A Sleepless Night

Quasimodo awoke disoriented, to the scent of smoke. He rolled himself from the cool, soft earth. Turning his attention to the sky, he watched the broad blanket of stars. The moon glowed from behind one of the many clouds that streaked the sky. To either side of him was darkness, a view identical to that from atop Notre Dame. Unlike the night from atop Notre Dame, there was no breeze. He shivered.

Reaching his hands over the frosted ground, he spread out his fingers in search of sticks and twigs. Finding none, he reached to his shoulders, pulling his cloak to his chilled ears. After wiggling his toes, he felt them warm slightly. As the clouds moved, moonlight revealed his sleeping friends and the fire.

Quasimodo knelt forward, nearer the faint red of dying embers. He piled the warm ashes and charred sticks toward the smallest red glow. Gently, he blew into the ashes, stirring smoke into the air. A small tongue of flame began to lick the unburnt branches. Smoke billowed from the stack of wet debris. The flames cut through the darkness, illuminating the surrounding fence and road.

Branches burned, sending sparks of red and orange light into the sky. The pile of rails sat nearby, Quasimodo reached under them, collecting pieces of bark and broken ends. He fed the fire.

Moving closer to the flames, Quasimodo warmed his chilled hands. His fingers grew hot. He brought his fingers to his face, resting his thumbs on his chin and his index fingers between his eyes. He watched sparks scatter from the damp wood and bark, shooting small red stars upward. His eyes followed the tiny lights as they faded into the night sky. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his palms, only moving to add twigs.

Quasimodo opened his eyes to see Phoebus had disappeared. Esmeralda approached him. Grasping his arms she pulled at him, drawing him away from the fire.

"Esmeralda, what are you doing? Where is Phoebus?"

"Reynard will take all of us back to Paris." Esmeralda beamed. "It will be a tight fit in the cart, yet we can get you home."

Quasimodo turned to see Phoebus burying the fire under soil. Esmeralda released his hand and walked off into the night. He stood in place, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Sighing in frustration, he remained still. They were probably calling for him, expecting him to follow their voices. He cupped his left hand behind his ear, struggling to hear the faintest shouting.

A large hand landed on his shoulder, gently pushing him forward. Looking to the right, he could see Phoebus' faint silhouette before the starry sky. Straining his eyes, he struggled to focus on a black blob on the road. The scent of horse sweat appeared on the air.

As the cart neared, he reached out, grasping its edge. He felt the cart tilt as Esmeralda stepped in. Phoebus' hand left his shoulder. Esmeralda's hands touched his arms. He stepped into the cart, seating himself among the sacks of grain and onions. The cart jutted forward, causing him to brace himself against the side of the cart. Esmeralda's hand patted his shoulder. A half smile appeared on Quasimodo's face, as he lowered his gaze to the road.

By the pale moonlight, Quasimodo watched the faint shadow of his shoes. Every movement, that of the horse, Reynard, Phoebus and Esmeralda, could be felt. He looked to his companions, they appeared as black shadows, moving and gesturing.

The cart trembled and bounced as the horse plodded down the frozen road. Quasimodo looked to his right, to see Esmeralda's hands moving about. To his left, he could see Phoebus laughing. Beyond their animated silhouettes, he could read nothing. They seemed oblivious to his presence in the cart, yet he could not be sure. He frowned, turning away from his friends, the first he'd ever had. They had found him, by some miracle.

He lifted his gaze to the sky, to the slow-moving clouds and band of stars. He smiled at the thought of Esmeralda's hand touching his cheek, of Phoebus sharing his wine with him. Even in silence, the message was clear. They cared for him like no one ever had.

Lowering his head, he again focused on his feet, which swung as shadows with each motion of the cart. His feet and legs grew numb, the rhythmic motion lulling him into a trance.

Behind closed eyes, Quasimodo imagined Claude Frollo. His robes were neat and clean, not a fold out of place. He was severe, calm and terrifying. Quasimodo clenched his eyes at the thought of what had become of his Master, his teacher. A pile of ashes, bones and blackened jewellery in the square.

Others gathered to lift the dead, and there were many, away for burial. Quasimodo had knelt, on his own, over the remains of Claude Frollo, scooping all that remained into a vegetable crate lined with burlap. He ignored those around him, choosing instead to focus on his grisly task. The words of others were meaningless, and likely hurtful. The whisk gathered ashes, bone fragments and bits of lead into a tray. He set the iron cross onto the pile of remains, before closing the lid. Wordlessly, he disappeared into Notre Dame.

There was no place for Claude Frollos remains. Quasimodo remained inside the cathedral, in a dark corner, clutching the box in his arms. Father Lacroix approached him, gently resting his hand on Quasimodo's. Quasimodo looked to Father Lacroix.

"You don't have to do this, Quasimodo." The priest placed his hands on the box, pulling it away from the bell-ringer. His grasp met resistance, as Quasimodo pulled the crate to his chest.

"I must, Father." He held the box closer. Lower lip trembling, he looked to the priest. "Where will he rest? Where must I go?"

"Unconsecrated ground, Quasimodo. Montfaucon will suffice."

Quasimodo looked down at the box, at the hemp strings fastening the lid.

"Somewhere that he will never be disturbed. Wherever that is, I will take him there."

Father Lacroix placed his hand on Quasimodo's shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"Arrangements will be made." Father Lacroix tugged the box from Quasimodo's grasp. "Until then, rest. I will ensure this is kept safe."

Quasimodo startled as Esmeralda nudged his shoulder. Looking upward, he smiled as the bell towers filled the sky. Cautiously, he stepped out of the cart, feeling it lift away from him as he stood on the cobbles. His hand was on the Cathedral door, when he turned to see the shadowy cart and horse disappear into the streets.

As he opened the door, he was met with the glow of a few candles. He lifted a single candle, cupping it's earthenware bowl in his hands. He started toward the stairs, to his tower. After placing his foot on the first step, he looked to the little flame in his hands. He frowned, then turned toward the nave. It had been a very long day. Everything was now quiet, a new day having only started. Maybe now, with Notre Dame was deserted, God would listen to him.

With uneven, pained steps, Quasimodo stepped over the checkerboard tiles. He limped past the pews, statues and frescos. As he continued, the scent of Frankincense grew stronger. His gait slowed as he approached the high altar. The flickering light in his hands caused the polished marble, glass and gold to sparkle.

Quasimodo stood a few steps away from the altar. The Virgin Mary sat calmly, Christ draped across her lap. They were surrounded by angels. All of them were perfect, their marble skin both flawless and timeless. Before them, a large golden cross shimmered by light of the candle.

Quasimodo took another step forward, his legs trembling. He swallowed. He looked to either side, following the light of the candle toward the shadows, for movement. The air was still. He breathed in deeply, then out, slowly. Gently, Quasimodo lowered himself to the floor, resting on his tired knees.

He drew a single wooden stick from the bowl before him. He swirled the beeswax next to his candle, then lowered the stick to the flame. The altar flashed brightly as flame swallowed the melted wax.

"Heavenly Father. Grant eternal rest unto him. Let perpetual light shine upon him..."

With a steady hand, he lifted the burning stick into the watched the smoke curl upward into the still air. His words echoed in his head. "...because of your defects, you must not approach the altar." Quasimodo felt his hand begin to tremble.

"...May he rest..."

Before the flame could reach the candle, the stick fell from his hand. He closed his eyes.

"Heavenly Father. Please forgive me." Quasimodo stood, his legs complaining. He looked to his hands, then to the perfectly carved Virgin. "I'm sorry." Burying his face in his hands, he turned away from the altar.

As quickly as he could, Quasimodo moved toward the north tower. Without thought, he raced up the steps, toward his loft. Once in his sanctuary, he leaned against one of the beams. Pushing his right hand over his forehead and through his hair, he sighed heavily. He looked upward, into the darkness where his bells slept. He gestured his hand to the sky, to heaven.

"What am I supposed to do now?"

For a few moments, he remained still against the wall. The tower was dark, damp and as silent as ever. He lowered himself to the floor and removed his shoes. Cold air burned his exposed toes. Gently, he lowered himself onto his straw bed, pulling a moth-eaten wool blanket over his cloaked shoulders. He drew his feet under the blankets, kneading the blanket with his chilled toes. Within a few moments, his body began to relax. Aches moved through him, almost as a wave. A single beam of moonlight moved across the wooden floor, then faded to darkness.


"Quasimodo. Come here at once."

Quasimodo's eyes sprang open as Frollo's voice echoed through the bell tower. Hastily tossing his blanket aside, he stood at the top of the ladder. His eyes were wide at the sight of his Master standing at the bottom of the ladder, basket in-hand.

"Did you hear me boy? Now." Frollo spoke firmly, his words clear and pointed. He did not lift his gaze, nor did he move.

Quasimodo stepped down, then knelt to the floor. He folded his hands, as if in prayer. He looked to his Masters feet.

"A monk happened to notice you in the nave yesterday after the midnight prayer." Frollo ruffled Quasimodo's hair, causing him to look up. "Whatever brought you there, dear boy?"

"I was praying, Master." Quasimodo lowered himself further, his head tilted to the left. He watched Frollo with his right eye. Frollo placed his index finger under Quasimodo's chin, forcing him to look upward. A shiver moved up Quasimodo's shoulders and back, causing him to tremble.

"Whatever would you pray for?" Frollo sighed, staring at his ward with downcast eyes.

"To be with the other children, Master. If God could..."

Quasimodo's words stopped as he felt the back of his Masters hand strike the side of his face. The force caused his left cheek to press to his shoulder. Eyes clenched shut, Quasimodo breathed in sharply. He remained still and quiet.

"Ungrateful, selfish child! This is your sanctuary. Do you not understand? You are not to leave this place by either night or day." Quasimodo drew his small hand to his cheek, revealing blood. "Answer me, boy."

"I thought it was safe, Master." Quasimodo continued to lean into his shoulder. "That no one would see." His words were soft, almost whispered.

"God sees all, Quasimodo." Frollo remained still, his eyes remaining downcast. "Come this way."

Quasimodo watched as his Frollo ascended the ladder. With a bloodied hand, he grasped the edge of the ladder. Frollo guided him to the larger table in the centre of the room. The basket of provisions sat on the other side of a large, worn bible. After instructing Quasimodo to sit, Frollo opened the bible. He carefully moved through the pages, smoothing them with each turn. Quasimodo watched, in silence.

"Read for me, boy."

Quasimodo pulled himself onto the stool and looked at the artfully inked works. He began to read.

The LORD said to Moses, "Say to Aaron: 'For the generations to come none of your descendants who has a defect may come near to offer the food of his God.

No man who has any defect may come near: no man who is blind or lame, disfigured or deformed; no man with a crippled foot or hand, or who is hunchbacked or dwarfed, or who has any eye defect, or who has festering or running sores or damaged testicles.

No descendant of Aaron the priest who has any defect is to come near to present the offerings made to the LORD by fire. He has a defect; he must not come near to offer the food of his God. He may eat the most holy food of his God, as well as the holy food; yet because of his defect, he must not go near the curtain or approach the altar, and so desecrate my sanctuary.

I am the LORD, who makes them holy.

As Quasimodo finished the last words, his eyes were filled with tears. "Master, I didn't know."

"What does this mean, Quasimodo?" Frollo placed a hand on Quasimodo's hump, holding him on the stool. "What is the word of God?"

Quasimodo looked at the words. His lips parted as if to speak. Instead, his lower lip quivered.

"Because of your defects, you are unfit to stand before God. Do not defile the altar of Notre Dame with your presence." Frollo lifted the basket from the table and stepped toward the ladder. Before descending, he turned to face Quasimodo once more. "I expect you to commit these passages to memory by this evening."

"I am sorry, Master. I will not disappoint you." Quasimodo nodded, his words trembling. Forcing a swallow, he sat as upright as nature allowed him. His stomach rumbled as he spoke.

Frollo turned once more. "Then Jesus answered and said: It is written..."

"...not in bread alone doth man live, but in every word that proceedeth from the mouth of God." **

"Very good, Quasimodo. For the moment all discipline seems painful rather than pleasant, but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."*** Claude Frollo nodded upward, before turning a downward glance to Quasimodo. "I shall see you at sunset."


* Leviticus 21:18 - 22

** Matthew 4:4

***Hebrews 12:11