The Name Frollo

Esmeralda tapped her tambourine. As the flute played, she danced merrily, the fabric of her dress folding and floating with each motion. Djali bounded about at her feet. As the last notes of the song died away, she came to a rest. She breathed out a heavy sigh, catching her breath. Her breath formed a cloud near her lips. The winter air had become colder since the festival of fools.

Her musician lifted the hat, which carried a few coins. They divided the coins equally and parted ways. Djali followed at Esmeraldas heels as she walked toward the marketplace.

Paris was alive again, the streets filled with people of every sort. Street corners were dotted with dancers, poets and musicians. Vendors, both French and Romani, sold their wares in the same square. Esmeralda smiled as she passed through the crowd, toward the bakery. She bought a loaf of bread and filled her wineskin. She rested with her back against a well, watching the people.

Esmeralda nibbled at the bread. She continued to tear away small pieces for Djali, who ate them greedily. Having finished the bread, she remained in place, continuing to watching the crowd. Without the merry beat of music as a distraction, the burns on her ankles began to ache and throb. Had it truly been a week since Frollo died? She lifted her dress away from her feet, baring her bandages to the light. Time was the only cure for these wounds.

Hoof beats caused Esmeralda to lift her gaze upwards. Phoebus sat atop his horse, smiling at her. The noon sun glowed from behind him.

"My love, why do you dance when you're not healed."

"I must pay for my bread and wine, Phoebus." Esmeralda stood. Phoebus dismounted. They embraced.

Phoebus removed his right glove. He brushed his fingers through Esmeraldas hair. Lightly placing his fingers under her jaw, he guided her lips to his. They kissed, eliciting a few gasps and chuckles from passers-by. Their lips parted. Both remained in place.

"Here we are, in the sunlight together."

"It is like a dream." Phoebus allowed a strand of Esmeraldas hair to flow between his fingers. "I can't imagine holding anyone else in my arms." Esmeralda stroked his armour. The polish on the metal drew her eyes to her own reflection.

"Frollo hired you to destroy my people." She walked her fingers along the plate metal, resting them on his gloved hand. "Had he hired another, who knows what would have happened."

"Quasimodo would have saved you, just the same as he did." Phoebus watched as Esmeraldas hand slid from his. He waved his hand toward the marketplace, toward the crowd. "If not for him, this would not be possible. It appears my only role is to maintain the balance."

"He's not even out here to enjoy it." Esmeralda crossed her arms. "You've been patrolling Paris. Have you seen him today?"

"I've not seen him in two days."

"He seemed so distant yesterday. I'm worried about him." Esmeralda stepped back. "We really shouldn't be leaving him alone."

"I assume you've been to Notre Dame."

"Earlier today, after the first tolling." Esmeralda looked toward the cathedral. "The bells have not been the same since. The priests are ringing them and they sound lifeless."

"Quasimodo doesn't disappear easily. We will find him." Phoebus touched Esmeraldas cheek lightly. "One of the Deacons will know his whereabouts and if there is cause to worry. He can't be far."

By early afternoon, Phoebus and Esmeralda were seated in a farm cart, headed out of Paris. The cart bounced over the dirt road, turning up trails of dust. After nearly an hour, the cart stopped at a baren field. The driver stepped out to attend his horses.

"You will need to walk the rest of the way. Follow the road for another two miles. You will see the plot from the road." Phoebus passed the man a few coins. The driver eagerly placed them in his pocket. "May you find whatever it is you seek."

The sun had risen as the wagon left Paris, melting the morning frost from the trees. The farmer didn't speak to his passenger, who rested in the back of the wagon with empty wine barrels. He'd been approached by a Deacon, requesting that he carry a passenger to Versailles. Without question, he had agreed. Notre Dame de Paris purchased much of his wine and was a good customer. He'd regretted his decision upon seeing his passenger.

The wagon rolled to a stop near an open area. The cloaked man stepped out, unloading a crate and shovel. He passed a few coins to the driver, who then shifted to the middle of the seat. The driver looked his passenger in the eye, then shook his head and sighed. With a slap of the reins, the horse trotted away.

Looking into the small barren field, the man then glanced to the crate. Charred, shattered bones and a few scraps of blackened fabric filled the small box. Most had been burned away and could not be gathered. What remained was dried, black and barely recognizable as human. He lifted the shovel and crate. He stepped toward the damp, cold field.

The soil was poisoned, enough so to prevent so much as a weed from growing. Paths of hard-packed soil, with bits of dried human bone as cobbles, formed a web between scattered mounds of freshly turned earth. The ground was unconsecrated, a deposit for those doomed for hell. It was here that the remains would rest. Church law dictated such a location. What was not mentioned was the town chosen or the depth of burial. He would ensure that the box, and its contents, would not be disturbed.

In the farthest corner, in the hardest soil, he began digging. Small stones, hard clots of dirt and small pieces of human bone filled the soil. As the sun lifted itself into the sky, the man continued to dig. As the hole deepened, the man disappeared below the ground. The soil became clear of bones and changed to a light brown hue. He chipped away at the clay with the spade, then watched as water began to pool at his feet. Using the shovel for leverage, he pulled himself out of the hole. Gently, he lowered the crate into the earth.

As he filled the hole with soil, the water soaked upward. He slapped the black, foul earth and clay with the shovel, packing it down. Bone fragments split and cracked as the last few scoops of soil were packed down. Exhausted, the man knelt before the grave.

From the folds of his patched cloak, he pulled a small wooden cross. Having placed it firmly into the earth, he looked once more at the name he'd carved into it. If only this one prayer and gesture would be enough to grant him forgiveness and entry into heaven. He knelt on the hard ground, before the dampened area of freshly-packed earth. Hands covered with dry soil were held still, in prayer, under the noon sun. The spade lay near his side. He allowed his hand to fall to the cross, and back to his knees.

The sun soon disappeared behind a cloud. Cold rain fell on the man and the wooden cross. He remained in place as the sun reappeared, casting its light over him once more. He had done his duty and laid his Master to rest. No longer in prayer, he stared at the carved letters. The name Frollo was his, as well. The Archdeacon and preists had told him so. What the name would mean for him had yet to be determined. What would he friends say if they knew what he'd done for such a hated man?

He lowered his head, eyes fixed on his hands, breathing out deeply. His hands were covered with the decayed remains of others. The ridges and cracks in his skin were stained black. He looked to the overcast sky, the sun now dipping toward evening. Paris was far beyond the horizon, Notre Dame out of sight.

Quasimodo startled as he felt the touch of another. Suddenly, his eyelids opened wide, then narrowed to slits. Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet, turning as his legs extended. His knees complained at the sudden change in position. His expression softened as he realized Esmeralda stood next to him. She set a hand on each of his shoulders.

"Quasi. It's good to see you. Phoebus and I were worried about you."

He opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he lowered his gaze and looked toward the wooden cross. His eyes closed once more. Esmeralda looked at the cross and the disturbed earth. She shuddered slightly. Quasimodo turned to her, his lower eyelids lifted. His gaze remained fixed into the distance for a few moments. His eyes looked to her, the left side of his mouth lifting into a half smile.

Esmeralda watched as Quasimodo remained still. Gently, she took his right hand in hers. She tugged his arm, pulling him away from the grave. Quasimodo turned once more, to see Phoebus lifting the shovel. He stared into Quasimodos eyes.

"I can't even begin to understand what you're going through. That is between you and God. All I know is that you can't stay here. We need to get you home."

Quasimodo watched as Phoebus rested the shovel over his shoulder. He allowed Esmeralda to lead him away from the ground, away from the grave. He turned once more, feeling the tug on his arm lessen as he stopped. He crossed himself, then looked toward Esmeralda and nodded. They began to walk toward Paris.