"A feral retelling of Irish Mythology," (Independent Book Review) that "belongs on the shelf beside Cormac McCarthy and Robin Wall Kimmerer," (IndieReader) The Way of Salmon Moon is a darkly beautiful elegy and retelling of the Irish An Bradán Feasa that bends literary horror into a Paleolithic saga between a man and a horse that will delight fans of Stephen Graham Jones, Cormac McCarthy, and Clive Barker.
All books in the Rimwalker Series can be read as a Series or as stand-alone novels.
3: The Way of Salmon Moon: A Paleolithic Horror
4.3
$25.00 USD
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A darkly beautiful elegy and retelling of the Irish An Bradán Feasa that bends literary horror into a Paleolithic saga between a man and a horse from the award-winning author of the “mastery of mythology” (Independent Book Review) and the Fantasy Book of the Year (Independent Press) The Plain of Pillars.
PRE-ORDER, published November 30, 2026.
The Way of Salmon Moon is a Paleolithic literary horror novel of a man named Cairbre, who finds himself at the end of his people with a horse that is more than she seems and a heart rife with stories that are trying to kill him. Hunted by invaders who sup on warm wet flesh, together they cross the Rim of the World and enter a menacing and often dreamlike journey into a land where rivers fight like gods and spirits dance like wolves and violence strikes as suddenly as silence, a land where ceremony is paid for in blood, dreams too.
The Way of Salmon Moon is Irish Mythology’s An Bradán Feasa interwoven with Ovid’s Metamorphoses in all its chilling brutality and beauty presenting a provoking and lyrical journey through the stars of the Irish sacred wheel of the year. It is a story about the price of love and the fluidity of being, told with bold and primordial prose. A blend of the weird, the crass, the germinal, and the tender, Griffith’s tale offers, with uncanny and chilling clarity, the portrait ofthe Irish cosmic nexus and creation’s unsettled faculties, asking what does it mean to migrate, to take too much, for a shape to be made new in form?
"A hauntingly beautiful story [that] belongs on the shelf beside Cormac McCarthy and Robin Wall Kimmerer. Written with a poetic intensity that resonates [and] weaves trauma, healing, and heritage into beauty…it is a mythology of connection—to elders, to the spiritual world, to nature, and to the self. It's a story of healing and medicine, of a human being learning from animals and adapting to a new world. It’s an absolute gem." — IndieReader
"A lyrical and transportive epic drawing deeply on Irish mythology, The Way of Salmon Moon weav[es] a melodic tapestry of language…mysticism…and chaotic beauty. This is not a novel to be passively observed, but a sprawling, visceral history…a uniquely transformative work of mythic fantasy, which unpacks the concept of creation in all its forms.” — Independent Review of Books
“The Way of Salmon Moon is not a beach read. The worldbuilding isn’t a prop. It’s a full cosmology, one where weather, hunger, language, ceremony, blood, and animal bodies all belong to the same biosphere. It’s immersive and alive with ceremony…a strange, violent devotional, a feral retelling of Irish myth. The high, chanting, mythic register [of the] prose feels less like narration and more like someone ranting beside a fire while the world is ending. It reads like ritual. The [paleolithic] land…is a corporeal character in Griffith’s hands. Snow presses against the body. Rivers have will. The Moon and Sun aren’t just objects in the sky but presences with names, moods, and individual obligations. The dead don’t vanish, and animals aren’t some-kind of symbols waiting for humans to interpret them. They’re kin. They’re witnesses, teachers, threats, and sometimes all of those at once. Griffith requires the reader to enter that worldview instead of simply watching it from the outside.” — Independent Book Review
"Fierce, unusual, deeply rooted. A brutal Paleolithic novel about grief, kinship, language, and the duty of carrying memory forward…that moves like a story told beside a fire, half remembered by the body and half carried by the stars. Griffith’s prose is dense and ceremonial, full of images that feel dug out of soil, snow, hide, bone, and river mud…a mythology about how stories, when carried with enough devotion, can become a way home." — Literary Titan.
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“An absolute gem, a hauntingly beautiful story [that] belongs on the shelf beside Cormac McCarthy and Robin Wall Kimmerer.”
— IndieReader
a paleolithic horror novel
“For readers who like Stephen Graham Jones’s mythic violence, Cormac McCarthy’s brutal lyricism, or Clive Barker’s flesh-and-spirit horror. The prose feels less like narration and more like someone ranting beside a fire while the world is ending. It reads like ritual.”
— Independent Book Review
a paleolithic horror novel
"The Way of Salmon Moon is a brutal Paleolithic novel...that moves like a story told beside a fire, half remembered by the body and half carried by the stars."
— Literary Titan
a paleolithic horror novel
"A uniquely transformative work of mythic horror."
— Independent Review of Books
Industry Reviews
“A hauntingly beautiful story [that] belongs on the shelf beside Cormac McCarthy and Robin Wall Kimmerer. An absolute gem.” — IndieReader
“A melodic tapestry, lyrical, sprawling, visceral, a uniquely transformative work of mythic horror." — Independent Review of Books
"Fierce, unusual, deeply rooted. A brutal Paleolithic novel…that moves like a story told beside a fire, half remembered by the body and half carried by the stars." — Literary Titan
“Immersive and alive with ceremony…a full cosmology, a strange, violent devotional, a feral retelling of Irish myth [with] high, chanting, mythic prose that feels less like narration and more like someone ranting beside a fire while the world is ending.” — Independent Book Review
Customer Reviews
Overall rating: 4.3 / 5 from 16 reviews.
I could not finish this one due to the dense prose. While the imagery and story were compelling, it simply took too much effort to read and I could never fully immerse myself. I understand this is a reader problem and nothing to do with the skill of the author.
NetGalley ARC. This is a dreamlike myth about knowledge and spirituality; a primordial story rich in ancestral questions; a horrifying quest in which you can get lost. Some passages are a bit too slow-paced. On the other hand I found the prose very lyrical. Thank you NetGalley!
Wow. This book is genuinely difficult to describe because it feels less like reading a traditional novel and more like being pulled into an ancient story that has been passed down through generations, carried through blood, fire, memory, grief, and myth. *The Way of Salmon Moon* is strange, brutal, beautiful, haunting, and deeply visceral, and I absolutely loved the experience of reading it.
There are books that tell you a story, and then there are books that feel like they are *performing* one. This was very much the latter for me. The prose has this raw, primordial quality that made me feel like I was sitting beside a fire listening to someone recount a story that has existed for thousands of years. It is lyrical without ever feeling overly polished, violent without losing its tenderness, and strange in a way that feels completely intentional.
At the centre of the story is Cairbre, a man living at the end of his people, travelling alongside a horse who is far more than she initially appears to be. That relationship became one of my favourite parts of the book. There is something incredibly powerful about placing this fragile human connection at the centre of such a vast, terrifying world. Cairbre is surrounded by extinction, invasion, violence, spirits, gods, dreams, and forces that are almost impossible to understand, and yet his connection with the horse gives the story an emotional grounding that I really appreciated.
And honestly, the horse was unforgettable.
I loved the way the novel constantly asks us to reconsider what it means to be human, animal, spirit, body, or something in between. The boundaries between forms are incredibly fluid here, and that made the story feel almost dreamlike. Just when I thought I understood what was happening, the book would shift beneath me again.
The Paleolithic setting was also incredible. Griffith creates a world that feels ancient in a way that goes beyond simply telling us that it is ancient. The landscape feels alive. Rivers behave like gods. Spirits move through the wilderness. Violence can arrive without warning, and nature can be both beautiful and absolutely terrifying. There is a constant feeling that humanity is only one small part of a much larger cosmic system.
I especially loved how physical the writing is. So much of this story feels rooted in the body and the natural world — soil, snow, hide, bone, blood, river mud, flesh, stars. You can almost feel the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion, the violence, and the earth underneath everything. It gives the book an incredibly immersive quality, even when the story becomes surreal or difficult to interpret.
The horror is also unlike anything I have read recently.
This isn't horror that relies on a simple monster hiding around the corner. The horror is woven into existence itself. It is in migration, death, hunger, memory, transformation, violence, and the terrifying uncertainty of what comes next. There are moments that are genuinely disturbing, but what stayed with me more was the feeling of unease underneath them — this sense that the world is constantly changing and that survival comes with a price.
The mythology was another huge highlight for me. I wasn't familiar enough with every aspect of the Irish mythology being drawn upon to anticipate where the story would go, which made the experience even more fascinating. The incorporation of *An Bradán Feasa*, alongside elements inspired by Ovid's *Metamorphoses*, gives the novel this wonderful feeling of myth being reshaped rather than simply retold.
It feels like Griffith is taking these ancient stories and asking what they might look like if they were stripped down to their most elemental components: hunger, love, grief, transformation, death, survival, memory, and the desperate need to carry something forward.
And that idea of carrying things forward is probably what affected me the most.
There is so much grief in this book, but it isn't simply grief for an individual person. It is grief for a people, a culture, a way of life, a language, and a world that may be disappearing. Cairbre isn't just trying to survive; he is carrying pieces of something that might otherwise be lost. Stories become a form of survival. Memory becomes a responsibility.
I thought that was incredibly moving.
The book's exploration of migration also really stood out to me. What does it mean to leave? What does it mean to take too much with you? What happens when you are forced to move through a world that no longer feels like home? And how much of yourself can change before you become something else entirely?
Those questions give the novel a surprising emotional depth beneath all of the violence and surrealism.
I also really appreciated that this isn't a story that tries to make everything comfortable or easy to understand. There were definitely moments where I had to slow down and sit with what I had just read. The prose is dense and ceremonial, and this isn't something I would recommend if you're looking for a fast-paced, straightforward narrative where every element is immediately explained.
But for me, that was part of the magic.
The writing feels deliberately ancient. It has a rhythm to it that makes the story feel almost oral, as though Cairbre's experiences are being remembered rather than simply narrated. There are sentences and images that feel like they have been carved into stone or pulled out of the earth. It is visceral and occasionally uncomfortable, but it is also incredibly beautiful.
I found myself highlighting so many passages because the language is just *that* striking.
There is also a really interesting tension between the crass and the tender. Griffith doesn't romanticise the past or make the Paleolithic world feel like some peaceful, untouched paradise. There is brutality everywhere, but there is also love, ceremony, connection, wonder, and tenderness. Life is messy and physical and sometimes horrifying, but that doesn't make it meaningless. If anything, it makes those moments of connection feel even more important.
The ceremonial aspects were particularly effective. There is a sense that every action carries weight, that survival and spirituality are intertwined, and that blood, death, dreams, and ritual are all part of the same larger cycle. The sacred wheel of the year gives the story an almost cosmic structure, and I loved how the characters seemed to exist within something much larger than themselves.
I think what surprised me most was just how emotional this book became for me. I went in expecting literary horror and mythology, and I absolutely got those things, but underneath all of that is a story about love, grief, kinship, memory, identity, and the desperate desire to preserve something precious.
It is a story about what we carry.
What we inherit.
What we lose.
And what we are willing to endure so that something of us can survive.
There were certainly moments where the prose was challenging and where I had to reread passages to fully understand what Griffith was doing. This is not a book I would describe as an easy or effortless read. But I don't think it is supposed to be. It demands attention, and in return it gives you an experience that feels unlike a conventional novel.
By the end, I felt like I hadn't simply finished a book. I had emerged from somewhere.
*The Way of Salmon Moon* is atmospheric, horrifying, mythological, poetic, and strangely beautiful. It feels ancient and new at the same time, like a story that could have been told thousands of years ago but somehow found its way into the present.
I absolutely understand the comparisons to Cormac McCarthy, Stephen Graham Jones, Robin Wall Kimmerer, and Clive Barker, but I also think Griffith has created something with its own distinct identity. This is a very particular kind of literary horror — one rooted in mythology, nature, the body, and the enormous unknowability of existence.
If you enjoy literary horror, dark mythology, unconventional retellings, brutal but beautiful prose, stories about grief and transformation, or books that completely immerse you in another world, I highly recommend giving this one a try.
The Way of Salmon Moon is a beautifully atmospheric and haunting read. I really enjoyed the way the story blended emotional depth with a sense of mystery and unease. There is something quiet and almost dreamlike about the writing, but beneath it all is a darkness that slowly pulls you deeper into the story.
This was an immersive read that felt both strange and thought-provoking, with themes that lingered with me after I finished. The atmosphere was one of my favorite parts, and I appreciated how the story took its time building a sense of uneasiness.
If you enjoy atmospheric, haunting stories with emotional depth and a touch of darkness, I definitely recommend checking this one out.
Enter the dreaming time in this book, where pages transmit the natural law of Mother Earth to the reader. This book will add 50 pounds to your shelf when you've finished. It's dense and nutritive. The perfect Paleolithic journey of man and horse over breakfast. Many satisfying breakfasts.
I needed a couple of chapters to enter my flow state of reading, but then I was swiftly transported into a different realm of existence, where this otherworldly story saturated with myth, mysticism, and deep ancestral heartache unfolds.
I appreciate the abundance of insightful notes, which together read almost like an etymological history encyclopedia. For the sake of flow, I skipped the notes until reaching the end of a chapter and then read them all at once before starting the next chapter.
It is very obvious that the author poured his heart and soul into the writing.
If you find the genre intriguing and you love allegoric poetry and poetic language, there’s a good chance that this novel will quite profoundly resonate with you.
I love folklore inspired books and this is exactly that, it is packed with with grit, kinship and duty. I did find that the first 20% of the book was hard to get into, maybe it was the period when I was reading it, but another chapters in the book it gets so so much better - the pacing keeps leaving you want to read more!
The Way of Salmon Moon is a strange, mythic novel that often feels closer to an oral legend than conventional horror.
The prose is dense, lyrical and rooted in folklore and ritual. I loved the sense that nature, memory and myth were all occupying the same space, and Cairbre’s relationship with Rykati gave the story its strongest emotional thread.
At the same time, I found the book difficult to fully enter. The language is extremely deliberate, the mythology is heavy, and the frequent notes sometimes made the reading experience feel more studied than immersive. I admired a lot of what Griffith was doing without always enjoying the act of reading it.
There is real prettiness in it, especially in its treatment of grief, survival and the stories people carry forward. It is an ambitious and very distinctive book, but ultimately one I respected more than I connected with.
In The Way of Salmon Moon, author Daniel Firth Griffith weaves an incredible world with no borders between human, nature and its spirits. A journey into folklore and old tales that's deep and complex. I'll say that the language was not easy for me and there are a lot of notes, so it might not be to everyone's taste. Recommend for lovers of dark, history and folklore that don't mind getting deep into a journey of spirit and mind.
The Way of Salmon Moon is the kind of book that completely immerses you in its world. D. Firth Griffith’s prose is beautifully lyrical and almost dreamlike, with imagery that makes the landscape feel like a living part of the story. I especially loved the way mythology, nature, and memory are woven together, creating something that feels both ancient and completely original. It’s captivating, visceral, and incredibly atmospheric, with writing that feels almost like listening to an old story being told around a fire.
I DNF’ed this book at 39% because it simply was not for me. I struggled with the writing style based a) on the number of footnotes on each page and b) the very detailed descriptions incorporating the footnotes. Whilst I appreciate this was important to the author, I simply could not push through with my reading experience. Further the plot leaned very much towards the spiritual and less horror which I personally did not expect. As many people online seemed to love the writing and the plot I rated it three stars, despite personally not having enjoyed it.
This paleolithic story unfurls like you're sleeping outside by the fire in big sky country. Griffith knows how to paint a picture with words so that you, the reader, get sucked right into the story. A beautiful story about exile, grief and remembering. It feels like reading poetry. I’ve not read this author’s works before and I will immediately be going to read his other novels! Thank you for this book!
“For progress is beauty disallowed to die. And it is progress that holds the world still.”
The Way of the Salmon Moon is a unique, hauntingly beautiful novel following a man named Cairbre in the Paleolithic era. He is the last in his tribe of people, and with his horse, he goes on a journey around his world, filled with nature and monsters.
But while the plot is something you will never forget, the true standout of this novel is the writing. This is one of those books that you wish would never end. The beautiful prose is something you hang on to, cherishing every word, committing each sentence to memory. The writing was so gorgeous and lyrical, something I never would have expected from a horror novel. The profound themes of grief and friendship found in unexpected places are simultaneously heartbreaking and beautiful.
As a horse lover, I truly appreciated Rykati, Cairbre’s horse, as a prominent character in the story and as the one who shows him what it means to live. It is clear that the author put so much time and love into this novel, and it shows in every word written.
I absolutely adored this book, and would recommend it to anyone who loves horses and poetic writing
Review of ARC
A saga about a man, a horse, and a Paleolithic world? Um, yes! This book is thrilling, terrifying, amazing. Highly recommend! After reading the first two books in the Rimwalker Series, I was eager to receive Book 3. Each book is truly a standalone/companion novel with their own flares of slightly differing genres and plots and characters, and I have to say that the author did a fantastic job at weaving them together, while also keeping them apart. They could easily be read in any order and land just as potent.
One could say that The Way of Salmon Moon starts off a bit slow, and I could see how some may start considering to DNF it, but I urge you to KEEP GOING! The first half of the book provides context and attunes all of your senses. And the second part doesn’t let you go! Have you ever had one those days that feels never ending and each hour could have been a full day in and of itself? The author masterfully sprinkles these feelings throughout, while also playing with the idea that maybe time isn’t linear and what our modern minds see as true may not have always been so.
Highly, highly recommend.
his is a book about what remains after a people are broken, and about how stories, when carried with enough devotion, can become a way home.
Griffith’s prose is dense and ceremonial, full of repeated phrases, Proto-Celtic language, animal kinship, footnoted meanings, and images that feel dug out of soil, snow, hide, bone, and river mud. The language doesn’t just describe Cairbre’s world. It builds that world’s way of thinking. Horses, salmon, wolves, mushrooms, stars, rivers, and mothers aren’t symbols placed on top of the story. They’re participants in it. Rykati, the old mare, gives the book some of its most grounded warmth, and her bond with Cairbre turns the journey into a conversation between man and more-than-human kin.
What makes the book compelling is how it treats transformation. Cairbre doesn’t simply move from wounded survivor to mythic figure. He’s changed through ordeal, through relationship, through memory, and through contact with forces older than his own grief. The final part toward Bradán and the Salmon Moon brings together the book’s obsessions with death, knowledge, homecoming, and the body’s place in the sacred. By the end, Cairbre’s survival has become something larger than endurance. It has become metamorphosis.
I could not finish this one due to the dense prose. While the imagery and story were compelling, it simply took too much effort to read and I could never fully immerse myself. I understand this is a reader problem and nothing to do with the skill of the author.
NetGalley ARC. This is a dreamlike myth about knowledge and spirituality; a primordial story rich in ancestral questions; a horrifying quest in which you can get lost. Some passages are a bit too slow-paced. On the other hand I found the prose very lyrical. Thank you NetGalley!
Wow. This book is genuinely difficult to describe because it feels less like reading a traditional novel and more like being pulled into an ancient story that has been passed down through generations, carried through blood, fire, memory, grief, and myth. *The Way of Salmon Moon* is strange, brutal, beautiful, haunting, and deeply visceral, and I absolutely loved the experience of reading it.
There are books that tell you a story, and then there are books that feel like they are *performing* one. This was very much the latter for me. The prose has this raw, primordial quality that made me feel like I was sitting beside a fire listening to someone recount a story that has existed for thousands of years. It is lyrical without ever feeling overly polished, violent without losing its tenderness, and strange in a way that feels completely intentional.
At the centre of the story is Cairbre, a man living at the end of his people, travelling alongside a horse who is far more than she initially appears to be. That relationship became one of my favourite parts of the book. There is something incredibly powerful about placing this fragile human connection at the centre of such a vast, terrifying world. Cairbre is surrounded by extinction, invasion, violence, spirits, gods, dreams, and forces that are almost impossible to understand, and yet his connection with the horse gives the story an emotional grounding that I really appreciated.
And honestly, the horse was unforgettable.
I loved the way the novel constantly asks us to reconsider what it means to be human, animal, spirit, body, or something in between. The boundaries between forms are incredibly fluid here, and that made the story feel almost dreamlike. Just when I thought I understood what was happening, the book would shift beneath me again.
The Paleolithic setting was also incredible. Griffith creates a world that feels ancient in a way that goes beyond simply telling us that it is ancient. The landscape feels alive. Rivers behave like gods. Spirits move through the wilderness. Violence can arrive without warning, and nature can be both beautiful and absolutely terrifying. There is a constant feeling that humanity is only one small part of a much larger cosmic system.
I especially loved how physical the writing is. So much of this story feels rooted in the body and the natural world — soil, snow, hide, bone, blood, river mud, flesh, stars. You can almost feel the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion, the violence, and the earth underneath everything. It gives the book an incredibly immersive quality, even when the story becomes surreal or difficult to interpret.
The horror is also unlike anything I have read recently.
This isn't horror that relies on a simple monster hiding around the corner. The horror is woven into existence itself. It is in migration, death, hunger, memory, transformation, violence, and the terrifying uncertainty of what comes next. There are moments that are genuinely disturbing, but what stayed with me more was the feeling of unease underneath them — this sense that the world is constantly changing and that survival comes with a price.
The mythology was another huge highlight for me. I wasn't familiar enough with every aspect of the Irish mythology being drawn upon to anticipate where the story would go, which made the experience even more fascinating. The incorporation of *An Bradán Feasa*, alongside elements inspired by Ovid's *Metamorphoses*, gives the novel this wonderful feeling of myth being reshaped rather than simply retold.
It feels like Griffith is taking these ancient stories and asking what they might look like if they were stripped down to their most elemental components: hunger, love, grief, transformation, death, survival, memory, and the desperate need to carry something forward.
And that idea of carrying things forward is probably what affected me the most.
There is so much grief in this book, but it isn't simply grief for an individual person. It is grief for a people, a culture, a way of life, a language, and a world that may be disappearing. Cairbre isn't just trying to survive; he is carrying pieces of something that might otherwise be lost. Stories become a form of survival. Memory becomes a responsibility.
I thought that was incredibly moving.
The book's exploration of migration also really stood out to me. What does it mean to leave? What does it mean to take too much with you? What happens when you are forced to move through a world that no longer feels like home? And how much of yourself can change before you become something else entirely?
Those questions give the novel a surprising emotional depth beneath all of the violence and surrealism.
I also really appreciated that this isn't a story that tries to make everything comfortable or easy to understand. There were definitely moments where I had to slow down and sit with what I had just read. The prose is dense and ceremonial, and this isn't something I would recommend if you're looking for a fast-paced, straightforward narrative where every element is immediately explained.
But for me, that was part of the magic.
The writing feels deliberately ancient. It has a rhythm to it that makes the story feel almost oral, as though Cairbre's experiences are being remembered rather than simply narrated. There are sentences and images that feel like they have been carved into stone or pulled out of the earth. It is visceral and occasionally uncomfortable, but it is also incredibly beautiful.
I found myself highlighting so many passages because the language is just *that* striking.
There is also a really interesting tension between the crass and the tender. Griffith doesn't romanticise the past or make the Paleolithic world feel like some peaceful, untouched paradise. There is brutality everywhere, but there is also love, ceremony, connection, wonder, and tenderness. Life is messy and physical and sometimes horrifying, but that doesn't make it meaningless. If anything, it makes those moments of connection feel even more important.
The ceremonial aspects were particularly effective. There is a sense that every action carries weight, that survival and spirituality are intertwined, and that blood, death, dreams, and ritual are all part of the same larger cycle. The sacred wheel of the year gives the story an almost cosmic structure, and I loved how the characters seemed to exist within something much larger than themselves.
I think what surprised me most was just how emotional this book became for me. I went in expecting literary horror and mythology, and I absolutely got those things, but underneath all of that is a story about love, grief, kinship, memory, identity, and the desperate desire to preserve something precious.
It is a story about what we carry.
What we inherit.
What we lose.
And what we are willing to endure so that something of us can survive.
There were certainly moments where the prose was challenging and where I had to reread passages to fully understand what Griffith was doing. This is not a book I would describe as an easy or effortless read. But I don't think it is supposed to be. It demands attention, and in return it gives you an experience that feels unlike a conventional novel.
By the end, I felt like I hadn't simply finished a book. I had emerged from somewhere.
*The Way of Salmon Moon* is atmospheric, horrifying, mythological, poetic, and strangely beautiful. It feels ancient and new at the same time, like a story that could have been told thousands of years ago but somehow found its way into the present.
I absolutely understand the comparisons to Cormac McCarthy, Stephen Graham Jones, Robin Wall Kimmerer, and Clive Barker, but I also think Griffith has created something with its own distinct identity. This is a very particular kind of literary horror — one rooted in mythology, nature, the body, and the enormous unknowability of existence.
If you enjoy literary horror, dark mythology, unconventional retellings, brutal but beautiful prose, stories about grief and transformation, or books that completely immerse you in another world, I highly recommend giving this one a try.
The Way of Salmon Moon is a beautifully atmospheric and haunting read. I really enjoyed the way the story blended emotional depth with a sense of mystery and unease. There is something quiet and almost dreamlike about the writing, but beneath it all is a darkness that slowly pulls you deeper into the story.
This was an immersive read that felt both strange and thought-provoking, with themes that lingered with me after I finished. The atmosphere was one of my favorite parts, and I appreciated how the story took its time building a sense of uneasiness.
If you enjoy atmospheric, haunting stories with emotional depth and a touch of darkness, I definitely recommend checking this one out.
Enter the dreaming time in this book, where pages transmit the natural law of Mother Earth to the reader. This book will add 50 pounds to your shelf when you've finished. It's dense and nutritive. The perfect Paleolithic journey of man and horse over breakfast. Many satisfying breakfasts.
I needed a couple of chapters to enter my flow state of reading, but then I was swiftly transported into a different realm of existence, where this otherworldly story saturated with myth, mysticism, and deep ancestral heartache unfolds.
I appreciate the abundance of insightful notes, which together read almost like an etymological history encyclopedia. For the sake of flow, I skipped the notes until reaching the end of a chapter and then read them all at once before starting the next chapter.
It is very obvious that the author poured his heart and soul into the writing.
If you find the genre intriguing and you love allegoric poetry and poetic language, there’s a good chance that this novel will quite profoundly resonate with you.
I love folklore inspired books and this is exactly that, it is packed with with grit, kinship and duty. I did find that the first 20% of the book was hard to get into, maybe it was the period when I was reading it, but another chapters in the book it gets so so much better - the pacing keeps leaving you want to read more!
The Way of Salmon Moon is a strange, mythic novel that often feels closer to an oral legend than conventional horror.
The prose is dense, lyrical and rooted in folklore and ritual. I loved the sense that nature, memory and myth were all occupying the same space, and Cairbre’s relationship with Rykati gave the story its strongest emotional thread.
At the same time, I found the book difficult to fully enter. The language is extremely deliberate, the mythology is heavy, and the frequent notes sometimes made the reading experience feel more studied than immersive. I admired a lot of what Griffith was doing without always enjoying the act of reading it.
There is real prettiness in it, especially in its treatment of grief, survival and the stories people carry forward. It is an ambitious and very distinctive book, but ultimately one I respected more than I connected with.
In The Way of Salmon Moon, author Daniel Firth Griffith weaves an incredible world with no borders between human, nature and its spirits. A journey into folklore and old tales that's deep and complex. I'll say that the language was not easy for me and there are a lot of notes, so it might not be to everyone's taste. Recommend for lovers of dark, history and folklore that don't mind getting deep into a journey of spirit and mind.
The Way of Salmon Moon is the kind of book that completely immerses you in its world. D. Firth Griffith’s prose is beautifully lyrical and almost dreamlike, with imagery that makes the landscape feel like a living part of the story. I especially loved the way mythology, nature, and memory are woven together, creating something that feels both ancient and completely original. It’s captivating, visceral, and incredibly atmospheric, with writing that feels almost like listening to an old story being told around a fire.
I DNF’ed this book at 39% because it simply was not for me. I struggled with the writing style based a) on the number of footnotes on each page and b) the very detailed descriptions incorporating the footnotes. Whilst I appreciate this was important to the author, I simply could not push through with my reading experience. Further the plot leaned very much towards the spiritual and less horror which I personally did not expect. As many people online seemed to love the writing and the plot I rated it three stars, despite personally not having enjoyed it.
This paleolithic story unfurls like you're sleeping outside by the fire in big sky country. Griffith knows how to paint a picture with words so that you, the reader, get sucked right into the story. A beautiful story about exile, grief and remembering. It feels like reading poetry. I’ve not read this author’s works before and I will immediately be going to read his other novels! Thank you for this book!
“For progress is beauty disallowed to die. And it is progress that holds the world still.”
The Way of the Salmon Moon is a unique, hauntingly beautiful novel following a man named Cairbre in the Paleolithic era. He is the last in his tribe of people, and with his horse, he goes on a journey around his world, filled with nature and monsters.
But while the plot is something you will never forget, the true standout of this novel is the writing. This is one of those books that you wish would never end. The beautiful prose is something you hang on to, cherishing every word, committing each sentence to memory. The writing was so gorgeous and lyrical, something I never would have expected from a horror novel. The profound themes of grief and friendship found in unexpected places are simultaneously heartbreaking and beautiful.
As a horse lover, I truly appreciated Rykati, Cairbre’s horse, as a prominent character in the story and as the one who shows him what it means to live. It is clear that the author put so much time and love into this novel, and it shows in every word written.
I absolutely adored this book, and would recommend it to anyone who loves horses and poetic writing
Review of ARC
A saga about a man, a horse, and a Paleolithic world? Um, yes! This book is thrilling, terrifying, amazing. Highly recommend! After reading the first two books in the Rimwalker Series, I was eager to receive Book 3. Each book is truly a standalone/companion novel with their own flares of slightly differing genres and plots and characters, and I have to say that the author did a fantastic job at weaving them together, while also keeping them apart. They could easily be read in any order and land just as potent.
One could say that The Way of Salmon Moon starts off a bit slow, and I could see how some may start considering to DNF it, but I urge you to KEEP GOING! The first half of the book provides context and attunes all of your senses. And the second part doesn’t let you go! Have you ever had one those days that feels never ending and each hour could have been a full day in and of itself? The author masterfully sprinkles these feelings throughout, while also playing with the idea that maybe time isn’t linear and what our modern minds see as true may not have always been so.
Highly, highly recommend.
his is a book about what remains after a people are broken, and about how stories, when carried with enough devotion, can become a way home.
Griffith’s prose is dense and ceremonial, full of repeated phrases, Proto-Celtic language, animal kinship, footnoted meanings, and images that feel dug out of soil, snow, hide, bone, and river mud. The language doesn’t just describe Cairbre’s world. It builds that world’s way of thinking. Horses, salmon, wolves, mushrooms, stars, rivers, and mothers aren’t symbols placed on top of the story. They’re participants in it. Rykati, the old mare, gives the book some of its most grounded warmth, and her bond with Cairbre turns the journey into a conversation between man and more-than-human kin.
What makes the book compelling is how it treats transformation. Cairbre doesn’t simply move from wounded survivor to mythic figure. He’s changed through ordeal, through relationship, through memory, and through contact with forces older than his own grief. The final part toward Bradán and the Salmon Moon brings together the book’s obsessions with death, knowledge, homecoming, and the body’s place in the sacred. By the end, Cairbre’s survival has become something larger than endurance. It has become metamorphosis.
