‘Come, Sister.’
This voice, calling to her, appealing to her to come back, and behind her the whisper of the sea, also calling to her. Sister Anne froze. She stood motionless on the rock, suddenly aware of the rough, slippery surface beneath her feet, of her precarious balance – her next act would be the last. Suddenly she flinched as a wave crashed against the rock, and she felt the cold embrace of the icy water. She grabbed the waiting hand – instinct reacting more swiftly than reason – and everything came together in that touch, that first sense of rediscovered warmth, reconnecting her with the world. She allowed herself to be led away, gazing down at the black rocks, no longer afraid of falling, watching the waves claw at her ankles, enraged that she had abandoned her plan. She gripped the hand, clung to this boy who, against all expectations, beyond all prayer, had come to find her; no moment would ever rival the gratitude she felt.
A steep slope, then the long grass: she had come back, could feel the ground beneath her feet, this earth to which men belonged. In the distance lay the petrol-blue sea, a vast abyss between two coastlines. The rock on which she had stood a moment earlier was gone – she scoured the reef, but it was nowhere to be seen; it had drowned without her. She was shivering all over, but not from the cold so much as from the knowledge that she had been down there, standing on the rock that was now submerged: a few more seconds and everything might have been different.
Isaac stared at her anxiously, wanting to make sure Sister Anne wouldn’t turn back towards the sea. This face that she had bitterly hated, now shining in the half-light, was filled with a gentleness that she had refused to see. She could still feel his hand clasping hers; its imprint would always be with her, there in the hollow of her hand, a gift from this stony coastline. As if this land had finally deigned to grant her something.
‘You should go – the last launch to the mainland leaves in twenty minutes. I’ve got to get back; my father thinks I’m up in my bedroom.’
The boy vanished into the darkness as though he had never been there, as though Sister Anne had only dreamed that he had come to find her, there in that rocky graveyard. She walked away, a little dazed, heading up the dirt track towards the road. The crashing waves behind drowned out all other sound, so she did not hear the dull thud of a body falling to the ground. She hurried back to the harbour, her skirts gathered up, running beneath the pale glow of the streetlamps; far below, heavy blows rained down on the face she had just left, and a rasping, animal breath echoed through the darkness.
Michel Bourdieu held his hands under the tap, the icy water streaming over his grazed and aching knuckles. Slowly, he rubbed his hands together, staring straight ahead. His skin had swollen. The pale red water trickled away. He tried to open his clenched fists but failed; the pain in his knuckles was too intense. A spatter of crimson droplets: a stark contrast to the white porcelain of the sink. Out in the hallway, the packed suitcase had stood since the early evening; some clothes for Julia and for his wife, who had stayed at the hospital with their daughter. He would take the case to them tomorrow morning. Seeing them both again, hugging his wife, kissing his daughter’s forehead – the very thought made his heart swell with a profound happiness: as he stood by the sink, Michel Bourdieu was smiling, even though there was dried blood stuck to his skin and his hands were clenched into fists he could not open, as though he were still punching, as though he could still feel death seeping into Isaac’s body.
It was worse than anything Hugo could have imagined. His premonition, the terrible knot he had felt in the pit of his stomach for days, was nothing compared to what he was feeling now: this terrible wave of nausea as he raced down the road, running through the darkness as though it were day. He had known from the moment he saw his father standing in the kitchen – the crimson hands, the blood no amount of water could wash away – he had known but he had to go and see for himself, to prove that his foreboding had been wrong, to allow himself a few more seconds of disbelief.
There, by the side of the road in the long grass, an arm extended, a shock of curly hair, the viscous blood; a face unrecognizable, destroyed by blows.
Ethereal rifts appeared above the coastline as the clouds parted and the waning moon shone through, its bright glow spilling over everything: the silvery gleam of the rocks; the shimmer of the sea, the translucent waves; the white sand of the shore, the tall grasses, the bands of seaweed; the whole island bathed in the same blue radiance.
Hugo looked up into the broken sky, where scudding gossamer clouds traced a nebulous halo around the moon. Leaving the shattered body at his feet, he followed the light – the moon his only landmark, the only warmth in this cold night. Beneath his feet, the slope fell sharply towards the shore with its damp cold sand. Around him, whispers, rustlings, voices everywhere. This was unlike the silence he had known, or perhaps he had been mistaken, had misconstrued the absence of sound to mean the absence of other lives; that must be it, because things seemed to begin only when everything else fell silent. Suddenly, he felt water lapping at his ankles, so cold it was almost painful. He had never before set foot in the sea, never dived into a swimming pool, his fear of the water even greater than his fear of his father. He sank into the shifting ground, gazing up at the sky, waiting for the moment when his feet could not touch the bottom, waiting for the first wave.
The rainstorm lashing the house. Heavy drops pounding the tiles on the roof, suffocating the silent house. In the bedroom, Sister Anne stands motionless, looking at the little girl who is looking back at her. She does not speak, so astonished is she that she can finally be seen, that the child is looking at her for the first time.
A creak at the bottom of the stairs – he is coming. The little girl can hear it too, but she is not worried: in her eyes there is a confidence that is as moving as it is unexpected. Sister Anne walks towards the door, groping in the darkness, and finally she can feel an unfamiliar object; she looks down to see what she has found: a lock. Beneath the door handle, there is a lock. Footsteps outside; he is already on the landing, coming towards the bedroom. Sister Anne turns the key. Beneath her fingers, all the things she had given up hoping for: the click of the lock, the deadbolt firmly anchored in thewall. On the other side, her father realizes what has happened and slams his weight against the door. Sister Anne takes a step back, imagines the raised fist pounding, trying to force the door open. The hammering grows louder: black fury. The door shudders, then suddenly everything stops.
The footsteps retreat across the landing, go back down the stairs. Soon all she can hear is the rain, the torrential rain cleansing the world outside.
Sister Anne turns; on the bed, the little girl has disappeared.
Sister Delphine gently shook her shoulders, speaking in a low voice, trying to wake her without startling her.
‘Sister Anne …’
She had heard footsteps pacing inside the room, and had come and knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Sister Delphine had opened the door to find Sister Anne standing there in her nightgown, her green eyes wide, frozen, staring at some other world.
She called her name again, and finally Sister Anne came back to herself. She glanced around, confused, unable to understand how she had left her childhood bedroom. The crucifix over the door, the empty wardrobe, the suitcase on the floor: today was the day she would be leaving, Sister Anne remembered now.
‘Are you all right?’
Sister Delphine was holding her arms, concerned and perhaps a little troubled, as though she had unwittingly uncovered one of the secrets that gave Sister Anne her mystique.
Sister Anne took the older nun’s hands: she smiled shyly, her lips trembling, not yet daring to acknowledge the moment.
‘I’m much better now, Sister.’
Sister Delphine was pouring coffee when someone knocked at the door. She set down the cafetiere and went to open it. Sitting at the table, Sister Anne was buttering bread. She had pinned a blue wimple over her hair and hung the Miraculous Medal around her neck. Earlier, while she was getting dressed, it felt as though she were doing these things for the first time; adjusting her white collar, dusting down her blue skirts in front of the mirror – discovering herself in the clothes of a nun. This morning, everything had seemed new.
She heard the front door open, and the sound of voices, but paid them little heed. She thought about her journey home. The bus to Morlaix, the afternoon train. She had decided to drop by the hospital, to visit Julia’s bedside, to confess, to tell Julia’s mother what had happened, how she had forced her daughter to run up that hill. She was not seeking forgiveness; she simply wanted to tell her not to blame Heaven: misfortune never came from above.
‘Sister Anne.’
In the doorway, Father Erwann was grave. He looked suddenly old, all the youthful exuberance drained from his round, beardless face. Behind him, Sister Delphine waved a gnarled hand and leaned on a chair for support.
‘There is no easy way to say this … Isaac was found dead this morning. It was Madenn who found the body. She screamed herself hoarse … she lost her voice completely.’
Sister Anne realized she was still holding the butter knife. She set it down on the plate. The kitchen suddenly felt stifling. She got up and went to the window overlooking the port. The air was utterly still. Not a breath of wind brushed her cheek. She leaned out: high above, a few static clouds were pinned to the sky. No swooping gulls, no cackling laughter. The sea was perfectly tranquil; not a ripple, no movement anywhere. Sister Anne would have preferred a deluge, a roar of thunder, a raging sea, booming waves – deafening fury rather than this muted, frozen coastline.
From nowhere, a cat appeared on the road then scampered off at speed. In the distance, she intuited the first cries. Sister Anne gripped the window frame, closed her eyes, and from that moment, heard nothing more of what happened upon this coast.
Fourteen years later
‘My brother’s body was recovered. The sea brought him back after the earthquake, as though it knew he did not belong in the water. I remember thanking the sea for returning him to us. It’s ridiculous, talking to something that can’t answer back. I suppose you’d say it was the very definition of prayer. We buried him in Roscoff. At first, my mother was reluctant: after all, this coast had taken her son from her – why should she leave him here? Then she remembered all those nights when Hugo went out to gaze at the stars. My brother never found a better place to study the constellations than Brittany … And my mother wanted him to be able to see them still. The sky over the coast is unique. You feel as though it is gazing at you, rather than the other way round. You know what I mean? I’m sorry, this all sounds a little vague. There were so many funerals that day … I was overwhelmed by the crowd. People had come from all over the peninsula to honour those the sea had taken. Almost every house on the island had been affected by the tsunami. Ours was reduced to rubble. They say there’s never been anything like it there. My father’s body was never found; even now, he is officially considered still missing.’
A gentle breeze wafted in through the window, disturbing the dust on the shelves. The library was filled with old calf-bound books, hagiographies, even Latin editions of the New Testament. Time and sunlight had bleached some of the covers, and no one dared touch them for fear the pages would crumble beneath their fingers.
The Mother Superior folded her hands on the desk. She had listened to this story intently, as it shed more light on the events that had so profoundly affected the Mother House fourteen years earlier.
‘And Isaac?’
‘He was never found either.’
The young woman opposite sat bolt upright on the chair, gripping her bag, stoically attempting to keep these memories at bay.
The Mother Superior sighed and turned to the window.
‘You’ll find her in the garden.’
From a distance, she saw her at the bend in the path, on her knees, digging the soil around the rose bushes. Her greying hair was braided into a long plait that fell to the small of her back, and there was an apron tied over her fawn dress. She no longer looked like a Daughter of Charity, yet it was unmistakably her; the same graceful profile, the slender figure, now so different from the other nuns in the convent.
Engrossed as she was in the roses, it took a moment before Sister Anne noticed the young woman standing next to her. She looked up with a warm smile.
‘Are you a postulant? Are you looking for the Mother Superior’s office?’
‘I’m Julia. Julia Bourdieu.’
A warm breeze blew through the cloisters. On the trees, the leaves trembled and whispered. Sparrows hopped along the branches, chirping and pecking.
Sister Anne turned back to her roses, not daring to look at the young woman she now recognized. She had not seen Julia since that day. The ghostly coast. The landscape shrouded in drizzle. Nothing but boundless grey, and the void yawning so very close to her. And the little girl with the wet hair, whose face had been racked by anxiety and fear, now stood before her, all grown up, a living memory here in the convent, come to find her conscience.
‘I won’t take up too much of your time, Sister Anne.’
‘I’m known as Alice now.’
A little unsteadily, she got to her feet and gestured to a nearby bench. The gardens were bustling with spring; the gentle light, the budding flowers, the perfumes forgotten by winter. They sat side by side, Julia clutching her bag, sitting straight and rigid; this stiffness was the only thing that helped her keep her feelings in check.
‘I’ll keep it short. I don’t like to dwell on the past. I don’t know exactly why you tried to take me to the headland that day … You weren’t yourself, I could tell that. It was as though you wanted to hurt me. But … in the end, what you did saved me: it was because of you that I wasn’t on the island the day the earthquake hit.’
As though someone had voiced all her regrets aloud, Sister Anne turned, her eyes filled with fear. She had not gone to the hospital in the end. She had abandoned the idea of visiting Julia’s bedside, of confessing to her mother that she was to blame for the girl’s asthma attack. She had fled the coastline as it began to shake, renounced her nun’s habit – but she had remained here, cleaning and washing within the convent. As a simple laywoman, she was unlike the others – she no longer rose for Lauds, she had turned away from all intense emotion, had carried on her life without seeking ecstasy, and it had been for the best: she could only find rest in indifference.
