Joan of Arc

Joan Of Arc

“I’m going out, father,” I say, tying my scuffed boots tightly. “I’ll be back before sundown!”

“Yes, dear,” he calls back from the kitchen where he’s canning vegetables. I push open the door of our dusty shack and step out into the fresh fall air. I breathe in deeply, smiling at a patch of little mushrooms that surrounds a tree stump. I walk out to the garden, stopping frequently to sniff a flower, pick a grape, or pull out the little stems that grow in between tomato leaves and stunt the growth of the plant. Even though I didn't necessarily like gardening with my parents, it doesn’t mean that they didn’t teach me everything about when it’s best to plant wheat and which plants in the nightshade family are safe to eat. My parents are farmers through and through-they have been since they were kids. Which would probably explain why we lived in a small peasant town-Domermy, France, to be exact-in a small house that doesn’t even fit seven people. 

I have three brothers and one sister. Jacquemin, Jean, Pierre, and Catherine. Jacque and Jean, the youngest of us, are the tomboys, always getting into trouble, climbing trees, riding horses, getting muddy and farming in the sun with father. They are ten and twelve. Catherine is my older sister, sixteen years old, and she’s the pretty one that loathes farming and getting dirty at all, really. She can be rude a lot of the times as well, so we all try our best to keep our distance. Pierre is my twin. He’s my favorite sibling, obviously, and is the one I talk to and believe in. He trusts me, listens to me, and understands me better than all the rest. He likes to sit under trees and read books and draw in his free time, always letting me join him if I want to. He’s older than me by twelve minutes.

I’m thirteen years old. I don’t really fit in with all the others. I like all the things, really. Getting muddy sounds good, and diving into the tiny pages of an old book, blocking out the rest of the world, also sounds appealing. I haven't found my place yet, mum tells me. I will though. Soon enough.

I walk farther into the forrest, stepping over a murky puddle, not avoiding it, and end up soaking my boot in mud. I ignore it, shaking off the clumps of muck. I have a set destination in mind, and I’m not letting some puddle stop me. Once I walk at least another half a mile into the orange and gold forrest, I get there; The Circle.

It’s just a clearing in the middle of forest. But it’s most definitely the most gorgeous woods. I come here everyday to do everything, read, draw, widdle, and practice my stave skills.

I have also set up a tree stump in the center where I like to pray sometimes. My staff is leaned against a tree, my knife stuck into the ground under a peice of wood, and a fresh, clean book tucked under my arm along with my turkey quill and ink. I sit on the stump and flip my sketchbook to an empty page, set my ink bottle on my knee and dip my quill in.

five minutes later, I have captured the forest surrounding me perfectly onto the paper. Rocks lie peacefully next to the bushes, and I even took the time to carefully scetch a birds nest balancing on a tree branch. I smile at my work. It’s one of the things I’m best at, though my family doesn’t know. Drawing brings my mind to peace, all the injustice and questions and responsibilities flying from my head and focusing completely on running the quill softly against the bumpy paper. I breath out heavily and set my book down gently on the ground, getting ready to pray. In the process, I accidentally spill my ink bottle on the ground and it stains the ground dark blue for a moment before soaking into the earth. I gasp slightly and spring to grab it, seeing the expensive ink disappearing before me. I don’t reach it in time, and I cry out in despair. How was I supposed to ask Father for more ink without letting him know I could draw? I had stolen this ink from Pierre when he was away, and he clearly would notice if i did it again. 

Suddenly, the soft golden light around me brightens to a blinding bright white. I gasp and cover my stinging eyes with my hands. “Whats happening?” I cry, stuffing my face against the ground in attempt to keep the light from blinding me any further. Dirt ges up my nose, but im too scared to sneeze.

“Calm, my child.”

I scream and jolt up at the sound of the soothing voice. It is so beautiful, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. It fills my heart with joy and makes the world wonderful. I blush happily and smile that extra wide smile of mine. Father’s nickname for me is Gum, because when I smile it shows my full mouth, including top and bottom gum. 

I manage to open my eyes and am immediately am blinded. I snap my eyelids closed, white dots dancing against the red of my closed lids. “Who are you?’ I manage to ask weakly, grabbing at the air surround me, trying to feel a solid body.

“Me? Oh, my child. We must not focus on me at this time. Lives are at stake; I king must be crowned, and battles must be won. Open your eyes, Joan, and embrace your future.”

Who was speaking? Who is this wonderful voice that makes me sparkle and shine? I need to know. I open my eyes carefully to find the bright white gone, and replaced by a warm gold surrounding a human figure dressed in a white cloak. long, graceful wings rest on the ground, unfazed by the mud around it. A shimmering sword hangs off a belt, ready to be grabbed and used at any moment. A twinkling halo rests atop the figures head. There’s only one option..but could it really be true? Am I really looking at an Angle from heaven, or am I dreaming up this whole thing? I shiver slightly as I bring my gaze up to meet the Angels, so full of warmth i could burst open. I take a deep breath, speaking in a shaky voice.

“Please…please answer me. who are you?”

The Angel smiles, shaking it’s head. “Ah, some people can’t just focus on what needs to be done these days, eh? But if you so desire to know my identity…I am Saint Micheal, here to guide you in your quest to crown Prince Charles the Seventh and defeat the Burgundians in battle.”

“Saint Micheal? It is truly you?” I can hear my voice growing more steady. “Am I dreaming, my Saint, or do you really speak to me upon earths surface?”

Saint Micheal nods slowly, his wings curling gently against his body to project him from the wind. “It is truly I, Joan. I come from heaven.”

“What for? And why to me?” 

“Joan, you have been chosen.”

I grow desperate, feeling my respectful words leave my mind and replaced with dirty ones. I swallow hard. “Chosen for what, my Saint?”

He twists his finger into his beard, curling it around his hand. The white hair seems to be made of clouds, bits of it floating away every few seconds. He lifts his wise, grey eyes to mine and answers slowly. “Joan, would you lead an army to battle? Would you sail across the sea to find a prince? would you risk your life for others? Would you dress like a man, cut your hair, and do things no other woman has ever done? Take your time to think, Joan. This is a lot to think about. this is your life decision. If you completed all that I tell you today, you will do exactly as I just said, though you will face many hardships along the way. I foresee an arrow that leads to your blood spill. I see a tall tower and trial for months. I forsee your death, a burning by the English. Though through all that, you will right many wrongs, save many lives, and make a turning point in history.  Later on, you will be known as Joan of Arc, the woman warrior who did so much good. Think about it, joan. Think hard.” And with those last words, the Saint is gone, leaving many sparkles behind him and my ink back in the bottle. If angels can disappear like that, I wonder, why do they even have wings?

That was the least of my worries right now, tough. I sniff sadly at the sudden absence of light in my world, the sudden warmth and joy gone along with the Saint. I run through the series of events in my head. A Saint from Heaven just came down to earth and told me my entire future. That is, if i make a certain decision. Do I have the will power to do what he said? I may be good at the staff, but could I ride a horse into battle with sharp swords and spears? I’m not sure.

I stand up off the ground and grab my sketchbook and now full inkbottle. Another one of Saint Michael's tricks, I suppose. I wipe a lonely tear off my cheek and start to trot back though the woods towards my house.

I have made my decision.

Ten minutes later, I arrive at the back of my house. I run up the steps, swing open the door, kick off my grimy boots, and run into the kitchen. The loaf of bread my father was baking earlier sits on the counter, black streaks running across its sides from the clay heath it was cooke in. It looks like its been nibbled on my mice, but really it’s just Jacque and Jean picking at the sides, unable to wait for dinner to satisfy their hunger. 

“Father, Mum!” I call into their rooms. “I’m back! Father, your loaf looks amazing.” 

He steps into the kitchen, smiling. “Thank you, Joan. We’re almost ready for super, do you mind rallying up the boys?” I’m about to answer when Jean and Jacque both run into the room, chasing each other. I sigh. “Looks like they’re already rallied.”

“Where were you, Joan?” Jacque says slyly, stopping the chase. “Where you with Gilles?” He stretches out the words so it sound more like “Gillllllesssss?”

Gilles De Rais is my best friend. Not in any romantic way, but the younger boys are convinced I feel attracted to him. I don’t. It’s not that easy; it’s not like you can love anyone you want in tto in this town. Your parents arrange your marriage for you, and thats who you are destined for. My father hasn’t arranged mine yet, but my fourteenth birthday is coming up, and thats when they start thinking about boys to pair you with. Catherine is a arranged to some blockhead named Alaine De Barbier, who is very attracted to her but Catherine does not find him charming in the least. He has long, dark hair usually tied back in a ponytail with a long, ginormous nose that makes the rest of his face seem small. His piercing dark eyes intimidate me, and make Catherine most definitely feel uncomfortable as they bore into her own graceful blue ones. When he visites for dinner she usually sits aloof in her chair, squirming under the table as Alaine holds her hand. He likes to brag about his mothers paintings and the rest of his family, and I have found a very strong disliking for him. I ignore him in every way possible, what it would be like to live with him your whole life. 

I remember what question has been asked of me and am dragged away from my thoughts. 

“No I wasn’t with Gilles. Remember, jacque, I do not think of him in that way.” I roll my eyes as I rip the loaf into pieces for super, setting it on the table in a wooden bowl my father carved. Mum walks into the room with Catherine and Pierre behind her. I give Pierre a smile and he smiles back. He’s the only family member who knows where I’ve been. We discovered the Circle together, one dreary, dull day when we where both bored and wanted to go exploring. He goes sometimes, but i have been the one to personalize it and it’s more of my spot now. 

“Where where you then, Joan?” Jean prys, tugging at my skirt. I smile. I’ve practiced answering this question.

“With the sheep.”

Mum smiles. “I’m so glad you’ve found an interest, Joan! I’m sure M. Aemon would love if you where her shepadress. She may even pay you!” 

“Now now,” Father says, laying a hand on mothers shoulder. “Don’t go giving the girl ideas.”

Too late. Even though I hadn’t been with the sheep today, that gave me ideas. I had always had a stong affection for animals, and I love fury ones, like sheep and cats. Of course, if M. Aemon would pay me, I would have money and could possibly even go to the candy store in the town.

“Do you really think she’d pay me?” I ask.

“How about you talk to her the next time you visite her sheep?’ Mum replies, setting out the kale she picked for super. Jacque grabs her skirt. “If Joan is getting paid I want to be paid, too!” Mum shoes him off. “You’re still too young. Joan, you’d need pants.”

“I can use Pierre’s pants!’ I cry, getting excited. “I will go to the farm tomorrow to ask M. Aemon if I can work!”

I walk lightly on my feet the rest of the night, feeling as though I’m surrounded by a happy, warm cloud. Once th3 entire family has sat down to dinner, we say our prayers and start to eat. I put a chunk of bread on my plate, a scoop of kale, cheese from our skinny cow, and water in yet another clay mug. I eat fast, ready to go to bed and wake up the next morning to go to the sheep farm.

The whole angel encounter far from my thoughts. 

 Chapter Two (Version #2)

I jump out of bed, quickly waking from my dreams of sheep and long, never-ending stretches of yellow fields dotted with crows pecking at the ground. I quickly throw on a simple workdress and rush out to the dining room where mother and mother are already awake, sipping watered down ale from clay cups. “Morning,” Father says, smiling at me. “Good morning!” I practically shout.” Mother looks up from her book, startled. 

“My, my. What has Joan so riled up?” I look at her face. Has she really forgotten already? “The sheep, Mother…how you suggested I go ask if…” My voice wavers as I see her face contort in confusion. 

“Ah..” she smiles unsurely. “Did I say that…? Excuse me for asking, Joan, but who did I tell you to ask?”

“Mme. and M. Aemon, Mother.”

It’s silent for a long moment. Mother and Father exchange a look of…sorrow? Guilt?

Finally Father speaks. “I’m sorry, little J, but…Mme. and M. aemon are very rich, and I have very high doubts they would hire a…so to say..um, a poor girl from a poor family. I think your Mother was probably…ah. Do you understand, Joan?” 

No never ending field of grass? No fury sheep to pet and herd? No, I didn't understand. Why would my mother lie to me about something like that? 

I nod my head anyway. “I understand, Father.”

“Good. A bowl of gruel is on the table along with a cup of watered down ale. Eat and then do your chores.” I nod, hiding my sadness well. I wobble into the kitchen, grab the gruel and ale and sit down. I stuff a spoonful of sticky oats and other things into my mouth, swallow, and chug the sour, tangy ale we all drink so as not to get sick by the dirty water. After I finish breakfast, I shrug my coat on, tie my boots and open the door to the windy world outside. Leaves fall from the trees, swaying back and forth in the air as they fall gently to the ground. The fall air makes me shiver and I wrap my jacket tightly around me, closing the door behind me. 

My first chore is Belle, the pig. We bought her while she was still a piglet, and now that it’s fall we plan to eat her. I walk down the hill to her rough pen and fill her trough with leftover bits and pieces from dinner, plus some old wheat. Belle snorts happily and trots over to the food, her nose held high. I give her an affectionate pat on the head as she starts to dig in. I sigh sadly as I think about her being gone in a few weeks. Everyone told me I shouldn’t name her, since she’s going to end up as bacon anyways, but I couldn't help it. I give her one last look and then hop over the fence in what I hoped to be a graceful leap, but my skirt gets caught on the one of the rough wooden poles father carved hastily one day. I trip and fall on the ground but manage to roll so I don't get hurt. I stand up and brush the dirt off my dress, huffing at how long it is and wishing I could wear pants and shorts like boys. Mother and Father would hate it.

Next is Lucky, the cow. Named lucky because our family is the only peasant farm who has a cow for miles around. We make milk and cheese from her, and on a special occasion, Mother might have enough ingredients to make a grainy cake. I make it up the hill to where she is nibbling on grass while tied to a pole stuck in the ground. I grab a bucket and set a small wooden stool down next to her, starting to milk.  I do this for about twenty minutes, and end up with less than half a bucket full of milk. I frown. I know Lucky is old and skinny, and will soon be taken to the butcher. Our family will miss her and the milk. I sigh as I carry the milk back up to the house.

I kick open the door and set the milk down, not bothering to take off my boots. “Father?” I call into the house. “Yes?” He answers from the dining room. I walk in and sink into one of the chairs.

“Lucky is giving less and less milk everyday.”

Father frowns. “I know,” he says.”Now why aren't you out doing your chores? You fed Belle?”

“But Father! What will we do with Lucky?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Joan,” he scolds.

“I’m sorry Father,” I say sheepishly. Father nods.

“When she is too old and weak to produce anymore milk, I will take her to the butcher and we will have beef for months!”

“I see. I will finish my chores now,” I say and walk outside.

The truth is, I already finished my chores. Of course, there are still things to do around the farm, but my brothers and sister also have chores to do. I am just in charge of the animals. The only reason I told Father that was because I needed more time without him knowing where I was.

I was going to the docks.

I step over tree stumps and rocks as I make my way through the woods. After my parents told me I couldn't do sheepherding, the whole encounter with Saint Micheal came back to my mind. I decided that yes, I would ask the military commander for a ride to the prince. What was there to leave behind at home, anyway? More chores, unfair Fathers, more dresses. I would much rather prefer to be out on battlefields, fighting for France, even if it costs my life. 

I have no idea where the docks are, or how long it might take to get there, but after half an hour of walking, I am completely lost and getting tired. I wrap my fur coat tighter around me, fall winds nipping at my face and hands. I sit down under a tree, tired and hungry, ready to go home. I bury my face in my hands, a lone tear slipping down my cheek. I look up into the blue sky and decide that pleading may be my only chance.

“Oh, Father Micheal. Please, spare me! Give me a path to follow so I will be able to follow your directions and save France!” I falter a little before I say “save France,” but otherwise the prayer comes out confidently. I wait a minute, and then the trees part and there lays a path, leading me where I'm destined to go. I sigh in relief and stand up, beginning to walk some more.

Twenty minutes later, when the sun is high in the sky, I finally smell fresh water and fish. I pick up my pace, practically running down the dirt path, until I reach a small wooden hut that stands next to the road. I decide I am still lost, and if there is somebody inside that hut, I could ask them for directions.

I open the door without knocking and am immediately greeted with a gruff “Halt!”

“Hello?” I squeak. I look up to find a slim man with golden hair sitting at a desk, glaring at me. 

“What do you want, girl?” he grumbles. “And have you ever heard of knocking?”

I’m shaking. “Ah, of course, I apologize. In fact, I was looking for the Military-”

“Commander? Well, you’ve found him. Come in.”

Is he saying *he’s* the military commander? He couldn’t be less than sixteen! I sit down anyway, nervously clicking my shoes against the floor. I stare at the floor.

“Well, girl? Do you speak, or do you want to get kicked out? What do you need?”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I burst out, coming out of my thoughts. “I need a ride to Prince Charles to get him crowned! Please, take me on one of your boats!”

The man looks at me for a minute with a blank expression on his face. Clearly he wasn’t expecting this. Finally, he opens his mouth, and I think he’s about to answer, but instead he bursts into laughter.

“You?” He screeches through loud laughs. “You, a girl, want to crown a Prince? Bah! You’ve got no chance! Now shoo, before I tell the Priest you’re a witch and you burn at the stake!” 

Burn at the stake? A witch? All I asked for was a boat ride…yet I couldn't afford to be reported to the church as a priest. I stand up and shakily.

“I understand, Sir. um, thank you.” And I run out the door as fast as my legs will carry me, yet not fast enough. The commander, still laughing, gets up and follows me outside, ink bottle in hand. He throws it at me, open, so the contents spill out and onto my dress. I don’t care, and I know mother won’t either, but now I'll have to explain why ink is all over me. The Commander shouts at me.

“Try to get that out of your dress, witch-girl! Ha ha!” But I don’t hear him.

My attention is somewhere entirely. Where the ink has splattered on the ground, the dirt begins to sparkle and rise off the grass. It slowly forms into a golden angel, hovering a few feet off the ground.

I know who he is, too.

I look back, panicked, wondering if the Commander see’s it, too. He doesn’t seem to, sneering at me instead. So I act as though I don't, either, and run towards the path in the woods. I reach it and sink to the ground, breathing heavily and clutching…the ink bottle. I stare at it. 

It’s full. 

Finally, I gather the courage to look up and see Saint Micheal staring at me. He smiles. I jump in before he can say anything and speak in a rush.

“Saint Micheal, the ink…whenever it spills on the ground, you appear! Is it just a coincidence, or can I trust my eyes?”

“Ah, Joan, you have a quick mind. You are correct. When ink spills on the ground, it someons me. Other liquids summon other angels. For example, blood from a white feathered chicken summons Saint Gabirel when spilled. Milk from a brown and black cow summons Saint Rapheal. There are many others, as well. For me, however, it is ink. Keep this bottle–if you need me, sprinkle it on the dirt. when I am gone, it will refill itself.” He smiles. “Also, you can use it for those drawings of yours.”

“Oh, Micheal!” I squeal. “Thank you so much!”

“Saint Micheal. Of course,” he brushes aside my gratitude. 

“Now.” He says, a sudden seriousness taking over his face. “ We must get into business.”

“Oh, of course.” I pause. “Excuse me for asking, but..what kind of business?”

“Use that quick mind of yours, Joan! This is barely what I would consider a complicated question, anyways…”

“Oh, yes, yes. The reason I am here, of course. To go to the prince, that pesky Commander..” I sigh.

Saint Michael beams. “Indeed! what are we to do about him?” I hide my smile, my fingers finding the small dagger I keep under my dress everyday. Sometimes I use it for farming, though I have never used it to kill, not even an animal, save a chicken or two. It scares me, yet if it is needed…

Saint Micheal seems to read my thoughts, placing a ghostly hand on my shoulder. “There is no need to murder, Arc. Put your weapon back.” I nod, sliding it back in its place. “However…have you ever heard of a good thump on the head?” Oh, have I heard, Saint? I have seen, many, many times. Father, thumping a pig before killing it…Father, pounding a fish before placing it on the fire..

“I have heard and seen, my Saint.”

“Good, how do you feel about…”

He doesn't need to finish. “Yes, of course.” Without further discussion, I start to walk the other way, back towards the hut, this time walking up to the back. I reach it and come face to face with a wooden door. How will I ever get this open quietly? Perhaps..perhaps quietly isn’t the answer for this.

Grinning wildly, I swing the door open fast, running into the hut, grabbing the first hard object I see, in my case a clay flower vase, and getting behind the commander. I wait until he turns around, shock on his face, so he can see me, before I slam the vase on his head. It shatters, and he slumps to the floor, head drooping. I smile happily and pick the key for the boathouse off his neck.

“Oi! Robert, are you throwing chairs around in there?” Voices shout from right outside the hut. I gasp and look for cover-there is none! The men burst into the hut, mugs full of beer, and stand completely still for a moment while they take in the scene. I clutch the key in my hand, and run.

“Aye! Get her, the thief! She’s knocked our robert flat! She’s got the key!” They stumble after me, but no doubt their vision is blurred and they will have trouble walking, after a night at the tavern. I laugh wildly, out of fear and excitement, and run back through the woods towards my house. my feet crunch on the brown leaves strewn across the ground, and I duck and swerve to avoid knocking myself senseless against one of the trees that surrounds me. Finally, I reach my fathers land, slowing to a walk, out of breath and red in the face.

I walk up the steps to my door and swing it open, shaking off my worn boots and throwing my coat on the floor. I stuff the key into my dress pocket and walk into the kitchen to find mother, father, and all the siblings sitting at the table and staring at me. Father speaks.

“Care to explain where you’ve been, Joan? Certainly not with Gilles, I presume?” 

And this time, I make sure not to roll my eyes.

Chapter Three

“Follow me,” Father growls after I explain everything to him. “You had no reason to go all the way to the docks by yourself.” But I did, Father. I have to save france…”And you certainly should never hurt someone!” But he was going to kill me…”And as a lady, you must be wary of your clothes and not ruin them.” It wasn’t my fault he threw ink at me… “And I know you're  thinking of a thousand excuses right now, but no matter how many lies you tell me won’t get you out of trouble. Do you understand?” Yes, Father, yes yes yes. “I said, do you understand, Joan?”

“Yes, Father,” I squeak while I walk with my head hung low. Father snorts.

“Good. Now come stand here.” I slowly walk up to him, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Don't cry, Joan,” Father scolds. “Ladies don't talk about being a lady all of a sudden? Mother and Father have always treated me like a boy, letting me farm and get dirty and do whatever I please.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp pain on my backside. I gasp as Father whips me again. I know later Mother will come up to my bedroom where I’ll be sitting, crying, and take me to the stream to rub a herb on me to stop the stinging. Meanwhile, I stand here and get whipped for doing something I was told to do by a saint. I wonder if Father would whip me if I told him a Saint told me to do what I did? He wouldn’t believe me, of course. That’s why I didn’t tell him in the first place. He’d think I was a crazy person. 

A few whips later, father finally tells me to go to my room, which I run to, sobbing out of pain. My backside stings like crazy, and I sit on my bed, waiting for mother to come and help me out of pity. 

She never comes.

Joan Of Arc

By Harper Williamson

“I’m going out, father,” I say, tying my scuffed boots tightly. “I’ll be back before sundown!”

“Yes, dear,” he calls back from the kitchen where he’s canning vegetables. I push open the door of our dusty shack and step out into the fresh fall air. I breathe in deeply, smiling at a patch of little mushrooms that surrounds a tree stump. I walk out to the garden, stopping frequently to sniff a flower, pick a grape, or pull out the little stems that grow in between tomato leaves and stunt the growth of the plant. Even though I didn't necessarily like gardening with my parents, it doesn’t mean that they didn’t teach me everything about when it’s best to plant wheat and which plants in the nightshade family are safe to eat. My parents are farmers through and through-they have been since they were kids. Which would probably explain why we lived in a small peasant town-Domermy, France, to be exact-in a small house that doesn’t even fit seven people. 

I have three brothers and one sister. Jacquemin, Jean, Pierre, and Catherine. Jacque and Jean, the youngest of us, are the tomboys, always getting into trouble, climbing trees, riding horses, getting muddy and farming in the sun with father. They are ten and twelve. Catherine is my older sister, sixteen years old, and she’s the pretty one that loathes farming and getting dirty at all, really. She can be rude a lot of the times as well, so we all try our best to keep our distance. Pierre is my twin. He’s my favorite sibling, obviously, and is the one I talk to and believe in. He trusts me, listens to me, and understands me better than all the rest. He likes to sit under trees and read books and draw in his free time, always letting me join him if I want to. He’s older than me by twelve minutes.

I’m thirteen years old. I don’t really fit in with all the others. I like all the things, really. Getting muddy sounds good, and diving into the tiny pages of an old book, blocking out the rest of the world, also sounds appealing. I haven't found my place yet, mum tells me. I will though. Soon enough.

I walk farther into the forrest, stepping over a murky puddle, not avoiding it, and end up soaking my boot in mud. I ignore it, shaking off the clumps of muck. I have a set destination in mind, and I’m not letting some puddle stop me. Once I walk at least another half a mile into the orange and gold forrest, I get there; The Circle.

It’s just a clearing in the middle of forest. But it’s most definitely the most gorgeous woods. I come here everyday to do everything, read, draw, widdle, and practice my stave skills.

I have also set up a tree stump in the center where I like to pray sometimes. My staff is leaned against a tree, my knife stuck into the ground under a peice of wood, and a fresh, clean book tucked under my arm along with my turkey quill and ink. I sit on the stump and flip my sketchbook to an empty page, set my ink bottle on my knee and dip my quill in.

five minutes later, I have captured the forest surrounding me perfectly onto the paper. Rocks lie peacefully next to the bushes, and I even took the time to carefully scetch a birds nest balancing on a tree branch. I smile at my work. It’s one of the things I’m best at, though my family doesn’t know. Drawing brings my mind to peace, all the injustice and questions and responsibilities flying from my head and focusing completely on running the quill softly against the bumpy paper. I breath out heavily and set my book down gently on the ground, getting ready to pray. In the process, I accidentally spill my ink bottle on the ground and it stains the ground dark blue for a moment before soaking into the earth. I gasp slightly and spring to grab it, seeing the expensive ink disappearing before me. I don’t reach it in time, and I cry out in despair. How was I supposed to ask Father for more ink without letting him know I could draw? I had stolen this ink from Pierre when he was away, and he clearly would notice if i did it again. 

Suddenly, the soft golden light around me brightens to a blinding bright white. I gasp and cover my stinging eyes with my hands. “Whats happening?” I cry, stuffing my face against the ground in attempt to keep the light from blinding me any further. Dirt ges up my nose, but im too scared to sneeze.

“Calm, my child.”

I scream and jolt up at the sound of the soothing voice. It is so beautiful, I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy. It fills my heart with joy and makes the world wonderful. I blush happily and smile that extra wide smile of mine. Father’s nickname for me is Gum, because when I smile it shows my full mouth, including top and bottom gum. 

I manage to open my eyes and am immediately am blinded. I snap my eyelids closed, white dots dancing against the red of my closed lids. “Who are you?’ I manage to ask weakly, grabbing at the air surround me, trying to feel a solid body.

“Me? Oh, my child. We must not focus on me at this time. Lives are at stake; I king must be crowned, and battles must be won. Open your eyes, Joan, and embrace your future.”

Who was speaking? Who is this wonderful voice that makes me sparkle and shine? I need to know. I open my eyes carefully to find the bright white gone, and replaced by a warm gold surrounding a human figure dressed in a white cloak. long, graceful wings rest on the ground, unfazed by the mud around it. A shimmering sword hangs off a belt, ready to be grabbed and used at any moment. A twinkling halo rests atop the figures head. There’s only one option..but could it really be true? Am I really looking at an Angle from heaven, or am I dreaming up this whole thing? I shiver slightly as I bring my gaze up to meet the Angels, so full of warmth i could burst open. I take a deep breath, speaking in a shaky voice.

“Please…please answer me. who are you?”

The Angel smiles, shaking it’s head. “Ah, some people can’t just focus on what needs to be done these days, eh? But if you so desire to know my identity…I am Saint Micheal, here to guide you in your quest to crown Prince Charles the Seventh and defeat the Burgundians in battle.”

“Saint Micheal? It is truly you?” I can hear my voice growing more steady. “Am I dreaming, my Saint, or do you really speak to me upon earths surface?”

Saint Micheal nods slowly, his wings curling gently against his body to project him from the wind. “It is truly I, Joan. I come from heaven.”

“What for? And why to me?” 

“Joan, you have been chosen.”

I grow desperate, feeling my respectful words leave my mind and replaced with dirty ones. I swallow hard. “Chosen for what, my Saint?”

He twists his finger into his beard, curling it around his hand. The white hair seems to be made of clouds, bits of it floating away every few seconds. He lifts his wise, grey eyes to mine and answers slowly. “Joan, would you lead an army to battle? Would you sail across the sea to find a prince? would you risk your life for others? Would you dress like a man, cut your hair, and do things no other woman has ever done? Take your time to think, Joan. This is a lot to think about. this is your life decision. If you completed all that I tell you today, you will do exactly as I just said, though you will face many hardships along the way. I foresee an arrow that leads to your blood spill. I see a tall tower and trial for months. I forsee your death, a burning by the English. Though through all that, you will right many wrongs, save many lives, and make a turning point in history.  Later on, you will be known as Joan of Arc, the woman warrior who did so much good. Think about it, joan. Think hard.” And with those last words, the Saint is gone, leaving many sparkles behind him and my ink back in the bottle. If angels can disappear like that, I wonder, why do they even have wings?

That was the least of my worries right now, tough. I sniff sadly at the sudden absence of light in my world, the sudden warmth and joy gone along with the Saint. I run through the series of events in my head. A Saint from Heaven just came down to earth and told me my entire future. That is, if i make a certain decision. Do I have the will power to do what he said? I may be good at the staff, but could I ride a horse into battle with sharp swords and spears? I’m not sure.

I stand up off the ground and grab my sketchbook and now full inkbottle. Another one of Saint Michael's tricks, I suppose. I wipe a lonely tear off my cheek and start to trot back though the woods towards my house.

I have made my decision.

Ten minutes later, I arrive at the back of my house. I run up the steps, swing open the door, kick off my grimy boots, and run into the kitchen. The loaf of bread my father was baking earlier sits on the counter, black streaks running across its sides from the clay heath it was cooke in. It looks like its been nibbled on my mice, but really it’s just Jacque and Jean picking at the sides, unable to wait for dinner to satisfy their hunger. 

“Father, Mum!” I call into their rooms. “I’m back! Father, your loaf looks amazing.” 

He steps into the kitchen, smiling. “Thank you, Joan. We’re almost ready for super, do you mind rallying up the boys?” I’m about to answer when Jean and Jacque both run into the room, chasing each other. I sigh. “Looks like they’re already rallied.”

“Where were you, Joan?” Jacque says slyly, stopping the chase. “Where you with Gilles?” He stretches out the words so it sound more like “Gillllllesssss?”

Gilles De Rais is my best friend. Not in any romantic way, but the younger boys are convinced I feel attracted to him. I don’t. It’s not that easy; it’s not like you can love anyone you want in tto in this town. Your parents arrange your marriage for you, and thats who you are destined for. My father hasn’t arranged mine yet, but my fourteenth birthday is coming up, and thats when they start thinking about boys to pair you with. Catherine is a arranged to some blockhead named Alaine De Barbier, who is very attracted to her but Catherine does not find him charming in the least. He has long, dark hair usually tied back in a ponytail with a long, ginormous nose that makes the rest of his face seem small. His piercing dark eyes intimidate me, and make Catherine most definitely feel uncomfortable as they bore into her own graceful blue ones. When he visites for dinner she usually sits aloof in her chair, squirming under the table as Alaine holds her hand. He likes to brag about his mothers paintings and the rest of his family, and I have found a very strong disliking for him. I ignore him in every way possible, what it would be like to live with him your whole life. 

I remember what question has been asked of me and am dragged away from my thoughts. 

“No I wasn’t with Gilles. Remember, jacque, I do not think of him in that way.” I roll my eyes as I rip the loaf into pieces for super, setting it on the table in a wooden bowl my father carved. Mum walks into the room with Catherine and Pierre behind her. I give Pierre a smile and he smiles back. He’s the only family member who knows where I’ve been. We discovered the Circle together, one dreary, dull day when we where both bored and wanted to go exploring. He goes sometimes, but i have been the one to personalize it and it’s more of my spot now. 

“Where where you then, Joan?” Jean prys, tugging at my skirt. I smile. I’ve practiced answering this question.

“With the sheep.”

Mum smiles. “I’m so glad you’ve found an interest, Joan! I’m sure M. Aemon would love if you where her shepadress. She may even pay you!” 

“Now now,” Father says, laying a hand on mothers shoulder. “Don’t go giving the girl ideas.”

Too late. Even though I hadn’t been with the sheep today, that gave me ideas. I had always had a stong affection for animals, and I love fury ones, like sheep and cats. Of course, if M. Aemon would pay me, I would have money and could possibly even go to the candy store in the town.

“Do you really think she’d pay me?” I ask.

“How about you talk to her the next time you visite her sheep?’ Mum replies, setting out the kale she picked for super. Jacque grabs her skirt. “If Joan is getting paid I want to be paid, too!” Mum shoes him off. “You’re still too young. Joan, you’d need pants.”

“I can use Pierre’s pants!’ I cry, getting excited. “I will go to the farm tomorrow to ask M. Aemon if I can work!”

I walk lightly on my feet the rest of the night, feeling as though I’m surrounded by a happy, warm cloud. Once th3 entire family has sat down to dinner, we say our prayers and start to eat. I put a chunk of bread on my plate, a scoop of kale, cheese from our skinny cow, and water in yet another clay mug. I eat fast, ready to go to bed and wake up the next morning to go to the sheep farm.

The whole angel encounter far from my thoughts. 

 Chapter Two (Version #2)

I jump out of bed, quickly waking from my dreams of sheep and long, never-ending stretches of yellow fields dotted with crows pecking at the ground. I quickly throw on a simple workdress and rush out to the dining room where mother and mother are already awake, sipping watered down ale from clay cups. “Morning,” Father says, smiling at me. “Good morning!” I practically shout.” Mother looks up from her book, startled. 

“My, my. What has Joan so riled up?” I look at her face. Has she really forgotten already? “The sheep, Mother…how you suggested I go ask if…” My voice wavers as I see her face contort in confusion. 

“Ah..” she smiles unsurely. “Did I say that…? Excuse me for asking, Joan, but who did I tell you to ask?”

“Mme. and M. Aemon, Mother.”

It’s silent for a long moment. Mother and Father exchange a look of…sorrow? Guilt?

Finally Father speaks. “I’m sorry, little J, but…Mme. and M. aemon are very rich, and I have very high doubts they would hire a…so to say..um, a poor girl from a poor family. I think your Mother was probably…ah. Do you understand, Joan?” 

No never ending field of grass? No fury sheep to pet and herd? No, I didn't understand. Why would my mother lie to me about something like that? 

I nod my head anyway. “I understand, Father.”

“Good. A bowl of gruel is on the table along with a cup of watered down ale. Eat and then do your chores.” I nod, hiding my sadness well. I wobble into the kitchen, grab the gruel and ale and sit down. I stuff a spoonful of sticky oats and other things into my mouth, swallow, and chug the sour, tangy ale we all drink so as not to get sick by the dirty water. After I finish breakfast, I shrug my coat on, tie my boots and open the door to the windy world outside. Leaves fall from the trees, swaying back and forth in the air as they fall gently to the ground. The fall air makes me shiver and I wrap my jacket tightly around me, closing the door behind me. 

My first chore is Belle, the pig. We bought her while she was still a piglet, and now that it’s fall we plan to eat her. I walk down the hill to her rough pen and fill her trough with leftover bits and pieces from dinner, plus some old wheat. Belle snorts happily and trots over to the food, her nose held high. I give her an affectionate pat on the head as she starts to dig in. I sigh sadly as I think about her being gone in a few weeks. Everyone told me I shouldn’t name her, since she’s going to end up as bacon anyways, but I couldn't help it. I give her one last look and then hop over the fence in what I hoped to be a graceful leap, but my skirt gets caught on the one of the rough wooden poles father carved hastily one day. I trip and fall on the ground but manage to roll so I don't get hurt. I stand up and brush the dirt off my dress, huffing at how long it is and wishing I could wear pants and shorts like boys. Mother and Father would hate it.

Next is Lucky, the cow. Named lucky because our family is the only peasant farm who has a cow for miles around. We make milk and cheese from her, and on a special occasion, Mother might have enough ingredients to make a grainy cake. I make it up the hill to where she is nibbling on grass while tied to a pole stuck in the ground. I grab a bucket and set a small wooden stool down next to her, starting to milk.  I do this for about twenty minutes, and end up with less than half a bucket full of milk. I frown. I know Lucky is old and skinny, and will soon be taken to the butcher. Our family will miss her and the milk. I sigh as I carry the milk back up to the house.

I kick open the door and set the milk down, not bothering to take off my boots. “Father?” I call into the house. “Yes?” He answers from the dining room. I walk in and sink into one of the chairs.

“Lucky is giving less and less milk everyday.”

Father frowns. “I know,” he says.”Now why aren't you out doing your chores? You fed Belle?”

“But Father! What will we do with Lucky?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, Joan,” he scolds.

“I’m sorry Father,” I say sheepishly. Father nods.

“When she is too old and weak to produce anymore milk, I will take her to the butcher and we will have beef for months!”

“I see. I will finish my chores now,” I say and walk outside.

The truth is, I already finished my chores. Of course, there are still things to do around the farm, but my brothers and sister also have chores to do. I am just in charge of the animals. The only reason I told Father that was because I needed more time without him knowing where I was.

I was going to the docks.

I step over tree stumps and rocks as I make my way through the woods. After my parents told me I couldn't do sheepherding, the whole encounter with Saint Micheal came back to my mind. I decided that yes, I would ask the military commander for a ride to the prince. What was there to leave behind at home, anyway? More chores, unfair Fathers, more dresses. I would much rather prefer to be out on battlefields, fighting for France, even if it costs my life. 

I have no idea where the docks are, or how long it might take to get there, but after half an hour of walking, I am completely lost and getting tired. I wrap my fur coat tighter around me, fall winds nipping at my face and hands. I sit down under a tree, tired and hungry, ready to go home. I bury my face in my hands, a lone tear slipping down my cheek. I look up into the blue sky and decide that pleading may be my only chance.

“Oh, Father Micheal. Please, spare me! Give me a path to follow so I will be able to follow your directions and save France!” I falter a little before I say “save France,” but otherwise the prayer comes out confidently. I wait a minute, and then the trees part and there lays a path, leading me where I'm destined to go. I sigh in relief and stand up, beginning to walk some more.

Twenty minutes later, when the sun is high in the sky, I finally smell fresh water and fish. I pick up my pace, practically running down the dirt path, until I reach a small wooden hut that stands next to the road. I decide I am still lost, and if there is somebody inside that hut, I could ask them for directions.

I open the door without knocking and am immediately greeted with a gruff “Halt!”

“Hello?” I squeak. I look up to find a slim man with golden hair sitting at a desk, glaring at me. 

“What do you want, girl?” he grumbles. “And have you ever heard of knocking?”

I’m shaking. “Ah, of course, I apologize. In fact, I was looking for the Military-”

“Commander? Well, you’ve found him. Come in.”

Is he saying *he’s* the military commander? He couldn’t be less than sixteen! I sit down anyway, nervously clicking my shoes against the floor. I stare at the floor.

“Well, girl? Do you speak, or do you want to get kicked out? What do you need?”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I burst out, coming out of my thoughts. “I need a ride to Prince Charles to get him crowned! Please, take me on one of your boats!”

The man looks at me for a minute with a blank expression on his face. Clearly he wasn’t expecting this. Finally, he opens his mouth, and I think he’s about to answer, but instead he bursts into laughter.

“You?” He screeches through loud laughs. “You, a girl, want to crown a Prince? Bah! You’ve got no chance! Now shoo, before I tell the Priest you’re a witch and you burn at the stake!” 

Burn at the stake? A witch? All I asked for was a boat ride…yet I couldn't afford to be reported to the church as a priest. I stand up and shakily.

“I understand, Sir. um, thank you.” And I run out the door as fast as my legs will carry me, yet not fast enough. The commander, still laughing, gets up and follows me outside, ink bottle in hand. He throws it at me, open, so the contents spill out and onto my dress. I don’t care, and I know mother won’t either, but now I'll have to explain why ink is all over me. The Commander shouts at me.

“Try to get that out of your dress, witch-girl! Ha ha!” But I don’t hear him.

My attention is somewhere entirely. Where the ink has splattered on the ground, the dirt begins to sparkle and rise off the grass. It slowly forms into a golden angel, hovering a few feet off the ground.

I know who he is, too.

I look back, panicked, wondering if the Commander see’s it, too. He doesn’t seem to, sneering at me instead. So I act as though I don't, either, and run towards the path in the woods. I reach it and sink to the ground, breathing heavily and clutching…the ink bottle. I stare at it. 

It’s full. 

Finally, I gather the courage to look up and see Saint Micheal staring at me. He smiles. I jump in before he can say anything and speak in a rush.

“Saint Micheal, the ink…whenever it spills on the ground, you appear! Is it just a coincidence, or can I trust my eyes?”

“Ah, Joan, you have a quick mind. You are correct. When ink spills on the ground, it someons me. Other liquids summon other angels. For example, blood from a white feathered chicken summons Saint Gabirel when spilled. Milk from a brown and black cow summons Saint Rapheal. There are many others, as well. For me, however, it is ink. Keep this bottle–if you need me, sprinkle it on the dirt. when I am gone, it will refill itself.” He smiles. “Also, you can use it for those drawings of yours.”

“Oh, Micheal!” I squeal. “Thank you so much!”

“Saint Micheal. Of course,” he brushes aside my gratitude. 

“Now.” He says, a sudden seriousness taking over his face. “ We must get into business.”

“Oh, of course.” I pause. “Excuse me for asking, but..what kind of business?”

“Use that quick mind of yours, Joan! This is barely what I would consider a complicated question, anyways…”

“Oh, yes, yes. The reason I am here, of course. To go to the prince, that pesky Commander..” I sigh.

Saint Michael beams. “Indeed! what are we to do about him?” I hide my smile, my fingers finding the small dagger I keep under my dress everyday. Sometimes I use it for farming, though I have never used it to kill, not even an animal, save a chicken or two. It scares me, yet if it is needed…

Saint Micheal seems to read my thoughts, placing a ghostly hand on my shoulder. “There is no need to murder, Arc. Put your weapon back.” I nod, sliding it back in its place. “However…have you ever heard of a good thump on the head?” Oh, have I heard, Saint? I have seen, many, many times. Father, thumping a pig before killing it…Father, pounding a fish before placing it on the fire..

“I have heard and seen, my Saint.”

“Good, how do you feel about…”

He doesn't need to finish. “Yes, of course.” Without further discussion, I start to walk the other way, back towards the hut, this time walking up to the back. I reach it and come face to face with a wooden door. How will I ever get this open quietly? Perhaps..perhaps quietly isn’t the answer for this.

Grinning wildly, I swing the door open fast, running into the hut, grabbing the first hard object I see, in my case a clay flower vase, and getting behind the commander. I wait until he turns around, shock on his face, so he can see me, before I slam the vase on his head. It shatters, and he slumps to the floor, head drooping. I smile happily and pick the key for the boathouse off his neck.

“Oi! Robert, are you throwing chairs around in there?” Voices shout from right outside the hut. I gasp and look for cover-there is none! The men burst into the hut, mugs full of beer, and stand completely still for a moment while they take in the scene. I clutch the key in my hand, and run.

“Aye! Get her, the thief! She’s knocked our robert flat! She’s got the key!” They stumble after me, but no doubt their vision is blurred and they will have trouble walking, after a night at the tavern. I laugh wildly, out of fear and excitement, and run back through the woods towards my house. my feet crunch on the brown leaves strewn across the ground, and I duck and swerve to avoid knocking myself senseless against one of the trees that surrounds me. Finally, I reach my fathers land, slowing to a walk, out of breath and red in the face.

I walk up the steps to my door and swing it open, shaking off my worn boots and throwing my coat on the floor. I stuff the key into my dress pocket and walk into the kitchen to find mother, father, and all the siblings sitting at the table and staring at me. Father speaks.

“Care to explain where you’ve been, Joan? Certainly not with Gilles, I presume?” 

And this time, I make sure not to roll my eyes.

Chapter Three

“Follow me,” Father growls after I explain everything to him. “You had no reason to go all the way to the docks by yourself.” But I did, Father. I have to save france…”And you certainly should never hurt someone!” But he was going to kill me…”And as a lady, you must be wary of your clothes and not ruin them.” It wasn’t my fault he threw ink at me… “And I know you're  thinking of a thousand excuses right now, but no matter how many lies you tell me won’t get you out of trouble. Do you understand?” Yes, Father, yes yes yes. “I said, do you understand, Joan?”

“Yes, Father,” I squeak while I walk with my head hung low. Father snorts.

“Good. Now come stand here.” I slowly walk up to him, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Don't cry, Joan,” Father scolds. “Ladies don't talk about being a lady all of a sudden? Mother and Father have always treated me like a boy, letting me farm and get dirty and do whatever I please.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp pain on my backside. I gasp as Father whips me again. I know later Mother will come up to my bedroom where I’ll be sitting, crying, and take me to the stream to rub a herb on me to stop the stinging. Meanwhile, I stand here and get whipped for doing something I was told to do by a saint. I wonder if Father would whip me if I told him a Saint told me to do what I did? He wouldn’t believe me, of course. That’s why I didn’t tell him in the first place. He’d think I was a crazy person. 

A few whips later, father finally tells me to go to my room, which I run to, sobbing out of pain. My backside stings like crazy, and I sit on my bed, waiting for mother to come and help me out of pity. 

She never comes.