Reverse: 1999 story · Event stories
The Tall Lighthouse
8 scenes, 814 lines
1. Periodical Suffering
85 lines"I seem to have stood still for an eternity," "Engulfed by a sea of thoughts, kept silent as a cemetery." "The three lighthouse keepers on the isles still remain," "Where they should have long passed into memory."
…
So much has transpired here upon the Flannan Isles, each and every event etching itself into my consciousness ...
Despite all my installments so far on the History of the Flannan Isles, what I've documented barely scratches the surface ...
The readers, I believe, share my eagerness for the next issue of the Daydream Post ...
*deep breath* I cannot let them down.
…
The young lady rubs her eyes and refocuses back to her writing.
The History of the Flannan Isles column has to fit in roughly a third of a page ... But there are so many more stories about the archipelago I've yet to tell—stories the readers still haven't heard ...
Ms. Dennehy mentioned that even the editors have been following the mysteries of the Flannan Isles with intrigue ... If I can keep up that interest, she might allow me an additional section!
That way, I can present our readers with a more comprehensive look at their stories.
Livened up, she dives back into her writing.
"The Flannan Isles, a small island chain in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland, have been the subject of rumor for years. Even up to today, many mysteries still remain here ..."
"Of course, to hear it from the credible authorities, the lighthouse and indeed, the whole archipelago, were perfectly normal, all except for ..."
"... its three vanished lighthouse keepers."
"Speculation over their disappearance drove the public wild, yet the authorities claimed they were simply swept away in a deadly storm."
"This, of course, did nothing to convince them."
"Meanwhile, a sailor claimed to have seen coal-black UFOs over the islands, casting eerie, cold beams of light ..."
"Other theories included gargantuan man-eating birds, a bottomless abyss, and so on ..."
"Rumors continue to swirl, but the truth remains elusive ..."
"The police report, the log entries, and the lack of any recovered bodies ... They all scream one thing—this is no simple disappearance ..."
"Twelve years have passed, yet driven by curiosity, I decided that I must visit the islands myself ... And there I discovered a never-before-seen log book."
"The signature on it reads 'James, recorded on December 15, 1900.'"
…
Her pen hangs in mid-air, like a sail on still water, hesitating to embark on the next line.
So much time has passed since the incident, yet the mysteries only seem to multiply ...
Hmm ... How can I sift through all these story threads?
Before setting foot on the islands, I heard other unsettling rumors from the sailors. Ships passing too near often find themselves caught motionless on the sea, with eerie and unnatural ooze forming on their decks ... These frightful tales have meant that most give this archipelago a wide berth.
This is a story worth telling ...
Meanwhile ... there is the matter of the island's lighthouse, which has, through unknown means, been kept in operation for twelve years despite being abandoned.
If I failed to include that sort of mystery in my History of the Flannan Isles, I'd surely regret it ...!
Which, of course, leads to the central mystery of them all. The disappearance of the original lighthouse keepers in the first place ...
Spoiled for choices, Marcus is, nonetheless, in a very briny pickle.
An arduous choice lies before the poor girl.
…
History of the Flannan Isles belongs to the islands themselves. It's only fair that I treat their stories impartially ...
To turn down the opportunity to tell any of these stories feels like betraying the truth itself!
Her gaze wanders, shifting from one page of notes to another.
There it is, a narrow path that she could follow to capture the essence of all these stories.
"I set the log book aside, noticing the lighthouse just as its light washes past me."
"After the disappearances, no one proved willing to station on the Flannan Isles ... The Eilean Mor lighthouse was left unmanned, or so it should have been."
"From the base of the lighthouse, I walk step by step upward. Curiously, I notice, the wooden stairway beneath my feet appears to be meticulously well-maintained, and stranger still is the warm yellow light spilling from the apex of the tower ..."
"They all silently, yet truthfully, convey an astonishing revelation: that this lighthouse has been running just as well as it had since it was abandoned twelve years ago!"
"My footsteps falter, nearly tumbling backward at the realization ... Yet, how could I believe all that I am seeing?"
"Nevertheless, the slippery moss and weathered scratches adorning the grounds prove with cold logic that twelve years must indeed have passed here."
"After composing myself, I decide to begin my exploration."
"Just before I alighted, I sounded the ship's steam whistle to signal to passing vessels, if there were any. Then, I took the three remaining flares ..."
"If misfortune befalls me, at least the maritime police can collect my body here within a week and have my story publicized, if that must be my last humble contribution to the world."
"Stepping back onto the island, I no longer feel as relaxed as before; a touch of fear and sorrow occupies me. But thankfully, my heart still harbors the courage to strive for knowledge and human progress ..."
"And to unveil the truth of this mysterious place."
"Door locks won't bar my way; I deftly climb through a window, entering into a cramped space that, by all rights, should have been long forgotten and moldering."
Marcus has fully immersed herself in the world she is recreating, wandering freely along the blank page, then back to the ink-stained words.
"The kitchen door is open, though there is naught inside. Not even a moldy apple, a rotten orange, nor even a cobweb."
"My mind, as yet stiff with anticipation, suddenly and involuntarily relaxes as it stumbles over an idle thought."
"Perhaps this was nothing more than a prank, if a poorly executed one."
"Or perhaps a kind-hearted soul, for the safety of all the ships in the area, made a habit of replacing the lighthouse's lamp and repairing its rusty screws, but bowed by some secret honor, swore to never tell any of his work ..."
"These are, for now, my best theories on the nature of this mystery."
Marcus wields her pen with renewed fire, drowning out the sounds around her.
"Out of obligation, I settled on making a final cursory check before leaving."
"To think it would mark the beginning of a whole new chapter of this unfolding mystery."
"Inexplicably, I found myself knocking on the bedroom door ... Stifling a chuckle, as I soon realized my folly."
"Knock-knock-knock!"
"But as I brace to push open the door, it swings open in spite of me with a grating creak."
"The sudden movement causes me to stagger and stumble, falling beside the fireplace inside the room."
"To my surprise, the coal dust under my palms holds a comforting warmth, as if it had come from a dying flame, one that could again alight."
"Two figures form just beyond my vision, at first pale and translucent but gaining substance, as if to match my palpable fear."
"Are you ... ghosts?!"
"The pair of specters suddenly shriek, as if in terror, 'You can see us?!'"
"And we face each other dumbfounded, before a series of knocks come from outside—steady and deliberate."
"Knock-knock-knock!"
"Knock-knock-knock ..."
...?!
The knocking is no longer just a figment of the author's recollection.
Ms. Marcus ...?
Anyone in there?
Ah ... Yes. A moment please.
She hurriedly gathers the papers now scattered across the desk, stacking them aside neatly.
Lest the voice outside had grown impatient, she cautiously pulls the door open.
Greetings, Ms. Marcus.
The man before her, with his stern gray and neatly patterned tie, nods courteously.
... Greetings.
You'll see here I've been sent by the St. Pavlov Foundation. I am the investigator responsible for registering all arcanists in the Eilean Siar region.
His tone is flat and official, but his bearing exudes an air of entitlement and pride.
The ... Foundation?
The significance behind that name has clearly been lost on the young lady.
2. A Lone Bird, or a Gray Dog
119 linesThe two arcanists at the door exchange identical puzzled glances.
The growing tension of the moment proves too much for the columnist to handle.
Oh no ... Have I misspoken?
Was I so immersed in my writing that I neglected this gentleman's summons.
I don't recall how many times the door was knocked. Was it two? Three? Or five? No ... perhaps more than that, indeed.
The sound of the door seems more muffled than usual. I should write Ms. Dennehy to see if she might buy me a doorbell, to send along with my fee.
But to travel all this way is nowhere near convenient. I doubt anyone besides the post would deliver here ...
Her thoughts wander further and further, only to be brought back by a deliberate and expectant cough.
Allow me to get straight to the point, Ms. Marcus.
Our records show you've not left the Flannan Isles in some time.
Y-Yes.
To be candid, this choice of accommodation has caused a bit of an inconvenience for our registrations.
Most arcanists, at the very least, will frequent a bare minimum of social events like the grand exhibitions or the festivals in Edinburgh ...
Lady Nellie Melba's divine voice echoes in theaters from Europe to Australia, and if nothing else, the Highland Games attract thousands of spectators and participants every year.
Somehow even the dreariest of my colleagues find time to celebrate these occasions, at least ... on occasion.
I mean to say, the world is filled with all kinds of wonders. And forgive my directness, Ms. Marcus, but you ought to consider seeing more of it. And I hesitate to mention ...
I …
The man's barrage of verbiage overwhelms the reclusive lady at the door.
Perhaps this gentleman has caught some kind of mania, or ... have I really been isolated on this island too long and forgotten that people are all ... talkative like this?
Steady on, Marcus, you can handle this.
Fists clenched, she quietly cheers herself on.
The current situation calls to mind a page of advice from Introduction to Social Etiquette ...
Rather than admitting their ignorance on a subject, a cultured person is wise to steer the conversation toward grounds more familiar to both parties.
And for this gentleman, a most suitable topic would be ...
Ah, I have it!
Lifting her head, she realizes she must seize the opportunity to pierce through the man's blather.
Sir, I believe I heard a lot about your Foundation when I was in the orphanage.
That you were collecting ... arcanists, particularly children.
And that you did so by force.
...?
Some children said people from the Foundation took away their friends ...
The investigator's face grows somber. Evidently, their conversation had not been going as prescribed by Introduction to Social Etiquette.
That much was clear, even to Marcus.
That was a poor excuse for a joke, Ms. Marcus.
We are indeed living in a wondrous era, where transgressing social norms have become greatly valued: Rationality, science, freedom ... and, with it, of course, a "progressive" sense of humor.
I am sure you only meant to appeal to that ... transgressive humor, but those accusations are quite inappropriate, even as a joke ...
Especially as you haven't officially joined the Foundation yet.
Oh no, no ... I don't mean to offend you. It happened in my home country, in Romania. Perhaps, things are different here.
Regrettably, there is nothing close to applicable in this scenario from her reading of Introduction to Social Etiquette.
The heavier blow drops as Marcus at last picks up the man's intention in coming all this way.
Wait a moment, sir ... Did you just mention something about ... joining the Foundation? Me?
Naturally, is there a problem?
He adjusts his lapels in both hands, as if launching into a well-practiced speech.
I-I ...
Ms. Marcus, shall I take it your heart is beating so fast out of excitement?
I understand how you feel; many new colleagues have experienced similar emotions. But please, don't worry, the Foundation has a full-fledged medical support system.
Sir, would you stop for a moment ...
Her voice trembles as she speaks.
I very much appreciate your coming here. I've come to fully understand the importance of the Foundation and its popularity among other people, and ... well, of course, I'm grateful for your invitation ...
But as you can see, I currently have some unfinished tasks at hand, which are related to my ... dream.
Marcus turns her gaze back, staring at the small corner behind the doorway—her world of writing.
Oh, a dream! Well, might I ask what is your dream, Ms. Marcus?
The investigator nods knowingly, as if Marcus's response is not at all unexpected.
I-I dream of making people aware of the mysteries of the Flannan Isles, and about the world of arcanum, and …
Aye, well, that is indeed a great aspiration.
He steps forward, gesturing toward the boundless sea.
But, Ms. Marcus, don't confine yourself to just these islands! Look beyond the horizon. The world out there is full of mysteries waiting for us to explore and uncover.
And that is precisely what the Foundation aims to do!
Surely, you wouldn't withhold your contribution to the welfare of humanity and the progress of civilization?
No ... Indeed, this closely aligns with my goals. It's only that ...
She pauses, swallowing the rest of her unfinished sentence.
The investigator comes to some sudden realization as he scrutinizes the girl in the doorway.
Oh! Of course, of course—you're a renowned writer, with countless readers awaiting your next piece ...
Marcus hurriedly waves her hand in denial, a noticeable flush spreading from her ears to her cheeks.
No ... In fact, I-I'm really just a greenhorn columnist.
Allow me to make my pitch again. The Foundation possesses a great multitude of literary works from all over the world, be they about humans or arcanists.
Upon joining the Foundation, you need only to fill out a book request form, pending approval from our supervisors and administration, and then you can read our catalog to your heart's content.
Joining the Foundation would more than serve any writer.
I …
But ... there are still so many people curious about the events that occurred here ... Stories I've yet to write ...
More importantly, James, Thomas, and Donald, my friends ... They're all counting on me to tell their stories about these islands.
My work here is not finished ...
She gasps, as if dislodging a boulder from her chest.
…
The man frowns, his disappointment evident beneath the polite exterior.
As you wish, Madam, I will faithfully report your choice to my superiors—
My choice ...?!
She panics, again.
No-no-no, I mean, I haven't made any choices yet ...
I only hope that you might give me some time to consider your proposal. I promise, it won't be long ...!
Whether moved by her nearly pleading tone, or swooping in on his pitch again, the investigator clears his throat.
As you wish, but I would caution you that the Foundation's enrollment capacity is limited.
Should you tarry too long in deciding, you may find yourself waiting outside our offices, wishing you'd taken up our offer sooner.
When you've made your mind up, send this to Eilean Siar—no need to write a specific address, just "The Foundation" will do.
He hands Marcus a letter with a checkered pattern, then turns abruptly without looking back.
Left alone, the girl sways and collapses to the ground.
The blank form is clenched tightly in her hand, creased with worries.
The Foundation is a renowned organization, one that possesses a significant number of arcanists like me. It might be a source of insights for my future work ...
Not to mention the Foundation's colossal collection of books both on arcanum and human society!
Still, I have to think about my readers. They'll be waiting for the latest stories from the Flannan Isles ...
Not to forget that Ms. Dennehy holds great expectations concerning my work ...
How could I disappoint them ...?
Ah ... Won't anyone help me with this ... conundrum?
Her faint cry fails to travel far.
It fails even to drown out the sound of renewed knocking.
"Knock-knock-knock ..."
...?
Ahoy, Ms. Marcus, you're finally awake!
We thought we might find you sleeping outside again—for the thirteenth time!
And ... with your eyes still open.
Another voice adds to chorus of cooing over Marcus.
Ach, nothing unusual, is it, boys? Our wee Marcus has always been good at sticking her nose around looking for things she can umm, what d'ya call it again? Aye, "read"!
Oh, hello, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Donald, and Mr. James.
You break our poor ghostly hearts, Miss. Did you nae hear our footsteps rushing over to you?!
Marcus gives a quick glance at the three men's feet, which are nearly transparent, and hovering slightly off the ground.
... I'm sorry.
Right. No time for beating 'round the bush, cuddies. Give the letter on over to the lass. I'll bet it's another admirer heaping praise on our Marcus!
Another letter is handed to Marcus. Bearing a pattern familiar to her.
Dinnae worry, Ms. Marcus. We were good, just as we promised. We remember the tongue-lashing you gave us when that last postman took a tumble into the water from fright ...
We were quiet as church mice round the postmen lately—Eh, Donald? He can attest to it, what with him always hiding at a distance like a right coward.
Dinnae call me a coward! But aye. I promise you, Thomas hasn't spooked 'em, nary a bad face nor wink this time. Still, the postman turned tail the second he tossed down the letter ...
And just what are they so afraid of, anyway?
This place, I'd reckon ... And that's why we need our wee Marcus and her History of the Flannan Isles to tell our story …
That's exactly what our wee Marcus is trying to do.
What's wrong, Ms. Marcus? You seem ... a mite troubled.
Something odd about that envelope?
3. Three Islands
137 linesThe rejection letter shakes in her trembling hands.
"We regret to inform you ..."
"That after discussion by the editorial board, we will be unable to publish the fifteenth edition of your History of the Flannan Isles."
"We would like to share with you our primary concern regarding this edition."
"Since its publication, History of the Flannan Isles has garnered intense discussion among our readers."
"We are well aware of their curiosity about the mysterious archipelago and of your skillful writing."
"It is in this hope that we ask you to revise your latest edition, to reveal the truth about the three lighthouse keepers in greater detail."
"It cannot be understated that we are by no means doubting your capabilities, Ms. Marcus, but with their limited understanding of arcanum, most of our readers have expressed that they are more interested in what happened to the lighthouse keepers—the truth."
"They believe that you can unveil this mystery that has puzzled us for more than a decade and come to a tidy end for this story."
"In light of our decision, we have already reserved some promotional space for History of the Flannan Isles. We look forward to your revised edition."
"Yours faithfully, Dennehy."
The letter floats to the ground, falling from a trembling hand.
The girl lowers her head, devastation lingering over her.
Ms. Dennehy says she is unsatisfied with the latest edition ... But aren't these stories all a part of uncovering the truth our readers are expecting?
The oddly arranged reef, the ultimate cause of the lighthouse's phenomena ... Aren't the readers curious at all?
The truth ... About what happened to the lighthouse keepers ... Did I do something wrong?
Marcus looks out at the ghosts gathered around her.
It seems what the readers are really eager to learn about is not the isles but your legend ...
The elder ghost pats Marcus on the shoulder.
It's not your fault, wee Marcus. You'd think there were naught but spoiled brats left in the world!
Aye, but you cannae blame them, can you? How could rocks and lighthouses compete with the tale of three seasoned seafaring spirits?
He nods as if he's reluctantly admitting to some truth.
Hmph, some loyalty they've shown ... Up till now, they could nae stop puffing up your work!
"A brand-new approach to documentary literature. A one-of-a-kind writing style. A highly imm-" err, what was it now "A highly immersive reading experience ..."
The younger ghost recites the remarks indignantly.
They said it themselves, and then in just a blink, our wee Marcus is no longer a- a- what was it they said "a progressive icon of literary trends" or some old song like that?!
M-Mr. Thomas, please say no more ...
I could never live up to that kind of praise. Besides, there's no denying it—this is a rejection letter.
Marcus's cheeks flush in shame, her head lowering deep into her chest.
Suddenly, a flood of thoughts flows into her mind.
Oh dear, the way I boasted to that Foundation gentleman about my work ...
Perhaps he was aware of this letter; maybe he even secretly laughed at my ignorance ...
Could he have passed by the mailbox on the way here ...?
She repeatedly examines the envelope, as if seeking confirmation of something.
Oh, ah ... Dinnae worry, Ms. Marcus. The glue on the envelope was intact when we got it; could nae been opened by anyone else.
No, I'm not worried about anything ...
Still deflating like a punctured balloon, she murmurs to herself.
The Foundation investigates any arcanists pending registration ... They probably examined every letter set to arrive here recently.
If so, they might read out this rejection letter at some book club gathering ... then I would become the laughingstock of the entire Eilean Siar—no, the entire United Kingdom!
Oh, oh right, I'll have to write them. Maybe I should ask the Foundation not to report what I boasted about my literary work ... But, should I really join the Foundation?
The progress of History of the Flannan Isles hasn't been quite as smooth as I'd imagined. Perhaps I do need more time to think about this ...
Oh, but that investigator did imply that the Foundation is not particularly patient. Would he take my indecision as disrespectful?
...
Lightheaded and drained, she braces herself with a fainting step.
The spectral sailors gather around, lifting the fallen letter from the ground together.
Raise your head, wee Marcus. I'm sure the lads and I can help!
In my admittedly humble ken of writing and reading, isn't it so that writers place their most interesting content at the very beginning, so that they grab their readers and keep them reading?
So if what you're baiting them in with are the likes of rocks, seagulls, and lighthouses ... well, they're not so much the kind to seize your attention, eh?
He gives his chest a few pats.
Now, my humble self, on the other hand? I've lived here for decades, not to mention I've been here not living for a decade more! I reckon the memories I've got tucked away could make for some pleasing bait indeed.
The quiet ghost timidly speaks up.
I- uh, I think maybe James is right ... Maybe, you could write, uh, just a wee bit more about our stories ... If you like, that is ...
Uh ... I only mean, we've spent a lot of time on the islands ... People don't need to come here in person to see what we saw, to hear what we heard ...
Maybe this could clear up all the fear ... maybe make people curious ...
His suggestion, though a whisper, speaks volumes. The other two ghastly gentlemen look at him in proud approval.
Exactly! They must be quite curious about my past, and of course, more than happy to let these youngins glean something from old James' yarns!
See, the mind of a seasoned sailor like myself is filled with heart-stirring stories. Aye, I could go on for days ...
He proudly strokes his mustache, preserved in spirit, exactly as trim and refined as the old sailor himself.
You're pulling my leg, mate! Fat chance, they'd give a barnacle's bottom about those ancient salty fish tales of yours!
Intentional or not, the bickering ghosts dispel the gloom hovering around Ms. Marcus.
Really ...? Would you be willing to share your pasts and perhaps even reveal the truth about your deaths?!
Of course, Marcus. You're our best ... and our only mate. Besides ourselves.
I-I also want ... to show more of this place to people ... before we're completely forgotten by the world ...
Thank you so much, all of you.
She bows sincerely, before producing her pen and papers.
Ach, alright ... now where do we start? Aye, that's it—a story from some years ago. Back then, of course, I was more than the humble ghost of a man you see before you. I was the leader of this outfit, and these two were my half-witted lackeys. Yet, driven by our shared honor, faith, and my keen sense of command, we successfully defended these isles from falling into bedlam.
We drove away more than a few greedy moneybags who wanted to claim these isles for themselves. Oh, and I recall we once saved a gargoyle that was dying of thirst ...
Throughout these heroic endeavors, it was wise old Captain James who stood sentinel over these isles. Until ... the incident ...
The elder ghost rambles on, peering over at his "lackeys" from time to time.
Oi, what a load of bilge! If you write down anything this salty old bletherer tells you, you'll nae have a reader left.
Oh, it's not that we don't like ... your stories ... Captain ... It's only you went on a bit ... Maybe ... If you don't mind, we can see if the ... uh, lass, likes my story more?
Oh, aye, belittle your captain's storytelling?! Insubordination, I say! Ingrate whippersnappers ... Dinnae listen to them, wee lassie. With my daring navigational narrative, they'll be begging for your next edition!
It's only ... Captain ... This story, i-it's not just about you ...
All fired up, the trio crowds around Ms. Marcus, jostling for the increasingly scarce space on her manuscript paper.
Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please quiet yourselves! We'll do it by turns ...
Aye, fair enough. Then suppose I should have my go. I hope you're ready, lass, because I can guarantee I've got the best of the best. Now, it was my first winter on this island.
On that fateful day, lass, there had been quite a few folk that had alighted with me. Police officers ... Some repairmen from the Northern Lighthouse Board ... I think one of them scarpered off with my oilskin coat after they finished tinkering with the clock in the lighthouse.
So there I was, aye, there watching them from afar, waving at them as you do. Not that a soul noticed me. Well, then, and if you are sitting, I advise you to, see then, something out of the ordinary happened ...
For there was a sky-shrouding fog what enveloped all the isles around Eilean Mor. And even our most advanced telescopes couldn't see but half a nautical mile away.
Some folk panicked. Ere long, the damp mist soaked straight into everyone's clothes, and that's when I noticed my body had gone and turned transparent ...
Then there was a great honking rumble what grew closer and closer. I raised my head—before me was a gigantic, towering wave the likes of which could submerge half the island and a little more besides ...
D**n near swept away the lot of us. A few survivors threw themselves onto the boats by the shore. So I go to wipe the water from my face, took all but a second, and then, I swear on me mum, when I looked up, the fog had gone, and the survivors' boats were all anchored steadily, must have been five miles out.
Then it seemed just as quickly as I blinked, they were moving again, racing toward the horizon at a speed of fourteen knots or more!
Oh my, that is truly astounding ...
Astounding, eh. Maybe, but it's the truth. I'm sure of it. I've kept it locked up tight in my mind, since that day.
We-well, ah, Ms. Marcus, I don't mean to interrupt, only, I don't think that really happened ...
Oi, Donald! You wait your turn to tell the little lass your story. No need to go mucking mine up. Mark my words, Ms. Marcus, you're going to reel in the readers with this story!
Provided, of course, that you choose it as the feature of your next edition.
I …
Her motionless pen gives away her hesitation.
Perhaps ... you might like to listen to my story first, Miss Marcus.
When I was a wee bairn, my grandad told me a lot of stories about these islands ... Only back then, they weren't called the Flannan Isles.
Eilean Mor and its six nearby islands were all together referred to as the Seven Holy Isles.
Someone—well, someone—claimed to have unearthed some skeletons here. And the bones were those of infants, but some said they must have belonged to another race ...
So, for a while, this place was also known as the Pygmies' Isle.
The emotion carried in his tone is so intense that his ethereal form almost feels corporeal for a second.
It was because of these stories that I joined the Northern Lighthouse Board and became an assistant lighthouse keeper here right after I finished my schooling.
I hoped to uncover the truth about the Pygmies' Isle ...
So ... did you succeed?
N-No ... but I managed to find some clues, some signs that there were mysterious animals hereabouts. P-Perhaps, the pygmies really did live here ...
The other two breathe a sigh of relief.
I'm afraid, there isn't much meat on the bone of that tale, lad; it won't be due for the main dish of the wee lassie's edition.
He strokes his mustache, feigning a sense of pity.
Sorry, lad, but your story is even mustier than the Captain's, and his was rustier than a knight's armor!
Aye, it might impress a few old folks, but other than that, it's a dud!
Oh! But, but, I-I have evidence, Ms. Marcus. I'll prove it to you ...
The three spooky would-be storytellers devolve into another fruitless argument.
Not one of youse has the learning to understand the minds of our lass's readers! She needs a proper story, from a refined gentleman with a wealth of experience.
Oh, sod off with your "experience." What the lass needs are the events what lead us to our deaths, not moldy old sailor's yarns!
Oh aye, memory was it? And you said I was spinning yarns! I've nary seen anything like what you described in all my years here ...
Ay-aye ... We cannae go making things up just for a nice story ... oh, but, well Captain ... I don't suppose you even remember what that so-called gargoyle looked like ... do you? Unless you do, I mean ...
I …
Their debate is headed nowhere fast.
I think ... we ought to leave it up to Ms. Marcus to decide.
…
…
The three shift their gazes onto the girl before them.
…
Captain James's recollection is certainly the longest and most complete. I'm sure the readers will appreciate his thoroughness ...
But Thomas's experiences have the closest ties to the outside world and the mysteries of their deaths, which might corroborate some circulating rumors ...
As for the story of the Pygmies Isle ... It seems like it might have the most rich historical elements ...
…
All of these are worthy of being recorded in more detail.
Her evasive gaze can't escape from the three spectral lighthouse keepers' eager eyes.
She finds herself caught between the ghosts and the deep blue sea.
I …
Ms. Marcus ...
Her lips tremble slightly along with the manuscript paper in her hand.
I-I will include all of your stories. I promise!
…
"I dare not overstate the literary value of this edition. I can only share with you that it is inspired by the experiences of three ghosts, the very lighthouse keepers who disappeared here twelve years hence."
"Dear Ms. Dennehy, I write to you in hopes that this latest edition will prove more than satisfactory."
Did I make the right choice?
Or rather, did I ever have a choice?
In any case, I've finally completed my edition.
Phew ... I hope, nothing interrupts the delivery ... Moreover, I hope it doesn't get rejected again ...
Illuminated by the dim reflection of the lighthouse's beacon against the pressing clouds, a heavy stack of manuscript papers is tossed into a lonely rusted mailbox.
4. A Fraudster
91 linesA blank page is folded and unfolded, again and again.
Her hands repeat this action unconsciously as Ms. Marcus murmurs anxiously to herself.
My latest edition of History of the Flannan Isles should have been published in the Daydream Post yesterday ...
I know that if the editors weren't satisfied with the entry, it would have been rejected two days prior. But, Mr. Thomas says we've received no letters at all as of yesterday.
So it passed the editors' review ... It must have ...
So I should let myself feel some relief ... Thanks to the help of my ghostly friends, this latest edition covered some truly extraordinary topics and gave the readers an opportunity to better understand the Flannan Isles.
Maybe it will even spur a tourism boom for the Flannan Isles. The local council will be very happy for it, I'm sure ...!
And Ms. Dennehy, well, she'll be Editor of the Year, and get a substantial bonus for her tour of Europe ...
She provided me with so much help in writing History of the Isles and in life more generally. She most certainly deserves this ...
I hope she will find time to send me a few new books during her trip ...
I've never had the chance to read the completed anthology of Story for Sara ... Mr. Allais is truly ingenious. Even just the few excerpts I have from his work have inspired me so much ...
She muses to herself, losing herself in the tranquil depths of her world of literature.
Unfortunately, her moment of tranquility passes all too quickly.
Ms. Marcus, a whole platoon of postmen just got off the ferry!
Somehow unperturbed by the panting ghost popping his head out through the wall, Marcus reaches the meaning behind his message in a sudden rising start.
A "platoon" of postmen?
Aye, a whole slew of them. The lads and I think it must mean your new edition was a cracking success!
All those high-nosed hobnobs are probably planning to invite you to give lectures all around the world—now dinnae go forgetting us with your sudden fame. Remember it was your ghostly mates who got you here!
...!
Ms. Marcus rushes to her coat, and together they speed toward the island's mail drop-off.
Three ghastly gentlemen and one gasping girl stand in front of the small mailbox, exchanging anxious looks.
Ahoy gentlemen ... Ms- Ms. Marcus ... The postmen already came and went. Left as soon as they'd dropped off these letters ...
That's it ...? They dinnae ask for any local postcards, perhaps an autograph from the stars of the latest edition ...?
Well, ah, no. No. I suppose I dinnae want to spook them. Since Ms. Marcus asked us not to ...
Oh, aye, they were the ones spooked, eh? Just as well, lad. We'll need some time to adjust to our new lives as undead celebrities. Now stiffen up, only a landsman gets nervous over a little rising tide.
These letters ... are all for me?
The ghosts nod in unison.
It can only be, wee miss. You've most certainly written a fine piece. Only natural that it might bring about a bit of zealotry.
Still, there are so many letters ...
After adjusting her scarf, in an attempt to cover the flush of her cheeks, she reaches over-quickly for one of the letters.
But as she opens it, the words within leave her painfully stunned.
"I want to apologize for my candor, writing to you as a fan of the much-celebrated writer for History of the Flannan Isles."
"But I feel I must express my disappointment. Not just for myself, but for the thousands of other readers now feeling equally deceived."
"When I first read your column, I was captivated by its vivid psychological descriptions and the detailed introductions, prompting me to buy issue after issue of the magazine and even recommend it to my friends and family ..."
"Yet, I see now you and your publisher have concocted a massive fraud, leading us in on a long con to rob us any satisfaction!"
Her hand freezes in place, unable or unwilling to turn the page.
"The Daydream Post never stopped praising the upcoming edition of History of the Flannan Isles!"
"They claimed it would finally lift the cloud of mystery looming over the Flannan Isles once and for all!"
"I waited eagerly for almost a week for this vaunted new edition that was supposed to unveil all mysteries ..."
"Only for you to introduce some sad old captain with a ghost story, an overly foggy day, followed by some island-swallowing wave, and then a bit of old history about these Seven Holy Isles ..."
"And nothing else."
"You claim these 'ghosts' have spent more than twelve years on this island. Yet you still do not provide a shred of explanation concerning their disappearance? Or why is it they became ghosts? You take the word of these ghosts at face value, but are their memories even reliable? Do they have any credible evidence?"
"If these are truly ghosts, then why can't they tell us where their missing bodies are? How can you possibly prove this isn't just another arcanist rambling about her own fairy tales?"
"You try to obfuscate the hard questions with these twisted yarns, but all you've done is create more mysteries, stretching them out like old taffy! But I see through it: you never had any intention to conclude this story! You've been stringing us along the whole time!"
"You, madame, are nothing but a fraudster!"
Marcus stands still, her mouth agape, unable to make a sound.
This letter is ... tr-truly terrible. M-maybe it's just a joke, like the awful pranks Captain James and Thomas sometimes play on me.
Now, now, steady on, wee Ms. Marcus ... It's but a wide shot across the bow. Don't mistake it for a barrage! The rest of these are sure to be glowing reviews.
Aye, the old foghorn's right. Every twee lass or lad thinks he's a critic these days. Let's leave it to professionals, eh ... where's that letter from Ms. Dennehy?
If anyone knows what way the wind's blowing, it'll be her.
In a daze, Marcus rummages through the pile of letters as if seeking a life preserver in a stormy sea.
Soon enough, she finds what she is looking for.
"Dear Ms. Marcus, our illustrious writer for the History of the Flannan Isles column."
"Dear Ms Marcus, first as a matter of business, I must admit that yesterday's issue of the Daydream Post, featuring your History of the Isles, was a tremendous sales success."
"Spurred on by the delay caused by your previous edition, it seems our journal was sold out within hours by your eager readers ..."
"But we'd only just started on the second printing before a group of frenzied readers stormed up to our office."
"They were waving their arms, shouting things like 'Refund!' 'This is fraud!' and one particularly exuberant fellow claimed he'd be 'Writing to the Prime Minister to report you' ..."
"After communicating with them, we realized they were all loyal readers of History of the Flannan Isles."
"They called your History of the Isles a premeditated scam disguised as a documentary. They accused us of conspiring with you to deceive everyone ..."
"What absurd allegations! They even redirected their dissatisfaction with History of the Isles onto us, a small-time publishing house."
"To be perfectly candid, we did launch a significant promotional campaign before the release of this issue. However, it was not a hasty decision; it was out of our trust in you!"
"You promised us in your submission that all your descriptions were based on the first-hand experiences of those directly involved. You are responsible for their authenticity!"
"Regrettably, things have now developed beyond anyone's imagination."
"We believe that if you cannot sufficiently meet the readers' expectations in the next edition with a sensational conclusion or some sort of revealing of ultimate truth ..."
"Otherwise, you may need to consider a new pseudonym, or perhaps a change of subject beyond the Flannan Isles, or more simply, give up on the job altogether."
"We sincerely hope you consider our advice above."
*flop*
The bitter sting of the letter saps the strength from her legs, as she collapses slowly to the ground and into a heap.
…
…
…
The ghosts attempt, as best they can, to make out what the rest of the letters hold.
"It is despicable that you would abuse the sacred power of the pen to promote this bizarre so-called arcanum. And how much worse for its plodding, unconnected narrative, if anything at all of what you said was true, it would only mean our world had gone mad!"
Heh—wrong letter, sorry lass.
He feigns a soft bombing whistle as he tosses the letter aside.
Allow me, Ms. Marcus—if my years have proved of any use at all, it has been in discerning truth from slander.
"I wish to extend my congratulations to the author. For what must have been a handsome fee you earned yourself with your talents."
"Chief of which must be in huckstering and forgery. I pray you'll fare well during the coming police interrogations for this fraud of an edition! Hopefully, they'll be trained to make sense of this arcanist tat!"
…
Apologies, it seems wisdom does not always spring from age ...
Oh! Oh, um ... I think, maybe, I found one that isn't quite so terrible ...
... Really?!
"D-dear author, I wanted you to know that I fully understood the deep meaning behind this publication."
"It is crystal clear that you drew inspiration from the stories of Penelope and the Danaides as you prepared us for an endless tapestry and a b-bottomless bucket ..."
"I'm s-so glad to be able to bear witness to what you've created—a torture to the senses which has left me wishing to swap places with Tantalus himself ..."
"So long, and good riddance to your interminable stories!"
Ah! S-Sorry, Ms. Marcus. I was never much for reading—was that not ... good?
... Thank you all the same, Donald.
She nods weakly toward Donald.
Then, in a slow fall, to match the crashing waves against the shore, she collapses completely to the ground.
5. The Protagonists
67 lines
Good morning, madam. My name is Hofmann, and I've come a long way to see you.
The ghosts clump together anxiously in the dim room.
Marcus sits up in bed after a struggle, the harrowing words in those letters still writhing through her.
All coming together in a catastrophic clash of anxiety, dread, and helplessness.
The nearby voices grow louder, dragging her out from one kind of havoc ...
To the next.
I'm dreadfully sorry, lass.
But let's get on to righting the ship: we cannae bilge the water if we dinnae find the holes. It's evident to me that our failure must be laid on Mr. Thomas—it's very clear it was his far-fetched tale that set your readers off!
I cannae imagine anyone wasting their precious time reading something so bizarre and fanciful, the likes of which surely spoiled many an afternoon tea!
He crosses his arms, turning with a vexed expression to his compatriot.
Oh, it was my part, aye? Here and I thought, the captain goes down with the ship.
Didn't you hear what the wee miss had to say? Her readers want positivity and progress, not ancient prattle! It was your bit what steered us onto the rocks!
Those yarns of yours were so long they'd nary fit in my granny's attic. Ms. Marcus' readers probably nodded off half-way through!
Oh, aye, whine all you like. What do you know of story-telling, eh? I'll bet you dinnae even know your Shakespeare from your Shelley!
James's translucent face turns red with anger, his mustache bristling.
S-Stop please ... both of you ...
Sigh ... Please calm down, gentlemen. Let's hear what Donald has to say.
…
…
Well ... I don't mean to speak ... out of turn, b-but lying is a worse sin, so speak I must. I reckon it was both of your stories that did this ...
Captain, your story was nothing more than a chance for you to show off. You distorted the truth, even when it went against what Thomas described ...
I think, that our story, Ms. Marcus's work ... I mean, it should have focused on the mysteries of the Flannan Isles themselves.
Well said, Donald!
A-And you ...
Thomas ... your story had just as many mistakes! Just of a different sort, you did exactly what Ms. Marcus' readers say they hated! You gave her story with mysteries, aye, but no ending! How could anyone be happy with that?
I just said what I knew, nothing more—no lies, no reservations!
Twelve years and more we've been on this island, still you both know nothing about this place, about anything ... And you dinnae have at least the wits to trust someone with experience.
…
A-Actually, Ms. Marcus, I'm afraid, well, maybe this isn't our fault entirely either ...
... You're blaming me?
Well-bl-blame, no. Only, you were the one who wrote down our stories. We're not writers, miss. We dinnae know what bits are important, or how to finish the story ... Maybe your readers are angry for good reason ...
M-maybe you should have based the edition on what I said about the Seven Holy Isles and the Pygmies ... Then you could have given them a proper investigation, something to really talk about.
Ach! So now we see Donald. If only we had listened to you, eh? Not so noble now, eh? Face it, lad, that story of yours was weaker than watered-down whisky!
Thomas is right, laddie. Though, only in as much as they say about broken clocks. The truth of the matter is clear, lads. The wee miss should have only used my story.
Oh, aye, and what makes you say that ...?
&......*%#@!$(......
Please stop ...
The spirited voices of their heated quarrel engulf the entire room.
In her despair, Marcus begins to question herself.
When exactly did this story of mine turn into a "catastrophe"?
Was it when the deluge of angry letters arrived?
Was it when I submitted the revised manuscript?
Or was it when I hesitated to choose between their stories?
Maybe I'm not truly cut out for this job ...?
When I began writing, I wanted to record everything ... Every piece of knowledge, especially those lesser-known facts, things that might be lost in time, that might go silent, if I- I wasn't there ...
Stories that could be exquisite, delicate, captivating, or at least relatable ...
But ... what has all that work brought me?
As Marcus closes her eyes, agonizing memories flash over the theater of her mind mercilessly.
Her dream seems to be pulling further and further away from her.
I dreamed that my work would help humankind to understand and accept arcanum ...
But now my column is being bashed by my once loyal readers. They even stormed the Daydream Post ... Poor Ms. Dennehy must have lost her chance at the Editor of the Year award ...
Perhaps ... oh, what if this leads the entire community to distrust any future writing related to arcanum ... Or worse, those who still read them might become labeled as occultists or lunatics ...
Then human society's discrimination against arcanists might grow even more severe ... not just in the Flannan Isles—no, maybe against the entire arcanist world! And I ... will be the catalyst whose horrible writing divided our two races even further ...
It's all my fault ...
Marcus covers her face with her palms. But no amount of self-pity can drown out the squabbling spirits.
I only hoped to alleviate their loneliness by "reading" this island and documenting its stories ... I just wanted to share them with the world ...
But now these ghostly gentlemen, protagonists in my latest disaster, are tearing into one another before my eyes ... My writing didn't bring them happiness. It intensified their misfortune ...
*sob*
B-But all I wanted to do was tell a fascinating story ...
She lets out a loud cry from her corner, hoping to silence the continual bickering, even for a moment.
...?
To her surprise, the argument stops indeed.
Did that ... actually work?
Oi, pick yourself up, Marcus! Someone's at the door.
The girl comes back to her senses, pulling herself to the door by will alone.
A figure, at once familiar and strange, stands before her.
Good morning, madam. My name is Hofmann, and I've come a long way to see you.
6. Preface
134 linesThe figure of a woman dressed in a long brown coat walks ahead at a steady pace, followed by the nervous young lady.
E-Excuse me, are you from the Foundation ...?
Yes. It seems I will be able to skip my introduction.
Hofmann nods, seemingly ignoring or neglecting the panic in Marcus's tone.
I-I'm so sorry ... for having made you come all this way. I-I will respond to the Foundation as soon as possible. I-I promise!
Hofmann halts her steps and turns around.
Her puzzled gaze accurately catches Marcus's evasive eyes.
...?
The Foundation's application has been approved by the local government. From today onward, a small portion of this archipelago will be set aside for our use as an experimentation site.
Experiments ...?
Yes, for an upcoming observation project, jointly operated between the Foundation and Laplace. It involves a new arcanist theory.
Am I ... not supposed to know about this?
Marcus takes a few steps back with a flinch.
No. No, it's not confidential. Laplace does not intend to keep its work here a secret.
Observation project ... Laplace ... Emerging arcanist theory ...
Oh! I think ... I've read about this before—the study of ley lines?
Correct. Laplace published the theory in their second edition of the Frontier of Times journal. Just some basic introductions, of course, nothing monumental.
Hofmann nods, nonplussed by Marcus's breadth of reading.
The Foundation will be responsible for this project's application procedures and field confirmation. Of course, we will aim to minimize any impacts on the natural surroundings as much as possible.
She turns around to look at the solitary tower perched on the cliff.
Should you, or they, have any concerns, please contact our Eilean Siar branch for further assistance.
So ... you are not here about my investigation?
My sole task here is to survey the Flannan Isles. I've no time nor inclination to meddle in the affairs of some unregistered arcanist.
The lingering specter of the other investigator finally fades from her mind.
My visit is not part of any assigned mission.
... I see.
This is out of my own interest, as a reader.
Yes, from the first edition to the very latest. I must say, they have been very informative.
The horrifying letters from before seem to have grown wings, ready to swarm Marcus once more.
She bows her head as if awaiting the imminent drop of a guillotine.
Out of curiosity, I went through the trouble of finding some of your earlier works.
You have covered a wide range of topics in great detail. Unfortunately, it seemed the space provided to you by your magazine has been, till now, quite limited.
Oh, those ... They weren't much ... Just a few jottings, really ... I thought nobody remembered them ... haha ...
Though her body feels stiff, Marcus forces out an awkward smile.
Arcanum and Lighthouse Lens Maintenance. Do you remember this article?
... That was my first submission after arriving in the Flannan Isles from Romania.
Hofmann nods, indifferent to the nearly overwhelming blush on Marcus's cheeks.
The way you relayed the specifics of Lighthouse keeping with such great enthusiasm, it was as if you felt it had something to offer to every reader.
The internal structure, differences in lighthouse design in various locales, the evolution of light sources, advancements in lamp maintenance ... Even the ideal number of lighthouse keepers.
Frankly, I found it perhaps a little overwrought but still undoubtedly worth reading.
I'm sor—hmm?!
"Dear friends, imagine a flame that requires no fuel, immune to extinguishing no matter in cold wind or heavy rain, and shines bright enough to illuminate the sea even through the thickest of fog ..."
"Might we then be able to save on nearly a century's worth of gas or electricity expenses ... and redirect those funds to more pressing matters?
"As it happens, on a small island surrounded by warm waters, there exists just such fiery critters. These docile and nocturnal creatures could well be suitable for use as endlessly reproducible light sources ..."
There were many more descriptions like this.
... I'm surprised you remember them so well, Madam Hofmann.
Ms. Marcus, you must understand one thing. Though discrimination against arcanists has become less severe in our era, it remains, for most humans, an ingrained habit.
One that won't change overnight.
Why are you still trying to introduce arcanum to the human world you're not familiar with?
Marcus falls silent for a while, her previous blush turning into a cold sweat.
Her unspoken thoughts, aspirations as a writer, and her inner struggles ... It felt as though this Hofmann saw through them all.
Yet, feeling as though she had been spared the headman's axe for today at least, she raised her eyes upwards.
That's ... I suppose that's a valid question. Perhaps I am too naive ...
For me, I've always seen the world as just a kind of puzzle book. Perplexing riddles, obscure words, and bewildering images ... One I was happy to keep at a distance. Even if it had many pleasant aspects ...
Human science, progressive ideologies, arcanists' sports, various newly discovered critters, and many, many more ...
I wanted to share those things, the pleasant ones, they deserve to be known by more people—whether humans or arcanists.
Her voice is trembling yet grows more resolute on each word.
If I keep reading, I'll eventually find the answers to everything. I can introduce human arts and crafts to the arcanists, and demystify arcanist fables and legends for the humans ...
I'll be the bridge between humans and arcanists, helping them understand one another.
…
Oh dear ... D-Did I say that all out loud ...?
She awkwardly gasps trying to take in a great puff of the fresh sea air, her face flushing red from ear to ear.
Still, a gentle but intentional clap of applause follows.
That is a great aspiration, Ms. Marcus.
The Foundation has been working toward the very same goal.
Thank you for your kind words, Madam Hofmann ...
Yet, the "catastrophe" flashes through her mind once more, plunging her back into cold reality.
Only, it seems my writing has done nothing but push me further from my goal ... Not only have I failed to demystify arcanum, I failed my publisher's expectation and my readers ...
I couldn't even write a serviceable story ...
Ah, do you mean this edition?
Hofmann produces a folded magazine. The images of the Flannan Isles on it coldly clutch at Marcus's heart.
Y-You didn't throw it away ...?
You underestimate yourself, Ms. Marcus. The story isn't as hopeless as you think.
... I don't quite understand what you mean.
Her breath quickens.
Madam Hofmann, a-are you saying that I might still be able to turn this story around?
Humans often read things differently from arcanists. What arcanists consider perspicuous may, on the contrary, read as unfathomable to humans.
Compared to the wild, divergent way of thinking of arcanists, humans are more inclined toward concrete conclusions backed by hard evidence.
After arriving here, I quickly grasped the gap in thinking between yourself and the human readers of History of the Flannan Isles.
To begin with, just how many people do you think are aware of the existence of ghosts?
Marcus stops in place as she goes over Hofmann's unexpectedly stunning question.
Well, I understand the story of the Brown Lady of Raynham Hall is widespread. Many people have tried to find her ... Meanwhile, the ghosts of the Graham Mansion are probably only known to the Scottish people ...
The White Lady is quite famous in Germany, but people mostly tell her stories to scare children ...
Ah, so now you see it, don't you, Ms. Marcus?
History of the Flannan Isles is published in the Daydream Post historical column. For most of its audience, the existence of ghosts is beyond far-fetched.
For you to adapt the stories of three ghosts, without ever taking the time to explain the ghosts themselves to your readers. Well, is it any wonder so many doubted you?
Your readers couldn't see and understand your ghost friends as you do. Nor could they have realized these ghosts were nearly as equally about the truths of the Flannan Isles as anyone else.
The readers followed the ghosts throughout the story, but never got to know them. They also couldn't fully understand the parts on arcanum. The readers didn't feel engaged.
Hofmann puts away the magazine.
…
...
You're right ... I kept saying that I wanted humans and arcanists to understand one another, that I wanted to bring readers a more profound experience, but in doing so, I overlooked the obvious ...
H-How did I let this happen …
A strong sense of regret surges up to her throat involuntarily.
Humans are often unable to sense the subtle folds in emotions. They're confined by their rational senses. On the other hand, arcanists can just as easily be trapped by their emotions, overlooking the obvious, as you say. So ...
Don't blame yourself for this.
A touch of warmth reaches Marcus's shoulder.
Marcus lifts her head blankly, not yet realizing that Hofmann picked up her pen from the ground.
As an arcanist, you can "read" the intricacies of the world that others would easily miss, but that is also the problem.
Human readers are more used to sifting through clues and details to make logical sense of the story. They also like to simplify things and draw a single conclusion.
If you would permit me to offer some editorial advice for your History of the Flannan Isles, I have a suggestion.
P-Please tell me.
You need to find some answers of your own.
Conclusions ... of my own?
I think, you yourself do not yet know all the mysteries of the Flannan Isles? But do you believe you can unravel all the truths about this place?
No, Ms. Marcus. Not knowing the truth is nothing at all to be ashamed of.
Rationality drives us to understand reality as we see it. Curiosity aids us in searching for the puzzles yet to be solved. Both of them must be the fuels that power your writing.
I thought a writer should be absolutely certain about everything they write ...
If my readers want conclusions, how could they accept that there are puzzles that even I cannot solve ...?
I think they will. If you offer them the chance.
They will understand your confusion and curiosity, as well as your passion for trying to unravel these mysteries.
Whether you find the truth or not, it is the journey that keeps us engaged. What they need is an exhilarating experience from the perspective of an arcanist.
Spark their curiosity with puzzles I've still left unsolved ... Do you think my story could really do that?
Can I really inspire them to seek the truth themselves ...?
Perhaps. To seek the truth is a long journey, but still ...
When we bravely admit that truth doesn't always exist, we find another truth. And this courage deserves respect.
The sun isn't any brighter than usual, nestled under the blanket of cloudy sea air.
But its dazzling warmth still seems to scorch her for the first time in a long time.
Madam Hofmann didn't stay long.
But she left behind a journal filled with her comments and suggestions, and an address as concise as she was.
To a nameless small island near the Flannan Isles, where Madam Hofmann said she will continue her work for a few weeks before returning to the Foundation.
She also spoke with me about joining the Foundation before she left ...
But for the time being, I still felt I had more pressing matters to attend to.
I picked up my pen and courage again to face up to my catastrophe and overcome it.
I took Madam Hoffman's advice to heart. My writing was no longer crammed with every detail until I began to scribble in the margins and between the rows ...
This revision was, quite frankly, an extensive overhaul. The gentlemen ghosts voiced some over-eager protests despite my repeated apologies ...
But Madam Hofmann's comments and suggestions instilled great courage in me.
And finally ...
I completed it.
7. Award Speech
99 linesThe lighthouse illuminates its surroundings, faithful and steady as always. The waves lash against the rocky shore, and the three ghostly gentlemen are in the midst of a merry uproar.
A soothing sea breeze brushes past Marcus, like a long-lost friend.
Everything before her is familiar yet surreal.
So, gentlemen, have you stopped arguing ...?
Look who's here, mates, and the lass a sight for dead eyes!
The three surround Marcus with a delicate kindness, as if encircling a flower that has finally bloomed.
We ... we thought you might not want to be friends with us after all our arguing ...
No-no, I'm sorry ... It was only that it took a little extra time for me to prepare the new edition for my History of the Flannan Isles ...
But at last, I've finally completed my final draft and sent it along to Ms. Dennehy. Hopefully, I haven't made her wait too long as well.
A pair of transparent hands gently pat Marcus's shoulder.
We know what you've been through, lassie. Without your perseverance and talent, winning back those readers would have been impossible.
And a spot more courage than a sailor betting the last of his pay in Monte Carlo!
But you did it, lass. Aye, and some fine work, if I do say so myself.
Stop it now, Captain, you're just flattering me ...
She shrinks her neck with embarrassment.
No, not at all, Ms. Marcus. It's just as the blowhard said, for once. You dinnae gone to collect the post yet, have you? Seems your edition made the papers already, and the postmen brought the replies.
And, and they're g-good letters this time ... N-Nothing terrible about them ... We checked!
Marcus opens one of the readers' letters.
"I feel so honored to write you this letter, as a now humbled fan of your History of the Flannan Isles—oh, should I call it To the Archipelago now?"
"Your courage is more than admirable. Who could have thought you'd be brave enough to make such an extensive revision ...?"
"Let me express my warmest congratulations, for now that I see your work for what it truly is, I am so pleased to have experienced such an unforgettable fantasy tale."
... Fantasy?
Suppressing her fleeting doubts, she continues reading the letter.
"Thanks to you and these ghost gentlemen you've invented, all of us following along get to experience a little piece of their world, just as you imagined it."
"Yours faithfully, a reader eagerly awaiting the next edition."
...!
Marcus feels at once a sense of loss, something she tries to suppress rather than let it eat at her.
Th-There are a mess more of these letters ... oh, oh including one from the Daydream Post.
"Dear Ms. Marcus, we are more than delighted to share with you that, thanks to your newly updated To the Archipelago series, the Daydream Post has seen a tremendous rise in sales."
"What's more, we've even received requests to change the serialization schedule—they want at least two editions per week. After discussion, the publishing house has decided to provide you with an entire new section."
"We call it, The Tall Lighthouse!"
"Our sincerest regards to you and your ghostly friends."
Praise pours out from one letter after another, overwhelming Marcus's humility until she feels faint.
Staggering, she retreats into the sanctuary of her room.
The excitement conveyed in the editor's letter still lingers as a vivid image in Marcus's mind, yet she remains more than a little perplexed.
Did they choose to move To the Archipelago from the Documentary Literature section ...?
Unsure about the publisher's decision, she continues writing.
As new manuscripts are sent out, enthusiastic readers' letters are delivered to the island one after another.
"This is what I call a perfect representation of literary fiction. The tale of this investigative columnist's friendship with these three ghosts brought tears to my eyes!"
"To dive into this surreal world of mysteries has become a pastime of mine during each and every afternoon tea. Your creative writing has truly brought a smile to my face!"
"I envy the talents of these comical ghosts, and your imaginative arcanist way of writing is, I must say, a refreshing break from the humdrum of human reporting. I look forward to reading more as soon as you can conjure it up ..."
"I personally believe this series deserves the title of Fantasy Story of the Year nominee. And if it doesn't meet the award criteria, we should create a new award for it, something like Arcanist Fiction of the Year!"
All these letters are brimming with effervescent praise, but all with the same monotonous implication.
I …
Overwhelmed by the return of her anxiety, Marcus snaps her pen against the paper.
...!
As she plunges yet deeper into the black fog, a familiar voice jolts her back to reality.
Hullo, Ms. Marcus, something on your mind, lass?
Seems like you've been out to sea with no paddle, a wee bit more than usual lately. Pining for a vacation, maybe? You're not turning into a ghost like us, are you?
Balderdash! She's not pining for the fjords, nor has she passed on.
Our wee writer is only a trifle tired from all her hard work. As usual, you've no respect for matters of the mind.
He casually strokes his mustache, taking pride in Marcus, and, by some extension, himself.
Ms. Marcus! Dare I say, you've been a veritable star as late. Even I'm curious about what adventures I'll embark on next!
M-Marcus, do you think you'll keep writing ...? About this island, about us ...
This question, innocent as it is, breaks the spell that had too long lingered over her, as if waking her up from a stupor.
Will I ... keep writing?
I hoped to garner more readers with elaborate stories that have more twists and turns. I hoped to make more humans understand and accept arcanists.
I hoped that one day, humans and arcanists could set aside their differences and join hands to uncover the ultimate truth ...
I hoped to record and represent all the truths I've "read" to the readers. Even more so, I hoped I'd be able to explore the mysteries of the Flannan Isles with them.
But ... what is it that they want?
Convoluted mystery plots? Wild imaginations plucked straight from the realm of fantasy? An "everyone lived happily ever after" ending?
Marcus looks up in a daze, evading the expectant eyes around her.
The sky above is unusually clear, but that doesn't seem to faze her.
To the Archipelago has achieved significant success.
So, why can't I find joy in their praise ...?
The self-questioning abruptly stops. The obvious answer lingers, crawling back from her tongue.
To the Archipelago is nothing but a well-crafted fiction, a broken puzzle.
The people reading it don't care about the truth, nor the real arcanum behind it.
So how could this be bringing me closer to my dream ...?
This series was inspired by the first-hand experiences of my dear friends. Without their memories, their stories, I could never have written these tall tales ...
Of course, I know my writing skills contributed a little to this unprecedented acclaim, but only so much ...
But it was Madam Hofmann and her invaluable comments that led to the changes that made To the Archipelago a success.
I can't take an ounce of credit for all of these.
Even if I were to explore every inch of the archipelago and unravel all its mysteries ...
The readers might only see it as the inevitable conclusion to an entertaining fantasy.
... Is the answer to my dreams something I can find in this small archipelago?
The whistle seems to faintly echo in Marcus's mind.
The steam whistle grows louder, overwhelming her eardrums with its piercing cry.
Like a sound emerging from the depths of her heart, a distant call from a grander stage.
The whistle continues to sound nearby as a sail of a familiar checkered pattern is raised.
The final draft is in my room, James. Would you please send it to the care of Ms. Dennehy for me? I entrust this mission to you, Captain! Thanks!
She runs toward Hofmann without looking back, leaving her puzzled phantom friends behind.
Ms. Marcus, you're off at a steam! But, aye ... well, just where are you off to now?
Farewell, Captain James ... Farewell, Donald ... Farewell, Thomas!
The trapped young lady finally takes a leap forward.
She does not look back.
Carried by the sea wind, the letters and manuscripts flutter in the air as if waving Marcus farewell.
Please wait, Madam Hofmann!
The Foundation's ship begins to loom larger in Marcus's view. The surprised figure aboard becomes clear to see.
...!
Madam Hofmann, I want to join the Foundation!
That was probably the first decision I ever really made on my own.
But why ...? Why did it suddenly come to my mind?
I-It was a long time ago ...
As her vision clears, the overturned chairs and collapsed curtains around her hint at the ultimate conclusion of the current play.
8. The Young Investigator
82 linesMarcus is like a book swept out to sea, floating directionless through the dead of night.
Familiar pages flash rapidly through her mind.
Echoes of the past ringing yet again in the present.
I remember now ... I wanted to make a choice of my own ...
So I joined the Foundation. I learned of the "Storm." I bade farewell to my era ... and my old dream ...
A choice of my own ... But did I really make one at all?
A sudden agony almost tears the entire book apart.
The spine of the book trembles as it struggles to turn a new page.
Yes, I made my choice. Now see where it's led me. I've ruined everything.
Lady Isolde held a grand exhibition where she made that speech ...
I wish for the arcanists to unite ...
And establish an independent kingdom of freedom, free from repression and oppression!
It's all my fault ... If only I hadn't violated the confidentiality agreement, she wouldn't have made that dangerous speech.
What I did not only failed to help the arcanists, but worse still it intensified the divide between us and humans.
Lady Isolde—and many other innocent arcanists deceived by Manus Vindictae—shouldn't have fallen into such a predicament ...
Political assassinations, ethnic conflicts, and civil turmoil have erupted all over the world ... History has been altered; the "Storm" was formed.
…
I shouldn't have—I should never have called out to Madam Hofmann that day ... I should have stayed on the Flannan Isles!
... Madam Hofmann?
Then comes a clearer, more suffocating page.
No! Madam Hofmann!!!
*coughs weakly* Don't cry, Marcus. I know what I'm doing.
The future ... is yours.
No!
This page seems agonizingly long.
What have I really achieved?
Images bristling with pain and regret ruthlessly intertwine in Marcus's frantic thoughts.
Back on the island, I couldn't even stop my friends from fighting. How could I have thought I would be the one to change humanity's discrimination towards arcanists ...
After I made just that one choice, to join the Foundation, every choice afterward only seemed to magnify the number of people I hurt, even Madam Hofmann ...
I never once managed to live up to my aspiration ...
C-Could it be that I ...
The cold abyss stretches out before her. Reality, naked of any illusions.
I've never left the Flannan Isles.
The active cells within her body finally find an outlet amidst the surging pain.
A strange scent invades the air, blurring Marcus's vision.
M-Ms. Marcus, how did you end up here?
Oh, poor lassie, you look miserable ... What sort of trouble have you been in?
Dinnae worry, mate. We've always been here for you, always ready to lend you a hand!
The phantoms, as ever before, gather around her with great enthusiasm.
Her long-suppressed emotions finally breach their confines, finding a soothing haven on the windless island.
Aren't you disappointed in me ...?
On the Flannan Isles, I tried to tell your story, but everyone only saw it as fiction. They praised its plot and suspense ... But none of the credit really belonged to me.
I failed to unravel the mysteries, and I failed to help people understand arcanum. My so-called dream ... was nothing more than an excuse to run from reality.
I had run, tail tucked, to the Foundation, and then to Vienna ...
In the end, it feels as though I've accomplished nothing.
I couldn't help Madam Hofmann stop Manus Vindictae. I couldn't find the incantation that might grant immunity from the "Storm" ...
I only ruin everything!
Yet the bitter chill of remorse fails to tear her down ...
For her loyal friends' warmth, even through the veil of death, can illuminate the darkest nights. Like a refuge on her dark seas.
Lass, we don't know what kind of trouble you're facing now, but things are rarely as bad as you fear them to be. Take that on aged wisdom.
Aye, I'm—no, we're all proud of you!
But ... I didn't do anything helpful for you ...
Right, now I won't have you slandering a friend of mine like that, eh? Or did you forget who wrote those wonderful stories what made people remember the Flannan Isles–and us–forever?
That may well have been the cleverest thing I've heard you say yet.
But I didn't even uncover the truth behind your deaths. I've failed you all ...
Her head hangs low, with an irrepressible shake lurching her forward and back.
Heh heh ...
A familiar touch of warmth reaches Marcus's shoulder again.
Now don't be so hard on yourself, lass. How can we blame you if we haven't figured that out for ourselves! With a dozen years head start no less!
We've always stayed here all this time, but we've never given up hope. We'll continue to seek out the truth, no matter how long it takes!
Remember what Madam Hoffman told you, "Whether you find the truth or not, it is the journey that keeps us engaged."
Suddenly, she is reminded of that edition.
Why was it so loved by her readers?
... You remember those letters from your readers?
So many bright ideas, trying to fix the puzzle you set out for them. Nary a one got close, eh? But, remember the fun we had talking them over?
Finding the answer is not what really matters, lass. What matters most is our perseverance—our courage to carry on.
...!
Marcus finally lifts her head.
Madam Hofmann ... She understood that lesson all along and tried to pass it on to me.
... But do I really understand it now?
If I were to die today, would I know what I was supposed to do?
I think ... I do now.
Standing up, she races forward, just like she did on the island coast that fateful day.
"What really scared me was not death, but the possibility of dying ignorant."
Marcus, d-did you hear that? It's s-some kind of strange noise ...
She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes.