The Language of Fire Page 2
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