"Take me away, carriage! Carry me off, frigate!

Far, far away! Here the mud is made with our tears!"

-- Baudlaire, Moesta et Errabunda

The lad was weary and wore an expression that flashed between alert and near panic to dead and distant. Young Charles was himself feeling sick with the burden of the little one, and he prayed that there would be answers from friendly folk of the clergy, soon. He didn't like being in charge--after all, he was only fourteen years himself.

It would still be several hours before the hasty mail cart would deposit them in Paris. Charles had padded their space with some horse blankets to try and make the ride comfortable enough to sleep, but between the occasional spitting of rain, the rocking road and the wind, this would prove difficult.

The young initiate felt the already painful situation grow tedious: he knew so little of the child before him, only that Charles' godfather had made it very clear that he was to be delivered to clergy directly, and that his mother dismissed him in the most pathetic scene Charles had yet witnessed in his young life. It was unspeakably apparent that the foundling would never use his birth name again; either he or the hospital would have to come up with something suitable. "What are they going to call you at the Basilica?" Charles asked. After a time, when a stuttering silence answered him, he cleared his throat and asked, "what am I to call you?"

Charles had already noticed at that the child would only speak if pressed. It seemed odd that his godfather (in his wisdom) would send a curious and pitiful foundling specifically for inclusion in the music ministries and boy's choir, especially in the child rarely used his voice at all. He carried only one item on his person-- a worn black walnut violin case. He was bundled against the cold in scarves, but underneath he wore a clean linen mask against his face, large holes cut for eyes.

The child's gaze seemed far away and Charles watched the eyes beneath the tiny mask narrow to a glassy slit. The visible cherry-red lower lip quivered and fell open, "I want to be named for the first Sunday after Easter." The words were deliberate and rehearsed. Exhaustion and a guilty smidge of dread overtook Charles' lungs and eyes as the world became slow and heavy. He strained to remember any kind of significance about the Sunday following the feast of Easter, and while he did, studied the landscape out the cart that they huddled in. Easter felt as far away as ever, as the first candle of Advent was glowing in every front window, proving Rouen to be as devoted Catholics as candles and tallow would allow. He felt drowsy under the thick wool blankets and oiled canvas that were variously strapped down or nested around them. He had forgotten when he was trying to remember when the small one suddenly offered "Quasimodo Sunday."

Tallow candles on the roadside unblurred as Charles registered those unusual words, "Quasimodo?" Charles slowly shook his head, "that won't do, not even if you are made bell-ringer. Foundlings generally gain a name from the circumstances upon which they are.." Charles trailed off and stared openly at the child in shame. The child shuddered visibly--perhaps he was crying. It was hard to imagine finding a suitable name for any child buried within his short story. No doubt the mask he wore to conceal his nose and mouth was some part of it. The child tapped his mask now, noticing Charles' hesitance to declare the obvious.

"Quasi-modo," repeated the young initiate, with a patient resolve, "how is your Latin, brother Charles?"

"I know what it means," Charles responded, a little defensively, "but its not proper. Such words imply questions, insecurity. Its not a name for a modern child."

The blankets and tarps were heavy on the young man and the tiny child. The cart rattled through the evening slush, the town growing darker and smaller every minute. "If you were a girl, Noelle might do, seeing as how Christmas season has just opened."

"Noelle..." the child whispered, a bit enchanted by the apparent sound.

Charles huddled closer and took the child's tiny and frozen hands, "We reach Paris Cathedral in time for the holy Feast of St Nicolas. How do you like Nicolas?"

"Nicolas..." the child repeated, clearly less impressed.

It was the final word spoken on the journey.

They arrived in the frozen and bruised skies of a morning in Early December. Nicolas' red and tired eyes saw Paris for what he believed to be the first and last times in his life. Bundled in thick mufflers and scarves, he was scurried up the stairs and into the church offices. There would be time to solidify a little paperwork before Mass later that morning. Before submitting to his name for good, however, Nicolas gave one final attempt to convince those in authority to allow him the name of Quasimodo. When the priest looked incredulous, Nicolas moved forward and with very exact and careful motions, removed the muffler and mask from his face.

The moisture that had condensed beneath his garments was suddenly exposed to the cold, dry air, and the sudden sensation made Nicolas' face ache from the inside out. He winced as the minister drew closer to get a better look.

A disturbed muffle wove itself around the room. It was clear to absolutely everyone why this child believed he should be named after the famous deformed bell-ringer. At least one of the assistants looked away. Charles seemed more embarrassed than anything else. No one said a word. Finally, the minister shook his head a gave a deep sigh.

"Nicolas," the minister concluded, "you shall be seen to by the nurses. Perhaps there's something that can be done for you." The old man briefly addressed Charles concerning the ride from Paris to Lyon and then took the boy's papers that secured him not only as a foundling, but as part of the Christmas pilgrimage. The child saw the name written for him: Nicolas Pèlerin (or, 'Pilgrim') before Charles escorted him to the nurses.

When the nurses saw to Nicolas and his broken face, they were at turns horrified, confused and depressed. They made him tea and sent him to have a nap in a cot, but Nicolas remained awake, listening to the women gossip about his appearance.

"The poor child!"

"How did he survive?"

"Do you suppose it was an accident or sickness? Or birth defect?"

"From birth, mark me. The boy's nose never formed. Never had a chance."

"His face looks rather like a deaths head."

"Hush."

"Unsettling that's for certain."

He came to the conclusion that no single other person there --except Charles perhaps; he had referenced bellringing--had ever read Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris. All the clergy in the offices coming face to face with Nicolas' facial deformity would have understood. The sisters would realize that they sounded just like the old women in the book who spoke about Quasimodo, the hideous beast who walked the roofs of Paris at night with the cats. He breathed deeply and looked out the window--daylight was making her slow return to the sky, and the few winter birds were starting to fly. He was tired enough to sleep, but there seemed to be no point in it. He drowsily rose for mass and he wondered what it would be like to be Quasimodo on a cold night in Notre-Dame. He wondered what it would be like to find someone like himself hidden in a church.

He raised up his eyes through the cathedral windows as the Sunday hymns were sang. He felt himself be born right there: motherless, fatherless and wholly belonging to the Catholic Church. This was Notre-Dame de Paris, exactly how Mister Hugo had described it. In the precious day that was all he had to spend with the cathedral, he took himself on a tour of every staircase that he could access, searching for signs of his beloved friend, imagining the ghost of him swinging away on the outstretched gargoyle throats. The boy ate his lunch in the bell tower and imagined not eating alone. He kissed the holy stonework, whispered secrets into its crevices, and cooled his fevered cheeks on the tile.

As evening prayer concluded and before going to his cot for bed, he kissed the Holy Mother and bid her adieu. His day with the cathedral had come to an end and tomorrow was the journey to Lyon.

The next several weeks ahead would be a mighty sojourn from the very soles of their pious shoes to Rome and to the Vatican--present for the Pope's Christmas address. Nicolas was the littlest pilgrim of the motley group of faithful. A band of eight or so odd travelers headed by a Parisian Priest who had been to the glorious Christmas jubilee sixteen years earlier. The child looked at all the pilgrims and tried to remember their anonymous faces, but it quickly became impossible. He sat beside Charles in the wagon and ate up the outside world that he'd seen so little of up till that moment.

They reached Lyon in time to see the city's famous lights all come alive when the church bells rang for vespers. The child imagined that he had someone kind to remark upon the beauty of the sight, but he said nothing, the wrappings around his face protecting such sensitive features and delicate secret.

The boy felt an odd, yawning distance grow between himself and the rest of the outside world. Almost as though he witnessed what went on around him through a membrane. Everything felt very unreal. He stayed in line, went where told, and did not invite interaction. Impressive vistas and beautiful buildings filled every corner of his vision, no matter where it was directed. Dazzled by sights continuous, he found himself sitting at dinner one night and realized that he had already lost count of the days. Everything was very full to the brim with detail and importance. It would excite and exhaust by turns.

"Look at how lovely" a kind voice seemed to say.

But somehow noticing the beauty deepened his loneliness. The loneliness solidified into mourning. Yes, he was alone in the world. Nervous, he found a spot on the case that had been worn down with use and let his fingers creep into the spot, wondering at its peculiar smoothness. And wondering why he had taken it. Yes why hadn't he taken a book to read?

And a voice seemed to say, "that's all right there's too much to look at anyway." Which was true enough; the priest had said that the architecture would only get more and more beautiful as they got closer to Rome. Ill at ease, he cradled the rectangular box--like a tiny coffin--close, letting its harsh edges bite into his chest a little.

When he was sure he was quite alone he would open up the case and draw out the precious instrument inside. He tried to keep it tuned, but his pitch wasn't practiced and the whole thing became rather flat. Still sometimes he'd play.

And he would think, "it's a shame Quasimodo couldn't hear me play for him." And a voice seemed to say, "he would respect a fellow musician."

Yes indeed.

As the group crept ever closer to the Alps, humble carriages were traded for sturdy mules. Suddenly again the boy almost felt as if he had awoken. The air was thinner and the sunset burned the edges of clouds. Vespers bells pealed, but it had become the last night before the most difficult part of the journey--the mountain pass to Turin. At least for this part of the journey he would share a mule with Charles.

The mule team made slow progress, and the high desert seemed to roll on eternally. Once in the middle of the night, the child couldn't sleep and he crept away to the top of the closest peak he could reach on foot. As the breathless boy looked out he at once realized how very big the world was. He had barely left the camp but he could run to the edge of the horizon if he wished. He could keep running until he disappeared from anyone's knowledge, free in the void. It seemed pointless to do so, but the nearness of the possibility made him giddy. The wind whipped around his form in the little mountains and for the first time he wasn't cold. He shuddered a little but it wasn't the pain of cold that he was used to.

He closed his eyes and tried so hard to remember the globe he had seen before… how tiny France and Italy had seemed. He tried to recall how minuscule this pass had appeared in his fingertips, and then opened his eyes and looked around as best he could.

How could something so tiny ever represent something so huge? He imagined himself shrinking himself down so that the mountain pass on that globe was as big as the mountain pass he stood in. He tried over and over to visualize the sheer intensity of the earth.

The world was gigantic. And he was in it at last.