When the temporary blindness caused by the nearby lightning had passed, Sister Yolanda could make out a dark figure through the pouring rain.  She watched for a few seconds as they walked towards the old metal gate in the stone walls of the convent, then hurried to make the bed in one of the two small guest rooms. They had not had anyone visit in a long time, because an improved road skirted the woods that the old road had come through.

She heard the knock on their heavy oak door, and then the sound of Sister Rosaria opening it and bringing the visitor into the kitchen to sit by the fire.

The few travelers who did come this way were always welcome to a bowl of soup and a bed for the night. Sister Yolanda, finished with her evening chores, and overcome by curiosity, made her way to the kitchen.

Their guest was a man of medium height. His age was difficult to guess, because although his skin was smooth and his hair black, his eyes looked as though they had seen a lifetime’s worth of good and ill.

Sister Rosaria had taken the man’s outer garments and hung them to dry by the fire. Then she had gone to get warm blankets to wrap around him.

Although his clothes looked worn, he held himself upright with a proud bearing, and Sister Yolanda did not know whether to address him as a peasant or a gentleman.

“Good evening, sir,” she said.

“A good evening to you, sister.”

Sister Rosaria returned with the blankets, and Sister Yolanda filled a bowl with soup for the man. She did not want to pry into the man’s business, but what could bring someone out on a night like this, so far from the closest village?

As though he could read her thoughts, he put down his spoon and looked at her. “I am here to deliver a message to the holy sisters of this convent.”

“Mother Elizabeth, our mother superior, has retired for the night. She can receive your message in the morning. You are welcome to stay the night in our guest room.”

He nodded and turned to finish his soup.

The next morning at breakfast, Mother Catherine made an announcement. “We have a visitor who wishes to read his message to any who would listen to him. He will speak at eleven o’clock, in the front hall, following morning chores.”

Sister Rosaria and Sister Yolanda looked at each other. What could he possibly wish to say? It was all so strange.

At the appointed time, all gathered in the front hall. The man was there, standing in front of a large window. The previous night’s rain had cleared, and patches of blue showed through the wispy clouds that sped across the sky.

All eyes were on the man. He cleared his throat, as if testing it out, and then he began to sing.

He sang in nonsense syllables, or maybe it was a foreign language that none of them had ever heard. But his words were not important.

The song he sang began in a low register, so deep that it could almost have been an animal growl, or the groaning of a ship at sea. He held each note perfectly, with no wavering. His pitch rose gradually, then swooped back to the depths and then higher and higher.

Sister Yolanda felt herself yielding to the notes. She closed her eyes and was carried to the shore of a lake nestled in the mountains. Small islands guarded by fir trees were strewn across the lake, which stretched into a misty distance. She breathed in the cool freshness of the air and the aliveness that was everywhere.

The singer’s voice changed, and there was a kind of bitterness to it now. It was thin and jarring, and made Sister Yolanda think of cold stars in an uncaring infinity.  Unconsciously, she reached for her rosary for comfort.

When she thought that she would be lost forever in the impersonal darkness, the song changed again.  Where before she had felt alone and abandoned, now it was as if the song knew her too well. Memories of every unkind or cruel thing she had ever done flooded her mind. Her heart felt too heavy in her chest and her cheeks burned. It was unbearable, and she felt as if it would be better if she were to die at that very moment.

“Please,” she thought, and then the singing changed again, lifting her up, as though she were a very small girl being held in her mother’s arms. She felt her face become wet with tears, but she felt safe at last.

The song died away, the man inclined his head slightly, and made as if to leave.

“And what is your message?” asked Mother Elizabeth.

“I have delivered it,” he said, and walked out through the iron gates to the woods and the world beyond.

For the rest of her life, though she left the convent shortly afterwards, Sister Yolanda remembered that day. There were days when she was sure that the man had been an angel sent by God, and days when she was equally sure that he had been sent by the great Deceiver. She never spoke of him to anyone.