Mont Saint-Michel was born of a dream. A dream to reach blue skies and touch her destiny. One day, she closed her eyes, mustered all her might, and burst through the surface of the sea, spiraling up, up, up—twisting and turning and reaching. On tippy-toes, fingertips stretched skyward, still farther the blue seemed to be. There, stranded in the middle place, she was no longer of sea nor of sky. Alone, sad, and sea-battered, she turned to stone. It spread from her skirts pooling on the water’s surface to fingernail-sharpened turrets. Hardened and cold, her destiny dimmed.
One day, a boat full of little men in brown sackcloth with sandaled feet rowed, rowed, rowed toward her shores. She watched, frozen in fear as they shuffled up her corkscrew path. Reaching the top, they busily chipped at the cold stone. She wished to ask the sea to sweep the little men away. But try as she might to cry out, her voice was locked deep inside. Just when she could bear no more, the monks pierced her center. She shuddered, believing her heart would spill into the sea.
Instead, it began to pump. Stronger. Faster. Louder.
She peeled her eyes open, daring to peek at their work. At the center of her heartbeat stood the finest chapel, and from the tallest turret, three happy bells gave her voice.
A monk noticed her marveling. “I’m sorry if we pained you,” he said reverently, “but I had a vision, and we made a long pilgrimage to find you.”
Her voice shook, long dormant. “What was the vision?”
He smiled. “A vision of a timeless beauty. One who bravely rose from the sea, but couldn’t yet see her destiny. Hopes dashed and weary, her heart sank into a tomb of stone.”
As she listened, hope began to glow like the day she’d dared to dream centuries ago. And she understood now. No moment had been wasted. She was fashioned by time and hardship to be a stronghold of prayer and hope.
As clear as a bell, she asked, “May I choose the chimes?”
He nodded. “And what would you have them say?”
She thought for some time, then replied, “Enne-Elle. Enne-Elle.”
“What does it mean?” He asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “But somehow I know it’s what I’m meant to sing.”
For many years, she gathered up the chanted prayers of the monks and cast them out on the wind, sprinkling them like fairy dust over the farmlands of France. She tolled the bells, the refrain echoing far and wide. And though her stone exterior stayed solid, her heart was softer than a feather bed.
And because she had softened, the wind and the sea were inclined to listen. She commissioned the tide to curtsey to the coastline at dawn, holding its breath to allow passage. When the tide rolled back, villagers set out across the shallow seabed — smooth as silk. But quicksand snatched at them with jealous clutches. She asked the sea to raise a path, stretching from her sloping bank across the bay. Then people came, unhindered, beholding her beauty. Each night, the tide returned to tuck her in by moonlight.
Her queenly stature grew with kindness, while her hardened edges guarded fast.
Warplanes that swarmed like buzzards scattered at her command.
She stood unyielding at Mother Nature’s tantrums.
Years went by, more sure of her purpose than ever. And though it came by suffering and longing, she knew it had to be this way, and she was grateful.
One day, in the distance, she saw a little girl walking the long stretch of road. She watched—wondering. Waiting.
The little girl in a white pinafore and wooden sabots that clicked-clacked at each step stopped and curtsied politely.
“Bonjour, Mont Saint-Michel,” she greeted with a lilt in her voice. “I came because ever since I was small, I’ve beheld you from my farm across the bay, and listened as you beckoned me by name on the wind.”
Curious, Mont Saint-Michel asked her, “And what is your name, Dear One?”
“Hélene.”
Mont Saint-Michel was saddened. How could she break her small visitor’s heart? She had never spoken the name.
The little girl continued, “It’s the bells. You sing my name on the bells.”
The regal rock remembered naming the bells’ chimes long before. “Enne-Elle. Enne-Elle.”
Or, she supposed, one might hear, “Elle-enne. Elle-enne.”
Hélene. So this is the one. This is the one my heart called to.
Though for ages she had thawed, this was the first time she smiled.
“Welcome, little one. I’ve been waiting for you.”
~The End~
