PART 5
Dark associations
Just outside of Rouen, a man and woman rode toward the city of Paris to tend to work that awaited completion. The man, about forty years, held his wife in his arms. It was because of her he had been able to get the job he sought. It was a job only he could do, as he had been appointed by the previous official.
D’Arque walked down the main street of the small town. There were few people outside walking about. Three sheep grazed quietly outside the bakery. He stepped inside where a few women haggled over the price of baguettes. The didn’t look fresh, as small flakes of crust tumbled from them as the baker held them. The arguing stopped as they noticed the stranger. D’Arque bought a loaf and walked out.
While crossing the street, he noticed he sheep were now following him. He picked up his pace when he realized the sheep wanted his bread, not watching where he was walking. D’Arque soon bumped into a drunken soldier, who lay down on the street. The soldier groaned.
“Get up!” D’Arque kicked the man violently in the ribs. “Get up, I say. Worthless scum. You are the best the Kings army has to show? What a pathetic country this has become.”
The drunken man, rose to his feet and stood at attention. “And to whom do I owe the pleasure, Monsieur?” He spoke, sarcastically.
“Luc D’Arque, Minister of Justice, Paris.”
“Aye. That makes you nothing here.”
“How dare you speak to a superior you insolent wretch. I shall have you chained in the dungeons for such disloyalty.”
“To verify something, Minister of Justice. This is not Paris, this is not even a city. Minister, only the Captain of the Kings guard may give me any orders, I have no reason to even acknowledge you.” George drew his sword softly, and pointed it at the neck of D’Arque. “I suggest ye be leavin' right quick, messieur. Your type ain’t welcome round here.”
“I will have you in chains, soldier.”
“If what you want is a challenge, messiuer, I will have your balls as a purse.” George spit on the shoes of the Minister and flashed his sword around some more.
“You wish to die?”
“You would kill me?” George twirled his sword on the end of his finger, tossed it into the air and caught it in the span of a few seconds. Minister D’Arque stood silent, watching. George held his sword, ready to strike.
D’Arque nodded his approval and drew his own blade. It was long, cold and decorated with precious stones, much nicer than the plain sword belonging to George. D’Arque gallantly showed off his weapon with several quick motions. He twirled it around his wrist, over his arm and stuck out in the air with lightening speed. George nodded his head in approval.
D’Arque smiled, then jabbed his sword forward to impale his opponent. At that same moment, George stepped to the side and bashed in the ministers jaw with an iron fist. The minister fell to the ground, in agony.
“As I said, Minister. Your type ain’t welcome ‘round here. I suggest you and your men leave town.”
D’Arque crawled off, his jaw sore and his dignity bruised. George walked graciously behind a bush, bent over and heaved up the previous nights meal and drink.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The iron and wood carriage rode noisily through the night, under heavy guard. It would be a long journey through the countryside, there was much to do along the way. D’Arque kept his run-in with the soldier secret, as one measly soldier in the middle of nowhere would not make a difference to his mission. There were much greater things to accomplish.
The procession stopped at every town along the way, asking about the state of affairs in Paris and what happened in Januervy. The men left the woman and some soldiers outside of town while the rest rode in to gather information. There was nothing but bad news to bring back to the others. Minister Frollo was indeed dead, murdered by the same freak of nature he had saved from death in an act of mercy.
The couple deliberated as what to do. Ruth counted her rosaries and drank tea while in thought. The man was a cripple, he should be easy to dispose of. Once the bellringer was gone, controlling the rest of Paris would be simple. He’d become their hero, to erase him from the city would weaken the populace and allow full control.
She remained sitting and calmly stirred her tea. It was very simple. Quasimodo would have to die. From that point on she remained in the carriage, thinking of one thing. How to rid the world of one hideous cripple.
Two Horses
Have Fun
“Your right foot goes into the stirrup. The other right. Now, grasp the pommel of the saddle.”
“The what?”
“The front of the saddle. Lift yourself up, swing your left leg over then lower yourself down into the saddle.”
“Phoebus. I can’t reach the pommel.”
“Take my hand, then.”
“It feels strange.”
“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” Phoebus chuckled. “Now hold one rein in each hand. Yes, that’s right. No, Quasi. You have it backwards. The rein goes between your smallest finger and ring finger, through your fist, then out under your thumb. I’m glad you’re learning, Quasi. If we do have to leave Paris, it will be much easier to ride rather than walk. I suppose it would be best to put you on Snowball, since technically he is your horse now since…”
“Like this?”
“Exactly, Quasi. You’ve got it. Just a bit tighter, now.”
Phoebus led Achilles around the small field by the river, out of sight from most Parisians. Quasi struggled to hold his balance with each step. Squeezing Achilles for balance, he unwittingly caused the horse to fight to go faster.
“Quasi. Relax, relax. I’m not going to let you fall.”
Achilles walked slowly as Quasi leaned into the front of the saddle, holding the reins slack.
“Loose, Quasi, go loose. You’re not going to fall.” Phoebus looked up at his friend, then his other friend. “You and Achilles should get along fairly well. I just need another horse besides Achilles. Then again, Jiminny and Snowball are still in the stables. You will learn quicker if you ride with someone else. I remember when I was a young lad taking my first ride with my cousin. I was six and was put on a horse named Petit Bleu. He was dappled gray and had a huge belly on him. Never wanted to do anything but eat. Those were the days, Quasi. Just like having wings, I swear…”
Quasimodo didn’t pay much attention to Phoebus’ rambling. It was a challenge to keep his balance at a walk. Quasi wondered how such a small amount of movement could throw his balance off so easily.
Having ridden for about an hour, Phoebus asked for Quasi to get off and the two men made their way back to the island, Achilles following behind.
“You really like her, don’t you.” Phoebus stated; it was not meant as a question.
Quasi said nothing to Phoebus’ comment. Indeed, there was nothing he could say. Phoebus continued to chatter.
“Esmeralda never learned to ride a horse and doesn’t ever want to. Prefers to keep on the ground.” Phoebus looked Quasimodo in the eye. “Are you doing this just for that girl, or…”
“Every man knows how to ride a horse, does he not?”
Phoebus smiled.
“… and I would like very much to ride with her.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After ten days Quasi and Phoebus were riding outside of Paris. Phoebus disliked having another man on his beloved Achilles, yet knew he’d rather Quasimodo ride him out of all the men he knew.
Jiminny and Achilles trotted along merrily down the road, side-by side. Quasimodo was the first to speak.
“Has there been any news to the Palais of Justice?”
“Of the new Minister? Not much, Quasi.” There was a long pause. The horses continued to walk on. Quasimodo broke the silence again.
“Have you seen her lately?”
“Not closely, no. I believe she hasn’t left her house except for her weekly run to the mill. That horse of hers really goes fast. An arrow is what that horse is, a small red arrow.”
“Medicine for her father.” Quasi thought. That was what she had gotten while he chatted with Diane.
“Canter?” Asked Phoebus, spurring Jiminny before he finished asking.
Jiminny dug his heels into the road and tore off with Phoebus, Achilles followed, Quasimodo didn’t.
Quasimodo sat in the dirt, the breath knocked out of him, wondering what happened for a moment before realizing his mount’s heels were turning up sod in a line away from him. Quasimodo got up, dusted himself off. It hurt, yet he’d felt worse. Phoebus would come back. Quasimodo scanned the horizon. Phoebus should come back..
Deciding it was pointless to stand and wait, Quasimodo laid down in the grass and stared up at the clouds. Her eyes were so beautiful. Not as green as Esmeralda’s, yet beautiful. Maybe that’s why he liked her, not because of who she was, but rather because she was similar to Esmeralda. Quasi blew a bug off his nose and closed his eyes.
What was it about her he liked? She certainly couldn’t dance, she was too shy and far too clumsy. She was pretty, but did not have the stunning beauty of Esmeralda. She carved wood, rode a horse, knew the alphabet and could read. Did those things matter? Not really. They spoke nothing of her personality. There was something else there. She tried to kiss him. Something Esmeralda had done on several occasions, twice publicly, yet as a friend. Carmen had meant it in a different way, hadn’t she? Esmeralda pecked him on the cheek quickly and softly, Carmen had snuggled into his shoulder, tried to kiss him and he turned her away. He’d not seen her since.
Then again, there were rumors the girl was crazy, bordering on madness. He’d seen it too with talk of her visions, dreams and tales of seeing people where none existed. She saw nothing at it was, but rather as some sort of convoluted dream. It was too good to be true.
Quasi was awaken by Phoebus’ boot tapping his side.
“He’s dead, Jim.”
Quasimodo opened his eyes to see Phoebus nearly bursting with laughter. Quasimodo desperately wanted to hit him.
“Walking or riding?” Phoebus offered him Achilles’ reins.
“Riding. At a walk.”
Phoebus hopped onto Jiminny, Quasi lifted himself onto Achilles, realizing the stirrups were very short and that his legs were actually stiff.
Quasimodo petted Achilles goodnight, yet said nothing to
Phoebus. He merely nodded a goodnight and made his way to the cathedral.
Innocence and
Prejudice Collide
The next afternoon Carmen made a feeble attempt to dance, tripped, and fell into the woodpile. Blood began to run down her leg. She would not have noticed except Marcelle, Gabriel's old friend, had drawn the warm, crimson stream to her attention. The bells were ringing once again. Such a beautiful song. There was a wedding this afternoon, a Bourgeois couple. She knew this since she had prepared the carriage for the affair.
Setting herself down onto a large piece of wood, she lifted her skirts to her knees to inspect the damage. A few layers of skin lay crumpled into a whitish-brown mass at the edge of a oval of tender, bleeding skin. It looked much worse than it really was. Grasping the peeled skin between her thumb and forefinger, Carmen ripped it of, tossed it to the ground and replaced her skirts. This was much to the men’s disappointment.
Carmen soon entered the shed to gather up scrap wood for burning in the kitchen. Lifting a rather large chunk of wood, she examined it closely. It was large enough to carve a figure similar to those she’d seen in Quasimodo’s model village. She continued to look through the pile where there were about five chunks of wood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Days went by, Carmen did not return to Notre Dame except for mass. Father was sick, Elsa was tired. They needed her. Carmen tried to ignore the bells as best she could; she threw herself into the shop, taking on enough to keep her busy each day from dawn until dusk. Carmen went to market of course, and rode Danté to keep her fit, but kept busy. Initially, she felt stronger, more powerful. Then she began to notice changes each morning as she dressed, she was wasting away. She was not happy. Looking over at father, sleeping soundly in his bed. No. She had to be happy. She had a mother and father who loved her. She had a home. To love another, to leave them would be selfish.
It was early evening, the altar of the lazy had just been summoned. The evening meal bubbled softly over the hearth while Carmen sat by the fire to warm her weakened body. She stared into the flames, watched them flicker into faint shapes of people and animals. Quasi ringing his bells, a black figure standing behind him, sword in hand and raised for the kill. Carmen shut her eyes and turned away. No, it was just fire, just her imagination this time.
Carmen picked up the violin and fingered out a few notes, chords, then a melody. Something to take her mind off of him. She began to sing softly.
Raven black as ebony,
You fly so mighty proud
Your wings set wide,
Your heart set free
Your head held high,
You cannot see
The owl has you in his
sight
Watching for you every
night
The owl is ravens’
destiny
Elsa walked into the room unnoticed while Carmen continued to play, smiled, then stepped out as her song ended. Elsa smiled and reentered the room noisily. Carmen quickly arose and began to stir the soup with her tired hands wrapped around a great wooden spoon. Chicken stew.
Carmen continued to push herself. By the third week she was forgetting things that had previously been second nature. Elsa approached her on a Thursday morning before dawn, while she was lighting the fire.
“Have you baked the bread and started breakfast?”
“Oh no, I’ve forgotten!”
“I suppose you were busy fixing that old harness?”
“… and cleaning the stable?”
“I was just going to do that”
“I assume the floor has been swept?”
Carmen glanced downward, the floor was obviously dirty. “Soon?”
“Carmen, for the past week you’ve been forgetting to do things, for three weeks you’ve been off in your own little world more than usual. You’ve buried yourself in work to the point you’ve forgotten what you’re doing. You don’t play your violin, pet your horse, or daydream. I no longer hear you singing. You’ve wasted away and have become distant. So help me, I don’t know what to do with you. I’ve lost my daughter, you’re not a gypsy. What has come over you?”
Carmen looked up at her with pleading eyes. She was never been able to lie outright, so she said nothing. Tears began to flow in the corners of Carmen’s eyes, which she held back with trembling eyelids. Elsa scanned her face, where her face melted from one of concern to a smile.
“Ah, so that’s it. Well, you had better tell me who he is.”
Carmen was flabbergasted.
“I can see it in your face, you’ve a beau.”
The tears in Carmen’s eyes began to fall from her eyes. “It’s not right, I never meant for it to happen! Elsa, please believe me when I tell you I never wanted to fall in love. I only wanted to meet him! I didn’t think it would come to this.”
Elsa reached around me with her soft arm. “It’s OK, Kira. Nobody ever intends for these things to happen, but such things are left to a greater power.” Elsa motioned toward the Cathedral. “Would you tell me who the lucky young man is? Oh I can tell by your expression, he’s very handsome, isn’t he? Of high rank!”
“I do, don’t I? I love him! Oh why did this happen!” Carmen began to sob into her hands, Elsa patted her on the back. “You and father would never approve.”
“Does he love you?”
“I’m not sure, I think so. I’m not sure. We were in Notre Dame, he smiled at me and I smiled back. He sent me away. He was upset. I don’t understand”
“You do, Kira. He loves you. Who…”
“You wouldn’t like him”
“Kira?”
Carmen said nothing and turned away slightly.
“Kira, whoever it is, I’m sure we can…”
“Quasi.”
“What?”
“The bellringer.”
There was silence. Elsa’s hand lifted from Carmen’s back and she stepped away. She held her index finger over her nose and tapped it between her eyes as she circled the room in thought. Elsa turned around, drew her hand down across her aged face as to support her chin. Her eyes lifted to meet Carmen’s.
“The Hunchback? Of Notre Dame?”
“Yes.” Carmen stood as a statue, her tears flowing over her stone faced expression.
After a few moments of pacing, Elsa broke the silence. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about him. This will be difficult, but I will talk to your father”
“You are not at all angry?”
“Kira, darling. When you came to us, both your father and I knew you were not ours, nor would you ever be. You were only ours on loan. You’re a young woman, most your age are already married. You have fallen for the bellringer. I don’t understand it, but you’ve always been a funny girl.” Elsa gave a heavy sigh. “Tell me more about him. What is his real name?”
“Quasimodo” Carmen’s tears were drying. Her & Quasi might be together.
“You know, your father may not take this very well, but fortunately for us a meeting between the two of them should be safe.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your father knows him as “the hunchback” only & strongly dislikes him. If the room is a bit dark, your father won’t see him at all, due to his poor eyesight. Now his name is rather, um, interesting. Your father knows just as well as we do what it means. This did not comfort Carmen much. Elsa stared at Carmen, seemingly disappointed with her. “Tell me about him.”
“Well, he’s the bellringer. He lives in Notre Dame and is very learned. He can read, write and speak English, Latin and Greek.” Carmen paused, Elsa motioned for her to continue.
“What does he look like?” Elsa stated flatly. This is what Carmen didn’t want to describe. Why did his looks matter? Was Elsa just curious? Would it matter if she described him as she saw him, or as she envisioned him? There was most certainly a difference.
“Well, he’s a bit shorter than me, his hair’s the same shade as Danté’s. He’s fair-skinned. His voice, it’s the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard! His smile is so warm and he has these eyes, they’re the most beautiful shade of blue. I’ve never seen such eyes…” Carmen fiddled in her pockets as she rambled and pulled out a carving knife, it was Quasi’s, not her own. “I miss Quasi so much! I’ve not seen him in days.”
“Go to him, Kira. You’ve been working so hard lately, you could use the break. I’m sure he misses you as well. The bells have not been as joyful.” Elsa handed her a basket.
Carmen nodded her head in agreement, a radiant smile appearing for the first time in weeks. She quickly removed her apron and stepped out the door toward Parvis Notre Dame. Elsa watched as Carmen bolted toward the Cathedral carrying her feet as if they were weightless. “Please don’t trip” thought Elsa. “Now is not the time to be clumsy.” The old woman smiled blissfully as the young girl entered the Cathedral without stumbling. Such was Kira.
Elsa rubbed the doorjamb, worn smooth within the past three months. This couldn’t last, it was just a girlish fantasy. Foolish girl. Try to pull them apart, they would surely end up together. Let them be together, she’d move on to someone else. Hopefully someone more suited to her would replace this freak of nature, some educated and handsome young man.
Then again… Elsa stared at Notre Dame. Perhaps her interest in the bellringer wouldn’t pass. There was nothing to do but wait and see. Allowing this wrenched at her heart. To have the hunchback in her own family, her daughter’s husband. Elsa shuddered. She’d always put a great effort into being accepting of everyone, but the hunchback? Elsa was ashamed of herself. She’d never heard anything bad about him, save his ugliness which wasn’t his fault. God was testing her.
Elsa spoke to the belltower. “Kira must see something in you that I don’t.”
Grasping a protruding stone, the bellringer lifted himself from the gargoyle and up the side of the Cathedral into the belltower. He quickly combed his hair and threw on a clean and untorn shirt. The bells needed tending to as well.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carmen sat on the steps in front of the church, listening to Quasi’s music. Eventually the music stopped and people began to fill the streets. He would be down soon, sweet and smiling. Definitely not a white knight in shining armor, not what she had dreamed of in her childhood fantasies, but it seemed right. No other arms around her would feel right. It was his eyes that she’d had gotten lost in. His odd smile, missing whole rows of teeth, his soft, soothing, masculine voice.
Quasimodo soon emerged from the Cathedral in search of Phoebus. Moments later, he and Carmen walked by the Seine, their hands at their sides. Carmen was the first to break the silence.
“Quasi, Elsa knows about us.”
Quasi looked concerned. “Then I can’t see you anymore.”
“I think she’s happy for us, actually. Or rather, indifferent. She admitted she’s been watching us since before the beginning. She want’s us to be together.
“Then what’s the barrier?”
“You have to meet with my father as soon as you are able. He’s a good man, but apparently has issues with my having a beau. He’s very fussy.”
“Does this have something to do with me personally?” Carmen nodded meekly. She leaned against the rabbit hutch that had been set up in March. It was worth admiring, she used it as a resting place.
“Fortunately he only knows of you by your appearance.” Quasimodo tickled one of the bunnies under the chin.
“That helps, then, doesn’t it. There’s no getting around that.” The bunny hopped off, no longer the centre of attention.
“Quasi, my love, my father is nearly blind. He doesn’t know your name and Elsa won’t tell him. He’ll never make the connection of who you really are.”
Quasi gave a faint smile. “I’ve never talked with someone who couldn’t see my face before. It doesn’t seem right somehow, that he doesn’t know who I am.” They continued to walk. “Before the beginning?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That night in the stable, Carmen kept her word and played her violin for Quasimodo and once over her nervousness, it was easy around him, began to sing the song that had led her to him.
While singing, she noticed that Quasimodo was carefully listening to each word that passed her lips. She watched his eyes to the point she failed to move her fingers properly as she drew the bow across the strings. The sound sent shivers up her spine, Carmen winced. Quasi looked distressed.
“Please don’t stop!” Carmen continued, but began to wonder. Quasi was bellringer, he made music. Why wouldn’t a sour note phase him like it did herself? Even the most polite, nonmusical person cannot stop themselves from squirming when they hear a nasty note, especially when it comes from a violin. Quasi didn’t move.
Carmen set her violin down on the floor of the tower. She was sure she now knew something Quasi was afraid to tell her, something that would make a difference if he were to meet her father in relative darkness. How to test her theory?
Carmen fingered her bow, lessening off the tension so that the hairs separated out. Quasi watched, fascinated.
“Why are you doing that?”
“I only have one bow, I need it to last as long as possible. That is, unless you know anyone with a white horse. Would you like to try playing it?”
Quasi shook his head. “Oh, no. I could never play as you do” He tapped on his left shoulder, not entirely suited to playing a violin. Just as well, if what she thought was true, the proof would be painful. Quasi placed his hand on the bow, meeting her eyes.
“You know, don’t you.”
“Know what?”
The right side of his mouth curled into a sad half smile, partly hiding his good eye.
“Yes.” Carmen stated plainly. There was no other way to put it. It would make all the difference in the world, were he and Gabriel to meet in darkness.
Young lovers
Shortly after Carmen left to meet with Quasimodo, a heated argument began just across the square. Elsa was making bread, Gabriel sat by the fire.
“Of all the stupid things that girl has done this outdoes them all. Stupid, stupid girl!”
Elsa continued to cry out loud, shouting at Gabriel. She was angry, spitting venomous words at him about Carmen. What she had done, he did not know. He was afraid to ask.. Elsa continued her rant.
“Her and those fool notions.” Elsa pounded the bread dough, throwing a cloud of flour upward. “She knows nothing. It’s your fault, you know. You brought her home. If only you had left her there, we wouldn’t be in this mess. The Minister of Justice wouldn’t have been a threat to us, we never would have left the city.”
Gabriel nodded softly, indifferent. He held his tea, which had cooled long ago, fearing to ask for another. Elsa continued.
“She doesn’t understand her place, she can’t just do whatever she likes and gallivanting around with that filthy bellringer whenever she takes a notion.” Gabriel’s attention perked. “She won’t listen to her mother.”
Gabriel finally spoke. “You’re not her mother.”
Elsa shot a violent stare into Gabriels’ eyes and her expression softened slightly. She looked down at the mangled bread dough. It was no use. She’d been too rough with something meant to be handled gently.
“Have you even been listening? Have you even noticed her behaviour?”
“What is this about a bellringer?” Elsa sighed, unsettled by Gabriel’s nonchalant comment.
“It’s what I’ve been telling you. Kira wants to leave us for the bellringer.”
“Which one?”
“What do you mean ‘which one’? Notre Dame, you old cuss. She’s been swooning over him for months.” Elsa swung her hands violently in the air. “He’s stopping by on Monday. I expect you will get rid of him. I will not have the likes of him in my family.”
“It will pass. Girlish fancy...” Elsa nodded approvingly. “ …and if her liking does not pass, I will do nothing to stop it.” Gabriel continued.
Elsa grew red in the face, threw the lump of dough into the fire pit and stormed out of the kitchen.
The old man glanced at the fireplace and watched as the dough expanded into a great mass with the heat of the fire surrounding it. This was exactly what should happen. Let Elsa try to pull them apart, set a fire underneath them. Let the flames burn, let their love grow. It was God’s will.
Under Their Noses
Phoebus paced back and forth in the Palais of Justice. He had just received word that the New Minister would be arriving within the next week. Minister D’Arque. He was of no relation to Frollo. This did not coincide with what the gypsy had foretold. Phoebus began to walk throughout the Palais de Justice. There had to be something of importance in here. Phoebus walked past door after door no hints of anything that may help him solve his problem.
Phoebus was at the end of his line when he reached the uppermost tower of the Palais. He looked out the window to see, in clear view, the twin towers of Notre Dame. The room was empty and cold. There was no fireplace. Frollo was an educated man, self-righteous and controlling. He would have needed to have a clear view of Notre Dame at all time, partly for religious reasons, partly to keep an eye on Quasimodo. Frollo’s study may hold the answer and it would be facing Notre Dame.
Phoebus continued to charge though the building, dispatching a few trusted guards to help him search. Every door was opened, every passage felt for secret passages. They found nothing.
The bells rang out as Phoebus rode home. Quasimodo was in his tower, ringing the bells as he always had. Phoebus slowed Achilles to listen closely. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. Before he’d left to join the military twenty years ago he remembered the bells ringing day and night. Frollo was Minister then, yet at the age of seven Phoebus had been too young to understand.
Phoebus stared at the belltower long after the music stopped. When he had left Paris, he had been there. Twenty years later, he was still there. Older and wiser yet nearly as innocent. Wiser. Phoebus polished the pommel of his saddle with his worn glove. Perhaps Quasi would know which window led to Frollo’s study. Phoebus dismounted and led Achilles to a nearby stable. Esmeralda would not be home yet anyhow, what would it matter if he was a bit late? She would never question him if he mentioned he was with Quasimodo.
Phoebus heard a thump against the door as he approached. Pushing it with one arm, then both, he realized it was barred for the night. Phoebus sped over to the farthest right door, which was still open. As he stepped inside the rich smell of incense burned his nose. Pale candlelight filled the church, illuminating the faint coils of smoke that swirled overhead, as well as Quasimodo, who was fastening the far right door.
Quasimodo turned to fasten the left door when he caught sight of Phoebus, standing as if a statue in the cold darkness of the church.
“Good evening Phoebus.”
“Quasi. I was hoping to find you. I need your help.”
“Just a moment.” Quasimodo walked over and barred the last door, loosely as to allow Sanctuary should anyone need it. “This way.”
The hunchback led Phoebus up the stairs to his tower. As Phoebus climbed the dark, damp steps he remembered a time, not so long ago on the seventh of January, he had been held by his throat on these same steps. Phoebus gave a relieved sigh. Quasi was his friend now.
Quasimodo lit three candles, providing enough light for Phoebus to see his way. He pulled out a chair for Phoebus. Phoebus declined.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand.” Phoebus walked over to Quasimodo’s table & looked over the miniature city. “Dear friend…” Phoebus trailed off. “How do I put this?” he said under his breath. “Quasi. It relates to what Clopin told us several weeks ago. The new minister is arriving within the next week. I’ve searched, but he has no relation to Frollo whatsoever. Yet Clopin would not lie to us, not when so many lives are at stake.”
Quasi appeared calm, gently and absentmindedly rearranging the figures on his table. “Who is he?”
“Minister D’Arque.”
Quasi nodded lightly, then returned his knowing gaze to Phoebus’ eyes. “This way.”
Setting a candle into Phoebus’ hands Quasimodo and his friend stepped onto the great walkway of stone that spanned the two towers of Notre Dame. Phoebus struggled to keep his balance through the wooden frames of the tower. Quasimodo moved swiftly, while Phoebus trailed the light from his candle. Phoebus counted six bells above his head, hanging in silence. Quasi was not here to ring them.
Under the bells, at the far end of the tower lay a pile of boards and broken sculpture. Phoebus recognized some of them from the first time he had been in Quasimodo’s tower.
“Move some of these over there, would you?”
Phoebus watched as Quasimodo lifted a stone head at least twice his weight with ease, setting it a few meters away. Phoebus struggled with some of the smaller pieces. He was strong, no doubt, but Phoebus’ strength was no match for that of the hunchback, whom Phoebus saw as a living, breathing, walking contradiction.
Phoebus rolled off the last stone and looked at the floor, where his friend stared down in relative silence. “Now what do we do?” Quasi said nothing, yet kneeled on the hard planks. Phoebus noticed the metal loop that lay depressed in the wood. Quasimodo lifted it upright, then stood up.
“Give it a try” Phoebus recognized that smile, a smile only Quasimodo could make. Phoebus bent over and grasped the handle, giving it one hard yank. The door remained immobile, Phoebus’ shoulder did not.
“Now watch.” Quasimodo twisted the loop to the left a few turns, then to the right. “Try again, lightly this time.”
Phoebus, nervously grasped the handle, then lifted lightly. The door opened to reveal a long, steep stairway full of cobwebs. Quasi went first, sweeping them away with his large fist. He stopped briefly to run his fingers over the word “FATE” on the wall, which had been carved not so long ago.
The passageway soon ended and the two men arrived at a small wooden door. Had it been anywhere else it would have appeared innocent, yet surrounded in cobwebs within the dark secret passageway of a church, it appeared almost frightening. Phoebus watched as Quasimodo opened the door and entered, as if he’d done it many times before.
“You should find what you need in here, but please do not disturb anything more than necessary.”
Phoebus set his candle on the cluttered desk and beheld what surrounded him. Bottles of mysterious herbs and liquids, stacks of tapers, flints, quills and ink bottles. What stuck him as the most interesting were the rows of books that graced the shelves. The volumes were ancient and leather-bound. He removed one from the shelf and Quasimodo reminded him to be careful.
As Phoebus opened the covers it came to his attention that this collection was unlike Quasimodo’s. Written in languages unknown to Phoebus, all of them were books of witchcraft, wizardry, alchemy and the dark arts. Phoebus could tell by the images that lay penned within them. Long forgotten and authorless pages that told of a tortured owner by their mere presence. A twisted, cruel and vengeful soul. The same man who had accused his darling Esmeralda, his beloved dancer, as being a witch. Phoebus was dumbstruck.
“That is not who you are here, I believe these are why you came.” Quasi lifted his arm and motioned toward a stack of scrolls balanced between a misshapen human skull and the damp stone wall. Mast…err… Frollo kept journals of his studies and daily activities. Mind what you read, don’t get lost in them.”
“Have you read them?”
“No. The past is best left where it lies.”
“Then why should I read them?” Phoebus asked. His words came out harsh, although he did not mean them to.
“Fas est ab hoste
doceri.”
Phoebus shrugged and lifted a scroll off the shelf, unrolling it enough to see the dates. None appeared, only line after line of strange symbols. Phoebus shook his head. “I can’t read this. Maybe it’s Arabic. I never learned Arabic.” Quasimodo reached over and turned the scroll the other way around. “Of course. I knew that all along, just testing you.”
Quasimodo anxiously looked throughout the room while Phoebus read the rows and rows of Latin verse. On one of the shelves he found a book that had once graced his hands as well. A book Frollo must have read with great contempt. He thought back to the day when it had fell into his hands, a copy having been left in one of the cloisters.
To read a book was a great privledge. Books were rare,
literacy was even less common. Of the thousands of people in Paris he was one
of the few who could open the pages of any book, in nearly any language, and
read it with little difficulty. What he had to offer the people was great,
especially with the advent of Gutenburgs printing press. Unfortunately there
were barriers in place that made the possibilities impossible.
A Flashback to December 1481
He flipped gently through the pages of a printed book
within the secluded walls of his sanctuary.
He lit a single candle and focused his attention on the small booklet,
really no more than a few pages. He sat
down on the floor and sipped his tea. Reading a book forbidden to him was
definitely a rarity.
A poet had written it’s words “On Freedom of Thought”. Was
this man as open minded as he wrote? He wrote about freeing yourself from the
forced ideals of others and the foolishness of superstition. These were light
topics in Gringoires hands, yet dangerous ones for himself.
To challenge these words would be dangerous; leaving sanctuary would mean at the very least a pin in his hump. a public flogging or possibly death. Were he to remain here, no physical harm would beset him unless this book were found. If he were to challenge his master’s ideals, he would most certainly come to harm. Some things are not as easy as they seem on the printed page.
Quasimodo read on. It was interesting what this poet had to say. He would surely be hanged as a heretic. There was much here in terms of wisdom and common sense. Others did not strike the bellringer as well. The chapter on beauty struck him hard.
“Beauty is the answer,” he wrote “for it is only beauty that will overpower all that is ugly and hidden in the shadows. Yet not all beauty shines, we talk of beauty within while hiding away all but the superficial. We must learn to distinguash the two so that all that radiates love may be in the light where it belongs”
He did not agree with the written words, yet read them over.
To think that a man could write something so bold, something that could mean
his life, freely and without fear. If only he could take
such a step, to write scrolls and words that could help change the people’s
attitude toward him and others like him. Quasimodo stifled a laugh, there were
no others like him.
There were four walls around him,
there always would be. He would die alone in this miserable place where others
came to pray for goodness and fairness.
Phoebus brought the bellringer out of his trance with the scroll he had been reading. The date was April 19, 1474; eight years ago. There was no mention of D’Arque or any of Frollo's family, yet Phoebus knew he had laid his hands on the answers. Within the first few lines it was written that it had snowed lightly in the morning, the Archdeacon no longer interfered with Quasimodo’s upbringing, two gypsy witches had been burned and five more captured.
Phoebus looked up to see Quasimodo holding half of the scrolls in a crate. “We must leave this place, now. I don’t like it in here. You will read these in the sanctuary; away from here.”
Phoebus obliged, lifting the other crate of scrolls to his shoulder and following him out of the dark hole. Once the place was sealed as before, the two men passed through the cloisters, up a set of stairs and into a small room nestled below one of the flying buttresses.
“We will read them here. These must never leave the church.” Phoebus nodded.
While carrying the crate up the steps Quasimodo revised his thoughts. There were no others like him, that was definitely true. However, things had not worked out too badly. Bad things had happened, but everything had worked out for the best.
Quasimodo’s Dark
Secret
Phoebus and Quasimodo read each scroll together, as Quasimodo soon realized that Phoebus did not know Greek. He had gotten slightly annoyed at the constant interruption and decided that one scroll at a time would have to. It was not Phoebus’s fault that he had not been shown how to read or speak Greek. He was fortunate enough to know Latin. Quasimodo knew most people could not even write their own names.
It was all there in the scrawling of a madman. The dates started in May of 1460 and continued to December of 1481; twenty-five years of Frollo’s life were locked away in that little room and had now resurfaced. Everything was there, in a random mixture of Latin and Greek. Frollo’s descent into evil, his efforts in medicine, witchcraft, alchemy and denial of Christ. His killings were also recorded, without names or details, statements such as “cleansed the city of eight by hanging”.
Quasimodo was also written about, certainly more than Quasimodo would have liked. Phoebus had come across the scroll containing a detailed account of “the death of one heathen wench”. It was written further that “her demon child has been sent to the belltower of Notre Dame”. Phoebus discovered that although Clopin’s story was once popular, it did not match this account as closely as it could have. Quasimodo made Phoebus promise not to discuss anything, except what related to D’Arque, ever again.
Twice during the night Quasimodo left to ring his bells; twice Phoebus felt the whole of the church tremble to it’s very entrails. He continued to read what he could.
January
4 1476. Cold and rainy. New tax placed on mutton. Bells now ringing
on their own, Quasimodo taking over, quickly
growing into a man. Attempt to
find court of Miracles foiled by Clopin,
their new leader. New Captain of Kings
Guard
arriving next week to replace the late Captain Demeil.
Phoebus continued to read by the dancing candlelight.
January 5
1476. Cold, light snow. New captain arriving this afternoon. Have
agreed
with Archdeacon, Quasimodo will be made bellringer in April on Quasimodo
Sunday. Feast of Fools tomorrow, guards out in full force to protect the weak
minded
from being
misled.
Phoebus continued, fortunately most
of it was Latin. Quasimodo walked in as Phoebus read Easter of 1476 out loud.
Apparently Easter of that year had been uneventful, save a strong wind that had
blown off Frollo’s hat into the Seine. Phoebus passed the scroll to Quasimodo and
grabbed another.
“I stopped on the 11th of
April and skipped all the Greek bits. I don’t think there’s anything, but can’t
be certain.”
As Quasimodo took the scroll from
Phoebus’s hand, he sensed Phoebus envied his education ever so slightly.
Phoebus had been to many places, many countries that Quasimodo had only read or
dreamt about and would never see. Both men felt it, both knew the other knew.
Quasimodo, shut in a tower all his life, knew more and thought faster than the
Captain of the Guard. Phoebus couldn’t help but be humbled. Then again, his
wife knew more than him too.
Quasi rolled up the scroll and began
reading the bits Phoebus could not understand. Lots of words about the weather,
Master must have been obsessed with it. Frequent complaints about Gypsies,
thieves and heathens. Quasi read the odd line about himself with great
interest. Frollo stopped the monks from seeing him and knew he would be made
bellringer. Quasimodo read farther down the page.
Quasimodo Sunday 1476. Bright and sunny.
Quasimodo made bellringer last
night,
he gave a beautiful ringing this morning. Acted strangely later on,
ignored
my entrance into his tower. He didn’t say
much, assume he ruptured both his
tympanum…
Quasimodo stopped reading for a moment. Although he didn’t know what a tympanum was, he understood what he had hoped not to be discovered had been. Frollo had known from the first day.
“What day did you say you stopped at?”
“April 11th ” Phoebus raised his head. “Why, did you find something?”
“Apparently I was made official bellringer on the 18th ”
“Quasi, it’s almost morning. We are not going to learn anything new tonight. Let us meet again tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday, Monday perhaps?”
“Wednesday would be preferable. Military requirements at the Palais du Justice.” Phoebus polished his boot with his glove. “Must we read these together?”
“I would prefer it.”