Booooooong...Booooooooong...

Allowing the last reverberating echo of the bells to ring in his ears, the Arch Deacon of Notre Dame closed his eyes and savored the sound to the very last second. He had always found the church bells' deep, booming voices to be comforting, sounding above the city several times a day as both a call to worship and a constant reminder of the passing of the day. The last toll he had just heard was the call to Compline, the very last service of the evening.

Usually it was a quiet time, where the few city folk who had been unable to make it earlier in the day slipped in to pay their respects to the Holy Mother before they felt too much time had passed since their last. Usually his monks numbered more than the congregation itself, but for the past several nights, the closing chants had been accompained by the incessant rumble of dozens upon dozens of voices muttering prayers. As he saw the entrance door open, with at least two dozen people already standing outside waiting, he had a feeling that it would be the same tonight.

As he watched them file in and slink dejectedly into spaces in the pews, he observed several with glazed eyes, pale faces, and a few more reaching up with dark-stained rags to stifle the odd cough. Many of them even looked as though they would be better off in bed, but he didn't have the heart to turn people away if they felt that prayer would help their situation. And yet...he had found himself increasingly troubled of late. So many had come to pray for themselves and their loved ones as more and more people in Paris became ill with this strange new disease. Many had even sought outside remedies, from simple soups to complex mixtures that required half of the herbalist's inventory.

But nothing seemed to help; if anything this illness almost seemed enraged by the constant attempts to assuage it. Just the day before, the first death had been discovered; an elderly man who had lived alone in a small house near the cathedral, overshadowed by its neighbors. There was no telling how long he had been laying in his bed, but when he was found he had been surrounded by the dried and stiff remnants of the blood he had coughed up and subsequently choked upon. He had been buried quietly in the graveyard, and a whole pallor of dread had settled upon the snow-topped houses of the city. There was no denying it now: the mysterious illness was lethal.

The Arch Deacon closed his eyes and sighed, the peaceful sound of the bells dying in his ears and being replaced by the beginnings of many beseechings for healing miracles. Suddenly he heard a commotion at the entrance, and he walked over as quickly as he was able. He heard shouting, and a chill raced through him; had that unhinged Father Mark finally come back? But as he reached the doors, he saw an angry man in plain clothes hurling gobs of snow at a figure fleeing across the courtyard and back into the shadows of the city. "Get off with ya; go pray to yer devils and leave us alone, ya filthy heathen!"

Eyes narrowing, the Arch Deacon stepped forward, the hem of his white robes vanishing beneath the snow. "Stop this at once! Have you forgotten that this is a house of God? Has there not been enough violence here already?"
The man at least had the decency to look ashamed, even though his words spoke otherwise. "It was one of them gypsies...they were tryin' to come in with us...it's not right, them being the cause of all this."
"There has been no proof of that other than the deranged ravings of a lunatic who has since not been seen by anyone. I WILL remind you that this church is open to all, and I have no intention of changing that, plague or no."
The man looked as though he wanted to say more, but he thought better of it, and he shuffled inside and took his place among the others, most of whom had stopped praying and had turned their heads toward the entrance to see what the fuss was about.

After the last of the lingerers had made it inside, the Arch Deacon closed the large doors against the cold and made his slow, quiet way down the left of the sanctuary, as the monks resumed their chants and the cityfolk their prayers. He sighed as he cast one last look at his fatigued congregation; it had not escaped his notice that in the past several days, fewer and fewer of the gypsy folk had come to pray, and what had happened outside only confirmed his theory as to why. Despite his and Father Matthew's best efforts, the city was beginning to turn on the gypsies once again, and this time with more violence as more of their friends and families became ill. It was only a matter of hours before the snowballs became burning torches and stabbing daggers.

He reached the door that lead to his private quarters, and as he reached out to pull the handle, another hand appeared and pulled it open. "Please allow me, father." He turned his head to see the concerned face of Father Matthew. "I heard the noise, but I wasn't able to come in time. Is everything alright?" The Arch Deacon paused for a moment, then used his free hand to gesture to the young priest. "Would you allow me the pleasure of your company for a short while, my son? I will tell you about it on the way."

A few minutes later, both men were situated in the Arch Deacon's own quarters; the younger man sitting attentively in a small chair used by his elder for eating meals at a small table, and the other sitting up on the side of his much less modest bed. "What grieves me so," he said as Father Matthew leaned in to listen, "Is that I know deep in my soul that our friends the gypsies are not behind this misfortune, but despite my praying ceaslessly for clarity in the matter, the entirety of Heaven seems either silent or merely disinterested. I fear that if an answer is not reached, we shall again have violence within the city."

Father Matthew looked troubled, and it was a few minutes of struggling made obvious by his faces before he spoke. "Father...I know I am still learning our ways and only just ordained, but in my time spent here with you I have seen few people who better display the true heart of our Lord, and so I will take your word for it, but...are you absolutely certain that in spite of these gypsies not being evil at heart, that this illness right now...is nonetheless the result of God's anger for what we've done regardless?"

Instead of being upset at his doubt, the Arch Deacon smiled. "If you would indulge me for a little longer, I would like to tell you a story. This happened quite some time ago, not long after I had been presiding over this church as it's Arch Deacon. Of course the sentiment within the city over certain outsiders was as present as it is today."

"It had been long past the hour when the bells had rung for Compline; the church had long since grown dark as all but the last few prayer candles were extinguished, and the monks had all retired to their own quarters. For a reason that I can no longer recollect, I had felt compelled to walk the section of the cathedral where we kept the items that were in need of repair: pews with cracked wood, statues that had crumbled, candlesticks that had been bent and robes with many burn holes from careless altar boys. We even had one of the smallest tower bells stored there due to it's clapper coming loose.

I was walking past this room when I noticed that the door was slightly open. I heard a small sound coming from within, and not knowing the source, I crept quietly over to the door and peered inside. It was still quite dark, but as the corridor itself was still lit with a few candles, my eyes could make out several shapes inside the room. I saw a small, dark object beside the bell, and when I focused on it, it became that of a young gypsy girl, no more than five or six years old, crouching down in front of the bell. I watched as she felt it with her tiny hand, pinged it with her fingers and leaned in to hear the vaguest ring, and even began to pull faces at her reflection in the shiny metal. Her hair was gathered up in dark ringlets, held in place by a bright red bandanna that stood out so brightly even in the meager candlelight.

I then made the mistake of chuckling, and she turned her head around so quickly that I pulled back, startled. Never had I seen a non-animal move so quickly as that little girl as she dashed past me in a blur of colors and down the corridor in the direction I had come, her tiny footsteps receding as fast as they reached my ears. I followed at a slower pace, knowing that I had shut the cathedral entrance doors quite tightly, and my little visitor would not be leaving without help. Sure enough as I reached the other end of the corridor, I heard the stubborn creaking of a large door that was resisting being opened by someone who lacked the strength to do so. I then heard her footsteps once again, and I walked back out into the sanctuary just in time to see a door shut; the very door we walked through not so long ago; the one that led down the corridor and to this very room.

As I knew that the only way out of here is back the other way, I was not particularly in a hurry as I retrieved a candle and holder from one of the tables and lit it, carrying it with me through the door and down the corridor. I saw that the door to my chambers was ajar, and as I carefully opened the door, aware that the candle put me in plain view, I observed a pair of wide, frightened eyes peering out at me in the darkness, from beneath the very table that you are presently seated beside. I recall feeling a little sad that my room had not offered her more places to hide.

Hoping to set her mind at ease, I carefully placed the candle down beside the door and very deliberately move to sit on the other side of the bed, the one farthest from the table. I looked at the small, trembling shadow beneath the table, and spoke to it as quietly as I was able. "I won't hurt you, child; there is no need to be afraid." I waited for a reply or any sign of movement, but none came. "May I ask how you came to be here? Did your parents leave you behind by accident when they came to pray?" Finally a bit of movement; two small sandal-shod feet shifting back and forth beneath her, and the most gossamer of whispers reached my ears. "Dare... my friend... he dared me t' come in."

I couldn't help but chuckle at this. "I was unaware that my and the Lord's house was so frightening as to inspire tests of courage. Is it really so scary in here, child?" One frantic nod, so quick in the gloom that I almost didn't see it. "This place... all the statues stare at you, an' people talk to 'em like they're alive. My friend says at night, the monster statues on th' roof come to life an' hunt people who aren't church people." I clasped my hands together beneath my chin. "How fascinating! Well, I can assure you that in all my years of living here, I have never once seen a gargoyle come to life, either at night or in the day. As for the statues... do you have dolls at your home, little one?" She nodded. "Yeah, I got one my mama gave me."

"And you speak to her, don't you, even though you know she has cloth ears and stuffing inside?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, the statues here are much like your doll. We know they do not hear us or answer us, and it would not be right to assume that they do, for God tells us that it does no good to beseech things made of stone and wood. But they do remind us of the very real people that we do pray to, up in Heaven where they do hear us and sometimes, even answer us."
"Are the monsters on the roof gods too?"
"Oh no, my child; rather than eat people, as your friend suggests, they protect the church so that the people inside can pray safely. Think of them as guard dogs...who serve a dual purpose as conduits for the rainwater."
"But if they're only stone, like the statues on th' inside, how can they protect the church?"
"Why, by looking scary of course. I can assure you, having seen some of our gargoyles up close, they would make any evil spirits run off and cry." Here I heard a small giggle, and the tip of a small, brown nose emerged from the darkness of the table underside. "I like th' bells better."
"I could see that. How would you like to see more?"

The Arch Deacon smiled wistfully. "This was of course before Quasimodo came to stay in the bell tower, and closer to my prime than I am now, and so it was with minimal difficulty that we scaled the stairs leading up to the bells. I'll never forget how her face lit up at the sight of them all, towering like giants of gleaming metal, eerily silent until the morrow. She demanded, as only a child can, to see several of the gargoyles as well; they did frighten her for a moment, but before long I was pulling her away from the edge as she tried to see into their mouths. By this time, there was no sign of the fearful little mouse that had dashed for the cathedral door an hour before.

As the time passed, she had many more questions: who the statues outside were, and why we lit so many candles, and why we called the lady with the crown on her head 'Mother'. I was happy to answer her every question, and as I saw her comprehend my answers, I felt as though I was truly ministering to this small soul; laying her fears to rest and showing her that the church, and those that lived within, were truly nothing to fear. I had completely forgotten the stigma of her people and their presence in the city, and as I look back, I wonder now if I had had something to do with the outcome...if maybe she had lingered a second too long when..."

Father Matthew saw the sudden increase in the gleam of the older man's eyes as his voice trailed away. "What happened to that little girl, father?" he said gently.

The Arch Deacon was silent for so long that the younger man had almost decided that the other had not heard, but then he spoke. "I didn't even know her name; I never asked for it. I just opened the doors when she said she needed to go home to her mother, and away into the night she went, like a little sparrow winging home after missing the sunset. It had been only a few weeks since the new Minister of Justice had been appointed, and his stance on gypsies was already well established..." He sighed, a long, shuddering sound. "I was walking down the stairs of the Palace of Justice after one of what was to be many unsettling meetings with Minister Frollo, when I observed a wagon being pulled out of one of the building's side entrances. There was no cover, and there were bodies of all sizes, stacked like so much firewood; so high that limbs, many of them broken and with bones protruding from them, dangled over the sides. All were decked in colorful clothing that barely masked the vomit and blood stains.

As it rumbled past, I just stood there in shock. By the time I had the sense to move my legs again, I saw a scrap of cloth at my feet from where it had fallen off of the wagon. It was a red scarf. I know that there are probably many gypsies who favor them, but somehow...somehow I just knew that it was the very scarf I had seen in the candlelight, just a few nights before. I could still see it on her small head, bobbing as she ran down the corridors, gathering her dark hair behind her as she had run off into the night. I was so ill that day that I had to have a brother conduct the rest of the days' services. I couldn't help but think if I had some hand in her capture; if she had seen the Minister and thought that he was...that he was..."

"Good." Father Matthew finished for him solemnly. The Arch Deacon looked straight at him, and now there was no mistaking the tears in his eyes. "You are probably wondering what this story has to do with the matter at hand, but when I recall her, and that night, I cannot being myself to believe that ostracizing these people can possibly be the will of God, nor of our loving Mother. That child was just as much deserving of Her love as the rest of us. Just as it had been when Frollo was still alive, the gypsies were made to be seen as the wolves when in reality they were lambs; of a different flock, but lambs all the same."

"In that case," Father Matthew said, "We had better act quickly. The real wolf is still out there, and before long, this city won't be the only hunting ground it has." He rose and offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile. "I think it's time we both retired for the night. Also for what it's worth, Father, I think that little girl was happy to have met you that night, and you made sure she saw a kind face in her last days. I hope that does comfort you." With a small nod, the young priest left, closing the door behind him.