It was the darkest part of the year when Linus took an apartment in Cancale at the doorstep to the great grey-green wilds of Bretagne and settled in for what he hoped would be a quiet winter. The waters churned around his kayak, thrashing him left and right, darkening the Emerald Coast to a deep and moody sapphire. The winds were wild under the slate-grey sky of La Manche, hurtling Southward toward France from the restless Irish Sea. He was thrilled with the strength of the waves. He had worked his way around the Pointe de Groin, whipped by the choppy waters of the channel, spurred on by those same unpredictable currents. Eventually, he’d make his way to Saint-Malo, or he’d die trying. 

Linus was ready for a break and pulled his kayak into a cove, scraping its plastic bottom across geologic fangs. As he caught his breath, he let his gaze dance between the hostile grey gyres of the waters and the smooth, smoky expanse of the sky. He watched the oyster ships out in deeper waters, charging at one another now, retreating a bit, flashing signals and lighting fires on deck. They had been fighting since the summer, when British fishermen came too close to French territorial waters, and there had been ugly moments already. One ship rammed another, sending both crews overboard. Nobody was hurt and the two ships were towed back to their respective countries, but the season remained tense, and the arrival and departure of Christmas had done nothing to dampen the hatred that the two groups felt for one another. If anything, the fear that one group might swoop in to sweep the oyster beds clean if the other took a moment away to be with family had heightened the animosity between them.

As his graze drifted from the conflict on the horizon Linus spied a nearby rock shaped remarkably like a squatting man, sitting atop an outcrop. Linus drew his eyes over the rocks around him, realizing he was surrounded by myriad sculptures, hundreds of carvings: people and body parts, faces straining to escape the confines of the granite coastline, animals both real and imaginary, ranging in size from the smallest insect to a full-sized crocodile, and the fully formed dwarven man, frozen mid-squat. Linus sat down next to the petrified dwarf and cast his eyes out across the frigid expanse of La Manche. It was then that Linus saw the light for the first time, as clearly as if the sun had given up on trying to break through the iron clouds and had instead decided to emerge from under the water.

It came in three bursts that first time, light pouring up out of the water like a long-lost beacon, still hard at work even after being reclaimed by the sea. But after the third beam of light, it disappeared, and though Linus waited more than an hour and a half, re-entering the water and paddling around the small bay, he could not pinpoint its location. When his search on the water proved futile, he climbed back up to sit next to the statue of the dwarf, hoping to see the light again. After a few minutes, he heard a soft cough and turned to see a round-faced Frenchman, standing with his jacket pulled tightly around him, a comically large scarf wound so deep around his throat and mouth it was a surprise the sound of his cough could escape its woolly depths.

“Excusez-moi? Monsieur?” The man’s voice could have easily been lost in the crash of the waves had its owner not been standing mere feet behind Linus. 

“Hello,” said Linus, jealousy shot through his veins. He suddenly hated the idea that someone else might see his light. 

“Hello.” 

“Did you know these were here?” 

“Yes, monsieur, of course I did, I’m the ticket taker.” 

“The ticket taker?” 

“Yes, I sell the tickets to the park.”

“Park?” 

“Les Rochers Sculptés de Rotheneuf.” 

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t see a sign. How much is admission?” 

“Three euros.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Of course.”

With that, the ticket taker picked his way across the sculptures that lay strewn haphazardly, evidently not interested in staying out in the weather any longer than was necessary. Linus remained with the dwarven rock for a while longer, especially since he had paid entrance. As he looked again for the light, his mind wandered to the series of events that had landed him here in this strange place, alone. 

He had been in France almost a decade. After a failed pregnancy in Lyon prophesied a failed marriage in Paris which then foreshadowed a failed business in Arcachon, he had decided the only thing worse than staying in France was admitting defeat and leaving, returning to live with his parents in their sensible flat in Stockholm. Cancale appealed to him precisely because it was not a winter destination.  The winter should be mild. The tourists would have all but vanished, and if a wave took him out to sea, well then that was just how it would be. He certainly hadn’t anticipated or desired anything as mysterious as the light. But the enigma was seared on his brain, and Linus simply could not look away now.

When the light refused to reappear, Linus packed himself back into his kayak. He’d have to fight hard against the currents to make it back to Cancale before dark. The sun had never shone that day. Whatever light it cast onto the slate roof of the sky was fading fast. Later, as Linus warmed himself by the electric heater and drank linden tea spiked with calvados, he devised a plan to find the source of the light, no matter how long it took him.

The next day, Linus went out again, though his limbs were leaden and his joints stiff. The weather forced him to turn back long before he got to Rotheneuf. The following morning, desperate to see the light again, Linus drove his small teal Citroen directly to Rotheneuf, paid the ticket taker another three euros, and allowed the spray to slap him a while as he cowered next to the dwarf and watched the inlet for signs of the light. The fishermen were out in full force, patrolling the oyster beds and menacing one another. Linus considered taking a video as they jousted and parried. Some newspaper might pay for footage like this. They’d been covering these so-called Oyster Wars for the better part of the year, but the reports were always from sailors or members of the coast guard who got involved after the drama had mostly played out. The photos simply showed boats in dry dock and a few dour, salt-burned sailors. 

Just as he decided to take his phone out to begin recording, he caught a glimpse of the light. It didn’t beat multiple times but gleamed only once, steady and stark, before fading into darkness. This was everything Linus needed. He took a picture of the cove from where he sat, marked the photo with an “X” where the light had been, collected his things, and bid the dwarf and the ticket taker a bonne journée on his way back to the car.

Before breakfast the next morning, Linus had acquired a scuba tank from the only operator who had not completely shut down for the season. 

“You must be careful, Monsieur. The oyster beds are a dangerous place to be now. Les Brittaniques.” He scowled. “In any event, please have the equipment back by sixteen hours, four. We close early in the winter, and there will be little light by then.” 

Linus arrived back at Rothenuf with his gear, paying another three euros to the ticket taker, who began to follow Linus, prattling on about the work of the retired catholic priest who, between 1894 and 1907, took it upon himself to carve the French coast into a menagerie of surrealism. He mused, mostly to himself, whether UNESCO or at least the French Republic might ever classify it as patrimoine. But as Linus hauled the scuba tank along, the ticket taker seemed to recognize that neither he nor the sculptures were the cause of Linus’ repeat visits, and he left with a silent sniff.

When Linus crawled into the tumbling surf, there were no blasts of light to follow, no pulsing stars, no submerged lighthouses or abandoned wrecks to explore. The seabed was exactly as it should be: craggy and speckled with mollusks of the many varieties for which Cancale had become famous. The tides were strong, but with some work Linus found the approximate area he’d indicated on his photo, and he scoured the ocean floor for anything remarkable. Linus was under water a long time before he discovered what he was looking for—but when he did, it was unmistakable. One oyster, one sole oyster otherwise indistinguishable from the others, glowed pink and ochre at its edges as if contained within was all the light from several suns. Looking directly at the edge of the oyster left Linus blinking momentarily, trying to readjust his sight to the semi-dark of the seawater. All around, jade seaweed waved in the currents, unconcerned by the mystery Linus uncovered.

The oyster would not budge. It could neither be opened nor dislodged no matter how much force Linus applied, though getting a proper grip was difficult given the way the riptide bowled him over from time to time, loosening his fingers from the slick skin of algae covering the surface of the shell. Linus even kicked it a few times though his flippers caught the water and prevented him from getting enough speed to do anything except graze it with his heel.

The scuba master was surprised when Linus asked to rent the gear again the next day but was even more surprised when Linus arrived with a crowbar, hammer, and a small glass jar. 

“What will you do with that Monsieur?” 

“I’m going to collect an oyster.” 

“A single oyster, Monsieur? Surely you can get a dozen at Leclerc for less than ten euros.” The scuba master couldn’t tell if Linus was joking when he said it was to be a pet. 

The journey to the oyster beds, familiar as it had become, was not without its own surprises. The ticket taker barred Linus’ way when he arrived, glancing uneasily down at the crowbar. 

“Les Rochers Sculptés de Rotheneuf cannot be visited with a crowbar. C’est pas possible. C’est interdit.” 

Linus packed himself and his gear and his disappointment back into his small teal Citroen and found a parking area near the coast that would permit him access to a cove where he could enter the water and begin his hunt. The day had been a wet one, misting on and off throughout the morning. But as the afternoon wore on, the clouds hung ever darker on the horizon and threatened a true storm before night was finished. The fishermen had swarmed into the cove after lunch and were busy collecting their hauls. Some of the French sailors waved at him as cheerfully as they could muster, but others scowled as he entered the water, shining their lights at him through the deepening fog in case he was some sort of British operative.

The oyster was right where he left it, brimming with light. Gold threads played at the edge of the shell, shimmering and rippling as the twilight water swirled about, but no rays slipped beyond the edge into the depths. Linus worked quickly, prying the oyster up from its bed, remarking how easily it came up from the rocky bottom, and placing it within the jar with sufficient seawater for the return home. He wondered what a bivalve might eat, or how often the water should be changed. He wondered if the oyster might lose its light after leaving its spot on the ocean floor, or if the light would change in quality, dimming or becoming nuclear or going supernova on his kitchen counter. For its part, the oyster simply sat at the bottom of the jar, vibrating with energy and giving away no clues about what it might do in its new home.

Linus sped home, pushing the Citroen through all five of its gears before reaching the top of the first hill, and, once inside the house, he dropped his gear and set the oyster jar on the table. It did nothing, sharing none of its luminosity, still detectable as a faint glow at its edges. It remained firmly shut, and Linus’ apartment remained shrouded in the dark of winter. Linus sat speaking to it, pleading with it to open, to no avail. He shook the jar and poked the oyster with the blunt end of the crowbar but only caused the glow to dim a bit. Disappointed, Linus decided to rinse the seawater off his body and prepare for bed. The mystery of the oyster would have to wait for a cup of linden tea spiked with calvados and a bit of raclette melted across bread.

It was the scuba master who found Linus the next afternoon, just after he had closed shop in the four o’clock hour. Linus hadn’t returned the gear but had given a local address on his forms, so the scuba master arrived, unannounced, to find the house dark and quiet, with the small teal Citroen parked just outside. It took very little prompting from the scuba master to make the landlord extremely concerned about Linus’ welfare, and he had opened the apartment just to confirm nothing was amiss. There sat Linus at the table, head rolled back and eyes wide in ecstasy, a grin spread permanently from ear to ear. And there sat the oyster on the table, wide open and reeking of death, dark as the December afternoon.