Hofmann: 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.
James: I'm dreadfully sorry, lass.
James: 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!
James: 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.
Thomas: Oh, it was my part, aye? Here and I thought, the captain goes down with the ship.
Thomas: 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!
Thomas: 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!
James: 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.
Donald: S-Stop please ... both of you ...
Marcus: Sigh ... Please calm down, gentlemen. Let's hear what Donald has to say.
James: …
Thomas: …
Donald: 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 ...
Donald: 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 ...
Donald: I think, that our story, Ms. Marcus's work ... I mean, it should have focused on the mysteries of the Flannan Isles themselves.
Thomas: Well said, Donald!
Donald: A-And you ...
Donald: 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?
Thomas: I just said what I knew, nothing more—no lies, no reservations!
James: 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.
Thomas: …
Donald: A-Actually, Ms. Marcus, I'm afraid, well, maybe this isn't our fault entirely either ...
Marcus: ... You're blaming me?
Donald: 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 ...
Donald: 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.
Thomas: 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!
James: 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.
Donald: Oh, aye, and what makes you say that ...?
Ghosts: &......*%#@!$(......
Marcus: 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?
Marcus: Maybe I'm not truly cut out for this job ...?
Marcus: 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 ...
Marcus: Stories that could be exquisite, delicate, captivating, or at least relatable ...
Marcus: 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.
Marcus: I dreamed that my work would help humankind to understand and accept arcanum ...
Marcus: 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 ...
Marcus: 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 ...
Marcus: 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 ...
Marcus: It's all my fault ...
Marcus covers her face with her palms. But no amount of self-pity can drown out the squabbling spirits.
Marcus: I only hoped to alleviate their loneliness by "reading" this island and documenting its stories ... I just wanted to share them with the world ...
Marcus: 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 ...
Marcus: sob
Marcus: 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.
Marcus: ...?
To her surprise, the argument stops indeed.
Marcus: Did that ... actually work?
Thomas: 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.
Hofmann: Good morning, madam. My name is Hofmann, and I've come a long way to see you.
