The Language of Fire Read online

yet he and I stand

  a decade of wisdom

  apart.

  Not one

  of my three brothers

  realizes how fortunate

  he is to be a boy.

  Alone

  In the pasture beyond our farm

  I hide under the high grass and spy.

  Hauviette and my brother Jean

  stand beside each other,

  so close a breath

  could not fit between them.

  I wonder what that feels like,

  to have someone look at you

  the way Jean stares at my friend,

  as though Hauviette alone exists.

  They’re in a meadow

  rich with animals, trees, sunlight—

  yet she is all to him.

  I will know the same feeling

  my sister promises

  when the time is right.

  But sometimes I worry

  that like my brother said,

  something is wrong with me

  and I’ll never understand

  that kind of love.

  Even worse, maybe

  I don’t care.

  One Girl’s Prayer

  Sometimes I wish

  I could be like my sister and friends,

  lining a trousseau

  with the joy and anticipation

  of Christmas morn.

  Sometimes I wish

  I could be like my brothers,

  reckless as cattle run astray

  yet able to own property

  and speak my mind.

  I feel like a book

  that will never be read.

  I contain wisdom,

  but no one will open me

  to discover it.

  And I’ll never

  have the schooling

  to read it myself.

  My Thirteenth Summer

  1425

  After a morning tilling the field

  with my brothers,

  I escape to my father’s garden.

  Flowers stretch toward the clouds,

  humming with insects and color.

  Everything smells golden and round.

  I feel like I belong here.

  Roses and radishes don’t judge—

  they only radiate God’s love.

  Something stirs in the corner,

  a rustling of leaves,

  a great flash of light—

  but when I look,

  I find nothing, no one.

  Jehanne,

  a voice calls out

  clear as a church bell.

  “Who’s there?”

  Jehanne!

  someone cries,

  and the sky flares

  as if it’s lit

  by a thousand suns.

  I search every flower bed,

  every inch of soil,

  but I’m alone.

  Jehanne,

  I hear again.

  “Who speaks to me?

  Where are you?”

  I get no response.

  Nothing to Speak About

  “You look pale, Jehanne,”

  Mother says, and places

  her hand on my temple.

  “Do you feel well?”

  I resist pushing away

  her hand.

  I’m not sure

  what just happened

  in the garden

  or what’s been stirring

  inside me lately, bubbling over

  like an untended broth,

  but it’s probably best

  not to speak about it.

  I fear no one, not even

  my mother, would understand.

  I must have imagined

  someone called my name,

  but it sounded very real.

  Just Before Supper

  Father blusters into the house.

  “The Burgundian

  governor-general of Barrois

  attacked Sermaize.”

  Mother stumbles,

  and my sister and I

  steady her into a chair.

  Father removes his hat

  and lowers his voice.

  “Collot Turlot was killed.”

  I bite the inside

  of my cheek.

  Collot is

  my cousin Mengette’s husband

  and served as an Armagnac soldier.

  My father’s eyes avoid everyone.

  They settle instead on the dusty floor.

  Tears streak my mother’s face.

  She makes no attempt

  to wipe them away,

  as if she wishes to feel drenched

  in her suffering.

  Father sighs.

  “When our enemy approaches,

  we French open our gates.”

  My brother Jean slaps

  the table and says loudly,

  “The dauphin should take up the fight!

  Why does he do nothing?”

  “I suppose warfare is best left

  to kings and soldiers.

  We are farmers and herdsmen.

  What do we know?”

  Father dabs the sweat off his brow.

  “You are the dean of Domrémy,

  Father. You know as much

  as anyone about what goes on,”

  my brother Jacquemin offers.

  My father pats Jacquemin’s back.

  He slides into his chair

  and reaches for his bowl.

  “What do I smell,

  mutton and barley?”

  Still weeping, Mother nods.

  I feel like knocking over the table.

  Why do we French do nothing?

  How can my father not wish to act?

  I think the English have poked

  cet ours dormant, this sleeping bear,

  one too many times. I blurt out,

  “Someone needs to fight back!”

  Even though my words mimic

  my brother Jean’s,

  around the room eyes bulge

  larger than a family of toads’.

  I have spoken outside my scope,

  not at all in the manner of a girl.

  My family sits silent, uncomfortably still,

  for many heartbeats.

  Father snaps at me,

  “Bless the food, Jehanne.”

  My throat clenches like a fist.

  Still I close my eyes and pray,

  “Bless us, O Lord . . .”

  Lost Lamb

  Instead of helping Mother

  around the house and in the stables

  this week, I’m told to tend the sheep.

  I fear this may be

  some sort of punishment

  for my brash behavior the other night,

  because as much as I like solitude,

  I’ve never loved this job,

  minding the pastures

  so none of the flock wander

  too far afield.

  The day seems to double its length.

  I bring my spinning wheel

  to busy my hands,

  and so I won’t fall asleep

  on soft pillows of prairie grass.

  It’s been nearly a week since

  I heard my name called in the garden.

  I want to believe the voice was real,

  but more likely my ears deceived me.

  “Stop!” I holler.

  “Rascal lamb, come back here!

  There are wolves in the woods.”

  I drop my spinning

  and start to chase after the vagrant lamb.

  Yet if I run down the one,

  I leave the rest of the herd alone.

  Do I leave the flock or lose the wanderer?

  But because girls

  are raised not to act,

  just to remain quietly

  with the pack,

  I do nothing.

  Can Anything Change?

  No soldier worth his salt r />
  sits on his hands,

  gun stuffed between thighs,

  and waits to be attacked.

  He is not fool enough

  to believe doing nothing

  will effect change

  in this war,

  in the lives of his countrymen.

  The English have stolen parts of France,

  and we must fight to reclaim

  what is rightfully ours,

  recover our lost lambs from the woods.

  But wars are the work of men—

  what of mothers and daughters?

  Are we expected to watch

  as fields and families

  are destroyed,

  and do nothing?

  Can this truly be God’s plan?

  Purpose

  When I feel ready to pummel

  Jean and Pierre because, once again,

  they left the gate open,

  and I had to spend half my morning

  chasing down a dozen feisty pigs,

  Mother reminds me that

  along with the squealing swine

  I must seek patience.

  I muzzle my lips

  as I corral the hogs.

  Sometimes my life feels as fixed

  as that of the pigs I pen.

  Have I no higher purpose

  than filling slop trays?

  I cross myself and pray

  that I may understand my place

  and find contentment therein.

  In response, the same voice

  I heard in the garden tells me:

  Jehanne,

  you are meant to do something more.

  Without Hope

  Our house staggers

  with the weight

  of Father’s news.

  Normandy has fallen

  to the English.

  Seven thousand killed

  at Verneuil.

  Five of our men died

  for each one of theirs.

  My brother Jacquemin

  lowers his head.

  “The dauphin will resign

  completely now.”

  Father agrees.

  “They say the dauphin

  no longer believes

  he has God’s favor.”

  His words crumble with sorrow

  like gravel upon the floor.

  I run to Mother.

  I dare not speak my mind

  as I did the other day.

  I see by her quivering lip

  that she could not bear it.

  “I heard something curious in town,”

  my sister, Catherine, says

  with a voice so steady it’s unnerving.

  “Remember that old prophecy

  the mystic Marie of Avignon foretold:

  that France will be restored

  by a virgin from Lorraine

  called La Pucelle?”

  “What of it?” Jean snips.

  “Some think it will soon be made true.

  Perhaps if the dauphin Charles were reminded

  of the prophecy, he would find hope,”

  Catherine offers.

  My father kisses Catherine’s cheek.

  “You are a sweet daughter,

  but what the dauphin needs

  is a victorious army

  to regain his hope.”

  Of course Father praises

  Catherine’s words

  when he slammed his fist

  down upon mine.

  Sometimes being the younger daughter

  feels like I am a bird

  with clipped wings.

  The voice from the garden startles me

  when it says:

  Jehanne, you are the prophecy,

  the virgin from Lorraine

  who will save France.

  I look around to see

  if anyone else hears these words,

  but I am the only one.

  How can that be?

  The voice sounds as though

  someone stands beside me.

  My hold on Mother

  grows tighter than a noose.

  Have I lost my wits?

  No Sleep for the Conflicted

  I lie near the hearth tonight

  because I offered my bed

  to a weary traveler

  who needs its comfort

  more than I do.

  I toss right, roll left,

  but I can’t find a position to sleep.

  I can’t stop questioning

  whether the voice I heard

  spoke the truth.

  Could I be the girl of the prophecy

  who will save France?

  Or perhaps I imagined those words

  because I was jealous

  that Father praised Catherine?

  The main fire dies,

  so I jump up to restore it.

  As I move toward the chimney,

  the flames blaze up

  in a fiery dragon’s tongue.

  Terrified, I search for a bucket of water.

  The fire grows stronger. I need help.

  But before I can jostle anyone awake,

  the firelight envelops me,

  wraps me in a blanket

  of the softest down.

  Blazes swirl around the room,

  setting alight pots, chairs,

  my father’s cloak.

  All the furniture glows like candles.

  And then, as though called to order,

  the flames disappear.

  They leave not a trace of ash or ember.

  A single radiant light

  shines above me

  like a sky of only stars.

  As I bask in the beam,

  the voice only I can hear

  confirms last night’s premonition.

  It tells me:

  Do not doubt this, Jehanne.

  You are the girl from the old prophecy.

  You will be called La Pucelle.

  You will lead an army.

  And you will save France.

  It’s clear to me now

  who speaks inside my head—

  it must be God.

  Doubt

  I was convinced last night

  that the voice I heard was God,

  but today doubt creeps

  into my mind

  like a long afternoon shadow.

  I am just a lowly peasant girl.

  Who am I to be chosen

  to save France?

  The idea is surely folly

  fueled by my longing

  to be more than I am.

  But then again,

  what if the voice

  I heard is indeed God,

  and I fail to do

  what he asks of me?

  It would be a grave sin

  to disobey God.

  My mind whirls

  like dust clouds in a storm.

  My friends dance and sing,

  throwing grass in a silly game.

  Hauviette calls to me,

  but I don’t know

  what to say to her.

  All my words

  trap inside my head.

  I wave hello but walk alone.

  My only place of sanctuary

  is the Saint-Rémy village church.

  Crystal light breaks

  through slats in the roof,

  warms and comforts me from above.

  On my knees in the chapel

  I close my eyes and pray.

  I touch the floor,

  the wood of the bench,

  and feel balance,

  forget the dizziness of the world.

  And when I gaze up at the cross,

  I know

  sure as the bell tolls,

  the horse whinnies,

  and the stars crowd the midnight moon,

  that God speaks to me

  and I must, and I will,

  do as He commands.

  Fulfilling the Pro
phecy

  1426

  Over time I begin to accept

  that I am the girl

  of the old prophecy.

  But if so,

  what should I do?

  I bite my nails

  and tread unending circles.

  Why didn’t the voice give me

  better direction?

  Fulfilling a prophecy

  feels more overwhelming

  than plowing a field

  with a fork.

  I suppose God would, at minimum,

  require that I continue to:

  be good

  be pious

  and go to church often,

  but what else?

  My little brother, Pierre,

  and his friend Colin

  stagger up the road

  and interrupt my reverie.

  They return from Maxey,

  a neighboring town

  under Burgundian control.

  Black-eyed and trouser-torn,

  the boys look like someone

  ran over them with an oxcart.

  “Can you stitch up this hole

  at my knee before Mother sees?”

  Pierre asks me.

  “Father forbade you to fight.”

  Pierre rolls his eyes.

  “But I’ll mend the damage.”

  He winces as I brush

  the hair off his forehead

  and reveal a nasty gash.

  Pierre pushes away my hand.

  “It’s nothing.”

  Colin smiles. “We showed

  those Burgundy louts,

  pelted them with boulders.”

  Pierre jumps in.

  “He means rocks,

  pebbles really.

  Besides, they started it.

  They’re the bad ones.”

  I catch him glaring at Colin

  as I thread my needle.

  “When real fighting surrounds us,

  why do you play at war?”

  Colin spits purposefully

  into the dirt. “You’re a girl.

  You wouldn’t understand.”

  Pierre shrugs.

  “We fight or they win.”

  He examines his pant leg.

  Whether or not

  Pierre and Colin believe me,

  I do understand

  their desire to fight back.

  Still I counsel, “Little brother,

  try to stay out of trouble.”

  As they run off,

  I wonder if I shouldn’t

  heed my own words.

  Is it not headstrong and conceited

  to think that I am La Pucelle?

  To believe that a girl might save France?

  Jean the Mean

  I will likely never see

  my eldest brother again.

  Jacquemin departed this morning

  to join his bride in Vouthon,

  a town four hundred miles

  from Domrémy.

  I feel his loss