TO FLY AWAY

Chapter 1

They call me "The Little Street Urchin".

I'm ashamed to say that the name fits. The streets of Paris have been my home since I was a little girl.

I pull my shawl tighter as I step out into the cobblestone street. The cold late autumn air viciously smacks me in the face. My bare foot slips into a half frozen puddle, but I quickly yank it out. As I make my way down the street, breathing in the stale smell of the morning, I look behind me at Notre Dame. Another night spent there, sleeping on my favorite pew. Better there than in the streets I suppose. Or at home, with my mother.

My mother, the whore. She never wanted me. I was born into her world of filth and squalor and sin. She spends her time walking the streets for money, picking up grizzly, dirty men, writhing upon the bed with them like maggots on a carcass. Never caring if her little girl was hungry, or cold, or scared. Not even noticing when her little girl dragged herself into the house with a broken leg. The only things that matter to her are her johns and their money.

I try not to think about her.

The city is just beginning to come to life, people stir from their houses and head out to greet the day. Shopkeepers open up, merchants peddle their wares.

"Cheeses, fancy cheeses!"

" Fresh baked bread, get it while its hot!"

God, that bread. It smells so good, I can almost taste it. Every warm, browned loaf. The heavenly aroma drifts around me, teasing me. I clutch at my growling stomach and sigh, for I haven't a single penny.

I realize that I could steal it, if I wanted to. Believe me, I have many times before. But not today. Last night, I confessed my sins to the Blessed Virgin herself. Now I'm clean, as pure as freshly fallen snow, at least in theory. I don't want to undo that by stealing, at least not now.

As I continue down the street, I hear music. Tambourine, with a little bit of flute, the happy kind of music that puts a spring into your step. Whimsical, carefree. A small crowd is gathered on a clap along and stomp their feet, some look, shake their heads and pass by. I gingerly make my way through the cluster of peasants to see what all the fuss is about.

Gypsies. I knew it. An ancient gypsy man, brown and shriveled, plays the flute while a gypsy boy of 17 or 18 plays the tambourine. Both wear ragtag but colorful clothing that looks like it needs a wash. They're dirty and skinny, but they're smiling and seem happy.

My gaze wanders to the young man. His eyes, those deep, dark pools of black magic, lock with mine, but I quickly turn away. From what I've heard, gypsies can never be trusted. Instead I concentrate on the upturned hat full of shiny gold and silver coins set before the gypsies. Just there for the taking...

No, I can't, I tell myself. How low of me it would be to beg from beggars? Yet I can't ignore the hunger pains that stab and twist within my stomach, tormenting me. I must do this.

I pull my tangled red hair down over my face to hide my embarrassment and trudge over to the gypsy men.

Without lifting my head, I mutter "Please, might I share your coins? I haven't eaten in almost two days."

The younger man stops playing and turns and says something in Romani to the old man. The elder nods and gives me a sly wink.

The boy brushes the hair out of my face and says, " If you want coins, you'll have to earn them. Can you dance?"

I've seen the gypsy women dance before. They sway with the rhythm, twirling their rainbow skirts and kicking up their heels. They are mysterious, sexual, supernatural creatures. The thought of dancing wild in the street like a heathen scares me, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

"I...I guess I could." I swallow my pride and avoid the gaze of the onlookers. I nod to the gypsy men and they once again begin playing the tune. I shashay and twirl my threadbare red skirt, all while trying to avoid tripping over my clumsy feet. With every shake of the tambourine, I thrust my hips from left to right and flick my hair. I hear a mixture of claps and jeers from the crowd, but I keep going. My heart is skipping like a scared little rabbit. I'm terrified, but somehow the music has possessed my soul. I feel like a soaring bird, like I could leap into the sky and fly away over the rooftops of Paris. Free at last.

"Look at that little harlot, putting herself on display. She's no better than them gypsies, I tell you!", angrily shouts one old woman.

I'm brought back down to reality, and the harsh words hit me like a slap in the face.

"Come on girl, take off that skirt!", yells a greasy, overstuffed guard who came to see what was going on. Some of the men in the audience grunt and laugh.

My cheeks burn crimson with shame. These people are animals. Random shouts of "Whore!" penetrate my ears. I think of my mother. I really am no better than her.

I keep dancing, hot tears streaming down my flushed face.

Suddenly, the crowd scatters, making way for a older man on a dark horse. The gypsies stop playing and freeze. I stop dancing mid-kick, with a foot frozen in the air.

The billowing robes, the haughty expression, those beady black eyes. Judge Claude Frollo. I've known him for years. I respect him. But most of all, I fear him.

"What have we here? A little gypsy show?" His thin lips curl into a cruel sneer as he looks over me. " And the very child I saw confessing her sins last night is now back on the street and sinning in the company of the spawn of Satan."

I blurt out,"I'm sorry! I was starving and instead of stealing food, I wanted to earn money! I haven't sinned!"

"I applaud you for not stealing, but you were dancing and clouding the minds of the good people of Paris with unholy thoughts. I'm afraid that you have, in fact, sinned." He reaches up to adjust his hat and then continues, " You must repent and be taught a lesson. An afternoon with the cat o' nine tails perhaps?".

Suddenly the gypsy boy leaps in front of me. "Don't touch her.", he snarls through gritted teeth. The old Romani man nods approvingly.

A collective gasp from the crowd, myself included. A street rat gypsy, defending someone?

"I was the one who asked her to dance. The girl has done no wrong. She has already suffered enough.", he continues. "I'm the one to blame."

Frollo laughs. " Fine, I'll simply arrest you gypsy scum instead. Guards, seize them!" Several big brutish guards, the very same guards that were enjoying the show earlier, lumber towards us.

The gypsy men wink at each other, and without another word the older man unexpectedly bolts straight into the scattered crowd, weaving in and out between people. "After him!" yells one of the guards. The bumbling brutes stumble after the surprisingly spry old man.

I'm taken by surprise when the gypsy boy scoops me up and flings me over his shoulder, then runs for it.

I can't believe it. I'm being kidnapped by gypsies. And I thought it was just an old wives tale.

"No, after them you fools!" yells the frustrated judge. But by the time the guards turn around, we're already too far gone. The gypsy ducks around a corner and sprints behind a crumbling brick building. After making sure that the coast is clear, he hurriedly sets me down.

"You should be safe now." , he says. He reaches into his cloak pocket and pulls out two silver coins. "Take these. You need them more than I do."

I mutter a "Thank you." and greedily snatch the coins. Immediately after, I once again feel the sting of embarrassment. I am nothing but a worthless scab upon this city, begging and wallowing in the sewers.

"I'd better be going." He pauses. "By the way, I'm Gage. My caravan just came into town. If you ever need help again, you know where to look."

I feel so ashamed, being pitied by a street beggar. All I can manage is "I'm Ketty."

"Take care of yourself, Ketty." the gypsy says with a wink. He turns and effortlessly leaps over a fence, disappearing back into the depths of Paris.

At dusk I walk down the street, eating my fresh two penny roll and savoring every last crumb.

As the last glimmers of sunlight fade away, the city gets ready for bed. Children are called in from play, shopkeepers close up for the evening. It seems as if everyone is going back to a loving home.

I too, am going home. Notre Dame, my safe haven and the closest thing to a home I have. I climb the familiar steps, feeling the cool stone underneath my bare feet. I enter the church. The stained glass windows, the arched ceiling, the musky smell of burning incense. It is truly beautiful, as always.

I wander over to a statue of Mary holding the baby Jesus. I drop to my knees, bow my head, and begin to pray.

"Blessed mother, I am no angel, yet you know that I try my very best to remain pure of today, I have greatly sinned. I danced in the streets like a whore for money. I ask for nothing but forgiveness, for myself and for the poor gypsies that I dragged down along with me. Please protect these gypsies. They may be heathens, but today I saw a kindness within them that I have never seen before. Thank you Maria." I make the sign of the cross and get up to leave, but someone gently taps my shoulder.

I whirl around to face a short, stout older man with a weathered, concerned face. The Archdeacon of Notre Dame. One of the few people whom I feel I can trust, he has been almost like a father to me, especially in these past few years that I've been on my own.

"Frollo told me about what happened in town today."

I bow my head."I'm sorry Father."

"Don't be sorry, my dear. Times are hard, especially for a young girl out on her own. As long as things are alright between you and the Heavenly Father, you will be fine."

I manage a small smile. "I think that me and God are on good terms now."

The kindly man leans in close to me. He whispers "You must be very careful though. Frollo has his eye on you now, another slip and you could land right in jail. I'd stay away from the gypsies, you know how Frollo feels about them."

I think of Gage and the older man, how they put me, a total stranger, before themselves. I think of the coins they gave me, of the compassion they showed for me. But most of all I think of their eyes, those deep, black, bewitching eyes, like nothing else I've ever seen."These gypsies were different." I say quietly. "They might have been heathens, but they had hearts."

The Archdeacon shakes his head sadly. "According to Judge Frollo, all gypsies are the same - trash." He pauses. "Do you understand, dear?"

"Yes."

"Promise me you'll stay out of trouble?"

"I'll try my best."

The Archdeacon smiles. "Good. I can sleep easier now. God bless you Ketty." He turns and leaves, leaving me alone again with the statue of Our Lady. I take one last look at her serene, flawless face and make my way over to what I call my "napping pew". That little gray pew has been my bed for more nights than I care to remember. I lie down, pull my shawl over me, and hug my knobby knees to my chest. It's a cold night for September.

Slowly I drift off to sleep, into a strange dreamland of jostling crowds, heavenly figures, and flame eyed gypsies dancing in the streets. It's a rather satisfying dream.