LJ Topic #24: Bats in the Belfry
There were once two towns, divided by a river. At first, Clocheçonne, on the west bank of the river, and Euphonheim, on the east bank of the river, lived in relative harmony.
But over the years, petty quarrels eroded the harmony and brought on a feud of wild proportions. Clocheçonne built a fountain. Euphonheim built a bigger and grander fountain. Euphonheim built a city wall, so Clocheçonne built a city wall with buttresses.
And then Clocheçonne started building their belltower.
They had hired the great Sonnelier, the man who had built towers and cathedrals throughout the countryside, and he came to town with his daughter, Campanille, who sang so sweetly that they said the birds stopped to listen.
By now,news of Clocheçonne’ belltower had reached Euphonheim. And Mayor Klavier of Euphonheim called a town meeting.
“They have Sonnelier!” said the butcher. “We will never be able to build a tower as fine as anything Clocheçonne can build!”
“There must be something we can do!” said the flower-seller.
Mayor Klavier had a young son, Anders. Anders stood up next. “Why don’t we go to Sonnelier?” he asked. “Perhaps we can buy him away.”
Mayor Klavier sat and thought, twisting the exquisite ring he always wore on his finger, and finally agreed, and gave his son a purse full of gold and jewels. The next night, when it was dark, Anders Klavier made his way in secrecy to Sonnelier’s abode.
When he reached the house, he heard the most lovely music wafting from the window. He stopped, and peered inside, and there he saw Campanille, singing to herself as she prepared supper. His breath caught in his throat for a moment at the sight and the sound of her.
He knocked at the door. It was Campanille who answered, not her father.
Anders’ words escaped him. He gaped at her, open-mouthed.
“May I help you?” asked Campanille. There was a gleam in her eyes, a softness in her voice that said that she was just as taken with him as he with her.
“I- I- I,” Anders stammered, and tried to peer into the house. “Is your-- I want-- your father-- here?”
“No,” Campanile answered, blushing deeply. “I’m sorry. He is working on casting the big bell, you see, for the tower is almost complete.”
“Oh.” Anders panicked. What would happen when the people of Clocheçonne rang their beautiful bell, and the music carried all through the streets of Euphonheim as well? What would his father say? “I-- am here from Euphonheim,” he said. “Hoping to hire your father, too.”
Campanille watched Anders, dreamy-eyed at the idea that her father might work for this young man, that she might be able to see him every day. “I will see what I can do,” Campanille promised. “I will do my best.”
They shared a long, silent moment, and then she stepped up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. His skin flushed hot and crimson, and he averted his eyes as he walked away. It was only after he was down the path that he realized, abashedly, that he had forgotten to bid her goodnight.
When Sonnelier came home that night, Campanille waited for the right moment to tell him about the visit from the handsome young man.
“How is the casting?” she asked her father.
He shook his head. “Not well,” he said. “There is something wrong with one bell. All the smaller bells, they sound as they should, but the largest...it strikes a sour note. I will have to recast it. It is a shame. Recasting takes so much time.”
Campanille’s heart swelled, because this would give her more time to sway her father to Anders’ plea. But she aw his distress, and decided to wait until he was in a happier mood to tell him about her handsome young visitor.
But in the morning, her father was already gone. He worked day and night, all hours, and Campanille barely had time to see him, let alone tell him. As the days slipped by, she felt more and more remiss-- how would it sound to her father, to tell him now? Would he think she was keeping a secret from him?
On the seventh day, a letter arrived from Anders. She held it close to her heart, and breathed in the scent of the paper, imagining she could smell his scent on it. She wrote him back immediately, and gave a penny to a boy to take it to him.
Anders did not know what to tell his father. He made up a story. He said that he had spoken to Sonnelier, but that the old man was still trying to make up his mind. “He is old and senile, Father,” he told Mayor Klavier. “It is a wonder he can work at all.
Mayor Klavier merely twisted at his ring. “The pride of our city is at stake,” he reminded Anders. “You will shame me, son, if you fail.”
“Of course, Father,” Anders said. “ I will continue to remind him that he is foremost in our interests.”
It was in this way that Anders was able to cross the river to bring Campanille his letters. But he dared not stay for long. Sometimes there was a hurried smile, the briefest brush of one hand against the other, a hushed whisper of affection, but that was all that passed between the two. But their letters were long and flowery and rich with their desires.
A month passed, and Sonnelier had recast the bell, and it was still out of tune. “There is one spot in the mold,” he said, “where it always bubbles. I don’t know what to do. The Town Council of Danviers is clamoring for the tower to be done, but I will have to cast it a third time. I must go back, I must begin recasting it tonight.”
Sonnelier went off to work again, and Campanille watched her weary father depart, worried in her heart for his well-being.
That night, Anders came to see Campanille. The two of them shared a long embrace, and the thoughts that had been spoken only on paper became warm and tangible. Her hands found his. His lips found hers. And he did not emerge from her home for several hours.
Anders was singing when he arrived home, drunken on nothing but his love for Campanille. But Mayor Klavier was waiting for him at the door.
The Mayor demanded to know where his son had been. Anders told him, of his new love, certain that his father would be overjoyed, but he was met with only a cold look. And then his father struck him, hard, so that the stone in his ring cut Ander’s cheek.
The next morning, Sonnelier went to wake his daughter, but Campanille was nowhere to be found. Within the hour, the alarm was up all over Clocheçonne that Campanille was missing. By noon, the news had crossed the river to Euphonheim.
“You see?” said Mayor Klavier to a distraught Anders. “This is what happens. You defiled that poor girl and she has fled for shame.”
“That’s not true, Father,” Anders insisted. “We loved each other. We would have married.”
“I would never have allowed it,” said Mayor Klavier. He rubbed at his knuckle. Anders noticed he was not wearing his ring; he reached up to wipe the dried blood from his cheek.
Bevening, people who may have seen things they should not have seen began to spill their tales, and the search led to the Klaviers’ home. Anders was the last person anyone had seen with Campanille. He had stolen into her house when she was alone; he had left furtively and under cover of darkness.
Anders was taken across the river to Clocheçonne, and put in the darkest, dampest cell, but he was more fearful of what had happened to Campanille than he was of what his own future might be. He waited in jail for weeks. He was brought before judges. He begged and pleaded and swore he would never hurt her. They sentenced him to death.
It was on the day of Anders’ execution that Sonnelier, who was now so bereft with grief that he had become a pale shade of the man he had been, came to the Council of Clocheçonne to tell them that their belltower was complete.
“Excellent,” said the Chief Councilman. “We will ring the bell to mark the murderer’s execution.”
They drummed Anders out to the yard, where the executioner waited on the gallows. His heart beat the same rhythm, loudly, deafeningly.
And then the bells began to chime. First came the small bells, singing sweetly like little birds, like choristers sounding out their sweet tintinnabulation. Every citizen, in both towns, looked up as the melody swelled majestically.
And then the big bell rang. Its sound was sweet and pure and nothing like a bell at all.
It was a girl’s voice, clear and rich and wordless as its peals echoed over the rooftop.
The Council gasped.
“Campanille!” cried Anders, who knew her voice immediately.
“Campanille,” echoed Sonnelier, who knew it even better than Anders.
And the bell began to speak.
“Klavier!” sang the bell, in perfect, pure melodic tones.
“She names her killer!” cried the executioner. All eyes were on Anders.
“No!” cried Anders. “I would never!”
“My blood is in the bell!” sang the bell.
The executioner led Anders up the steps, and the young man tripped and stumbled, his vision blinded by his tears.
“His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell. And something sparkly glistened from the lip of the bell.
Mayor Klavier looked up from his seat, white as a ghost. Anders lifted a hand, to touch the scar on his cheek. His father’s finger was bare. The Mayor rubbed at his bare knuckle. “Father?!” he asked, barely choking out the word.
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
Mayor Klavier looked back at his son, coldly, and said nothing.
The executioner brought the noose down over Ander’s head, and tightened it.
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
“What does this mean?” the Chief Councilman asked Mayor Klavier.
The Mayor looked unflinchingly at his son, and rubbed his bare knuckle. “My son was missing a ring,” he said. “Although it pains me to say it. The night the young lady went missing, he came home without his ring.”
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
“I never!” Anders pleaded, desperate. “I loved her! He was the one who lost a ring! Father!”
Mayor Klavier shook his head. “He would have destroyed us all.”
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell, and Anders thought that it, too, sounded more frantic.
The crowd murmured to themselves. The executioner released the trap door.
Ander’s neck snapped, loudly.
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
There was a gasp from the crowd.
The bell went silent.
They say that the great bell of Clocheçonne never rang again.
Although it bears only passing resemblance to either story, inspiration for this story came from Herman Melville’s The Belltower and from the Chinese folktale of The Bellmaker’s Daughter (This is not the version of The Bellmaker’s Daughter that I know best, but it was the first one that I found full text for, and the differences are in incidental details).
But over the years, petty quarrels eroded the harmony and brought on a feud of wild proportions. Clocheçonne built a fountain. Euphonheim built a bigger and grander fountain. Euphonheim built a city wall, so Clocheçonne built a city wall with buttresses.
And then Clocheçonne started building their belltower.
They had hired the great Sonnelier, the man who had built towers and cathedrals throughout the countryside, and he came to town with his daughter, Campanille, who sang so sweetly that they said the birds stopped to listen.
By now,news of Clocheçonne’ belltower had reached Euphonheim. And Mayor Klavier of Euphonheim called a town meeting.
“They have Sonnelier!” said the butcher. “We will never be able to build a tower as fine as anything Clocheçonne can build!”
“There must be something we can do!” said the flower-seller.
Mayor Klavier had a young son, Anders. Anders stood up next. “Why don’t we go to Sonnelier?” he asked. “Perhaps we can buy him away.”
Mayor Klavier sat and thought, twisting the exquisite ring he always wore on his finger, and finally agreed, and gave his son a purse full of gold and jewels. The next night, when it was dark, Anders Klavier made his way in secrecy to Sonnelier’s abode.
When he reached the house, he heard the most lovely music wafting from the window. He stopped, and peered inside, and there he saw Campanille, singing to herself as she prepared supper. His breath caught in his throat for a moment at the sight and the sound of her.
He knocked at the door. It was Campanille who answered, not her father.
Anders’ words escaped him. He gaped at her, open-mouthed.
“May I help you?” asked Campanille. There was a gleam in her eyes, a softness in her voice that said that she was just as taken with him as he with her.
“I- I- I,” Anders stammered, and tried to peer into the house. “Is your-- I want-- your father-- here?”
“No,” Campanile answered, blushing deeply. “I’m sorry. He is working on casting the big bell, you see, for the tower is almost complete.”
“Oh.” Anders panicked. What would happen when the people of Clocheçonne rang their beautiful bell, and the music carried all through the streets of Euphonheim as well? What would his father say? “I-- am here from Euphonheim,” he said. “Hoping to hire your father, too.”
Campanille watched Anders, dreamy-eyed at the idea that her father might work for this young man, that she might be able to see him every day. “I will see what I can do,” Campanille promised. “I will do my best.”
They shared a long, silent moment, and then she stepped up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. His skin flushed hot and crimson, and he averted his eyes as he walked away. It was only after he was down the path that he realized, abashedly, that he had forgotten to bid her goodnight.
When Sonnelier came home that night, Campanille waited for the right moment to tell him about the visit from the handsome young man.
“How is the casting?” she asked her father.
He shook his head. “Not well,” he said. “There is something wrong with one bell. All the smaller bells, they sound as they should, but the largest...it strikes a sour note. I will have to recast it. It is a shame. Recasting takes so much time.”
Campanille’s heart swelled, because this would give her more time to sway her father to Anders’ plea. But she aw his distress, and decided to wait until he was in a happier mood to tell him about her handsome young visitor.
But in the morning, her father was already gone. He worked day and night, all hours, and Campanille barely had time to see him, let alone tell him. As the days slipped by, she felt more and more remiss-- how would it sound to her father, to tell him now? Would he think she was keeping a secret from him?
On the seventh day, a letter arrived from Anders. She held it close to her heart, and breathed in the scent of the paper, imagining she could smell his scent on it. She wrote him back immediately, and gave a penny to a boy to take it to him.
Anders did not know what to tell his father. He made up a story. He said that he had spoken to Sonnelier, but that the old man was still trying to make up his mind. “He is old and senile, Father,” he told Mayor Klavier. “It is a wonder he can work at all.
Mayor Klavier merely twisted at his ring. “The pride of our city is at stake,” he reminded Anders. “You will shame me, son, if you fail.”
“Of course, Father,” Anders said. “ I will continue to remind him that he is foremost in our interests.”
It was in this way that Anders was able to cross the river to bring Campanille his letters. But he dared not stay for long. Sometimes there was a hurried smile, the briefest brush of one hand against the other, a hushed whisper of affection, but that was all that passed between the two. But their letters were long and flowery and rich with their desires.
A month passed, and Sonnelier had recast the bell, and it was still out of tune. “There is one spot in the mold,” he said, “where it always bubbles. I don’t know what to do. The Town Council of Danviers is clamoring for the tower to be done, but I will have to cast it a third time. I must go back, I must begin recasting it tonight.”
Sonnelier went off to work again, and Campanille watched her weary father depart, worried in her heart for his well-being.
That night, Anders came to see Campanille. The two of them shared a long embrace, and the thoughts that had been spoken only on paper became warm and tangible. Her hands found his. His lips found hers. And he did not emerge from her home for several hours.
Anders was singing when he arrived home, drunken on nothing but his love for Campanille. But Mayor Klavier was waiting for him at the door.
The Mayor demanded to know where his son had been. Anders told him, of his new love, certain that his father would be overjoyed, but he was met with only a cold look. And then his father struck him, hard, so that the stone in his ring cut Ander’s cheek.
The next morning, Sonnelier went to wake his daughter, but Campanille was nowhere to be found. Within the hour, the alarm was up all over Clocheçonne that Campanille was missing. By noon, the news had crossed the river to Euphonheim.
“You see?” said Mayor Klavier to a distraught Anders. “This is what happens. You defiled that poor girl and she has fled for shame.”
“That’s not true, Father,” Anders insisted. “We loved each other. We would have married.”
“I would never have allowed it,” said Mayor Klavier. He rubbed at his knuckle. Anders noticed he was not wearing his ring; he reached up to wipe the dried blood from his cheek.
Bevening, people who may have seen things they should not have seen began to spill their tales, and the search led to the Klaviers’ home. Anders was the last person anyone had seen with Campanille. He had stolen into her house when she was alone; he had left furtively and under cover of darkness.
Anders was taken across the river to Clocheçonne, and put in the darkest, dampest cell, but he was more fearful of what had happened to Campanille than he was of what his own future might be. He waited in jail for weeks. He was brought before judges. He begged and pleaded and swore he would never hurt her. They sentenced him to death.
It was on the day of Anders’ execution that Sonnelier, who was now so bereft with grief that he had become a pale shade of the man he had been, came to the Council of Clocheçonne to tell them that their belltower was complete.
“Excellent,” said the Chief Councilman. “We will ring the bell to mark the murderer’s execution.”
They drummed Anders out to the yard, where the executioner waited on the gallows. His heart beat the same rhythm, loudly, deafeningly.
And then the bells began to chime. First came the small bells, singing sweetly like little birds, like choristers sounding out their sweet tintinnabulation. Every citizen, in both towns, looked up as the melody swelled majestically.
And then the big bell rang. Its sound was sweet and pure and nothing like a bell at all.
It was a girl’s voice, clear and rich and wordless as its peals echoed over the rooftop.
The Council gasped.
“Campanille!” cried Anders, who knew her voice immediately.
“Campanille,” echoed Sonnelier, who knew it even better than Anders.
And the bell began to speak.
“Klavier!” sang the bell, in perfect, pure melodic tones.
“She names her killer!” cried the executioner. All eyes were on Anders.
“No!” cried Anders. “I would never!”
“My blood is in the bell!” sang the bell.
The executioner led Anders up the steps, and the young man tripped and stumbled, his vision blinded by his tears.
“His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell. And something sparkly glistened from the lip of the bell.
Mayor Klavier looked up from his seat, white as a ghost. Anders lifted a hand, to touch the scar on his cheek. His father’s finger was bare. The Mayor rubbed at his bare knuckle. “Father?!” he asked, barely choking out the word.
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
Mayor Klavier looked back at his son, coldly, and said nothing.
The executioner brought the noose down over Ander’s head, and tightened it.
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
“What does this mean?” the Chief Councilman asked Mayor Klavier.
The Mayor looked unflinchingly at his son, and rubbed his bare knuckle. “My son was missing a ring,” he said. “Although it pains me to say it. The night the young lady went missing, he came home without his ring.”
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
“I never!” Anders pleaded, desperate. “I loved her! He was the one who lost a ring! Father!”
Mayor Klavier shook his head. “He would have destroyed us all.”
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell, and Anders thought that it, too, sounded more frantic.
The crowd murmured to themselves. The executioner released the trap door.
Ander’s neck snapped, loudly.
“My blood is in the bell! His ring is in the bell!” sang the bell.
There was a gasp from the crowd.
The bell went silent.
They say that the great bell of Clocheçonne never rang again.
Although it bears only passing resemblance to either story, inspiration for this story came from Herman Melville’s The Belltower and from the Chinese folktale of The Bellmaker’s Daughter (This is not the version of The Bellmaker’s Daughter that I know best, but it was the first one that I found full text for, and the differences are in incidental details).