Brittany liked naming villages after saints. Around the sixth century AD, monks built Saint Tudur Monastery here. People later began settling in the area, building houses around the monastery, and a village gradually took shape.
In the ninth century AD, the Vikings began raiding mainland Europe. This small town near the sea and river was inevitably plundered, but the residents soon returned and rebuilt the village. Some of Brittany's finest half-timbered houses lined the main street. They were very well maintained, their wooden beams painted in bright colors. The innkeeper's daughter, Mina, asked me whether these houses were prettier than those in Paris.
This was how we met. The clothes I had been wearing when I arrived, along with my coat and travel blanket, had vanished. Just as I was searching everywhere for them, Mina appeared. She had soaked them in the "magic fountain."
I dared say the bishops would have been furious to hear her put it that way, but that was how worship worked here. Magic was used against lesser demons, and the ancient magical spring had become an object of pilgrimage.
We spent a happy day together. The air was fresh and a cool breeze blew. We walked along the cliffside path, admiring the coastal scenery. A lighthouse stood in the distance. Legend said that on every full-moon night, pirate ghosts were drawn to its light, so the keeper extinguished the lighthouse on that day.
Only those tormented by the night could understand the sweetness and warmth of daylight. My fear gradually faded, and by the fourth day, I even dared to venture out with Van Helsing and Dr. Self.
Dr. Self said to me humbly, in a voice of disbelief and newfound regard, "Come with me, my dear young man."
"Weren't we acting together?" I asked.