I'd also like to know just what you think about the story overall, and ultimately, if I should keep working on it or if it's crap, lol.
Thanks!
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The autumn of that year had been unusually mild, but as the evenings grew darker, the cold embraced the streets of Paris, slowly but surely intensifying in strength and showing no mercy to the poor souls who had no means of escaping it; the beggars and the thieves, who desperately searched every corner for protection against the icy winds and the chilly air, one breath of which made one feel as though the lungs were about to burst. As December commenced, many had already succumbed, and the ones who had not were struggling more than ever before, just to stay alive until spring. Little children with red faces and runny noses, running around town to keep themselves warm and stopping only to rest when their bodies ached, became an increasingly common sight in the streets typically plagued by poverty. The Notre Dame, which overlooked the frozen city in all her usual glory, became even more crowded than usual, as commoners turned to their faith for support during this difficult time.
Quasimodo, the gentle but disfigured bell ringer, often watched them come and go from one of his many hiding places within the cathedral. Reluctant to speak to anyone unless they approached him first, he rarely interfered; even though it did hurt him to see people suffer so badly. Every now and then he would, however, let go of some of this fear and stretch out his hand for someone needy to grab, bringing a glimmer of comfort into their world, at least for a little while. An ugly misfit to many, he was often greeted with much reluctance at first, however what little he could to do help rarely escaped unnoticed and unappreciated by anyone, even if not everyone thanked him out loud, seeing them smile for the first time in weeks was enough, as far as he was concerned.
“Even more people…it must be exceptionally cold out tonight.” he muttered, more to himself than anybody else, although on this particular evening he was not alone. His company, a dark-haired woman with almond-shaped, green eyes turned around, gazing at the crowds of people entering through the door with a somewhat puzzled look on her beautiful, tanned face.
“Yeah…” she said, her voice as soft as silk, “It wouldn’t surprise me…the sky has been so clear today. Not a single cloud in sight.” She let out a little sigh of sympathy as a family of peasants walked past right underneath them, each of their little children thinner and paler than the other. “I wish this winter were over with already. We don’t need any more misery in this world.”
Quasimodo gently stroked her cheek, a gesture which she returned with a wide smile. They both knew quite a bit about misery. The woman, Esmeralda, was also an outcast of sorts; not that she was ugly or inarticulate, dumb or licentious, but she was a gypsy and therefore considered less human, less worthy. This, however, did not bring her down as much as it annoyed her, for in her opinion no human was worth more than the other and she was tired of constantly being discriminated against. But there wasn’t much she could do about this, and thus she chose not to think about it too much, even if it was difficult, impossible at times.
“It’s getting late.” The bell ringer said, beaming at the young woman next to him, “We both need to get some rest. And Phoebus probably wonders where you are.”
Esmeralda nodded but she was only half listening, looking away with a somewhat mournful look suddenly etched upon her face. She had a distinct feeling that wherever Phoebus was spending this evening, her whereabouts were probably the last thing on his mind. But she couldn’t tell Quasimodo this. He only meant well.
She remained silent for a while, temporarily lost in thought as she often was nowadays, but then she stood up, preparing herself for the long climb down. “Well, I guess I’d better go then, Quasi….” She didn’t finish the sentence, because something down in the hallway had caught not only her eye, but as far as she could tell, the eyes of several other visitors as well, even those who were seemingly immersed in prayer at the time. Intrigued, she moved closer to the entrance, and Quasimodo soon followed, curious as to what could have caused such a violent reaction to arise even from Esmeralda, who had heard and seen a lot of wondrous things in her life.
“What?” he asked, leaning forward, “What do you see?”
It was a woman, unlike any other that anyone had ever laid eyes on before, tall and slender with dark skin, long black hair which was curly and rather untidy, as if she had been walking for a long time in strong wind. Her heavily lidded eyes were dark as the night sky; the dress visible underneath the thin, black cloak remarkably colourful. On her left shoulder sat a white dove, peering at the spectators with small, inquisitive eyes.
This woman, an epiphany unlike any other, had burst in through the door, running fast with a grace that was almost inhuman, cat-like, but once she was inside the cathedral she had stopped quite abruptly, looking around as if she wondered for a moment whether she had made a mistake by coming there this evening. Perhaps it was the gazes of hundreds of Parisians that unnerved her for a minute, but when she spoke, her voice showed no signs of anxiety or fear.
“Where is he?” she asked, to no one in particular, with a low voice that carried unmistakable traces of some foreign accent. “Is there a priest, an arch-deacon? Who runs this place?”
When nobody answered, she shook her head in frustration, clearly unable to express herself in a way that would make it more clear what it was that she wanted. “I need help.” She continued, looking around, “I found this girl...she’s outside…and she’s hurt, she’s lost, and doesn’t know where she is. Someone must help her.” Once again, the manner in which she spoke was very calm, especially for a situation like this.
Esmeralda turned around to face Quasimodo, frowning, but to her great surprise he was no longer there next to her. Instead she caught a glimpse of his disfigured frame down in the hallway as he walked towards the strange woman. “I can help.” He said, his voice quivering slightly as he tried his best to ignore the many heads turning as he appeared seemingly out of nowhere, “Is she outside?”
The woman didn’t seem at all bothered by his somewhat odd appearance, or his sudden approach for that matter. She simply nodded and said, her voice a tad bit softer, “Yes, right outside. But I need help carrying her inside, I have walked for many days and I’m not strong enough now, to do it on my own.”
Quasimodo nodded. “Yes, I will help you.” He said, following the woman through the door and vanishing out of sight. Curious but also slightly alarmed, Esmeralda quickly climbed down, waiting for what seemed like several minutes for them to return. Judging by a sensation that could only be compared to true intuition, she had a strong feeling that this woman, whoever she was and wherever she had come from, should not be trusted until she had proved the opposite. There was something about her that had immediately come across as a little strange, a little too mysterious, to Esmeralda at least. Having grown up on the streets of Paris, she had become quite good at reading people, at seeing someone’s true intentions before anyone else did. Occasionally she had been known to judge people a little too harshly, but usually, she was right. This was why she now awaited their return apprehensively, pacing back and forth and wondering whether she ought to go out and make sure all was well. But when they finally reappeared in the hall, any dark intentions the woman might have had were harder than expected to detect; she now looked genuinely worried about the pale girl Quasimodo held in his strong arms.
“She has to be protected.” The woman said, the emphasis on the last word making her accent sound even more peculiar, “She has not been with me for long, but I’ve grown fond of her, I don’t want to risk her life by taking her someplace else, you know. Will she be in good hands here?”
“Well, it’s a sanctuary isn’t it?” Esmeralda interjected, emerging from the shadows, “Nothing’s going to happen to her here, no. Not to you either, if you stay. Or do you not seek protection? Do you intend to leave the girl here?”
The words came out sounding slightly harsher than she had intended, but she didn’t care. She needed to find out where this woman’s loyalties lay.
She gazed at Esmeralda, her dark eyes sparkling. It was difficult to tell what went through her mind, because her face no longer showed any emotion, but one could assume from the way her eyes narrowed slightly that she wasn’t all too happy with the way she was being addressed.
“I…I would not be planning to stay here, in the cathedral.” She began, slightly taken aback but noticeably determined not to let it show, “In case it is not obvious, the girl is no relation of mine. For some reason our paths crossed, I found her unconscious. I don’t know her, but as a woman, I am fond of children. I simply do not wish for her to get worse and die, as she would have had I not interfered. I thought someone here might help…”
“But you’re not from here.” Esmeralda said again, “Are you? Where will you go?”
“You need not worry about me.” The woman said quickly, “I am capable of finding shelter...I hear there is a place within the city where one can go.”
“The Court of Miracles.” Esmeralda said, her red lips curling into a little smirk. “I knew it. You are a gypsy.”
“And so are you, by the looks of it?” The woman said sharply, eyeing Esmeralda from head to toe, “And a quite hostile one at that, I see? Why, I wonder? If you are not interested in helping the girl, you may leave. Let the hunchback deal with it, I did not ask you to help.”
Esmeralda opened her mouth to retort but was interrupted by Quasimodo. Perhaps it was the use of the word “hunchback” that had convinced him that this conversation should end right now before things escalated and got just a tad out of hand, for when he turned around to face the two women, his deformed face carried an expression of mild annoyance.
“I don’t know what happened to this girl, but she is gravely ill.” He said loudly, “I’m going to bring her up to my tower. There I have water, and various remedies that might help her make it through the night.”
“I brew her an antidote last night.” The woman said quickly, withdrawing a tiny bottle filled with a dark liquid from her pocket, “Which I know would cure her fever. But she would not drink it. She was too cold and weak.”
“I might be able to get some medicine into her once she’s had some rest.” Quasimodo said impatiently, “I must take her with me right now. Give the bottle to Esmeralda if you don’t plan to stay here, she’ll bring it upstairs.”
The woman stretched out her thin hand. Esmeralda grabbed the bottle without saying a word, staring curiously into her eyes and realising at that moment that there was something within the depths of the dark hues that appeared slightly familiar. What it was, however, she could not tell. Perhaps it was something as simple and as shallow as a common ancestor, a common origin of some sort, which meant nothing at all in the long run, as she was already aware.
They stood there for a while, gazing at each other without speaking, two women so similar in many ways, yet so remarkably different from one another. They did not care about the world around them; for in that moment it didn’t seem to matter. That silent battle between them seemed more important, more relevant than anything else. It could not end. Not there, not then. There were questions that neither of the two seemed willing to leave unanswered. Although what exactly that would be, they could not figure out completely at this moment in time.
“I must leave.” The woman finally said, stroking the white dove gently with her bejeweled forefinger, “I’ll be back in the morning to check on the girl. Goodnight, Esmeralda.” She added, speaking the last phrase not in her accented French, but in fluent Romani. She then glanced at her one more time before she opened the door and vanished, the solid darkness outside embracing her gently, the cold wind caressing her face like the touch of a passionate lover.
