Fate of a bellringer, Chapter 1
The bells had rung beautifully, as never before. It had been a long, rich pealing that had lasted close to thirty minutes. Quasimodo sat trembling from exhaustion and happiness. He'd felt the tower shake, been lifted from rope to rope by the motion of the bells. The music was beautiful, fit for a king. It was possible that this was the first time the bells had sounded so glorious. What was the occasion? It was not a Christmas, a wedding, nor a coronation. It was the first day new members of the church could accept communion, the first day of spring, his first opportunity to ring the bells in celebration as official bellringer; it was his day, Quasimodo Sunday.
Quasimodo laid himself out on the floor and relaxed his tired muscles, breathing deeply. Suddenly, he felt something warm on his cheek. Curious, Quasimodo lifted his head & felt the dampness with his fingers. Once into view, he realized it was his own blood. Quasimodo shook his head lightly, then ran his hands down the side of his face. Blood was dripping freely from both of his ears. At this time, Quasimodo became aware that he could hear neither the birds chittering above him in the rafters, the soft mumble of the monks down below him, nor his own breathing.
Arising, Quasimodo washed the blood from his ears, staining the water red. As he washed, the blood flowed faster. He tore the damp cloth in two, holding them against his ears. The bleeding had to stop. A few moments later he lay on his bed, his reddened ears now silent, in prayer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the next morning, nothing had changed, thus fate had struck him down again. Quasimodo arose in the silence of the morning and soon made his way to the belfry. He shuddered as he approached the rope. What would happen if the bellringer failed to play the right bells? If the city was awaken to a broken song? Quasimodo grasped the first rope & pulled downward, awaiting the sound of the bell.
"Dong"
A perfect E had rang out, just as the day before. Quasi laughed under the all-encompassing peal of the bell, it was all a dream. Quickly leaping to the next rope, Quasimodo continued his morning seralingo, smiling the whole time. The blood had meant nothing, nothing at all. It was only later when Quasimodo realized the truth.
While sliding down the rope to the floor below, Quasimodo caught site of Frollo approaching. He quickly released his grasp on the rope and landed on his feet before Frollo.
"Good morning, Master" Quasimodo spoke, yet did not hear. His eyes grew wide as he stared at the plank floor in astonishment. He looked up nervously to meet with his Master's cruel smile. Frollo's lips moved in silence and after laying his hand for a brief moment on his hump, Frollo made his way to the table.
The young bellringer didn't know what to make of this, yet knew Frollo mustn't know. Collecting the dishes off the shelf, Quasimodo laid them out on the tables' flat surface. Gold and ebony for master, wood for himself.
Quasimodo watched Frollo closely, trying to read his lips. Fortunately, he'd learned to do this while secretly talking with the monks. Part of not being seen was communicating in silence, something it seemed he was now trapped into.
Frollo drank at his winecup & passed a scroll to Quasimodo, which was in Frollo's own handwriting. Quasi began to unroll it, but was stopped by Claudes' hand. Having finished his wine & roll, Frollo left the bellringer alone in the tower. Quasi sighed with relief. Had there been a lesson today, Frollo certainly would have noticed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before clearing the dishes from the table, Quasimodo reached into his model city & removed the lonely figure from the miniature belltower. Grasping his knife in hand he drew the blade across the side of it's head removing the ears. He then replaced the figure & walked away indifferent.
This particular figure was a story in itself. It lacked a left eye and stood upon four shapeless limbs, as if an animal. There was no mouth and now no ears. Separated from the delicately carved and crafted figures below, it was a repulsive little carving, made endearing by the fact that it was the most pitiable in the entire city. It remained hidden, hated by all except it's creator. The real Quasimodo wasn't much different.
Quasimodo returned into the rafters with his bells, sitting next to Big Marie. He ran his rough hand over her cold smooth bronze. Had she become so jealous as to take this from him? Only to hear her voice and those of her sisters?
Then there were his lessons. He could no longer hear his Master's words, yet he could see them clearly. Where once he had turned away, it was now impossible to do so. Master demanded answers, to provide answers, he had to watch closely, pay attention to his teachings. It ripped him apart inside, but what else could be done?
Quasimodo reached back into his memory, where only two months ago Big Marie become his, bestowed upon him by the archdeacon and the monks. The monks, they rarely came to the tower anymore at all. Books and treats stopped coming as well, at which time the poor wretch realized who his benefactors had been all those past years. True, he had suspected, but now he was certain. Only Frollo visited him in the tower and not on a daily basis; Quasimodo had become a prisoner.
Having lost his hearing, he imprisoned himself as well, as a result becoming trapped inside his own mind. Those who appreciated him were gone from his life, as were their voices. Frollo mustn't know, the churchmen mustn't know, nobody must know. It was another defect in his already broken body, another scar on his being. While it can be said there was never a shortage of food or water, it is certain that a young soul needs more or it will starve. Thus cut off from every part of human society, Quasimodo did what he must to maintain his sanity. He talked to stone.
The bells had rung beautifully, as never before. It had been a long, rich pealing that had lasted close to thirty minutes. Quasimodo sat trembling from exhaustion and happiness. He'd felt the tower shake, been lifted from rope to rope by the motion of the bells. The music was beautiful, fit for a king. It was possible that this was the first time the bells had sounded so glorious. What was the occasion? It was not a Christmas, a wedding, nor a coronation. It was the first day new members of the church could accept communion, the first day of spring, his first opportunity to ring the bells in celebration as official bellringer; it was his day, Quasimodo Sunday.
Quasimodo laid himself out on the floor and relaxed his tired muscles, breathing deeply. Suddenly, he felt something warm on his cheek. Curious, Quasimodo lifted his head & felt the dampness with his fingers. Once into view, he realized it was his own blood. Quasimodo shook his head lightly, then ran his hands down the side of his face. Blood was dripping freely from both of his ears. At this time, Quasimodo became aware that he could hear neither the birds chittering above him in the rafters, the soft mumble of the monks down below him, nor his own breathing.
Arising, Quasimodo washed the blood from his ears, staining the water red. As he washed, the blood flowed faster. He tore the damp cloth in two, holding them against his ears. The bleeding had to stop. A few moments later he lay on his bed, his reddened ears now silent, in prayer.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the next morning, nothing had changed, thus fate had struck him down again. Quasimodo arose in the silence of the morning and soon made his way to the belfry. He shuddered as he approached the rope. What would happen if the bellringer failed to play the right bells? If the city was awaken to a broken song? Quasimodo grasped the first rope & pulled downward, awaiting the sound of the bell.
"Dong"
A perfect E had rang out, just as the day before. Quasi laughed under the all-encompassing peal of the bell, it was all a dream. Quickly leaping to the next rope, Quasimodo continued his morning seralingo, smiling the whole time. The blood had meant nothing, nothing at all. It was only later when Quasimodo realized the truth.
While sliding down the rope to the floor below, Quasimodo caught site of Frollo approaching. He quickly released his grasp on the rope and landed on his feet before Frollo.
"Good morning, Master" Quasimodo spoke, yet did not hear. His eyes grew wide as he stared at the plank floor in astonishment. He looked up nervously to meet with his Master's cruel smile. Frollo's lips moved in silence and after laying his hand for a brief moment on his hump, Frollo made his way to the table.
The young bellringer didn't know what to make of this, yet knew Frollo mustn't know. Collecting the dishes off the shelf, Quasimodo laid them out on the tables' flat surface. Gold and ebony for master, wood for himself.
Quasimodo watched Frollo closely, trying to read his lips. Fortunately, he'd learned to do this while secretly talking with the monks. Part of not being seen was communicating in silence, something it seemed he was now trapped into.
Frollo drank at his winecup & passed a scroll to Quasimodo, which was in Frollo's own handwriting. Quasi began to unroll it, but was stopped by Claudes' hand. Having finished his wine & roll, Frollo left the bellringer alone in the tower. Quasi sighed with relief. Had there been a lesson today, Frollo certainly would have noticed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before clearing the dishes from the table, Quasimodo reached into his model city & removed the lonely figure from the miniature belltower. Grasping his knife in hand he drew the blade across the side of it's head removing the ears. He then replaced the figure & walked away indifferent.
This particular figure was a story in itself. It lacked a left eye and stood upon four shapeless limbs, as if an animal. There was no mouth and now no ears. Separated from the delicately carved and crafted figures below, it was a repulsive little carving, made endearing by the fact that it was the most pitiable in the entire city. It remained hidden, hated by all except it's creator. The real Quasimodo wasn't much different.
Quasimodo returned into the rafters with his bells, sitting next to Big Marie. He ran his rough hand over her cold smooth bronze. Had she become so jealous as to take this from him? Only to hear her voice and those of her sisters?
Then there were his lessons. He could no longer hear his Master's words, yet he could see them clearly. Where once he had turned away, it was now impossible to do so. Master demanded answers, to provide answers, he had to watch closely, pay attention to his teachings. It ripped him apart inside, but what else could be done?
Quasimodo reached back into his memory, where only two months ago Big Marie become his, bestowed upon him by the archdeacon and the monks. The monks, they rarely came to the tower anymore at all. Books and treats stopped coming as well, at which time the poor wretch realized who his benefactors had been all those past years. True, he had suspected, but now he was certain. Only Frollo visited him in the tower and not on a daily basis; Quasimodo had become a prisoner.
Having lost his hearing, he imprisoned himself as well, as a result becoming trapped inside his own mind. Those who appreciated him were gone from his life, as were their voices. Frollo mustn't know, the churchmen mustn't know, nobody must know. It was another defect in his already broken body, another scar on his being. While it can be said there was never a shortage of food or water, it is certain that a young soul needs more or it will starve. Thus cut off from every part of human society, Quasimodo did what he must to maintain his sanity. He talked to stone.