| Jeanette
Speaks
by
Ali Alizadeh
1.
A bright and
barefoot little girl
with a garland of cherry blossoms
enters the unattended village church.
She makes a
shorthand cross
upon the makeshift wooden amulet
attached to her leather necklace.
She then runs
her bony fingers
through the long, black locks
parted above her forehead.
She walks past
the empty benches
towards the peaceful altar
and her petite, russet-clad figure
stoops to kneel there.
She clasps her
delicate hands
in front of a wooden statue
and casts her large, green eyes
upon the Saint’s figurine.
She whispers
in a soft but confident
voice:
–
Sister
Catherine. I didn’t give you
the
spring’s gift yesterday.
Mama
told me to donate
my
pickings to Mother Mary.
It’s
Jeannette speaking, sister
in
case you’ve forgotten me.
Please
don’t be mad.
Here,
I hope you like these.
She
places the crimson wreath
at the pedestal of the religious icon
and stands up to leaves the chapel
glowing with a heart-felt grin.
2.
I think
she
liked the flowers.
I know
I would
if I
was a saint.
I wonder
how
a
girl gets to become a saint?
My
Godmother, old Madame Agnes
says
before there were saints
there used to be sacred women called High Priestesses
or
Goddesses in this land. But Mama says
Madame Agnes is a witch
and
I shouldn’t listen to her.
Now
I should go and do my chores.
Afterwards,
if there’s time
I’ll
go with my friends
to
the slopes near the Fairies’ Tree.
The Tree, they say, is a hundred years old.
We’ll
pick lilies-of-the-valley and camellia
for
wreaths to put on the branches of the Tree at Lent
and
I’ll get some jasmine
for
Mama’s vase at home.
The
jasmine have such an amazing
smell
now
in
early spring.
The
best mushrooms grow on the paddocks
behind
the Virgin Spring.
I’ve
heard the nuns at the Hermitage say
the
Spring has healing powers.
I’ve
even seen a leper and a blind monk
come
all the way from Nancy to drink its water.
I
wonder if any of them is cured. I’m lucky
to
be “strong and healthy,” Mama says.
She
reckons
I
was born in winter, on the night of Epiphany
about
nine or ten years ago. She says
Epiphany
was when Lord Jesus
was
first recognised as the Son of God by people.
But
Madame
Agnes says my birthday
was
on the same day as Le Jour des Rois,
Day
of the Kings, an ancient celebration
when
the rich baked a cake for the beggars
and
the last beggar to get a piece
was
named the Bean-King, or something like that.
Mama
says
it’s
blessed for girls
to
go down the Valley to pick
blossoms and weave garlands
for
the images of saints in our Church
and
for those in the Hermitage behind the Bois Chesnu
Oak
Forest. I love
Saint
Catherine’s statue, and Saint Margaret too.
She
sometimes looks
straight
at my praying and
when
feeling the kindness of her eyes
I
wonder why Papa says
the statue is a lifeless thing.
Mama
calls Papa sacrilegious
whenever
he makes fun of our praying. Why does
he call the statue
lifeless?
Doesn’t wood
come
from the living trees?
My
dress today
is the colour of oak. It’s made of
rough
wool cut out of Mama’s old dress.
She’s given it
puffy sleeves and stitched pretty
blue ribbons
on the skirt
making
it look like the dress
of
a rich city girl. She says
I’m short like her but have Papa’s
legs.
I’m
not sure what she means.
My
hair’s black like Papa’s
and
really messy today
I’ll have to get Mama to brush it
once
I’ve been to the well
and drawn water. Now
she’s making lunch for Papa and the
boys
and
putting the bundle of bread and fruit
into
the saddle of the mule they’ll take with them
to
the farms.
Sometimes
they take me with them
to
help with sowing the seeds, pruning the plants
or
ploughing. I like
digging
furrows between the rows of grape and
corn.
I
like using a sharp spade
and getting my hands dirty, but
being
a girl, and “little”
Papa
usually makes me take the sheep
to
the meadows near the Village of Maxey.
I
have to sit there and watch them
stuff
their mouths with grass and leaves.
I
use my spinning distaff
for
handling the silly animals when they don’t listen
to me.
I
have wound a bit of wool
on
top of my staff. When I get bored with being a
shepherdess
I
spin the wool
around
the stick. I use it
like
a cane when climbing a steep hillock
and
it’s a weapon
if
the Maxey kids come to annoy my flock.
I
know I’m supposed to act like a girl
and scream and cry if there’s
trouble
but
sometimes I can’t help
chasing
the bullies, or at least yelling at them.
Mama
gets upset sometimes
telling
me I’m too much like a boy
but
I’m very good at spinning wool
and
sing with the girls
the
Maiden Melodies
at the dances and celebrations.
And today
after
visiting Saint Catherine,
getting
water and milking the cows,
I’m
in the kitchen with Mama
with
canvas aprons over our skirts.
She’s
teaching me to make
the dish she calls
“Our
great region’s most famous cuisine.”
I
don’t really like Quiche Lorraine.
I
prefer fresh bread and creamy cheese.
But
Mama is very keen
and
doesn’t give up until I’ve beaten my eggs
and
made them as foamy as hers. She tells me
with pride in her voice:
“Ah,
Jeannette, have I told you about my pilgrimage to Rome?”
(She
has. About a hundred times)
“There
I presented a slice of our cherished pastry
to
our Holy Father, the Pope himself.
That’s
why they call me
Isabelle
Romee, because I’ve been to the Holy
City.”
After pouring
the mixture
into the vessels covered with pastry
we take the clay pots
to the communal village oven.
Mama’s worried I could burn myself
and lets me go before
kindling the fire herself. I return home
take off the apron, put an apple
in my pocket and fasten the clog sandals
to my ankles. I take my distaff
and go out into our back garden…
the silly rabbits
have made it through the fence again.
I step
over the leftovers of our baby carrots
and yell at the neighbour’s cottage:
– Margarette! Margarette! You
wanna go
graze
the sheep?
My
oldest friend quickly runs out.
Her
golden hair is so beautiful
and
her teeth are much nicer than mine.
She
throws herself at me
and
giggles: “Let’s run! I’m so sick of my baby
sister!
She’s crying all the time!”
And
we lock arms
and
skip in our heavy clogs
to where
the animals are caged
in
a fenced field behind our cottages.
3.
We
open the strong gates
and
my cattle dog Claude
a big
wolfy breed called Alsatian
barks
the sleepy sheep into action.
The
lazy beasts bleat unhappily.
I
yell: “OHOY OHOY” and poke my distaff
into
the stubborn ones refusing to move
accidentally
hitting the grumpy ram
Papa’s
told me to stay away from.
I
stand still and see the horned beast
huff
and shiver with anger.
My
heart beats fast and I go
to call for Margarette but how
could
she help?
The ram attacks me.
I
jump out of his way
over
the lazy sheep.
But
he hasn’t forgiven me
and shoves the others out of his
way
spotting
me with his furious eyes
and bolting towards me again.
And
all of a sudden
a
gilded image
I’ve
seen painted on the walls of the Hermitage
flashes
across my mind:
Saint
Michael the Archangel
Hero
of the Battle of Heaven and
Hell
a
winged, armoured knight
pushing
his lance into the throat
of
a vicious serpent.
All
of a sudden my distaff
becomes the Angel’s holy lance
and
I firmly aim it
at the oncoming monster
pushing it into his thick fleece
making
him stop. The ram
angrily stamps his short legs pushing
against the tip
of my hard distaff.
I clench my teeth and groan
against
his force
holding the distaff with both hands
when
Claude, my strong wolf-dog
jumps over the other sheep
into
the scene of my battle
and furiously barks at the ram
who’s been outnumbered
and begins to set back.
I
pat Claude’s hairy neck
when
the ram has been pushed
into
the flow of sheep
exiting
the fenced area for the pastures.
I plant
my distaff into the ground
to catch
my breath while putting my messy hair
into
a horsetail. I notice
Margarette
staring at me from the other side of the fence.
I say:
–
Stupid ram! What was his problem?!
Margarette doesn’t laugh
at
my smart remark
like she usually would. Her blue eyes
are bulging with fear. She speaks
hesitantly:
“Jeannette…
how
did you do that?”
–
How did I do what, Margarette?
“Fight!
How did you
fight
like a…
like
a…
boy!
You looked
so
mean…so angry! Why didn’t you
cry
for help?”
–
I… dunno…
Margarette
hitches her skirt
and
steps carefully over the fence
coming
over and giving me a hug
her
beautiful eyes breaking into tears:
“I
was so worried... Oh sister... I was so scared...”
I giggle and boast: – It was only a sheep! By God!
It
wasn’t a wild boar or anything!
She
sniffs her nose and says: “No
it wasn’t… it was… it was…
terrible…
you… you
scared me… don’t do that again. Promise me!”
Feeling
confused and uncomfortable
I push
her away and run towards a wandering lamb
who’s
left the others
yelling:
– C’mon Margarette!
I wanna pick mushrooms later on…
we’re
gonna run out of time. C’mon!
That
night after the Campanile
when Papa and the boys return from the farms
Mama
serves the quiche
she’s made. My quiche
“didn’t
have the proper consistency” she reckons
and was given to the parish priest instead.
Papa
teases me:
“You
won’t find a husband if you can’t cook properly!
We’ll
have to send you to a bloody convent! How about that?!”
I
stick my tongue out at him.
He laughs
and ruffles my head.
4.
A few months
later, on Saint Jean the Baptist’s Eve
everyone in the village brings a log
or a bundle of sticks. Jeannette has a twig
for the bonfire
lit every year near the Fairies’ Tree.
Madame Agnes has told her that this ritual is actually
a pagan salute to summer called Midsummer,
symbolising
the passage of spring
with a bonfire that consumes the flowers. But
Jeannette’s mother, Isabelle, believes
that the fire
is a reminder of Hell for the sinful
and the vain; she’s told her daughter to burn
something precious to her, so Jeannette’s tied a fresh lily
to her twig.
The evening
begins with the chiming of church bells
and the villagers, in their best dresses and tunics
walk cheerfully up the hill towards the primeval Tree.
Jeannette
and the children sing:
“This is Saint Jean’s night
The
great occasion
When lovers delight
And
burn with passion
The moon has risen.”
Madame Agnes,
despite her frail legs,
has climbed the hillock ahead of the others
instructing the young men and girls
to arrange the
wood in a pyramid
that would last long and look prominent.
She whispers to Jeannette’s oldest brother, Joe
quietly
so that the parish priest can’t hear:
“You’ll see, dear boy, once the flames have risen
the fairy folk will come to dance beneath the Tree.”
5.
Jeannette is
full of verve
running ahead of the other children
her singing is the loudest
noise after
the ringing of the bells.
The thin girl hops like a stag
and her green eyes radiate
with anticipation.
The elders choose her
as “Saint Jean’s Queen”
to light the bonfire. She’s hoisted
on the shoulders
of her uncle, Durand,
and Isabelle holds the torch that sets fire
to her daughter’s twig. Jeannette brushes
the unruly black
hair off her pink face
and throws the ignited flower
at the hay stacked beneath the tower of wood.
The villagers
crack open the barrels of wine
and the priest begins playing his lyre.
Margarette is holding the hands of a boy
called Collot
and Joe has his eyes on a girl
he hasn’t met before. Jeannette, having drunk
a cup of wine diluted with water,
is almost shouting
at Madame Agnes:
–
The Goddess of Moon?!!!
I
wanna see her! And the fairies!
Where
are they! You promised!
Jacques and
Isabelle watch their children
from a distance. She tells him: “Jacques
could we go to Toul, please. I wanna give alms
at
the cathedral there. We must thank our Lord
for our children, the harvest, oh…for everything!
We’re so blessed…Can we Jacques?”
Jacques kisses
her and empties another goblet
into his mouth before saying: “Sure, sweetheart.
We should thank God, and our lucky stars.”
6.
Now everyone’s
smeared with the orange glow
of the flames. Some are dancing in a circle around the pyre.
Some of them believe that this dance will prevent
illness and
bad luck for the next year. As is
and has been customary for centuries,
the night ends with the younger couples jumping the subsiding blaze
holding hands
to strengthen their romance. Jeannette
who has no interest in boys yet
has decided to take part in this closing ritual alone
because Madame
Agnes has told her that her father’s crops
will grow as tall as her leap tonight. She’s rolled up her
skirt
above her calves and kneecaps, watching impatiently
as the others
hesitate to brave the fire. She yells:
–
My turn! My turn!
and runs towards
the flames. Her legs heave
and fly over the bonfire. She swims through
the smoky air. The flames brush the soles of her feet
but can’t
hurt her. She makes it and joyously screams
upon landing, but her excitement
quickly dissipates. She’s exhausted; her large eyes close
and her body
collapses into the grass. By the time
Jacques has come to her side, she’s fast asleep.
She’s so bloody adorable, he thinks
and lifts his
snoring daughter carefully. He places her
on the bed at their house and himself returns
to have a few more drinks with the other farmers.
7.
Jeannette’s
tiny lips shiver in sleep
and
her cheeks tremble as she breathes
heavily; she dreams
of
the villagers drinking and being merry
a
year of joy descends upon the Valley
her
white sheep flying through the blue sky
the
crops weaving into crowns for her head
ghosts
twist into the tubers of the Fairies’ Tree
Archangel
Michael and Saint Catherine get married
a
bouquet of daisies burns in the sacred fire
the
sun mixes with the soil and plants are born
and
far behind the Oak Forest
a
flood
of
identical men
wielding
axes
cut
down the trees and crush the farms
they’re
thousands and their stampede rattles the Valley
they’re
soldiers of the greatest army in the world
their
faces are eyeless and their feet are hooves
they
have black crosses tattooed on the forehead…
Jeannette wakes up
next
to her parents and brothers under the blanket.
They’re
deep asleep
and
the girl’s shivering figure doesn’t wake them.
Outside,
a few farmers
strew
the ashes of the fire over the vegetation
to banish bad omens.
|
COLLECTIBLES