the hearth, hanging laundry, offering bread—she begins to rebuild herself.
Nettie Mae Webber
Nettie Mae, on the other hand, is rage contained within duty. Her voice is scornful, her judgment sharp, but her pain is complex. She has lost four children and now a husband, yet she remains upright, moving forward with a flinty kind of grace. Hawker never softens Nettie Mae for the reader—she is not “likable,” but she is real. And when her walls do crack, it is not melodrama—it is catharsis earned.
Clyde Webber and Beulah Bemis
Their love story unfolds quietly. Beulah, intuitive and otherworldly, speaks like someone tethered to the land and something beyond it. Clyde, gentle but weighed down by manhood thrust upon him, is her earthy counterpart. Their relationship never falls into cliché; instead, it simmers beneath every shared glance and chore, until it blooms—delicately, defiantly—in the face of their mothers’ history.
Themes: Guilt, Survival, Forgiveness
In “One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow”, Olivia Hawker doesn’t just write about the past—she uses it to interrogate timeless questions.
1. Survival as a Moral Terrain
In a place where simply staying alive requires immense labor, morality becomes pliable. Forgiveness isn’t a virtue; it’s a survival tactic. The women’s ability to coexist isn’t driven by spiritual enlightenment but by the looming threat of starvation and death. Hawker deftly uses this framework to examine the ethics of endurance.
2. The Inheritance of Grief
The novel also meditates on the ways grief is inherited and interpreted across generations. Clyde is haunted not only by the burial of his father but by the realization that he may never know who his father truly was. Beulah’s spirituality—her “knowing”—suggests that children carry the echo of their parents’ sins and dreams.
3. The Land as Character
Hawker’s Wyoming is alive. It is not just a setting; it breathes. The land listens, punishes, and occasionally, offers mercy. Seasons are not backdrops—they are antagonists. The arrival of snow, lambing season, or drought marks more significant narrative shifts than any single event.
Writing Style: Lyrical and Incantatory
Hawker’s prose is dense with poetic rhythm, rich in detail, and consciously archaic in tone—echoing the spiritual cadence of the land and the period. Here’s a taste of what she does best:
“Grief like a hailstorm comes up sudden and frightens us with its noise.”
“We will gladly fall, but only by your hand.”
Every line feels turned by hand. The repetition of phrases, such as “After he took himself off to jail” and “What needs doing can’t be stopped,” act like hymns—chant-like refrains that root the narrative in a sense of inevitability and myth.
But this style is also what may divide readers.
Critique: Beauty at the Cost of Pacing
“One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow” is not without its flaws. The prose, while beautiful, often slows the pace to a crawl. For readers expecting swift drama or a structured climax, the book may feel indulgent in its stillness. Dialogue is sparse, internal monologue abundant. While this suits the contemplative tone, it may test the patience of those craving a more traditional narrative arc.
Additionally, the romantic subplot between Clyde and Beulah, while tender and well-crafted, could have benefitted from more tension or complexity. Their bond feels preordained rather than earned—beautiful but perhaps too symbolic.
Similar Reads & Author Background
Fans of Kristin Hannah’s The Great Alone or Jane Smiley’s A Thousand Acres will find familiar themes here: women battling harsh lands, family trauma, and generational pain. Hawker also writes under the name Libbie Hawker, known for historical novels like Tidewater and Calamity, both of which share her signature emphasis on internal landscapes over plot-driven momentum.
Final Thoughts: A Winter’s Lesson in Compassion
One for the Blackbird, One for the Crow is a quiet novel that speaks loudly once you’re attuned to its rhythm. It is not a page-turner in the traditional sense. It is a slow burn, a meditation on endurance, a field left fallow before the spring. Hawker challenges readers to live in discomfort, to sit with guilt, to find beauty in labor and silence.
If you’re willing to surrender to its pace, this book offers a profound emotional reward. The title itself—poetic and prophetic—encapsulates the novel’s core: for every sorrow, there is a chance at survival. For every blackbird, a crow. For every death, a seed.
What Works:
- Poetic, resonant prose
- Deep, complex female characters
- Strong sense of place and time
- A meditation on grief, forgiveness, and endurance
What Could Be Better:
- Pacing may challenge modern readers
- Romance subplot feels more symbolic than dramatic
- Lacks narrative urgency in the middle sections
