"A concert video?" Mahoney said. "We're gonna make a concert video?"
"That's terrific!" Strube exclaimed. "There's a lot of money in videos." Gwendolyn and Adrienne listened attentively but said nothing.
"Lots and lots and lots of money," Simon grinned.
"Is this part of the arrangement we have now?" Herricks asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, is this part of the tour, with all rights to the video company, or is a new contract going to be signed?"
"Oh—" Simon was momentarily nonplussed, "I'm sure a new contract with them is necessary. Shit, I should have asked Harry—"
"Then I want a percentage, not a fuckin' salary," Herricks said bitterly. "I ain't gettin' stiffed again!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Simon said petulantly, annoyed at being interrupted. "They're gonna meet us in Phoenix day after tomorrow and start filming concert footage. They'll come with us for the rest of the tour—"
"And use the best performances for the video!" Strube finished for him. "Great!"
"Simon," Gwendolyn said, "I do not understand. What will be happening?"
"We'll be making even more and more money, that's what'll be happening," he said happily. Then, to everyone, he said, "And there's more. You know the way the tour's been set up—we go to Los Angeles from Phoenix, sweep up to Seattle, then across the country to Milwaukee and Toledo and Buffalo, right?"
"Right," Siegal and Mahoney answered in unison.
"Well, the last concert date is in Boston on the twenty-second. The next day, the twenty-third—"
"The solstice," Gwendolyn observed.
"The what?"
"The winter solstice, December twenty-third," she said. "The last day of the world's death, the first day of the world's birth. 'Tis a date of great sanctity to the followers of the old religion."
Simon stared at her dumbly and then his eyes went wide and he began to jump up and down gleefully. "No shit? No shit? A holy day for witches? That's great, that's great! We can use it! We can use it! That's great!"
"Use it for what, man?" Herricks asked.
"Okay, listen,"' he said, reining in his enthusiasm. "We're gonna conclude the video with a performance we stage—like, set up, you know?—not from a concert."
"Why?" Siegal asked. "What's the purpose of that? Won't it kind of break into the whole idea of a concert video?"
"Not at all, not at all," Simon smiled, feeling cocky and triumphant, even though the coup had been Harry's and Harry's alone. "Harry has managed to get us permission—he's paid the fees, gotten the license, all that shit—to set up and film a song in—get this, now!—a museum in Salem, Massachusetts—"
Gwendolyn shivered and Adrienne went white.
"—in a museum they call the Witch House, a place where a guy named Jonathan Corwin used to live—"
Gwendolyn's jaw clenched and Adrienne's hands went to her mouth.
"—and he was one of the judges at the Salem witch trials! Some of the people accused of witchcraft were even interrogated in that very house! Isn't it a great idea? Isn't it a perfect setting for a video?"
Gwendolyn Jenkins reached out and steadied herself against the wall, her face blank and impassive, frozen into inscrutability as if by an act of will.
Adrienne Lupescu fainted, falling face-first onto the hard wood floor.
Chapter Sixteen
December 23: Winter Solstice
The village of Salem, Massachusetts, prefers to be remembered as a center of the old whaling trade. It prefers that the nation think of it as the location of numerous interesting historical sites and a village where artists congregate and local theater companies perform.
All of this is true, of course; but it is for none of these things that Salem is known, for when the name of the town is mentioned the immediate association made is with the events of 1692, when fear of witchcraft descended like a shroud upon the community.
The Jonathan Corwin Museum had been dubbed the Witch House in popular parlance so many years ago that the name became official, and a visit to the old seventeenth-century home had long since become the central purpose of most visits to Salem. The old wooden structure stood between Essex and North streets, a caped, square building constructed of wood which had been warped slightly by the centuries of rain and snow and wind, so that now it presented an appearance of incongruity so slight as to be undetectable, but sufficiently prominent to have an effect of subliminal disconcertment. It was a twisted house, a house of horrors, a house whose dry wooden walls had absorbed the shrieks of tortured prisoners, innocent and guilty alike, a house where Judge Jonathan Corwin and Judge John Hathorne and Deputy Governor Thomas Danforth and others had interrogated, terrified, tortured those residents of Salem who had been accused of witchcraft by a small group of hysterical girls. It was today a museum, nothing more; but the wood had soaked up the cries and the terror and the pain. They were all still there somewhere, buried deep in the grain.
It was beside the entrance door that Simon Proctor stood staring at the telephone receiver in his hand. He was not thinking about the witch trials of three centuries past, nor was he reflecting on the innocents condemned to death in this room. He was thinking about the prospect of spanking his daughter and punching her boyfriend in the mouth.
Rowena had just slammed down her phone, and Simon stood for a few stunned moments before doing the same thing. "Damn it all, anyway!" he muttered. His anger at the way his daughter had spoken to him mingled with feelings of guilt. His actions were responsible for her attitude, and he knew it. "Damn it all,"' he repeated bitterly.
"Hey, Simon, you 'bout ready?" he heard Mark Siegal ask.
He turned and looked at his drummer. Siegal, like Simon, Mahoney, and Herricks, was dressed in the black and white, austere clothing of the seventeenth-century Puritan, from the narrow, flat-domed hat to the silver-buckled shoes, from the high white stockings which disappeared beneath the pant leg just below the knee to the fluffy white neck cloth which rested upon the long black coat. "Yeah, yeah, Markie, I'll be right in. Everything set up?"
Siegal walked forward. "Yeah, but look, Simon, I'm not sure about Adrienne. I don't think she's gonna be able to do this."
Simon frowned. "What the hell is wrong with that chick, anyway? Jesus, she's been acting like a—" he was about to say "like a mental case," but thought better of it.
"It ain't just her," Siegal said. "Gwen's been real skittish too, like this is some ordeal for her or something. I don't get it."
"They won't explain anything to me either," Simon said as he and Siegal left the anteroom and entered the large central room of the museum. "The only thing I can think of is that they take all of this Satanism stuff seriously—"
"Well, they do. We all know that."
"—and so this place is like, I don't know, Dachau would be to a Jew or something."
Siegal tried to imagine his own reaction to a visit to a Nazi concentration camp museum. He shook his head. "I don't know. It would upset me, but not like Adrienne."
Simon shrugged. "Who knows. They're a couple of loony tunes anyway. Let's just hope we can make it through a rehearsal and the filming without either of them screwing up."
"Yeah, let's hope," Siegal agreed quietly. Both women were in the room with the other members of the band, and he did not want them to hear their conversation. He took his seat behind the drums and waited for Simon to speak.
"Okay, listen up. The dramatic bit here should be pretty easy, if everybody remembers their lines. The song, of course, we've done a dozen times over the past few days. We're gonna run through it once, let the technicians get sound and light levels straight, and then we'll do it for real. Okay? Everybody ready?" They all nodded except for Herricks. "Larry, what's the problem?"
"I can't fuckin' breathe, that's what's the problem," he grumbled. "I don't know why we gotta wear these dumb fuckin' suits!"
"Accuracy, my boy, accuracy," Siegal said. "When we decided to try a little drama, we all a
greed to dress this way."
"Well, I didn't know it was gonna be so fuckin' uncomfortable."
"Don't gripe, Larry" Strube said. "You're getting a percentage of this video, remember."
"Ahhh," he muttered, continuing to tug at the collar of the Puritan outfit.
Simon turned to the technicians and asked, "Are you guys ready?"
"Whenever you are," came the reply. "Just ignore us. We'll be measuring levels, setting up camera angles, stuff like that."
"Okay."' He looked at Gwendolyn and Adrienne, who were standing off to one side, whispering to each other feverishly. "Ladies? Ready for a run through?"
"Yes, Simon," Gwendolyn said. She looked meaningfully at Adrienne. "We're both ready."
The Corwin House was typical of dwellings in seventeenth-century New England. The small anteroom led into one large single room, off to the side of which were a privy and a kitchen. The upstairs, at one time little more than a loft, had been expanded years before into a full second story, but the main museum exhibits were displayed in the large central room downstairs. The museum's custodians had removed most of the exhibits, but had left the large oak desk and a few chairs in place. The drawings and judicial paraphernalia which hung from the walls had been allowed to remain, but a guard remained as well to keep an eye on them.
The room was large, but seemed now rather cramped.
Instruments and amplifiers, light tripods and cameras, wires crisscrossing the floor—all combined with the seven musicians and the four technicians and the guard to make the room seem depressingly small. Still, there was room enough for the instruments to stand off in one half of the room, across from the old oak desk and the chairs.
"Okay," Simon said. "Let's run through it. We fade in on Gwendolyn sitting in one of the chairs. Tom, behind the desk. Larry, you lead me and Adrienne in. We start with the drum roll and the bass riff in the background. Mark, Carl, whenever you're ready."
A military roll on the snare drum and an ominous series of low bass notes began the little play Simon and the others had put together. Gwendolyn looked into the camera lens and began to speak as Simon and Adrienne, each holding their hands behind their backs as if they were bound, were led slowly across the room behind her.
"I am sitting in the home of Jonathan Corwin," she began, "a man who condemned many people to the gallows in Salem, Massachusetts, during the spring and summer of 1692. This is the Witch House. And I am Gwendolyn Jenkins. I am a witch."
She looked over her shoulder. "See them led to the seat of justice, that farmer, John Proctor, his servant, Mary Warren, witches, both of them."
"John Proctor, you have been accused of witchcraft by Abigail Williams. How do you respond?" Mahoney said imperiously and on cue.
"I am what I am, nothing more, nothing less," he replied. "This is really stupid," Herricks muttered.
Simon spun around and yelled, "Goddamn it, Larry, we've got to get this whole thing down perfect before we film it! Will you stop screwing around?"
"I ain't screwing around, man!" he replied testily. "I just feel like a goddamn asshole dressed up like this and acting like this!"
"Typecasting," Siegal muttered, but he was unheard on the other side of the room.
"Larry, listen to me good!" Simon said angrily, his face flushing. "We're gonna do this and we're gonna do this right, you hear me? Now try to get into it and stop screwing around!"
"All right, all right," Herricks said with a snort. "Jesus!"
"Where were we?" Simon asked. "Oh, yeah, right. I am what I am, nothing more, nothing less." He dropped easily back into the role.
"Marshal Cheever," Mahoney said to Herricks, "have either of the prisoners said anything to each other on the way here from the jail?"
Herricks sighed and responded. "They talked about the spells they was gonna cast on the accusers." His voice was a bored and unconvincing singsong.
Simon slammed his fist down upon the desk. "Goddamn it, Larry!"
"What's the matter now? What'd I do?"
"You can try at least, can't you? I mean, I've seen Sunday school Christmas pageants with better acting than that!"
"Okay, so go hire some little kids!" he spat. "I'm not kiddin', man, I feel like a goddamn asshole doin' this!"
"Well, for Christ's sake, Tom's doin' it, I'm doin' it, Gwen's doin' it! What makes you so special?"
"Hey, what about Mark and Carl? All they're doin' is sitting over there playin' their instruments, which is what we should all be doin'!"
"We want a bass and drum background, not a piano,"' Simon shouted. "Besides, there weren't any black or Jewish Puritans!"
"So what? There weren't any Irish Puritans either, but Mahoney's playing the judge!"
"Goddamn it, Larry! You can't tell if somebody's Irish just by looking at him!"
"And you can't tell if somebody's Jewish just by looking at him!"
Simon Proctor pounded his fists upon the desk to accentuate his shouted words. "We need drums, not piano!"
"So let me play the drums and give Siegal this stupid role!"
"You can't play the drums!"
"Anybody can play the drums! It's a retard’s instrument!"
"Hey," Siegal shouted. "Don't be so ignorant, Larry!"
"It's true, man!" Herricks shouted back. "Look at Ringo Starr! Luckiest man in the whole fuckin' world, a third-rate talent hooked into the world's biggest group!"
"Yeah, yeah," Siegal bristled, "you're an expert on third-rate talents!"
"Ah, fuck you!"
"Hold and be silent!" Gwendolyn Jenkins stood to her feet and placed her balled fists upon her hips. She and Adrienne were both dressed in the typical garb of the Puritan woman, and she tore the white cap from her head and threw it emphatically upon the floor. "This is foolishness," she said evenly. "We will not proceed as we had planned."
"Hey," Simon said. "I'm in charge of—"
"Be quiet!" she snapped. Her manner was commanding and imperious, and Simon fell silent. "Adrienne, go and fetch the harp and the lute." As Adrienne hastened to comply, Gwendolyn returned her attention to Simon and said, "What was being done was foolishness. Hear now what we shall do, which is not foolishness. This day is the solstice, the day of the rebirth of the sun, and we should be celebrating rebirth, not witch trials and executions. I shall speak of rebirth and resurrection and then Adrienne and I shall sing a song of old Salem. You may make a record of it as you wish." She glanced over at the amused technicians. "I have no knowledge of these machines. But if a record you must have, then a record you shall have, to sell to the curious and those who seek diversion."
"Gwen," Simon began, "now listen to me. The little dialogue we—"
"Silence!" she commanded. "Then after the song of old Salem, I shall speak again of the solstice, and then shall we all sing the song we had planned to sing." Adrienne scampered back in at that moment, carrying with her the two black cases containing the harp and the lute. "Open them," Gwendolyn commanded. To the other musicians she said, "Assume your positions with your instruments. I will signal when to begin the final song."
"Damn it, Gwen!" Simon said heatedly. "We've spent a long time planning this thing!"
"And 'twas silliness you planned, Simon Proctor," she replied evenly. "Now go and stand with the others."' Simon stood defiantly for a moment, and then slowly walked over to the instruments. Tom Mahoney and Larry Herricks followed him as Adrienne handed Gwendolyn the harp and then took out her lute. They spent a few moments getting the instruments in tune, and then Gwendolyn turned to the technicians and said, "Commence."
They looked at Simon and he shrugged. "What the hell," he muttered. "Roll 'em."
A camera was moved into position, the lights switched on and the sound level checked. Then one of the men said, "Whenever you're ready, miss."
Gwendolyn looked into the camera, as she had seen Simon do during the filming of the concert performances. "I am known to you as Gwendolyn Jenkins, daughter of a druid, a witch and servant of the Dark Mas
ter. I sit now in the home of Jonathan Corwin, a judge in Salem Village, a man who condemned dozens of people to death for witchcraft."
She strummed absently upon her harp. "Some were innocent, some were truly witches, but that is of no matter. This day is December twenty-third, the day of the winter solstice, the day of rebirth, the day of winter's death and spring's nativity. This day shall we sing you two songs, the first a dirge of bitter memory, the second a hymn of joyous hope, the first a song of Salem, the second a song of the solstice, the first a song of loss and defeat, the second a song of victory."
She began to pick out a slow, lilting melody on her harp, and Adrienne joined in with her customary contrapuntal plucking of the lute. When they began to sing, the sadness and beauty of the mournful melody and harmony held even the jaded onlookers in thrall.
"Fair was Lizzie Proctor, dark was Abigail.
Both they loved the same man, and both they loved him well.
Late it was in winter of sixteen ninety-two
When Abigail decided what mischief she would do.
She and Mary Warren, Mercy Lewis and the rest
Swore to send Elizabeth unto eternal rest.
For Abby loved John Proctor, loved Lizzie's wedded man,
And she did swear to have him any way a woman can.
So she and Mary Warren did wickedly conspire
To send the quiet Lizzie unto the judge's ire.
They said she served the Devil, they swore it on their lives,
And so condemned to hanging that most faithful of wives."
They paused in their singing and played a musical interlude, the deep and resonant harp winding about the gentle plinking of the lute. Mark Siegal leaned over to Simon and asked, "Hey, have you ever heard this song before?"
He shook his head and whispered; "No, never. It's new to me."
"Is it true? I mean, is the stuff they're singing about really what happened back in Salem? That is your ancestor she's referring to, isn't it?"
Candlemas Eve Page 29
