The Sounding Light

People recognize Light once in a thousand years. Usually, they confuse wisdom with Darkness and curse it. I am here to keep it alive, even if no one remembers me.

There have been twenty-five of us since the secret was forced underground. All of us are women and we have preserved three names for centuries, alternating each generation. Amata, Sophia and Ysabel. Each name speaks of the light we carry. I am Amata Sophia. My daughter will be Sophia Ysabel. Hers Ysabel Amata. But enough of this, I am always talking when I should be gathering supplies for our next tour.

We leave for Arles tomorrow. It’s the first time I will visit the area and from what mother knows, we will keep to ourselves. There is a sickness in Arles that has yet to run its course. People are dying without symptom or reason. Rich and poor alike have been infected and no one has a cure. We learned about it during evening prayers at our usual place atop Canigou. It was so clear.

Normally, mother leads the chants and recites the ancient words, “The Rose, beloved, fruit of heaven, stands within the Light. Show the way, empower her flesh to bring relief. Protect the blessed.” This night, she handed me the wild rose along with the pear and stepped back.

I had known the words since childhood, but this was the first time I was asked to speak them.

One of my earliest memories was watching an orb of light roll down the sky and envelop the rose, then my mother in a golden cocoon. And myself, as I was bound to her body. I couldn't have been more than a year old. It was warm inside. It hummed. Just a pure tone that seeped into my flesh until it felt like I was a sound. When mother tells the story, she says that I laughed. “Your voice was so clear, I knew you would heal with music.”