The rejection letter shakes in her trembling hands.
Marcus: "We regret to inform you ..."
Marcus: "That after discussion by the editorial board, we will be unable to publish the fifteenth edition of your History of the Flannan Isles."
Marcus: "We would like to share with you our primary concern regarding this edition."
Marcus: "Since its publication, History of the Flannan Isles has garnered intense discussion among our readers."
Marcus: "We are well aware of their curiosity about the mysterious archipelago and of your skillful writing."
Marcus: "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."
Marcus: "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."
Marcus: "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."
Marcus: "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."
Marcus: "Yours faithfully, Dennehy."
The letter floats to the ground, falling from a trembling hand.
The girl lowers her head, devastation lingering over her.
Marcus: 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?
Marcus: The oddly arranged reef, the ultimate cause of the lighthouse's phenomena ... Aren't the readers curious at all?
Marcus: The truth ... About what happened to the lighthouse keepers ... Did I do something wrong?
Marcus looks out at the ghosts gathered around her.
Marcus: 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.
James: It's not your fault, wee Marcus. You'd think there were naught but spoiled brats left in the world!
James: 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.
Thomas: Hmph, some loyalty they've shown ... Up till now, they could nae stop puffing up your work!
Thomas: "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.
Thomas: 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?!
Marcus: M-Mr. Thomas, please say no more ...
Marcus: 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.
Marcus: Oh dear, the way I boasted to that Foundation gentleman about my work ...
Marcus: Perhaps he was aware of this letter; maybe he even secretly laughed at my ignorance ...
Marcus: Could he have passed by the mailbox on the way here ...?
Marcus: She repeatedly examines the envelope, as if seeking confirmation of something.
Donald: Oh, ah ... Dinnae worry, Ms. Marcus. The glue on the envelope was intact when we got it; could nae been opened by anyone else.
Marcus: No, I'm not worried about anything ...
Still deflating like a punctured balloon, she murmurs to herself.
Marcus: The Foundation investigates any arcanists pending registration ... They probably examined every letter set to arrive here recently.
Marcus: 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!
Marcus: 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?
Marcus: 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 ...
Marcus: Oh, but that investigator did imply that the Foundation is not particularly patient. Would he take my indecision as disrespectful?
Marcus: ...
Lightheaded and drained, she braces herself with a fainting step.
The spectral sailors gather around, lifting the fallen letter from the ground together.
James: Raise your head, wee Marcus. I'm sure the lads and I can help!
James: 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?
James: 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.
James: 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.
Donald: 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 ...
Donald: 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 ...
Donald: 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.
James: 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!
James: 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.
Thomas: 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.
Marcus: Really ...? Would you be willing to share your pasts and perhaps even reveal the truth about your deaths?!
Thomas: Of course, Marcus. You're our best ... and our only mate. Besides ourselves.
Donald: I-I also want ... to show more of this place to people ... before we're completely forgotten by the world ...
Marcus: Thank you so much, all of you.
She bows sincerely, before producing her pen and papers.
James: 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.
James: 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 ...
James: 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.
Thomas: Oi, what a load of bilge! If you write down anything this salty old bletherer tells you, you'll nae have a reader left.
Donald: 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?
James: 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!
Donald: 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.
Marcus: Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please quiet yourselves! We'll do it by turns ...
Thomas: 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.
Thomas: 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.
Thomas: 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 ...
Thomas: 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.
Thomas: 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 ...
Thomas: 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 ...
Thomas: 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.
Thomas: 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!
Marcus: Oh my, that is truly astounding ...
Thomas: 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.
Donald: We-well, ah, Ms. Marcus, I don't mean to interrupt, only, I don't think that really happened ...
Thomas: 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!
Thomas: Provided, of course, that you choose it as the feature of your next edition.
Marcus: I …
Her motionless pen gives away her hesitation.
Donald: Perhaps ... you might like to listen to my story first, Miss Marcus.
Donald: 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.
Donald: Eilean Mor and its six nearby islands were all together referred to as the Seven Holy Isles.
Donald: 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 ...
Donald: 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.
Donald: 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.
Donald: I hoped to uncover the truth about the Pygmies' Isle ...
Thomas: So ... did you succeed?
Donald: 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.
James: 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.
Thomas: Sorry, lad, but your story is even mustier than the Captain's, and his was rustier than a knight's armor!
Thomas: Aye, it might impress a few old folks, but other than that, it's a dud!
Donald: 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.
James: 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.
Thomas: 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!
James: 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 ...
Donald: 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 ...
James: I …
Their debate is headed nowhere fast.
Donald: I think ... we ought to leave it up to Ms. Marcus to decide.
Thomas: …
James: …
The three shift their gazes onto the girl before them.
Marcus: …
Marcus: Captain James's recollection is certainly the longest and most complete. I'm sure the readers will appreciate his thoroughness ...
Marcus: But Thomas's experiences have the closest ties to the outside world and the mysteries of their deaths, which might corroborate some circulating rumors ...
Marcus: As for the story of the Pygmies Isle ... It seems like it might have the most rich historical elements ...
Marcus: …
Marcus: 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.
Marcus: I …
Ghosts: Ms. Marcus ...
Her lips tremble slightly along with the manuscript paper in her hand.
Marcus: I-I will include all of your stories. I promise!
Marcus: …
Marcus: "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."
Marcus: "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.
Marcus: 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.
