Facing the Hunchback of Notre Dame

by Zondervan

  The three hurried home and entered the attic, only to find Quasimodo sitting on his mattress reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. When he saw them come into the room, he flung it down, eyes wide.

  “It’s all right.” Ophelia sat down next to him. “You can read it.”

  “It’s very bleak at the beginning. That poor playwright. You’d think people would be more polite.”

  “You’d think,” agreed Linus who could remember his first role in a play. He’d been the Bethlehem Star. Not one line. And not one compliment afterward either. Didn’t the audience realize how hard it was to stand still for that long?

  “Oh, people are generally rude all around,” Walter said as he picked up the little wooden carving of the dove that was still sitting where Ophelia had left it the night before.

  “Any other observations about the book?” Ophelia asked Quasi.

  “He describes my stepfather perfectly.”

  “Oh him!” said Ophelia. “He needs to get a job.”

  “Huh?” Quasi said.

  “That’s just something we say when people keep asking their relatives for money.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re right,” he sighed. “No matter what I do, Frollo never — “

  “Don’t think about him.” Ophelia stood up. “He’s never going to fully approve of you. So don’t even try to make that happen. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  Quasimodo looked down, hiding his sadness. Of course, he wasn’t aware of the Drs. Easterday.

  Walter, however, jumped on her words. “You’re never going to get approval from whom, exactly?”

  “Our parents,” said Ophelia, and then she briefly explained the situation.

  “Five years?” said Walter, knowing his mum wouldn’t leave him for that long. Not in a hundred million years.

  Ophelia offered her hand to Quasi. “Now, we probably should sneak you downstairs to the bathroom. I’m sure you’ll want to clean up a bit.”

  “Why?” He took her hand and let her believe she was pulling him to his feet.

  “You’re not in medieval France anymore, Quasi. People take baths here. A lot.”

  “Oh.” Worry creased his brow. “Medieval?” he asked.

  “The historical time period from which you came. We name everything nowadays. You’ve entered the post-modern era.”

  He shrugged. “All right.”

  “Now, you’ll have to be quiet. Aunt Portia and Uncle Auggie can’t know you’re here, or they’ll never let us up here again. Not to mention the fact that they’re too old to handle anything this crazy.”

  Fourteen-year-olds know everything, you know.

  “I’m actually quite light on my feet.” He blushed.

  Pride did not motivate his statement. In fact, it was quite the understatement when you consider the fact that Quasimodo could climb all around the Notre-Dame Cathedral, swinging from beams and gargoyles and windowsills. Rock climbers could learn a thing or two from this young man. Gymnasts as well. Despite Quasi’s deformities, a monkey would have nothing on him up there. So he most certainly could sneak down a set of stairs and into the bathroom. People have been trying to get to the bathroom quietly since there’s been indoor plumbing. Why would Quasimodo be any different?

  Well, you can imagine what someone from medieval times thought about a flushing toilet — about going into the toilet in general. Oh, the things we take for granted, my dears! But he soon caught on to the whole “running water” arrangement we have now (and thank goodness, I say!). In fact, he had a grand time turning the faucets on and off. With each on and off, he’d suck in his breath with glee. He almost shouted too, but then he remembered he was supposed to be a secret to the rest of the world. Quasimodo normally tried to be accommodating (go along with someone else’s plan).

  While the boys helped him into the tub—the shower was just too disconcerting (mildly disturbing) for someone who took a bath probably once a year—Ophelia went to the costume room to find something suitable for Quasimodo to wear. If you assumed his clothing was a wreck, smelly and greasy and raggedy, then you assumed correctly. Ophelia could no more imagine putting those dirty rags back on a clean body than she could putting a freshly grilled steak into that morning’s cereal bowl. (I must add that I’m very glad I did not witness this infested garb [clothing] myself! Some things one never gets over.)

  Hearing some thumps, bumps, and a loud “Shhhh!” or two, she imagined Quasi’s displeasure at the idea of a bath — a person does have limits. Sliding the hangers across the pole, the array of costumes took her swiftly through the ages from caveman to Sumerian, through Greeks and Romans, the Dark Ages, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, and oh bother! Uncle Augustus should have opened a costume shop!

  Finally, she settled upon a pirate costume with brown breeches (knee pants), a leather vest, and a white shirt with a wide collar. Even better, the outfit would feel more familiar to him than cargo shorts and a band T-shirt.

  Perfect.

  She grabbed the costume, hanger and all, and slipped it through to the boys in the bathroom. As she did so, she heard Walter say, “You have to wash your hair, Quasi. It looks like porcupine quills there’s so much dirt in there.”

  “What’s a ‘porcupine’?”

  Ophelia stifled a giggle as she turned away.

  She hurried back to the attic to make the bed and tidy the place a bit, and there on the worktable sat an empty milk glass and her plate of now nonexistent cookies. Nothing surprised her anymore. She gathered up the empty dishes just as Cato Grubbs’ instruction book began to rumble and the pages began to flip. They stopped at page thirty-three, and the words in bold print caught Ophelia’s attention:

  If you haven’t finished reading the novel by 11:11 a.m., the summoned character’s plight will be the same — whether he or she is inside the circle or not.

  Ophelia sucked in her breath. “Oh no! Part of this is up to me?”

  She deposited the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, washed them as quickly as she could (while still meeting Uncle Auggie’s high standards), and rushed back up to her room.

  She laid down on her bed, scooped up the copy of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and settled back in for the read. It was now 2 p.m.; that meant there were forty-five hours left, and she still had hundreds of pages left to read.

  After Quasimodo asked for a carving knife and a block of wood, Linus walked two blocks down Rickshaw Street to Broderick’s Hobby Shop and purchased the required materials. Meanwhile, Walter was visiting the rector of All Souls, no doubt charming Father Wellborne with a story about his love for astronomy and the opportunity to look at Jupiter from the vantage point of the church’s bell tower later that night—all while having a lovely pot of tea.

  “Finally! Someone who knows how to make a decent cup!” Walter reported later when they reconvened (gathered together again) in the attic. “At 10 p.m. we can head to the top of the tower.”

  Quasimodo’s eyes gleamed. “What about the bells? Will I get to ring them?”

  “The church bells are automated now,” Linus said.

  When Ophelia explained to Quasi that this basically meant the bells rang themselves, he looked as if he was going to cry.

  “But it will be good to at least be up there with them, right?” she said, placing that calming hand on his arm once again.

  He nodded and continued carving what looked like a dancing woman.

  Oh great, thought Ophelia, that nitwit Esmeralda.

  Just then a raindrop hit the trefoil window.

  And another. And then another.

  None of them knew it at the time, but the real trouble was about to begin. And soon enough, trying to contain and entertain the hunchback of Notre-Dame would be the least of their worries.

  ten

  If Only Noah Had Come Through the Enchanted Circle

  At the end of the last chapter, I added some tension to the story. If things had continued along in the same vein, then you might have set down the bo
ok and hopped onto a computer somewhere. And we all know that some shortsighted knuckle-heads designed those devices to turn people’s brains to porridge (hot breakfast cereal, like oatmeal) — especially children’s. The powers that be—and nobody knows who they really are—want to make sure the next generation turns into a flock of mindless sheep. Corporations and conglomerates (a grouping of corporations) are able to get more of your money that way.

  You may be wondering what harm a few raindrops can cause. Well, a few raindrops do little but remind one of the corny rhyming song, “Rain, rain, go away, come again another day. “But when raindrops continue to fall and collect upon themselves, it becomes an entirely different matter. Ask Noah. He could tell you more about it than I could while sitting here behind my old typewriter in my little closet in the English department.

  Ophelia spent the afternoon reading, and every couple of hours the boys brought good food for Quasimodo to sample while he whittled that block of wood. It was generally a quiet rainy afternoon in the attic. My kind of day.

  Ophelia kept looking up from the pages of her novel to gaze at Quasimodo, feeling more sorrow for a person than she’d ever felt in her fourteen long years. This is called empathy, or the ability to put yourself in another person’s shoes. If you can do this, then you are a much better human being than those who cannot. And that is all I have to say about that!

  You see, despite the fact that Quasimodo found himself in the stocks because Deacon Frollo (his stepfather) forced Quasi to help him kidnap Esmeralda the Gypsy girl (obviously an unsuccessful venture), Esmeralda had just given Quasi a drink of water.

  And now he was in love.

  Poor thing, thought Ophelia, knowing that beautiful Gypsy girls never fall in love with monstrous versions of humanity like Quasimodo. Instead, girls like Esmeralda fall for dashing captains like Phoebus who don’t give them the time of day or even the weather forecast, for that matter. Such young ladies often turned themselves into a sort of version of Quasimodo, only higher up on the “food chain” (those portions of society that deem themselves better than most people, typically a bit prettier, and generally possessing more money). Why a poor Gypsy girl thought a noble soldier like Phoebus would fall in love with her says something about her ego in an age in which all people were relegated (assigned, by birth in this instance) to a certain class of people. The admiration of the crowds must have sunk into her brain a bit too far.

  Nevertheless, sometimes love stories between two people from different strata (levels) of society work out. But not usually. Ask any sociologist. (And please, don’t get me started about the sociology department at the university. Those people need to straighten up their act!)

  Ophelia sidled (walked casually) up to Linus in the kitchen as he was making another round of PB&Js. “Do you think we can change things for Quasi back in the Book World?”

  “Huh?” He pulled out six pieces of bread from the bag.

  “The imaginary realm.” She handed him the peanut butter jar and a knife. “Make me one too, please.”

  He slid out two more slices and said nothing.

  “Well, it’s like this, Linus. Maybe we can tell Quasi the truth about Esmeralda. She’s pretty and all, sure. But she’ll never want anything to do with him. He should know that.”

  Linus shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “It’s worth a try, right?”

  “Sure.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Oh thank you, Linus,” she said. “You’re always so good to talk to.”

  “That’s enough of that,” Linus said, wiping his scarlet cheek again.

  Ophelia walked to the window overlooking the street. “It’s really coming down now. Do you know the forecast?”

  “Rain. For the next three days.”

  “Yuck.”

  Uncle Augustus stepped into the kitchen. “How about one for me, Linus?”

  Linus sighed and took two more slices of bread from the bag.

  “Ah, looking at the rain I see. I spent many hours doing that when I was your age, Ophelia. Of course, we lived in Seattle at the time.”

  “I guess it was hard not to.”

  “Did you know that Kingscross is on a flood plain?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Oh yes! We’re due for a hundred-year flood, too. They say it can be terrible, and with that dam upriver …”

  “Maybe we should move stuff out of the basement.” Linus could hardly believe he’d said the words. They’d just popped out of his practical brain when he wasn’t thinking.

  “Good idea! You kids do that. I’m sure you have nothing better to do today.”

  It was a job sneaking Quasimodo down to the basement, but nobody complained about the inconvenience. With his strong arm muscles and willingness to work hard, he was a great help. And he seemed glad for something to do. Walter was a big help as well, working up a sweat while Ophelia sat on an old chair the color of sidewalk gum and continued reading The Hunchback of Notre-Dame.

  “You could help out a bit,” Linus said to Ophelia after a poof of dust exploded in his face after he set down a half-open box of old-fashioned looking clothes.

  “It’s quite all right,” Quasi said. “I’m more than happy to help. And a fine lady such as Ophelia should not be subjected to heavy labor.” Then he stammered, “What I mean to say, such a young lady should not be so burdened, that is,” he said, growing redder by the minute, “no young miss should have to lift when there are strong young men around.”

  “Thank you Quasi,” Ophelia said, turning rather pink herself. “I would help, but if you remember one of us needs to finish your book, and I don’t believe anyone else has a start on it yet.”

  “How convenient,” Linus smirked.

  “See here!” Walter cried out, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, as he held up a box. “It’s a box of books!”

  They all groaned.

  But nobody groaned an hour later when Walter discovered a box full of memorabilia. He picked up object after object.

  “Look, Ophelia.”

  She arose from her chair and leaned over the box. “Oh my!” One by one she picked up what seemed to be Juliet’s cap, Macbeth’s broadsword, and the dagger Brutus might have used to slay Julius Caesar. “It’s like treasures from the mind of William Shakespeare!” The three of them continued to rifle through the contents.

  Then the boys pulled out more intriguing boxes labeled The Canterbury Tales, The Three Musketeers, The Iliad, The Odyssey, and more. Ten other boxes.

  Ophelia met Linus’s eyes.

  Cato Grubbs, the mad scientist of the enchanted circle, was alive and well. And obviously he was a very busy man. Or was he? Could it be Cato, or perhaps someone else? Who could know?

  A further conversation with Aunt Portia and Uncle Augustus was most definitely in order! Maybe they possessed more information about the former owner of the house than they were letting on.

  “Did you see that?” asked Walter.

  “See what?” Ophelia said.

  “I thought I saw a shadow over there, in the corner by the furnace.”

  Linus shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Quasi set down a box on the bottom step. “I did, Walter. It looked like a man.”

  “A rather fat man?” asked Walter.

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder who it could be?” Walter reached for another box to carry upstairs.

  “Let’s hope it’s nobody,” said Ophelia. “Let’s hope there’s a reasonable explanation for whatever you saw.”

  Later that afternoon, they were back upstairs listening to the rain. Walter couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. “Let’s take a quick walk to the river,” he said. “Surely we can get Quasi there and back without any trouble.”

  “I’ve got to read,” said Ophelia, lying comfortably on Linus’s bed.

  “It’s still raining,” said Linus, doing some sort of calculation on the wall by the door.

  “Then it’s on me. Right,” sa
id Walter. “You mind a little rain?” he asked Quasi.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I’ll run interference for you,” Ophelia offered. She hurried down the steps to the bookshop’s office and engaged Aunt Portia in a conversation about literary fantasy. Uncle Auggie was out for the afternoon, headed to an estate sale in search of more books.

  Walter hurried out the front door of the shop, side by side with Quasimodo.

  “Are you sure this is all right?” asked Quasi, his gait rambling and crablike due to his severely bowed legs.

  “Absolutely.”

  They ambled through the stone pillared gateway at the entrance to the park and made for the river.

  Of course, a boy like Quasi, especially when he’s clad in a pirate costume, can be only so inconspicuous. As Quasi and Walter strolled past a group of teenagers playing touch football, the young men stopped what they were doing and stared.

  Then one cupped a hand beside his mouth and hollered, “Trick or treat!”

  “Great costume!” yelled another.

  The group now approached Walter and Quasimodo, and their apparent leader stepped forward. Walter knew how to size up a group, and he knew you always went for the toughest guy, if it came down to it. He quickly did the math. This guy was bigger than he was, but also fatter. Walter could take him if he had to. He’d just have to work a little harder.

  Walter extended a hand. “I’m Walter.”

  “And, oh dear, dahling, I’m Briiii — an,” he said in an awful imitation of a British accent. “Who’s the freak and where did he get that mask? It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Quasi looked down and shuffled his feet.

  The last thing Walter wanted was a fight. He motioned Brian to come a little closer. “It’s not a mask. And do you see the size of his hands?” he whispered. “He’s as mean as he looks, too.”

  Brian quickly stepped back, pointed at Quasi, and said, “What a loser.”

  “Yeah,” the others muttered.

  “Let’s get back to the game.”