Paris at daybreak. The sun rose slowly into the cold sky, melting the the thin veneer of frost. A shadowy woman enveloped in swaths of scarves crept among the piles of vagrants snoozing by the city gates. Her hands feverishly clutching a bundle to her chest.

"You there, gypsy! What are you hiding!"

The hostile bark of soldiers shattered the early morning quietude. Frantically the woman tried to explain herself. But her language was like nothing the guards had heard before. With armed men advancing on her, there was only one thing for the nomad to do.

Run and not look back.

The soldiers pursued the cloaked woman like a pack of wolves. She ran blindly from street to street until finally she was snared. But the young nomad would not go without a fight. She kicked, punched and clawed against her pursuers, not caring an inch about being out numbered.

Suddenly with a gurgling sob, the woman went limp. A soldiers dagger stood firmly in her ribs sorrounded by a growing red blot.

The woman's life came to an end that morning.

"These gypsy wenches fight like mongrels!" a soldier chortled.

"So what was she hoarding?"

It was then the soldiers finally realized their mistake. The bundle she had been carrying began to stir and cry. Not bothering to look at what was inside, the bundle was quickly dropped off at a foundling home.


The child was three years old but could not walk, speek or feed herself. She was unnaturally small for her age, with sickly yellow skin and whispy black hair. A thin, feeble excuse for a toddler.

A Sister at the foundling home taught the girl to walk and eat, but getting her to talk poved futile. The little girl refused to speak or to engage the other children. Much of her day was spent sitting in a corner staring into nothingness.

A year later, she ran away from foundling home in search of a better place to live. At such a tender age, she knew no one would claim her.

Off the most northern coast of Ile de la Cite, another crumb of land inhabbited the Seine. Though uninhabitted, the people of Paris used Ile de Saint Louis as a mooring post for their boats.

After hitching a ride on a piece of driftwood, the child reached the island.

For a short time she lived off roots, berries and other plants. But soon she moved on to lizards and rodents. As years passed, the animals came to know her as a fellow creature. But the beasts that truly came to know her were the feral dogs. They welcomed her into their world. Teaching her to hunt, ambush, and even their language. From then on, the girl spoke only in growls, barks and whines.

They even gave her a name.

To a human, it was a series of stacatto growls. But through the animal ear it was "Anatefka". The dogs and other animals had names such as "Liviat", "Palai", "Eldera" and so fourth. But Anatefka's favorite dog was her own. A cub whom she adopted. The one she called Demone.

Though Anatefka had fully joined the animal kingdom, the world of humans still had its uses.

Every night the girl and her dogs would swim across the river to the city, where they would raid the garbage laden streets for scraps. Nestled in the shadows, the savage child would gnaw on a peice of gristle while her comrades searched for more morsels. But at any unfamiliar sound, the hunting party would turn tail and run back to the safety of the isle.


From the spiny towers of the Palace of Justice, a lone figure looked out at the small Isle. He was none other than judge Claude Frollo. Squinting against the glare, he spotted a child drinking from the river. But instead of using a cup, she knelt down on all fours. Lapping up the water like a dog.

"She's a savage. I've seen her before" he told one of his captains. "She crosses the river every night to raid the rubbish."

"How will we know where to find her when she comes ashore?"

"I dont think it should be that hard" the Judge scoffed. "Just follow the smell."