The Language of Fire Read online

as if my only hat has blown away

  and from now on I must suffer

  unprotected in the cold.

  I stumble to find footing,

  for Jean

  becomes the oldest son.

  Jean lords his new ascendance

  over us all

  like a cruel king.

  “Father says I am in charge

  of the flock, the herds,

  and the northern fields.”

  He orders me and Catherine

  to thresh the wheat

  and Pierre to round up the cattle,

  while Jean covers his face with his cap

  and lies down for a nap.

  I want to kick the lazy lout

  swiftly in the shins.

  Catherine pats my arm.

  “Father will notice

  that Jean shirks his duties,

  but it is not our place

  to reprimand our brother.”

  I roll my eyes;

  sweet, perfect Catherine,

  who always knows the right thing to do.

  I follow her to the field

  and find a sturdy stick.

  Each time I thrash the wheat,

  I imagine it is a blow

  aimed at my brother.

  After an hour of severing

  the heads from the stalks,

  I calm down.

  I must remember who I am,

  who I am going to be.

  A temperamental girl

  cannot be the savior of France.

  I fall to my knees

  and cross myself.

  “Please, God,

  grant me patience

  and endurance,

  and please help Jean

  correct the error of his ways.”

  What Else Can I Do?

  Hiding my mission

  from my family feels dishonest

  and therefore in conflict

  with God’s teachings.

  Yet I dare not tell a soul

  I have been chosen by God to save France.

  I don’t think my family

  or anyone else would believe me.

  How could they?

  I still struggle to believe it myself.

  •✦•

  I must stitch thrice as fast as

  Catherine-the-Immaculate-Mender

  to sneak away this afternoon.

  And when I do, I have a sinking feeling

  Catherine’s eyes follow me into the fields.

  The sun winks behind a cloud,

  and the trees fill with light

  like blooming lilies.

  I stretch my arms to the sky

  and continue my mental list

  of what God might demand of me.

  As I pray,

  two things come into my mind:

  be reverent

  be humble.

  I know what it is to be reverent

  and worship God,

  I go to mass twice a day now.

  But I’m not sure I fully understand

  the meaning of humility.

  I lie down in the meadowland

  beyond our crops

  and pluck a single piece of grass.

  I turn and study it sideways.

  Alone, one blade is so small

  it appears insignificant,

  but when banded together,

  blades create a mighty field.

  None of the pieces more, or less,

  important than the others.

  Perhaps that is humility.

  I will try always to remember this.

  A Snare or a Cage

  Sometimes I feel

  like a rabbit being baited

  into a snare.

  I haven’t the skills

  to protect myself

  from predators,

  from the dangers of the night.

  I may wish

  to hop outside my warren,

  but I never truly believed

  I would do so.

  God calls me

  to leave my family’s nest

  and enter the dark forest.

  Yet if my father knew of my plans,

  he would cage me in the kitchen.

  I would not feel sunlight

  on my back until I exchanged

  marriage vows.

  And the truth is

  I am lured

  by more than God’s voice

  into the greater world.

  I dreamed of the forest,

  of leaving my home,

  well before He spoke to me.

  Still, what if my first leap

  is my last?

  Where Have You Been?

  Catherine stands at the back door,

  watching me untangle a burr

  from my hair.

  “I know you were not

  tending the sheep

  or threshing the field

  or weeding the garden

  or doing household chores.”

  “I was praying,

  at church.”

  I tell a partial fib.

  She brushes dirt off my shoulder.

  “When I met Marc,

  I prayed a lot too.”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Catherine smiles.

  “I wish you would know

  that you can trust me.”

  She looks at me

  as if we share something

  that I know we don’t.

  She kisses my forehead.

  Perhaps my sister would understand?

  But what if she didn’t?

  “I promise you,

  I am doing nothing sinful.”

  She chuckles as she spins me around

  to retie my apron.

  “I know that, Jehanne.”

  “So, you will keep my secret?”

  “Of course I will.”

  They Are Coming

  We learn of the English soldiers’ approach

  miles before any horses’ hooves can be heard.

  We gather our best linen and dishes,

  the church books and cross,

  and move what grain, goods, and livestock

  we can south to Neufchâteau,

  a town with a crumbling castle

  but sturdy walls to protect us.

  We villagers are saved

  from fire and death,

  but not from godless thievery.

  I stumble over the rubble and loss

  we find back in Domrémy.

  The enemy raiders weren’t satisfied

  with some cattle, grain, and coin.

  They wanted to consume all.

  A silent fury ignites inside me.

  It spreads through my veins

  like fire sweeping over a field of grain.

  Sleeping With Flames

  Again, fire blazes through my dreams.

  The whole village of Domrémy

  smolders.

  Houses, barns, fields, and stables

  crumble to ash and ember.

  The surface of the lake is blackened

  as though it has been scorched

  by dragon’s breath.

  I scream for help.

  No one hears me.

  No one sees.

  I feels as if I am

  the only person who exists.

  Everyone else

  must have perished in the fire.

  Or perhaps

  I was always alone.

  My Father’s Nightmare

  Though he tries to speak in hushed tones,

  my father’s voice is bold enough

  to corral a runaway herd.

  Even from across the barn,

  I can’t help but overhear him.

  “If I had the dream only once,

  I might have thought nothing of it.

  But three times?”

  Father unhitches the ox

  as Jean and Pierre

&nb
sp; pour grain into the trough.

  “It’s dreadful. Jehanne is among men-at-arms.

  She leaves my home to be among soldiers.

  She must be a—

  I hate to even speak the words.

  But she must be a prostitute.”

  Jean laughs.

  “But Father, all Jehanne does

  is work and pray.

  She never even looks at a boy.”

  “I know. It seems lunatic,

  but please watch her for me.”

  Father wipes his brow,

  then struggles to find these words:

  “Do you ever see her around—

  men—

  around . . . soldiers?”

  Both my brothers say, “No!”

  Father releases a sigh.

  “Good. You have assured me.”

  He shakes dirt off his boot.

  “Still, if I ever believed Jehanne

  would do this sinful thing,

  I would ask you to drown her.

  And if you would not do it,

  I would do it myself.”

  I feel like I have been kicked

  unawares by our ox.

  My eyes well with tears,

  and I cannot breathe.

  But my brothers shake their heads.

  Pierre says,

  “Jehanne is the most virtuous girl

  any of us will ever know.

  Have no fear, Father.”

  My lungs remember

  how to breathe again.

  When my father and brothers

  leave the barn,

  I remain among the cows.

  I have spoken

  of my calling to save France

  to no one,

  and yet Father imagined me

  among soldiers.

  Even though he misunderstood why,

  he saw me among their ranks—

  this proves that the prophecy is true,

  that I really am La Pucelle.

  Prayer

  I feel most at peace

  kneeling in a pew,

  inside a house devoted to God,

  where His presence surrounds me.

  Often, I’m the only person at Saint-Rémy

  except for Sacristan Drappier.

  My brothers say

  they ought to move my bed here,

  because these days the only time

  I’m not in church,

  I’m asleep.

  I bless myself,

  recite the Paternoster and the creed,

  and pray to the Holy Mother.

  I confess at least daily

  to cleanse my soul

  of the dirt of my hands.

  As the sun nears its bedtime

  and I hear the call of my mother,

  I kneel before the altar.

  I don’t ask to understand

  my holy mission,

  but only to be strong enough

  to achieve it,

  to believe I can do

  what’s required of me.

  Because I don’t yet

  feel able or worthy.

  My Sister

  When I pause to admire

  the glorious day

  as we work together

  hoeing the garden,

  Catherine smiles and says,

  “I look up and I see

  clouds and sun,

  blue sky and rain.

  When you look above, Jehanne,

  you see the breath of God

  and the teardrops of angels.

  You hear heaven’s song.

  It is a special gift.”

  We may not

  call one another friend,

  but Catherine

  never has an unkind word

  for anyone,

  and certainly

  not for me.

  Though we are as different

  as wind and water,

  she has never made me feel

  wrong.

  Sometimes I long

  to tell her who I am becoming,

  for if anyone would believe me,

  it would be Catherine.

  But for now,

  I keep it to myself.

  Finding Strength Within

  A tune plays inside me

  that others cannot hear,

  music that warms me,

  fingers and toes.

  It echoes between my ears

  and rattles around my brain

  as church bells toll.

  A song entirely my own—

  I chant it to myself,

  and all things feel possible.

  My Real Training Begins

  If I am to be La Pucelle

  and save France,

  I must do more than pray.

  I must attain some battle skills.

  Unfortunately, I have no example

  of how to be a virtuous warrior.

  French troops

  have yet to ride through Domrémy.

  The only soldiers

  I have known

  I wouldn’t care to lead.

  English and Burgundian soldiers

  laugh as they burn

  our houses and farms.

  Snakes that lurk just below

  the surface of the water,

  they are evil creatures

  eager to strike and kill.

  But as I stand now,

  a dying, unarmed soldier

  could crush me

  just lifting his boot.

  Warriors possess strength

  enough to level fortresses.

  If I wish to lead troops,

  I must command respect.

  I cannot swish around

  in the skirt of a peasant girl.

  Knights wear heavy armor.

  I must be able to shoulder

  this weight and more.

  But no one in Domrémy

  owns a shield,

  let alone a suit of armor.

  Farmers carry pitchforks

  and muck about in ratty boots.

  I kick at the dirt,

  trip on a jagged rock,

  and skin my knee.

  I cannot even walk without injury.

  How will I face arrows and swords?

  I pick up the cruel stone,

  look to hurl it far into the field

  for causing me pain.

  But before I throw it away in anger,

  the voice says:

  You do not need a suit of armor

  to master bearing the weight of a knight.

  This is true.

  I turn over the rock in my hand.

  What if I discreetly tie stones

  under my dress—

  begin with two

  and add more each day

  until I wear the weight

  of a young boy?

  I smile and pick up

  an armful of rocks.

  Aches and Pains

  I know I live a life

  of comfort and luxury

  compared to most villagers in Domrémy—

  but tying twenty-five stones

  under apron and skirt,

  or stuffed into my sleeves

  such that they don’t cut me

  and no one detects them

  when I bend to plow, wash,

  or slop the pigs is not easy.

  No knight would wear armor

  this cumbersome, not one!

  I long for a creaky metal suit.

  I sweep the barn

  and bend over

  with a great sigh of pain

  as if I am an old midwife,

  when it occurs to me

  that knights also ride horses into battle.

  If I desire to ride rigorously,

  wear armor, and brandish a weapon,

  must I not straddle a horse like a man?

  But La Pucelle,

  the Virgin Maid,

  cannot hitch up her skirt

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bsp; and expect to be seen

  as virtuous.

  The last stall to be mucked

  reeks of fresh manure.

  In my haste to clean it quickly,

  I slip on a patch of wet straw

  and merde splatters my skirt.

  Alone among the animals

  I tear off my dress,

  douse the stain with water and tallow,

  smooth my knickers,

  and hide as best as I can from view.

  From a distance,

  in my britches with my hair pulled back,

  I might almost be mistaken for a boy,

  instead of an indecent girl.

  I stand so tall and lean

  and without womanly curves.

  I slip back into my gown

  laden with rocks

  and sulk.

  I was born

  to be a warrior,

  not a princess,

  yet I remain

  confined

  by a stupid dress.

  Catherine the Wife

  My sister and the blacksmith’s son

  were betrothed when they were ten.

  Catherine and Mother have nestled away

  bowls, blankets, baskets,

  since she was a young girl

  to help my sister create

  her own home.

  This afternoon Catherine and Marc

  will stand together under a veil

  and accept our priest’s blessing.

  They’ll break a ceremonial coin in two,

  and each retain a half

  as a symbol of their union.

  Father must give Marc’s family

  five sheep, a bushel of grain,

  and a pig as my sister’s dowry.

  And Marc’s father will provide

  thirteen silver coins

  as the bride-price.

  It took several years

  to negotiate this,

  for Father to barter away

  his eldest daughter

  in much the same fashion

  as he trades cattle.

  Catherine has always been pretty,

  but today she looks like sunlight

  shimmering on the lake.

  Dressed in her blue wedding gown,

  she seems far more than

  two years my elder.

  Mother swipes away several tears

  as she brushes Catherine’s hair

  and ties a ribbon around her wrist.

  I stand in the corner

  and try to act

  like my mouth’s not dry

  and I slept well last night,

  when, in fact,

  I slept not at all.

  I will be the only daughter now.

  As much as I used to resent

  standing in perfect Catherine’s wake,

  I have lately grown to appreciate

  the freedom of being second,

  the daughter my parents

  will deal with at some later point.

  Now I take Catherine’s place.