by Zondervan
“Good. I saw Clarice and Ms. Pierce leave the building. Now let me read.”
“Right.” He dropped to the floor and began doing push-ups.
Ophelia read as Quasimodo swept down and rescued Esmeralda from the gallows, gathered her in his arms, and climbed the face of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame as he cried out, “Sanctuary!”
Back in medieval times, churches were what is known as a place of sanctuary. In other words, people who needed protection could find it within those sacred walls. Quasimodo, knowing that Esmeralda was facing imminent (likely to occur very soon) execution for witchcraft, swung her into his sheltered world, hoping he could take care of her.
Oh, Quasi, Ophelia thought. You’d still do this very act, wouldn’t you? Even after being here in Real World with us. You’d never let someone hang who didn’t deserve it.
She wondered if what they’d done would save him in the end. She read on, gobbling up every word and looking for a place where, if she gave Quasi enough warning, he could change the course of his actions and save both Esmeralda and himself.
Her breathing quickened, her body became agitated, and her foot began rhythmically tapping against the bedspread. She barely noticed that the outside world had become brighter and the sun was now shining on the waters that muddied up most of Rickshaw Street, until Walter slid the flashlight out of her grasp and turned it off.
“I’m going to get you something to eat,” he said. He paused and looked at her closely, examining her face. “We can help him, right? He doesn’t have to meet his fate in quite the same way, does he?”
Ophelia looked up from the book and asked, “Have you read this?”
He nodded.
“So you know what happens?”
“Yeah. We’ve got to help him, Ophelia. We can’t let him make those same mistakes. He’s our friend. We have to warn him more specifically. When the Gypsy King and his men—”
“Don’t ruin it for me!”
“PB&J?” he asked.
“Make that two. I’m starving.”
At 9:30 a.m. the waters, only a few feet deep now, had finally slowed to a crawl. Walter turned away from the bedroom window. “Why isn’t Linus bringing Quasi over here?”
Ophelia set her book on her lap. “He most likely can’t swim.”
“But the water’s not that deep.”
She got up and looked out. The flood flowed just underneath the windowsills on the first floor. “I wonder how long it’s going to take for them to subside?”
Walter shrugged. “I’ve never met with this sort of thing before.”
“Me either.” Ophelia sighed. “But I doubt it’ll be before 11:11.”
“I’d say that’s a safe guess.”
Walter knew getting Quasi over to the house would be a big enough challenge, but how to sneak him upstairs with the aunt and uncle around? And that cranky Birdwistell, too. He was going to be a problem.
“I’m headed over to the church,” he said. “We should at least see if they’re all right.”
“Oh!” Ophelia sat up straight. “I was so worried about finishing this book, I didn’t even consider that Linus might not have made it into the church before the flood!”
“You would have known in your heart if he hadn’t,” said Walter. “Twins are connected like that, right?”
She nodded. “It’s the best thing about it.”
Walter left the room. Having a brother or sister, extra-special wordless connection or not, would have been the best thing he could have imagined.
Maybe twin friends will suffice, he thought, hoping that once this crazy adventure came to a close, Linus and Ophelia would still want to hang out with him. They would, wouldn’t they?
Stop worrying, Walter, he chided himself. Just do what you have to do right now. You can cross that bridge when you come to it.
Speaking of bridges, with all of that filthy, disgusting water pooled at the foot of the stairs, not to mention lots and lots of books (which were already smelly, if you’ll recall) floating around, Walter could have used one.
He descended the final few steps, and the water enveloped him to the top of his thighs as he went.
Upstairs, Ophelia heard footsteps overhead. She looked toward the ceiling, knowing those small thumps came from the attic. It can’t be Linus and Quasi. There’s no way they would have crossed Rickshaw Street and gone from the bell tower straight into the attic! Neither was that foolhardy. She knew Walter had just left the house, and Aunt Portia and Uncle Auggie still knew nothing about the hidden laboratory. And she could hear Birdwistell down in the kitchen complaining about the lack of nine-grain bread for his midmorning toast.
Only thirty pages and sixty minutes left to go, so Ophelia decided she could take no chances. Frollo and Cato could just lump it if that’s who was up there. Quasi was in no danger as long as he was over at the church —
Oh no! Walter!
Ophelia hurried to the window, but she couldn’t see Walter. He must have made it across. Boys like Walter always make it across.
Should I follow him? she wondered. But then she decided that reading was the most important thing she had to do right now. If she failed to finish the book before 11:11, then Quasimodo would expire painfully. The rest of it? Well, they’d just have to make everything up as they went along.
twenty-four
Really, Surviving a Flash Flood Should Be Enough Trouble for One Day
Dripping all over the stone steps, Walter banged on the door of the church figuring that Quasi and Linus had probably evacuated the bell tower in search of some place a little more comfortable.
Linus opened the door a minute later. “Walt! Is Ophelia okay?”
“Absolutely. Reading like crazy.” He removed his shoes and stepped into the church.
The sanctuary, thankfully, sat higher than ground level. “Looks good in here,” he said, jamming his hands in his pockets.
“The classrooms downstairs are practically flooded to the ceiling,” Quasi said mournfully, obviously tenderhearted when it came to church buildings.
Walter sat down on the back pew and raked a hand through his hair. “I feel sorry for Father Lou when he gets back. He’ll sure need us to lend him a hand.”
“So will my aunt and uncle and Ms. Pierce.” With the toe of his shoe, Linus traced a stone that helped pave the aisle.
Quasi said, “I wish I could stay. I’d be a big help.”
Nobody doubted that. No one who had the pleasure of meeting Quasimodo wanted him to return to France; each of his newfound friends wished with all their hearts that he could remain a part of their lives in Kingscross.
“We’ve got to get you two back to the bookshop,” said Walter.
“Quasi’s a little worried about crossing the river.”
Quasimodo nodded. “Sorry about that. I’ve just never — “
“Say no more,” said Walter. “We’ll figure something out. Wait. Linus, you’re a building genius, right? Surely you can find something we can use to build a raft, can’t you?”
Linus nodded. Now, that I can do.
Frollo frowned as he sat on the blue couch and drummed his fingers along the cording that edged the cushion. “You’re certain you can get us through this circle as soon as we get Quasimodo inside of it?”
Cato sighed as he thumbed through one of his tomes, this one spelling out the importance of proper hygiene when traveling by circle. Obviously the author had a personal ax to grind, as nine times out of ten Cato traveled between worlds without a shower. (You can be certain that I try to steer clear of Cato as much as possible.)
“Relatively sure,” he said.
Frollo reddened. “That’s not good enough.”
“You, sir, have nothing to say about it. Simply put, you are at my mercy. How does that feel?”
Cato had read The Hunchback of Notre-Dame in college. Quite frankly, he didn’t care for Frollo any more than Ophelia did. Knowing of Frollo’s eventual demise was the only thing that enabled hi
m to stomach the self-righteous clergyman. Besides, the man was highly annoying.
Frollo said nothing.
Cato checked his watch. “It’s 10:30 a.m. Forty-one minutes left.”
“And here we are, just waiting for them to come to us. I don’t like it,” said Frollo. “This is incompetence at its finest. If I were in charge — “
“Ah, but you’re not,” said Cato. “So if I were you, I’d do myself a favor and remain quiet. We don’t want to be discovered too soon.”
“But what if they don’t come to the attic?”
“They will. They’d never let something terrible happen to Quasimodo.” He tilted his chin and glared up at Frollo. “Unlike you.”
Cato was of a mind to usher Quasimodo into the world of a completely different book, deposit Frollo right into the middle of an ensuing witchcraft trial, and do Quasimodo the favor of his life.
But he hadn’t perfected the process yet, and who knew what would happen to the young hunchback if Cato gave it a try?
Ophelia shut the book with tears in her eyes and fear in her heart. Oh, what a sad ending! Quasi didn’t deserve to go that way—and all for the love of a fickle young woman who was, Ophelia couldn’t help but say it, not the sharpest tack on the bulletin board.
She picked up a notepad and a pen. Across the top of the sheet, she quickly wrote:
Things You Need to Know.
Ophelia gave not a single hoot that by warning Quasi, she might change the course of literary history all over the world, rendering reading guides and books and dissertations as exercises in lunacy. She cared only about Quasimodo. Ending up so sad and alone? He deserved none of that. She simply wouldn’t allow it.
The bedside clock read 10:46 a.m.
Twenty-five more minutes.
Linus placed the crude raft that he’d formed from a plastic playhouse onto the church steps. The cheerful yellow siding, pink door, and blue shutters were in stark contrast against the somber, brown tones of the muddy river.
Quasimodo eyed it suspiciously. “You want me to climb up on that thing?”
Linus nodded.
“It’ll be fine,” said Walter. “Just climb on and Linus and I will pull you across.”
“I don’t know,” he said, doubt underlining his words.
“Let’s go,” said Linus. “Only twenty minutes left until the circle is open.”
In other words, there was no time to argue.
Quasimodo gingerly climbed onto the raft, which was no trouble at all for someone who could scale walls, and looked back at them. “Now I feel a little stupid.”
“Don’t,” said Walter, casting off. “We don’t know what we would have done without you.”
“I wonder if we can call you back another time?” Linus asked as they waded through the chest-high water.
Quasimodo jerked his head higher and looked back at him. “Do you think the book will say?”
“We’ll ask Ophelia.” With a heavy heart, Linus pushed the playhouse raft across the stream.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Ophelia whispered as she stared out the bedroom window. Then she saw the odd group making its way toward the house. She ran down the steps as quietly as she could so as not to alert Cato and Frollo of her presence. She checked on Aunt Portia and Uncle Augustus.
Birdwistell, thankfully, had left the house in a huff, wondering what kind of people were satisfied living their lives without orange marmalade.
There in the living room, her uncle was asleep on the couch, his knees curled toward the back of the furniture, his thin spine — its bumps parading down the length of his pajama top—facing her. Snoring. Good.
Aunt Portia had taken to her bed, a pale blue satin sleeping mask over her eyes. Ophelia held her breath and listened. Her aunt usually slept like someone who’d danced in an all-night dance-a-thon. (Portia actually does that sort of thing, you know.) Great. And no wonder. Running up and down the street and yelling in the dark would most certainly have taken it out of people their age, no matter how well preserved they were.
By the time Ophelia reached the staircase that led into the bookshop, the guys were helping Quasimodo off the raft. And then the three of them waded through the shop.
“Bad news,” she whispered. “Cato and Frollo are upstairs. They want to get Quasi and take him back through Cato’s other circle, which means it must not be far away.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Walter.
“I’ve got a plan.”
twenty-five
The Smartest People Are Sometimes the Easiest to Fool
I wonder how many novel chapters have ended with the statement, “I’ve got a plan?” Probably more than we wish to consider. This time-worn, yet wonderfully effective device is known as a “hook.” Utilizing a hook, the author begs the reader to ask himself a rather consuming question—in this case, “How are they going to get rid of those two ne’er-do-wells (idle, worthless people) and get Quasimodo back into the circle before the acids between the two worlds dissolve him?” — and desire an answer right away. The page is turned; the story continues. Bravo!
Let’s find out, shall we? Ophelia is quite the planner.
They said their goodbyes before putting the plan in motion.
Walter shook Quasi’s hand. “It’s been nice knowing you, mate. Sorry to see you go.”
Quasi covered their clasped hands with his free one and squeezed. “You’re a good lad, Walter. Keep on the up and up. You won’t be sorry.”
Their eyes met, and Walter wondered how in the world Quasimodo knew who he really was—or more precisely, who he’d once been.
Linus offered his hand to Quasi next. They shook, and then Quasi drew him into a quick, strong embrace, saying, “Take good care of Ophelia. She’s special. And you’re not so bad yourself, Linus. If only you didn’t talk so much.”
They pulled apart.
“Will do,” said Linus. “Be careful back there. Make us proud.” He cleared his throat.
And finally, Ophelia stepped forward. They put their arms around each other. “You’ve been such a good friend,” Quasi said.
“You too. I’m going to miss you.” She bit back the tears.
She handed him the list of instructions she’d drawn up earlier. “If you don’t want to end up the way Victor Hugo said you would, read this when you get back. I’m hoping —” she crossed her fingers “— that we can at least change your future, Quasi, even if it’s just for that one copy of the book that you’re in.”
“I hope so too.” All color drained from his face. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“So do we,” said Walter.
“Maybe you can bring me through again sometime, or at least give it a try?” A look of hope softened his face.
Ophelia nodded. “I don’t see why we can’t at least try.”
“So,” said Walter, who hated goodbyes more than anybody else in the room did, “this is really more of a ‘see you later’ than a ‘goodbye forever.’ “
“I guess so,” said Ophelia, brightening.
“Sounds good to me,” Quasimodo laughed.
“Then let’s do this,” said Linus.
Eight minutes left.
Obviously they couldn’t say a flood was coming. The Bard River Dam had already made sure of that. No, Ophelia’s plan was a little less consuming.
She hurried up the attic stairs and burst into the room, slamming the door into the wall behind it with a loud bang.
Frollo jumped.
“Good heavens!” cried Cato. “Couldn’t you at least knock?”
Well, it was his attic, really. I suppose he had a right to say that, in a strange sort of way.
“I need your help!” Ophelia cried.
Cato crossed his arms and raised a perfect eyebrow. “Oh, yes?”
“Quasimodo’s still across the street. How far away is your circle?”
“My dear, I don’t need a circle anymore.” His mouth turned down.
Frollo glared
at him. “Didn’t you just say—”
“Oh be quiet, man,” said Cato. “Why would I divulge all of my secrets to you?”
“You need to go get him, then, and get him back to Paris before he fizzles. He will fizzle, right?”
“Yes.”
“But can you take him back?”
“It’s risky,” Cato shot a glance at Frollo, “but I think it will work.”
Ophelia gestured toward the door. “Then you’d better go. He’s still in the bell tower, I think. Or he might be in the sanctuary.”
Frollo startled at that word.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Cato, turning to the deacon. “It just describes the room of a church. It’s not a place where people can find refuge. It’s not like that anymore.”
Frollo looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about that.
“Hurry! You have only a couple of minutes left now!” Ophelia cried, pushing Cato toward the door.
Frollo barged his way through, exiting the attic first.
Ophelia grabbed Cato’s arm. “Frollo won’t make good on his promises. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do,” Cato said. “If Quasimodo doesn’t do anything stupid because of Esmeralda, then he’s my next best bet to get that emerald necklace.”
“The Gypsy king is an even better bet.”
Cato shook his head and shrugged, mystified.
“You haven’t read the book?” she gasped.
“Not in years. And when I say years, Ophelia, I mean more years than you might think.”
“My advice?” said Ophelia. “Put Frollo in right before Quasimodo reappears in the stocks. They’ll get him for witchcraft for sure.”
“It’ll be easier to get them both back at the same time anyway. It will be so nice to be rid of that man. What a royal pain he turned out to be.”
Ophelia looked at the clock on the wall. Less than two minutes left now. “Hurry!”
Cato winked at her. “Oh, I think it’ll be all right. I know Quasimodo is here. Do you have the right page for the transfer?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He disappeared down the steps. Ophelia grabbed the backpack of goodies she’d prepared for Quasimodo.
