The Final Summit Read online

  “The summit requests the assistance of a Traveler.”

  With those words, David seemed to have set the theater in motion. After a second’s hesitation, the attendees were turning or leaning to see who would approach the table. Several even stood up to look around, most focusing their gaze into the shadows, where it was harder to see. At first, David thought John Adams was the chosen Traveler, but quickly realized he was only crossing the floor to speak with Thomas Jefferson, who was seated on the other side.

  David felt a hush come over the gathering that started at the end on his right and moved rapidly through the theater. As he and Winston stood, David was aware of John Adams passing behind him and returning to his seat. Trying to ignore the second U.S. president, who was for a moment within reach, he peered into the darkness where the attention of the Travelers at that end of the room indicated someone approaching.

  At once, David saw the person moving briskly down the aisle. Head high and wearing a suit of heavy white cloth, the person’s arms were adorned with brightly polished mail—small links of interlocking chain—from wrist to bicep. Leather boots and a scabbard carrying a huge sword completed the ensemble.

  Before David noticed anything else, however, two things drew his attention. First, the white suit was emblazoned on its chest with a large red cross. Second, the person striding toward him was a girl.

  “It’s the Maid,” Winston murmured.

  David nodded, for he had recognized her too. The confident young person who had now stopped in front of them was Joan of Arc—the Maid of Orleans. “Bonjour, gentlemen,” she said without smiling. “Where do you desire that I sit?”

  “Bonjour, miss,” David said and gestured to the table. “Wherever you wish.”

  Without hesitation, she rounded the head of the table and chose the seat in the middle, directly across from David. Before sitting down, Joan removed the scabbard from her belt with a practiced motion and placed it, sword and all, onto the table in front of her.

  She was in her late teens. Her short, dark hair had been lightened by the sun, and its color made Joan’s green eyes seem even paler than they were. She was a tall girl, David had observed when she approached, and now she sat ramrod straight in her chair. Not that it made any difference, but David also noticed an array of freckles scattered liberally across Joan’s serious face.

  David moved the hourglass to the side, having seen that it would obstruct the view between the three of them. Noting the sand’s steady progress, he tried to put the time concern out of his mind for the moment and took his seat as Winston and Joan were getting settled.

  Before he could say a word, Joan spoke first. “I am honored to be a part of this guild, Monsieur Ponder. I shall endeavor to be a productive component of the quest and leave my prejudices out of the process.”

  David’s eyes widened. “Prejudices? I don’t understand.”

  Answering, she said, “While commonality in language has been engendered between us in this place, dialect remains the same.” Looking sharply at Winston, she added, “And I don’t like his accent.”

  “Oh for the love of . . .” Churchill muttered, rolling his eyes dramatically and reaching into his suit pocket for a cigar.

  “What do you mean?” David asked, confused.

  “What she means,” Winston said with feigned patience, “is that my speaking voice, with its Old English intonation, gives her the creeps . . . the willies. Undoubtedly, the inflection with which I enunciate brings forth unpleasant memories.” David’s expression told Winston that his point still was not clear. Leaning closer, the prime minister loudly whispered, “Good God, man, think! My ancestors burned her at the stake in 1431.”

  Seeing recognition in David’s eyes, Winston turned his attention back to his cigar. He had the Zippo out and was just about to spin the spark wheel when he caught sight of Joan glowering at him from across the table. He looked back at the lighter and froze. “Yes. Well,” he said, clearing his throat and sliding the Zippo, along with the cigar, carefully back into his pocket. “My apologies, Maid.” Then to David, “Onward, then.”

  “Joan,” David began, “are you in agreement with our assessment of the question?”

  “Oui, monsieur,” the girl answered. Yes. “And I already know the answer.”

  CHAPTER 5

  When Joan of Arc unexpectedly announced that she had already solved their dilemma, the two men across from her sat up straight. Winston sputtered as David put a hand out to quiet him, directing his full attention to the young girl. “You say you already know the answer?”

  “Oui.”

  David and Winston glanced at each other. David asked, “Are you positive? Did you talk with anyone else?”

  “Non,” Joan said. No. “I did not speak with anyone else, but the answer is obvious. The answer is ‘hope.’” She reached over, plucking the parchment from the table, and read, “What does humanity need to do, individually and collectively, to restore itself to the pathway toward successful civilization? The answer is ‘hope.’ Humanity has lost hope, and to restore itself to the pathway toward successful civilization, hope itself must be restored. Hope. Or, for two words . . . ‘Restore hope.’” With that, she tossed the parchment back onto the table and added, “Call Gabriel now and give him the answer.”

  The three stared at one another momentarily before David, realizing he had been holding his breath, exhaled in a slow half whistle. “You don’t lack for confidence, do you?” he commented, glancing at the hourglass. “We still have plenty of time. Let’s not call Gabriel just yet. I suggest we test this possibility carefully before presenting a definitive answer.”

  Joan nodded. Hearing Winston chuckle, David turned and gave him a questioning look. Churchill held up his hands in mock surrender and smiled. “No, no,” he said. “I’m with you. I also believe we must discuss the matter thoroughly. It’s just that my answer, had you pressed me for one, would’ve been identical to that of the Maid’s. Restore hope. I believe she is correct.”

  David shook his head and took a deep breath. “I’ll admit, it sounds good to me as well. So let’s talk. Joan? You first. How did you arrive at this conclusion?”

  “Do you know my story, monsieur?” she asked in reply. Not receiving an immediate answer, she added, “Perhaps that might be the way to reveal the pathway to my answer.”

  “Perfect, actually,” Winston said to David. He indicated Joan with his head and stated, “After all, hers is the only story of a human life that comes to us under oath.”

  “What do you mean?” David asked.

  “The official records of her trial in 1431,” Churchill explained, “and the Process of Rehabilitation—eyewitness testimony and documents proving her innocence—from several years later remain preserved in the National Archives of France. I’ve actually read them. The records are extensive and detail the facts of her life with remarkable fullness.” Winston turned to Joan. “But I would consider it an honor to hear it all from you.”

  Their attention was rapt as the gathering in the theater made not a sound. With a deep breath, Joan began. “I was born on 6 January, 1412, in Domremy, a tiny village in northern France. We were peasants. Not destitute, simply poor. My father and mother, Jacques and Isabel, were legally married. I mention this only because it was not always the case in those days. With my three older brothers and younger sister, I tended sheep and worked in the garden.

  “This was during the time you now call the Hundred Years’ War. For almost eight decades,” Joan paused and, without a hint of warmth, looked straight at Winston, “the English vultures tore at our flesh.”

  Returning her eyes to David, she continued. “The French armies were in disarray. They were so demoralized by unrelenting defeats that the mere arrival of an English army was enough to cause a French retreat.

  “It was the summer of 1424. The moment Gabriel first appeared to me, I was alone, drawing water from the stream.”

  “Wait,” David interrupted. “Gabriel? I have
read about you, too, Joan. In every account, it is written that you saw visions and heard voices.”

  Joan frowned slightly, an expression of impatience on her face. “Of course the scribes recorded visions, monsieur. How did you explain to your contemporaries that you had become a Traveler?”

  Taken aback, David glanced at Winston and answered, “I didn’t. I didn’t tell anyone except my wife.” Winston shook his head, indicating he had not told anyone at all.

  “Did your wife believe you, monsieur?”

  “No,” David admitted. “Not for a long time.”

  Still glaring, but not quite so fiercely, Joan said, “Well, no one believed me either. I was twelve years old. Gabriel accompanied me on my travel and, during it, informed me that I would one day lift the siege of Orleans on behalf of the duke and bring the dauphin, Charles, to Reims for his coronation as king.

  “When I returned from my travel, I told my parents what had happened. I told them about Gabriel and the military commanders I had met on my travel. I told them that I had talked to Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret.” Joan paused and shook her head with irritation. “Of course, my family told our neighbors, and soon the whole village thought me mad. It was a childish mistake. I should not have uttered a word.

  “Nevertheless, for the next several years, Gabriel talked with me. I went on another travel when I was fifteen. Then, in February 1429, the archangel announced that my time had come. I was only sixteen but managed to convince an escort of soldiers to accompany me on an eleven-day journey through enemy territory to the Royal Court at Chinon. There I presented my plan to the dauphin, Charles.”

  “What was your plan?” David asked.

  “To sack the English, monsieur,” Joan replied as if it were a stupid question.

  Ignoring the tone in her voice, David asked another. “How did Charles respond to your plan?”

  Joan shrugged. “He thought me mad as well. But he gave me troops. The dauphin knew that we French—his father and his father’s father—had been under the English boot for three-quarters of a century. He really had no choice. Quite simply, I was his last”—Joan paused and lifted her chin—“hope.”

  David and Winston shared a glance. “What then?” David asked.

  “We departed. I led the army to Orleans. We arrived on 29 of April. The siege on the city had lasted seven months. We took the English fortress in nine days.”

  David raised his eyebrows and looked at Winston, who nodded.

  “We defeated the fortress built around the Church of Saint-Loup on 4 of May. On 6 of May, we took the fortress of the Augustinians, followed by Les Tourelles on the 7. The English lifted their siege and retreated the next day.

  “These victories preceded our routing of the English at Jargeau on 12 June, Meung-sur-Loire on 15, and Beaugency on 17. The very next day, 18 of June, the English lost more than half their field army to us near Patay.

  “After accepting the surrender of the city of Troyes, and every other town along the way, I led the men into Reims on 16 of July. Charles was declared King Charles VII. The following afternoon, I was at his side for the coronation.”

  Winston cleared his throat. “Might I ask, Maid . . . ,” he began, and she signaled for him to continue. “At that time, during your extraordinary conquest of the English armies”—he paused to clear his throat again, trying to be tactful in what he was about to ask—“in the thick of the fighting, were you accompanied by our friend Gabriel?”

  “No,” she answered, and when she did, Winston and David nodded as if they had both been wondering the same thing. “No,” she said again. “Michael.”

  “Pardon me?” David asked.

  “Michael,” she repeated. “Gabriel accompanied me on my travels. Gabriel informed me of my destiny. It was Gabriel who foretold the hope I would bring to a hopeless cause.” Her green eyes narrowed. “But Michael attended me in battle.”

  “Oh dear,” Winston said, his eyes wide.

  “Michael, the other angel?” David asked Winston.

  “Michael, the other archangel,” Winston corrected him, shaking his head, eyes wide in wonder. “Michael—patron saint of the warrior, field commander of the army of God. Oh dear. This does explain a lot. A sixteen-year-old girl crushing the military might of England and all that.”

  The two men turned their attention back to Joan, who was waiting patiently. “This is not new information,” she said. “Look in your archives. Read the books. It’s all there. I told everyone. I told them when I was twelve, and I told them at my trial. ‘Gabriel and Michael,’ I said. ‘Gabriel and Michael.’ No one would believe me.”

  “I am curious,” David said carefully. Glancing around, he saw that the entire theater was riveted, anticipating the question they felt certain he would ask. “Where were Gabriel and Michael when you were—”

  “When I was finally captured by the English? When King Charles refused to ransom me? Where were Gabriel and Michael when I was burned alive?” Joan finished.

  “Yes,” David said softly. “Where were they?”

  Suddenly, Joan’s face softened and she explained, haltingly at first. “Michael was terribly angry, monsieur. He had protected me for so long. Michael asked permission to kill them all but was ordered away. Gabriel . . . Gabriel was with me. He was with me at the stake. He knew . . . and I knew . . . that my destiny—my purpose—required that moment. And I have not a single regret.”

  Joan was silent for a moment then narrowed her eyes slightly and said, “Have you read of my death, monsieur? How it was carried out? The words I said as I took my final breath?”

  David shook his head. He had not.

  “Do so when you return to your time,” she said. “Everything we do while we are alive—everything we say—is important. And though sometimes difficult, death is part of living. Sometimes, the last thing we do . . . the last thing we say . . . matters most. Often, it is all anyone remembers.

  “My life was chosen to bring hope to my people. Hope is basic, like bread or water—one cannot live without it, at least not for long.”

  Winston spoke to David. “It’s the first task of a leader, don’t you know . . . to keep hope alive.” Then to Joan, he said, “You have my utmost respect, Maid. Though it was my forebears you vanquished, your cause was just and true. Because of your actions, that thread of hope has continued unbroken for centuries. You are now the patron saint of soldiers; did you know? You are the patron saint of prisoners, of martyrs, of the Women’s Army Corps—you are even the patron saint of the entire nation of France. Why? Because still, fair Maid, you inspire hope.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Joan said. “From the beginning of my quest, I felt it to be my highest duty. Many said that my courage was responsible for our success, but it was hope. Hope is the captain of courage and the author of success. For the person whose hope remains unshaken has within them the power to do miracles. Hope sees what is invisible, feels what is intangible, and achieves what most consider impossible.”

  David said, “This must be the answer. When I lost all my worldly possessions, the one thing I never lost was hope.” He thought for a moment then added, “It is only through hope that we persevere. Our lives may be swayed by gales of adversity . . . we may be drowning in the floodwaters of helplessness, but with strong hope, we continue the search to find a way when all evidence shouts, ‘Quit.’”

  “I have long believed,” Winston said, “that there are no hopeless situations; there are only people who have grown helpless about them. When it came to pass that my tiny island nation was alone in the world . . .” Winston paused. He was no longer looking at Joan or David but staring at the table, as if lost in the memory.

  “When the Nazis had consumed Europe, and America had yet to step forward, it was hope and hope alone that allowed me to rally my countrymen. It was hope that said, ‘We shall fight on the beaches. We shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets. We shall fight in the hills and we shall nev
er surrender.’”

  No one moved. Finally, Winston blinked and shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Seems like yesterday. My point was, I suppose, that as long as there is breath, there is hope.”

  “And that, monsieur,” Joan said, smiling for the first time at Winston, “is the proof of hope.”

  “What, Joan,” David asked. “What is the proof of hope?”

  “That you breathe,” she answered. “For if you are breathing, then you are still alive. And if you are still alive, that means you haven’t accomplished what you were placed on earth to do. If you haven’t accomplished what you were put on earth to accomplish, this signifies that your life’s very purpose has yet to be fulfilled. If your very purpose has yet to be fulfilled, that is proof that the most important part of your life remains ahead of you!

  “Don’t you see? If the most important part of your life is in the future, then it doesn’t matter how old you are or how sick you are. It doesn’t matter how fearful or depressed you might feel or how penniless you might be. By the virtue of the fact that you still draw breath, there is more to come. There is more laughter and learning . . . more victories. There is more. This is the proof of hope, monsieur.”

  Winston laid his palms flat on the table and stood. To Joan he said, “We owe you a debt of gratitude, Maid. You bring us this answer—hope—that is shown to be the bountiful fruit of a very fruitful life. For your life was spent in the wickedest, most brutal time in history—the darkest of ages.”

  Churchill gestured toward Joan with an open palm and addressed the theater. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am beyond astonishment at the miracle of such a flower from such a soil.” Looking to Joan again, he said, “Fair Maid, I am humbled by your presence, for I know that it was the sweat, sacrifice, and tears of your life that prepared the ground for a springtime of the human spirit.”