Avelina da Silveira’s Mother of Stones is a profound, genre-blending novel that seamlessly weaves speculative fiction with feminist mythmaking to tell a timeless story about survival, intergenerational resilience, and the unyielding pursuit of justice and freedom. Across vast periods and space—from prehistory to a distant future—Silveira invites the reader to reflect on the very foundations of human identity, the brutalities and redemptions of human relationships, and the enduring legacy of female solidarity. Rooted in the socio-cultural imagination of the Azores but with a global reach, the novel advances a radical vision of liberation and empowerment that centers on women and the communities they build.

At its heart, Mother of Stones is a story about the transformative power of connection. The protagonist, N’kura, a prehistoric woman abducted as a child and forced into a brutal and isolating tribe, begins the novel suffering from physical injury and social rejection. Her survival hinges on the tenuous but life-giving bond with her daughter Biba. This mother-daughter relationship—tender and resilient—serves as the foundational motif for the novel’s broader reflections on solidarity and interdependence. When N’kura finds the mysterious stone that heals her, a new lineage begins—not just of daughters, but of a shared story and purpose passed down through generations. “She slid under her mound of furs and became oblivious to everything, except the visions she saw and felt,” the narrator recounts. “An exceedingly long journey through darkness and so very cold… until now” (p. 13). This awakening marks the birth of the first “Mother of Stones,” whose descendants carry both memory and mission.

The novel’s vision of social justice is powerfully embedded in the lived experiences of its female characters, who are repeatedly marginalized and abused within patriarchal tribal systems. Avelina da Silveira does not shy away from depicting the brutality of these worlds. N’kura is initially despised for her perceived infertility and foreignness; she endures domestic violence, social ostracism, and near-death. Yet the narrative insists on reclaiming the dignity and strength of women by forging alternative communities and values. After being cast out, N’kura and Biba escape, building a life guided not by domination but by mutual care and support. Their arrival at a new tribe heralds the possibility of a more equitable society, where “people welcomed them with smiles,” they are invited to share their skills, and Biba chooses her mate and future (pp. 18–20). These moments serve not as utopias but as glimpses of justice realized through deliberate, relational labor.

Identity in Mother of Stones is deeply tied to both corporeality and memory. The stone initially heals N’kura and later becomes a symbol of inheritance, not only genetically through daughters, but also culturally through stories. “Tell this whole story to the daughter you choose to carry on our gift,” N’kura instructs Biba (p. 26). The stone is alien and intimate: a repository of vision, strength, and, critically, choice. It marks the bearer as different, often feared, but also powerful. Those stones can only be borne by those with double-X chromosomes, positioning womanhood as biologically sacred but also socially precarious. When men attempt to wear the stones, they die—an allegorical warning against co-optation and domination. The stone becomes a metaphor for a unique feminine power that must be protected, shared, and understood.

The novel’s treatment of freedom is not abstract but material and existential. N’kura’s escape from her original tribe is a literal flight from oppression and a metaphysical birth. “They were both saying goodbye to the only life they knew, miserable as it was,” Silveira writes, “The woman only hoped they could survive” (p. 14). Survival is the first act of freedom, and from that point on, freedom becomes a practice: choosing whom to love, joining which community, and when to leave. Even as N’kura ages without aging, a kind of immortality granted by the stone, she retains the core commitment to autonomy for herself and all women she encounters. She passes the stone on only to daughters or trusted soul-sisters, warning them never to share it with men. Freedom, the novel suggests, is not only escape from subjugation, but the preservation of the power to choose.

Relationships, particularly among women, form the backbone of Mother of Stones. These are not just familial ties but chosen solidarities. When N’kura accepts Avoa’s offer to become a sister-wife, it is not out of passion but practicality and mutual care. “I would be glad to be your sister-wife,” she says. “And, as you say, I would be happy to have another child” (p. 21). These arrangements are built not on romance or duty but trust, kindness, and shared responsibility. Similarly, when Avoa grieves the death of their shared husband Molo, N’kura tends to her like kin. These moments exemplify the novel’s broader thesis: that survival and fulfillment are found not in hierarchical domination but in the “networks of women” who protect, teach, and nurture one another across time.

One of the most radical aspects of Mother of Stones is its vision of a global, matriarchal network—Telea—revealed in the novel’s second part, set in a near-future Azores. Here, Sofia, a retired sociologist and activist, inherits the legacy of the Mothers of Stones and is initiated into a worldwide underground movement of women connected by the ancient stones. “She must ensure the future,” N’kura’s descendants are told, “and when she is very, very old and cannot continue, she must make another Mother of Stones” (p. 34). Telea represents a kind of quiet, revolutionary feminism: transhistorical, transcontinental, and subversive. It challenges capitalist and patriarchal notions of inheritance, leadership, and value. This network does not wage war but ensures continuity and care. Its stones do not offer power over others but power to live more fully, more justly.

The slow, careful attention to generational knowledge makes Avelina da Silveira’s narrative all the more poignant. From N’kura to Biba to Star to Akira and finally to Sofia, each woman carries a piece of the past but is not defined by it. Instead, they are empowered by the stories and stones passed down to them. The sacred charge to “tell her the stories and share the necklace with her,” passed from generation to generation, affirms storytelling as a mechanism of resistance and self-actualization (p. 34). In this way, the book becomes a vessel of that transmission, inviting readers to metaphorically become part of the lineage.

In Mother of Stones, women’s rights are about equality and sovereignty over their bodies, stories, and futures. The oppression N’kura first endures is starkly gendered: kidnapped for her reproductive potential, subjected to violence, and cast out when no longer useful. But her journey transforms that imposed identity into one of self-definition. She refuses victimhood and creates an alternative lineage where women are creators, protectors, and transmitters of power. When she tells her daughter not to share the stone with men, it is not out of hatred, but out of wisdom earned over centuries: “Don’t share it with Lando unless you want him to die” (p. 26). This is a feminism forged in blood, love, and radical protection.

Mother of Stones is a stunning work that spans epochs, reminding us that liberation is a slow and deliberate process, and that justice begins with the smallest acts of care and resistance. Through its compelling narrative and vividly drawn characters, the novel asks readers to imagine a world not ruled by domination and hierarchy but shaped by memory, connection, and fierce, unwavering love. Avelina da Silveira offers a vision of solidarity that feels both ancient and urgently necessary in an age of detachment and rising inequality.

Diniz Borges, PBBI, California State University, Fresno.

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