Jim made for the public library, with the intention of pulling together the leads he had on Marguerita. There were two, the museum and her Christian name. The academic lead had been eliminated by his fruitless visit to the University.

He removed his notebook and recorded the two solid facts he had. All he had to do was open the laptop and do some digging online, but something stopped him. She was here, in this city somewhere, perhaps a few hundred metres from the very spot where he sat.

The day had been a disappointment and he decided to go home. The whole affair was beginning to exhaust him physically and mentally.

***

The following morning, Jim woke at 4 a.m. This was his usual time to write. He’d suffered from writer’s block since graduating from his Master’s in Creative Writing. The course had given him a fancy certificate, but erased any creativity he possessed.

Mornings like this had typically led to a panic attack as painful as any physical injury, exacerbated by alcohol from the previous day. However, this morning, his second consecutive day without a drink, caused his creative juices to return. He pulled on his dressing gown and began to write at the small table in the kitchen.

As his pen touched the paper, his left elbow began to itch. He embraced the sensation, and the pen took flight across the page.

15 a viz Genver, e bloaz hon Aotrou, 1998. Ploubazlanec, Breiz.

Ar 2CV Fourgannette gwallgaset a lammas war blasenn kêriadenn Ploubazlanec. Ar c’heflusker Boxer daou zilindroù a gouezhas, ha goude-se e varvas…

Jim stopped writing. Or whoever had taken over his pen did, for the writing on the page was not English. The pen took up again, and he allowed it to flow over the page, only stopping when the dry nib scratched across the paper. Three times, he recharged the syringe with ink until the pen was finally still. He stared at the unfamiliar handwriting on the pages in the equally puzzling language. Over forty pages of a mystery that set the hairs on the back of his neck on edge.

During the time, the temperature had dropped, and there was a distinct aroma in the room. The ambience was familiar to him, but from where, he couldn’t fathom. He looked at the first few words on page one.

Ploubazlanec, Breizh.

Jim had seen this somewhere before. It eluded him, as did the sensory experience. Reading on, another word jumped out and realisation washed over him in a cold rush that took his breath away.

Island

Iceland, the sea, fishing, Breizh.

“Brittany!” He called out loud to the empty room. The pages of his book contained hundreds, if not thousands, of words in the Breton language. Jim closed his eyes and concentrated.

“Are you there? Who are you?” He gave up on the past tense in a kind of respect for the dead.

‘You have it now. My story. I have carried it for so long. Please show it to the world.’ So the spirits were not only voices in his head, he concluded, as he closed his notebook.

“May I know your name?” He asked. His respect for the spirits was growing with every encounter.

‘My original name was Yann, Jean in French, John in your tongue. Nevertheless, I passed from the world as João.  I was rescued by Portuguese fishermen when my vessel was lost with all hands, only to perish two days later from Siren’s Return. You have my story. Tell it to the world.

With that, the spirit was gone. Jim knew this because he experienced the same vacant sensation as with the previous two visitors. He returned to the book, opened it and stared at the strange scrawling writing covering the pages. Whipping out his phone, he selected the Translate app. Although the words were difficult to make out, both because of their obscure language and the virtually illegible hand, Jim managed to transcribe the first half dozen lines.

15 a viz Genver, e bloaz hon Aotrou, 1998. Ploubazlanec, Breiz.

Ar 2CV Fourgannette gwallgaset a lammas war blasenn kêriadenn Ploubazlanec. Ar c’heflusker Boxer daou zilindroù a gouezhas, ha goude-se e varvas.

The phrases made no sense, except for the words he recognised and Fourgannette, which he knew was a van produced by Citroën decades ago. He selected Breton on the left and English on the right, then pressed Return. 

January 15th, in the year of our Lord, 1998. Ploubazlanec, Brittany.

The battered 2CV Fourgonnette bounced into the village square in Ploubazlanec. The two-cylinder Boxer engine coughed, then died.

The words on the right were not only familiar, they were his own! He’d written them as part of his Master’s assignment in Spring of 2022. What could this mean?