JMJ

FOUR

It was a brisk time for moving in, right after Christmas as it was; though, the air was a little warmer than usual for this time of year. Amidst the snow which framed it, Notre Dame looked nicely refreshed, somehow still glowing in a way from Midnight Mass with a gleam that warmed the spirits.

Although plenty chilled in midmorning and the warmth of indoors called out to him, Fr. Pierre André paused first to look up at the high towers reaching up into the silver sky. He felt somewhat intimidated despite its unusual freshness, it must be admitted. Having been removed as curé of a quiet little parish in a peaceful sleepy village, this cannot be seen as that extraordinary. Not that he had never been to a cathedral. He had been ordained in one. He had lived and studied in the presence of Notre Dame itself, and his village was not far from Paris. The Lady after whom the church was named also claimed a special place in his heart, for he had had a devotion to her as protector of the first daughter of the Church since his seminary days. Yet it was a daunting task which lay ahead of him as the acting priest of such a cathedral of so many city dwellers and under a hard master, the Archdeacon Claude Frollo.

Fr. André was a funny, round-faced little man. In the cold his round nose might have been replaced with a cherry, and even in the warmth of his new dormitory room later, the rose-color in his nose would not fade out completely. He had a head of prematurely balding chestnut hair which his cap could not quite conceal. The roundness of his form was more hereditary shape in his short body and thick bones more than a soft lifestyle. Despite his hikes (more convenient to walk than to try to ride up on a horse of donkey) along the gnarly hill to give the sacraments to an elderly man who lived outside the village and a few other regularly-made treks for his parishioners he showed no signs of physical ability. His gray eyes were very mild beneath soft brows. He had also a slight habit of fidgeting when nervous as now. His fingers played with the sleeves of his robe at that very moment, and overall he possessed an appearance that would make most agree that such a priest was better off in the countryside in a quiet little church or possibly at a private chapel for a devout lord or lady but not the acting priest of Notre Dame in the middle of the city of Paris. No one agreed more than Fr. André himself!

The fact was, that the archdeacon was not a priest. It was not necessary to be a priest in order to be an archdeacon, but in a diocese in which there was no true archbishop Fr. André felt there to be something not quite right in there somewhere. Nevertheless it was the archdeacon who personally chose Fr. André to come and replace another priest who apparently, rumor went, had not gotten along well with the archdeacon. Talk of such unrest within the hierarchy was most unsettling to Fr. André, especially as there were other assistant priests at Notre Dame more adept who had not been invited to take the position. Why the archdeacon chose him was beyond him. He had only met him in person a few times before, and most of those times were before his ordination. In the end, Fr. André at least had to believe that it was God's will that he had been called here whatever the reason the archdeacon had.

It was a challenge which Fr. André felt to be better suited for someone more experienced and stronger willed and certainly stronger in the faith. God-willing he would get through this, especially since tomorrow was the first of January. The Feast of the Circumcision of our Lord, yes, a good and noble day in itself, but the people of Paris would not give up also their Feast of Fools easily. Fr. André was not certain that he had the strength to deal with that on his first full day here even with the help of the archdeacon.

After becoming acclimated to his new quarters in the dormitories he could at least comfort himself with the idea that he would have a normal evening mass at Notre Dame before the morrow. He was getting into the usual mode of Mass, vesting and readying himself with the help of the altar boys. There were yet few people inside, giving him time in plenty to go over to kneel before the statue of Notre Dame where it resided to the side of the aisle in a small alcove chapel, and he prayed for her to intercede for him to the Lord for extra strength.

Directly above him, little to his knowledge, was a strange figure in the gallery with head bowed towards the high altar for a small promised prayer of three Hail Maries and one Our Father. Only after Fr. André left the chapel did the figure above begin to move. The sound of the movement aroused the jittery man's head upward, and he saw a queer silhouette that made absolutely no sense unless it belonged to a wild boar attempting to lift itself up like a bear. Whatever it belonged to noticed that it had been spotted, and in an instant it slipped out of view in a stooped sort of way. It hid behind a door surprisingly quite silently and footsteps made their way up to the bell towers.

With eyes still on the gallery, Fr. André tugged on the sleeve of an altar boy, and leaning down to him with eyes still upwards, he asked, "What was that?"

The boy looked a little confused at first, but when he followed the priest's gaze he smiled knowingly, "Oh, that was only Quasimodo, abbé."

"What?" asked Fr. André.

"He lives in the bell tower and rings the bells."

"Lives in it?"

Oh! This was going to be a rough job.

"And is he … all right?" he asked.

"He's an orphan living here through the charity of the Church," a most powerful voice sounded behind them making both altar boy and priest jump.

It was the archdeacon himself looking quite important. He resembled in build his predecessor, but here the similarity ended. Originally the more handsome of the two brothers, his face had grown a tad tight and sharp over the past six years of looking so grim; though, he had lost none of his presence. Nor was one hardly able to consider him ugly even if more intimidating than the cathedral's façade.

"No need to bother yourself about him, abbé," the archdeacon continued far more natural in tone now. "He's quite harmless. A half-wit and rather deformed, the poor boy."

"Oh …" said Fr. André fidgeting a little and looking down at the floor. Then lifting his eyes hesitantly he asked, "What gave him such a fright?"

"Not fright," replied the archdeacon. "He more likely simply realized he was almost late to ring the bells. He takes his duty seriously. It may be the only thing he takes seriously."

"But why does—" Fr. André tried to say and nearly jumped out of his skin as the archdeacon suddenly threw his arm around his shoulder and began leading him to the front.

Frollo's strength was the power of a bear, despite his lank limbs, and Fr. André felt much like a mouse in comparison to such force against his back being propelled like an arrow to the high altar.

"There'll be time to discuss matters of the peculiarities of Notre Dame," Frollo assured him.

"Forgive me, your grace," gasped Fr. André before they had come to a stop, and it was so lost within his breath that he thought it may also have been lost to Frollo's ears as well.

But just as they reached the altar steps the archdeacon paused as he said, "I am not the archbishop but the archdeacon. I am not to be addressed as 'your grace'."

"Ah, excuse me, monsieur," said Fr. André with a smile.

"But if you are to call me something I would prefer it to be 'your honor' as I have never fully been relieved of my duty as official judge over this part of the city, and isn't that what an archdeacon is anyway? A judge? But of the clergy. I simply have my functions extend to the flock, as it were."

To this Fr. André could not get himself to agree as he gazed up at the statuary of the high altar and tried to think of how to protest as his eyes lingered on the crucifix. There were some in the higher levels of the church who wanted to lessen the power of the archdeacons not extend them. He could only pray that the diocese would receive a proper bishop one day not a more powerful archdeacon. Yet the queer bell ringer had indirectly saved him of having to say anything at all.

The bells began to ring loud and clear and as crisp as the morning outside. Fr. André could not have been more relieved when the eyes of Frollo left him. He also had not realized that his mouth had been opened rather wide, and he clamped it shut in an instant thinking of how many things he would have to pray about this mass.

#

In the tower, the bells still hummed long after Quasimodo had released his hold on the rope. Their power reverberated around him causing the world to feel a slight buzz which was not at all uncomfortable to Quasimodo but overall quite warm against the chill of winter.

With ease he climbed up towards the grand bell Marie herself, and he told her as he often did, "You're ring's just too powerful to hear directly in-person otherwise I'd've rung it up here. Remember what Master says."

With deep affection he reached high up to touch the cool side of the massive bell, and he ran his fingers along the Latin words protruding out of its base. Then in a whisk like a squirrel in a tree he slipped down into his little cloister, as he considered it. It was where he spent most of his life. A little table stood in the center and a mat bed and shelves with books kindly given to him by his master. He had ever a grand view of the city of Paris before which he moved a stool over so as to look out with ease in between his work.

Taking a basket out from under the table little knowing it was the very same which had held an infant for whom he was replaced. In it now were blocks of wood also kindly given to him, and he examined each block with care until he found one which he decided best suited for the life he would give it. He smiled with satisfaction and took it to his stool along with a knife from a clean wooden box on the table which he had carved out himself. Then he sat down in his chair and hovered intently over the wood as he examined it. Grinning queerly to himself he began to whittle away at the wood in the hope of a new addition to the crowd of little wooden doll people in front of a very intricately detailed model of the majestic Notre Dame along with the neighboring buildings. Only one lone doll was not on the scene. It was a figure that resembled somewhat the old archdeacon Benjamin Frollo and stood in the light of a window of sorts. One could only imagine the symbolic positioning of him to mean that Quasimodo believed him to be in heaven.

Just below this window was a shelf which held a little box of parchment and another of pens and inks of various shapes and sizes. Some seemed to have been fashioned by Quasimodo out of personally gathered dove feathers while others were more likely gift-given but personalized with interestingly designed hand grips and florally carved butts of which Quasimodo was quite proud.

After a time in his initial whittling, Quasimodo began to look a little discouraged.

He muttered to himself, "No. No. It's not quite right."

After a moment's pause in thought, he hopped out of his chair leaving his block and tool on the table, and he hurried to the door. With the utmost care, after he had entered the cathedral, he crept as silently as a cat to the gallery again where he could catch a quick final glimpse of Fr. André, a delightful artistic subject with his round little body and rosy nose and funny way about him. To look as unassuming, approachable, and gentle as that man must be a comforting thing Quasimodo could not help but think.

Besides just being an interesting subject to carve, Quasimodo could not help but like him. He felt for his nervousness as he addressed the congregation for his first Parisian sermon. He was a man of the countryside, a place which Quasimodo could only vaguely imagine from it being described and from the faraway green on the horizon outside the city which could be seen as gleaming like a living border of emerald on clear days from the tower heights. Save in color, Quasimodo thought Fr. André resembled much his homeland of soft rolling hills, both foreign and familiar to Quasimodo at the same time in a most contradicting manner like an uncle only remembered from a half forgotten childhood.

He glanced once up at the altar with a hesitant reverence before going back. He had already said his promised prayers; though he had only prayed them in the church itself because he had been down there anyway to settle his curiosity in seeing the new priest. Usually he said them in his cloister. Any new addition to the neighborhood and Quasimodo knew about it whether by his master's telling him or not, and a person new at the cathedral was always most exciting. He tried to hold the new image in his mind to carve him well enough.

As he spoke, Fr. André paused and seemed to somehow feel Quasimodo's eyes upon him. He looked up, but by the time his eyes focused on the gallery, there was no trace of anyone having been there. Quasimodo had already disappeared. Thus with a clearing of his throat, Fr. André continued as before and thought no more about it—at least not until later when he distinctly took note in Frollo brining food up into the towers.

#

The tray of hard dark bread but soft cheese and a little to drink was set down upon the table in Quasimodo's little abode. A slice of apple was next to it for which Quasimodo took special delight as he looked up from his block of wood.

"Oh, thank you, master," he said.

"How is that book I gave you?" asked Frollo with little response to Quasimodo's gratitude. "Have you started it?"

"I'm about half way, master."

"Do you understand it well enough?"

"Uh …"

Quasimodo put down his things and came to his stool at the table a little hesitantly.

"Well, I—" said Quasimodo uneasily. "I'm trying to, master. Some of it is a little hard to picture."

"Such as?" asked Frollo.

"Well, just how such advanced mathematics can produce such architecture," said Quasimodo who did most of his work measuring by eye or simple tools and not much actual equations. "The Greeks were very clever. Such figuring is very difficult for me. I'm sorry." He failed to mention that the Greek language had never been one of his strong points either. He could read Latin as well as he could speak French, but Greek was something he had never quite grasped.

"Well, you know well enough that there would be no architecture without mathematics. Geometry and advanced geometry. Ancient temples of ancient Greece and Rome had more architectural genius than even Notre Dame, and Notre Dame itself would never have held together without such ingenuity. It is one of the things which separates mankind from the beasts."

Quasimodo lowered his head and understood.

"Perhaps if you spent a little more time on studies than whittling you would understand it better," said Frollo with a gentle hand upon the arch on Quasimodo's back, which always seemed to hunch more when Frollo was around and certainly stood out more the more Frollo silently brought attention to it.

"A little, I guess. I did use it in my carving. Measuring, I mean, but … um. What do you think, master?" He showed Frollo his latest piece in mid-transformation to the human figure.

"Keep trying," Frollo muttered before glancing up out to Paris. "At least his eyes are wavering enough. You certainly got them right."

Again Quasimodo lowered his head, for he sensed the disdain and did not realize that it was directed more towards Fr. André than his work. After setting the woodblock on the table near his food he stepped beside his master and looked out with him for a moment before looking down into the square.

"They're setting up the tents for the festival tomorrow," he remarked quietly.

Frollo's face grew dark with annoyance. Crossing his arms he resembled some leering owl from the shadows. "Yes …" he said with a voice darker than his face. "The Feast of Fools."

"It's almost as colorful as Easter," said Quasimodo warily.

"Except on Easter everyone does not act like a buffoon," said Frollo, who instead of leaving the sight of the work outside, came out into the quickly closing evening on the balcony outside.

Quasimodo bounded after him.

"Well, but it's only in fun, isn't it?" he asked hopefully. "I mean, besides the desecrating the mass thing, but we got rid of that at our noble Notre Dame. You must have a good time out there, don't you, master? I suppose I would if I went down there."

"Probably not," remarked Frollo.

Drooping more than before Quasimodo stared down at the stones below his feet and he wrung his hands together. "Well, I meant if I was …" He would not bring himself to finish. After all, Frollo knew what he meant.

"Quasimodo," said Frollo turning from the balcony back to his adopted son wallowing like a puddle behind him. "I know you are at that tender age where you are no longer a child, and you are feeling restless. But you are going to have to let it go. It will pass, mon garçon. Adolescence always does."

Quasimodo nodded somberly, eyes still on the stone floor, and he shivered a little in a chill breeze.

"Besides," said Frollo almost lightly now as he again patted that awkward lump of bone behind Quasimodo's head, "if you remember, it was you who decided not to come out with me anymore among the people after the way they stared and mocked. It was only for you that you don't. Unless you've changed you mind …"

Quasimodo shook his head. "No, master, I want to stay up here where I belong. If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have the safe haven I have now. I don't belong with them for more reasons than one."

At last he dared to raise his eyes to his master again, and his master returned him with a look that was as kind as the master's face ever became; though Quasimodo never took it personally. It was just Frollo's personality, after all, to have a cold exterior. Inside, Quasimodo knew, Frollo cared very much.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," said Frollo now simply resting his hand upon the hump as one may rest one's hand upon a shelf or table. "Just eat your supper, and continue with your studies and your carving of Fr. André . It isn't bad, really."

"Thank you, master," said Quasimodo feeling somewhat encouraged; a small smile appeared on his face.

He followed his master back into the tower, and Frollo left him to eat. For a few moments Quasimodo stood in the middle of the floor rather blankly. It may have seemed to some that he was deep in thought about something, but whether or not this is true he had been out of it, staring so wide-eyed at some naked beam, that he forgot entirely what it had been when he woke to himself again. With a heavy sigh he picked up his plate and his drink and took his food with him up to the bells.

Slowly eating as though every chew were an effort he remained rather motionless otherwise and continued to stare into space until he had finished even the apple slice without nearly as much luster as he had imagined when he had first laid eyes upon it.

"I try not to feel bad about it, Marie," he told the bell. "I try not to, but I can't help it."

He sighed heavily and held his hands between his knees with a little more life to his movements than while eating, and he rocked his folded hands between those crooked knees. As though someone was truly listening, he felt he could open up again from the shell that had encased him on the balcony.

"All my life I've been nothing. I'm not even a pagan. I'm a gargoyle or a grotesque. And what do they do?" He waited as though for an answer, but he ended in answering for himself, "Scare everyone away including demons. I'm so hideous I scare them away too, I bet. I was the one who first brought up not going outside anymore when I used to go out with Master when I was little. I didn't want people to stare at me anymore. I still remember the horror and disgust and hatred I saw in those faces we would pass. That's why Master forbade me to go out anymore, because it pained me so much to do so even if I did like seeing people up close. It was not worth it to only watch them turn around and see a revolting monster behind them. For the sake of the people. For the sake of myself. One of my only consolations is your beautiful song every day. You mean so much to me, Big Marie, and all your little sisters. You don't have to see how ugly I am, for which I am so grateful. To you I'm just a strong pair of arms that helps you to sing …"