The plug-ugly Jordans, the incestuous New Hampshire clan that has been Hebert's fine invention in his better novels (The Dogs of March; A Little More than Kin) reappear here, the controlling voice now being Estelle Jordan's, the clan's matriarch, an old toothless whore nearing 60 but still vending it to local farmers, trades. men, and to--most balefully--a young psychopath she knows will surely kill her. Estelle, known generally as ""Witch,"" of course shares the wacko security of the Jordans' ""ascendency"" and kinship--a fealty which invests these lower-than-low-life characters with cockeyed dignity á la the Snopses. And Hebert has never seemed more Faulknerian, in supercharged, schlocky prose (""She had no makeup on, and wrinkles knifed cruelly into her eyes. The eyes themselves were boiling lava pools in which snakes writhed. She feared if she looked too deeply into those eyes she might fall into them and be consumed"") and in excessive interior monologue (none too credible: ""She hurt inside, and the hurt was like a hard embrace. . . Love cauterizes the wound that it inflicts, she thought""). Yet Hebert almost effortlessly gives dignity to the Jordans, best illustrated here in the side-plot: Estelle's grandson Critter starting a porno shop in one section of his auction-barn; and the sleazo-touching affair he has with poor Noreen, a young girl already, paradoxically, too wounded by life to be left anything but innocent. The reasonings and feeling of both Critter and Noreen are superb--reminding us how good Hebert is when he isn't overwriting.