PART 1
It was the next morning that God had granted the little girls’ prayer. It was a mixture of spoiled pea soup, pear cores and eggshells dropping onto her head that woke the small gypsy from her disturbed sleep. She screamed as the mysterious liquid crept into her tangled hair and cloths, and over her face. Two weathered hands reached toward her. Instinctively, she drew farther back into the pile. Then she heard his voice.
“It’s all right, my little one.” He placed his left hand, upturned a few inches from her chin moving his fingers in unison, whilst encouraging her to come out of the muck-pile. His voice was soft and deep, yet there was gravel in it, no doubt from years of hard labor.
“You can’t stay in there, child. The dogs will eat you” At that point, she believed him. Only years later did she come to realize that if they were to eat her, it would have been during the night.
The young girl slowly crawled out of the rubbish and looked up at the man who had dumped the soup on her. He was a giant. He had graying blonde hair and was badly sunburned. His arms were large, thick and bore wide purple scars. What had her attention were his hands. Large, strong, powerful and gentle hands. Hands that could drive nails into stone in one blow; hands that could pick a speck of dirt from a rose without damaging its bloom. And then there was his face. Light gray eyes matched by a large smile. His face was littered with laugh lines and crow’s feet. Although he was missing some of his teeth, his smile was the most inviting she had seen until that time. He was by no means handsome, but friendly in every sense of the word. After studying him thoroughly, she stood up. Wiping her soiled hand onto her even dirtier skirts, she placed it in his.
He took the gypsy into his home and soon had her bathed, clothed and fed by his washerwoman. Elsa was short, plump and merry from head to toe. She walked with a limp, which the girl would soon learn was from an old injury to her left leg not healing properly. Elsa’s smile was bright and cheery, littered with wrinkles from years of smiling. She, too, showed signs of having worked hard all her life. She was about fifty. Although Gabriel had told her the girl’s name was Carmen, she called her Kira. So persistent she was, that she became known as Kira.
Kind Souls
The man’s name was Gabriel but she would soon come to know him as “father”. Indeed, he treated her like a daughter. Kira wanted for nothing yet had to pull her share. Gabriel was single, aging and a carpenter, making carriages and fine furniture for sale to the rich families of Paris. An older woman, Elsa, lived with him as a housekeeper.
Kira’s first night with Gabriel and Elsa became a memory etched in stone. Having clothed her in one of Gabriel's shirts, Elsa presented a hearty meal of pot roast, carrots and sweet cakes, of which she ate little. After dinner, Kira was given a small room of her own; a cot in part of Elsa’s which was divided using a sheet. It was Elsa that tucked her in.
“You be a good girl, Kira. I know it seems bad now, but everything will be just fine.”
Using her apron she dried the streams of tears that gently flowed from the gypsy’s eyes.
“You’ll be a happy girl, you’ll see. We keep you away from that horrid man”
Her aged lips touched the girl’s forehead. She smiled at her, gently stroking the side of her face.
“Sleep well, little one.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The old shop was just inside the walls of the city. Shortly after Gabriel and Elsa adopted Kira, the shop was moved out of Paris altogether. The new minister of justice had been leading Paris with an iron fist, or so Kira heard them mention among friends. Hangings and burnings of Gypsies were becoming more common with each passing month. For three years this had continued, finally, Gabriel had enough. Kira was about five when this occurred; She remembered staring out from the back of Gabriel's cart amongst the tools, furniture, pots and pans, leaving Ile de la Cite in the early morning. Her attention was fixed on Notre Dame. Such tall towers, singing such beautiful melodies. She had overheard Him and Elsa discussing the move.
Soon afterward, a small area was set aside for Kira in the loft. The ceiling sloped, yet there was sunlight to wake her in the mornings and birds to sing along with her as she played her violin or flute in the evenings. Kira had indeed become a happy girl. It was not that she had forgotten what had happened when she was younger, it wasn’t in her. However, she found peace in the thought that the Lord had answered her prayers that night. An angel had been sent to help her, therefore one had also been sent to her family. They were in heaven.
It was Kira’s job, while still young, to sand and paint the unfinished pieces of woodwork. As she got older, father taught her how to put fine carvings onto the doors and lids of chests and cupboards. Ivy and fish were her specialty, although through the years she learned to carve nearly anything in explicit detail. Kira loved carving animals and people, yet these were seldom asked for. As Father Gabriel’s sight began to fail in his old age, the carving fell into Kira’s hands alone. He would watch over her sometimes as she did so, smile and nod.
“You’ve done well, my daughter. I only wish you were my own. You are so beautiful.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Many years passed with Gabriel and Elsa. Each day was pretty much the same. Sundays the family attended mass. During the week, they would work in the carriage shop until afternoon, when Kira would cook the evening meal, and they would go out for a walk together afterward. Saturdays, it was Kira’s duty to go to market and tend to the housework. Elsa cooked breakfasts and lunches. Father Gabriel would cook on weekends. In the evenings Kira would practice her reading and writing with soot and feathers. The years passed by quickly and before she understood what was happening, she had grown into a young woman.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thursday afternoon the shop was nearly empty, all the work for today having been completed, at least what Kira was capable of doing. Mounting Dante, Kira set off for the marketplace. Although it was not the day she normally went to market, Kira wanted to use this rare opportunity to look around, rather than scurry through as usual. She wanted so much to look at the fabrics, metal goods and weaponry the merchants had to offer. She was also looking for a cutlass or other small sword, as a means of protection from the many guards that had frequented the town the past few months, targeting gypsies. Her long black hair and dark eyes made her a target as well, even though her dress was that of a peasant.
Dante, a small chestnut mare, had been a gift from a neighboring farmer. Kira had given her the name, as the mare was tough, spirited and had been a curse to her previous owner. She was not difficult to train, but stubborn. She would accept neither saddle nor harness on her back, refusing to move once they were fastened. During a ride she had been known to stop, at which point she would refuse to move until the rider dismounted. Once free of her rider, she would gallop off, leaving the rider miles from home. This had caused such frustration to her owner, he had giver her to Gabriel after a thirty-two mile walk in the rain. The old man soon passed the mare onto Kira, as a means to get to market quickly. Let it be mentioned that Dante never once let either Kira or Gabriel stranded, but rather stood by their sides as if a faithful dog.
Reaching the marketplace, Kira left Dante at one of the stables. Had anyone tried to ride her, she knew that she would be in fathers’ barn when she returned. Having just bought some cheese, Kira began the trek to the wine seller. It was while crossing the marketplace that she heard the song. An older Gypsy woman was singing something that she had never heard before. Kira struggled to hear her, but could not make out her words. Forgetting about the wine, she made her way toward the singing gypsy, her eyes fixed into the gaze of the old woman. There was something about this woman that held her interest.
Nearly out of breath, Kira caught only the last verse of her song. It was so beautiful, yet saddening. That verse stuck in her head the rest the time at market, on the ride home and as she prepared dinner. Kira hummed the mysterious tune as she prepared the soup. Lost in her own world, she nearly burned the dinner rolls. Elsa and her father whispered in the next room.
“I haven’t heard that song in ages, who taught it to her?”
“How am I supposed to know, you old coot! Probably heard it in the marketplace, after all, it is Thursday”
“Think we should tell her what it means?”
“I’m not going to. She’ll never want to go there again. And be quiet, old woman. She’s gonna hear us!”
Kira’s appearance was not something that held her main focus. That evening, she took the time. Her hair was thick yet fine and fell to her waist. It was cut straight across and black as the darkest coal. She had grown fairly tall with darker skin, from working at the shop, glowing a shade of brown between that of her father and that of the gypsies. She had grown into a woman, but when? Surely this did not occur overnight, yet this was the first time she had truly noticed. Admiring herself for a few more moments, she resumed her usual evening activities, giving it no more thought.
Picking up the violin her father had given her, she began to play softly. Then sing the song she heard from the old gypsy woman.
This song fills the
darkest corner
Reaches the most distant
soul
Pulsates our very
spirits
With hands we’ll never
know
Unknown beauty, unseen
love
Haunting melodies,
sent from above
She couldn’t remember the rest of the song, so repeated it twice, playing the same tune over and over. It had to mean something deep. Was this a song of creation? Or was it more simple, referring to music in general, and how it lifts the spirits of the people? She laid down onto her soft bed, wrapping the quilts around her body. “With hands we’ll never know” The hands of God? Hands of time? Hands of all that play music? Or maybe the song meant nothing; maybe music was a metaphor. “Sent from above?” Music as a gift from God?
The song also contained the lines “Through the darkness, a maiden fair” and “The judgment hath come”, or was it “judge”? It was something she would have to either ask about, or learn for herself. This song had to be a story of some sort; some mythical tale that held the attention of young children, perhaps. Or maybe it was a dark tale, meant as a warning.
It was the next morning, chopping carrots, she suddenly realized what the gypsy’s song referred to. “Hands we’ll never know”, “pulsates”, “song sent from above”. Bells, or rather, the bell ringer. It had to be Rouen, Riems or Notre Dame, one of the cathedrals. “Haven’t heard it in ages”, so it was an old song; something horrible had to have happened for it to survive so long, or to be remembered.
Tossing the onions into the boiling water with the ham-bone, Kira reached for the salt. Stirring mindlessly her mind began to wander once more. Notre Dame, it had to be. Paris was a dangerous place for gypsies, for the past twenty years at least. Judgment or judge? Judge Frollo made more sense. It was he who had been responsible for the death of many gypsies, including her true family.
Reaching in with a iron spike she pulled the bone out. Should’ve pulled it out earlier. Kira quickly poured some dried peas into the brew, hoping no one would notice her mistake.
“Maiden fair” remained somewhat of a mystery to her. A young Parisian man and his lover. The young man fights valiantly to save his gypsy love, yet is beaten by Judge Frollo and his soldiers. The young man is then forced to watch as his lover is slain before him. He is then left in the dark street with her body, carrying her to Notre Dame with his remaining strength. His one true love lost forever, the young man devotes himself to the church and now rings the bells. Such a romantic story. If only she had heard the rest of that song.
Pouring more water into the pot, Kira covered it over and set it toward the front of the stove where it would finish cooking but not burn. Father would be needing her in the shop shortly. Much of the work he had done for years was becoming difficult for him to do alone due to failing eyesight and strength. Fortunately, Kira was able to do much of what he couldn’t.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the weeks passed by into late February, the tune left Kira’s conscious mind, indeed, she was busy with chores in addition to carving, cutting and painting in the shop. As the weeks wore on she soon noticed that both Father and Elsa were coming to depend on her more than ever. Father would frequently have to rest while working in the stable; Elsa’s face, full of colour all the years she had known her, was beginning to grow pale. More noticeable, however, was their general appearance. Elsa had always been plump, father thickset and muscular. The past few months, both had become thinner and their wrinkles deeper; the telltale signs of age had caught up with them.
However the partial song remained in the back of her mind, transformed into dreams of young love found and tragically lost. Two lovers, meeting in secret. A handsome young Parisian man strolling by the Seine, a beautiful gypsy girl with black hair and green eyes holding his hand. They share a passionate kiss near the one of the bridges. The girl soon hears hoofbeats and looks up to see Claude Frollo approaching. Warning her lover, he quickly turns to see Frollo’s horse less than ten feet away. He draws his dagger, begging for her to run. Frollo’s soldiers emerge from behind the shrubbery and walls, surrounding them. In one motion Frollo draws his sword and knocks the weapon out of the man’s hand. A pair of soldiers then forces the man to the ground. Frollo rides up to the girl, fingering her neck as a burly soldier holds her. Her lovers’ dagger in hand, he slits her throat, the girl dropping lifelessly on the ground. Frollo then rides on, his soldiers behind him. The young man is left alone with the body, his heart bleeding over her loss. Kira’s dreams continued filling in the rest of the song, she continued wondering if she was right.
Images of Claude Frollo alone soon filled Kira’s mind. Silent pantomimes of him watching her Mama and baby brother die. Death at the end of his sword, archers, soldiers and horses’ hooves. Gypsies being burned alive as he looks on, drinking in their blood with his evil eyes as if sweet red wine over his lips. Bodies piling up in Montfaucon, remains being tossed into the Seine. Such a flood of grisly images, inescapable.
It was early March when Gabriel decided it was time to return to Paris. Word had reached the shop that Minister Frollo was dead. From what she could discern, the city was once again safe for gypsies. So Kira was right, the song was of Judge Frollo and Notre Dame. His death would be sure to resurface tales about his evil deeds. Elsa refused to ride, preferring the perceived safety of a wagon. Kira rode Dante.
As the hours passed, she became bored with her surroundings. It was a somewhat dull landscape, fields, trees, and a small village, all seen from the rutted-out dirt rode which led to Paris. Fields of cattle and sheep, the occasional hut and cowshed dotted the landscape. Carefully, Kira scanned the horizon for the slightest hint of the Cathedrals’ towers. Paris was a full day’s ride away and they had been on the road since sunrise. Yet they were traveling at a walk for most of it, which meant it may take another day. Father would either make camp or continue traveling throughout the night. Kira was unsure.
As the sun began to set Kira looked over at Gabriel, who showed no intention of stopping for rest. Paris must not be far off. Elsa slept by his side. Dante and Rose, the other horse, seemed to be holding up well. Kira ruffled through her sack, finally bringing out some now-broken biscuits, which she ate greedily.
The sun set, the sky darkened. They rode on. The rocking motion of Dante must have put Kira to sleep, for she suddenly realized her surroundings had changed. The ringing of church bells, be them far off, reached her ears. Before her, she could see the ghastly remains of what used to be a mill, illuminated by the pale moonlight.
“Halt!” Gabriel brought the wagon to a stop. Following the direction of his gaze Kira understood that this was once a home. A home where they would have spent the night, now a skeletal frame of charcoal, ready to collapse at any moment.
“Haw” Rose started at a slow walk, reluctant to leave such a long-deserved rest.
While leaving the burned-out mill, Kira’s weary eyes caught sight of a small child, running in the darkness. She glanced at Gabriel. His eyes followed the child’s’ path. So she wasn’t seeing things. Gabriel looked toward her and gave a quick nod. Follow.
Shortly after the pursuit began, it was over. Robed figures quickly surrounded the travelers. A tall figure, presumably their leader, stepped toward them.
“Who goes there?”
“Tis Gabriel Poivre, and family returning to Paris.”
“State your business.”
“We have come seeking shelter. We were to stay with Andry Coictier, yet the mill has burned.”
Murmuring could be heard from the small group of figures, which was slowly increasing in size. “Where is Andry?” Kira heard one say. Gabriel remained stone-faced, Elsa lay asleep beside Gabriel.
A plump man was led to the front of the crowd, before the tall thin man.
“Do you know this man?” He pointed toward Gabriel.
Everything depended on Andry recognizing her father. Scanning the crowd she realized much relied on it. The torchlight revealed the many swords, knives and daggers hiding among the crowd, which now surrounded them. Kira’s attention lifted upward to a gallows, awaiting its next victim. She dared not move, the slightest move may set them upon her and her family
The commotion must have awakened Elsa, as Kira soon noticed her arms reaching above her.
“Silence” Exclaimed the tall man, holding his arms out from his body. The crowd fell silent.
Andry strained, looking at him carefully. “Well…” grasping a torch from a nearby figure he held it up, presumably to get a better view, “I do nowt recognize that man...” The crowd began to advance. “…but I seem to remember that woman.” He made a motion toward Elsa, who had just sat upright.
The crowd ceased its advance, yet remained poised.
“You know this woman?”
“Aye, well enough. She be my wife’s sister.”
“And the man?”
“’Tis her cousin.”
“And the girl?” snapped the tall man.
“I would hope she’s not their daughter.” Andry began to chuckle. “ Diane! My sweet! Your sister has come to see you.”
Not a moment later a much younger version of Elsa emerged from the crowd. “ Oh, Elsa!”
Kira was unable to understand a word they said, but knew from their reactions that we were now safe. Stroking Dante’s neck she slid from her back and onto her feet. Kira’s legs ached from riding the entire day. Smoothing her green skirt over her legs, she came to realize the blanket she had placed on Dante had done little to keep her clean. Dante in hand, Kira followed the tall man, who’s name was Clopin, toward their camp. Rose and Gabriel followed closely. Much farther behind, Elsa and Diane continued to chatter.
Kira could not recall much as for what happened that night; it was a mix of lucid dreams and reality. The food was strange, yet vaguely familiar. She remembered watching as a white nanny goat danced to the mandolins, flutes and songs of the gypsies, for that is who they were.
The glow of an orange sun was just beginning to show over the horizon when Kira was awaken by a rough pink tongue grazing over her face.
“Djali! No!”
“Bwwahhhhhh” Kira watched as the goat stepped back, looking up toward a young woman. She smiled at me, then ran off .
Hearing a whistle, Kira looked toward her left. Gabriel was sitting in the cart, Elsa by his side. A Gypsy boy held Dante. Wiping the goat’s saliva off of her face, Kira proceeded to get up and take the mares’ reins.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dante in hand, the family resumed its trek toward Paris. As the sun made it’s first appearance, the bells began to toll. The bell ringer. Kira began to hum the song softly so Gabriel would not hear her. The words began to escape her lips, she must have heard them during the night.
Through the darkness,
a maiden fair
Pray God watch
o’er her son
In trade for her, his
life to spare
Once the Judge hath
come
Baby crying, unjust
hate.
‘Tis not by chance,
but twist of fate
Within the heart of
Our Lady
Lives the son alone
Once a babe, now a man
Watching the city
below
Unknown beauty, unseen
love
Haunting melodies,
sent from above
His song fills the
darkest corner
Reaches the most
distant soul
Pulsates our very
spirits
With hands we’ll never
know
Kira caught sight of father watching her. “The bells are beautiful, aren’t they.”
Gabriel smiled, but said nothing.
Kira had been right about Frollo killing the Gypsy girl at Notre Dame and the origin of the bell ringer, she had been wrong about who he was, suddenly it made more sense. The bell ringer was Frollos’ prisoner, isolated since infancy. Somehow, she had to learn more about this man; she had to meet him.