Facing the Hunchback of Notre Dame (16 page)

“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 him 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.”

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 good-byes 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 good-byes 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.

“Come on, you guys!” she hissed, knowing the last thing they needed was for Aunt Portia and Uncle Augustus to awaken just then.

She looked around her. The book! Where was the book?

The group entered the attic with thirty seconds left to go. “I can’t find the book,” she said, her voice rising in intensity.

“Get in the circle, Quasi,” said Walter. “Maybe the book doesn’t have to be there.”

“But Cato said — “

Ophelia spun around, her eyes searching.

The room began to rumble. Quasimodo, now clutching his bag of treats, looked paler than a snowman, but bravely he stepped inside the circle. The circle glowed. Ophelia felt sick. What if she’d failed him? What if he melted in pain and agony? She’d never forgive herself.

“Just think hard, Quasi. Will yourself to enter a few minutes after you disappeared!”

“I’ll try!”

Then she saw the book, stuck between the sofa cushions. She grabbed it and tossed it in. It landed facedown. Whatever page it was opened to was now left to fate.

Then, like it had at 11:11 p.m. just sixty hours before, the circle glowed in rainbow hues. The wooden bird took flight and settled on Quasi’s head. Sparks shot up around the perimeter casting a violent white light that left a green circle on their retinas after it had died down, and Quasimodo, waving a hand, disappeared.

W
ell,” said Walter, “I suppose the portal will open once again on the eleventh of next month?”

Ophelia sat down on the blue couch. “Yep. Funny how all the wooden carvings disappeared, isn’t it?”

“I guess once the portal is opened, strange things can happen until it’s closed again.”

“What about the food?” asked Linus.

“Cato,” Ophelia and Walter said simultaneously.

“But how?”

Ophelia shrugged. “I think a lot of this remains to be seen, don’t you?”

Linus threw himself down next to her as Walter dropped and did some sit-ups.

“So?” asked Walter. “In a month from now, the summer’s sure to be pretty boring, don’t you think? Another adventure would be brilliant.”

Ophelia crossed her legs beneath her. “I don’t know, Walt. I’ve been thinking about that.” She reached over to the side table for a PB&J, and then looked at it wistfully. “I miss Quasi so much. Maybe it’s better not to bring people forward. It hurts too much when they go back.”

True, thought Linus who fondly remembered Quasi up in a tree with Kyle. He could have done so much good around Kingscross. Hopefully Paris won’t be the same after Quasi’s return.

Ophelia returned the sandwich to the plate. Oh dear. Too many of them in three days’ time, and now her favorite snack was ruined.

“But isn’t it worth it?” Walter stood to his feet, eyes sparkling. “Think about it, Ophelia. We got to know and love the hunchback of Notre-Dame! Personally! How many people in the world can say such a thing? And what’s more, we have the opportunity to get to know others. Who in their right mind would turn down something like this?”

Ophelia stood to her feet. “You know what? You’re right, Walter. You’re exactly right! Why wouldn’t we?”

Uh-oh
, thought Linus.

“I’ll go to my bookshelf right now.”

Linus put himself between Ophelia and the attic door. “Be careful. Quasi was a good guy. Maybe you should try and make sure — “

“Make sure, nothing!” cried Walter. “Give us the adventure of our lives, Ophelia. Make what we did with Quasimodo nothing short of a walk in the park.”

“Are you crazy?” Linus turned to him.

Walter grabbed half a sandwich, bit down, and then smiled, shoving the bite into his cheek with his tongue. “Yes, mate. I certainly am.”

Ophelia stood before her bookshelf, her arms crossed in front of her. It was an easy pick as far as she was concerned — especially considering the theme of Uncle Auggie’s next party. And it was a book she’d been wanting to read for a good long time. But she needed to get started right away. Some writers have no idea when to stop, you see, and Herman Melville surely fit that description with his long-winded classic (which you shall most likely have to read in high school or college).