A/N: Okee dokee my peeps (okay...sad attempt). I, Mr. Nieby Camat Poto, the opera-singing, mask-wearing muse to Mademoiselle Guille van Cartier, forward to you a personal thank you for those who are on their way to reading this piece of fiction! Here it is, her third on The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the second on Clopin Trouillefou, whose face seems to plague the near empty halls of her mind (you should see some of the stuff in here...it is disturbing). No Mary Sues, so none should worry, though a certain character is a little flirtatious (Emily, Forgive us, but your portrayal is vile). So, if you're still there, please continue. OH! And some of the words she uses are an attempt at French and Spanish (which she and I know NOTHING of) may be incorrect, so if any of you there are adept at the languages or just know more than us, then write to us if we did something wrong. Thank you, and please continue. Read and Review, preferably constructive criticism, but give me whatever you got.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Clopin. He does not live in the basement of my house, and that's not only just because I don't have a basement. So, if you would be so kind, stop coming to my house and looking for him. No, visiting hours have not changed, Serina, and it's never going to change, so stop asking. Now, if you excuse me, I'm going up to the attic to converse with my "reference".
Prologue: Eggs
The main square was in an uproar.
People rushed about in circles yelling, unsure of exactly what had happened, others grouped together in hopes of discovering just what. Those who knew explained in quick Spanish tongue just what they had been able to see, before, during and after the incident, whatever little amount they knew. The chickens that were set inside the small wooden cages that lined the buildings forming the square began to squawk with fright. Their flightless wings were fluttering up and down sending white and brown feathers onto the sandy ground of the forum, soon to be trampled by those who hurried about in wonder.
What was the reason for such ado? None other than the screaming rotundity that sat, half-shrieking, half-crying, against the outer wall of her store. Señora Gloria Adelyn Gutierrez Mercado (owner of the smartly, or stupidly, named Mercado's Mercado) was bawling loudly, her greasy, tangled hair dripping with a slimy mixture of raw yolk, albumen, and brown cracked shell.
"¡Diablo!" She screamed. "The devil has done this to me! Dios Mio, what have I done to deserve this, Dios Mio? I have done your bidding! I have even chased away many Niños y Niñas de Gitanos! Why, Dios Mio? Dios Mio!"
Among the crowd, there stood the gypsy children that she spoke about, laughing guiltily, though it was only barely their faults that such a thing had happened to the woman. They weren't cruel, though they felt spite toward the woman for denying them food, which they were trying to buy earlier on, but were instead shooed out of the store, chased away with a broom and belt. They were about to leave, but before they could, the eggs had cracked on her skull and they couldn't help but stay and watch. Gloria Mercado hated the gypsies, it was known completely about the town; for it was occasional that gypsy tribes would pass through, and they were shown the same brand of hospitality form the portly woman.
Also standing in the throng that surrounded the screaming woman was a man, capped with a ridiculous-looking purple, wide-brimmed hat, topped with a yellow feather. The hat was worn and torn, but still useful for blocking out the Spanish sun. He stood at the front, watching with a sort of grim amusement (for he held a great dislike for the woman; she carried around a disagreeable odor that could render anyone cranky), as unhelpful as the others. Soon enough, another man broke through the tight crowd, striding with difficulty over to the hat-wearing man, apparently a friend. He placed a large hand on his acquaintance's shoulder to gain his attention.
"¿Que pasa, amigo?" he asked, glancing at the woman who was still yelling for help. The man with the hat turned to his friend, just then truly aware of his presence, then replaced his sight on Señora Mercado.
"Eggs just fell from the sky on Senora's head," he replied casually, as if there was not much out of the ordinary about the whole thing.
"¡Válgame Dios!" his friend exclaimed, surprised. He peered at the woman with a new interest. "You're not serious! It must have been an idiot who told you that one, amigo."
"Truly?" The man with the hat asked dryly, pulling down his brim, the sun beginning to irk him. "If that's how you take it, then I guess it wouldn't be much good telling you that I saw them fall, is it?"
His friend lifted his eyebrows in surprise, then began to scratch the back of his head, flustered.
"I hadn't known, friend. Forgive me," he said, patting his comrade on the back, smiling and laughing. "Did you really see those eggs, and are you sure their from the sky?"
"I swear it," the man replied. He lifted one brown finger up to the pale blue of the distant sky, just above the cracked brick of the store's roof, where not a cloud floated across. "It was there," he said, "I saw them. I was looking away from the sun, I remember and saw them coming down and falling on the Señora's head. She fell over screaming just a second later."
"That's odd," His friend said, gazing, perplexed, at the spot that the capped man had just moments ago been pointing too. "Eggs falling from the sky, onto the head of one of the most pious women in town."
The man with the hat snorted at the thought, pulling his brim down so as to hide his laughter from Gloria, who had finally begun to quiet her screaming, and making an attempt at getting up (which was, apparently, more difficult than it seemed).
"Pious?" He snickered, trying to hold in whatever laughter he felt might burst from within him. "If that's your word for it, you must be unschooled. That old bitch doesn't know the difference from Mother Mary and Mary Magdelene." He snorted once more. "Pious, indeed."
"Don't be so vulgar, amigo," his friend scolded, shaking a finger at the hatted man. Then, he turned his attention back at the egged woman, who was now getting assistance from some poor farmer that had taken pity on her. "Eggs falling from the sky...it must be the work of gypsies..."
Just above the scene, atop the already mildewing brick and mortar of the mercado, two boys sat, snickering to themselves, as they listened to the struggle that the woman and the farmer were having trying to get the Senora on her feet. They were hidden from view by a small upright ledge that cast a slight shadow over their crouched backs, which they stooped beside so as not to be caught by some wandering eye. Beside them was an old wicker basket, one that, back then, eggs would have been kept in. One of the handiwork of the Senora herself. The man below, standing by his purple-hatted friend, was more accurate on his theory than he truly thought, though the means that the gypsies had cast the eggs upon the head of the woman below was none more magical than he himself would have been able to procure. The two boys, quivering with unreleased laughter, were the imps, the vagabonds, and the gypsies who had done it. They were of a troupe that had just entered the village about a week before, and they went by the names of Homer and Clopin.
These two were the mischief makers of their caravan, marked for us by their latest prank, and they found great joy in what they did, though their family members frowned upon their doings, claiming that it worsened the already bad reputation that the gypsies unfairly carried. But that only barely stopped their odd little shenanigans. That was just their nature.
Clopin, of the two, was the eldest at thirteen, though probably only by a couple of months or so. Only rags clothed him, like his partner, most of them just patches of fabric seemingly picked up from here and there during their travels and stitched together crudely. His hair was short, reaching just barely below his earlobes, which had an earring hanging off the right one. He had a goofy grin, which was set beneath a nose fit for Pinocchio. He was very thin, as if he hadn't eaten much, but he was slightly muscular and his limbs were supple, a very handy characteristic when one lived a vagabond life. Laughter shone in those ebony eyes of his.
Homer, on the other hand, felt a different type of satisfaction from the egging of the old racist woman. Though he had almost the same expression of happiness from the action, in his eyes, black as his cousin's, shimmered a bit of remorse, an uncertainty toward the prank for he knew not what was to happen afterwards. Clopin and he looked rather different from one another, him being very round and portly, with a nose as strong as Clopin's was long. He was a bulky person, whose clothes just barely fit and was due for another set of patches soon. His hair was as tangled and long as his comrade's but he wore over it a sort of purple bandanna. He was Clopin's best friend, pulled in totally by awe for the boy.
The uproar was beginning to come to a close, and this is when the two decided that there task was done. Clopin took the wicker basket, set it firmly beneath his arm, and began to crawl his way to the side edge of the roof that led to an old alleyway. There, two uprights of an old ladder peeked just barely over the verge, leaning against the crooked edge. This, Clopin began to shimmy down, barely supported on the remaining rungs. Half-way down, he jumped straight from the ladder onto the hard, sandy ground of the byway, the final half of the ladder's steps either too rotted or already gone.
Clopin went to the far back of the alley, where there was set a wall of clay brick, separating the backyard of the mercado. Though a good, solid wall it was, Clopin would've found it rather easy to climb over it; but he did not take the trouble. With a strong arm, he grasped the edge of the basket and promptly flung it over the high edge, where seconds later it could be heard landing with a barely audible thump upon the sparse grass of the back lawn.
Then, a contented smile set upon that thin face, Clopin replaced himself at the ladder's foot, where he put his fingers to his mouth and gave out a long shrill whistle. It must have been a signal, for seconds later, grasping the poles of the ladder with his two huge hands, Homer was seen climbing over the brink of the store (by Clopin only of course). He, like his friend, quit his use of the rungs at the halfway point, but instead slid down the remaining length by use of the uprights, being much less courageous and taking claim to much less shockproof legs than his cousin. Soon enough, he was standing beside his cousin, leaning against the wall of the adjacent guitar shop, his breathing quick from a sort of invigoration. The two were very much heated by the sweltering heat of the Spanish sun, and took to resting in the shadows of the shaded alleyway, their eyes still shining with a grim satisfaction. But the lads could not contain laughter so easily. Soon enough, they were bursting with laughter, Clopin holding his sides, Homer grabbing his shaking belly.
Their laughter bounded across the street into the square and was heard by many, but regarded seriously by few, for the uproar caused by those falling eggs had yet to completely die down. And, of the few that heard and wondered about the galloping chuckles seemingly originating from some hidden spot, only one was interested enough to investigate, for she knew those voices and those chortles as well as she may know the names of her own kindred. Unfortunately for them, neither would realize who this person was until too late, for at the moment, not a thought was given to whoever may have heard their rolling laughs, and all was focused on the satisfaction that they felt.
Once the spell was done, Clopin sighed contentedly and slid down the wall of the building he leant against and took a seat on the floor. He was still giving out slight giggles, the highness that he had felt not yet ebbing. Homer promptly took a seat beside him, smiling widely, despite that remaining shimmer of uncertainty that remained.
"Did you hear the way the old cur yelped?" Clopin asked, half his words laced with snickers.
"How couldn't I, amigo?" Homer asked, slapping his knee. "The way she was going on, you'd think we shot her with an arrow!"
Clopin put a hand to his chin.
"Good idea, but a little too violent, mon ami," he said after several moments of mock-deliberation. "Besides, I never was a good shot with arrows; I wouldn't want to hit some other poor dog, would I?"
Homer smiled and laughed lightly at his friend's joke.
"I think it would serve her right, amigo," Homer said, smiling. Then, lifting a triumphant fist into the dusty air he yelled (though a little quietly, for he was still cautious after their prank) "¡Viva el gitanos!"
Clopin laughed, agreeing strongly, waving his own fist in the air with a "hear, hear!" Then, each taking a sigh, both started their way to calming down a bit, and their laughter began to wane, leaving the comrades in near silent happiness.
After several seconds, Clopin smiled.
"Eggs...how do I think up these things?" he asked nobody in particular, though he suspected that there were only two in their location who had a right or knowledge to answer. But there was where his assumption proved rather inaccurate.
"Clopin, you imbecile, that was you?"
The two jumped near out of their rags and patches, startled by the sudden sounding of a woman's voice, though Clopin was a good enough actor to hide his surprise (Homer on the other hand yelped like a little girl). Clopin didn't even need to look up to realize just who it was, standing hands-on-hips at the mouth of the alley, scolding words clinging to her tongue, waiting for a chance to leap out and strike. The voice was enough, though there were few words spoken, for he and Homer had come to face the owner of that voice so many times before. Sadly, it was not someone whom the two necessarily vied for attention from. Yet, she always had some reason to bother them.
"Ah, dear sister!" Clopin started, a broad, charming smile playing his wide mouth. "Yes, it is a lovely day, isn't it? And I'm fine, thank you very much for asking!"
Serina shook her head, irked, her usually fair face (an opinion held by everyone but Clopin and Homer) very much distorted with anger and disappointment, but mostly anger. Though Clopin had used the word sister to describe her, it was not in a literal sense. She just acted a certain way that could be associated with the annoying qualities of an elder, more rule-abiding sibling. She was more or less a cousin to him, daughter of his uncle Mathaias, and at fifteen years of age. She had long black hair, tied back into a loose ponytail, un-brushed but tangled considerably less than most of the other gypsy children that she had traveled with. She was just about as stuck-up (in Homer's opinion) as a gypsy was then allowed.
"Don't be stupid, Clopin," she said, anger brewing behind those brown eyes of hers. "Why did you have to do that?"
"I haven't the slightest what you're going on about, my dear Serina," Clopin said, talking to her in a somewhat condescending manner, despite her age-advantage over the two. "Do what?"
"You know very well what I mean, Clopin," Serina said, baring her teeth. "Don't be stupid."
Clopin gasped in an overly exaggerating (and for Serina aggravating) manner.
"Me? Stupid? Why, such harsh words from such a small mouth!" Clopin said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "And an accusation to boot. I don't know how you can say such a thing, dear sister! Why I would never do the thing that you think I did, though you did not tell me what it was even when I asked, and so have no right in scolding and interrogating me."
He said this all in such quick succession that it took several moments for Serina to register what he had meant, and several moments longer for poor Homer (though he nodded his head as Clopin had said them). Afterwards, however, Serina scowled ever the more.
"You're so immature, Clopin," she said. Clopin smiled, leapt up off the ground and bowed, arms stretched out in an exaggerated manner.
"Why thank you, dearest!" he said, his smile wide. Serina's scowl worsened.
"That wasn't a compliment, idiot!" She screeched.
"Only an idiot would say that!" he replied, laughing. The woman crossed her arms, and glared at him piercingly. This only barely fazed Clopin, who's smile became smug and his glance slightly superior. Annoyed to little tiny bite sized bits by her cousin's attitude, she grabbed him roughly by the collar of his ripped cowl and brought him straight up to her face.
"Don't give me that attitude, young man!" She said in a threatening whisper. Usually, and probably with anyone other than the gypsy prince, she would have been able to frighten them into quick submission with this tactic, for though she wasn't as tall as others, there was something about those eyes that sparked a vague glimpse of what might happen to them if they didn't listen. But, being whom he was, Clopin just smiled and looked away from her.
"I don't know what you want to do with me, being so close," he began, "but I think contact like that is against my religion, so I must be going now!" And, with those words, he flipped away, quickly.
It took Serina, smart though she was, several swift-passing moments to realize that her cousin had disappeared from her tight grasp, and that her fingernails were digging irefully into her own palm. Once notice was taken of this, she released her anger-induced fist and let whatever open cut there was drip slowly onto the sand of the street. She sighed, and shook her head, a sort of forced calm coming over her.
"Alright, Clopin," Serina began, crossing her arms against her chest, trying to be at least a little tolerant of the gypsy prince's antics, "just tell me this. How many eggs did you drop, and how much money did you waste, I mean, spend to get them?"
Clopin and Homer glanced at each other, as if they were unsure how to respond to the question that she had posed them, Homer's look rather pleading. It was as if they were communicating telepathically, for seconds later, the elder shrugged his shoulder's casually, and the other cringed and looked away from the fifteen-year-old girl standing just feet away from them.
"Well?" She asked, an eyebrow lifted, drawing some sort of bad sign from the two's actions.
"As for the egg question, I'm not sure," Clopin said, scratching his chin as if he were thinking.
"And, how much money did you spend?" She asked, tapping her foot impatiently on the street.
It was here that Clopin laughed and brought his hands up behind his head in a sort of flustered manner, and his smile widened guiltily.
"Spend?" He said, echoing her words. "Well, rest assured you don't have to worry about that, dearest Serina!"
That was when the woman lost all thoughts of tolerance. Her face turned red, and Clopin, despite the seriousness at the moment, couldn't help but laugh. Homer, feeling rather differently, saw the pulsating veins on the side of his cousin's neck and couldn't help but feel a little frightened. He swore he could see steam exiting her ears, and that he could even hear it! But he was mistaken; there was no steam, and that high pitched squeal that he had heard at the moment was originating from Serina's own throat, which was gurgling with anger as she searched for the right words to use.
"Nice to see you understand, sister," he said gaily, though he flipped further away from her, as if he understood what was coming up.
"Clopin...you scoundrel, you-you idiot...you STOLE THEM!" The last bit was a scream, that echoed far across the square and was said could be heard by the gypsies that watched the caravan, sitting in a field near the outer skirts of the village. People's head turned at the noise, but none knew where it was coming from, for Serina had made her way into the alley and had disappeared from sight.
"Oh, look at that," Clopin said in a sickeningly sweet voice, "she likes me!"
Serina advanced with hands curled like an eagle's talons, as if she were readying herself for an upcoming attack. Homer sidled away, being only in the background of the problem, and luckily not the reason for that freakish glower that was distorting her face. For every step forward, Clopin took a step backward, and that smile was beginning to fade just a little bit. Soon, his back was against the white wall that blocked the Senora's backyard and his escape. But not by too much, for, as I had stated earlier, Clopin was very much capable of climbing. So, he quickly made his way to the top of the brick wall, and there he stood, just away from Serina's reach.
Serina stood beneath, not as flexible nor strong as her cousin, arms crossed, yelling for him to come down.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, dear sister!" he said, sticking out a vulgar tongue and laughing loudly. "And over the rainbow we go!"
And with that, he turned to the backyard, and into supposed safety. But, before he could take a jump down, a large shriek sounded, and the lady, with still several shards of eggshell in her black hair, stood below him.
"GITANO!" she shrieked, an enraged look on her face. "You did this to me! PAGANO! GET OF MY WALL!"
And she swung the shaft of a large broom at him, and he fell backward in surprise off the wall. With an uncomfortable, butt-crunching land on the sandy floor, he ended up on his back, and at the mercy of the raging bull before him.
"You are going to re-earn every cent that should have been spent on eggs that we should have been able to eat, and you are going to give it to that woman with a personal apology!" She said in a low whisper, her hand once again in Clopin's cowl, this time her foot on his poor stomach. "That includes you too, Homer!" She added without glancing backward at the pudgy gypsy behind her. Just in time, too, for he was almost completely out of the alley and into the clear. He was just about as honorable as our dear Clopin, if not less.
And, throughout the square could be heard a squeal and a yelp, and out from an old alleyway came two young boys. It was a prodigious leap, as if they had been thrown, and though the fall was hard, they did not tarry on the dry ground long. It was as if something was at their heels; they ran with a speed near inhuman down the old road, out the square and through the gate. Nobody was sure just what the reason was, but they could have sworn that they heard a beast screaming after them, for it had to be some great creature to scare a gypsy.
A/N: Okay, that's the end. I know that the finish of the prologue wasn't so good, but hey, it's late, and I'm tired. I hope you enjoyed, and now it's time for you to click on that little box and review to either lift up my esteem or crush it to the ground. Whichever. Oh, and, if you could, can you tell me your favorite characters in the story and your least favorite? It's just a simple question, and I would be happy if you told me. You cannot use Clopin. I want to rate the others. Oh, and if you can, why you like and dislike them. Thank you. Review now, if anyone is there. (Sorry for the perpetual changing of the accent thing... I am stupid.)
