Bone of Arc and the Stories that Help Us Understand the World

As a staunch Catholic, when I was eleven, I chose for my confirmation name Joan of Arc, because she had a horse. I've read and watched her story since in many versions, my favorite, Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc,  a translation by Jean Francois Alden of the memoirs of Louis de Contes, her page. In fact, Mark Twain wrote Recollections under the Alden pseudonym as a serial story for Harpers, from the perspective of a fictional writer about a fictional character serving Joan of Arc. My second favorite is Bone of Arc starring the famous terrier, Wishbone.

Detail has never been my strong point. History.... I get the gist.

Since that slap on the cheek from the bishop, I've grown to appreciate Jean d'Arc for her leadership, her loyalty and her steadfast faith... all on a horse. When my son did his university junior year abroad in Rouen, as his patron, I packed my valise and along with my sister journeyed to France to visit. We toiled over espresso and croissants in cafes, and wine, baguettes and cheese in other cafes, while he toiled in his oenology class. 

Late, one grey afternoon, sipping a red at a table outside overlooking a church with an imposing cross, out of place with its modern lines, we learned we were actually looking at the exact location my patron saint was burned at the stake. The tight square of buildings surrounding that place, made it easy to imagine the din of the crowds that witnessed and cheered her demise. Last summer, once more astonished at how the dots connect, I sat through a presentation at the Smithsonian in DC, celebrating Julia Child's 100th birthday, I learned that she sat in the window of the cafe a few feet from where we sat then, overlooking the same scene, without the church, and decided to teach women to cook French.

The subtleties are not lost on me. Eight years ago, I wrote a short, fanciful story, Embers,  (posted below in the previous blog) about the person who cleaned up after the pyre that took Jean d’Arc's life. I admit, I did no research for the tale except remembering the books I'd read, the videos I'd watched over the years, what I gleaned from the tour of the jail that held her and that long glass of wine in the square where her execution took place. The story describes my imagination of how they strapped her to a post with leather straps, a reluctant man with a leprous disease sent to deal with the ashes, then freed and cured in a JOA miracle. Though the movies show her eyes toward God, none have shown a montage of logistics. I made them up.  

In the writing group, the number of minutes each person gets to comment on a story is based on the quantity of people reviewing and divided by the quantity of manuscripts. Usually a strident timekeeper metes out the typical 2 or 3 minutes. Reviews cover logic, grammar, word choice and ideas to improve the story. No matter how many times I put mine through the ABC grammar reviews on line, my stories cause battles among grammarians about comma usage… as you might surmise. The evening I submitted Embers for review three people pulled me aside on the way to the Celtic Knot, the usual post-group watering hole, to make a personal comment about my Joan of Arc story.

Jeff, a psychiatrist who wrote world history thrillers, told me the story was about France and England and I needed to add more political intrigue. Rob, a retired geology professor explained that she’d never be bound in leather, it would burn through; they would have used a form of chainmail. He also told me how bone shards might be left under the chainmail. Mindy, who I first met the year before as Seth, told me the story was about a transgender individual and that theme would make my story relevant.  I learned two important lessons from this experience: People use filters when they read, no matter what the writer intends.  And, writing groups are great, but every comment is filtered and a writer must, in the end, be clear and true to their purpose. (OK, I've learned that a million other ways too, but that evening cemented the learning.)

After posting the story in the previous blog, I read the history of burning people at the stake and felt sick and wondered whether I should remove the post. A while later, before I sat down to write this post, I lit a candle. My long-nose lighter wouldn't light, so I struck a match on a box that I'd picked up at a fancy restaurant. The wick of the candle in the jar stood five inches down from the top, and I could barely get my fist into it. I burned my thumb. Oww. I can't imagine the minds that thought up the torture of burning people alive. 

Joan of Arc provokes discussion. Her story is compelling, whether told by historians, theologians, famous comic writers who thought it best to write under a pseudonym or Jack Russel Terriors. I don't think I am cut out to be a martyr, though some may say I already act it.  I've tried to emulate her leadership and commitment to an ideal. As a preteen, the possibilities of leadership excited me. I grew up to lead a company instead of an army, no doubt with some subtle nudge from my patron. In choosing between paint swatches for our offices, there was no doubt, when down to the final choices in selecting "Maid of Orleans" to surround us.

My favorite but long gone gift from confirmation was a statue with Joan in armor, holding the flag, on a white stallion. Back in those days, we were told that only the good die young. I like that she was a bad ass then. My solace is that I heard I should expect to be a badder ass the older I get. 

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