Bound by his word with Claude Frollo, no one was to be allowed into the belltower, to ensure it’s one inhabitant remained unknown to the rest of Paris. Claude Frollo guarded his secret fiercely; feeding, clothing and schooling his ward without aid. The only exceptions were the five eldest monks and the Archdeacon. It is true that Frollo would have preferred them not interfere, but there was little he could do. The churchmen were in the tower at least six times a day ringing the bells. Since there was no other place to hide the boy, Frollo was somewhat forced to allow them to spend some time with him.
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The Archdeacon held the bundle in his hands, shaking his head whilst looking into it. The babe lay quiet, yet his eyes were open, watching everything that went on around him. Studying him carefully, the cleric realized the infant was close to three months of age. Such interesting features thought the Archdeacon, as he gently ran his index finger over the youngster’s misshapen face. The babe silently watched him as he took a closer look at his left eye. It was there, bright blue yet dull and lifeless, under an egg-shaped mass. The little nose, large and upturned, seemed to balance the asymmetry of his features. His hair, just beginning to grow in well, was as red as the morning sun. Not what would be referred to as cute, but most certainly not an ugly child. There was something about the way the infant watched everything, the way he remained silent, that prevented that. It was intelligence. Any bit of love, praise or affection he received would make a world of difference to him. All the churchman could do was attempt to help him lead a more normal life.
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In order to help educate the young man, the churchmen would bring him books and scrolls, anything that would capture his interest, every few weeks. Whenever tarts, or other treats, arrived at the cathedral, some would always find their way up into the belltower. The Archdeacon himself left small jars of soothing ointment next to his washbasin when the unfortunate hunchback suffered Frollo’s wrath. The boy could only suspect at the origin of these gifts, which appeared with the aid of an unseen hand.
Late at night, Brother David would bring him down into the belly of the cathedral to teach him the organ. There was no reason, except the boy and the organ were there and David knew the boy would learn eagerly; having a gypsy mother, musical talent was sure to lay within him. More importantly, there were the bells. As the churchmen rang them, the young boy would cling onto the ropes, attempting to help with the ringing. At five, there was not enough of him to bring the smallest of the bells, Jacqueline, to move. Quasimodo soon learned that by throwing himself at the rope and using himself as a weight, the bell would be set in motion.
From that day onward, the bells could not be rung without Quasimodo on the rope of at least one of them. Quasimodo also began to increase in strength with each passing day. His arms and lower legs began to bulge into rock-hard masses. His humped back became more angular as his body became stronger, muscular and more distinct in shape. The thick purple ridges on his back smoothed out, nearly invisible beneath his tunic. While swinging from the ropes, his poor self image, firmly engrained through Frollo’s teachings, seemed to disappear. It was not it was not just Quasimodo and a bell, they became one entity.
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It was in his eleventh year that Quasimodo first rang the great bells at the cathedral by himself, while Peter and Jacob looked on. For years he had assisted the Archdeacon and monks in ringing the great bells each day. As time passed, Quasimodo grew stronger, yet the Churchmen grew older and weaker. Eventually, it became a challenge for the aging souls to trek up the long flight of stairs to the belltower each day, let alone ring the bells afterward. With each passing year, the young hunchback slowly became the bellringer, rather than the assistant. In the year 1476, Quasimodo was ringing every mass, vesper and other occasion unassisted. His agility and strength made it easy for him to dance between ropes quickly, without missing a note in his song. The pealings themselves were rich and adorned with his own embellishments, far surpassing the songs of years past.
The Archdeacon, Daniel and Jehan watched as Quasimodo leapt and vaulted toward the top of the tower, with what appeared to be effortless movements. He had always limped on the flattest of tile floors and always would. Yet to see him move so swiftly, so fluid, among the beams, rafters and sculpture of the Cathedral, one would not guess him to be the same person. He appeared unhindered, joyful and free.
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The youngest monk at fifty-seven, Daniel, slowly and silently made his way up the steps and into the belltower. Reaching the last step into Quasimodo’s quarters, he pushed on his ribcage, letting out a muffled groan. Scanning the sunlit room, he made his way toward the large table which overlooked the Place Notre Dame. The aged monk set down a packet of currant scones and two tapers on the table, placing a history book ontop. A small stack of books lay next to the carving tools Claude Frollo had provided him. Among the volumes were The Oddessy, Botany, and Bible. All had pages marked with thin curls of wood; he had always been so imaginative and resourceful. Among the tools lay an unfinished figure of a child. Inspecting the workmanship the monk admitted the boy was getting good. Such a bright lad he was, too. Most boys his age could not read half as well, nor in so many languages; Claude did not give him enough credit.
Quasimodo was no where to be seen, yet the old Brother heard talking. Following the voice upward he caught sight of Quasimodo sitting astride one of the many beams which filled the height of the tower, bare feet dangling freely above what could easily be a deadly drop. He was stroking the great bell with his hands in loving caresses. For a moment he watched the young man, just turned 14, with the bell. A small tear formed in the old man’s eye, threatening to fall. Poor soul, so alone that the bells had become his friends.
"You sing well, Big Marie. You are so beautiful, the whole city loves you. If only.."
The young mans’ voice trailed off as he leaned softly into the bell, rubbing his hand on his cheek, then the polished bronze of the bell.
"If only.." thought Brother Daniel "… someone else could appreciate who you really are."
Moving out of view, Daniel called for Quasimodo and waited patiently. Within moments there was a dull thud as Quasimodo landed on his feet beside the monk. His shirt was disheveled and stuck to his shoulders.
"Good afternoon, Quasimodo"
The young man subtly wrung his hands into each other, drawing into himself. "Good… Good afternoon, Brother Daniel." His words were rushed yet drawn out, as if expecting something horrible to happen to him at any moment.
"All is well, my boy. We only wish to speak with you downstairs." Brother Daniel motioned for the young man to follow.
Hopping into his worn-out shoes, the young hunchback followed the old monk down the stairs, whilst running through his mind what dreadful thing he had done. Never before had he been called down into the cathedral except to learn the organ, which he had not done for at least five years. If Master were to catch him it would mean at least ten lashes.
Quasimodo continued to follow the old Monk as he made his way through the rows of candelabras and columns. The church was nearly empty, and so dark. Brother Daniel stopped before an old door, opening it a crack and motioning for him to enter. Nervously swallowing, Quasimodo looked into the eyes of Brother Daniel, whose gaze was fixed to the ground. Taking a rapid breath, Quasimodo proceeded to pull the door open. Before him sat the four monks he had come to know so well the past twelve years and the Archdeacon. Brother Daniel closed the door as Brother David motioned him a chair with his arthritic hand. Brother Daniel sat down beside him. The Archdeacon began to speak.
"Young man, perhaps you are wondering why we have called you here."
Quasimodo softly nodded, then resumed looking downward
"As you are aware, Brothers Daniel, Peter, David, Jacob, Jehan and myself are getting on in years."
"I am aware of that, Father." Quasimodo nodded
"We are doubtless that you have also noticed that we come to the belltower less frequently and have not assisted in the bellringing for some years now. Our youth has long gone, making it difficult for us to help you. You have also surpassed us in musical talent; the bells have never sounded so glorious as when you ring them."
Quasimodo’s left eyebrow lifted, revealing his seldom-seen eye, as the corners of his mouth began to rise into the beginnings of a nervous smile.
"What the good Father is saying" piped in Brother David, "Is that we have mutually agreed that you shall become official bellringer of Notre Dame for as long as you so desire."
Quasimodo’s expression, which until that point had been one of worry, suddenly lit up with intense happiness. Big Marie was his forever.
After dismissing Quasimodo, the six old men knew they had brought the young bellringer joy. As he limped back toward the tower they could see that his feet hit the ground a little lighter than usual and that his movements were more fluid.