The Candle I recall it as if it were yesterday. She was so lovely and young. In her hand I darted and flick- ered away, an ardent lover's ad- venturing tongue. I had never known such yearning, exciting and risky and cruel. As we walked to the church, I was burning; she was my darling, my future, my fuel. I wanted to set her afire right then. But she was so pure, so chaste; her innocence only increased my desire. Still, I know the dangers of haste. So I watched and I studied and waited, and I saw that her young blood ran hot. She had no idea we were fated. I could name what she craved; she could not. Then in her eye, I caught my reflection. In her eye, I saw my- self shine, and I saw the heat rise on her virgin's com- plexion. That's when I knew: She was mine. Joan I've heard it said that when we die the soul discards its useless shell, and our life will flash before our eyes. Is this a gift from Heaven? Or a jinx from deepest Hell? Only the dying know, but what the dying know the dying do not tell. What more the dying know it seems I am about to learn. For when the sun is at its highest, a lusting torch will touch the pyre. The flames will rise. And I will burn. But I have always been afire. With youth. With faith. With truth. And with desire. My name is Joan, but I am called the Maid. My hands are bound behind me. The fire beneath me laid. Fire I yearn I yearn I yearn my darling I yearn I yearn I yearn Excerpted from Voices: The Final Hours of Joan of Arc by David Elliott All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
