My Damsel in Distress, Part 5 m/f

[calebtras]

My Damsel in Distress, Part 5

[Sheila, Sean, and I, eleven years old, had been playing every Saturday for the whole summer. She was the first girl I'd ever wanted to pay attention to me.]

One Saturday Sean didn’t show up.

”Let's go to his apartment and get him,” Sheila said.

”Can't. He's like Cinderella—evil stepmom. He's probably grounded.”

Our dress-up, adventure, and romance games each Saturday were our escape from our parents, boys fighting and girls arguing, the nuns, everything about the gritty streets of Brooklyn. We had to do something.

”We could do Joan of Arc?” Sheila said.

I'd seen a bit of the Ingrid Bergman movie my mother watched. I complained, “That was about a girl. There's no good guy. And the bad guys aren't cool.”

“You can be all the boys—a soldier who fights against me, the judge at my trial. The monk who holds up a cross when I'm at the stake is like pointing my way to heaven. He's very cool.”

If Sean was there, with our combined boy-energy, she wouldn't ask me to be in a girl show.

”I'll be your captive for the trial scene, and you get to tie me to the stake,” she said with a smile.

I felt myself blush. Sheila had figured out I chose stories where the princess gets tied up.

”It’s my one chance to be a warrior and leader,” she said. “Puh-lease.”

“Okay.” I realized she had played the princess to please us, and I owed it to her to do something she wanted.

“Just follow what I do,” she said. She put her Guinivere gown on over her Saturday play clothes pants and blouse, took my hand, and led me to the roof. I sat cross-legged on the tarpaper while she stood on a raised hatchway. Looking skyward, she held up her hands, eyes wide with amazement. “My beautiful Lady. Who are you?”

She listened, then, just as if she heard someone, she said, “My Dear Saint Catherine, I am but a humble maiden in my father's garden. Why do you come to me?”

Pause. She said, “But I am not a knight or even know how to hold a sword.”

Pause, then she knelt and bowed her head in prayer. “If it is God's will.”

She took off the gown, stood on the stairs, and said, “Men of France. I have seen a vision. I will lead you in battle to restore Charles to be King of France.”

I followed as Sheila ran down to the 2nd floor, grabbed an old broom and waved it like a flag. She stage-whispered to me, “Terry, you're an English soldier.” I put on my knight outfit and stood on the stairs with my chrome plated sword. Joan rode the broomstick horse and flag into battle, calling, “We fight for God, for Charles, the true King, and for France.” She rode up the stairs toward me and her face and voice were so fierce, I backed up until we reached the 3rd floor.

Joan lifted her flag. “We have freed Orleans.”

She made a speech about crowning Charles that I didn't really understand, then she got back on her horse. She rode to the 4th floor with me close behind. At the top of the stairs, she turned and fought me. She whipped her sword around like a warrior. She used her advantage of being above to drive me back down the stairs. She frowned in concentration, scaring me. She fought me to the middle of the living room, where she stage whispered, “Okay, Terry, you capture me and chain me up. Call me the Maid of Orleans.”

I pulled her down from her horse to the floor and called out, “I’ve captured the Maid of Orleans.” I pulled her hands behind her, criss-crossed a rope around her wrists, and tied a knot. I pulled her down the stairs to the basement dungeon.

“You're the judge and you're trying me,” she said. “Accuse me of heresy, that's believing in a fake God. That's the worse thing you can be, you know. Then accuse me of wearing boy's clothes.”

“But you are wearing boy's clothes,” I said.

“You get to be mean to me,” she said.

“I'm all mixed up,” I said. “Tell me everything I'm going to do.”

Sheila switched back to being herself, explaining the story and my roles, leading me through every room from basement to roof. She looked so cute with her hands tied behind her, kicking piles of rubble and poking open closet doors, pointing out stuff for me to collect. I got an idea and filled an empty paint can with crumpled paper and slivers of two by fours.

Back in the castle, I stood on a wood crate. “Joan, Maid of Orleans, you are a witch who wear men's clothes. What makes you so special?”

“I ask only to be in His grace,” she said calmly.

“You are doing the work of Satan. I, the Judge, decide who's doing God's work,” I said. “Repent, sinner.”

Sheila whispered, “Terry, be meaner.”

She'd called me mean when I tied Sean up so tightly he got a cramp, but that wasn't on purpose. I so wanted to please her, I got an idea. I stepped off the crate and grabbed her chin hard, shoving my face right in front of hers, like my father used to do to my mother before she kicked him out. “You bitch! I can kill you and get away with it because no one gives a shit about you.” I was cold and heartless. “You can go to hell.”

Joan sank to her knees, her head staring at the floor for a long time. She whispered, “I'll repent.”

I felt like a real judge. “And you'll wear a dress like girls are supposed to?”

“Yes.”

I pulled her to her feet. “All right, then you can live.” Sheila was crying real tears. I untied her hands and got her white Guinivere gown, pulling first one arm through the sleeve, then the other, over her head and down over her pants. She stared straight ahead like a TV zombie.

“You are forgiven for being a witch. But you will live in the dungeon,” I said. “You will never go to Mass or get Confirmation or be married by a priest or have kids, until you die.”

She sank to her knees, still crying for so long I stopped being a judge and I got nervous it wasn't Joan but Sheila who was so upset.

She jumped to her feet and shouted, “No! I do not repent. I have seen a vision and I am doing God's work. I am right with my Lord, and that's all that matters.” She tore off her gown.

“Then you must burn at the stake.”

I grabbed her arm and put her gown back on. I pulled her upstairs to the roof. It was a sunny day with pigeons flying and traffic down below us, but I was focused on Joan. I dragged her to the TV antenna, stood her against it, and tied her hands behind it. I put the empty paint can filled with crumpled paper at her feet.

“I must burn your body to purify your soul,” I said.

She said nothing, staring up at the sky.

I lit the paper and flames rose above the edge of the can. I stood back and held up a cross made of wood slats tied together. She looked at it and her lips moved like she was praying.

What I didn't realize was that the dried paint at the bottom could catch fire. The flames suddenly whooshed and Sheila's gown caught on fire. She screamed.

I kicked the can away. I slapped at the flames but they kept burning. I tore off my knight's gown and wrapped it around her legs. When I was sure the fire was out, I ran to the paint can, turned it upside down, and held it down with my foot, praying the tar roof didn't catch fire. I ran back to Sheila. She was crying. I lifted her pant leg. The skin looked red. There was no blood. I untied her hands and she sank to the roof.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

Her gasping and sniffling went down. She glanced at her leg and shook her head. “I was really scared.”

“I'm sorry.” I was terrified.

“Just like Saint Joan of Arc.” She nodded to herself.

I'd tried doing what she wanted to get her attention. Instead I'd been mean, making her cry, then almost burned her up. I should just give up.

“Sheila, you . . . won't tell on me, will you?”

She turned toward me in surprise. She smiled. “Terry. You were wonderful!”

“I was?”

She hugged me tight and kissed me on the cheek.

And that's all I'd ever wanted.

The End.

[redtogo]

Great story with excellent role-play. I really like it.

[Trammel]

Great story. Not sure I would have tried to literally burn her at the stake but all's well that ends well!

[Yatta9999]

Very cute story. I'm glad she turned out okay after what happened, and she was able to forgive you for it. Did you two remain friends for long?