Ash Wednesday
"Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris."1
Quasimodo watched as Father Lacroix's hand approached his face. He pulled his head back into his cloak, his eyes wide.
Father Lacroix paused, a few ashes falling onto Quasimodo's nose. Only when Quasimodo's expression softened did he draw his thumb across Quasimodo's forehead, creating a lopsided cross. His hand rested on Quasimodo's left shoulder.
"Remember the promise you made and what you must do."
Quasimodo nodded.
"Go, step outside. I will speak with you this evening."
For a few moments, Quasimodo remained nearly still. The heavy rise and fall of his shoulders the only indication her were not another gargoyle. He gripped his knees firmly with his hands, quieting the trembling that built as his thoughts began to race.
Quasimodo stood, his bowed legs shaking under him.
"My son, you've been outside many times recently."
Quasimodo drew another deep breath, his gaze drifting away from the priest and toward the ceiling.
"I've not had to speak with them before. With Esmeralda and Phoebus, it's different. With you, and the other Clergy, I know what to say."
Quasimodo looked at Father Lacroix expectedly. The old man smiled.
"Would you have said that at Christmas?"
"No."
Quasimodo relaxed slightly. Father Lacroix patted his hand onto Quasimodo's shoulder.
"Go fetch your cloak and get out there. It will grow easier each day. The human spirit requires others to find fulfillment." He lifted his hand from the bell ringers' shoulder and gestured to the tower. "Were this not difficult for you, Arch…Arth.. Father Chevrier would not have assigned it. Now, go."
Quasimodo nodded and vanished into the darkness of the stairs.
He sounded the matins, then returned to the stairs.
Quasimodo stood at the great door, his hand resting on the handle. The bronze was cold, nearly sticking to his hand. The sun had only started to rise.
Father Vanier approached. He watched as Quasimodo stood at the door, as if made of stone. Only the hump on his back rose and fell slightly, with each breath. Stepping to Quasimodo's side, he drew his attention away from the handle.
"I see Father Lacroix has already caught up with you." The priest nodded to the lopsided cross on Quasimodo's forehead. "It is a good day."
"It is cold outside."
"You have never complained of the cold." Father Vanier shook his head. "The citizens, not all will be cold toward you. Go. Make a better life for yourself."
Quasimodo nodded, then turned to the door. He pulled the handle, inviting a blast of wintery air and snow onto himself and the priest.
Father Vanier nodded approvingly as Quasimodo stepped outside.
The square was dotted with small groups of people. Gone were the merry decorations and ridiculous festivities of Mardi Gras. Clopins wagon had moved to a different part of the square. Two guards passed by opposite Notre Dame, on horseback.
Quasimodo leaned against the side of the cathedral, near the portal of the Virgin. No one was near enough the cathedral to approach without walking at least halfway to Clopins wagon, into the blustering wind. Few approached Notre Dame. He held the hood to his cloak tight to his neck.
Each step away from Notre Dame felt weighted, his feet struggling to move forward. He scanned the square. Everyone seemed engaged in conversations or occupied. He looked to either side, there were few people to speak with. A single, tall man approached him, his gait swift and determined.
Quasimodo felt his knees bend, lowering his posture. The man was approaching him. From under his thick cloak, the colours of a city guard were evident.
"G... good…good morning, Sir." Quasimodo fought the impulse to close his eyes, to turn away and return to Notre Dame.
"Bell ringer, what are you doing out here?" The man gestured to the south tower. "Shouldn't you be up in there ringing bells, casting spells or eating rats?"
Quasimodo lower lip tightly curled as the words hit him.
"You think that I…" Quasimodo shook his head. "Why would…" His tongue became motionless, refusing to let words out.
The guard leered over him, his eyes scanning every one of Quasimodo's defects. The guard stepped forward. Quasimodo stepped back, his eyes remaining fixed on the face of the guard.
Do not look away.
"I don't… I've never… eaten rats." Quasimodo stuttered. He swallowed hard and turned.
Without looking behind, Quasimodo hurried his pace toward Notre Dame. His shoes slipped over the snowy cobbles, his knees strained as he forced his gait to a near-run. He looked down, noting his own footprints leaving the cathedral, freshly laid onto the snow.
The door to the cathedral was left ajar. He slipped through the door, nearly stumbling onto the tiles. He leaned against the interior of the door, letting his weight slide it closed. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing as a dull whoosh in his ears. He swallowed, forcing himself to breathe. His breaths were erratic and laboured.
Father Vanier walked past, raising his right eyebrow as he looked to Quasimodo. He nodded gently and disappeared into the nave.
Quasimodo stepped toward the tower and climbed the stairs. The entrance to the tower remained open, the lock unfastened. He paused at the doorway. The key lay against his chest, tied to a crude necklace tucked under his shirt. He grasped the key in his hand while looking at the lock and iron handle. He continued up the steps and into his little room.
The room remained warm, coals in the firebox casting heat. A basket containing bread rested near the fire. The room was empty, with everything else in its place.
"Did I just admit to casting spells?" Quasimodo stood near his chair, facing the desk and window. "Do people actually think such things? They think I'm eating rats and casting spells?"
He walked toward the parapet. He scooped one of the chimeras and brought it into his room. Snow melted from the stone sculpture as it warmed. He watched as the stone remained still.
"Are you still with me?" He asked the statue. It remained still, the only movement the ripple of light over the water that slid off the statue and onto the floor.
"Was that sorcery, or something else? You've not spoken since the siege!"
Quasimodo passed his hands over the chimera, feeling the cold stone under his callused fingers. No warmth emerged, there was no movement. He leaned forward, his hands wrapped around the horns of the chimera, his forehead resting on his hands.
"Please. Speak to me. There isn't anyone else here."
Quasimodo clutched the horns of the chimera. The stone remained firm under his grip. The only pulse he felt was his own. He felt his heart pounding in his chest, causing his ears to hiss.
"Laverne?"
You were real. You spoke with me. I need you now.
Cold air blew over him. He felt the tower floor tremble. The door to his room had blown open.
Reluctantly leaving the chimera, Quasimodo stood. He peered outside the door, noting only blowing snow. He closed the door, and returned to the chimera. He placed her next to his bed, facing the fire. He sat on the floor next to her.
"Do you still know me?"
Quasimodo didn't look at the chimera, but the fire.
"Too much has changed."
I don't know if I can handle this. This place is not the same. I'm not the same.
He watched the fire. His hands warmed as he remained still in his room. The chimera dried.
The door to his room cracked open. The coals glowed red and yellow from the draft of cold air. A slender goat nose pushed through the gap. Quasimodo stood, rushing to the door.
"Esmeralda?"
"There you are." Esmeralda smiled brightly. "I figured I'd check in on you. What are you up to?"
"Breakfast, apparently." Quasimodo gestured to the untouched basket. "On a black fast day, of all things. I went outside this morning. A guard asked me if I cast spells."
"There are many rumors. It will take time for those to fade away. Some stories may last for decades."
Esmeralda and Quasimodo sat, watching the fire for a few moments. She looked to his right forearm, and the red line that grazed across it. Esmeralda moved her skirts, baring her ankles. Quasimodo looked toward the movement.
"They've almost healed."
"You will dance again?"
"Most certainly." Esmeralda turned her ankle, the glossy surface of the scars evident by firelight. "The marks will be there forever."
Quasimodo nodded. Esmeralda touched the scar on Quasimodo's arm.
"That will likely remain as well, as a mark of your bravery."
Quasimodo felt the muscles under his eyes twitch. He relaxed his jaw, forcing away both the hint of a smile and any words.
A small squeak passed his lips.
Esmeralda looked at him, meeting his gaze. Quasimodo looked away for a moment, his lips still fighting his tongue.
Esmeralda touched his hand, distracting him.
"I may never understand you, my friend." She pressed her palm onto the back of his hand, gripping his thumb with her fingertips. "If you're intent on staying here for the rest of the day, should we spend at least some of it together over some mulled ale? If you want to talk or… or simply not be alone for a while."
"I would like that." Quasimodo felt the beginnings of a smile tense across his face. "Ale is not proper during Lent."
"I'll not be baptized until Easter." Esmeralda smiled. "Even then, I'm sure it is. If it's not permitted, then the priests will refuse it and send something else for us."
"They won't refuse."
"Phoebus was explaining baptism and communion to me. He tells me your name is from some sort of prayer or poem."
"Not entirely." Quasimodos eyes grew watery. He blinked a few times, clearing his vision.
"It would seem fitting, that you'd be named after a prayer."
Esmeralda smiled brightly at him, her hand reaching toward his cheek. She stopped as he pulled away slightly.
"I will ask one of the priests, they will know. I will be back shortly."
Quasimodo nodded. Djali curled up on the floor next to him. Quasimodo looked into the fire, his left hand stroking Djali's coat. He closed his eyes as the goat leaned into him, nuzzling under his arm for more petting. He sat quietly. His mind flooded with thoughts.
This is too much to handle.
1. Genesis 3:19