PART 3
Elsa, Gabriel and Kira rode into Paris with their belongings, accompanied by a small group of gypsies, over Ponte Notre Dame. Many eyes watched as the old couple in the wagon and the young maiden who rode astride a small red horse, her green skirts and multicolored blanket caked with mud. Women did not ride astride, it was not proper. Yet this girl did.
The young men in the marketplace looked over their shoulders as the small group of travelers rode through the narrow bridge to the square, then to a charred building. She seemed not to notice, but rather sat on her horse, riding by in a daze or perhaps deep thought. Were women capable of thought? Many of the men shook their heads. No, it wasn’t possible. She was in a daze. Their eyes followed her every movement, she was certainly pretty. Filthy, a gypsy, yet pretty.
All eyes were on the trio as they stopped and began to unload the wagon. Having dismounted her horse she stood and watched her surroundings, her eyes drinking in the visage of Notre Dame and the twin towers. The old man began to unload the wagon, brushing her arm as he passed. The girl startled, then joined the others in unloading the contents of the wagon into a nearby shed.
The girl struggled with some of the heavier packages, yet continued to unload the wagon. When the Gypsies left, she remained with the elderly couple. The crowd dispersed with the gypsies, only a few young men remaining. Another family returning to rebuild the life they had lost.
Clopin, the leader of the Parisian Gypsies, walked toward his puppet wagon under a purple blanket. He slowed down when the sound of uneven footfalls reached his ears.
“Clopin, who are they?” a long pause, then soft words. “Who is that girl?”
Clopin turned to his friend. “I know little of the couple. As for the young woman, she is a sister.”
“Your sister?” Clopin’s friend looked disappointed.
“One of my tribe. Not my actual sister. If she is who I think she is, her mother was a charming woman who met a terrible end.”
“Frollo” Clopins’ companion sighed.
“You are learning.” Clopin smiled. “That couple seemed so happy to have her, she was never reclaimed by the tribe. She had no other family, her father apparently a Gadje with a wife and two children. It seems although he wanted something more out of his trip to Paris. I don’t remember the girl’s name, I was too young. Besides, so many were lost during that time that her name would be forgotten like the rest.” The two men stopped, Clopin shed his cloak and tossed it into his wagon.
“Like mine.”
“We never would have forgotten you, had you reached the Court of Miracles with your family.” said Clopin as he leaned against the open door to his wagon. He stepped inside and slipped a puppet onto each of his hands. “I will see you later this evening. Esmeralda and her soldier are returning tonight & would like for you to be in the Court to welcome them.”
Clopin’s friend nodded in agreement, then walked to the Seine to spend some time alone with his thoughts. She was pretty, true. But there was something else there he liked.
Kira wanted so much to walk right into the towers of Notre Dame, yet knew that she had to wait until everyone had settled in. If she were to charge into the place right away, Gabriel may suspect something. Instead, Kira made attempts to put her efforts elsewhere until the time was right. That said, there was much to do. During most of March, father, Marcelle, Andry and Kira were working in the shop on a daily basis. Father was no longer strong enough to lift the heavy planks required to build and repair the carriages and chests, let alone repair the charred walls.
Each day Kira could see a brightly-coloured gypsy wagon across the square, yet never managed to get near enough to hear the storyteller. She wanted so much to walk over to meet the mysterious man that seemed to fascinate all passers by, especially the ladies. At any given time there would be at least one girl watching him with puppy-dog eyes.
Kira expected that as the month passed, that she would learn more about the city into which she had just moved. She hoped to at least learn the name of the bell ringer, hear stories or at least overhear on Sundays while in Notre Dame. Not so. Elsa went to market, Danté stayed in the stable. Kira worked. Kira’s hands became callused from the hammer, not that she was complaining. She was glad to relieve father of the work; glad to keep her mind on something other than visions. But to have at least an hour or so to explore. Paris was safe for Gypsies, so she would be safe as well. Just an hour was all she wanted, to ride Danté around the City.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Friday morning, while dumping the dishwater into the gutter, a streak of blue and purple caught her attention. Gazing upward, Kira caught sight of the skinny gypsy man bolting across the square, three girls not far behind him. The silliness, all of it. If he had wanted, he could have easily dropped a smoke ball and disappeared, leaving those empty-headed girls to turn around in circles, wondering where he went to.
No sooner had Kira completed her thought, she heard a girl scream. All three stood on the cobbles, turning around endlessly in a pale green mist. So the little man was actually trying to get away this time.
The last drops of water fell out of the bucket onto the ground. Passing through the beginnings of a busy day in Paris, Kira made her way back to the shop, which was near one day from completion. Such interesting people they were. The Bourgeois walked straight lines from here to there, noses upturned, or passed by in the carriages that she and her father built. The merchants shouted across the square, advertising yesterday's pies as fresh today. The populace hummed about, talking, working, and in the afternoons, drinking. Old people yelled at young people, dogs barked, the odd cat darted between dogs, horses and people. Through this chaos rode the occasional soldier, always at noon and five o'clock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was the first week of April when the shop was finished and Kira was finally able to explore the city a bit on her own. Mounting Danté, she set out across the square. Of course, she had been given instructions by Elsa to pick up a new copper pot, but aside from that, the next hour was hers.
Once in the marketplace Kira dismounted, Danté walking behind her. These people were for the most part what she had observed the past month. Arguing over the price of a leg of mutton, a mangy grey dog following it's every move with hungry eyes as the butcher waved it in the air. In one motion the dog jumped up, grabbed the meat, and tore toward an alley, while the two men looked at each other blankly. Leading Danté toward the tinsmith, she quickly bought a large pot, fastened it to Danté and continued her trek.
Leaving the Parvis Notre Dame, Kira’s eyes led her to a beautiful young gypsy dancer. Her feet barely touched the ground as she moved effortlessly to the music of the mandolin. Such beauty, her black hair and eyes flashing as brightly as the coins that shone as they filled her hat. She looked happy, as did the younger girl that played with enthusiasm.
A lump formed in Kira’s throat as she looked to the west and saw the Palais de Justice. If only things had things been different. That would have been her sitting on the ground, singing sweetly and strumming merrily. That beautiful dancer, dressed in silk and tinsel, could have been her sister.
Tossing a coin into the girls' hat, Kira turned to walk away, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. Hearing the jingle of a tambourine, she turned to see the dancer smile.
Mounting Danté, Kira continued to ride through the city, toward the wagon of the storyteller. So much had changed from what might have been. Then again, if she had stayed, she may have suffered the same fate as the rest of her family. There were so many questions and she was in the right place to answer them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Riding the edge of the square Kira peered down every alley and street. One of these was where her life had changed, and she had no idea which. Father's new home was re-built away from the old one, which had burned long ago. There was no way to know which it was. Letting her eyes wander, she spotted a small boy and a thin grey dog bolting between two buildings. They would be eating well tonight.
Clopin stood in his puppet wagon giving a show to the local children. He noticed a new member in his audience of young women. Here he was, playing with puppets and he managed to have so many admirers.
The storyteller brought out each of his puppets in turn. It was s how about Esmeralda’s fight for her life and her upcoming marriage to the “Sun God”. The Sun God puppet was poorly made, it’s head bobbing crazily with every movement. It was no big secret that Esmeralda’s choice in man was not ideal. Phoebus was nice enough as a man, but not a Gypsy. There was little he could do.
Esmeralda was his friend, Phoebus was his friend. He was Duke of Thunes, King of Gypsies. Clopin didn’t know what to do with the situation, so he did what he did best. He mocked it.
As Clopin finished his puppet show, he realized most of the older people walked away, leaving a few coins behind them. Young people surrounded him, and several young women stood around the back of the wagon. He threw a smoke ball and disappeared, leaving the wagon empty. The children wandered away, while the women continued to peer into the windows calling "Clopin?, Clopin?". Some people were beyond help.
The new girl walked around behind another wagon, noticing him immediately.
"Bonjour, monsieur Clopin."
Clopin jumped as he realized someone was watching him. "Good day, Cherie. You have been very clever to have found my hideaway.."
"It wasn't hard, I saw you run over here"
"You must not give away my trick"
"What trick is there?"
"Therein lies..."
Clopin was cut off by the sight of a face peering around the corner at him. "I found him!"
Clopin was gone.
Setting the copper pot on the hay pile, Kira began to brush Danté's coat with some knotted straw. It was going to be a challenge to talk with that storyteller, but she knew he had the answers to many of her questions. If only she could get to speak with him.
Daydreaming as she brushed Danté, the sounding of the bells brought her back to reality. It was nine o'clock; Elsa would need this pot to make dinner and she was needed in the shop. A Bourgeois had ordered a chest for his sweetheart and it was Kira’s job to engrave it, since her father was too blind to tell a fork from a spoon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
While carving the box Kira’s mind drifted. Three days from now, Low Sunday, she would somehow pick her way through the crowd and attempt to slip into the tower. She debated her thoughts a bit longer. No. It would be much better to come before, when the bells were being rung. She already knew which stairway to take into the tower and figured it would take her a good half hour to get from the shop to the top of the tower unnoticed.
Kira continued to play out her actions for Sunday, while carving birds into the side of the chest. It was meant as a wedding gift for a wealthy Bourgeois woman from her suitor. It wasn't that big, about as wide as her forearm, no taller than her fist, probably meant as a jewelry box. Coming along nicely, but certainly not something she would want for herself. Every inch was to carved with either flowers or birds and the woman's name on the lid. Foolish and frivolous, but it would feed her family for a couple weeks.
At noon, Kira sat back to enjoy the tolling of the bells. Next Sunday, she would know for sure if the song was true. Once they stopped, Kira picked up the box and made her way into the house for lunch. There was only the lid to finish and that could be done this afternoon before father and her started building the carriage, provided father had already picked up the wood. The frame was already complete, the rest still needed to be built.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Elsa was ladling out pea soup when Kira walked in. Always pea soup, made with salt pork. Not her favorite dish, indeed it's one of the few things that she outright hated. It had been dumped on her head fifteen years ago. Deciding it would be hopeless to not eat, she took her place at the table. Father spoke, his raspy voice.
"I'll be takin' Danté with me this afternoon to get the wood for that carriage. Kira, would you mind harnessing her up after lunch?"
Elsa and Kira looked at each other, then at father. He was definitely losing his memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After lunch Kira petted Danté, then moved toward Roses' stall. A few moments later, she led Rose out of the small stable and to her father.
"Rose. Uh, yeah. Thanks, Kira."
Father got into the cart, Rose walking slowly walking toward Ponte-Neuf.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That same afternoon Kira sat on the woodpile to finish carving the lid to a chest. Two songbirds, wrapped in a long ribbon. The rest of the box was covered with roses and leaves. It was ornate to the point of being rather gaudy, but was what the man had ordered. Thus, she continued to slice in detail after detail.
As she fiddled with her knife among the leaves and petals, something caught her eye. It was not the gypsy wagon with the storyteller, nor the brightly-dressed dancers. They were in the streets every day. It was a blue-cloaked figure passing through the crowd, remaining close to the buildings away from the rest.
Setting down her knife Kira watched him more closely. Indeed, it was a he. She could tell by the way the figure walked, or rather, limped. He seemed out of place some how, perhaps he was a traveler. He seemed to know where he was going, but not entirely sure. Having shooed a fly from her ear, Kira looked up, unable to find the man. She picked up her knife and continued carving. Paris was such an interesting place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was about ten minutes later that Kira saw the man once more, carrying bread and wine. He was walking on this side of the street, perhaps he would pass by the shop and she’d get a better view. He seemed to be hiding, for his cloak covered his hunched back and face. True, it was rather chilly, yet he did not draw his arms under himself as a cold man would do. Kira continued to watch the ground. If he felt she was not watching, he’d be more likely to walk her way.
Through the corner of her eye Kira could see him approach, it was working. She wanted so badly to stare right at the mysterious figure, yet knew she could not. The man was about ten feet away. Kira purposely let the knife slip from her fingers and land on the ground.
“Oops”
The young man, she could tell by his hand, picked up the knife and held out the handle for her.
“Thank-you” Kira looked up as she grasped the handle, but could see little of his face, for he turned his face down and away.
“ I…. I… You’re welcome.” The young man turned away, ready to leave.
“No, wait!”
The young hunchback turned swiftly around, his hood falling back around his neck. He quickly pulled it back into position, but it was too late. Kira’d seen him. She’d never seen such a face, far different than that of other men. His hair was as red as Danté’s, his skin pale. Her first impulse was to shriek and look away, yet she could not bring herself to do so; there was something about him that told her he was harmless. It was in those sky-blue eyes; he had the most beautiful eyes.
He turned away once more.
“Please wait.”
This time he stepped toward Kira.
“Why?”
“I’ve not seen you before, are you new to Paris?”
The hunchback sighed under his breath. “I’ve lived here all my life. Indeed, you are new to the city.”
“True. Father and I moved back just last month.”
For a moment, he stood there, silent and motionless. “...do you do all this yourself?”
“Most of them. I… I never used to, but have taken over most of the detailed work.”
Kira handed him the box she’d been working on and he smiled. His face, what little she could see of it, was so expressive. He ran his large finger over the letters she’d carved into the ribbon. “Fleur De Lys. Is that your name?”
“No, of course not. That is who this is for. Of course, it will never be noticed, since very few can re… You read that?”
“Uh huh…”
“Who are you?”
The hunchback bit his lower lip, looking deep into Kira’s eyes, his expression frozen. Staring back, she clearly saw there was much behind his.
“You don’t know?”
“How would I? As you say, I am new to Paris."
“I’m …”
“Kira!” Elsa shouted through the kitchen window.
“I must go, now.” The hunchback stepped away.
When Kira returned her gaze toward the square, he was no where to be seen.
Old memories
The man continued to wander through the crowd after leaving the carriage shop. Why had he gone over there? There was nothing he needed there. He’d come to market for bread, wine, and some sort of meat that was within his price range. No, the man thought, something called me over there, I had to go over there. I’m glad I went over there.
The young man smiled at how the girl had reacted to him. She seemed a bit frightened at first, as most were, but then she appeared curious more than anything. The way she looked into his eyes, the way she studied every one of his features. No fear, no intimidation. Just pure fascination. The young hunchback didn’t mind, her behavior suggested to him that she might like him.
He envisioned the young girl once more. Her hands were rough, yet her touch so gentle. Her hair was tightly bound, yet he could tell that is was long and silky. Her eyes were a dull green and sparkled as she spoke to him. Or had they? It may all have been in his imagination. Kira, he thought. Kira. Interesting name, he’d never heard it and could not decipher a meaning in any of the languages he knew. Romany was unknown to him, but if memory served him right, Romany names were not spoken in the presence of Gadje.
Her hands were rough. She was carving a box, actually carving detailed images and words. She could read, very few could read and all were students, members of the church or foreigners from Greece. She was none of the above, she was a gypsy. Yet she couldn’t be. No gypsy reads. She had to be the girl Clopin had talked to about earlier, it fit so well. Had Gadje raised her, it would be possible. However, some things still didn’t fit. A reading gypsy woman, raised by peasants. No. It didn’t fit at all.
Quasimodo looked into his market basket at the bread, wine and turnip. A few eggs would be nice. He continued to walk through the crowd, hidden under his cloak. He didn’t seem to realize that nearly everyone knew who he was and was used to his appearance by now. The occasional “Good morning Quasimodo” or “Good day Monsieur Bellringer” did nothing to convince him that his secret was blown, that his disguise fooled no one.
Having returned to the belltower, Quasimodo looked around at the gloom and darkness that surrounded him all those years. Cobwebs, dust and birds throughout the whole tower, dampness and darkness. It was so bright and sunny out there. Quasimodo asked himself how he had done it, remained hidden in such a small gloomy place for so long. He ran his hands over his arms, feeling the scars hidden by his shirt and remembered.
That night Quasimodo’s dreams took him back before his first memory. The words in Frollo’s scrolls were acting themselves out, creating images that caused him to tremble with fear. The calm way Frollo had acted when carrying out the most sinful acts chilled him to the bone.
Quasimodo’s thoughts drifted back to his first years and he began to wonder. Did he even care about me? He fed me to grow strong and healthy, he taught me more things than most students will ever know, he introduced me to God Despite his evil ways, he did raise me as a person, where my appearance combined with superstition would have spelled death. Frollo surely must have loved me at some time during my life.
In another part of his mind, Quasimodo knew Frollo had practiced black magic, locked him away, killed hundreds of people and tried to kill him on more than one occasion. His words “I who took you in and raised you as if my own son”, “anyone else would have drowned you” ,“poor misshapen child” and “I knew you would die to save that gypsy witch, just as your own mother died trying to save you.” They still haunted him. Perhaps it was true that not one single moment in his entire life had Frollo ever loved him.
Frollo was very much dead, he’d seen his remains buried on unconsecrated ground. He’d been the only one to weep over his death. Many others rejoiced, which he well understood, but even his freedom did not overshadow the sadness he felt as he watched the remains of what had been his life for the past twenty years, teacher, protector and father, flung into the cold earth.
Sadness over Frollo, the death of an evil man, did not make himself evil as well. It merely showed that he had loved Frollo despite his cruel treatment and harsh words. Grief, excitement and fear mixed themselves in his mind. He was his own master now, having only God to answer to. Was it wrong to be glad of this? Was it sinful not to mourn Frollo’s death extensively? Would it be sinful to mourn him? Only Esmeralda seemed to understand what he was going through those few days after Frollo’s death. She comforted him with the news of his mother’s murder. Only she understood what the loss of his family, Frollo and the Archdeacon meant to him. Esmeralda understood him as no one else ever had.
The morning after the raid Quasimodo had found the Archdeacon laying at the foot of the stairs, unable to arise. He asked Quasimodo if everything was over, if the Gypsy girl was safe. Quasimodo answered his questions as he supported the injured clergyman on his way to the Hotel Dieu. The streets were empty, most of the populace stood before the Cathedral waiting for the heroic Phoebus de Chateaupers to emerge, Esmeralda in hand. A novice answered the door, shocked to see who stood on the other side.
“Sister Monique. I need your help, I fear my leg has been broken.”
“Of course, come right in. This way.” She looked up at Quasimodo. “Sister Conception, would you help me?”
“Sister. This is the bellringer, I’ve known him all his life. He will help me to move if you only show us where to go.”
The young nun, still nervous of Quasimodo, led the two churchman through the corridors to a small room where the Archdeacon laid down to rest on a soft bed. The Archdeacon smiled at Quasimodo as the nun guided him out of the room. Quasimodo’s job was done, the Archdeacon was now in the hands of the nuns and God.
The Archdeacon left for a peaceful monetary shortly afterward; a fractured leg, arm and multiple bruising being enough to convince him that Notre Dame de Paris was not the quiet Parish he had sought. The Archdeacon left his entire library in Quasimodo’s keeping, thanked him for his many years of faithful service and was gone by mid January. He did not announce his departure, nor did he give any more sermons. He was too ill, too sore to stand. He had used Quasimodo for support while he made his way to the carriage that would take him away forever. Quasimodo did not let on that this bothered him, but rather he returned to his tower and continued ringing the bells as if nothing had occurred.
The new Archdeacon arrived the following week and seemed thrilled to be in Notre Dame with the bellringer he had heard so much about from the Bishop. He instantly wanted to become Quasimodo’s friend and chattered to him endlessly. Once again Quasimodo was glad that words fell upon deaf ears. He didn’t want to listen to his endless prattle.
The Mind of One Who’s
Seen Death
It was while feeding Rose and Danté that night Kira realized everything was back to normal at last, if normal ever really happens. The shop was built, the house completed. The space was small, with the stable shop and house attached as one building, and it was finished. No more working into the late hours of the night after the day's carriage work and carving was done. No more standing in front of the hot stove while Elsa ran off to market, waiting for father to call her to help with a heavy board or carriage wheel. Looking around, she realized that she could resume playing music, spend time with Danté and learn more about the city, rather than merely dream or observe.
Setting herself down in a pile of wheat straw Kira picked up her long forgotten flute. Brushing the hay dust and chaff off of it, she put it to her lips and began to play a song she had learned from Elsa. As she played, Danté began to dose off. Something else, something more vibrant. Kira thought back, something she had not played in a while.
Suddenly, Kira remembered a song she had heard as a child. The words ran through her mind as she played, though she knew not what they meant, Romany was lost to her. Kira continued to play each verse, staring at the dust on the stable floor. The words were fuzzy in her mind, but knew the notes well and flowed smooth as the Seine. She continued to play in the darkness, facing Danté, who was beginning to wake up. She watched as Danté's ears perked up toward her. Danté liked this tune.
Kira continued to play.
Suddenly, the words came clear into her mind.
"My love has gone
to Paris,
My heart has gone to
stone.
My child don't cry for
Papa
He'll not be coming
home..."
She played on.
"Sister stay away
from Paris,
Your family loves you
so.
Don't chase after
their Papa
You'll not be coming home..."
Danté's ears pointed to the door and Kira realized the words were no longer merely in her mind. Through the corner of her eye she could see a young gypsy woman at the door to the shop, singing. Her white dress was torn and stained with blood, her black hair cut short.
Nervously, Kira continued to play. The woman continued to sing. Kira watched as Danté began to back further into her stall, shaking herself into a sweat.
"Dear soldier,
sweet lover"
Kira turned to face the woman
"Don't you
remember..."
Kira looked directly at her. Her eyes were deep-set, pits of blackness set upon ghastly pale, sloughing skin. Around her neck was a thick rope, tied into a long coil of knots that fell down her emaciated back, revealing her broken neck.
Kira dropped her flute onto the wooden floor.
She was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Quivering, Kira quickly rose and fastened the door to the stable. Leaving the flute on the floor, she entered Danté's stall. Danté was still shaking, as was Kira. Burying her face into Danté’s red mane, tears began to flow from her eyes. Not again. Not this.
Kira nearly jumped out of her skin when something warm touched her side.
Danté nuzzled her, as if to say "It's going to be all right."
Kira patted her neck once more, which was now dry.
"Goodnight, girl. "
Kira made her way up to her bed in the loft. Father and Elsa were fast asleep.
Nervously Kira stared into the darkness from beneath her cover. Not even a full moon, total blackness. As she stared into the night, all she could see was specks of colour moving about in the darkness, forming images. Why was that woman there? Why did I have to see her?
Kira clamped her eyes shut, only to be met with the same blackness and faces. There was no such thing as pure blackness, it only served to show you what you were too blind to see in the light.
Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. The box. It was finished. That woman would surely love it, marry her lover and live happily until the end of her days. The wedding would be beautiful, the bells would sound throughout all of Paris announcing their joy. Kira attempted to picture the bride and her lover standing at the alter, their hands being ceremoniously tied with a satin cord.
The image did not last long. However, she somehow managed to fall asleep. Elsa was pulling at her toe the following morning, just before sunrise.
The Court of Miracles at night
Quasimodo returned to the belfry and began another carving. He soon lost interest in it and decided it would be better to get out of this dark and damp place. A few birds flittered about the rafters, he was alone. He didn’t want to be alone. The Court of Miracles, although equally damp, would not be so empty. The one person who understood him, Esmeralda, would surely be there as well.
Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, Quasimodo leapt out the window of the belltower and climbed down the side of the Cathedral. Without aid of light or guide he made his way through the darkened streets toward the Court of Miracles.
He lifted the grate, lowering it as he passed through. The entrance from the cemetery had been closed off after Frollo’s raid and was now heavily booby trapped. The smell was horrible, dog and human feces lingered on the air. He’d never smelt anything like it before and hoped he would not smell it again. Thankfully, sewage never crept into the Court.
Quasi’s shoes scraped the shallow puddles of murky water, soaking through. There was such a long way to go and the putrid stench burned his nostrils, the ammonia burned his eyes. Much longer and he would surely wretch.
Eventually the smell began to lessen and Quasi sensed the presence of others hiding in the dark passages, guards who watched his every move. They must have recognized him immediately, as none advanced, yet remained hidden in the darkness. Moments later, the smell of sewage became masked by incense, wood fire and beer. If he could have heard it, laughter filled the air. As he turned a corner, a faint light pierced the blackness of the underground. The Court of Miracles at last. There would be much in the way of festivities tonight, as Esmeralda had returned after a detour into Scotland. The sweet smell of rosewood incense drifted on the breeze.
A large bonfire fire blazed in the centre of the Court with the forms of men and women dancing around it, silhouetted by the long tongues of flame. His good eye focused on a tall slender woman who moved more graceful than the rest, La Esmeralda; firedancer. He had to speak with her, only Esmeralda seemed to understand him even slightly.
The red glow of the fire cast long shadows on the damp cobbles. Outlines of feverishly dancing gypsies following the beat of drums, flutes and string instruments. Quasimodo could see the gypsies playing them nearby, they must have sounded wonderful. As he stared at the musicians he felt hands on his shoulders and turned to see Esmeralda’s smiling face.
“Dance with me!” she laughed, pulling the bellringer towards her and the fire.
“It’s good to see you, too.” Smiled the bellringer, as he stumbled along behind his friend.
Esmeralda stood still, the rest of the gypsies stood still. Quasimodo looked over to see the band, their instruments in a state of readiness. Suddenly, they began to move, the gypsies began to move. Quasimodo gulped nervously.
Esmeralda touched his cheek gently. “Just follow my lead.”
Quasimodo soon caught the beat of the song he couldn’t hear, his feet moving in unison with the others. Esmeralda twirled at the end of his arm and back, smiling the whole time. It was infectious, soon Quasimodo was smiling as well and caught up in the laughter and joy of the evening.
Phoebus walked in to see his wife dancing wildly with the bellringer. His eyes remained fixed on her, what was now every bit of joy in his life, in the arms of another man. He drew up his shoulders and breathed out heavily while staring at the bellringer. They continued to dance, oblivious to all around them.
The music stopped, all the dancers stopped including Quasimodo and Esmeralda. They smiled, then let go of each others hands. Quasimodo was the first notice him standing there, then Esmeralda. An innocent dance was all it had been, pure innocence. Did Esmeralda not have the choice to choose her own dance partner in his absence? Did Quasimodo not deserve a dance with his friend?
Phoebus shook hands with Quasi and embraced Esmeralda. The music had died down for the night, it was time to eat dinner and meet the travelers who had come back from England, bringing stories and news.
Quasi mingled with the crowd, finding Solona in the process. She gave him no notice before she took him by the arm and dragged him away from the dancing and to her tent. She motioned for him to sit, Quasimodo obeyed. There was something in her eyes that demanded it, perhaps it was wisdom or sorcery. Quasimodo wasn’t sure. He’d never seen her before, but knew who she was. Esmeralda had told him. More importantly, Solona knew him and what he was thinking. Her eyes stripped him to his soul, making him nervous.
Solona drew the curtain to the tent, surrounding them in darkness. With a flint, she struck a flint to a candle and set it on the floor between them.
“Quasimodo, lost child. You wonder why I bring you here, don’t you? You are in danger.” Solona lowered herself before the bellringer, who sat on the red and purple rug. “You cannot remain in Paris, you must leave.”
Quasimodo was confused. “I cannot simply leave. The bells, my friends, Notre Dame. I can’t simply leave them.”
“You can and must, Quasimodo. A great evil will arrive shortly, you will be one of the first to fall if you stay in Notre Dame. The bells? The monks rang them before you, they will ring them while you are gone. There is nothing holding you here but yourself. ”
“If I am to leave Paris, where am I to go? Travel with the Gypsies?”
“Definitely not, no one must find you. You must leave here, Quasimodo. On a peasant farm, a shack or a monastery. Anywhere you will not be found.”
“I will not hide anymore, nor will I run from my friends and home. Besides..” Quasimodo pointed at his face, “blending in isn’t an option. I might be taken for a demon and hanged!”
Solona stared directly into his eyes and remained stone-faced. “You must leave if you to find out answers to the questions you ask yourself, about who you are and why. When things cool down and it is safe to return…”
“Answers? There is nothing I haven’t already learned. Frollo killed my parents, I was not claimed by the gypsies. I have no past.”
“In that you are wrong Quasimodo, everyone has a past. There is a girl that frequents your thoughts, no? It is possible you have similar beginning, both of you were born of the same tribe, both orphaned under the same circumstances. Both of you share the same destiny.”
Quasimodo perked up. “Esmeralda cannot possibly be…”
Solona cut him off, then lifted a black cloth off a small table, revealing a crystal ball that glowed a pale yellow. It bore within it symbols and an image. The picture was hard to describe but as he looked at it he could see that the image was himself ringing Jacqueline, with a dark figure standing behind him, ready to strike with it’s sword. The image faded to black and the ball shone no more.
“There is trouble if you stay.”
“What will happen if I leave? What is there to be found”
“I am unsure, the spirits have told me where to find answers to questions you have yet to ask. What they are, you must decide for yourself. While you decide, it remains certain you have family, possibly a sibling. The answer lies outside of Paris.”
Quasimodo and Solona talked until the candle became a short stub. A sibling? He had never thought of the possibility. True, most families in Court of Miracles had many children, as many as seven. Yet somehow Quasimodo separated himself from this, not ever thinking of the possibility he was part of a family. It was not possible for him to have siblings, was it? Would they look like him?
On his walk home, Quasimodo’s thoughts ran wild. He walked by Kira’s home, a candle lit the upstairs window. It was possible she was still awake, with her mother and father. Her adopted father who loved her as if she was his own. Why hadn’t he been so fortunate? Would things had been any different if he had been?
Quasimodo opened the doors to Cathedral, barred them, then disappeared into the darkness of the tower. He was exhausted, the bells needed tending to. He rang them then fell asleep in his seldom-used bed under the cover Esmeralda had given him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back in the Court of Miracles Solona pulled the image out of the glass sleeves and removed the smothered candle. It was cruel to use such trickery to convince Quasimodo to leave, yet there was no other way she knew of. Something was coming, something terrible that would destroy the bellringer. She felt it in her bones, the runes and Tarot agreed. He was in danger.
Clopin walked in as Solona threw the image into the fire.
“What have you done to Quasi, he looked distraught as he left.”
“It was not easy, yet the bellringer will be departing before the next new moon.”
“A dream, a mere dream and your terrify Quasimodo? Are you sure you interpreted your dream properly?” Solona looked offended.
“I have never been wrong before. I do not look forward to the next two months. Many will die from both sides and with it will come the death of all who worked with Frollo unless something is done. Whether or not Quasimodo is actually in danger from this or something else remains unclear.”
“What do you mean? The bellringer is clearly he is capable of defending Sanctuary, his friends and himself. He will fight with the bravery of our toughest men. You may have just sent him into danger!”
“Tell me Clopin, why is this so important to you? Why does his life seem to mean so much more to you than that of one of our own people.”
“He is one of our people and you are well aware of that, Solona.” Clopin stroked the crystal ball as he spoke. “You believe terrifying the man and using cheap tricks to convince him into leaving will help us?”
“I do not know but I must follow intuition on this, as you trust your visions. Besides, he’s been used against us once, it will not happen again” Solona nodded her head slightly, giving finality to their conversation.
Elsa prepared a goose for dinner, whereas Kira baked a quiche and managed to get some carrots that had been held over the winter. The Bourgeois picked up the jewelry box, thrilled with the details, and paid twice what Kira had expected. He traced his sweethearts' name with his finger as he read it with confidence. Kira could not help but smile as he read it backwards.
That afternoon, Kira ran over the plan in her mind once more. Get up before the first tolling of the bells, be at Notre Dame just as they start to ring. Don't get caught sneaking up into the tower. Beg forgiveness for the sin of being forever curious about everything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Picking up her flute from the stable floor she dusted it off and put it back on the shelf. she'd not be playing it at night again.
Kira brushed down Danté, who was standing, nearly asleep, in the stable. She was getting fat, probably from lack of exercise, being in the stable nearly a month eating hay. Kira glanced out the window, catching a clear view of Clopin's puppet wagon. There was a large crowd of people around the wagon, must be a favorite story, as not all were young women and children. She watched as a white goat ran off with one of the puppets, the crowd tracking it as it trotted away. She could also see Clopin sticking his head out the side of the wagon, shaking his empty hand in the air.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few days later, Kira asked her father’s permission to leave home early for church, which he unquestioningly granted her permission to do. Perhaps he was too tired to argue the point, or knew that her asking was merely a formality.
Sunday morning Kira made her way to the cathedral, through the dim streets. The mist was just beginning to rise off of the river and blanketed the ground, coming to her waist. It was a long way to walk alone, but Danté had to stay home. While crossing the bridge, the bells began to toll. She was on time, perhaps a bit late. Kira began running toward the old church, nearly out of breath as she arrived at the steps. The doors were open. Swiftly and silently she reached the stairway, and began the long trek upwards.
The stairs were dark and damp. Kira could barely see the steps, had it been fifteen minutes later, she would have been able to see them clearly. Yet then it would have been too late, and whomever it was that rang them would be long gone. With each step Kira dragged her foot upwards along the stone, feeling carefully for its surface. As she climbed higher, the bells got louder. Finally, she had to press her palms to her ears as she continued to climb upward.
Thin ribbons of sunlight rained upon her when she reached the final step. The pealing of the bells resounded in her chest, masking the rapid beating of her heart. Through the dimness of the tower she could discern four bells swinging in their chambers. Their campanologist was out of sight. How to get a better view? Scanning the tower for a way to get farther up, she spotted a steep, rickety staircase.
Careful not to make any noise, Kira ascended the stairs. Of course, the bells would have drowned her out even if she had screamed. Looking upward, she could make out three flights of stairs that trembled with each pealing. Having decided these stairs were sound, Kira focused her attention onto the moving bells, or rather, below them.
Although he was difficult to make out, Kira could see rather clearly that this man was not like others. His forearms were at least twice the size of her fathers’, yet he was much shorter. His entire body moved as he danced between each rope, pulling on them, throwing his head back in fits of laughter. Although she strained to see him better, her attempts were futile. Kira leaned up against a beam and watched the man, amazed. He was both agile and fluid in his movements. An increase in sunlight silhouetted his form, barring any chance of seeing him more clearly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Disappointed, Kira crept back down the stairs, toward the nave. People were filling the pews. Carefully, she melded herself into the crowd, unnoticed, making her way to where father and Elsa awaited her arrival.
Sitting to father's right, Kira remained motionless, in thought. Could this be the same hunchback she had seen but three days ago in the marketplace with the twisted face and legs? The same man she had spoken to with those beautiful blue eyes and gentle hands? The same man who had that beautiful voice?
Surely, he had to be. Kira had not seen any hump-backed person in Paris before this week, and he had said he'd always lived in Paris. The way he walked through the marketplace, the way he hid himself. This was Claudes' prisoner, the bell ringer of Notre Dame. Thinking about his countenance, she could understand why he was nervous about showing his face. Images of his face flooded her mind, those eyes. They haunted her in the most wonderful way imaginable. She'd never seen such beautiful, soulful, eyes.
Father set his hand on Kira’s shoulder, he must have become aware of his daughter’s daydreaming. The Archdeacon began the sermon and Kira focused her eyes blankly toward the alter, meanwhile thinking of the bell ringer. Up and down, up and down. New members were welcomed into the church, apparently this was the Sunday for new members, one of them a gypsy who hung off the arm of a golden-haired man. She trotted up the aisle. The man crept out the side and to the back of the church. Why did there have to be so many?
Men With a Purpose
Outside in the Parvis Notre Dame, a small gathering of heavily armed men stood inside the puppet wagon of Clopin Trouillifou. Two with weapons, two with wits, two with speed, two trained for war and one with immense strength. Their number was three. Clopin Troullifou, Phoebus de Chateaupers and Quasimodo the bellringer. The masses were within the walls of Notre Dame, thus the men could converse in relative privacy. Clopin was the first to speak.
“I’m not doubting either of you, I saw it to. But it remains that the cards showed a return of treachery and murder to the city. Another struggle between my people and the Gadje.” Clopin argued to Phoebus. “Has there been anything peculiar occurring at the Palais du Justice?”
Phoebus stood erect with his hands at his sides in military fashion. “I’ve not seen anything, Clopin. The dungeons have been emptied, the slaves released, the torture chamber silent.” Phoebus paused briefly, looking out the window toward the Palais, his responsibility until a new Minister of Justice was appointed by the king. Quasimodo watched with a keen eye as Phoebus described the Palais du Justice and it’s horrors in a seemingly indifferent manner. Phoebus continued. “The new Minister should be here by August, it is hoped that he shall not be as demented as the last.”
Clopin paced the inside of the caravan, his fingers knitting his thick eyebrows. “Something is going to happen, I can feel it, I know it. There is nothing to do except wait for it. Quasi, you’re in your tower most times, have you seen anything?
Quasi looked at Clopin briefly, shifted his gaze slightly toward the south corner of the square, then back to Clopins’ eyes. “Travelers, families returning to the city and rebuilding their homes. Nothing of importance.” Clopin smiled.
“We’ll see what we can for you.” Phoebus raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to speak when Clopins’ glance indicated he remain quiet.
Quasimodo continued. “Whatever is to happen, sanctuary will be maintained.”
“…and the location of the Court will remain secret. Quasi, I trust you to guide any of my people home should they become trapped within Notre Dame. That includes you. You are always welcome among my people.”
“How are we to know this corruption will begin with the new Minister of Justice?” Phoebus interjected. “Why are you so sure it will be a relative of Frollo? Frollo is dead, we all know it. As well, Frollo’s parents died of plague, his brother is a fool and he has no son.” Phoebus paused. “That is, unless Quasimodo here is plotting against us.”
Two piercing glances shot at Phoebus. “It’s not funny and this is no laughing matter” Clopin spoke. “We must keep a vigilant eye, watch over all our people. The city, the court and sanctuary. Solona had a vision, she is rarely mistaken in her interpretations and never wrong in her predictions.”
Quasimodo nodded in agreement, covered himself under a sheet of blue, then left the caravan to tend to the bells. Clopin and Phoebus watched as he nimbly scaled the side of the building and disappeared into the belltower. Did he even know how to use stairs?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sermon continued. Kira’s mind continued to wander. The bell ringer had to be down here somewhere, or maybe it was time to ring the noon bells and he was back in the tower. It had to have been at least three hours. Could he do that? Ring the bells if the parish was still in sermon? What were the bells made of? How did they get them up there? How could he get four of them to ring at the same time and make actual music single-handedly? What if bells from all three towers needed to be rung at the same time, or did that ever happen? Why couldn't that monk play the organ properly? When was the last time it had been tuned? It really did sound terrible. Maybe a cat was dying inside of it and no one had thought to remove it. Kira corrected her thoughts. She was in church, shouldn't be thinking such things. But would this sermon ever end? She couldn't even hear what was being said, at least clearly.
Kira’s eyes began to drift over the crowd. Father would not notice, so she risked nothing in doing so. Lost souls stood among the living, praying next to them. The wealthy people of Paris sat near the front, and near the inner aisles. Those with less money, such as her, sat near the edges. The poorest of all knelt in the outside aisles. Spirits stood everywhere. She had no idea where the bellringer would be. Closest to the bell tower, the back row. Kira glanced among the peasants. No, he would not be there, he was too self-conscious.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Clopin stepped back into the caravan, away from the window and began to speak in a softer tone. “After spending all that time lost in a world of stone, prayer and learning it appears that Quasimodo is becoming more aware in the ways of the world.”
“Clopin?”
Clopin smiled. “I’ll think of something. In the meantime, you’d best be getting back to your post. The people will be leaving mass soon, and it would be best they not see you with the likes of myself.”
“Well the, good day to you Clopin. I will be sure to keep a lookout.”
Phoebus stepped out of the caravan, mounted Achilles and rode toward the Palais of Justice
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, after asking herself many questions and contemplating the meaning of life, the Archdeacon disappeared and sermon was finally over. As the wealthy passed through the aisle before her, the bells began to toll, the same tune but more joyful than usual.
Standing there, Kira watched as the people passed by. Her Sunday best was probably what they gave to their servants to wash the floors with. Some of them looked at her with contempt as they passed, rising their noses just a little higher. She hoped to herself that it was raining outside, so that many of them would drown. Kira quickly corrected her thought. What a nasty thing to think while in church.
Father finally nudged Kira to get out of the pew, it was their turn to leave. As father and Elsa filed out of Notre Dame she listened to the bells intently. Kira watched as he and Elsa disappeared into the crowd of people leaving the Cathedral. While she had grown up, they had both grown so old.
"They ring beautifully." Kira mentioned to Andry, who was passing through with Diane and his two children.
"'Tis Quasimodo." Andry huffed.
Of course it is, thought Kira. The Archdeacon mentioned it at the beginning of mass. Last week was Easter.
Andry must have seen the puzzled look on her face. "No, Kira." He shook his hands in front of his chest. "The bells. It's Quasimodo."
Kira stared at him blankly. " I know it's Quasimodo Sunday, but how...."
Andry laughed. "Kira, child. You don't understand. Quasimodo rings the bells."