A bedtime fairy tale – companion to Heiress of the French Letters
She 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. And there she was, stranded in the middle place. No longer of the sea, but not of the 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. Try as she might to cry out, her voice was locked deep inside. She wished to command the wind to whip or the sea to sweep the little men away. 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 open her eyes, daring to peek at their work. It was the finest chapel, fashioned at the center of her heartbeat, and from the tallest turret, three happy bells gave her voice. A monk noticed her marveling.
“Madame,” he said reverently, “I’m sorry if we pained you. But I had a vision and we made a long pilgrimage to find you.”
Her voice shook, long dormant, as she asked, “What was the vision?”
He smiled, “A vision of a timeless beauty who bravely rose from the sea, but couldn’t yet see her destiny. Hope-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 pick the chimes?”
He nodded simply, “And what would you like them to 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’m sure 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.
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 over the sea floor. The tide agreed, insisting at dusk to return to tuck her in by moonlight and keep her safe. It was an unexpected kindness, and her heart warmed all the more.
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.
Her queenly stature grew with kindness, while her hardened edges guarded fast. The warplanes that swarmed like buzzards scattered at her command, and 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 so 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 wore a white pinafore and wooden sabots that clicked-clacked at each step. When she arrived, she curtsied politely.
“Bonjour, Mont Saint-Michel,” she greeted with a lilt in her voice like a song. “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 patiently listened.
“On the bells … you call my name on the bells,” the girl continued.
“And what is your name, Dear One?”
“Hélene.”
The regal rock remembered naming the bells’ chimes long before, “Enne-Elle. Enne-Elle.” Or, she supposed, one might hear, “Elle-enne. Elle-enne.”
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~
