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.