Wastralls: A Novel — Story, Setting & Ideas

Land as Inheritance and Witness

The catalog subject 'Farm life' and 'Cornwall' are present, but the excerpts show land functioning less as pastoral setting than as contested inheritance. The prologue describes how Freathy Rosevear acquired property through uncertain means—'hidden treasure, witchcraft, divination'—and how the Wreckers' Hut and secret lanes enabled trade in 'queer commodities.' This history of dubious acquisition frames the present conflict: Byron's claim to Wastralls is absolute—'His! His till the end of time!'—yet the land itself seems to hold older, darker claims. The valley's geography—'sharp declivities,' 'juttings of rock,' the 'harsh threat of the Atlantic'—is not merely descriptive; it isolates the house and its inhabitants, making the farm a pressure cooker. The prose treats the landscape as a repository of past violence, from wrecking to murder, suggesting that owning the land means inheriting its moral weight.

The Husband's Interior Justification

The catalog subject 'Husband and wife' is central, but the excerpts offer only the husband's perspective after the wife's death. Byron's interior monologue is a study in self-exculpation: he recalls being 'goaded to desperation,' then marvels at his own 'steadiness' and 'decision' in the act. He frames the killing as a 'man's part' after years of being subservient to Sabina's will. The prose captures a mind oscillating between guilt and pride—'A man may do what he can. His deeds are between him and his soul'—and even entertains the possibility of her ghost haunting Wastralls, which he dismisses as powerless. This psychological portrait is built through specific details: the 'haggard, blood-stained face,' the smile 'of a child who after long waiting has been given the plaything it desires,' and the 'Icelandic geyser' of memory. The narrative does not endorse or condemn Byron; it simply inhabits his reasoning, leaving readers to judge.

Supernatural Undertones and the Unseen

Though not cataloged under the supernatural, the excerpts introduce a ghostly dimension. The prologue mentions 'the script is too nearly obliterated to be read' on ancient stones, and the Justice Room's 'irrevocable decisions had lost their force.' Byron explicitly considers Sabina as a ghost: 'She might wander through Wastralls, wail in the keyholes and the chimneys.' He reasons that a 'spirit hand cannot strike' and that her haunting would only torment her, not him. This rationalization of the supernatural serves to underscore his moral isolation—he is alone with his act and his land, and the possibility of a ghostly presence adds a layer of unease. The novel may or may not realize this haunting, but the excerpts show that the narrative voice treats it as a credible possibility within the world of the story, blending psychological realism with folkloric atmosphere.

Readers should attend to how the novel balances its opening landscape history with the tight interior drama. The excerpts suggest a work that uses place not as decoration but as a character in its own right, and that the marriage conflict is filtered through a single, unreliable consciousness. The supernatural hints may or may not be fulfilled; the text leaves that open. What is clear is that Dawson Scott writes with a precise eye for physical detail—the brass knob, the 'familiar black of the rafters'—and a willingness to let her protagonist's thoughts stand without authorial correction.

There’s something about Dawson Scott’s Cornish fields—heavy with old violence—that makes me think of Burt Standish’s simpler certainties, where a handshake still meant something. I keep my worn copy of Frank Merriwell's Trust; Or, Never Say Die — Reading Notes beside the Wastralls notes, two kinds of trust, both quietly aching. Strange, the company a reader keeps.