Voices Read online

  make promises, repent, conspire,

  her time has come. It’s judgment day.

  She’ll put her faith in fire.

  * * *

  If I said, Have faith that day,

  and if In what? she had inquired,

  I would have told her straightaway,

  * * *

  In fire, my dear, in fire.

  Joan

  From Beauvoir they moved me to Rouen,

  where a bishop, Pierre Cauchon, was

  the master of my trial. Even

  now I see the backwards smile

  that really was no smile at all.

  He asked me to recall my youth,

  which was unsettling for me. They

  used my memory of the ancient

  Fairy Tree to twist the truth and

  say I was a young disciple

  of the Fiend, the Evil One. Even

  childhood’s innocence can be knotted,

  twisted, stretched, and spun if the spiders

  are clever. When they were done, they’d

  transformed those guiltless days into

  debauched, unholy fun. Their minds

  were sharp and coiled, like serpents

  hiding in a maze. Such are evil

  men, and their deceitful, bitter

  ways. I’m glad my mother cannot

  see me tied here to this stake. I

  was her eldest daughter; it would

  cause her heart to break.

  The Stake

  I am her best

  and only

  friend, her stal-

  wart intimate.

  On me she’s

  learned she

  can depend. I

  am her best

  and only

  friend. We’ll

  be upright to

  the end. She

  doesn’t love

  me, but I am

  her best and

  only friend,

  her stalwart

  intimate. We

  stand together,

  she and I. I’ll

  never let her

  go. Until the

  flames burn hot

  and high we’ll

  stand together,

  she and I. Let

  our ashes tes-

  tify, we stood

  together. She

  and I! I’ll nev-

  er let her

  go!

  Joan

  Cauchon was French but was a

  henchman for the English, whose most

  fervent wish was to prove the Maid

  of Orléans the Devil’s implement

  and full of devilish tricks. His

  loyalty was not to justice

  but to the god of politics.

  Bishop Pierre Cauchon

  I am a man of God, a simple man

  of faith whose solemn duty is to know

  with certainty, without the slightest doubt,

  the great divide between wrong and right,

  between good and evil, between false and true.

  As a man of God, I have vowed to be always just and fair,

  * * *

  so never let it be said that I was not fair

  in my dealings with this “maid,” for as a man of God, a simple man

  of faith who speaks the word of God, I know His true

  and holy wishes. I know this just as surely as I know

  that as a man ordained by God, it is my right

  to judge this girl. There can be no doubt

  * * *

  about my God-given authority, no doubt

  about my sacred mission to be just and fair,

  no doubt that my intentions are always pure and my judgment always right,

  for I am a man, a simple, pious, holy man

  of faith and learning, a man of God who knows

  in his soul and in the souls of all men what is false and just and right and true.

  * * *

  As a simple, holy man of faith and God, I know Henry is the true

  king, and whosoever should question this truth or doubt

  me is a blasphemer and a heretic and should be burned to purify his soul! Know

  that he is the worshiper of Lucifer! An enemy of God’s fair

  and holy wishes! An agent of the Devil! I know this as a holy man

  of simple faith, a fair and pious man of God who knows what is right

  * * *

  and what is wrong and what is just and what is true. It is my sacred task to set aright

  whatever is abomination, false, sinful, unholy, unnatural, and untrue.

  It is a grave and sacred responsibility, though as a simple man

  of holy faith, a pious man of God, I do not doubt

  or question. And that is fair

  and good and just and right. And I know

  * * *

  that everything I know

  is right

  and fair

  and true.

  I have no doubt.

  I am a man of God, a holy, pious, faithful man.

  * * *

  Know this: That girl is an enemy to everything that’s right

  and holy and pious and sacred and fair and just and true!

  How can you doubt me? She dresses like a man!

  Joan

  For five long months they asked question

  after question, and always the

  same. In their hearts? Deception. In

  their eyes? Revenge and blame.

  “Why won’t you wear a woman’s dress?”

  “Do you wish to be a man?”

  “Confess!”

  “You are the Devil’s tool! Renounce his wicked plan!”

  “Don’t you think that your comportment is a sin against your God?”

  “Confess!”

  “You are a charlatan!”

  “Confess!”

  “You are a fraud!”

  But I made no such confession.

  It seems to me my only real

  transgression was to invade and

  triumph in the sacred land of

  men; a woman in their landscape

  was a repugnant, mortal sin,

  unless she was a loving wife

  or kneeling nun or knowing

  prostitute. They would have hated

  me far less if I had been a

  girl of ill repute instead of

  what I was and who I am: a

  girl who dared to live the life of

  a brave and honest man.

  Fire

  I’m here I’m here I’m here my darling

  HE was taken to execution, with great anger, by the English soldiers. . . . She began to weep and call upon “Jesus.” Then I went away, having so great compassion that I could not witness her death.

  * * *

  Brother Pierre Migier

  Trial of Nullification

  Joan

  I am come to the end. My saints

  will not save me. I surrender

  to the fire that craves me. Let him

  finally take and ravage the Virgin

  from Lorraine. The savage thrust, the

  burning kiss, the penetrating

  pain will be my ecstasy in

  knowing I was true; there is nothing

  I have done that I would alter

  or undo. The lightning pain belongs

  to me, is mine and mine alone.

  I was the Maid of Orléans.

  I was a girl called Joan.

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  In 1429, two years before Joan of Arc was executed, Christine de Pizan, the esteemed poet at the court of Charles VI, wrote her last great epic, Le ditie de Jehanne d’Arc. This poem, The Song of Joan of Arc, is the only popular literature written about Joan in her lifetime. How cool would it be, I thought, if my Joan were to speak in the same form that Christine de Pizan used six hundred years ago in her sixty-one-stanza panegyr
ic? Very cool, right?

  Only, it wasn’t.

  Joan turned out to be as stubborn in the imagination as she was in real life. For months, I tried to get her to tell her story in Pizan’s eight-line stanzas. And for months, she resisted. And so, as often happens, I had to put my very cool idea aside. In Voices, Joan now speaks in what might be described as a kind of toned-down spoken word.

  But all was not lost. That one cool, but failed, experiment led to another. What if the other voices in the book spoke in the poetic forms that were popular during Joan’s lifetime? Some of these forms—villanelles and sestinas, for example—are still very much in use by poets writing today. Others, like the ballade (not to be confused with the ballad), are much less popular.

  For the sake of variety, I’ve included forms that were developed a bit later than Joan’s lifetime, but many are those she herself might have heard, though, of course, in their original French. Adhering to the rules of these ancient verses became my way of honoring Joan, and it brought me closer to her and the people and time in which she lived. I hope they did the same for you.

  Still, something vital was missing. But what? And then it hit me. In addition to the voice of the Joan I was imagining, I needed to give the real Joan and her associates the opportunity to speak for themselves. Fortunately, there was a way to do just that through the Trial of Condemnation and the Trial of Nullification.

  As for the poems, the rules for each—governing such things as length, syllabic structure, and rhyme scheme—can be found easily enough online or by consulting, as I did every single day, Miller Williams’s excellent Patterns of Poetry: An Encyclopedia of Forms. Poems not listed—“The Candle,” for instance, or “Silence”—are, with one or two exceptions, patterns I copied from the songs of the troubadours. While I did not intentionally weave errors into the poems, I cannot say they are without flaws when it comes to the guidelines that define them.

  * * *

  BALLADE

  Saint Michael

  Saint Catherine

  Saint Margaret

  RONDEAU

  The Castle at Chinon

  RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ

  Charles VII

  RONDEL

  The Cattle

  The Stag

  The Warhorse

  RONDELET

  The Road to Vaucouleurs

  The Banner

  SESTINA

  Isabelle

  Jacques d’Arc

  Robert de Baudricourt

  Bishop Pierre Cauchon

  SHORT RONDEL

  The Altar at Sainte Catherine de Fierbois

  The Tower

  TRIOLET

  The Needle

  The Sword

  The Sword at Fierbois

  The Arrow

  The Pitchfork

  The Crossbow

  The Stake

  Epilogue

  VILLANELLE

  The Red Dress

  The Tunic

  The Armor

  The Gold Cloak

  Acknowledgments

  I would be a heartless cad indeed if I failed to mentioned the beautiful work of Sharismar Rodriguez, this book’s designer. Her perseverance in dealing with an author who is a graphic nincompoop went far beyond what a human should have to endure. Any praises Voices receives is due in part to her skill, her patience, and her persistence.

  Poseidon

  Whaddup, bitches?

  Am I right or am I right?

  That bum Minos deserved what he got.

  I mean, I may be a god, but I’m not

  Unreasonable, and when I am, so

  What?

  Like I said,

  I’m a god.

  Reason’s got nuthin’

  To do with it.

  But let’s get back to where it all started:

  Minos comes to me,

  Mewling like a baby,

  Frowny-faced, heavy-hearted.

  He’s got a hunger, he says,

  A hankering, a jones, a thing.

  But not for a woman!

  This jerk wants to be king!

  Of CRETE!

  An island so dazzling

  It could cure the friggin’

  Blind. But it’s not the friggin’

  Scenery this friggin’

  Minos has in mind.

  Not the harbors or the shores,

  The god-possessed waters.

  Not the sheep, the trusty shepherds,

  Their warlike sons, their lusty daughters.

  Not the olives or the figs,

  The sacred, long-lived trees.

  Not the amber honey

  Or the honey-making bees.

  Not the thyme-drunk lovers

  Who sigh among its flowers.

  No,

  All this clown wants

  Is a little power.

  He’s got an appetite for obedience,

  But no imagination.

  And he doesn’t ask for much—​

  Just his own private nation.

  So he wonders

  If I’d give the people

  An omen,

  A sign,

  Something impressive,

  He says, something divine.

  Anything to prove

  He’s the man

  For the royal job.

  So what the fuck, I think.

  I’m gonna help this slob.

  Why not?

  I got plenty o’ nifty tricks

  Up this metaphorical sleeve.

  And you mortals?

  You’re ready to believe

  Anything to prove

  A god’s on your side.

  Besides, I got no dog in this fight.

  No skin off my hide.

  So, I wave my trusty trident;

  Ain’t nuthin’ for me.

  And abra-cadabra!

  A milk-white bull

  Comes walking

  Out of the wine-dark sea.

  The oldest trick in the book!

  A piece o’ cake.

  But it doesn’t take

  Much to bring you

  Mortals to your knees.

  Yeah, you’re hard to respect

  But easy to please.

  So Minos gets it all—​

  The palace, the power.

  Big Man on Knossos.

  Man of the Hour.

  But all of a sudden,

  He won’t play nice.

  Look,

  He was supposed to sacrifice

  That bull

  To me!

  Poseidon, baby!

  King of the Sea!

  Tamer of Horses!

  Old Earth-Shaker!

  And one helluva troublemaker

  When some jerk shirks

  His responsibility and

  Won’t keep his word.

  So this Minos,

  This “king,”

  This two-faced

  Turd,

  Hid my bull and

  Sacrificed another.

  Like I’m some kind of mark!

  A pigeon!

  His younger brother!

  A harebrain!

  An idiot!

  A jamook!

  A snot-nosed kid!

  The guy’s all ego.

  BUT I’M ALL ID.

  I could have turned his eyes

  Into a nest for seething wasps.

  I could have turned his face

  Into a snapping clam.

  I could have given him hooves

  Or studded the roof

  Of his mouth with thorns.

  Could have fitted him with horns.

  Flippers.

  Feathers.

  Fits.

  Made him smell like an outhouse.

  Covered him with zits.

  Turned his arms into eels.

  His teeth into snails.

  Bleat like a sea cow.

  Blow like a whale.

  Boils!

  Scabs!

  Gills!r />
  A snout!

  Turned his

  Ding-dong

  Inside

  Out!

  I could have.

  But I didn’t.

  Parlor games.

  A touch too mild.

  Child’s play.

  And Poseidon’s no child.

  He needed something

  He’d remember

  His whole stinkin’ life.

  That’s why I bypassed him . . .

  And went after his wife.

  When you play with the gods,

  You’re playing fast and loose.

  Enough small talk—​

  I’ve got a sea nymph to seduce.

  Daedalus

  It was disgusting!

  The royal nerve of her!

  I said, “Look, Your Highness,

  I’m an engineer. Not a pornographer.”

  And she said, “Look, Daedalus,

  I’m the queen, Minos’s wife.

  It all belongs to me,

  including your life,