The Zombi of CAisteal Dun
The Zombi of Caisteal Dun is available worldwide as ebook from Amazon
I am first and foremost an historical novelist and go to great pains to recreate my preferred period, the extended British Regency from 1800 to 1830, as authentically as possible. When I read Brianna Fenty’s challenge to write about ‘period zombies’ (see dedication to The Zombi of Caisteal Dun), my initial reaction was to find out when the idea of zombies first reached England. Could I make it work? Yes, I discovered, I could. The result is this short, historical, gothick story set in Scotland in 1798.
Amabel had not wanted to come to the remote highland keep of Caisteal Dun but her mother had felt it was in her destiny to go there. Mamma was second-sighted but not even she could foresee the fate that awaited her daughter.
Here is an excerpt.
The Scottish Highlands, 1798
Every night since they had arrived at Caisteal Dun, Rob appeared in her dreams. At first he was as handsome and athletic as he had been the day they parted, eagerly anticipating new adventures and looking ahead to their reunion and wedding on his return. As the week wore on, he grew more and more haggard; his complexion became unhealthily sallow and his proud uniform faded and shabby.
Amabel knew how disastrous that ill-fated West Indies expedition had been, how the regiment had suffered disease and defeat. So many lives lost, including Rob’s. In her dreams he fought to return to her, struggling through tropical swamps and forests, suffering ambushes and assaults, panting as he fled some unseen opponent. “Amabel,” he said, stretching out his hand to her. She caught up her skirts, ready to run to meet him but, as soon as she moved, he was engulfed by darkness.
She had not wanted to come to Caisteal Dun, but her mother had prevailed upon her to accept Major Duff’s invitation. The major had been Rob’s fellow-captain on the West Indies expedition, one of the lucky few who had survived that horrendous ordeal fit and well, with a promotion to major for his efforts.
Both she and Mamma had appreciated his going out of his way to call on them at Esk House after his return to Scotland. Rob had been struck by a musket ball and died instantly, he said. He had hesitated for a moment and then taken a carefully folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Amabel. “While his other possessions will be returned to his family, I thought you should have this, Miss Moreton. It was in his pocket.”
Amabel had cradled the white linen in shaking hands, hands that had embroidered the intertwined R and A in a wreath of heather and daisies. There was something inside. She carefully unfolded the cloth to reveal a silver locket and a sheet of paper. Her heart leaped. A last letter? Yes, but in her own hand, sent to Southampton in the hope that it would reach him before the regiment sailed. Tears pricked her eyes. Rob had carried it with him all these months, together with the locket that had been her parting gift. The paper was soft from handling, especially beneath her signature where, she had written, she had pressed a kiss.
She shifted uneasily at the thought of the man sitting opposite her reading something so personal. But she supposed she should be grateful to him for bringing it to her. She could not resist opening the little case. Her own portrait smiled back at her but the little auburn curl she had put with it was gone; caught by some ocean breeze, perhaps. Had Rob been annoyed when he lost it?
“Were you with Captain Lamont when he was killed, Major Duff?” Mamma asked.
“I am afraid not, ma’am. Had I been there, perhaps he would still be with us. My men and I came upon him not long afterwards, but there was nothing more to be done.”
Amabel looked up from her treasures. “What happened then, Major? Where is he buried?”
“We wrapped him in his plaid and brought him to the little churchyard of a nearby mission. One must act quickly in such a climate,” he added awkwardly.
Unable to bear any more, she had murmured an excuse and left the room. Behind her, she heard her mother ask, “Do you remain long in town, Major?”
“Some weeks, ma’am.”
“Then perhaps you will dine with us another day.”
Mamma’s tone was polite but unmistakably valedictory and Amabel hastened to close the door behind her, then ran upstairs before she could be caught in the hall by their departing guest.
Amabel had not wanted to come to the remote highland keep of Caisteal Dun but her mother had felt it was in her destiny to go there. Mamma was second-sighted but not even she could foresee the fate that awaited her daughter.
Here is an excerpt.
The Scottish Highlands, 1798
Every night since they had arrived at Caisteal Dun, Rob appeared in her dreams. At first he was as handsome and athletic as he had been the day they parted, eagerly anticipating new adventures and looking ahead to their reunion and wedding on his return. As the week wore on, he grew more and more haggard; his complexion became unhealthily sallow and his proud uniform faded and shabby.
Amabel knew how disastrous that ill-fated West Indies expedition had been, how the regiment had suffered disease and defeat. So many lives lost, including Rob’s. In her dreams he fought to return to her, struggling through tropical swamps and forests, suffering ambushes and assaults, panting as he fled some unseen opponent. “Amabel,” he said, stretching out his hand to her. She caught up her skirts, ready to run to meet him but, as soon as she moved, he was engulfed by darkness.
She had not wanted to come to Caisteal Dun, but her mother had prevailed upon her to accept Major Duff’s invitation. The major had been Rob’s fellow-captain on the West Indies expedition, one of the lucky few who had survived that horrendous ordeal fit and well, with a promotion to major for his efforts.
Both she and Mamma had appreciated his going out of his way to call on them at Esk House after his return to Scotland. Rob had been struck by a musket ball and died instantly, he said. He had hesitated for a moment and then taken a carefully folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Amabel. “While his other possessions will be returned to his family, I thought you should have this, Miss Moreton. It was in his pocket.”
Amabel had cradled the white linen in shaking hands, hands that had embroidered the intertwined R and A in a wreath of heather and daisies. There was something inside. She carefully unfolded the cloth to reveal a silver locket and a sheet of paper. Her heart leaped. A last letter? Yes, but in her own hand, sent to Southampton in the hope that it would reach him before the regiment sailed. Tears pricked her eyes. Rob had carried it with him all these months, together with the locket that had been her parting gift. The paper was soft from handling, especially beneath her signature where, she had written, she had pressed a kiss.
She shifted uneasily at the thought of the man sitting opposite her reading something so personal. But she supposed she should be grateful to him for bringing it to her. She could not resist opening the little case. Her own portrait smiled back at her but the little auburn curl she had put with it was gone; caught by some ocean breeze, perhaps. Had Rob been annoyed when he lost it?
“Were you with Captain Lamont when he was killed, Major Duff?” Mamma asked.
“I am afraid not, ma’am. Had I been there, perhaps he would still be with us. My men and I came upon him not long afterwards, but there was nothing more to be done.”
Amabel looked up from her treasures. “What happened then, Major? Where is he buried?”
“We wrapped him in his plaid and brought him to the little churchyard of a nearby mission. One must act quickly in such a climate,” he added awkwardly.
Unable to bear any more, she had murmured an excuse and left the room. Behind her, she heard her mother ask, “Do you remain long in town, Major?”
“Some weeks, ma’am.”
“Then perhaps you will dine with us another day.”
Mamma’s tone was polite but unmistakably valedictory and Amabel hastened to close the door behind her, then ran upstairs before she could be caught in the hall by their departing guest.