by Zondervan
“Just think of it, Walt,” she’d said. “A good education at a good school. Never, never, never could we have afforded such a thing on our own.”
His mum’s words had overflowed with such hope that Walter would have rather dog-paddled across the English Channel than disappoint her. After all, it had always been just Walter and his mum, and he tried his utmost to keep it that way.
The wind drove the rain at them from the right and at such an angle that an umbrella (had they possessed one, which they did not) would have been rendered useless.
None of them thought about practical things like umbrellas or the proper gear for inclement (nasty) weather. Nowadays children receive no instruction on that sort of thing. Oh no! Better to be wet and look like a soaked dog than to carry about an umbrella or, heaven help us, pull on a pair of those awful galoshes that you can easily remove at the door to keep from dragging mud and muck all throughout the building. (If you think galoshes are part of a Hungarian meal, then tough luck. You shall have to look up the real meaning of the term on your own. I am doing this on principle, you see.)
Walter led them on a brick pathway that hugged the left side of the church. Rhododendrons lined the other side. They walked to the back of the stone building, and Walter shone the flashlight on the cornerstone that said 1877. They stopped before a door that was painted the standard church-door crimson color. Walter grasped the handle and pressed down the latch with his thumb. Good. It gave way and he silently pushed the door inward.
Ophelia followed him. “I’m glad Father Wellborne remembered.”
“I’m glad he didn’t know we can’t see Jupiter on a night like tonight,” said Walter.
Linus wiped his feet on the mat. “Right.”
Ophelia didn’t comment on the ludicrous (laughable) nature of their excuse. No sense in doing that now.
Quasi shut the door behind him, removed the shawl from his head, and looked around. He inhaled deeply through his nose and sighed. “They all smell basically the same, don’t they? These old churches?”
Ophelia touched his arm. “Are you glad we came?”
“Yes. This makes me feel a little better inside.”
“Let’s go.” Walter pointed the flashlight beam toward a set of narrow, circular stone steps. “These go up to the bell tower.”
Walter, then Ophelia, then Quasimodo, then Linus, ascended the steep staircase.
“The bell tower doesn’t look this high from the street,” complained Ophelia. The steps seemed to go on and on.
The door at the top of the staircase was unlocked as well, and they soon stood inside the square room at the top of the tower. The twins were out of breath, while Walter and Quasimodo were doing just fine.
Linus aimed the flashlight up toward the ceiling, illuminating the four bells.
Quasi, bending back at the waist, looked up. “They’re quite small.”
“Large enough to make the neighbors complain,” said Ophelia.
Quasi laughed and nodded with his whole body. “Oh yes! One of my favorite pastimes!” He turned to Ophelia. “Of course I couldn’t hear them very well then. Do you think I can take these hearing aids back with me?”
Ophelia looked at Walter.
Walter shrugged. “These were just her spares. Madge already bought a new set—state of the art. Go right ahead.”
Quasimodo reached up and touched a bell. “Thinner, smaller, but a bell nonetheless. Why are there ropes here if they are, as you say, automated?”
“Sometimes the electricity, or the power that runs them, goes out. So I guess they’d have to ring them the old-fashioned way,” said Ophelia.
“That’s good to know.” Quasimodo continued to run his hands along the bell. He came upon a rope and tugged ever so lightly. The bell barely moved. “Yes, you’re exactly right. They’ll still work.”
“It’s all you can do not to pull that thing, isn’t it?” asked Walter.
“It’s taking everything in me not to.”
None of them could really understand Quasimodo and the life he’d led before coming through the enchanted circle, how he could love bells that much. But that didn’t seem to matter. They only had to be his friends and help him out. It was a good feeling, really.
And we get to have this little adventure in the process, Walter thought, silently thanking Auntie Max for the opportunity that he’d been cursing only days before. Perhaps his mum knew what she was talking about after all. Imagine that!
(If you, dear parent, are reading this book along with your child and are now feeling a bit inflated by Walter’s words, then go put a pin in your big head. You know you’ll mess up again. And, most likely, it’ll be quite soon.)
They sat right under the bells, the darkness and the sound of rain enclosing them in their own small universe.
Linus shone the flashlight on his wristwatch. “It’s now 11:11,” he said.
“Twenty-four hours gone,” said Ophelia.
“Thirty-six hours left,” Quasi said, his voice overflowing with sadness. “It’s so much better here.”
“Cheer up, mate. We’ll make this the best thirty-six hours of your life.” Walter slapped him on the back. “So tell us about bell ringing. We’re simply dying to know.”
“It seems ridiculous to say it out loud, but the bells are my friends.” Quasimodo crossed his legs and leaned back on his hands. “They never question anything I do. And we’re a team. When I pull the ropes, they respond — and with such enthusiasm! Then I become happier, and round and round it goes.” He paused. “I learned more from the bells than any human ever taught me. Treat something with love and respect, and it will join you in making something beautiful.”
Linus inhaled through his nose and felt a sadness overcome him.
“Why that’s lovely, Quasi,” said Ophelia.
Just then at the top of the stairwell, a head appeared. It was covered in hair so white that it rendered the flashlight beam unnecessary. Nobody had heard the man climbing the steps. They had come to the tower under false pretenses, most certainly; and now it seemed they’d been caught.
thirteen
Who Says Bounty Hunters Don’t Make Good Priests?
What’s up, you guys?” the deep voice attached to the white hair said. “What a terrible night to see Jupiter, and yet look at you! You must have some high-tech equipment to be able to see through cloud cover as thick as this stuff.”
“Hello, Father Wellborne,” said Walter, his voice dropping.
“I’ll bet you didn’t know I’m somewhat of an amateur astronomer myself.”
Linus sighed. Figures. Here we are trying to do someone a good turn, and we get caught lying. Just our luck.
“Okay, Walter. Introduce me to your friends.” Father Wellborne paused and then pointed at Walter. “You weren’t doing anything illegal, were you?”
“No!”
“All right.”
Linus had a good feeling about this man. He wondered if it might be wise to share the secret of the enchanted circle with an adult, particularly one who wasn’t in the family, didn’t assign their chores, didn’t expect them to get As in school, and didn’t eat meals with them every day. After all, Father Wellborne could drive, buy a bottle of brandy in case someone ended up with a gaping wound, and give them advice whenever necessary. Add to that the fact that they could outrun him if need be, and he was about as safe a bet as anyone out there—more so, actually.
Linus was just learning to trust his intuition. You see, Father Wellborne heeded the call to the ministry later in life. Before that, he’d worked as a bounty hunter (someone who’s unafraid to track down and capture dangerous people who are wanted by the law, and who will most likely win the fight when said dangerous people refuse to accompany him to the police station). Besides astronomy, Father Wellborne also loved martial arts and fine tea. And he read voraciously (with great hunger). Talk about coming in handy! And if you figured in his regular prayers and his connection to the Almighty, then Father Wellborn
e would make a stellar addition to the team.
“We have a confession to make, sir,” Linus said.
Walter sucked in his breath, while Ophelia’s high-pitched laugh spelled out the words, I-A-M-N-E-R-V-O-U-S!
Father Wellborne’s hearty laugh split the dark. “We’re not that kind of church.”
Linus inhaled deeply. “No. It’s about what we’re doing here right now. Ophelia, you tell him.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, we were all reading about velocity when we thought, ‘Hey, why not drop things from the bell tower and see how fast they fall?’ So here we are …?”
Linus said, “Not that story! The truth.”
“The truth?” Ophelia’s mouth gaped.
Walter stood up tall. “What? We didn’t discuss this as a collective. Maybe Quasimo — “
“Quasimodo?” Father Wellborne interrupted. He turned on his flashlight. “Is that the silent member of your group? Step forward, son. By the way, you guys, it isn’t nice to call somebody ‘Quasimo’ — .” The rector stopped in midsentence as the flashlight illuminated Quasimodo’s face. “Hey. You weren’t kidding, were you?” He flashed the beam of light at each of them in turn. “This is either some Halloween costume or else you’ve got some serious explaining to do.”
“Halloween costume?” asked Quasi.
“Never mind!” the trio said in unison.
“Wow!” said Father Wellborne. “Sorry I said anything.”
“Oh, we’ll be glad to explain.” Walter took the priest’s arm. “How about we share our story over a cup of tea?”
“I’m game if you are. By the way, call me Father Lou. I’m not a very formal kind of guy.”
Linus figured as much. He’d thought all priests wore black and called people “my child.” Boy, was he glad to be wrong about that!
Back at Father Lou’s manse (the house and land occupied by a minister), Ophelia received a warm mug of tea from the rector with both hands.
“Just start at the beginning,” he said.
They all sat around his kitchen table as the skies continued to hurl down the rain in sheets (and blankets and pillows, for that matter). Yes, it was that bad. Noah would have been ready to close up the door of the ark by this point.
Ophelia, with punctuations by Walter and an occasional illustration by Quasimodo, told the tale. Linus nodded appropriately.
At the end of the story, Father Lou sat back and blew through his mouth. “So you’re telling me this is the real hunchback of Notre-Dame, so to speak.” He turned to Quasimodo. “And what you say is true?”
“Yes, Father.”
Father Lou poured himself another cup of tea. “You know, I thought I’d seen everything. And believe me, I’ve seen everything. But apparently I haven’t seen everything.”
Ophelia sat up straight. “You believe us?”
He took a sip. “Look at this fellow. There’s no way that’s a costume.”
“And you won’t tell anybody?” asked Walter.
“Of course not. Who’d believe me anyway?”
“I’m certain. I’d know those feet anywhere!” Quasimodo sat fidgeting on the blue sofa, clearly agitated and out of breath from the fright. “I don’t know why I thought he’d never find me.”
As they were running home from Father Lou’s manse (a charming little stone cottage that was really the last place anybody who was ever a bounty hunter should be living), they’d noticed two figures rounding the corner of the boarding house, er, school, and walking from Rickshaw Street onto Havisham Way. The streetlamp revealed the tall and thin one was wearing a dark cloak, while the short and squat one was dressed in a rather dandified (a bit too frilly for a man) manner. Even wet, Cato Grubbs was clearly the fancy one. So it stood to reason that the cloak and the very thin, long feet belonged to Deacon Frollo.
One has never seen feet quite so skewed in the length to width ratio. And Quasi, whose posture affords him a good view of the knees-down mostly, could certainly be trusted to recognize any pair of feet he’d seen on such a regular basis. You can be sure that if he said it was Frollo, then it was Frollo.
Now back up in the attic, their hair drying after enduring an even harder rain shower than when they’d left for the bell tower, Ophelia handed Quasi a PB&J. “Why would he be looking for you? You’d think he’d be just as glad to have all of that attention off of you, the Cathedral, and himself.”
Walter made himself a sandwich. “I don’t know the story very well, but it seems to me this Frollo chap doesn’t care much for the Cathedral or for Quasi. Now himself? That’s another story altogether.”
If someone could take a mournful bite of a sandwich, Quasimodo did so just then. Ophelia wanted to cry. Imagine being so alone. And it made no difference which reality you inhabited, you simply had to survive without a family or people who knew you so well that they knew what you were thinking before you thought it. Though her parents had always been self-absorbed, at least she’d always had Linus. She realized that her parents siring (giving birth to) twins was nothing short of divine intervention, because having to fend for oneself in a household like that would have been a recipe for an oddness so intense, one might never recover from it for the rest of one’s life.
I tend to agree with her. Although there were times when I wished my mother and father would just go away, that happened only occasionally. And mostly during the junior high years. I would not go back to those days unless someone threatened to roll me around in a vat of germs. Some things are worse than that space between childhood and adulthood. Yet it’s almost impossible to see that at the time. So if you frequently feel sorry for yourself, just picture somebody throwing you into a barrel of slime and maybe that will make you feel better. Good heavens, I feel like I should go wash my hands now.
Quasimodo had no one. As quickly as they’d all become friends, neither Ophelia nor Walter nor Linus were like a sibling to Quasi, or that school friend who saved you a seat at lunch from the time you were in kindergarten until you graduated from high school.
Quasimodo swallowed a bite of sandwich. “Frollo took me in. I can never forget that.”
Ophelia replied, “He also made you grab Esmeralda, Quasi, so he could take her for himself! And then you ended up in the stocks! He didn’t step forward and take the blame for that—even though it was clearly his fault. He’s a lily-livered coward. You shouldn’t forget that, either.”
Note Ophelia’s use of the word lily-livered, a very antiquated phrase. She was being a bit redundant (unnecessarily repetitive) here because she literally called Frollo a “cowardly coward.” But this is dialogue; people say stupid things like that all the time, so a writer can get away with it. It helps develop a character better when their speech is their own—even if it is repetitive.
“So Frollo is a priest?” asked Linus.
Quasimodo nodded.
“Was he ever sincere?” asked Ophelia, sitting beside the enchanted circle and grabbing a sandwich for herself.
“When he was younger, yes. I don’t know if the person he’s become would have adopted a monstrous little—”
“Don’t say that!” interrupted Ophelia.
“Well, an orphan like me. He was very pious (holy). But then things started to change.”
“The alchemy?” Ophelia asked.
Quasimodo nodded.
During the Middle Ages, the time from which Quasimodo had been snatched, as well as in centuries before that, some men displayed an intense interest in something called alchemy. People searched for ways to turn everyday matter into gold using the creation of the philosopher’s stone. And they also sought for ways to live excruciatingly long lives because, let’s be honest, not enough troubles and germs exist in one normal lifetime. In short, some folks tried to create supernatural happenings using everyday materials.
Nowadays most people look at that as sinister and, simply put, impossible (although there are a few who beg to differ). Suffice it to say, their knowledge of science was not as adva
nced. The periodic table of elements that tells us iron could never become gold did not exist then. Gold is; iron is. Both are what they are at their most basic level, and that is that. In other words, they are not like salt, which contains two elements — sodium and chlorine — or water, which has both hydrogen and oxygen. Certainly you see what I mean. If not, then count yourself as one of the dullards and please do not come study in my English department. Thank you.
Quasimodo clenched his hands together. “Frollo became different when he began locking himself away in his study for weeks at a time. He could see the Gypsy girl from the window too.”
“That didn’t help matters,” Walter said.
Ophelia said, “Why would he want to come here? To find you, obviously. But why does he need to find you?”
Linus, of course, had an idea. But he kept it to himself for now.
“I’d better get back to reading.” Ophelia sighed.
The guys decided they might as well get a good night’s sleep. Ophelia figured she’d stay on the blue sofa again and keep guard over Quasimodo. Most likely nobody would be coming through the enchanted circle tonight. Not if they were already here.
Ophelia crept downstairs, checked the locks on all the windows, made sure the doors were bolted (Portia and Augustus, two all-too-trusting souls, sometimes forgot to do this), and hoped and prayed that Frollo and Cato would wait until daylight to make their next move. Whatever that was going to be.
Around 3:00 a.m., Quasimodo tugged on Ophelia’s arm, awakening her with a start.
“What?” she cried out.
“Shhh! Look!”
Quasi pointed to the table where the wooden carving of the dancing woman was trying to unseat the princess on the horse. “My carvings!” he whispered with urgency. “They’re alive!”
