Esmeralda brushed Carmen’s hair and began to brain in some tinsel. As she brushed she inquired about Carmen’s skills, which she found were cleaning, carpentry, horse riding and music. Esmeralda scratched her head at the combination. Baffled, she tied a blue silk scarf around Carmen’s head then stepped back to admire the gypsy that stood before her.
Carmen looked at her long hair unbound with tinsel and colours braided into it, brightly coloured dress and bare feet. It was fun, certainly, but not her. She didn’t feel herself. Her plain dress, her secured braid and brown leather shoes is what she belonged in.
Humouring Esmeralda, she walked throughout the court in gypsy garb. She got a few admiring looks, which brought an uneasiness upon her. What would Quasimodo say were he to know other men were staring at her, hoping to catch a peek of an ankle as she walked past.
Esmeralda tried teaching Carmen to dance, yet after several falls she gave up. The new gypsy was hopelessly clumsy, had no rhythm with her feet and was painful to watch.
Esmeralda soon learned that Carmen’s cooking ability consisted of bread and soup, there was nothing else she could make well. It was not likely that Quasimodo, having lived mainly off bread and water for twenty years, would mind. However, Esmeralda swore to herself to have Carmen know how to cook a decent meal before she married her friend. It wasn’t just for Quasi either, it was for her own well-being. Not being able to cook was senseless.
Carmen soon got sick of walking, sick of the Court and sick of being alone. She missed her parents, Danté and Quasimodo. Esmeralda seemed to be keeping her as busy as possible, trying to get them from her mind. Images of them continually danced through her mind despite Esmeralda’s efforts.
It was not long until Carmen tossed and turned in her bed, with a never-ending feeling that she was being watched. The tall man in the black robe was gone, but she shivered at the thought of him. Should he come, there was no one to run to, as Quasimodo was far away by now. For the best, she supposed. He was a target of the new Justice and an attempt had already been made on his life.
Carmen turned over in her bed and cried into her pillow. As she closed her eyes tightly, she pictured him the day she had first seen him. The belltower empty, the bells silent. She fingered the knife that lay near her bed, Quasimodo’s carving knife that had found it’s way into her pocket. She never returned it and never regretted it.
The day soon came when Esmeralda realized Carmen would never be a gypsy. She would be one of the family, due to her relationship with Quasi, but could never adapt to life as a gypsy. Esmeralda was saddened by it, yet knew Carmen would be a loyal friend if nothing else.
The Captain and the bellringer rode until nightfall, where they camped out in a small clearing. Quasimodo had refused to stay at an inn and Phoebus had obliged him, there would be many nights where staying outside would not be an option. Phoebus gathered a pile of sticks and started a small fire, the bellringer asleep by the time the heat was enough to warm the two men.
Phoebus stirred the coals with a long stick late into the night. He kept track of time by watching Quasimodo, who would wake up every three hours, look around, then fall back asleep. Phoebus only napped briefly. He could tell the bellringer was restless, he’d left everything he’d known on orders, he’d left the girl he wished to marry. Phoebus remembered back to when Esmeralda had first went away without him, it had torn at his heart in the worst way imaginable. Quasimodo had said nothing, in fact, he had only asked to stay here for the night rather than the next town at the inn.
Morning came, they rode on and night fell once more. They slept near the river. The following morning, Phoebus washed in the river. After some convincing, Quasimodo joined him. He didn’t remove his shirt, but waded in to his hips, not enjoying the cold water. Quasimodo shaved carefully, Phoebus just shook his head. The behaviour of the bellringer was something he would never understand.
As the days and nights wore on, Phoebus learned that the bellringer refused to sleep at an inn unless there was rain and even then required considerable prodding. Phoebus longed to spend more nights in the taverns and inns getting drunk and having fun as he had before meeting Esmeralda. He would never have any other girl, yet longed to cut loose in the environment of a tavern. It was a fun way of life, something Quasimodo was sure to enjoy as well. The nature of their mission did not rule out the fun times that could be had along the way. It was likely Quasimodo would ever leave Paris again after this; there would not be another chance.
Nearly two weeks after leaving, Phoebus got his wish. Having arrived at an inn with Vodka and real Irish whisky, he convinced Quasimodo to take the plunge and have a few little drinks to “toast to the luck of our journey” and “here’s to our women”.
Quasimodo soon got lost in the number of toasts to ships, horses, women and wars. Then he could no longer understand what was happening around him. His head spun around in circles, he lost his inhibitions and fears. He put his arm over Phoebus and the pair of them joined the rest of the patrons in a loud drinking song. Phoebus seemed to know all the words, Quasimodo just mumbled along.
Quasi passed out some time during the song and woke up outside the tavern, propped up against the tavern wall, covered in an old blanket. Phoebus sat near his head, laughing at him. Quasimodo lifted his head from under the blanket and started up at the five Phoebus’ that surrounded him. His head crashed back onto the ground and a feeing of nausea grasped his stomach and spinning head.
Phoebus’ laughter pounded in his head, causing him to wretch. Where was the fun in this?
The bellringer carefully got to his feet and dusted himself off. A big black nose met his face, Snowball looking for treats. Quasimodo stepped back, knowing how unsteady his feet were and how far from the ground Snowballs back seemed. He grasped the reins in his shaking hand and walked along behind the gallant Captain Phoebus on his tall white stallion. The thoughts in his mind were mean, nasty thoughts. Thoughts he would never had allowed in any other circumstance.
Phoebus looked behind him only to see Quasimodo leading the great Snowball. There was something seriously wrong with the picture that met his eyes. It wasn’t the greenness of Quasimodo’s face, the fact that his clothes were filthy nor the lipstick stains on his face. There was something else that glared out at him. Snowball followed in Achilles’tracks in a striaght line, as did Quasimodo. His hangover had taken away his limp.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later on that day, both men rode abreast through a field. Phoebus was the first to speak.
“Sorry to laugh at you, Quasi. I just never figured you had it in you.”
“What?” Quasimodo’s right eyebrow lifted, his voice unsure.
“Have you even seen yourself this morning? You look like hell, Quasi.”
“…and?” The bellringer was confused.
“You don’t remember Michelle, Celine or Cecile?”
“Who? You’re fooling, Phoebus. I’d never do such a thing.” There was a long pause, Quasimodo stared down at Snowballs neck. “You are, aren’t you?”
“This will never go any farther than us, Quasi. It’s between us guys.”
“Oh no!” Quasi’s face went blank, he was at a loss for further words. There was nothing else to say. Phoebus continued to talk as they rode.
“You were quite forward with Cecile, especially. She really liked you. You’ve got some good jokes too, my friend. Really, Quasi, you do. Talking gargoyles? Whoa. Just where do you come up with such nonsense?” Phoebus laughed as he trotted Achilles onward. Quasimodo gritted his teeth and swore he’d never get drunk again. Just what had he said? Apparently it had all been terribly funny.
Snowball tossed his head, eager to catch up to Achilles. He was soon carrying the bellringer across a field of poppies toward Captain Phoebus.
It was at a crossroads where Phoebus and Quasimodo parted ways. Phoebus was riding southeast to meet up with his old war buddies. Quasimodo would ride south to rest and avoid getting drunk. They agreed to meet up in a few days.
The evening sun was setting as the two men rode into a nearby tavern to spend the night. It would be one of their few nights in beds since leaving Paris.
Eight men sat around the table, drinking beer and tearing roast meat with their teeth. Quasi had rarely tasted such greasy, tough meat. The last time he’d eaten such food was when Frollo had been his only human contact, not a happy memory. He ate it anyway.
Having tired of Phoebus’ war stories and bragging about battle wounds, Quasimodo walked back to his quarters. He gazed up at the lone bell in a simple church. One small, lonely bell. Something in him longed to pull it’s rope, to make it sound out. He missed Notre Dame, his bells, his friends and Paris. He missed Carmen. Sweet and smart, yet more naiive than he’d ever been. Her imagination? Was her seeing what troubled her much different than the gargoyles?
Quasimodo soon left to visit Snowball who was quietly munching on some hay. It was wet and smelled like moldy bread. Carmen would scold him if she knew what he was feeding a horse, yet Snowball seemed not to care. He reached out his nose and nuzzled Quasimodo’s cheek leaving a trail of green-gray slobber. Quasimodo gently rubbed either side of his neck with his large hands, ruffling his mane in with his own, which had faded slightly.
Quasimodo stepped into the darkness of the stall and began to pray. No one would be out here, it was a safe place. He spared the patrons the sight of himself. Then again, perhaps they really didn’t care. Many of them were missing various body parts. Nearly every man was missing teeth or had lost either an eye, an arm or a leg. The cook was humpbacked, though not like himself and could not walk without use of a cane. None looked in good health.
Not so long ago he had left Paris with Phoebus. Now, he was alone in a stable after sharing a meal with some of Phoebus’s old war buddies. Would Esmeralda have chosen Phoebus over himself if Phoebus had been one of these men?
Quasimodo soon cleared his mind and began to pray in silence. Growing up in a Cathedral he was brought up with strong faith, yet at that moment his faith was stronger. He realized that he was alone, he had not been in Notre Dame for three weeks. The beginning of this journey had been enjoyable, traveling with Phoebus and seeing new places he never thought possible. Riding Snowball, getting drunk for the first time, swimming naked in a cold river. Now he only wanted to return home, yet at the same time knew he must find what he left to find. He was scared. He only prayed for everything to turn out OK and to be able to return to Paris as soon as possible.
Snowball laid down in his small stall, Quasimodo sat down beside him in the straw, leaning against his back with his arm around his thick neck. Snowball lay quiet as Quasimodo fell asleep.
The next morning Quasimodo rode one way, Phoebus the other. They would be meeting again shortly. Quasimodo rode gently through the fields and valleys on well-worn paths. Phoebus allowed Achilles, war horse extraordinaire, to stretch out at the gallop and cover the ground with great speed.
The Consequences of a Drunken Night
George lay drunk on the tavern floor in a pool of his own blood and teeth, his purse empty and his clothes gone. The night before had not gone as planned, he’d been caught riding a horse that was not his. The owner just happened to be a skilled fighter much younger than himself. Clots of blood dripped from his beard as he staggered to his feet.
He continued to wretch as he stepped outside the doors, the bright sunlight burned his eyes. George’s stomach churned, his stomach emptying it’s contents into the street. His knees grew weak as he stared at the multicoloured puddle that lay before him and fell forward into it.
A pack of mangy dogs approached the fallen man. They encircled him, moving closer with each step. George watched as the lead female walked up to his face and began to lick up the trails of vomit. Growls surrounded George as the number of dogs increased, having found a hearty meal. Afraid to move, George lay on his side dry-heaving.
Hooves thundered down the main street, toward the tavern. The rider’s uniform and armor reflected the morning rays, making his appear as if Apollo atop a white stallion. His cape flapped behind him, billowing out in a cloud. The horse snorted as it approached the group of dogs, which scattered at the sight of the approaching rider.
The rider halted his horse, it’s hooves turning up clouds of dust inches from the face of the man on the ground. The rider urged his horse on, the horse stepped forward. The rider bent over from the saddle, looked into the eyes of the man on the ground and laughed.
“I left you here a year ago, have you found nothing better to do with your life?”
George turned his face upward and met with the eyes of the Captain. “Do I know you?”
“Soldier. To your feet.”
“Yes, sir!” George stood up rapidly, then fell back down again. He returned to his feet slower the second time, saluting his Captain. “At your service, Sir.”
“I know you have not been at war for some time, old friend, but I have come for your assistance.”
“I am ready, mon Capitain.”
“Good. Now, soldier. Find some pants and a horse and we shall ride out.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
George mounted his mule and rode of silently with Phoebus.
“Where are we going, Captain Phoebus?”
“To assemble an army, Lieutenant. Paris is in danger and I need your help.”
“You have done well, Captain Phoebus. Captain of the Kings Guard and myself a drunkard. Tell me, Phoebus, why do you need my help?”
“Of all the men I’ve fought with, you were always the one who pulled though.”
“You mean the only one who is still alive and able to fight, Captain.”
“This is also true.” Phoebus laughed. “The new Minister of Justice is as mad as the last. He is ordering soldiers to arrest and execute the Gypsies of Paris and shows no mercy towards women or children. He will be unstoppable if things continue, as he has brought in soldiers loyal to Frollo. Sanctuary is no longer safe, they burst right into the church to remove any criminal, or suspect criminal, from within Notre Dame.”
“I never cared for gypsies, Captain Phoebus. They smell bad, their food is strange and I was once tricked out of a horse by a gypsy named Clopin Trouillifou. I don’t suppose you know him?”
“The point is, George, that innocents are being harmed and I need you to help me gather enough together to fight for Paris. Quasimodo and I rode far to reach you. It’s not just for the gypsies, but for Paris.”
“Who is this Quasimodo? Was he in service with you at some time?”
“He’s a good friend of mine, not a soldier but very strong in mind and body. I left him behind to come and find you here. His life is in as much danger as my own.”
“Phoebus! What have you done to put yourself in such danger?”
“I refused to arrest my wife.”
“Ah. So the stories I heard are true. You did marry a gypsy wench. Tell me, is she as beautiful as I’ve heard?”
“She is a Goddess, Lieutenant. I love her beyond anything else in this world.”
“For that, Phoebus, I will help you. A beautiful wench is worth fighting for.” George tapped his heels to his mule. “This way to glory, Phoebus! Your soldiers lay over the next six miles of road with their families, raising crops and growing children.”
The home was small and friendly, surrounded by small gardens. Some chickens pecked the ground, stirring up cow pats and horse manure for their feed. Quasimodo rode by in silence, then on impulse turned Snowball around. It was late, he would ask for shelter here.
While riding toward the house, Quasimodo caught sight of a man walking toward the gate in a familiar brown, hooded robe. He was a monk. This would be a place that would welcome him, perhaps with open arms. The monk opened the gate for Quasimodo to ride through. He did not ask where he came from, who he was or why he wished to enter; he merely opened the gate. Quasimodo saluted, then greeted the monk in Anglais. The monk nodded in acknowledgement and closed the gate after Quasimodo was through. The hunchback dismounted, lowered his hooded cloak and followed the monk to a paddock where Snowball was turned loose.
The monk began to speak once the horse was eating and the bridle hung on the gatepost.
“You traveled far, stranger. You must be famished. Come, warm yourself by our fire and then tell us of your travels over our evening meal.”
Quasimodo obeyed the monk, who spoke only in Anglais. The monk sat him down near a simple fireplace and brought him a cup of hot tea. Although he cared not for the bitter taste, he drank it thankfully. In a short while he felt the approach of others, doubtlessly curious about the strange traveler who had just arrived in their midst. Through the glares of the fire on their hooded faces he could discern that they were somewhat leery of him, yet did not feel threatened. They soon left him in silence.
While staring into the depths of his mug, Quasimodo felt a warm hand on his arm. He jumped slightly at the sight of the young monk so close to his face. The monk was not frightened, not in the least bit. He smiled at him, as if he knew Quasimodo personally.
“Our meal is ready. Please join us, it would be an honour.”
Quasimodo looked up in puzzlement, then arose from his seat by the fire. The monk walked beside him to the hall where dinner was waiting. About twenty monks sat at a long rough-hewn table. Before each of them sat a wooden bowls of soup, plates of rolls and great mugs of beer. Seven candles burned along the tables length, illuminating the many faces of the monks. He was guided to an empty chair, where he sat down to pray with the others. The bowl was larger, the bread accompanied with cheese. One monk spoke up softly.
“It would be best if our guest were to say the evening prayer.”
It was a cruel trick, thought Quasimodo. Fortunately, he knew what was appropriate. He nodded, then bowed his misshapen head, closed both eyes and began to speak softly in Latin. He spoke the prayer he had learned from Brother Daniel in Notre Dame ten years previous. The monks prayed with him. Afterward, they lifted back their robes to reveal their faces so that they may eat.
Quasimodo looked around the table at the faces of the men. Only one was familiar to him, that of the Archdeacon of Notre Dame, who smiled at him briefly and raised his mug.
The evening meal went by in silence. Afterward, the old Archdeacon asked him to walk out to the gardens with him, to which Quasimodo obliged.
“Dear Quasimodo. How I have missed you. I never thought I would see your face again. And now, to have you arrive here on horseback on a cold September evening. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“Do you not miss Paris and Notre Dame?”
“Only the sound of the bells, Quasimodo. If you were to ring ours just once, I’d be more than grateful.” The old Archdeacon sat down on a bench and laid his cane in the grass. Quasimodo sat down beside him. “Tell me, what has happened in Paris that brings you here? Also, I simply must know. How is it that you came to ride a horse?”
“Captain Phoebus taught me.”
“On that horse? Surely you must tell me more.”
“Not on Snowball, no.”
“Why are you here?”
“Family.”
“This alone brings you here? Surely you are not telling me everything.”
Quasimodo nodded. “Once again, Paris is not safe, nor is Sanctuary. Minister D’Arque has taken Masters, I mean Frollo’s, position. Sanctuary has been suspended. The new Archdeacon agreed with my friends to send me away, for the safety of them and the members of the Church, I obliged.”
“This is a serious matter, we will discuss it tomorrow. First, tell me about this young woman.”
The old Archdeacon smiled as Quasimodo told him how Carmen had arrived in Paris in March and how he had gotten to know her. The old Archdeacon became dismayed when he spoke of the death of her family and how Carmen’s baby brother who had been lost in the chase may be him, which would shatter yet another relationship for the bellringer. No other record would remain of her mother except in the memories of her tribe. He then told him how Carmen claimed to see things in the Cathedral he couldn’t. He told him about the New Archdeacon, the arrival of Minister D’Arque and the search for a relation to Frollo. He did not mention opening his study.
“We have much to talk about. Surely it was God’s will to bring you here. Come, let us go inside where there are fewer insects and more beer.” The two men stepped inside, one limping alongside the other. The old man filled two mugs then sat with Quasimodo before the fire.
“First thing, Quasimodo, I know of the family you speak of. Monsieur Poivre was a good friend of the church, as was his cousin though I forget her name. They befriended a family of gypsies as well, possibly the family of the girl you speak of. You were already in Frollo’s care for three years when this young woman’s mother was killed, so she cannot be your sister. One of the men Frollo captured referred to an older girl child, so it remains possible you have an older sister. However, it is not this woman named Carmen.”
Quasimodo filled the Archdeacon’s beer.
“Also, this woman may not be lunatic, Quasimodo. Notre Dame is old and full of secrets; you of anyone should know that. Her eyes may show her things most can’t see just as your ears hear what others miss. I would say that it is quite possible she sees what she says she does. On many occasions I have also caught sight of a moving shadow, felt a cold draft grasp my arm, an unearthly voice praying for good fortune and wealth.” The old man nodded to the window. “It is quite possible.”
Quasimodo slowly nodded off to sleep, and was soon afterward awaken by the old Archdeacon and led to a cell with a soft bed with warm quilts. A pitcher of water and basin sat on a simple table with a towel, ball of soap and a rag. He guided the sleepy bellringer into bed and stepped out of the room. A small tear formed in his eye. Everything had come full circle at last.
The next morning Quasimodo explained the search for a connection between Frollo and the new minister and the attack that had been made on him. The old Archdeacon had little to say in this regard, but seemed to have something else on his mind.
The bellringer was encouraged by the monks to stay a while before continuing his journey. He rang the bells and helped out around the monastery, as his strength easily quadrupled that of any of the monks. The bells were not as grand as those in Notre Dame, yet Quasimodo took great pleasure in making them sing pretty melodies for the few brothers. In return he slept in a soft bed, ate good food, drank strong beer and relaxed into his normal self. The past few weeks of travel had made him somewhat weary; in the company of the old archdeacon and some fellow churchmen, he was more at ease.
The Archdeacon also spent a lot of time getting to know him. He became aware that for twenty years an intelligent mind had been living above him unnoticed and forgotten. The old man was pleased to know the bellringer had read all the books he had been left with him. He also saw Quasimodo’s scars and realized the fear Frollo had instilled in him. Ten years of service and he’d never gotten to know him. The old man now fed Quasimodo, spent time with him and prayed for him more than ever. He deserved to find what it was he was looking for, deserved to have the girl that had fallen in love with him. More than anything, Quasimodo deserved to be happy. For once, it seemed possible that he would live like an ordinary man.
Five days later, the Archdeacon ensured Quasimodo was well fed, then sent him on his way east with a weeks provisions and a promise that something was waiting for him. The two men shook hands, the Archdeacon hugged him firmly. He knew the Lord had sent him here for one last goodbye. The Archdeacon smiled, he’d done a good thing 21 years ago, though at times he’d had doubts.
Quasimodo rode over the rolling dales until sunset when he caught site of the small home the Archdeacon had mentioned. He cautiously rode down the sloping ridge and to the shack, where he tied Snowball to a tree. He pulled the hood off his head as he had been told by the monks and knocked on the door lightly.
The door slowly swung open, an old man sat on a blanketed chair near a small fire.
“Good evening, monsieur?” Quasimodo reminded himself to speak English only, something that bothered him significantly.
The old man stiffened on hearing Quasimodo’s voice, then turned around.
“Heavens above!” The old man shouted as jumped from his seat with a sudden burst of energy and rapidly backed away from the door of his shack.
“Monsieur?” asked the bellringer, not sure what to make of the scene before him. The old man merely backed away slightly, the blood drained from him face. He was white.
“It could only be you!” Quasimodo watched as the old man approached him, his palm outstretched toward Quasimodo’s face. He said nothing other than “It could only be you… The monk knew, he knew…” his words trailed off. He did not touch the bellringer, he merely stared at him for a few moments before inviting him in.
“I never thought I’d see you again.” He looked at Quasimodo once more. And two streams of tears began to flow down his face. He laughed through his tears and stared at Quasimodo “The Archdeacon shared stories with me, I didn’t believe him! You’ve come home! Then again, you were a survivor as a babe.”
Quasimodo didn’t know what to say. This man was raving about him, showed no fear whatsoever. “As a babe? You knew my mother?”
The old man’s eyes sparkled a brilliant blue. “Know her? My good man, I was her husband.”
The bellringer merely stood at the door, dumbfounded. “You knew my mother? Were you there the night Frollo…” Quasimodo corrected himself, this was not the time to bring up his mother’s death. “What happened, from the beginning?”
The old man motioned for Quasi to enter his wooden home, sitting him at the rough-hewn table. “The monks told me everything about you, everything you’ve done for them and Notre Dame. They tried to tell me who you were, I didn’t believe it was really you; after all these years, I’d given you up for dead years ago. My son! You are home at last!”
The old man was stooped over from old age. He poured boiling water into the teapot. “From the beginning, ye say? That’s quite a lot to ask of an old man. I will start at the beginning, but first, what do I call you?”
“Kasimodo”
“Interesting name. Is it French?”
“Latin.”
“Aye” Quasimodo watched as the man fiddled with cups and spoons on his shelf. “You call me Byrand.”
Quasimodo stared at the man before him, a sack of bones that had suddenly regained all strength. It was no longer any wonder where he got his red hair and blue eyes from, the old man’s hair still had shocks of bright red and his eyes remained a piercing blue. He still had his doubts. The man showed no fear of him whatsoever, which was highly unusual.
The old man passed him a cup of tea and sat down across from him, shifting his stare between his tea and Quasimodo.
Byrand saw the
skepticism in Quasimodo’s face and
continued. “It was written down somewhere, if I’ve remembered where I put it.
Marcus insisted I tell him what was said, as to protect against bad memory. Nonsensical,
really. Where was that? Just let me think back for a moment.”
The man searched his hovel, then pulled a small piece of parchment off of his shelf. There was not much else on the shelf besides dust and old nails. He unrolled the scroll as he returned to his seat. He retained something in his hand that had slid out of it..
“If you’ll
forgive me, my letters are slow and my sight isn’t what it used to be. I don’t
suppose you know letters, son?”
“I will try.” He could not yet call the man “father”.
Flattening the corners of the page, Quasimodo glanced over the sheet quickly, then read it in silence.”
Blue
for clear wisdom
Your
child possesses
Behold
the temper
‘Neath
his red tresses
Strong
will, strong heart
His
mind will not fail
When
fate is decided
Your
son will prevail
One
score and one
Though time may drag on
He’ll
find his salvation
In
a broken song
Past
one score distant
The voice will stand silent
Your son will return
The thunders’ voice migrant“
The old man unclasped his hand to reveal a lock of hair tied with a brightly coloured and beaded string. “If any doubt remains in your mind, see if it matches”
Quasimodo didn’t bother with the hair, but noted the size of the hand it lay on. He reached out with his opposite hand and placed it into Byrand’s. The size of his palm, the shape of his fingers matched the old man’s extremely close. Quasimodo’s eyes went from the two hands to the old man’s eyes. Suddenly his mind flooded with questions, he didn’t know where to start.
“What happened?” He asked softly.
Byrand filled Quasimodo in on the incident with the Badger, several babies in the gypsy camp dying off. Quasimodo learned that he was the only infant to survive the illness that moved through the tribe.
“I was kept alive only by the thought that I would see you again. Shortly afterward, I entered an abandoned hovel and here I have remained. The monastery offers some help during the winter, I help them with plant crops and make beer but there have been no other visitors. Many years have passed. Quasimodo.” The old man paused, his face radiating pure joy and happiness for the first time in years. “My son. You came back.”
Quasimodo sat silent, stirring his tea mindlessly. He had been born as any other child, his deformity, his ugliness. He was not created as he was now.
His father looked at him. “You still have those same eyes and your mother’s smile. Nothing could ever change those eyes.” Quasi thought about the teeth he was missing & reminded himself it was probably just conversation. Then again, he’d never seen his mother.
The evening wore on as the two men talked, then they turned their chairs to the small fireplace. The old man fell asleep, Quasimodo remained awake until just before dawn. The man in the chair beside him was his father. At one time he had been loved by parents and had a real name. To learn that name tormented him, yet it would serve no purpose. He became who he was the moment the illness took his body.
Twice during the night Quasi startled at the lack of noise, the continued silence and lack of bells. A dark shack, damp air and silence with a stranger; he was miles from home and all he ever knew. Yet he now had something that had been lost, he found comfort in that.
The next morning Quasimodo approached Byrand and asked if he would return to Paris with him. He’d come so far and wished to return now that he’d found what he was looking for. The old man agreed to follow for a few days at least and to turn back if the journey became too strenuous. Byrand soon assembled his few possessions and was ready to go.
The two men walked toward the monastery where Byrand was provided with an old donkey and a cloth saddle to ride in. Mounted, Quasimodo and Byrand slowly made their way to the crossroads to await Phoebus’ arrival.
Phoebus and George continued to ride through the countryside, gathering old friends and retired soldiers from taverns and farms. Having gained the agreement of close to one hundred men, Phoebus started back to where he had left Quasimodo.
George sat in his saddle quietly, staring at his mount’s mane. Phoebus merrily hummed a drinking tune. There was a lot on his mind, yet he knew there was no reason to fret over it now. Esmeralda could take care of herself, Clopin would watch over the Court of Miracles and D’Arque would have difficulty finding the bellringer in the middle of nowhere.
Suddenly, George’s horse jumped. A badger walked around under the bushes, peeking its nose out and then disappearing into the shadows.
The animal soon had the attention of the old soldier, who decided a story was in order. He shared the story of the gypsy children and the badger, together with his own embellishments, to Phoebus. The Captain paid George no mind initially, the man was known to talk big. However, when the man mentioned the young child and the twisting of its’ body into the shape of a freakish demon-monster, he couldn’t help but lend an ear. Such a story was too terrible to be make-believe.
The two men rode, with their comrades, toward the crossroads where a small shelter caught their attention. A tall black horse and a donkey grazed nearby. Phoebus looked around for Quasimodo. His eye caught the sight of an old man who kneeled near a small fire, chewing a dried piece of meat, and stirring a pot of what appeared to be stew. The man stared off over the side of the hill. Phoebus followed his gaze.
At the bottom of the hill was a pear tree. Quasimodo dropped out of it, a sack full of what Phoebus could only guess as being fruit. The man on the ground nodded.
“He’s been waiting for you. Join us for supper?”
Phoebus could not understand a word of what man said to him. He knew very little English after his years of training. He pulled out his wineskin to take a drink and flagged George up from behind. George rode closer, leaving the 89 men behind him.
“Monsieur, who is it down there that you are watching?”
“My son.” Stated the man, nonchalantly
Phoebus choked on his wine, spitting it over the saddle and himself. “Mon Dieu!” George translated what the man said. “I understood that, Lieutenant.”
George raised one eyebrow and stared at Phoebus quizzically. “Then if I may ask, Sir, what is it that made you spill your wine? You never in your life spilled any…”
Quasimodo came closer into view and George couldn’t help but stare. The man that approached was scary beyond all reason, yet didn’t seen to care. He carried his bag of pears and, upon arrival at the camp, set them down and approached Phoebus.
“Good to see you, Phoebus.”
“I’m glad to see you too, my friend. George, this is Quasimodo.” George nervously took Quasimodo’s hand and shook it gently from atop his horse. He continued to stare.
“Phoebus. I suppose you have already met…”
“Not formally, no.
“Byrand, Captain Phoebus.” The old man offered his weak hand to the Captain.
“Now that we are together”, shouted Phoebus, “Paris awaits us!”
The same night that Quasimodo arrived at the monastery, Carmen stepped out of her home at sunset. The city was silent, save the odd stranger out for an evening stroll. She began to walk toward Notre Dame.
The sun has set
The people gone
The day is past
‘long with the sun
the moon she rises
high above
in the summer sky
hot and hazy
all I can do
is think of you
as the evening wears
on
long and lazy
Ev’ry day, the bells
ring out
My heart breaks in two
They peal, they sing
In broken harmonies
Like the bells,
I’m lost without you
Carmen petted Big Marie, the only bell she could reach without balancing on the beams.
“Dear Marie, do you love him as much as I? Oh! Jacqueline! He has to return!”
Carmen reached the north tower, Quasimodo’s home. She picked up a random figure from the model city, then continued to walk through the maze of beams and sculpture.
Dusty cobwebs everywhere
Upon the silent stone
Your figures toppled
Your wind chimes still
Were you once here?
Imagine, this a home.
Carmen stood on the top of Notre Dame’s North tower and looked out across the city. The sun had just set, the sky was quickly darkening. Carmen looked into the empty streets and cried. The tower was empty, her home was empty. Paris could be likened to a pot ready to boil over; the city was safe for now yet she didn’t know how long this would last.
Carmen wandered through the church, when once again fear set into her. She looked above her head where six bells hung in silence. She shivered slightly, tensing her muscles yet remaining still, she couldn’t run. There was nothing here, bells, beams, a woodpile and broken sculptures. Nothing in itself frightening. Something called her, she could barely resist the urge to walk toward the far corner of the tower.
“Run, Carmen. Run, or he’ll get you too. Run!”
“No one is here. I’m safe.” She reasoned. The voice told her different.
“He’s here, he will get you.”
Carmen began to understand. She stood fast, unable to move; although every muscle in her body clamored to move, to get her out of here.
A bat fluttered through the rafters of the belltower, drawing her attention upward. A tall man stood before her, a priest or so he appeared. The stiffness in her legs released and Carmen fled the tower. The priest watched her fly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The young woman raced down the stairs out of the belltower. There was no where to go where she felt safe, the one person who made her feel safe was gone.
Carmen ran through the cloisters, her shod feet silent on the marble floor. The rose window cast eerie shadows on the floor, she stood still and watched them. Suddenly, she was grasped from behind. Iron fists forced her wrists to her shoulders and she squirmed.
“You were in the belltower, child. Tell me, what is it that fuels your desire to visit such a dreadful place?” The man paused, twisting her wrists and making her wince. “Is, perchance, that you fancy the bellringer? Isn’t it a coincidence, I am also looking for him. My dear, it would be a very good thing if you would tell me his whereabouts.”
Carmen stood still. She did not speak. She was in Sanctuary. She was safe.
“You were with him not so long ago, you go to the tower daily. You know where he is. He’s a murderer, you know; a dangerous criminal. To refuse his location is grounds for arrest and death by hanging. The guards are here, waiting.” Carmen’s eyes widened. “There is nothing preventing your arrest, child. Your kind are not welcome in here.”
Carmen’s mind raced. She was no gypsy, she merely looked like one. She couldn’t say a word, partly of fear to say anything that may endanger Quasi and partly out of fear alone.
The man grasped her wrists and dragged her out of Notre Dame, not stopping for the priest that cried out to let her go. She kicked madly and broke free. She bolted down the steps of the church and into the streets. She fell on the cobbles, a tangle of hair and blue cloth, before standing on her feet. Then she ran, ran as if the devil were after her. If she were to be caught, she would never see the belltower, or her beloved, ever again.
Carmen lay down on the cobbles, gasping for breath. Her back and arms throbbed with a dull pain, the stones had cut into her palms and were still numb. She pulled herself up and began to limp toward home, grateful that nothing was broken. Several moments later, she sat down in an alley. The pain was too much for her to continue walking.
When Carmen awoke, it was dark. The moon had come out, yet the sky still spat rain. Carmen stared out into the cold, wet street and then huddled into herself. This was not the place she wanted to be. She could hear the rats in the alleyways and gutter, the dogs barking in the distance and the drip of water off of old leaky roofs.
The lights began to appear shortly afterward, the lights that appear only in complete darkness. She watched as the lights formed themselves into shapes. A dog, a horse and a girl. The girl remained while the other two vanished and began to dance in the street, appearing to sing although her lips made no noise.
As the girl moved she became more lifelike, less of a dream and more flesh and bone than anything. The girl continued to dance to the beat of an invisible drum, clapping her hands, whirling her skirt and singing to the beat. Her toes barely touched the ground as she twirled around in a cloud of delight.
The girl stopped. She turned away from Carmen and into the street. Frozen for one brief second, she stared at something beyond Carmen’s line of vision. She began to treble, then turned to run.
Carmen watched as the young girl sprinted through the darkness, toward one of the alleyways. Her feet seemed not to touch the ground, she moved with such speed. Her dress, worn and tattered, remained dry as she ran in the pouring rain. Where was she going in such a hurry?
Carmen had to follow, find out. She bolted down the alley after her, where she slipped on some rotten fruit. The girl had disappeared into the night without a sound. Not more than ten paces away was a wall of solid stone at least 20 feet. There was no exit.
“Carmen”
The voice continued calling. “Carmen. Where are you?”
“I’m right here” She shouted.
“Carmen!” She heard sobbing “Carmen, come quickly!”
“I’m over here!”
“No, Carmen”
“Get up Carmen! Get up”
Following the voices Carmen caught sight of a young woman kneeling on the cobbles, baby in her arms. The woman screamed, then began running toward her. That face, pure terror. Looking into her eyes Carmen met with the blackness of coal; her eye sockets were empty. She continued to run past, but soon met with a stone wall. There was nowhere to go.
Pale moonlight shone down into the darkened alley, revealing a single innocent soul facing her demise. A dark cloaked figure approached her on horseback, the horse’s hooves echoing between the walls of an otherwise silent pantomime. The young woman backed away slowly, her heart begging her to run, her soul knowing she could not.
The woman stepped toward the wall, her bare feet touching the stone streets in silence. Her arms stretched behind her, extending into the night. Stone met her outstretched fingers. The young woman clutched her naked arms to her chest and watched as the man encircled her. There was nowhere to run, no one to save her. Only her sister watched on in silence; the moon saw all. They heavens looked down upon that scene in the filthy alley, the eyes of angels, that is to say the stars. The day of judgment had come.
The man continued to encircle the frightened woman and child; the golden hind that was now trapped in his snare. Bringing his horse to a halt before her, he leant over her, causing her to look upward, her black eyes illuminated by the glare of the full moon. Soft innocent, pleading eyes met his own. The man smiled at her, his lips drawing thin to reveal a perfect white smile, the corners turned downward. Narrow lines furrowed his forehead. The young mother remained silent and still, her eyes fixed into the mans’ begging for her life. The man remained indifferent to her plight.
Suddenly, the man let the reins drop onto the pommel of his saddle and reached his hand. The young mother, frozen with fear until that moment, watched as his hand extended. Tears flowed down her cheeks in gentle rivers as hope reappeared into her dark expressive eyes. She gently clasped her hands, as if in prayer. At that moment she returned her gaze to the man’s eyes. They had changed.
At that moment, the woman grew pale. The man’s eyes were wide, hard and penetrating, stealing into her very soul. His teeth were clenched, only the lower row visible. The woman began to lower herself to the ground, her hands still in prayer, her body trembling with fear. The man’s hand remained outstretched, as his other drew the sword from the scabbard on his back. The woman’s eyes flashed as they caught the glint of cold steel in the moonlight. The woman opened her mouth for one final scream. Silence.
While still in the last throws of life, the young woman looked up at him once more. Her body writhed and twitched on the ground, the child falling from her arms onto the damp stone. For a brief moment he cried, there was some gurgling. He fell silent. Judgment had been passed, two fates had been sealed. The moon shone down on her sister, who was now on her way home.
The tall man leered over the young woman before him, her lifeless body laying in a hopeless tangle of emaciated arms and legs. The vermin of the city, one of many; one in a sea of evil that God had sent him to exterminate. A vile wench, her angelic features those of the devil, sent to destroy him, sent to twist his mind and condemn him to hell.
Using the soiled tip of his sword, the man turned her face upward. Tendrils of clotted blood dripped from her gaping mouth, her eyes rolled back into her head. That black hair, that beautiful silken hair, surrounded her head in disarray. Those delicate fingers, soft hands and skin haunted him. Her gypsies’ clothing once white, now red; bathed in the colour of impurity and life. The colour of the devil.
He sneered at his victim, removing his blade, the woman’s head flopped down onto the cobbles, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, dipping into the blood that surrounded her. Motionless, he stood over her with downcast eyes. The wind, blowing his robes into faint ripples, bestowed upon the scene an eerie stillness. The rider used her dress to wipe the blood from his blade, cutting off her bodice as he did so. The devil and the angel, the spider and the fly. To behold the Judge at that moment was to recoil with fear. The angel remained motionless
“May God have mercy upon your soul.”
Mounting his horse, the man rode out of the alley and into the darkened streets.
Turning his horse around, he left the family in the street, not looking back. The mother lay face-down in the street, a heap of hair, fabric and blood on top of her child. Carmen’s dear brother.
Carmen watched in disbelief as the man continued to ride by. He showed no remorse for what he had just done, giving it no more thought than the spider that traps and kills the fly. Claude Frollo. The city was his web.
A flash of lightening and everything was gone. Carmen’s mother no longer lay in the street, the odor of blood no longer poisoned her lungs. Claude Frollo was gone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Carmen sat in the rain, in the alley thinking of her mother.
There was nothing she could have done. That man, that evil demon. He ruined her life. Her mother, sister and brother were all lost
because of him. It was because of him that she would never really be sure who
she was. He ruined Quasimodo’s life.
Carmen bent down and cried into the folds of her skirt.
The faint echo and splash of hoofbeats in the darkness woke her up. In the rain and darkness she could not see from hence they came, only listen. Run. She had to run. He would get her too. Carmen tried to get up, but couldn’t. Her ankle was hot and swollen; she must have sprained it when she fell. Dragging herself near the wall she sat in silence, there was little else she could do.
Shaking with fear, Carmen waited as the hoofbeats got closer. She struggled to press herself against the damp, mildewed wall. The horse hit the ground in slow, even steps. A moment later she could feel the warm air from the horses’ nostrils cut through the misty rain. The horse snorted, then balked, Carmen could hear its feet landing on the cobbles, then sliding and splashing in the shallow puddles that lay before her.
Carmen heard the rider dismount.
Tears began to flow from her eyes in thick streams and she could feel herself beginning to tremble. She tried not to breathe, for she would begin to choke if she did. “He mustn’t find me, I’m not ready to die.”
Two guards picked her up from the alley and carried her off to the Palais du Justice. Carmen’s eyes shed tear after tear. She wanted so much to cry out, make them let her go, yet she couldn’t. She was too tired, too scared. Her tearful eyes merely stared at the cobbles as they passed by, her body draped over the shoulder of a guard.
“Phoebus. There is something here you should see.” Called George.
Phoebus and Quasimodo caught up with George, who was off the trail. Phoebus cursed until his eyes saw what lay in the grass. The skeleton of a horse and a ruined wagon, surrounded by arrows, lay rotting in the tall grass. The stench was unimaginable, even Phoebus wrinkled his nose.
Phoebus dismounted to inspect the bones at a closer distance. The horse had once been bay, and was now crawling with maggots and insects. The crows had eaten out its head. George, who had wandered off in a different direction, called out to his comrade. A horse was not the only casualty.
Phoebus and Quasimodo walked over to see the mangled and rotting body of what had once been a woman. She wore the shredded remains of a large pink dress, two leather straps broken off and rotting in her hands. The bellringer turned away out of respect, and disgust. He did not need to look close to figure out who the horse and rider were. The carefully braided hemp bridle and green and gray blanket, he’d held all of these things in his hands before, they belonged to Carmen. The dress he’d seen on Elsa before he left. He lowered his head and prayed that Carmen had gotten away.
It was a dark and cold night when the travelers returned home. Quasimodo and Phoebus rode astride, the soldiers and George in wagons. All weapons were drawn, ready to attack if anyone hostile should approach.
They has gathered near the mill and crept by dark of night through the University and toward the Court of Miracles. Clopin would know of their coming, thus the guards would not attack.. Only D’Arque’s soldiers posed a threat.
Quasimodo sharpened his cutlass near the small campfire, Clopin his scythe and Phoebus his sword. George took another swig of whiskey from a brown glass bottle.
Just outside of the city gates sat a large group of men, awaiting the orders of Captain Phoebus. They were a rough looking bunch, yet loyal to their Captain as they had been two years ago.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Court of Miracles, Clopin anxiously awaited the arrival of his scouts. Esmeralda paced through the Court, awaiting the arrival of her husband and best friend. Carmen was nowhere to be found, she’d not been in the Court in days.
It was past midnight when a small child ran into the Court and swung his lantern. Captain Phoebus had finally arrived home. Esmeralda became even more anxious and stood still, wringing her hands into her skirt. The Court became silent, not even a baby cried.
Hours seemed to pass as the entire Court of Miracles watched the entrance with wide eyes. What was taking them so long? The lanterns slowly died away, the younger children shuttled off to bed.
One lantern burned in the Court as a familiar shape approached with two others. Quasimodo, Phoebus and an old man. Snowball and Achilles followed. Esmeralda suddenly sprang to life and ran to greet Phoebus and Quasimodo.
Only one thought coursed through Esmeralda’s mind. “It will soon be over.”
A Hanging
Clopin stood outside of Notre Dame, a scythe in his hand an army of thieves and gypsies behind him. Phoebus, Quasimodo and George sat mounted nearby. Quasimodo kneaded Snowballs’ reins. He was not trained for battle, nor was he built for it. He was a bellringer, a man of the Church. Battles were not something he aspired to. The last battle, in Januervy, had nearly cost him his life. He gulped air down into his great chest. Phoebus slapped him on the back.
“You’ll do fine, Quasi.” Quasimodo thumped Phoebus’ back, nearly knocking him out of the saddle and smiled. “It’s not funny.” stated Phoebus, then smiled. The two laughed together. George beheld the spectacle before him, the gallows, the men that surrounded them and D’Arque’s soldiers. The moment the prisoner was revealed, the moment they touched the scaffold, it would begin.
All eyes were on the scaffold as two figures were dragged onto it. One was a woman, Quasimodo recognized her immediately as the one he’d dreamt about constantly since he left. The distance between him and the scaffold was too great, there was nothing he could do. He spurred Snowball on, only to have Phoebus seize the reins and hold him back.
Quasimodo watched as the woman fell forward onto the rough planks and suffered a kick to the ribs. Two burley soldiers lifted her up while a third walked around her. Quasimodo strained to focus his eye even more. No, it was no soldier, it was the Minister of Justice.
The woman threw her head as the minister walked to her face and appeared to shout at her. A soldier grabbed her by the hair, pulling her head backward. She let her head be pulled back, blood dripped from her lips. The soldier behind her drew his knife to cut her hair before she was hung. Those closer to the scaffold could see her crying and hear her whisper “Quasimodo” over and over under her breath.
The soldier took one slice at her hair, severing a few strands. The guards moved closer. Suddenly, the blade left the woman’s hair and slashed the throats of both guards. The soldier pushed Carmen behind him and drew the sword from the dead man that lay beside him. D’Arque, unsure of what else to do, called in more guards.
Three guards came up from over the scaffold, leaving the crowd they had been holding back. At that moment, George picked up the other sword and swung it in the air before throwing it through the chest of another guard. Carmen wanted to close her eyes, yet couldn’t. She stood behind George, not knowing what else to do.
“Now” shouted Phoebus, releasing Snowballs’ reins. The crowd rushed forward, hollering and thirsty for blood.
Quasimodo rode through the crowd toward Carmen. Her safety was all that rested on his mind, he had to get her away from there.
The great black horse cantered toward the wooden frame, toward his lover. The stallion showed no inhibition or fear as he cantered alongside of the sturdy frame. Carmen rushed toward Quasimodo, who reached out to grasp her arm. At that same moment, a knife blade struck the bellringer in the arm and he fell off of Snowball and onto the scaffold.
Quasimodo righted himself and quickly looked around, six guards and one minister of Justice. George tossed him a sword and stood back-to-back with him. Carmen ran off of the scaffold and mounted Snowball. Phoebus charged from behind and slapped Snowball in the rear with his whip, sending him, and Carmen, out of harm’s way.
The battle was soon underway, with D’Arque’s men taking a beating from the citizenry of Paris. Pitchforks were tossed, hatchets dashed against armored heads, pounding metal into the skulls of their oppressors. Clopin put his sickle to use, removing swords, together with fingers, from the hands of those who approached him.
Having defeated many of the guards, Quasimodo noticed D’Arque had disappeared. Him and Phoebus ran toward the Palais of Justice, where the man was certain to be hiding. As a second thought, Quasimodo turned to Notre Dame.
“We’re headed the wrong way.”
“Now is not the time to argue, Quasi. He’s gone to the Palais.”
“Phoebus. Look.”
Quasimodo extended his hand toward Notre Dame. A small white light appeared in one of the cloisters. “Then what is that?”
“Mon Dieu!”
Phoebus and Quasimodo stormed toward the Church, sword and cutlass drawn. Quasimodo dreaded the thought of killing another and merely hoped Phoebus would get there first, to do the deed instead.
Phoebus and Quasimodo crept through the darkness into Notre Dame. Quasimodo removed the piles of rubble from atop the door leading to Frollo’s study. It was to be gutted and everything in it destroyed. There were evil things in that room, things that did not belong in the house of God.
“Burn it”
“What?”
“Until it smolders. These things are evil and must be destroyed.”
The pile grew bigger outside of Notre Dame, books and scrolls and pottery. Old torture devices were thrown in with the rest. Phoebus couldn’t help but notice the expression on his friend’s face when the last of the whips and ropes were thrown onto the pile. Phoebus could only guess what sort of uses Frollo had found for such objects, especially in a church.
Phoebus and Quasimodo threw a torch onto the bundles of papers, watching as tongues of flame consumed them. Everything from the chamber had been carried out by the two men and set aflame. It was the last step in freeing the city from Frollo’s clutches of hatred and prejudice. The last of Claude Frollo’s evil was gone forever; only Quasimodo’s teachings remained.
The two of them sat on the October ground, looking past the flames.
“It’s finally over, Quasi. Somehow, I never thought there would be another battle, that we’d have to fight for out lives once more.”
Quasimodo rubbed his bandaged arm where the blade had struck him.
“We’ll be lucky to survive.”
“Women adore battle scars, Quasi.” Phoebus fumbled in his pocket. “I was thinking, maybe now would be the time.”
“She would never; I couldn’t.”
“You know she would take you instantly. She loves you and is not shy in showing it.” Phoebus removed a bag from his belt and passed it to the bellringer. “You have no reason not to.”
Quasimodo peered into the bag and smiled.
Two golden rings lay at the bottom , tied by a thin satin cord.
Carmen and Esmeralda guarded Quasimodo’s father. He was determined to fight but had been ordered not to.
D’Arque stood in the Palais of Justice looking down on the people below him. Peasants, beggars and Gypsies surrounded the palais. His wife sat by the fireplace, disconcerted.
“They are strong, but we are stronger. They will not reach us.”
“They will.”
“What?”
“Phoebus de Chateaupers and my cousin’s bellringer are leading them. They know everything.”
D’Arque turned around and snapped at her.
“You said we would finish your cousins work. That Paris would become a perfect city, cleansed of all impurity.” He slapped Ruth against the wall, her nose breaking on the stone wall. “You couldn’t even take care of that cripple.”
“He’s no cripple.” Ruth spat blood.
“You couldn’t even take care of one lowly cripple. You let him get away and bring back reinforcements!”
Carmen and Esmeralda sat hiding in the corner of Carmen’s home. Quasimodo’s father sat behind them, barely making a sound. Esmeralda pushed Carmen further into the corner when she heard horses’ feet stop outside.
One man entered the kitchen and began to knock clay pots and dishes onto the floor, shattering them in a fit of rage. Esmeralda and Carmen each drew their daggers.
Esmeralda motioned for Carmen and Byrand to leave through the back door. Carmen refused to move, but counted the number of voices. There were at least six men in the building, Esmeralda, an old man and herself would never be able to beat them hand-to-hand. She tapped on Esmeralda’s shoulder six times, Esmeralda tapped her five, the odds were still against them.
The men were getting closer, their approach accompanied by the sounds of smashing and destruction of the house. Doing what Esmeralda had ordered, Carmen left with Byrand. Hiding the old man by the river in the reeds, she quickly returned to the stable and turned Danté loose.
Carmen ran into the house when she heard crashing, only to see two men unconscious on the floor and two more fighting the gypsy as a fifth looked on. Carmen drew her dagger and flung it at one of the soldiers, dropping him to the floor in agony. Esmeralda continued to fight, the fifth man approached Carmen.
Esmeralda shot her a glance, she would be fine, she dropped a reed and Esmeralda nodded. She retrieved her dagger and fled from the house, turning four horses’ loose as she passed. D’Arque, the fifth man and Minister of Justice, stood before her. She held onto the fifth horse, her hands shaking as she held them. She let go of the last horse, then turned back sharply to have her collarbone meet with the hilt of a sword. She fell to the ground, looking up for a moment to see Esmeralda headed safely toward the river and a sword lifted above her head ready to strike.
“I kill you knowing all your friends have died before you.” She looked up at him, her eyes dry yet threatening a river of tears. “Quasimodo was the first to die, in the most painful way imaginable.” Carmen’s gaze went cold and she whistled with her last strength and slammed her dagger into the man’s foot. The sword fell onto her and she lay on the blood soaked ground.
Ruth stood face to face with Quasimodo, her sword drawn. In one motion the bellringer knocked it from her hand onto the floor. She began to back away, drawing her hands beside her.
“Quasi, look out!” Phoebus shouted.
As he turned, her cutlass struck his massive arm. Rather than cry out in pain, his eyes flashed with anger as he backed the woman into the corner, she dropped her weapon. Quasimodo stood before her, an angry giant hovering over her as she cowered to the floor. Dirt clung to the sweat and blood that drenched his body. His chest heaved, his nostrils flared and his fists clenched.
“Kill me, if that is what you want. Kill me, like you did my cousin. Kill your only family like the monster you are.”
Quasimodo picked up the woman with his wounded and bleeding arm. Quasimodo’s eyes became cold. “I have killed no one.”
“You lie. Kill me!”
“Phoebus, arrest her.”
“Quasi, wouldn’t you rather?”
“Lock her up.”
“The devil take you Quasimodo! He has already taken your friends!”
The woman plunged the cutlass into her chest and twisted it. She fell to the ground, twitching.
Quasimodo finally became aware of the additional pain in his left arm. Phoebus removed his cape and quickly wrapped the bleeding wound, mere centimeters from yesterdays wound. They left the woman on the floor. Esmeralda and Carmen needed them now.
The two heroes walked into Carmen’s home to find it in disarray. Blood lay on the floor, furniture lay strewn about overturned and broken.
“We’ve done it! We’ve beaten them!” Phoebus set his hand on Quasimodo’s shoulder.
“Esmeralda? Carmen?”
There was no answer, but a faint whimper from behind the house. Phoebus approached, sword drawn. Danté stood as a statue outside the back door. D’Arque lay at her feet, his back pelted with hoofbeats. He was dead. Under Danté was a woman in a blue and beige dress drenched in blood. Quasimodo instantly recognized her as Carmen and turned away, so it was true. Carmen had been killed.
Phoebus sheathed his sword and approached the red horse slowly to retrieve the body. The bells would be ringing for her soon. Danté bared her teeth and stomped her feet, snorting wildly. Phoebus backed off slightly and called Quasimodo over to handle the mare.
Quasimodo stepped softly up to the mare and his fallen lover. Danté lowered her head and carefully stepped away from the gypsy she guarded. The bellringer knelt down on the bloody cobblestones and touched her face gently, she was still warm. A gash ran across her beautiful face, across her eyebrow and to her jawbone. Gently stroking her hair, kissed her forehead, then rested his forehead against hers. The tears fell from his eyes and onto her face.
He cradled her head and upper body close to himself and continued to cry.
“No. No. I can’t lose you, too!”
Phoebus placed his hand on Quasimodo’s shoulder. “We had best move out if we are to find the others. I’ll carry her, you lead Danté.”
Quasimodo lowered Carmen’s head into Phoebus’ hands and watched as he lifted her limp body off the stones. Danté followed the bellringer without resistance.
Moments later Danté stood outside of Notre Dame Cathedral. Phoebus and Quasimodo were inside, with Phoebus trying to comfort his friend with his loss, meanwhile aching to know what had happened to his beloved Esmeralda. He couldn’t leave. Quasimodo needed him. The battle was over and no more would die.
Quasimodo folded Carmen’s arms and walked away, leaving Phoebus with the body. Her collarbone had been broken where the sword hilt had struck her, Phoebus smoothed the pointed ridge out with his fingers then touched her calloused hands. She had really loved Quasimodo, she saw all there was to him and had understood him. Phoebus’ heart went out to the bellringer. He couldn’t help but know that his beloved Esmeralda had gotten away and was waiting in the Court of Miracles for him.
Phoebus started as one bell rang out, a bell with a double meaning. It was six O’clock, and the death knell rang out for all of Paris. Many had died. Phoebus closed his eyes and walked toward the door, this was more than he could handle. He turned back when he realized that Quasimodo needed him now more than ever, despite his habit of keeping to himself. He didn’t know what to do, he just stood there on the checkerboard floor, staring at the rose window.
As Phoebus stood, he soaked up the silence, the bells had stopped and no people entered the church. A thud caused him to turn around sharply to see Carmen’s body had fallen off the ledge she had been set upon.
Phoebus rushed to her and cleared the hair from her face. He began to smack her face and she flinched slightly, she was still alive, if ever so slightly. Phoebus’s mind went back to the battlefield, where stimulation could bring a soldier back from the brink of death. What else could he do? Phoebus alternated between slapping her face and shaking her shoulders. There was still a chance.
Quasimodo returned to the belly of the church, a white sheet in his hands. He looked up to see Phoebus straddling the body of his beloved, slapping and shaking her and pouring water from his canteen onto he head. Phoebus did not notice immediately but continued as Quasimodo watched, dumbfounded. It was not long before Phoebus began talking to her, Quasimodo raised an eyebrow and approached cautiously.
There was a faint whisper that echoed through the church. “Danté”
Quasimodo stared at those lips that had just moved, lips he thought would never move again.
“Danté”
Quasimodo rushed toward her, Phoebus moved over to accommodate him. Her eyes opened slowly, she strained to see around her. She cried for her lover when she saw him through her bloodstained eyes.
Quasimodo leaned forward and embraced her. Phoebus stepped away softly. Carmen was soon in Quasimodo’s arms. “They fled to the court, have you found them?”
Phoebus shook his head.
“We must go, now!”
“I will go, you and Quasi will stay here.”
Carmen leaned into the bellringer with her intact shoulder, clutching his shirt.
As he held her, Quasimodo had only one thought.
“Marry me?” he asked meekly “Marry me now?”
Carmen did not answer right away, but he felt her head nod yes as she stood crying into his shoulder. “In the Court of Miracles”
“We are coming too”
Soon afterward, Phoebus Quasimodo and Carmen were weaving through the streets, Danté following closely.
Back in the Court of Miracles
Esmeralda, Clopin and Byrand sat around the fire, awaiting the return of their friends. There was no dancing, no music or laughter. Even Djali lay down on the cobbles, chewing her cud. A costumed man burst into the court.
“Quasimodo and the Captain approach”
Esmeralda rushed towards Phoebus and Quasimodo as she saw them enter the Court. As she approached, she noticed Quasimodo was carrying Carmen in his arms, his arm was bandaged and he limped slightly more than usual. Phoebus has escaped unscathed.
“Is she? No. She can’t be!” Phoebus shook his head, Esmeralda lit up. Thank the heavens, Phoebus, Quasi and Carmen had made it through.
Solona was soon out of her tent and rushing toward Quasimodo. She touched his arm and guided him to her caravan, where she began to wash his wounds. Carmen lay on the floor, breathing softly.
Having dressed Quasimodo’s flesh wound in muslin, Solonas attentions turned to Carmen. She patted her on the cheek, waking her up.
“Where’s Quasi? Where am I?”
“You are in the Court of Miracles, Quasimodo is right here.” The bellringer took her hand and she smiled softly.
“It hurts.”
The old gypsy woman touched Carmen’s broken collarbone and in one motion reset the bones, which caused a terrible crunch. Carmen screamed out in pain as the bones ground against each other. Solona wrapped her chest in linen and wooden splints, leaving only her good arm mobile. Carmen lay back and cried in pain, her body trembling with every breath.
“Quasi. Remember? We must…”
“…get married.” finished the worried bellringer. He lifted the bag Phoebus had given him from his pocket. “Is she able to move?”
The young couple drank bitter tea as they passed time in the small space. It was supposed to help with the pain, as Quasimodo knew from experience. The bellringer sipped his gently, while Carmen complained at its taste. Some honey soon stooped her disgust.
It was nearly midnight when the young gypsy arose. Solona helped a groggy Carmen to her feet, she leaned on Quasimodo. Both stepped out of the caravan where a large crowd awaited them. Phoebus and Esmeralda were right by the doors.
“We have a wedding tonight!” Shouted Clopin.
The bellringer was led away by Phoebus and Clopin; Carmen was led away by Esmeralda and two other gypsy women.
Quasimodo soon found himself in clean clothes, clothed as a prince. The bellringer couldn’t help but smile at the attention being paid to him. This time there was no mock robe or papier mache crown, either. They wanted him here, they wanted to help him look his best for his bride to be.
A red dress flew out of the chest, with the help on an old woman’s knobby hands. She held the nearly-new garment up to Carmen’s damaged body. It would fit her beautifully had her chest not been bandaged and her arm immotile. Esmeralda reluctantly threw the dress to the side and carefully did Carmen’s hair. She would look like a princess, dress or no.
Clopin
Here they are together
In this safe and magic place
Holding each other’s hands now
Forever more
Though the
night has set upon us
Even though the moon is gone
Let the fires burn high now
Make the light burn bright now…
Quasimodo
Who’d had thought I’d ever find her
Having been alone so long
Who’d have thought she’d be there
Waiting for me
Carmen
Think of what we’ve been through
All that we have left behind
Now there’s just the future
Together with you
Esmeralda
Who’d have thought this could happen?
Who’d had ever known
Though I should not question
What God has in plan
Clopin passed a large jug of water to Carmen, who held it with one hand as Esmeralda supported the weight of it. She drank the water and passed it to Quasimodo. The bellringer took a drink, then tossed it to the ground.
The water from the jug splashed up on the two lovers as they stared at each other lovingly. Seconds later they shared their first kiss as husband and wife. Clopin kneeled between them to count the pieces, of which there were too many to count.
Esmeralda cried as she watched her best friend finally achieve what all men sought, true love forever. Phoebus stoked Esmeralda’s hair lovingly. Neither Phoebus nor Esmeralda ever pictured this happening to their friend. This truly was a place of miracles.
The following morning, Quasimodo and Carmen were officially married in Notre Dame Cathedral.
Epilogue
A young woman with a scar running across her face stood before the fireplace, making pea soup. She outright hated it and always would. Little chunks of ham and onion floated to the top of the brew, which bubbled like swamp water and nearly made her ill just by watching it. She stirred it down. It smelled bad, too. However, her husband loved seemed unable to get enough of it, so she made it to humour him.
Leaving the soup, she picked up a paintbrush and a small wooden horse. Danté and Achilles’ foal, one day to be her husbands mount. Snowball was retired to pull Clopin’s caravan. Clopin had left Paris to wander Europe farther.
The young woman stared out the window, thinking of all that had happened the past few months. Far too many lives had been lost, so many of them innocent. Her parents, Rose and many she never knew. One happy thought crossed her mind, however. She was not crazy. By what miracle it had occurred she didn’t know, but they stopped. As she stared out the window, another miracle caught her eye.
“Carmen? Are you here?” She heard her husband whisper as he made his way into the living quarters of the shop.
“Of course I am, Quasi. Why do you ask?”
Quasi stepped in sheepishly, yet with a devilish smile. Looking toward him, she saw him pull the hood back off his head. His hair’d been cut. It did need it, but this was not what she’d been expecting; it was too short for her liking. Quasi, in turn, was thrilled and ran his fingers through it, smiling. So handsome he was, standing there before her. She’d been extremely lucky in finding a man such as him.
Without warning, Quasi swept Carmen off her feet and into his powerful arms. Letting go of the paintbrush she gave it no further thought. Quasi’s beautiful blue eyes met her own. Carmen did not have time to smile, for as soon as her lips began to move they were met with his.
His large hands gently held her round the waist, whilst her own hands lay at the back of his neck and onto of his hump. Such are things when one is a good six inches taller than their lover. Yet it never seemed to hamper them at all. When Quasi stood as straight as physically possible for him, which was rare, he was near equal to Carmen in height. As her hands ran over his back and neck, over the old scars, bumps and muscular ridges, she could hear him whispering in her ear. “It’s late, the shop is closed”
“I know.”
“I was thinking…”
Carmen felt Quasi’s large fingers run along the fastening of her dress. She answered him by untying the string round his waist. His tunic fell from it’s binding, past his knees. Carmen’s eyes remained closed as they continued their kiss. Her bodice partially undone, she grasped Quasi’s hand and eagerly led him toward the bedroom. Sitting on the bed she pulled Quasi toward her, who rolled quickly beside and lifted her on top of him. Throwing her arms around his neck Carmen began to peel his shirt off as he wrestled with the strings at the back of her dress.
The large green shirt hung loose off of his right arm. Carmen’s hands ran over his neck and hunched back. She could feel her bodice let go while her hands began to careen through his hair.
Quasi blew out the candle, as she pulled the red and purple gypsy blanket over them both.
The End
Inspired by
“When you come around” by Derik Rattanà Quasimodo’s ongoing desire for love and patience in waiting for it to “come around”, also relates to Carmen’s crazy side “…the look in your eyes when you left here last night, was like someone had stolen you soul, and the trance you are in made me crawl to my skin, was like you were under some outer control…”
“Top of the World” by the Dixie Chicks à The Archdeacon’s newfound bond with Quasimodo and Byrand, Quasimodo’s father …”I wish I had known you, wish I had shown you…”
“Up where we Belong” by Buffy Sainte Marie à Quasimodo and Carmen finding their places in society through love for each other.
“Quasimodo” by Lifehouse à The original inspiration for writing a fanfic. Desire to write something where Quasimodo leaves Paris, learns who he really is and experiences things he never has before with Phoebus as his guide. “…there goes my pain, there go my chains, did you see them falling?”
“Midnight Angel” by Jimmy Rankin à Quasimodo’s views on love.
Carmen: Latin for “song”, hence the title “Broken Song”.
Byrand: Just thought the name sounded cool, and is also British.
“Wave on Wave” by Pat Green à Quasimodo “what we’re seeking is the truth, I’m just looking for a happy ending, all I’m looking for is you.” Carmen “am I the one you were sent to save?”