The Bell Tower

When a child thinks their parents don't know what they are up to...

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Marcia knelt in the archway, resting her hands on top of the waist-high parapet, and couldn’t help but emit a gentle sigh at the tranquil solitude she found herself in. She lowered her chin onto her hands and gazed dreamily across the red-tiled rooftops to the vineyards and mountains beyond.

There were four archways at the top of the bell tower, but the north archway was her favourite. It had a vantage point that overlooked the old town and the mountains, and when their snowy peaks were silhouetted against a deep blue sky and the ice fields sparkled, their majesty was overwhelming.

She remembered the first time her father had finally relented and let her climb to the top of the tower with him. He had followed her closely as they climbed the stone steps from the bottom of the tower to the first wooden platform, then felt his arms encircle her as they inched rung by rung up the steep and narrow ladders and out through the hatch door into the belfry, its gilded dome topped with a plain wooden cross.

On that day, when she had first emerged from the gloomy interior into the sunlight and seen the town spread out before her with its miniature dwellings and inhabitants, she was mesmerised. From then on, there was no place she wanted to be more; her soul craved it. Almost every day, she would pester and pester her father until, with a great sigh of exasperation, he would relent and go with her back to the top again.

Today, though, was her thirteenth birthday, and this meant she was a teenager, and, if she were a teenager, that also meant she didn’t need her father to go with her, did she?

Her eyes were drawn to the bell rope that disappeared through a hole in the centre of the floorboards to the bottom of the tower, from where it could be rung. She eyed it warily, and although she longed to grasp it and give it a gentle tug, the memory of her most embarrassing day ever stopped her, as well as the promise to her father that she would never ring it again.

On that terrible day, she had rung it, just once. She had only been little, and it had only been a little ding, but her father had been furious; it was only ever to be rung when the village was in the utmost danger, from avalanches, floods, or fires. All the townsfolk had been roused, and as she left the tower through the small door with her father, she had shrunk from their stern faces and hid her face in the musty linen of her father’s work shirt. He had made her apologise to the crowd, which she did from under the crook of his arm, then ran home to her bedroom, where she threw herself onto her bed and cried

with embarrassment and frustration, as her mother hummed softly to her and stroked her hair.

But now was another day, and ever since she had stolen the key to the bell tower from the maintenance man who worked for the town council, she could come here and hide away as often as she wanted. She hoped beyond hope he would never notice; he hardly ever came here, anyway.

She went from archway to archway, taking in the different views across the landscape: the lines of tall poplar trees, the sun-shadowed patchwork of farms and vineyards, and the olive groves on the outskirts of the village.

She stretched out an arm and touched the rope with the tip of her finger. This was the first time she had touched it since that day, and it sent a frisson of excitement and fear tingling through her body. Maybe it was the thrill, but she dared herself to touch it again, and this time she gave the rope a light tug. The bell swayed, but no more than it would in a mountain breeze, and not enough to make it ding.

She looked over the parapet at the men working in the olive groves at the edge of the village, shaking the branches with long rakes and collecting the falling olives in their nets. From this distance, you could not see their faces clearly, but she knew who they were just from their stance or gait. This seemed to her more unique and individual than their features, and she had learnt to recognise them all.

As she watched, the men tipped their nets full of olives into a cart, and having finished their morning's work, stood mopping their brows, chatting and laughing. Then, in ones and twos, they wandered away along the dusty paths and disappeared into the cobbled streets, where they would be heading off to the tavernas for their midday meal.

She watched Marco tether the horse to his cart, now laden with olives, then set off towards the large single-story warehouse containing the olive presses. His son, Zeno, and her brother, Aurel, sat on the back of the cart, swinging their legs. She secretly waved to Zeno with an eagerness that embarrassed her, even though he hadn’t seen. She waved to her brother too, but not as vigorously as she had with Zeno.

Her father and mother would be preparing lunch now and waiting for her to come and help. But she didn’t want to leave the bell tower yet, so she sat and munched on the bread, cheese and olives she had brought with her.

Halfway through chewing a piece of bread, she stopped, as a sudden feeling of unease tingled up her spine and made her shoulders hunch. Something didn’t feel right, and she peeked over the parapet at the town square; it was now empty, and so were the streets.

She looked for Lucky Felix, the beggar, who was often sitting in his favourite spot in the square – a place that could be seen from the bell tower – but he wasn’t there. No one was there.

Even at lunchtime or during the afternoon siesta, there were always some people moving about or dozing on the tree-shaded benches dotted around the square, their hats pulled over their faces. But now there were none; not even the town guards standing in the usual spots, in their dark-green uniforms.

She walked on her knees from arch to arch in search of life, but she couldn’t see anyone, not even in the outlying fields. She also hadn’t seen Zeno or her brother come back out of the workshop after delivering the olives.

Marcia jumped as a loud, angry shout broke the eerie silence. She shuffled across to the east archway, from where the noise came, and peeped over the parapet so she could see down the narrow street that crossed one of the main thoroughfares leading from the town square.

As she watched, Lucky Felix limped into the gap and stood there leaning on his crutches. She was about to wave to him when two men in light blue uniforms appeared, grabbed hold of his arms and urged him forward. Just before he moved out of view, Lucky Felix turned his head towards the tower, and for the briefest of moments, it seemed as if their eyes met.

Marcia was sure Lucky Felix, with that look, had been pleading with her. She stood and tugged the rope, harder this time, and the clanger tapped the bell with the tiniest of dings. She dropped into a squat and peeked over the parapet. No one moved, and no one came.

She felt paralysed; she couldn’t leave the safety of the bell tower, no one knew she was here, and no one was out looking for her. She felt abandoned, and a tear trickled down her cheek. All she wanted to do was run home and cling to her father and smell his sweat.

She tugged the rope again, a bit harder this time, and a ding rang out. Then three more times – ding, dong, ding. She looked over the parapet, and still the streets were empty. As her panic rose and her tears flowed, she now tugged the rope with all her might, again and again, and the bell rang across the town, strident and urgent.

Now the people came, emerging from side streets and doorways. They came in their droves until it seemed as if the entire population had crammed itself into the cobbled area at the bottom of the bell tower. Marcia looked down at the crowd and saw her father staring up at her.

He beckoned with a hand. ‘Come, Marcia. Come and join us.’

Marcia clambered down the ladders and skipped down the stone steps. She had no fear; she was only glad everyone had returned. She burst out of the small door and into her father’s arms, her face pressed against his shirt.

He smiled down at her, then addressed the crowd. ‘I am a good judge,’ he shouted. ‘See, when all is not as it should be, we can rely on my beloved daughter to alert us.’

Then quietly to Marcia, ‘Listen now, darling one, to the mayor’s words.’

The mayor of the village stepped forward and puffed out his chest. ‘No one knows what the future holds – what joys – what tragedies. So, in agreement with the council, I have created a new post, an important post. Some might say the most important.’ The mayor scanned the rapt faces of the crowd. ‘Who could we trust, who would be so diligent, so vigilant, with this important post?’

Then the mayor fixed his eyes on Marcia. ‘I know of just one, one only, out of you all. We should think about that – out of the entire village, a single trustworthy and courageous soul. Some of you might think to shout out, “But that is me.”, “I am trustworthy.” or “I am courageous.” That may often be the case, but everything is in a moment, and in this moment, there is only one, a brave and valiant daughter of this town.’

The mayor smiled and gestured, ‘Please.’

Marcia’s father gave her a gentle push. ‘Go, don’t be uncertain, dear one, go to the mayor.’

Marcia took a few steps, then turned to her father, who smiled and waved her on.

There was an expectant hum around the crowd as Marcia hesitantly approached the mayor.

‘Marcia,’ he said. ‘It is my honour to bestow upon you, this worthy and admirable title. No one I know, will value it more than you. And, if you value it, then we can trust you. Can we not?’

Marcia stared.

‘Can we?’ repeated the mayor.

Marcia nodded.

The mayor brought out a shiny brass key. ‘Do you have the old one?’

Marcia rummaged in her satchel and held it up.

‘Shall we swap?’ asked the mayor.

Marcia nodded again and held out the key.

The mayor took it, then puffed out his chest again. ‘By the powers invested in me, I hereby announce that from this day forth, Marcia Monserrate Campanella will be our first “Keeper of the Bell Tower”. As he shouted this out, he hung the key around Marcia’s neck and kissed her once on each cheek.

Instantly and as one, the crowd cheered and clapped, and those with hats threw them into the air. A band at the side of the crowd started playing, tables were set up, and food and wine laid out.

She watched Lucky Felix hopping to the music, supported between the two men in blue, and Aurel and Zeno, who clapped for her, and whispered to each other, laughing. Then Zeno smiled and blew a kiss, and this time she wasn’t embarrassed.

And there stood Marcia in the midst of this throng, shocked and overwhelmed, and oh so happy. Then her mother and father were there, hugging her, and she nestled into them, smiling and content.

By Peter Jonathan

From: United Kingdom

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