Percy Campbell's ruddy, freckled face grinned happily at his guests as he said, "I'd like to thank you all for coming here today to share your views and concerns with us." The woman and the professor muttered thank-yous. The priest and the warlock sat immobile.
Campbell turned his face to the camera. "Most of us have heard in recent years about the sudden rash of rock music with Satanist and witchcraft themes. A recent congressional hearing dealt with the proposal from a parents' group that lyrics be rated, and some people have gone so far as to suggest outright censorship."
Campbell frowned slightly to emphasize the seriousness of the topic. "There have been crimes in many parts of the country, crimes committed by teenagers and even by preteens—murders, assaults, and mutilations—which some local police officials have suggested are connected with Satanism and witchcraft. One such crime was committed in the town of Northport, Long Island, where Mrs. Wilkinson lives."
Campbell turned to his guests and said, "We expect to hear a variety of views from you today, and I hope we will be able to clear the air somewhat. I'd like to begin with a question for Mr. Proctor."
Simon Proctor nodded impassively.
Campbell tapped his pencil contemplatively upon his desk, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he asked, "How did this witchcraft fad get started, anyway? What's its attraction for the kids? Why is there so much of it in recent rock and roll music?"
"Just a moment, Percy," Father Scotto broke in before Simon could utter a single word. The priest leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows knitting into a frown of outrage. "I wish to make it very clear to the audience and to you that I take the greatest exception to the showing of that film clip."
"So do I," Mrs. Wilkinson agreed. "I resent being misled into thinking that I'd be doing something to fight this sort of thing only to find myself on a program which is publicizing it."
"We want to stop the production of this kind of garbage, not be part of its publicity!" The elderly priest was flushed with anger.
"Wait a minute, here," Percy Campbell said quickly. "We want a frank and open discussion of this topic, and I felt obligated to give the audience—"
"You feel obligated to keep your ratings high, and you'll pander to whatever base instincts you must in order to do so."
Mrs. Wilkinson nodded. "It's disgraceful, Percy, simply disgraceful." The middle-aged historian sitting beside her chuckled with amusement, and she flashed her eyes at him angrily. "This is not a joke, Professor Eisenmann!"
"No, no, of course not," he agreed politely, nervously adjusting his bow tie.
"Folks, I'm sorry if there's been any misunderstanding of my motives, my purposes here," Campbell said earnestly. "I'm a parent, just like you are—" The priest raised his eyebrows. "—like most of you are, I mean, and I'm as concerned about the potential for danger in this fad as any other parent is. I think we should return to the topic and examine—"
"This is the topic!" Father Scotto said emphatically. "By giving publicity to this film, by putting this—person in the public eye"—he gestured contemptuously in the direction of Simon Proctor—"you are part of a system which both encourages and propagates this type of dangerous, antisocial perversity."
"The people who produce these things do so to make money, regardless of who gets hurt," Mrs. Wilkinson said. "You're showing that film clip for the same reason. I know you aren't a Satanist, and I'll wager that this person"—another gesture toward Simon—"isn't one either. But he's after a buck, and he'll do anything to get it, even destroy young lives and spread moral degeneration. And you are helping him do it. And I resent being made part of it."
Campbell seemed to wither under the verbal assault, and he moved instinctively to divert attention from himself. "Simon, would you like to respond to any of this?"
Simon Proctor was sitting casually, his hands folded rather primly in his lap. He reached up and slowly, almost languidly stroked the pointed tip of his goatee. Then, his voice projecting boredom and disinterest in its bass resonance, he said, "You asked me a moment ago how this 'fad' got started. Let's clear up that point. Satanism is not a fad, like pink hair or platform shoes. It is a religion, like Buddhism or Catholicism." He looked pointedly at Father Scotto, who snorted his annoyance. "In fact, it's older than either of those religions, or any of the conventional religions." He nodded deferentially in the direction of Eisenmann. "I'm quite certain that the good Professor will bear me out in this. Satanism is really an improper, incorrect name for the faith. It's a system of worship and reverence for the forces of nature and the intelligence of the physical world, a system of thought and practice going back to the dawn of civilization."
"Are you seriously trying to say that sexual perversion and cold-blooded murder are forms of reverence for natural forces?!" Mrs. Wilkinson exclaimed. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"
Simon ignored her. "We give to the being which dominates the physical world the name 'Satan' because of a reaction against the hypocrisy and neurotic moralism of the Christians, but our Master has been known by many other names in many other lands throughout time."
"Oh, this is nonsense!" Father Scotto snapped. "And it's beside the point as well. We aren't here to allow this person to parade his money-making schemes around as if they were religions! We've come here to voice our concerns and to warn your viewers, Percy, about the violence and the perversity which this type of thing encourages."
"Precisely," Mrs. Wilkinson added, nodding emphatically. "This man isn't a Satanist at all, and the garbage he spews out isn't religion. He sees a way to make money, and he doesn't care how many poor children he destroys in the process." She harrumphed. "Why, he's no better than a pornographer!"
"Attacks upon my sincerity and my morality are nothing new to me," Simon said easily, languidly scratching his cheek. "In fact, they are common weapons in assaults upon all minority religious groups."
"Oh, this is absurd!" Father Scotto said. "We are not talking about a religion! We are talking about a business!"
"Professor Eisenmann." Campbell turned to the portly scholar. "You've been pretty quiet during all this. How do you react to Simon's claim that this is his religion, that he has a right to practice it openly and freely?"
Eisenmann cleared his throat and again fussed with his bow tie. "Well, Percy, I am neither a parent nor a priest, so I don't have too much to say about the, ah, moral or social issues involved."
"Oh, come now, Professor!" the priest said. "Surely you must have a reaction to the sort of thing we just saw on the screen!"
"Oh, yes, certainly, of course I do. But I do not confuse a gut reaction with an opinion." He turned to Campbell and asked, "'Gut reaction' is the proper phrase, yes?"
"Yes, that's it." Campbell nodded.
"Ja, good." He turned back to Father Scotto. "Here in America a common idea is that all people must have an opinion on each subject, no matter how little he knows about it or how little he has to do with it. In Austria it is not so."
"Everyone knows right from wrong," Mrs. Wilkinson said angrily. "Almost everyone, anyway." She glanced at Simon, who smiled.
"Right and wrong are matters of opinion,"' Eisenmann said, "but historical fact and historical falsehood are not." He turned to Simon Proctor. "I'm sorry, Mr. Proctor, but your assertion that your religion is somehow connected to ancient nature worship or even medieval Satanism is not tenable. Your film itself, from what I have seen of it here today, is filled with inaccuracies, distortions, and errors."
SHUT UP! Simon's thoughts screamed, but he held his tongue.
"What kind of errors are you referring to, Professor?" Campbell asked.
"Well, for example, the human sacrifice. Totally imaginary within the context of worship of the Devil."
"I beg your pardon, Professor," Simon said quickly. "As you well know, human sacrifice has been a part of religious ritual for thousands of years, since before—"
Eisenmann raised his hand to silence him. "No, no, you do not understand.
When human sacrifice occurs in history, it occurs either as a regular practice in agricultural communities and is connected with the revitalization of the fields, or else it is an aberration in times of great stress, such as the Punic sacrifices at the time of the Roman siege of Carthage during the Third Punic War."
SHUT UP, GODDAMN IT! Simon's thoughts repeated. STOP IT!
"There were also fertility cults as well, of course. The connection between sexuality, birth, and death has long been a part of religious thought. But mixing human blood and semen in a satanic parody of the Mass? Ridiculous. No tradition for that whatsoever."
"Uh-huh. Uh-huh." Campbell nodded. "So you're saying that there are no real Satanists nowadays, that Simon has concocted this whole thing?"
"No, I'm not saying that. If he believes in what he does, then I suppose we can call it a religion. What I am saying is that what I have seen today has nothing to do with witchcraft or Satanism as it has been traditionally practiced and understood."
"You are a European, Professor, not an American," Simon pointed out defensively. "You are not familiar with the practices of the New England witches."
"Again, I'm sorry, Mr. Proctor, but that is incorrect. I have researched myth and ritual in all areas of the world, New England included. There is very little that you or anyone else can tell me about the events in your Salem during the late seventeenth century."
He turned to Campbell. "You might have mentioned in introducing me that my academic specialization is comparative religion"
"Oh, didn't I do that?" Campbell seemed surprised. "I'm terribly sorry, I thought I had."
"Well, no matter." He turned again to Simon. "New England or old England, it makes no difference. The inhabitants of Salem in 1692 were Europeans, English people, and their customs and traditions were European customs and traditions, and that would include whatever form of witchcraft they practiced." He paused. "If they truly did, any of them. That is still a hotly debated issue."
"Since the subject has come up," Campbell said, turning to Simon, "you have a personal connection with those trials, don't you, Simon?"
"Yes," he nodded gravely. "I am the direct lineal descendant of John Proctor, a warlock killed by the authorities in Salem. He was hanged in 1692. Even then, you see"—he glanced at Mrs. Wilkinson and Father Scotto—"we followers of the old ways were persecuted."
"Ah-h-h-h, Mr. Proctor," Eisenmann said, wagging his finger, "you're at it again!"
"Are you saying that this isn't true, Professor?" Campbell asked.
"About his ancestry?" Eisenmann shrugged. "I have no knowledge of that, of course. And there was a John Proctor hanged as a witch during the Salem trials. But he was definitely not a witch."
"Just a moment—!" Simon said.
"I'm sorry, sir, but if you are descended from John Proctor, then you are not descended from a practitioner of witchcraft, but from a victim of ignorance."
"I think I know my own family history better than you do!" Simon said heatedly.
Eisenmann shrugged. "Be that as it may"—he turned to the talk show host—"John Proctor was married to a woman named Elizabeth. Their maid was a girl named Mary Warren—"
"Like in the film?" Campbell asked.
"Yes. He had an affair with another girl of the village, Abigail Williams, whose name was also used in the film. Abigail denounced Elizabeth Proctor as a witch and coerced Mary into supporting her accusation, in the hopes of sending Mrs. Proctor to the gallows so that Abigail could have John all to herself. The scheme became all tangled up in the events of the day in Salem, and it was John Proctor who was hanged for witchcraft, not Elizabeth." He looked at Simon. "But John Proctor was most definitely not guilty of witchcraft."
YOU SON OF A BITCH, SHUT THE HELL UP! Simon thought.
"In addition, I would like to point out that the people of Salem, Massachusetts, were Puritan Calvinists, related to your current-day Congregationalists or Presbyterians. And yet in your film, Mr. Proctor, you have them conducting a satanic ritual which parodies the Roman Catholic Mass." He laughed heartily. "'Ave Satanas, gratia vacuus.’" He laughed again. "It's downright silly!"
I'VE GOT TWO MILLION DOLLARS INVESTED IN THIS FILM! I'M MORTGAGED TO THE HILT BECAUSE OF THIS FILM! SHUT UP, GODDAMN IT, SHUT UP!
"So you're saying that this film is not the historically based production which the advertisements say it is?" Campbell asked.
"Oh, well, somebody did a little research, to be sure." The professor shrugged. "The rumors had it that Abigail Williams did turn up later as a prostitute in Boston—not Mary Warren, though—and of course the connection with John Proctor is based in fact. But the impression I get is that the film is one part history and five parts fantasy."
"In other words," Mrs. Wilkinson said with satisfaction, "it is entertainment!"
"In a word, yes," Eisenmann agreed.
"We can debate these matters of opinion all we want—" Simon began.
"They are not matters of opinion, Mr. Proctor; they are matters of fact. John Proctor was not a witch, the ritual as portrayed in the film clip is not legitimate satanic ritual, and witchcraft in seventeenth-century Salem is totally unrelated to the nonsense in the film." Eisenmann's tone combined pomposity with absolute certainty.
"Hold on!" Simon snapped, his agitation becoming evident. "The rituals used in the film, as well as the rituals we use in our own worship, are taken from an ancient text, the Caerimoniae Stupri Mortisque, the Ceremonies of Debauchery and Death!"
"Ah, yes, the Caerimoniae," the professor nodded, smiling. "A collection of foolishness concocted by an early nineteenth-century, self-proclaimed druid in Wales." He shook his head. "Sorry again, Mr. Proctor. Sheer fabrication."
"And seized upon in an attempt to lend legitimacy to what is nothing more than an immoral and exploitative business endeavor!" Father Scotto said. "Religion indeed! Ha!"
"This all kind of puts your claims in a different light, doesn't it, Simon?" Campbell asked.
"Not at all," Simon Proctor muttered. "Opinion and innuendo."
"Now, you're a bit different from the other so-called satanic rock singers, aren't you? I mean, they all treat witchcraft, astrology, all that stuff, they all treat it lightly, right? You're the only one who says that your Satanism is serious."
"I'm the only one whose Satanism is serious," he huffed. "And yet here we're being told that it's all hype, that it isn't really Satanism at all, that true witchcraft—"
"A moment," Eisenmann broke in. "I referred to traditional cultic practices commonly accepted as witchcraft."
"Okay," Campbell agreed, not seeing the difference. "—that what you do isn't witchcraft at all. If that's the case, then the position of Father Scotto and Mrs. Wilkinson here is strengthened somewhat, isn't it?"
Simon Proctor tried to think quickly. All he could concentrate on was diminishing box office receipts. "Well—ah---well, how do you think Father Scotto would react to being told that he isn't really a Catholic? It isn't even worth refuting."
"That isn't much of a refutation," Eisenmann pointed out.
"Simon, you also brought a film clip taken at your concert at the Carrier Dome in Syracuse last June, didn't you?"
"Now wait a minute—!" Father Scotto began.
"No, no, I've seen this," Campbell said. "There's no sex or violence in it. No more than in most rock concerts, anyway."
"Then there's too much," the priest grumbled. "If you're going to continue to publicize these things, then I'm afraid I must absent myself from this discussion."
"And I'll be going with him," Mrs. Wilkinson added.
Before Campbell could reply, Simon broke in by saying, "I assume that these people are here under the same conditions as I am, receiving no fee because we are all trying to get a message across. Correct?"
"Well, sure," Campbell agreed.
"Do I not then have the right to the same opportunities for expression—"
"Publicity, you mean!" Father Scotto snapped.
"Publ
icity, if you will," Simon continued. "Do I not have the same rights as they have?"
"We aren't showing films!" Mrs. Wilkinson exclaimed.
"That, madam, is your own fault, not mine!"
"Perhaps we should break for a commercial and discuss this issue a bit further before we resume," Campbell said in his best mediatory tone. To the camera he said, "We'll be back in a few moments, ladies and gentlemen, after a word from our sponsor . . ."
An hour later Simon Proctor was standing dejectedly on the corner of Fifty-third Street and Seventh Avenue, his arm outstretched in a thus far futile attempt to hail a cab. With his coat collar buttoned and his long hair tucked under his beret, he was not a distinct presence on the streets of Manhattan.
Son of a bitch tore me apart, he thought glumly. Made me look like a fool and a fraud on network television.
You are a fraud, his mind answered him. And if you lose your shirt on this goddamn movie, you'll be a fool as well.
Simon sighed and shook his head, then cursed under his breath as a cab sped by without seeing him.
Didn't even get to show the concert footage, with a concert tonight and half the tickets unsold. Shit!
"Mr. Proctor?" a voice said behind him.
He turned to find a diminutive young woman in a knee-length leather coat standing there, leaning somewhat tentatively toward him. She gazed at him through thick glasses whose frames almost touched the bottom of her blond bangs. "May I ask you a few questions?"
"Who are you?"
She smiled nervously. "I'm Liza Goldman from Rock 'n Record magazine?" Her tone said, Do you recognize the name? "I tried to catch up with you as you left the studio, but I couldn't get through the crowds. I'd like to ask you a few things about the talk show."
Damn! he thought, but he said, "Proceed," in his most, austere and sinister manner.
Candlemas Eve Page 3
