God Help The Outcasts: COMPLETE

Chapter Nine: The Bells of Notre Dame

Drizella examined the puppeteer, not quite sure what to make of him. He was dressed in alternating patterns of yellow, magenta and purple, and he wore a mask and wide- brimmed hat, giving him a clownish appearance. Moderate length black hair jutted out from under his hat, and his goatee was pointed, making him look more like a devil than a person.
“Welcome all to the Feast of Fools!” the man cried, making a wide gesture with his hands. His voice was like a trilling bell, garnering attention wherever it was heard. The children—which happened to be the majority of his audience—all cheered loudly and jumped up and down. The puppeteer’s gaze swept over them and landed on Drizella and Nakoma; his eyes widened slightly but his mouth twisted into a smirk, enhancing the rogueish air he had about him. “Well, it’s not often that I have such lovely guests!” He then produced a puppet resembling himself; it ‘looked’ at them and gave a low whistle.
“Why, hello there, ladies,” it said in its high-pitched puppet voice. Drizella blushed and giggled as the puppeteer scolded it.
“Now, now, silly boy, you know better!” His expression suddenly grew quite serious as he turned to address the children. “With such rare guests, do you all suppose I should tell a story as special as they are?”
The children cheered in response; the puppet chimed in with an “Oh, boy!” that the man quickly stifled with a glare. His demeanor became hushed and mysterious as he motioned for the children to gather in around him. Drizella and Nakoma crept closer as well and leaned in to hear.
“Every morning in Paris, what does the city awake to? Why, the bells of Notre Dame! Every citizen of Paris, what do they work to?” He cupped his hand over his ear to hear the response.
“The bells of Notre Dame!” cried the children.
“There are big bells as loud as the thunder, and little bells soft as a psalm…” The way his voice rose and fell with the sentence sent shivers up Drizella’s arms. He fixed his audience with an imperative gaze. “And some say the soul of the city is the toll of the bells…”
“The bells of Notre Dame!” As if on cue the bells began to ring, filling the courtyard with their pure, strong tones. Nakoma gasped and looked with wonder toward the bell tower.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” the puppeteer asked, appearing suddenly between the two women. Drizella nodded while Nakoma continued to stare awestruck at the tower. “So many different sounds, so many changing moods. But they don’t do that all by themselves.”
“They don’t?” asked his puppet-self incredulously. He gave it a condescending glare.
“Of course not, you silly boy!” He leapt in front of Nakoma and pointed to where she was staring. “Up there, high in that tower, lives the mysterious bell ringer. Many of us have wondered: Who is that creature?”
“Who?” echoed the puppet.
“What is he?”
“What?”
“How did he come to be here?”
“How?”
“Hush!” said the puppeteer sharply, “and Clopin will tell you.”
So that’s his name, Drizella remarked silently. Clopin.
The man called Clopin made his way back to his theater box and leapt inside.
“It is the tale, the tale of a man and a monster!” He put down his puppet and gathered them all in close. He then began to sing in a strong tenor vibrato. “Dark was the night when our tale was begun on the docks of Notre Dame.” His singing added depth to the story; already Drizella was entranced. “Four frightened gypsies slid silently under the docks of Notre Dame. But a trap had been laid for the gypsies, and they gazed up in fear and alarm at a figure whose clutches were iron as much as the bells—”
“Judge Claude Frollo!” one of the children cried as Clopin pulled out a puppet dressed all in black.
“The bells of Notre Dame,” he finished, and then continued, “For Judge Frollo longed to purge the world of vice and sin, and he saw corruption everywhere except within.”
“That’s awful!” Drizella whispered to Nakoma. Nakoma gave a small nod, her brow furrowed thoughtfully.
“Though I’ll have to hear both sides of the story before I take this man’s word for it,” she replied. Drizella didn’t press any further and turned back to Clopin’s tale.
“ ‘Bring these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice’, Frollo demanded. And so the guards approached our band of gypsies. ‘You there!’ he cried to a woman, who was clutching her child wrapped in cloth. ‘What are you hiding?’ ‘Stolen goods, no doubt.’ Frollo said. ‘Take them from her.’ ”
There was a long pause; it was obvious he was drawing on the suspense.
“She ran!” Everyone gasped, Drizella and Nakoma included. “But Judge Frollo wasn’t about to let her go so easily. He chased her on horseback, down the streets, into the alleys, between houses and buildings, until she dashed up the steps of Notre Dame and pounded on the doors. ‘Sanctuary!’ she cried desperately. ‘Please give us sanctuary!’ But Judge Frollo was fast approaching, and she ran to the other doors. Before she could reach them, he stopped his steed beside her and wrenched the bundle out of her arms, kicking her onto the cold, hard steps of Notre Dame.”
Horrified gasps erupted throughout the little crowd. Nakoma was shaking beside her, though Drizella didn’t know why.
“He then unwrapped the bundle and peeked within, and there was a child! ‘A baby?’ he said, and then took a closer look. ‘A monster!’ he cried, quickly rewrapping the bundle. For the child was deformed and ugly, and he couldn’t bear to look upon it. He glanced about, searching for some way to dispose of it, and seeing a well, he went to it. But just as he was about to drop it, ‘Stop!’ cried the archdeacon.”
The children and the women all heaved a collective sigh of relief.
“At least one church leader has any sort of sense in this story,” Nakoma remarked indignantly.
“ ‘This is an unholy demon,’ came Judge Frollo’s reply. ‘I’m sending it back to hell, where it belongs.’ ”
“No!” cried the children. But Clopin began to sing again, and they all went silent.
“ ‘See there the innocent blood you have spilt on the steps of Notre Dame,’ he accused, holding the limp body of the poor gypsy mother. ‘I am guiltless,’ retorted the Judge. ‘She ran, I pursued.’ But never to be fazed, the archdeacon went on.‘Now you would add this child’s blood to your guilt on the steps of Notre Dame!’ ‘My conscience is clear!’ replied Frollo. ‘You can lie to yourself and your minions. You can claim that you haven’t a qualm. But you never can run from, nor hide what you’ve done from the eyes, the very eyes of Notre Dame!’ ”
The children cheered until Clopin resumed the story.
“And for one time in his life of power and control, Frollo felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul! ‘What must I do?’ he asked the archdeacon, glancing about at the statues staring down at him accusingly. ‘Care for the child, raise it as your own,’ he replied. ‘What?’ Frollo demanded incredulously. ‘I’m to be saddled with this misshapen—’ But he paused as he thought about it. ‘Very well. Let him live with you, in your church.’ ‘Live here? But where?’ asked the archdeacon. ‘Anywhere. Just so he’s kept locked away where no one else can see. The bell tower, perhaps. And who knows? Our Lord works in mysterious ways. Even this foul creature may yet prove one day to be of use to me.’ And Frollo gave the child a cruel name, a name that means ‘half-formed’— Quasimodo!”
There was a pause; the entirety of the little audience was silent, with every eye glued upon the puppeteer.
“Now here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame,” he sang more cheerfully. “Who is the monster and who is the man? Sing the bells, bells, bells of Notre Dame!”
“Wow, he is clever, isn’t he?” Nakoma said as he finished the song.
“He’s the best storyteller I’ve ever heard,” replied Drizella dreamily. Nakoma gave her a funny look and took her arm.
“Let’s go watch something else.”


AlyCatAuthor