"I do not want to take a whole month off from school," she replied. "Daddy is so selfish. Doesn't he realize how long it's gonna take me to make up all the work I'll miss?"
"You can do it easily," he said. "You're smart!"
"That's not the point, Jeremy!"
"Besides, it’s only two weeks, not a month. Half of it is over your Christmas vacation anyway." She sniffed, refusing to be reasoned with. "Look," he continued, "Adrienne is an important part of this new act of your dad's, right? And she just can't seem to function unless you're around."
"So that's supposed to be my problem? Jeeze! If she can't handle things unless there's somebody around who treats her like a human being, then she should have dropped out of the act and stayed with me in Bradford."
"They need her harmonies," Jeremy said patiently for the hundredth time. "You know that. Besides, I thought you liked her!"
"I do like her," she snapped. "I like her and I feel sorry for her, and if you ask me the best thing for Adrienne would be to get away from this concert tour, away from this witchcraft crap, and away from Gwendolyn!"
Lucas was sitting next to Jeremy, and he leaned across him to say, "You still bitchin' about having to go along?"
"Oh, shut up, Lucas," she muttered.
"Poor kid," he said with mock sympathy. "Gotta take a couple of weeks off from school to go along on a national tour with a rock band. How will you ever be able to face your friends!"
Karyn nudged him in the ribs. "Lukie, leave her alone."
"Ahhh," he snarled as the stage lighting changed from a red to a bluish tinge. "Shut up. Here comes the new stuff."
Simon Proctor raised his hand commandingly and the deafening cheering diminished. "Hear me!" he said, his bass voice resonating throughout the hall. There was relative silence. "Not long ago I met two women, two witches—" a few scattered cheers, "—who have chosen to serve the Dark One by singing for you songs of mystery and evil. Allow me to present them to you now." More cheers and a steadily building applause. "My children, welcome Adrienne, a witch from the wilds of Transylvania, and Gwendolyn, the daughter of a druid, a witch from the mountains of Wales."
Madness descended upon the audience, and deafening applause drowned out the last few of Simon's words. The tape of Gwendolyn casting a spell on Eisenmann had been seen by most of the people present, and she had become a pop heroine in advance of this, her second public appearance. The two women walked onto the stage. To be more precise, Adrienne walked nervously to her position before a standing microphone to the side of the band, and Gwendolyn combined a slink with a strut as she moved to center stage. Both were attired as they had been on the Campbell show, and numerous rather crudely phrased expressions of appreciation drifted from the boys in the audience up to Gwendolyn's ears. She smiled and waited for the cheering to diminish.
When at last it did, she spoke into the microphone in as sensual a tone as she could manage and said, "I am Gwendolyn."
The cheering resumed, and she raised both hands to quiet it. "I have been introduced to you as a witch and the daughter of a druid, which I am. But I am also a ssssssuccubus." She hissed the last word, emphasizing the "suc" syllable. The boys in the crowd went wild. "Do you know what a ssssssuccubus is? 'Tis a demon in the shape of a woman, sent to earth by Satan to seduce and delight."
Numerous volunteers waved to her from the audience.
"Adrienne, Simon, and I shall sing you an old song from the distant past, a song about a succubus. The song is hight 'The Unquiet Grave.’"
Mark Siegal's drums set the beat for the song, and Herricks, Strube, Mahoney, and Adrienne, who was playing the lute, came in on cue. The delicate plinking sound of the old instrument, amplified electronically, combined in a bizarre but pleasant manner with the thudding bass and the buzzing lead guitar.
Simon strummed the rhythm guitar while Gwendolyn, the sole figure on stage without an instrument, stood arms akimbo before the microphone. She and Adrienne began to sing.
"Cold blows the wind to his true love,
And gently drops the rain.
He never had but one sweetheart
And in the greenwood she lies slain,
And in the greenwood she lies slain.
He did as much for his sweetheart
As any young man may.
He sat and mourned upon her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day,
For a twelvemonth and a day."
As she watched the performance from the wings, Rowena leaned to Jeremy and asked, loudly so as to be heard over the music, "Do you really think the kids out there are gonna like this stuff?"
He shrugged. "I don't think anybody really listens to the words, not many people, anyway. It's the general sound, the atmosphere in the hall, the visual images, stuff like that. I mean, it's a pretty melody, isn't it?"
"I'll grant Gwendolyn that," Rowena said. "The songs she comes up with are pretty. It just seems so odd to hear them rocked up like this. You know?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "But it’s an interesting sound. I think they like it. Hell, I like it!"
"When the twelvemonth and one day was past,
Her ghost began to speak.
'Why sittest here all on my grave
And will not let me sleep?
And will not let me sleep?'
'There's but one thing I want, my love,
But one thing that I crave.
And that's a kiss from your cold white lips,
And I'll go from your grave, And I'll go from your grave."
Strube began a lead guitar interlude which was a variation on the melody, and as he played Gwendolyn began to dance about the stage, swirling about and projecting an image of licentious abandon. Her gyrations elicited cheers and catcalls.
"'My breasts they are as cold as clay,
My breath smells earthy strong,
And if you kiss my cold clay lips,
You shall not live for long,
You shall not live for long.'
The man lay down upon the ghost
And gave to her his seed.
And when his body they did find,
The man was dead indeed,
The man was dead indeed."
The loud, searing music blasted at the audience, and there was a raw and unrestrained energy in the frenzied cheering which erupted as soon as the final cymbal clashes signaled the end of the song. Simon leaned over to Gwendolyn and cupped his hand over the microphone as he said, "They love you, babe!"
"And I thee," she said softly. He did not hear her. He was gazing out at the thousands of cheering people, dollar signs rushing around in his brain. "Sweet man," she murmured, not caring that he did not hear her.
Adrienne looked off to her right and searched the faces in the wings. Rowena, seeing her look nervously about, waved and smiled at her. Adrienne saw the wave and, upon seeing the smiling face, flushed slightly and returned the wave, reassured, a bit calmed. Rowena shook her head. She isn't going to be able to take a whole tour, she thought. Her nerves won't take it.
Gwendolyn's voice broke into her musings. "And here now a song of the highlands of Scotland, from the days when the ghoulies still prowled about the moors . . ."
December 4
The crowd in Philadelphia was even more enthusiastic than the ones they had encountered at their two performances at the Garden in New York. The numbers were smaller because the concert hall was smaller, but there was not an empty seat in the house.
"See you not that bonny bonny road
Which winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to Elfinland
Where you and I this night maun gae.
Come and go,
Come along with me
Thomas the Rhymer. . ."
It was Adrienne's first attempt at carrying the melody, and she managed to get through it without incident. Her tremulous soprano was again nicely balanced by Gwendolyn's alto and Simon's bass, and the overall effect was magical. Though it was doubtful if
the largely teenage audience could decipher the thick Scots dialect in which the song was sung, they responded enthusiastically to the heavy sound and announced theme of the song. "Here now a song of Thomas the Rhymer," Gwendolyn had said, "a man kidnapped by the queen of the elves and given the gift of prophecy . . ."
"'But Thomas, you must hold your tongue,
Whatever you may hear or see,
For if a word you chance to speak,
Never go you back to your country.'
Thomas got a cloak of the elfin cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green.
And until seven years were gone,
Thomas on earth was never seen.
Come and go,
Come along with me,
Thomas the Rhymer. . . ."
The crowd went wild.
December 6
Chicago was cold, colder even than Bradford, but the snow and the ice and the bitter, biting wind did not have an adverse effect upon attendance at the concert. Simon Proctor and Witch's Sabbath did five encores, and it was clear to all that Gwendolyn Jenkins was the center of attention and the star of the show. In the past, in his youth, Simon might have been jealous, might have been resentful of the easy way she upstaged him, but at this point in his life he had no concern other than the amount of the box office receipts.
After the final encore, as the curtain closed and the houselights rose, Simon turned to his associates and began to dance a merry little jig, to their general amusement. "Back up on top, boys," he sang merrily, "back up on the tippy-top!"
"Yeah, so when do I get a raise?" Herricks asked glumly.
"You made the choice," Strube said as he unslung his guitar and handed it to a member of the road crew. "We all had the same choice, straight salary or percentage. You chose salary."
"Don't remind me,"' he grumbled. "Fucked again."
"I am up, I am up!" Simon said, hopping about the stage. "I should be exhausted, I should be dead on my feet, but I am up!"
"Yeah, me too," Mark Siegal said. "Let's go out and do something."
"Are you kidding?" Herricks said. "It's colder than a—" He stopped himself. "I mean, it's, like, real cold out there."
"He's right," Mahoney said. "Let's just send somebody out to get some booze and we can party down in the hotel."
"The hotel has booze, you asshole'" Herricks muttered. "All you gotta do is call room service."
"Sure," Simon replied, "and pay five times what it would cost to buy a bottle yourself!"
"Hey, listen to the rich man over here!" Herricks said, nodding in Simon's direction. "You're a hit again, or haven't you noticed?"
"Let's head back to the hotel," Mahoney broke in. "I got some grass, we can send out—or call up, for some booze. I really feel like unwinding, you know?"
"Yeah, me too,"' Strube said. "I hate to admit it, but I was just a little nervous before the opening in New York. Sort of like this was our last shot, you know? But now—"
"Now are your fears quieted," Gwendolyn said as she wrapped her black cloak about herself. "And I agree, 'tis a time to make merry."
They left the concert hall en masse, and piled into the waiting limousines which were parked out in the rear. The crowds of yelling, screaming fans were held back by a cordon of Chicago policemen, whose irritated faces indicated that they were not pleased at being out in the cold in order to insure the safety of this band of misfits. Simon, Gwendolyn, and the band leapt into one automobile, as Rowena, Adrienne, Lucas, Karyn, and Jeremy entered another. They proceeded to speed through the white, windy streets back to their hotel.
"Up to Simon's suite!" Mahoney intoned jovially as they entered the hotel lobby. He turned to the desk clerk. "Please send an assortment of liquors up to Mr. Proctor's rooms. Only the best!"
"And you?" Adrienne asked Rowena. "They intend to make merry. Will you join them?" Her pleading eyes and apprehensive voice made it clear that she dreaded the prospect.
"Are you kidding?" Rowena said. "All I want to do is watch some TV and go to sleep."
She sighed in relief. "I do not wish to attend either. Can I stay with you a while?"
"Sure," she smiled. "What about you, Jeremy?"
He shrugged. "I don't know. I thought I'd kind of like to go to the party—I mean, if you don't mind. I'd like to have a few drinks, maybe—"
"Hey, what are you doin', askin' fuckin' permission, for Christ's sake?" Lucas said with disgust. "Come on, Sloan, just come with us and party down."
Rowena cast her brother an annoyed look, and then turned her eyes coldly to Jeremy. "Do what you want. I'll see you tomorrow." She turned and walked toward the elevator with Adrienne scampering behind her.
"You know what I think?" Lucas asked as he watched the elevator doors close.
"What?" Jeremy asked.
"I think Adrienne has the hots for Row."
"Oh, Lukie," Karyn said from beside him, "that's ridiculous! She isn't gay!"
"Yeah?" he asked skeptically. "How the hell do you know? Did you try to find out or something?"
"Funny, real funny," she said. "She just likes Row, that's all. Row makes her feel safe. Hell, nobody else even pays any attention to her, 'cept when Gwendolyn bosses her around."
"Yeah, maybe," he conceded. "But I still think that chick is nuts, the way she always looks like she's about to flip out, the way she follows Rowena around like a little puppy dog."
"Yeah, yeah, right," Karyn said impatiently, not at all interested. "Let's go up to your dad's room and have some fun."
Jeremy looked at her increasingly swollen belly. "Hey, Karyn, don't you think maybe you should take it easy? I mean, it's—"
"Goddamn it, Jeremy, don't you start with me!" she snapped.
As the elevator doors opened, Rowena fished around in her purse for the key to her room and said, "You sang real pretty tonight."
"Thank you," Adrienne said, apparently quite pleased at the compliment.
"I've read about that guy Thomas the Rhymer in English class. He was a character in one of Walter Scott's novels. Have you ever read it? It's called—oh, I can't remember the title."
"But I am sure that it is unknown to me," Adrienne said. "I have read very few novels. My parents did not approve of frivolous pastimes."
Rowena laughed as she unlocked the hotel door and pushed it open. "Well, Sir Walter Scott is hardly Sidney Sheldon!" she said. "There are lots of real good books, good novels. Surely your parents didn't disapprove of all of them."
"Nay, but they did," she said sadly. "Oh, I wanted to read, to learn things, to find pleasure in stories, but they were withheld from me."
"Boy, that's weird," she said. She tossed her purse and coat on the bed and switched on the television. "Was it a religious thing? I mean, you're probably Orthodox, right? Isn't that the religion in Romania? Orthodox?"
"I am a witch," she reminded her. Rowena looked at her deeply for a moment, and then wordlessly began to search through the channels on the television.
"Hey, here's an old Columbo episode. You like Columbo?"
"Anything you wish is fine," Adrienne said, unwrapping her cloak and placing it upon the back of the chair upon which she proceeded to sit. Anything is better than being with the others, she thought, especially with her.
They watched the show in silence, Rowena stretched out upon the bed and Adrienne staring at the picture screen without seeming to watch it. Nearly an hour went by, and then a loud knocking was heard on the door. Rowena went over and said, "Who is it?"
"Hey, like, open up!" It was Lucas, and his slurred words indicated that he was very, very drunk.
"What do you want?" she asked, being in no mood to admit him.
He pounded again upon the door, more forcefully. "Hey, Row, open the fuckin' door!" he shouted.
She opened the lock and swung the door open quickly. "Lucas, will you keep your voice down? Jeeze! It's late! People are trying to sleep!"
He waved away her rebuke. "Ah, fuck 'em." He looked past her to
Adrienne. "Hey, Gwendolyn wants you to come to the party. She sent me down here to get you."
Adrienne sighed and trembled slightly. "Very well," she muttered.
"Hey, wait a minute," Rowena said. "Why do you take orders from her? If you don't want to go, don't go! She isn't your owner!"
Adrienne shook her head. "I must do as she requests." She stood up and smoothed out the skirt of the flowing white gown she still wore from the night's performance.
"Well, dammit!" Rowena said. "I'm going to go and give that bitch a piece of my mind!"
Lucas laughed as if he were guarding some dark secret. "Uh, Row, I don't think you should go to this party."
"Why not?" she asked bitterly. "You don't think I know that you're all a bunch of perverted junkies?" She stepped into her shoes and said, "Let's go. Somebody has to put that woman in her place!" She stormed out of the room, with Lucas and Adrienne following behind her.
They rode the elevator up two more floors in silence. As the doors opened, Rowena turned to Adrienne and said, "They passed the Thirteenth Amendment a long time ago, you know!"
"I—I beg your—?"
"Abolition of slavery," she muttered, furious at Adrienne for her weakness, furious at herself for not telling Gwendolyn off long before this, furious at her father for a multitude of reasons.
She threw open the door to her father's suite of rooms, and the words she planned to say died upon her lips as she surveyed the scene before her. The room was murky with smoke, tobacco and marijuana mingling in the atmosphere. In one corner, Siegal, Herricks, and Strube were sitting on the floor with four naked girls, snorting a white powder through a rolled-up dollar bill. The girls were members of the vast throng of willing, nubile, brainless young women who follow rock bands around the country, camp followers of a drug-soaked army. Another girl was kneeling on the couch, her face pressed down into the cushions, her rear thrust obscenely upward, as Tom Mahoney bounced merrily up and down upon her. Jeremy Sloan sat alone at a table, holding a can of beer and watching the surrounding activities with undisguised discomfort. And in the middle of the room, Simon Proctor was lounging back in a soft easy chair, his hands behind his head, as a naked Gwendolyn Jenkins knelt in front of him, her face buried in his crotch.
Candlemas Eve Page 26
