‘My child … I never said that She would appear to you.’

Sister Anne stared at the opposite wall, the receiver pressed to her ear. The words came back to her, the words she had felt she understood, the words that had led her here, to North Finistère, to the edge of the ancient County of Léon, and she realized that she had been deceived by the single word – witness.

It came to me in a dream last night – you’ll witness an apparition of the Blessed Virgin in Brittany.

Behind her, the hubbub of customers coming in, greeting the owner, ordering coffees or beers; the rumble of the coffee machine, the clink of cups, the shriek of metal as chairs were pulled out. And that was all it took. Sister Anne’s whole world was completely capsized. She hung up the phone and walked back through the cafe, her face ashen, her steps faltering. She pushed open the door, saw the ground begin to shift and the mist close in, the mist that contained the soul of every sailor lost at sea, about to swallow her whole.

‘Sister Anne!’

A pair of arms caught her as she fell. She could not see who it was, could see nothing but the veil before her eyes; she surrendered herself to the arms that were supporting her, sheltering her from the drizzle. Seated on a bench, she brought a feverish hand to her brow.

‘Would you like a glass of water? A little sugar, maybe?’

Next to her stood Father Erwann, with his compassionate gaze and his reassuring smile. There was not a single wrinkle on his forehead, he was completely beardless, as yet untouched by the vicissitudes of time. Behind his thick glasses, the eyes of the young priest possessed a self-assurance common to those who had chosen prayer as a means of connecting to the world. He kept his eyes on her, still supporting her arm, and this attention bothered Sister Anne, as it exposed a lack of decorum that went against her character.

‘I just missed the step and lost my balance. There’s nothing more to it. We can go now, Father.’

The priest did not insist and released his grip. A cloak of rain enveloped the old port before them. Beyond the harbour, the receding tide revealed wet, grey sand with pleasure boats sunk into its cement-like sludge, their shipwrecked hulls waiting for high tide to raise them up and restore them.

The priest clasped his hands in his lap.

‘Sister Delphine will not be joining us. I’m afraid the sea does not agree with her.’

Father Erwann was thinking about his parish. In the past two days it seemed utterly changed. Suddenly, people were crowding into his church, asking him to confirm or deny the rumours that were circulating everywhere – in the shops, in the brasseries, on every street corner and alleyway – that over on the Isle of Batz there was a boy who had seen the Blessed Virgin. Some named the lad as Isaac, the son of a widower called Alan; some claimed that both father and son had been unstable since the death of Alan’s wife, that they had become withdrawn, holing themselves up in a house that had been crumbling away for more than a decade. Others disputed this, insisting that they had seen Isaac in a state of rapture that had sent shivers down their spine, something no one could feign. Everyone offered a different opinion, defended the improbable, argued over what was truth and what was falsehood, and it was left to Father Erwann to calm them, to suggest he go and meet the lad himself and try to shed some light on these claims.

‘You’ve seen the boy, Sister Anne … Do you think he’s telling the truth?’

‘It’s not for me to judge, Father.’

After a moment, they set off, walking along the deserted shore. Since it was low tide, they would have to walk six hundred metres across the concrete jetty to reach the launch. They stepped on to the pier, which towered several metres above the water and was buffeted by fierce winds. Without thinking, they bowed their heads as they braved the fierce gusts; below them, between the pillars, was a vast expanse of scree, boulders covered with brackish seaweed, the ancient wounds that the coast carried within its memory. They walked on, leaning into the wind, battling the invisible force that impeded their progress towards the boat.

Just before they boarded, Father Erwann paused: in an instant, his face changed and now bore a grave look that Sister Anne had not witnessed while they were sitting on the bench. It was as though he was intimidated by the prospect of the crossing – not physically but spiritually.

‘If I’m honest, I hope the lad’s not telling the truth …’

He gazed at the island, uneasy about what he might encounter there, overwhelmed by a sense of responsibility he had never envisaged when he took holy orders.

‘History tells us that being a visionary is rarely a good thing.’

A pendulum ticked away the seconds, every swing followed by a dull clank that marked each moment of silence in the room. The half-open shutters let in a wan light. A film of dust lay over the shelves; in every corner, balls of fluff lay waiting to be vacuumed up; sand was ground into the wool pile of the threadbare carpet. The house was so neglected, the very walls seemed to be crumbling.

‘Tell me, Isaac, is it true that you see the Blessed Virgin?’

On the sofa, with his jacket unbuttoned to reveal the clerical collar that singled him out from the layperson, elbows propped on his knees, Father Erwann sat stiffly, doing his utmost to mask his sense of inner dread.

‘I never said it was the Blessed Virgin.’

Isaac settled his hands on the armrests of the chair, fingers nervously plucking at the fabric. He knew that the circumstances required him to offer up some explanation. The previous day, he had been all too aware of the troubled looks of those gathered on the headland, the hands that touched his shoulder, the prayers whispered as he passed. It was a curious feeling, one he had found so unsettling at first that he had almost turned back home; he did not understand the meaning of the flowers, the burning candles, these strangers he had not invited approaching him piteously, as though he were the bearer of some promise, as though his personal experience now belonged to other people.

‘So what is it that appears to you? I mean, you do see something, don’t you?’

‘I see a woman.’

Standing in the doorway, leaning against the wall, Alan watched his son talk to the priest as though their conversation were completely normal, as though nothing in what he was saying was implausible. All his life, Isaac had stood apart. He had attracted attention, firstly because he had a sad and gentle face, secondly because his mother’s death meant that he was someone to be pitied, a boy deprived of a mother’s love. Isaac’s presence elicited a whole gamut of emotions – curiosity, admiration and pity, but also violence – and, as if it were not enough that he already stood out, that he seemed condemned to be different, now people were suggesting that he had spoken to the Blessed Virgin.

‘Can you describe her? Does she speak to you?’

The adolescent looked to be deep in thought, and everyone leaned forward, keenly observing his silence, trying to determine whether Isaac was genuinely remembering something or whether he was pretending, choosing words at random, pleased by the naive interest people seemed to be taking in him.

‘“In the past I have already warned … The hearts of men are hardened. They forget that Heaven is watching.”’

A sudden chime as the clock struck four, a series of notes that echoed in the hushed room, marking the passage of time. Gradually, the sound faded, and silence settled once more over the room.

‘Why you?’

She had finally spoken up. Standing behind the sofa, in the shadow of Father Erwann, Sister Anne reminded everyone of her presence; until now she had been utterly silent, waiting with bated breath, mute witness to a confession she could no longer endure.

‘Why would the Blessed Virgin appear to you? To you?’

She had sensed the feeling welling inside her, coursing beneath her skin, like a fever radiating from the nape of her neck to the tips of her fingers; a deep, dull ache that racked her body in a way her faith had never done. She was finally discovering, finally grasping, what it meant to hate.

‘You’re not even a believer … I’m sure you’ve never prayed to her.’

‘Sister Anne.’

‘Such visions must be earned … You have not earned this, you don’t even want it! I do!’

‘Sister Anne!’

Father Erwann got to his feet and stared at the nun. He no longer recognized her; the radiant face with its quiet, unfailing serenity was twisted, contorted by some terrible thing the young priest would never have suspected. Almost instantly, Sister Anne turned and fled the place where she had just revealed her sin; only her voice still echoed, her strangulated words, like a curse called down upon this place.

The day had begun to fade. The dusk was muffled by a thick layer of blue-grey cloud. The coast was silent and serene. Lights flickered on the headland; lanterns, candles sheltered from the breeze. Around the base of the statue of the Virgin lay scallop shells, orange-pink, perfectly chiselled ornaments from the sea; here and there amid the grass stood small cairns fashioned from stones, markers of a sacred place. Sprays of lilies, columbines, roses, irises and other flowers were strewn across the patch of ground that had become a shrine.

‘He’s coming.’

A whisper rippled along the headland: the shadowy figure of the boy had just appeared on the path. All voices trailed away. Candles were held aloft. In the long seconds of hushed silence, Isaac approached, effortlessly moving through the throng of people. Behind the child, Father Erwann was staring in wonder at the scene, these hands reaching out to touch the boy’s curls, the rosary beads held close to hearts. There were soft murmurs and prayers as Isaac slowly passed among them; in the midst of this crowd, he looked frail, too young to understand the searching eyes. He could have turned on his heel and fled this unwanted attention, since even the stoutest soul would baulk at this level of expectation. Yet he walked on, oblivious to their invocations, seeing nothing but the darkening sky. Suddenly, he fell to his knees. Instantly, there came a tumult of cries and jostling bodies as the crowd surged towards him.

‘Don’t touch him!’

Madenn suddenly appeared and repelled the heaving crowd, ordering them to take a step back. People pushed and shoved, craning their necks to get a glimpse of Isaac. The tightly crammed throng seemed to be in danger of tumbling off the outcrop on to the rocks below at any moment. It looked like every crowd that had ever existed, every horde that had come to view religious ecstasy, to witness a miracle, some proof that the Blessed Virgin still visited the earth, proof that humankind still warranted her grace.

Madenn spread her arms wide to protect the boy behind her. The last light withdrew from the coast, turning the crowd into a dark, quivering mass. Madenn watched every gesture, every movement, keenly aware that nothing was more unpredictable than an excitable mass of people, that a single shout could shatter this fragile balance. After a moment, she noticed a distant figure further along the path: the woman’s arms hung limply by her sides and she did not move, as though disdaining to come closer, as though scorning the impassioned crowd. The breeze lifted the veil that covered her hair. Still, she stood, watching from a distance, a frozen shadow robbed of every breath.

The cry of seagulls, close at hand, strangely close; the lapping of waves. The cold was all around. Sister Anne opened her eyes and was surprised to see a pale glow. The only roof above her was the sky; her only bed, a sandy hollow. She had taken a fall. She remembered now, last night: the memory came back to her … She had fallen into the ditch but had not called out for help. After a time, she had walked away from the headland, tired of the gullible crowd, of the prostrate child. She had carried on walking, hands brushing the tall grasses, not knowing where the dark path might lead her. After a while, the ground had begun to slope steeply and she had descended, feeling the sand beneath her feet, listening to the sea. Then, suddenly, the ground had opened up beneath her and she had tumbled into the darkness.

During the night, she had opened her eyes and stared up at the clouds as they receded, at the moon, the bluish glow unique to the coast, the starry firmament that she had never seen before, the one that people in cities could never see; the one they had all but forgotten, but which still existed, there, above the tall buildings that blotted out the sky and dulled its radiance. She had wanted to keep looking at it, to contemplate each new star as it revealed itself to her eye, but she had sunk back into unconsciousness, as though death were calling her, here on this bed of fine sand – or she wished it were so, because now that she was awake again, this return to consciousness, this resurgence of memories, filled her with dread.

She sat up. Damp sand stuck to her hands, so she rubbed her palms together and looked around. The pale shore was deserted. The sea was calm and clear, the tide slowly coming in. To her right, rising above the water, she saw the lonely headland, the flowers that had tumbled on to the beach, the melted wax of the candles, the absence of the faithful now that the boy had gone; there was only the little statue of the Virgin, ringed with rosary beads, patiently waiting for the next call to prayer.