Candlemas Eve

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  "Aye, an act it is, a pretense;" Gwendolyn said. "And fraud yields no profit after a time."

  "Huh?"

  "I know you, Simon Proctor, I know you better than you know yourself I know that you seek wealth, and yet have it not. Well," she said confidently, "I am come to bring you wealth, more wealth than you can imagine. We shall join you in your theaters, we shall bring witchcraft, true witchcraft, to the young people of this land, and they shall yield up their wealth to you, for you shall be real in their eyes, and no charlatan."

  "What do you mean, you know me?" he huffed. "I've never met you before."

  "Nor we you," Gwendolyn replied. "But I know you notwithstanding. The world is filled with men such as you, who wish for what they cannot have, who have what they do not want, who dream of things beyond their grasp." She moved closer to him, and her eyes penetrated his. There was something about this woman, something about her presence, which Simon found disquieting. "But hear me well, Simon Proctor. You can have that which you desire. You can fulfill your dreams and build a world for yourself in any shape you wish. Satan can do this for you, through us."

  Great, Simon thought. Just what I need at eight o'clock in the morning. A couple of crazy people standing in my foyer. "Miss, I'm sorry, but I'm not a Satanist, and I don't think that your preaching would go over very well at my concerts. Now if—"

  "Preaching!" the woman exclaimed. "What am I, a minister? I speak not of preaching, but of song, of dance. You are a maker of music, are you not?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Fine. Then we shall join you in the making of music, and we shall draw people to our Master with melody and with the beauty of words."

  Simon smiled despite himself. "You are a musician? What do you play?"

  "Will you hear us?" she demanded.

  Simon glanced over at Rowena, giving her a look of weary resignation. She winked at him. Turning back to Gwendolyn, he said, "Sure, why not. Give us a tune." He walked into the sitting room and took a seat in the overstuffed armchair beside the sofa.

  The women followed him in. Each was carrying an oddly shaped case by a wooden handle, and they rested their burdens on the floor. They silently unbuttoned their long cloaks and removed them, tossing them casually onto the floor in the corner. Rowena jumped to her feet to retrieve them and carried them to the hallway to hang them in the closet. The second woman smiled at her as she walked back in to the sitting room. "Thank you," she said very softly.

  "You're welcome," Rowena responded, doing her best not to sound too friendly. Witches! she thought glumly. Wonderful!

  She looked over at her father and found him enraptured by the woman with whom he had been speaking. Rowena had noticed the extreme beauty of her face at once, but now, without the cloak, the woman was even more stunning. Her hair was black, straight, shiny, falling without a ripple from her perfectly shaped head down to the small of her back. Her skin was like white marble, which accentuated the ruby redness of her full lips and the piercing green of her catlike eyes. She was tall, almost as tall as Simon, with a high waist and a voluptuous figure. When she leaned over to unlock the clasp of her case Rowena noticed the brightly painted red fingernails which looked long and sharp, and when the woman spoke Rowena noticed for the second time the aristocratic features of her face, the delicate pointed nose, the slightly cleft chin, the high, thin cheekbones.

  "I have some skill on the harp, the native instrument of my country," Gwendolyn said as she drew a simple wooden instrument with twenty-five gut strings from the black carrying case.

  "Your country?" Simon asked. "Where are you from?"

  "I was born in Llechtenich, a small town in Wales," she replied. "My friend Adrienne plays the lute."

  Simon glanced at the other woman, who had removed a lute from the case she had been carrying and was attending to its tuning. He gave her no more than a glance, for she was as unimpressive as the other woman was striking. Both were attired in long black skirts and simple, gauzy peasant blouses, but whereas her clothing served only to make Gwendolyn even more stimulating, it made Adrienne appear a bit dowdy. Her hair was a nondescript brown, cut to shoulder length but otherwise unstyled, falling in indifferent waves. She was almost boyishly thin and appeared very unhealthy. Her face was broad and plain, unflattered by makeup of any sort, and her complexion, which at first glance was as white as Gwendolyn's, was in reality merely pallid.

  "Have you heard of the old singer of songs, Thomas the Rhymer?" Adrienne asked Simon. It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was timorous and high.

  "No, I don't think so," Simon replied.

  "He was a minstrel of the old times," she explained softly, "centuries ago."

  "I've heard of him," Rowena said. "We read about him in English class. He lived in Scotland in the Middle Ages, right?"

  "Aye," Adrienne said, smiling at her. "Here is a song of Thomas the Rhymer."

  "Hold," Gwendolyn muttered as she tuned her harp. For a few moments the women plucked their strings and turned their pegs to bring the two instruments into tune with each other. Then Gwendolyn looked at Simon and said, "Here be Thomas's song of demons and witchery." She had seated herself upon the floor.

  She began to pluck the bass strings of her harp with her thumb, setting up an infectious rhythm, and a melody soon began to emerge from the treble strings which she plucked with her fingers. She held the harp upon her lap, cradling it with her left arm while playing it with her right. Adrienne remained standing, the lute suspended from a leather strap around her neck. Gwendolyn played through what seemed to be an introductory bit of music, and then Adrienne joined in with a contrapuntal harmonic melody upon the lute. The sound was hypnotic and unusual, and both women's eyes closed as each became enraptured by her own music. They then began to sing, Gwendolyn's low, rich voice combining with Adrienne's wavering soprano to produce an enchanting harmony.

  "When cold blew the North Wind and bleak was the sky, when earth was enveloped in winter shade,

  When spirits ephemeral hovered high, and winter ghosts haunted the water,

  Through land of the Saxon and land of the Celt full weary and worn my way I made.

  I came to a river where winter did melt from the warmth of the druid's daughter."

  The words seemed to flow like an ancient paean from votive lips, transporting Simon, Rowena, and Jeremy to another time, another age. They sat openmouthed and enchanted by the sheer beauty and artistry of the two women.

  "Her name was called Evangeline.

  Her eyes were as blue as the Scandian Sea,

  Her hair was of texture so ruddy and fine

  That sunsets prostrated before her.

  Her father, a druid, a sorcerer dread,

  So loved this child of wizardry

  That skillfully kept he her soul from the dead

  That earth might forever adore her.

  But over her brooded a demon so foul

  That only her smile could hold him still,

  Her demon lover Ra'igma'oul,

  A spawn of the pit's bloody nation.

  His eyes were as red as the fires of hell,

  His hands were beclawed for to tear and kill.

  But demon or no, he loved her well,

  And kissed her feet with adoration.

  I met her by a mountain stream

  As she did bathe in morning dew.

  I found her part woman, part spirit, part dream,

  An angel to hover above me.

  Cast down at her feet I told her so slow

  That my heart was her prisoner fast and true.

  She knelt down beside me and whispered low

  That then and forever she'd love me."

  Adrienne proceeded to play a lilting musical interlude upon the lute as Gwendolyn swayed slightly to and fro. Simon looked over at Rowena and gave her a look which indicated that he was impressed by the singers and the song.

  "The demon was wroth and he prayed to the Powers

  Which dwell in the
clouds upon days of storm.

  He called out unto them for many long hours

  When voices he heard calling to his soul.

  'Ra'igma'oul,’ the voices did say,

  'Blow thou but three blasts upon shepherd's horn

  And Evangeline will wither away,

  Be lost to the universe temporal.'

  The demon foul, red eyes aflame,

  Did creep up to where m'love did lay,

  And softly calling out her name

  Prepared to sound the death-horn.

  Evangeline looked up at him

  And screamed as he sounded the fatal tone.

  Her form, it shrank and waxed thin

  And then faded into the dewy morn."

  It was now Gwendolyn's turn to play an interlude. Adrienne maintained a melodic rhythm as Gwendolyn's harp spun out a wildly sensuous rill of rapidly ascending and descending notes. She opened her eyes and gazed at Simon, her white teeth slowly revealed by the lascivious smile which spread over her face. Simon tried to return her unwavering gaze, but found himself growing nervous and slightly dizzy, and he looked away. Gwendolyn emitted a short, low laugh and then returned her attention to the harp. Adrienne joined her voice to Gwendolyn's once more as they began the final verse of the song.

  "And so during summer when grasses are green,

  When forest sprites dance upon rock and bough,

  When spirits and serpents of mystical mien

  Abound in the budding world fair and fine,

  The sound of lamenting will often arise

  And waft on the wind to the lands around,

  The hater and lover, the demon and I,

  Bemoaning the loss of Evangeline."

  A few final rills ran delicately upon the strings of the harp and the lute, and then descended to a minor key, resolution. As the final echoes of the strings faded and died, Gwendolyn turned to Simon and said, "That is not preaching, is it, Mr. Proctor?"

  Simon laughed. "No. I'll say it isn't. That was a lovely piece. Who did you say wrote that?"

  "Thomas the Rhymer," Adrienne said.

  "Thomas the Rhymer,"' Simon repeated. "I must make a point of looking him up in the library. I'll bet there are lots of songs of his which I can use."

  "Aye, but you'll not find that song in a book," Gwendolyn said. "It is known to us and to us alone. It has never seen the printed page or the handwritten paper."

  Simon furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about? How do you know the song if it isn't written down anywhere?"

  "He taught it to us," Adrienne said.

  "Who taught it to you?"

  "Thomas the Rhymer," she explained innocently.

  Simon paused before replying. At last he said, "Yeah, sure. Thomas the Rhymer."' He stood to his feet. "Well, ladies, thanks for the entertainment, but I really don't think that this would work out for either of us."

  Gwendolyn Jenkins raised her fine black eyebrows in surprise. "Our song does not please you?"

  "Oh, yes, very much," Simon said honestly. "It was beautiful. Very beautiful. In fact, it's much better than most of the stuff we grind out in the music business nowadays. It has the same kind of atmosphere—you know, mystical lyrics, antique melody—that Jethro Tull used to do about ten years ago, and Donovan did ten years before that."

  "Well, then!" she said with satisfaction.

  "So don't be offended when I say it just wouldn't work. Really, it is a beautiful song. You should be proud of it." He laughed. "I wish I'd written it, fifteen years ago."

  "We did not write it," Adrienne said. "It—"

  "Yeah, yeah, I know. Thomas the Rhymer," he interrupted, repressing a laugh. "Anyway, the music I use in my act is a lot louder and more driving than that. Like I said, I'm a rock singer. That was a folk song."

  "Simon," Jeremy offered tentatively, "didn't the Byrds do some of Dylan's folk songs with rock music?"

  Simon Proctor shot him an irritated glance. "Shut up, Jeremy."

  "Listen, Mr. Proctor," Gwendolyn said. "Music is music, and dance is dance. I know nothing of your music or this rock and roll. But I know that songs which last for centuries do so because they pluck the harp strings of the soul and speak to needs buried deep within the human breast."

  Woman has a way with words, Simon thought.

  "Tell me this," she continued. "When you make your music, is the theater filled? Are there yet spaces which remain empty?"

  "Oh, a few, sometimes," he lied, not wishing to discuss the incipient collapse of his business with a total stranger. "It's quite common for a few seats to remain open at a concert. But at—"

  "So. You attract the spectators, and yet a little space remains. What ill is done by allowing Adrienne and I to fill those empty spaces?"

  "Well—" he began uncertainly.

  "We seek no payment, ask for no reward. If we can enlarge the number of spectators, then all is well. And if it be not so, then all is as it was before, and you have lost nothing."

  He paused before speaking. "What do you mean, you don't want to be paid? Everybody wants to be paid for what they do."

  "We do not," Gwendolyn said emphatically. "We seek to make your representation of our religion accurate and true. Such rewards as we receive will come from our Master, not from you."

  Wait a minute . . . wait a minute, Simon thought. What's the harm? It won't cost me anything. It might help me out. It couldn't hurt. I can't be in much worse of a position than I already am. No payment? No salary? No percentage of the take? I like those terms. . .

  "Wait a minute," he said aloud. "Let me think about this." Gwendolyn and Adrienne stood silently, expectantly. Rowena studied her father's face, trying to discern his thoughts.

  It'd make for good PR, he thought. Real witches, from Wales. I can see the posters now! If we can get their songs rearranged, put them to a rock setting . . . not heavy metal, sort of the old folk-rock sound . . . dress them up in some sort of sexy outfit . . . it just might work. . . . It just might work. . .

  "Okay," he said at last. "Here's what I'll do. We'll give it a try—"

  "Splendid!" Gwendolyn exclaimed. Adrienne remained mute.

  "Hold it," he cautioned. "We'll give it a try in one concert, just one. I'm starting a concert tour in about two weeks. We're going to have to get together with my band and do some rehearsing, get your songs—you do have other songs, don't you?"

  Gwendolyn smiled triumphantly. "Hundreds," she replied.

  "Great. Get your songs arranged for rock, get you some costumes—" he was growing feverish with anticipation, "it might go. It might sell. But no commitments, you understand, beyond this one concert. No contracts signed or anything."

  Gwendolyn laughed. "When I was but a girl I signed the Devil's book. I have signed nothing since, nor shall I."

  "Yeah, sure, fine," Simon said carefully as Rowena rolled her eyes heavenward. "Well, good. Great. Row, why don't you get a couple of the rooms ready for—give me your names again?"

  "Gwendolyn Jenkins," she said, "and my friend is Adrienne Lupescu."

  "Right. Both from Wales."

  "No, sir," Adrienne said softly. "I am from Romania." Simon was disappointed. "Oh, yeah? That's too bad. There's something mystical about Wales that Romania just doesn't have. Unless, of course—" he paused. "Where in Romania?"

  "I was born in the village of Bloisci, near the town of Cluj."

  He shook his head. "That doesn't mean anything to me. I mean, what is the region called where you come from?"

  "The region? Transylvania," she answered simply.

  Simon smiled at her. "That's what I was hoping you'd say. Wales is great, but you can't get more mystical than Transylvania. I'm thinking in terms of publicity—if this all works out, you understand." He turned to his daughter. "Row, fix up a couple of rooms for our guests, will you?"

  As she rose to her feet, Rowena sighed and shook her head. "Grampa isn't gonna like this," she muttered.

  "Just go with my daughter," Simon said. "Where a
re your bags?"

  "We have none," Gwendolyn said, "but for our instruments."

  "Okay, fine," he said, feeling for all the world like a motel owner who had just admitted two suspicious guests. "Just follow Rowena. I have some calls to make."

  Jeremy got to his feet. "I can put off washing the church windows for an hour or so. You need some help, Row?"

  "No, she doesn't," Simon said pointedly.

  Rowena cast a disparaging look of strained tolerance in her father's direction and said, "Go wash the windows, Jeremy. I'll see you later."

  "Okay," he replied. "I'll come over after supper."

  She smiled. "Great." She disappeared up the stairs, Gwendolyn and Adrienne following behind her.

  Jeremy stood nervously in the sitting room. Simon appraised him coldly. "Jeremy, don't misunderstand me. I think you're a nice kid, and I like you. But you and Rowena . . ." He shook his head.

  "Shit, Simon, I'd never do anything to hurt her!" he said, wanting desperately to avoid the conversation which he knew was beginning.

  "I know that," he said gently, but with a hard edge to his voice. "But I think that Rowena is too young to have a boyfriend."