Shrove Monday, 1482
Three old men stood in a room in the Hotel Dieu. One man lay on a bed, his leg in bandages. Candlelight flickered against the stone and wood walls. The matins had not yet sounded. Shadows moved through the room as nuns walked through the narrow hall. Brother Rocher was the first to speak.
"He's too stubborn, and will fight it."
Archdeacon Chevrier looked to his broken leg.
"Quasimodo has always been willing to please God. We must simply convince him that it's in his best interest to follow our recommendation. Of course, you will need to speak with him. If he resists, send him here."
Father Vanier closed his eyes for a few moments before speaking.
"Whatever Claude Frollo did, he'd have demanded Quasimodo do the same. None of us really know what happened in the belltower. I doubt it was kind, or that Quasimodo will be willing to discuss it."
"Truly." Archdeacon Chevrier stated flatly. "Brother Rocher, you must speak with him first."
"He willingly disobeyed me."
"You will plant the idea in his head. Father Lacroix, he will probably turn to you next. You may be able to convince him to accept that what's asked will bring him closer to God."
"Deceiving him makes us no better than Claude Frollo." Father Lacroix shook his head.
"I understand your worry." Archdeacon Chevrier nodded. "My concern is that if we permit him to fast in the manner Claude Frollo taught him, whatever that was, that his health will suffer. There is also his integrating into the congregation and city. If he retreats back into his tower during Lent, he may not voluntarily set foot outside Notre Dame again. As it is, he only leaves when he must. If we break his habit of hiding in the tower, he has a chance of finding a life outside of Notre Dame."
"It's his own choice." Father Vanier commented.
"He is lonely." Brother Rocher admitted. "I could see it when he was in the infirmary. He chooses solitude, while also not wanting to be alone. He's scared to do anything else. Only Phoebus and the gypsy ever visit him."
"Her name is Esmeralda." Archdeacon Chevrier stated. "But you, when you pray, go into your inner room, close your door and pray to your Father who is in secret, and your Father who sees what is done in secret will reward you."1
"He will. He will complete his duties and disappear to pray." Father Vanier frowned. "He'll attempt to sustain himself on bread and water."
"Then, what do we recommend?" Father Lacroix questioned.
Archdeacon Chevrier smiled, the corners of his eyelids folding into wrinkles.
"I have been thinking about it for a while. There is not much else to do in this room but pray and think. Brother Rocher, you explain to him that he is to conduct the fast as someone recovering from an illness, and not how he was taught. Ask him no questions. I expect he will refuse and speak to one of you two. Then, send him to me."
Fathers Vanier and Lacroix stepped out. Brother Rocher remained in the room.
"Your leg is not healing."
"No." Archdeacon Chevrier looked to his swollen toes.
"It should have healed a few weeks ago."
"I am old, Brother." Archdeacon Chevrier sighed. "It will just take longer, God willing. Please speak with Quasimodo. Try not to upset him."
"I will, Father." Brother Rocher bowed his head slightly. "I may."
Brother Rocher stepped into the corridor, leaving Archdeacon Chevrier looking out the window. A nun stepped and began adjusting the blankets.
Mass had ended. Quasimodo walked through the nave, snuffing the last of the candlelight.
"Good evening Quasimodo."
"Good evening, Father Lacroix."
"I can see that you have been completing all of your duties. Not a drip of wax on the floor. Every pew is in place."
A smile briefly crossed Quasimodo's face, before fading into a tense right eyebrow and raised lower eyelids.
"Something is bothering you?"
"Brother Rocher came to the belltower this morning, after Terce. He said that I must sanctify Lent differently than before."
"A wise request, given recent events."
"It's expected." Quasimodo dropped his shoulders. His hands remained before him, open and facing upward. "I am not ill. Every year, I have..."
"This matter is not open for debate." Father Lacroix cut him off. "Brother Rocher has made his demands quite clear."
Watching Quasimodo's widened eyes, he reached up, grasping Quasimodo's hands with his own. He gently squeezed the bell-ringers large knuckles.
"Though, that you're attempting it is good to see."
"I don't mean disrespect. I just... The bells barely ring until Easter." Quasimodo stuttered. "I won't be busy anyhow."
"How busy you are is irrelevant." Father Lacroix released Quasimodo's hands. He planted his palms on Quasimodo's shoulders. "Brother Rocher is concerned for your soul, as am I and the others. Only now are the bells beginning to sound as they should. There is still sadness in them. Your strength has only returned for a short time. You... you still don't appear normal."
Quasimodo's expression paled.
"...yourself. You know well what I mean." Father Lacroix paused, waving his hand dismissively. "Brother Rocher has made it clear that you will fast differently during Lent."
"It's not proper..."
"Quasimodo, Brother Rocher isn't above confining you to the infirmary if he suspects you're disobeying his orders. I wouldn't stop him, nor would anyone else."
"What am I supposed to do?"
"There are other ways to show repentance for your sins and humble yourself, and bring yourself closer to God." Father Lacroix shook his head. "For now, tend your bells. A suitable alternative will be found."
Quasimodo nodded, his right eyebrow remaining slightly raised as he turned toward the bell-tower steps.
The tower was as he'd left it, welcoming and spotless upon brief glance. The room Esmeralda and Phoebus had made for him was warm, the bed quilt smooth and tidy. He looked to the single stained-glass window, its rainbow light filling the room. It was the same place, yet different in so many ways.
Dion, a novice, had left the day before, taking his few things from the tower. Only his blanket remained, its dull colours nearly blending into the chair where he'd left it. Esmeralda had also left a few things scattered about, under desks and chairs. "Jeux de Tables" lay scattered, pieces strewn about the floor.
Quasimodo straightened his room. He counted out the game pieces, returning them to their worn bag. Then, he sat at his desk, his thoughts drifting with the winter wind. He twirled and balanced a quill between his fingers. The feathered end of the quill bounced about. He dipped the pen into a bottle of ink, watching as the ink clung to the cut tip of the quill.
He set the pen to paper, only to find that there were no words willing to release themselves through his hand. The ink clung to the quill, before being jostled back into the jar.
Quasimodo set down the quill and moved the paper aside. He passed his fingers through his hair, resting his hands on the back of his neck. He looked to the ceiling in his room, to the candlelight that moved as waves over the wood boards. He let out a sigh before standing and pacing through the room. His hands rested between his hunch and neck. He closed his eyes, leaning back against his knuckles.
His thoughts were disorganized and rapid. He struggled to pray, to sort out intrusive thoughts. Would he face damnation and risk grave sin from following the orders of the priests. Would he risk hell for obeying them and abandoning what he knew was proper.
Quasimodo knelt next to his bed, resting his elbows on the edge, on the soft quilt that Esmeralda had given him. He brought his right hand to his forehead, kneading his brow.
God, what should I do?
1. Matthew 6:6