Étienne found it in the drying mud, when the sun came out after the storm. A black, smooth stone that didn’t feel like a stone at all. When his thumb brushed the surface, it came alive.
It glowed like lightning was trapped in it. It flashed colors that no dye could make. Even letters that he could almost read, though not quite. “Bonjour.” He dropped the stone with a cry.
When Father Arnaud arrived, Étienne crossed himself before explaining. “It spoke,” he whispered. “Almost like French.”
The priest frowned and knelt beside it. He could see his face reflected in its surface. He thought he looked old. His face looked warped. He could see his lips move, but the reflection spoke back, silently, half a heartbeat too late. “A mirror,” he murmured. “Of some sort.”
He took it back to the small church, wrapped in a cloth. Some of the villagers followed.
When he laid it on the altar, its light bloomed again. A square of colors, with little pictures. A sundial. A heart. The sun. Numbers.
The villagers gasped, gathering round.
“A heart,” someone whispered. “The Sacred Heart.”
“The sundial,” said another, “a warning of the end of days.”
Father Arnaud hesitantly touched one of the images. A bright colored circle. The picture rippled and changed, his own face again, eyes wide. Frozen, not moving.
“It sees,” he said hoarsely. “It sees and remembers.”
Some villagers came back that night, in secret. To see la pierre brillante, the bright stone. When they touched it, it would wake for a few moments. Showing a window full of tiny suns and signs.
At dawn, two monks from the abbey came. Father Arnaud had sent word. An older man, and a younger one with a purple scar on his cheek. They lit candles, studied the stone.
“It answers to my touch,” said the younger. “See? It pulses like a heartbeat when I press it.”
The older leaned close. “There’s order here. Patterns and squares.”
“Forbidden knowledge,” breathed Father Arnaud. “It speaks in light.”
The older monk nodded. “But so did the burning bush.”
They debated all day. Was it holy, or profane? They couldn’t agree, nor could they look away. But as evening fell, the glow dimmed. The stone darkened slightly, colors dulling.
When the younger man touched it next, the light didn’t return. Instead, an image appeared. A small bottle, a thin red line within it.
They whispered to each other.
“Does it bleed?”
“Is that its heart?”
The surface went black.
They sealed it in wax and linen, and carried it back to the abbey. The scribe recorded one line for their archives. An object of light, emitting symbols and reflections.
Two centuries later, when masons were making repairs, they found the box. The thing inside was dull, and lifeless. But its face was still smooth and glassy. When the dust was wiped away, it caught the light.