"Great, really great,"' Herricks said with an uncustomary and, to his associates, totally unexpected enthusiasm. "Did you write that?"
Gwendolyn laughed. "Oh, no! 'Tis an old, old song!"
"Well, I loved it." He turned to Adrienne. "You got a real pretty voice, real pretty." She blushed full red and turned away from his friendly yet penetrating gaze.
"Well, what do you think?' Simon asked. "What can we do with it?"
"Change the rhythm," Tom Mahoney suggested. "It's in four-four time. Change the verses to three-four, and we can do a riff between verses in five-eight."
"Five-eight!" Herricks exclaimed, suddenly reverting to his usual personality. "What am I, fuckin' Dave Brubeck or something?"
"It's not hard, Larry," Carl Strube interjected. "The Beatles did 'All You Need Is Love' in seven-eight."
"So what?" he grumbled. "I'm not John Lennon either."
"That's for sure," Siegal muttered.
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Simon Proctor said. "Before we get into detailed suggestions, are we agreed that it can be done?"
"Absolutely," Mahoney said, grabbing his bass guitar and slinging the strap over his shoulder.
"Yeah, sure," Larry Herricks said, "but none of that twelve-seventeenths shit."
"I think the whole idea is kind of exciting," Carl Strube said. "No offense, Simon, but I really think we need some fresh ideas, and if these ladies have more old songs as good as that one, it'll really give the act a boost."
"Which it needs," Simon agreed. "No offense taken, Carl. I know we're in trouble, and I know you know it." He turned to Mark Siegal. "What do you think, Markie?"
Siegal walked over to the drum set which stood far removed from the piano and the other instruments. He plopped himself down upon the cushioned stool and took into his hands the two drum sticks which were resting in the elastic strap on the side of the bass drum. He looked up at Simon. "I have my doubts, man, I really do. I don't know if we can make rock out of this stuff, and even if we do, I don't know if it's gonna go over with the kids." He turned quickly to Gwendolyn and Adrienne. The former gazed at him imperiously, the latter averted her eyes. "Don't get me wrong, girls. I really liked what I just heard. It was beautiful, really beautiful. But as for turning it into rock and roll"—he shook his head—"I don't know. I just don't know."
Simon smiled warmly at his old friend. He and Mark Siegal had known each other for well over fifteen years, and he knew that Siegal was an eternal pessimist. "So why are you sitting at your drums?" he asked, grinning.
Siegal returned the grin and shrugged. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he said.
"Look before you leap," Mahoney countered.
"Faint heart ne'er won fair maiden," Simon pointed out.
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," Strube added.
"Comedians," Herricks muttered as he rubbed his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon was devoted to the attempt to transform a centuries-old song from the mountains of Wales into a rock song which would be grist for the contemporary teenage mill, and by four o'clock the results were generally satisfactory to all. Both Gwendolyn and Adrienne seemed to take to the new musical idiom with an enthusiasm and verve which both surprised and pleased Simon Proctor. As the seven musicians went through their final, perfected interpretation of the old song, Gwendolyn began to dance during the musical interludes between the verses, executing a bump and grind made all the more stimulating by its essential innocence. She leapt and strutted around the room, flailing her long black hair against the microphones and the musicians, laughing and uttering unintelligible words of approval, encouragement, and happiness. She seemed a bizarre mixture of uninhibited pagan and base wild beast, and as Simon Proctor watched the drops of sweat glisten upon her white throat, as he saw her hips sway in opposition to her breasts, as he looked into the wild, mad, heathen eyes, he felt an excitement and a desire so intense that he found it almost uncontrollable.
He was not alone in his reaction. Larry Herricks pounded upon his piano keys with his customary consummate skill, but his eyes were glued to the woman who danced before him with such sensual abandon. Mahoney, Siegal, and Strube were all equally fixated upon the wildly gyrating form, and the sexual energy she imparted seemed to drive them to even greater musical exertions. In any rehearsal session, musicians who play primarily by instinct take musical chances, musical risks, which often produce an effective result, and as often fail; but each chance taken by the band at that moment succeeded, each risk was worth taking, each attempt worked.
The song as they had now arranged it exploded into its cacophonous denouement, and as the last deafening chords and shattering cymbal cries faded, they all stood up and cheered. Gwendolyn, trembling and drenched with perspiration, threw herself into Simon's arms and kissed him passionately upon the mouth. He felt an urge to tear her clothes from her body and take her right there on the floor in the midst of all the others. He strove to restrain himself from so doing, but felt himself weakening as the sultry green eyes gazed lustfully into his own, as he saw the tip of the pink tongue dart slightly outward and touch the full, red lips. He fought to retain his sense of time and place, and would have lost his struggle had not Harry Schroeder's voice broken into his thoughts with a glaring and totally demanding incongruity.
"Hey, Simon, hiya. Hiya, boys," Schroeder boomed as he waddled into the room. "That sounded terrific, fantastic, really great!" Everyone knew that his enthusiasm was feigned, for Harry Schroeder rarely took pleasure from any music more contemporary than that of Glenn Miller, but they all grinned at him appreciatively.
"Harry!" Simon exclaimed. "What are you doing—oh, yeah, right. You said that you'd drop by."
"Sounds really good, Simon, honest it does. I think you're on to something here." He looked at the two women and then returned his attention to Simon expectantly.
Simon picked up on the unspoken request. "Harry Schroeder, my manager, this is Gwendolyn Jenkins and Adrienne Lupescu."
"Howahya." He smiled. "Was that one of your songs?"
"Not ours," Gwendolyn said. "An old song which we sing." She took Simon's arm impetuously and held it tight. "But it has never seemed so exciting a song as now."
"Well, I think it's gonna go over good," Schroeder nodded. "Uh, Simon, you got a minute?"
"Yeah, sure, Harry" He gently removed Gwendolyn's hand from his arm. "Excuse me for a minute. I'll be right back." He and Schroeder walked out of the room and stood in the corridor which led to the entrance way. "What's up, Harry?"
"A few things," he said easily. "That was really pretty, that song you guys were doing."
Simon laughed. "Thanks, but I know you hated it."
"No, no, really!"
"Sure," he smiled, unconvinced. "That Gwen is really something, isn't she? She's gonna have those kids going crazy, especially the boys."
"Yeah, yeah," Schroeder nodded. He paused and then said, "You sure this is a good idea?"
"Having them join the act? Sure I do. It's worth a try, anyway, isn't it?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, they aren't people trying to make a buck playing Wizard of Oz, you know what I mean? They think they're honest-to-God witches, right? That sounds to me like they're nuts."
"Don't worry about it," he said. "So what's up?"
"Oh, yeah. I got a call from Percy Campbell this morning. He wants you back on the show."
"He does, does he?" Simon became immediately wary. "Me and who else?"
"That professor—what's his name—Eisenmann—?"
"Forget it," he said emphatically. "Absolutely not. No way, man!"
"Hold it a minute, Simon. I don't think you should just reject the invitation without—"
Simon pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it angrily, throwing the match away with an irritated snap of his wrist. "Listen, Harry, the last time . . ." He turned as he heard the door, behind him open, and smiled despite his annoyance when Gwendolyn leaned in from beh
ind it. "Hiya, Gwen. I'll be in in a minute."
"Very well, Simon," she said deferentially. She remained where she was, listening.
"The last time I went on that damned show," he resumed, "I was made a fool of by that fat bastard. There's no way I'm gonna let myself be put in that position again. Forget it, Harry. Call Campbell and tell him to forget it!"
"Hold it. Listen for a minute, will you?" Schroeder said heatedly. "He got a lot of mail about that show. This whole popular witchcraft thing has a big audience, I guess. He wants to do another show, have a debate between you and that professor—"
"Sure, sure, so his ratings go up, that Eisenmann jerk gets some brownie points at his college, and I end up looking like an asshole again. Forget it!"
"Simon—" Harry began.
"I do not understand," Gwendolyn broke in. "Who is this man who has held you up to ridicule?" Her voice was angry, protective.
"Oh, it's nothing, Gwen. It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me," she said firmly. "Mr. Schroeder, please explain this all to me." Her tone allowed no refusal.
"Well," Schroeder sighed, "Simon here was on a talk show a few weeks ago, and there was a college professor on it with him, and they started arguing about witchcraft, and Simon thinks that he ended up looking bad."
"I ended up looking like a goddamned fool!" he shouted.
"It wasn't that bad"' Schroeder lied. "Anyway, the guy who runs the show wants him back on to debate with the professor. I think it'd be a great way to get free publicity—"
"Publicity with who?" Simon spat. "Teenage kids don't watch Percy Campbell, for Christ's sake! You should never have booked me on that show in the first place!"
"Simon—" Schroeder said tiredly.
"No, listen, I'm not kidding, Harry. Forget it!"
"How did this man offend you?" Gwendolyn asked levelly, though her jaw seemed to be clenching.
Simon did not reply, so Schroeder said, "He said that Simon wasn't really a warlock."
At this, Gwendolyn began to laugh. "Indeed! This man is most perceptive, for in truth you are not!"
"Hey!" Simon snapped. "I don't need—"
She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Hush, dear man, I am not the enemy. I am an ally, and a more reliable ally has no man ever known." She turned to Schroeder. "Would it be helpful to us to meet again with this man? Will there be others there to hear?"
Schroeder paused, uncertain of her meaning. "Of course there will. I mean, it's a TV show!"
She looked up at Simon. "Then we must meet with him. Remember, Simon Proctor, my goal is the service of the Dark Master. I shall go with you, for this man cannot tell me that I am not a witch!"
Simon looked at her doubtfully. "You? You'll go on the show with me? You'll debate this guy?"
She laughed and shook her head. "I debate no one. I shall proclaim myself to be what I am, and if this man casts doubts upon my word, I shall cast a spell upon his body and he shall be destroyed."
Schroeder and Proctor stared at her dumbly for a long moment. Then as if with one voice, they said, "What?!"
"I have done so many times in the past," she replied easily. "The essence of the service of the lord of this world is power, and it is in exchange for power that we serve him. I have the power to kill and the power to heal. If this man you speak of offends me, I shall cast a spell upon him, and he shall die."
Schroeder walked over to Gwendolyn and took her arm gently, speaking to her as one would to a distraught child. "Listen, sweetheart, I'm glad that you have powers like this, but I don't think—"
"Great!" Simon said loudly. "Great! That's great! That's fantastic! That's fantastic!!!"
Schroeder looked at him in confusion. "What are you talking about? That's the craziest idea I've ever—"
"No, no, Harry, you're not thinking this through," Simon said with excitement. "Think of the PR we can get out of this! She can cast a spell on somebody on syndicated television! Everybody will be talking about it! It's never been done!"
"Of course it's never been done! It’s never been done because it can't be done, because it's stupid!"
"Take care, now,"' Gwendolyn said darkly.
Schroeder looked at her. "I didn't mean anything, honey, honest I didn't." To Simon, "What's gonna happen when she casts a spell on this Eisenmann guy and nothing happens to him? Then it'll be just like you felt before. You'll look silly."
"No, no, no! Don't you see? It won't matter one damned bit when nothing happens to him! People will be curious to see if there's any effect, and that'll get us in the papers, on the local news shows—people will be talking about it. . . . By the time anyone really makes a point of the fact that he's okay, we'll already have the PR for the tour and the movie! Hey, Harry, you know the way the press works. Reporters are all whores. They'll print anything that'll sell papers, say anything on the tube that'll draw an audience."
"Simon, Simon," Schroeder said with exasperation. "Nobody's gonna take it seriously if she casts—"
"Harry, you're missing the point!" he said heatedly. "It doesn't matter if anybody takes it seriously! It'll be good PR, real good PR! I mean, shit, who takes my act seriously anyway? The whole thing is just camp, right?"
Schroeder nodded reluctantly, unwilling to be persuaded. "Yeah. I guess so."
"So we both go on the Campbell show, I argue with the guy, she casts a spell on him—" he glanced over at Gwendolyn, "one that you'll say will take a while to work right?"—he turned again to Schroeder—"and the local news people will eat it up!"
"More than likely, they'll ignore it," Schroeder said.
"Okay, so if they ignore it, we haven't lost anything, right?"
Schroeder frowned. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you trying to talk me into booking you on the show? I mean, what the hell just happened here? I told you that I thought it—"
"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," Simon said quickly. "Just book us both on the show. Make sure it's both of us, not just me."
Schroeder shrugged. "Okay, okay. Anything you say." He shook his head and muttered, "I thought I had to convince you!"
Simon turned and grabbed Gwendolyn by the waist. He lifted her up in front of him and spun around a few times. "Great idea, honey, great idea!"
She smiled down at him from her elevated position, but her smile was strained. "Such a doubter, Simon Proctor! And if I cast a spell upon this man and he dies? Then what will you say?"
Simon laughed. "Babe, if you cast a spell on somebody and he dies, I'll say anything you want me to say!"
She laughed freely as he put her down on her feet. "I shall hold you to your words, sweet man," she said.
Simon turned to Schroeder. "What time is it, Harry?"
He glanced at his watch. "'Bout twenty after four."
"Tom's gotta start setting up for tonight in an hour or so," Simon said. "I'd like us to get going on at least one more song before we have to quit." He turned to Gwendolyn. "You two got another one, a less complicated one than the shapechanger song?"
Gwendolyn began to reply, but stopped as she inclined her ear toward the closed door behind her. "I believe that Adrienne is singing a song for your friends right now. Perhaps this one?"
Simon listened hard. The gentle, tinny resonances of the lute were dimly audible through the closed door. "Let's go back inside," he suggested.
He opened the door softly and held it as Gwendolyn and Schroeder entered the large room. Adrienne was sitting on a folding chair, her yellow lute resting upon her knee. Her fingers ran easily over the strings as she sang.
"True Thomas lay on yon grassy bank,
And he beheld a lady gay,
A lady that was brisk and bold,
Come riding o'er the fernie brae.
True Thomas he took of his hat,
And bowed him low down to his knee.
'All hail thou mighty Queen of Heaven,
For your like on earth I never did see.'
'Oh no, oh n
o, true Thomas,' she says,
'That name does not belong to me.
I am the queen of fair Elfinland,
And I am come here to visit thee."
Adrienne drifted off into a brief interlude upon the lute, and Gwendolyn leaned over to Simon and whispered, "'Tis a song of Thomas the Rhymer. He was a poet and a great prophet. 'Tis said that he was kidnapped by the queen of the elves and dwelt seven years in Elfinland, whence he returned with his gift of prophecy. 'Tis of this the song tells."
Simon repressed a smile, remembering that this old poet, dead these seven hundred years, was the one who Gwendolyn and Adrienne claimed had taught them a song. He looked at Adrienne whose head was inclined slightly to the right as she plucked delicately upon her lute. Herricks, Strube, Siegal, and Mahoney were sitting in a circle around her, as if they were worshipers at the feet of a divinity. They hung openmouthed on every word and every note.
"She turned about her milk white steed
And Thomas leapt up from below.
And aye whene'er her bridle rang
The steed flew swifter than the driven snow.
Come and go,
Come along with . . . me,
Thomas the Rhymer . . ."
Simon smiled, pleased at the archaic melody and the tremulous voice which intoned the ancient words of the old British ballad. Casting a spell on that son of a bitch, that fat kraut. That's great, he thought, great! Might compensate for the last time, might be good for the tour, might be a help to the film. Doesn't matter if she ends up looking stupid. It'll make money, maybe. Can't hurt. Can't hurt.
"'O see ye not yon narrow road,
So thick beset with thorns and briars?
That is the path of righteousness,
Candlemas Eve Page 19
