Letters from an Angel

After six straight hours of spring rainfall, the afternoon streets of Paris, France were damp and desolate. The heavy clouds above reigned with a grey bleakness upon the famous Notre Dame Cathedral, only letting up to collect enough moisture to rain another day. From atop the grand cathedral, a young boy by the name of Quasimodo gazed down at the quaint city below him. The streets might have been bare, but the houses were full and lit with bright beams of candlelight reflecting from every open window. Inside the homes, families of all sizes sat next to each other, either bundled up near a crackling fireplace or sharing a delicious dinner of French onion soup with roast beef. Or perhaps the family was playing a game with cards, or entertaining guests with music and dancing.

Then, with tired eyes, Quasimodo turned around. Unlike the cheery houses outside, the only place he could call home was the bell tower of Notre Dame. Its stone walls were tall and mighty; its two main structures that held the bells were dark and damp, its only resident a ten-year old boy with hyperkyphosis and a handful of other physical abnormalities. No fireplaces, no proper shelter from rainfall, and no family love. It was big enough, and certainly had a world-class view, but the bell tower just wasn't made to be a home.

Needless to say, Quasimodo felt more than just a twinge of jealousy of the other Parisian children. He didn't understand why he couldn't go play or talk to strangers or leave the cathedral—even if it was only to fetch water from the Seine. Frowning miserably, he waddled on his uneven legs to his makeshift bed, a modest bundle of blankets, spare cloth, and a single pillow. He gingerly fluffs up what he can of that small marshmallow of a pillow and rests his red head, clinging to it as his only means of comfort and warmth. At least, for the moment.

Knock, knock, knock. Quasimodo jerked his head up as he deduced there was someone at the tower door. Of course, the knocking was only a polite gesture since only two people regularly visited him, but only one ever bothered to make his presence known before entering. "Quasimodo?" the gentle voice of the Archdeacon asked. "Where are you, my child?" The boy got up from his bed and ran to the source of the voice, panting softly when he came into view.

"H-Here I am, Father."

"There you are, indeed," he chuckled. "I come bearing gifts." The older man smiled kindly and handed him a covered basket containing his lunch. Quasimodo took the basket into his own two hands and curiously looked behind the tower door, only to find that the Archdeacon came alone. "I'm sorry, Quasimodo, but your guardian will not be visiting you until sunrise tomorrow. His work is keeping him, I'm afraid." The boy's face dropped as the realization hit him that he was to spend the evening and the night by himself.

"Thank you," he mumbled, lowering his eyes. The Archdeacon apologetically touched the boy on the head before turning around to take his leave. "Wait," Quasimodo said, picking his head up. The older man looked over his shoulder, slowly turning back around.

"What is it, Quasimodo?" The boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"C-Could you stay, j-just a bit longer? M-Maybe tell me a-a Bible story?" The Archdeacon gave him a remorseful look; despite the boy's pleading eyes, he had work of his own to be done.

"I'm sorry, Quasimodo. Not tonight. I, along with other members of the church, am dividing up available food, blankets, and dry clothing for the travelers that found themselves soaked by the storm and a good distance from home. You understand, don't you, my son? They are children of God too."

"I understand," the poor boy nodded. "S-Sorry for asking." The Archdeacon smiled gently.

"There is no shame in asking, my child. Do you remember what I told you the last time you felt alone?" Quasimodo looked up as far as his spinal cord would allow and recited what he recalled.

"Those who walk with God are never alone."

"Exactly. I must go now, but why not send up a prayer? As the good book says, 'Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you.' That is Matthew 7:7." The older man patted Quasimodo's head before disappearing into the corridor down the tower steps. With a lamenting sigh, Quasimodo took his basket back to his bedroom area and sat in his blankets. He folded his hands and bowed his head before giving God his prayer of thanks for the meal.

"I hope you're listening," he whispered afterwards. "Father says you are, but I don't know for sure." He frowned slightly, wishing he had someone he could talk to that he could see. "Maybe send me an angel," he thought aloud. "A good guardian angel, so I won't be by myself so much." He squeezed his eyes tighter as he sent forth his wish. "Please, God. Let me know you're always with me. Amen."

Satisfied for the moment, he took his time eating his food. In his basket, he found a ripe apple, a baguette with a pat of yellow butter, a fresh hunk of white cheese, and a couple slices of smoked roast beef, preserved with choice spices. He smiled at the sight of the meat, for good meat such as this was a delicacy. His guardian, Judge Claude Frollo, saw to it that his absence for the evening was compensated for.

Once he had his fill, he stifled a yawn and forced himself back up again to work. Being the bell ringer of Notre Dame was no easy occupation. Quasimodo would rise every day at the crack of dawn and consult his sundial plank. From a young age of seven, he figured out how to time his bell-ringing to the consistency of the sun. On his plank of wood that lay horizontal to the sky, little scratch lines were made to where the shadow of the stick that was placed vertically in the middle center rose and fell. Every time the stick's shadow intercepted a scratch line, the bells would be due to ring. After a few years of the same routine, he became accustomed to the ticking of time and got a natural feel for the scheduled rings, so that even on the cloudy, overcast days where the sun hardly shined, he wouldn't miss a ring by a minute. After the last ringing session of the night, he would be granted the liberty to sleep until morning. His work now complete, the young boy fell on his side into his bed, too exhausted to care about comfort.

Quasimodo awoke the following morning to the bright chirping of his fluttering friends, the bluebirds of the bell tower. The skies were cleared up and the sun made an appearance, slowing making its way over the valley in the east. "G'morning," he mumbled to the birds, sitting up to rub the sleepiness out of his eyes. He stretched by turning himself side to side and reaching forward toward his ankles, for bending backwards was painful. As he turned to face his pillow, he saw a small sheaf of paper peek from under it. He reached for it and took the paper into his hands, his eyes opening wide with interest at what was on the other side. Bright letters written in gold ink—if that was possible—were inscribed on the paper in the form of a brief message:

Dear Quasimodo,

Your prayers have been heard and answered by the Lord on high. Know that He loves you, and that He is always watching.

Signed, Celeste—Your Guardian Angel

He was just starting on the basics of learning phonetics, yet somehow, he could understand every word he saw. He stared at the two-sentence message for what seemed like an hour, mulling over the miraculous greatness of its contents. "He loves me," he murmured to no one in particular. "Someone is watching me." He felt his jaw fall slack in the moment. He had heard of genuine religious experiences before, but never imagined having one of his own. "My guardian angel."