It's All Greek To Me

Thursday October 26th, nightfall

A single candle lit the bell-tower. It's flickering light danced through the beams, scattered by mobiles of broken glass. "Sing." Quasimodo gritted his crooked teeth whilst throwing his weight into the ropes. The bells remained stubbornly slow. Compline was not only ill, it was shameful. Through his spinning vision and growing weakness, he struggled. Each bell lagged farther behind the last, creating a dying melody.

Having sounded the last bell, Quasimodo collapsed to his knees. He looked at the floor, then to his table and his quill. The candlelight burned his eyes, creating doubled images. His stomach burned, carrying liquid fire into his mouth, whilst crying out with hunger and nausea. The bells echoed in his head as a deep throbbing buzz, a sharp ringing in deaf ears. His eyes ached.

Quasimodo crawled toward his table, toward his lesson. His head grew increasingly warm and heavy. Lowering himself to his elbows, he soon found himself closer to the safety of the floor. Rolling onto his right side, he leaned against a beam, his hump resting against firm planks. The floor was shaking. His distorted thoughts raced in circles.

Master would be furious when finding the lesson incomplete. Not simply incomplete, but untouched. His eyes throbbed, his balance lost in a spinning bell tower. Would Master take pity on him, seeing that he was clearly ill?

Quasimodo clenched his eyelids closed for a moment, attempting to rise from the floor. He gasped. What could Master do to make him feel worse than he already did? Quasimodo remained on the floor, shaking. Was this a punishment for his silent wishes for a different life? Wishes that he dare not even speak about to God? Words that remained outside his prayers?

He shielded his eye with his hand, only allowing a sliver of light through. He watched his work table, willing it closer. The Greek, Latin and English texts remained still on his table, as did his ink and quill. The lesson disobeyed him as stubbornly as his own body. Struggling to keep his right eye open, his attention darted to the floor. Feet approached him, at least five of them.

The tower became brighter. He closed his eyes and struggled to close out the bright, swirling light.

Sunday, October 29th, mid-day

Ariel lightly brushed his hair away from his face. His hair was almost the same shade as her own. His hands, they were much like hers, aside from their size and thickness. She smiled at the shaking, sleeping terranian, this human. What else could he be?

Gently, she touched his large eyebrow. Was it a jellyfish sting? Has he hit his head? Hesitantly, Ariel touched his forehead, feeling the softness of his skin and the firmness of the underlying bone. Her hand rested on his left eyebrow, the firmness evident. His skin was smooth under her finger.

His eyelids sprang open, then grew wide.

Ariel startled as he pushed away from her, away from the water. His arms, bound in sails, caused him to falter. He lay on his back, gasping as if a fish out of water.

"Please. Don't leave." Ariel reached out with her hand. The human didn't move, yet breathed heavily. He was struggling to escape, loosening the sail cloth and tossing soil into the air as he pushed himself away from the water, and her. Ariel brushed the dirt away, yet remained still. She calmly watched as he submitted to the sails that held him.

"Please. Stay." Ariel held out her hand.

He quieted his movements, his weary eyes meeting hers. He lay on the shore, his shaking hands buried into the damp earth. He appeared half blind, as if forcing his eyes to remain open.

"Who are you?" Ariel asked. The terranian remained silent, his shoulders relaxing onto the beach. "What happened?"

Ariel moved closer to him, away from the safety of the ocean. He seemed harmless, if not entirely helpless. She placed her hand on his shoulder, drawing his attention to her.

"Who are you?"

He blinked a few times, his eyes unfocused. His lips parted for a moment only to close. He turned away, groaning as if in pain.

Ariel sighed. Land creatures drank from creeks and rivers. Fish-eaters... humans drank from bottles. She scanned the shoreline. Broken crates and casks lay scattered among the black rocks and broken ships. Ariel pushed herself into the water, scanning through the sand and seaweed for a corked bottle or a sealed cask.

His head throbbed. Sunlight burned his eyes, blinding him. Air seared through his nose, his ribs aching in protest with each shaking breath. Water. He craved water, yet dreaded the feeling of allowing more cold within him.

Quasimodo lay still, forcing himself to breathe. He wiggled his fingers into the cool, damp surface under him. The air smelled strange and sharp. Unable to escape the bright light, he pulled his eyelids tightly closed. The red light grew darker, his head throbbed. He struggled to remember the last few days, to remember anything that could tell him where he was or why. His stomach complained with hunger. His body lay weak from thirst and cold.

Something touched his face, something warm yet light. A shadow loomed overhead, fingers brushing over his brow. Every part of him told him to push away, to escape whatever touched him. His shoulders remained bound. The floor, it moved away from him, sinking as wet sawdust.

A hand appeared in his line of vision. Someone, a woman, was reaching out to him. She pulled the sails from his chest, freeing his arms. Her lips moved, her fingers gently rested on his bare shoulder. She pressed something cool and damp against his lips. He leaned away. She held him firmly, not letting him lay.

Water graced his lips. Water? No. It was sweet, yet bitter like ale.

Quasimodo drank readily.

The woman pulled the bottle away. He placed the back of his hand to his parched lips. He scanned her face for some form of disgust, some sign that she would turn away. She followed his eyes, watching him with curious fascination.

"Thank-you." His words were weak.

The woman held the bottle in her right hand, her head tilting as he spoke. Her left hand, it remained on his shoulder. He looked to her, to her long damp hair. Her arms and shoulders were naked. He averted his eyes, not certain where to rest them. He felt the cool glass bottle press against his hands. He took the bottle, drinking its contents.

He turned, to see the woman motioning toward a cask. It was then that he saw her exposed midriff, that she wore only shells on her bosom and a shimmering green skirt. He felt his face grow warm, he turned his attention toward the empty bottle.

The woman's hands rested on the bottle, on his hands. He looked to the stony shoreline, away from the woman and her hands. Near his naked toes lay a fish, it's green, translucent fins gently rising and falling. He followed the fish to his side, to the woman that sat next to him.

He pulled away, yet found himself unable to stand. He was dizzy, certainly hallucinating. A monster. Quasimodo struggled to command his strength. It had left him. His hands sunk into the earth. He dug his heels, in a weak attempt to push himself away from the water and the woman.

A warm hand touched his wrist. He looked to her hand, then her eyes. She stared into his eyes. At his face. She reached out to him, pleading. Her lips moved in an unfamiliar way, making unknown words.

A monster? She appeared to have saved him.

Her lips moved. Not harshly, but softly. She was speaking to him. A nearly-naked fish woman was speaking to him. Not a fish-woman, but a mermaid like in the stories he'd read. What was she saying? If only his ears worked, he may be able to understand.

She placed her hand on her chest and said a single word. Quasimodo looked to her, words hovering on his lips.

Quasimodo remained still, scanning her face for something he knew, a familiar word. His lips parted, she looked at him excitedly, nodding in anticipation.

The edges of his mouth turned downward, his shoulders slumped. He looked away. Feeling a hand on his arm, he looked again to the woman, her words rapid and unfamiliar. She gestured with her hands, toward the water and him. She held up her arms making a lifting motion. All the while, she chatted in an animated manner.

Clearly, she was comfortable around him. If only he understood her words.

He looked to the dry stone.

Carefully, he wrote each letter of his name, that ugly word, onto the rock, using a clod of soil as a pen. He touched it, then his chest with his fingertips. His voice trembled as he said his own name. He knew not how loud, or how clear. His eyes grew wide as he felt her hand wrap around his fingers.

"Quasimodo." She smiled, then gestured to him. She wrote a few letters with her wet finger.

"Ariel."

A wave lapped onto the shore, blurring their names and causing Quasimodo to shiver in the cold.

Ariel tilted her head, looking at the sails that clung onto him in tatters. He trembled.

"Why would you save someone like me?" He spoke in his own language.

Quasimodo looked to her, noting a confused expression. He tried again in Latin, then Greek. She understood Greek.

"You were going to die." Ariel stated flatly.

Both remained still, near the water's edge. Ariel dipped her fins in the water. Quasimodo stared out at the never-ending ocean, at the blue sky. He closed his eyes, his head low. He brought his hands to his forehead, covering his face and shielding his eyes from the light. Tears formed, moistening his palms. His breathing was deep and regular. Otherwise, he remained still.

Water began to soak his ankles, the already narrow shoreline rising toward him. Quasimodo opened his eyes to find himself alone. The cask remained a short distance away. He pressed his knuckles into the earth and pushed himself to stand. To his sensitive feet, the stone felt aggressive and rough. He leaned against the cask and looked to the ocean. Waves and rocks were all he could see. To the south lay a narrow inlet and the remnants of broken ships. To the north lay a steep cliff and more crashing waves. Behind him, a steep hill of rocks, soil and grass rose sharply from the beach.

Quasimodo looked to his naked toes, to his tattered hose and britches. He clung the sailcloth over his otherwise naked shoulders and back, enjoying every bit of warmth it offered. The sun was approaching the horizon. It would soon be time to ring the Vespers. A chill moved through him, leaving his heart aching and his spirit empty. His stomach growled.

He walked along the nearby shore, pulling treasures from between rocks and from the soil. Frayed pieces of rope, flints and broken glass lay in crevasses and tide pools. Driftwood lay stuck between rocks. Having wrapped the glass in sail cloth, he scraped it against a board. Curls of wood, like those that fell from his carvings, tumbled onto a bed of dried grass. He looked to the flint, ready to strike it and start a fire. Instead, he set the flint on the sand. The air was not so cold, layers of sails providing more warmth than any blanket.

Quasimodo sat alone on the shore, wrapped in layers. He continued to drink from the cask of ale. Was he imagining that a mermaid had brought it to him, that a mermaid had brought him here? How else could he have arrived in such a place, alive, and wrapped in sailcloth. Behind him, the hill appeared as a black jagged mass. Perhaps a village lay on the other side.

The night passed slowly. Sleep came in short bouts, disturbed by hunger. With each waking, he searched for familiar stone and wooden walls, then lay confused on the moonlit shore, wondering where he was and why. Much like his bell tower, the stars blanketed him from above, with only sky surrounding him. Unlike home, the sky danced as green and purple ripples of light, ghostly shadows sweeping between him and the stars.

He looked up at the stars and prayed.