The Sinner and The Saint

Arthur first met Joan on a cold winters day, whilst he sat alone and daydreaming in a plastic chair as Ms Crisp waffled and
droned about the nature of God, The Universe and Everything.

Ms Crisp, Arthur thought was a somewhat bizarre woman. Clearly a spinster who took great delight and pleasure in being unpleasant and unapproachable, she painted the perfect picture of a teacher to be feared by young children and to be mocked by the eldest, who themselves knew that she could not lay a single finger on them. Arthur had always considered himself to be somewhere in the middle. This was not an unusual position for him and one which he knew would keep him safe. Whatever people would tell him, to be average, even normal was surely the best thing to be.

But those thoughts did not occupy Arthur’s mind on this particular chilly day. He was instead pondering over whether it was good or evil which was in control of this world, and particularly of his own. He would often wonder about such big questions, sometimes he’d even ask Ms Crisp what she thought, but today, he kept quiet and stared at the picture of the Pope that was on page 23 of his Religious Studies textbook. He would not meet Joan until page 25.

~

‘Right’, said Ms Crisp ‘Now we have familiarised ourselves with the basics of the Roman Catholic Hierarchy, and have glossed over the function of The Pope in Rome, we’re now going to investigate some of the most famous people in the history of Christianity’.

Arthur was excited by this, upon hearing the word ‘investigate’ he tore his eyes away from The Pope’s holy gaze and was reminded by just how unpleasant Ms Crisp was to look at. She carried on.
‘Turn over to the next two pages in your books’ she demanded.
‘Please?’ someone said at the back, but she did not hear, or, if she did, she chose to save the telling off for later. Maybe she just wouldn’t bother, not if it had been on of the larger 16 year-olds (who she secretly rather feared).

Arthur turned the page without a hint of laziness like the more reluctant students at his School, but without the eagerness of the most keen. Again, to be average was the aim. It was then, at exactly half past two that he saw her, and that is when everything changed.

~

The picture was beautiful, but ‘Joan of Arc’ as the caption said, was rather plain. Nonetheless Arthur was drawn to this small painting of a young woman holding a sword with a gold background. Although he had heard of Joan, he had never met her himself, not until today. Arthur, who upon seeing this image had lost all interest in the nature of God, The Universe and Everything, looked into her almond-shaped eyes and suddenly felt everything it was possible for a nervous, pubescent boy to feel. Intrigue, happiness, hope, pity and sadness among others flooded his mind and whizzed about him and the room in a sudden burst. The problem with this, was that Arthur had only felt such a combination of emotions once before, and that had been when he was younger. Much younger

‘Joan of Arc, or Jehanne as she was known to the people of France, was born a peasant in 1412 in Domremey’. Ms Crisp’s deep voice carried on. ‘She was also known as The Maid of Orleans. She began to see visions of the Archangel Michael when she was a child and would later lead the French Army during the Hundred Years War’. This was enough to capture the interest of Arthur, who although partial to a little history was previously much more inclined to literature, and had never been particularly comfortable with wars, whether they lasted a hundred years or otherwise. He knew little more about St Joan that what he could read in his textbook, there was only a page on the saint, and it left much to the imagination.

He gazed at the picture a little longer, and knew that he wished to know Joan as a person, not just as a vague woman in history. He did not know what drew him so much to her, but he knew he should get to know her more. In fact, he even felt a pang of protective anger when he saw that the girl sitting at the desk in front of him had drawn a mustache on Joan. He just didn’t understand some people, and he supposed that they didn’t understand him either. He looked at the empty seat beside him and wondered where it had all gone wrong.