"Well, I'm descended from John Proctor, and the other names are right. Abigail, Mary Warren, Elizabeth Proctor. But I've never heard this song before."
Siegal nodded. "Creepy."
"But the court became a madhouse and John instead did die.
They placed a noose around his neck and then they hanged him high.
So Abby in her sorrow did call on Satan's power
And offered her soul to him in that benighted hour.
She swore to be his servant in this world and beyond,
If only she could once again embrace her darling John.
She did the Devil's wishes in Boston's chilly clime;
And in the deepest hellfire does Abby bide her time.
For fair was Lizzie Proctor and dark was Abigail.
Both they loved the same man, and both they loved him well.
Both they loved him well,
In heaven and in hell."
Gwendolyn and Adrienne ended the song by repeating the final line three times and then allowing the final minor harmony notes to fade slowly into silence.
Gwendolyn's eyes had been gazing vacantly off into space as she sang, and she was trembling slightly as she returned her attention to the camera. Adrienne had been standing behind her, and as soon as the song ended she moved quickly off to the left, breathing heavily and erratically as if on the verge of an asthmatic seizure. Gwendolyn's cold green eyes fixed on the camera as she said, "Abigail Williams sold herself to the Devil in exchange for a promise that someday she would again hold her lover in her arms, a promise of rebirth, of regeneration, of another life to live in the world of the living."
She stood up, placing the harp upon the chair. "And all prayers are answered when they are addressed to the Dark Master. Each year the sun seems to die, sinking lower, ever lower against the horizon, bathing the earth in its warmth for an ever shorter period of time each day, and from time out of mind druids and witches and shamans and priests have prayed for the sun to return. Each year, on this day, the sun is reborn, as we are all reborn. The solstice day, all hail! The world is new! "
Her last words were the refrain of the song the band had been rehearsing, and they recognized it as a cue. Herricks played an ascending piano riff which culminated in a deafening blast from all the other instruments. The cameras swung away from Gwendolyn toward the band and she pranced over and whirled around Simon as he began the first verse of the song.
"See now the sun is rising high,
Mounting the ladder of the sky.
Now let every boy mount every girl.
Now let life abound throughout the world.
The solstice day, all hail! The world is new!"
Adrienne stood stiffly near the drummer, her hands clapping to the rhythm of the song, but she neither sang nor danced. Her eyes darted around the room nervously, as if each wall and each plank of wood threatened her with accusation and danger.
"Sprite and fairy float in misty air.
Troll and gnome awake in earthy lair.
Elf and goblin through the forest creep,
And old Jack the Froster goes to sleep.
The solstice day, all hail! The world is new!"
Gwendolyn danced as was her custom, but there was a difference to her movements and her gait. She seemed never to take her eyes from Simon's face, seemed in fact to structure her movements so that she would be able to look at him, stare at him, study him, no matter what the direction in which he or she moved.
"No more need we fear sun's early set.
Hail fellows, we embrace you all, well met.
Sing and dance with joy in this fair hour.
With your bodies worship nature's power.
The solstice day, all hail! The world is new!"
The song ended with a descent into boisterous, joyous bedlam, and the sheer pleasure of the playing and singing elicited howls of delight from the musicians. They laughed and hopped up and down, slapping each other on the back and cheering. Part of this was no doubt related to their awareness that it was all being filmed, but at least some elements of their actions were honest. Simon grabbed Gwendolyn by the waist and lifted her up, spinning her joyously about. She smiled impassively down at him.
He turned to the film crew. "Did you get all of that, start to finish?"
"Every bit, Mr. Proctor," was the reply. "It'll look great!"
"That's terrific," Simon said happily. "Still, I can't help but think that the little play—"
"Simon, it was great the way we did it," Siegal said. "I hate to have to agree with Larry, but I don't think the dramatic bit would have been very good."
"We'd have looked like jerks," Mahoney agreed.
"Well, I suppose,"' Simon said. "Anyway, that song you two did was great." He put his arms once again about Gwendolyn's waist. "Where did you learn that, anyway? I never heard it before. Is it real? I mean, really an old folk song about my family?"
She smiled and said softly, "Aye. 'Tis true and an old song."
"So where did you learn it?"
Gwendolyn snaked her arms up around his neck and kissed him passionately. "Perhaps later I will tell you. Perhaps it is time."
"Time for what?" he asked.
"Time for everything. Time for the truth, for revelations."
He grinned. "Secrets, huh? Hiding things from me?"
She giggled. "A few little things, perhaps."
"Hey, are we done here?" Herricks grumbled. "It's, like, nearly seven o'clock. I'm starving." After the brief euphoria of a few moments before he had reverted to his customary mood.
"Yeah, me too," Mahoney chimed in. "Let's call it a day."
"A day!" Simon said. "Let's call it a tour! We're done, boys, finished and done."
"And when do we get paid?" Strube asked. He shot an amused and vindictive glance at Herricks and added, "Those of us not on salary, I mean."
"Let's go back to the hotel, get washed up, and go out for some food. After dinner I'll call Harry and see what's happening on the financial end of the whole thing. One thing's for sure," Simon laughed, "we've made a fortune this time out, a fortune. Twice as many gigs as we'd hoped for, not an empty seat in any of them, record sales up, people lining up to see that ridiculous movie . ." He grabbed Gwendolyn and began dancing around the room with her, singing, "We're in the money, we're in the money. . ."
Four hours later the group had wined and dined and, after nearly a month on the road, were all in their respective hotel rooms, each sinking into what was to be the first of many long, deep sleeps. The tour had been a rousing success, as Simon had said; but as he had noted to himself many times in the past, he was not twenty-five anymore, and neither were his friends. He, and they, were worn out by the travel, the tension, the constant movement, the schedules, the exhausting process of public performance. By the time the last bottle of wine had been emptied at the Salem Guest House that evening, drooping eyelids and wide yawns were being traded infectiously around the table.
Even Gwendolyn seemed tired, though she and Adrienne were by decades the youngest members of the troupe. Adrienne's mood seemed to brighten measurably the farther they went from the Corwin Museum, and she seemed even to enjoy herself at dinner, laughing at Mahoney's foolish jokes. But Gwendolyn seemed as worn as the others, as if the effort she had expended had been so much more intense than theirs that it had a deeply draining effect upon her. As soon as they returned to Simon's suite—how nice that sounded, Simon had thought, after so many years of rattrap rooms; a suite!—as soon as they returned, Gwendolyn had indicated her intention of going immediately to sleep, and she dragged herself unceremoniously into the bedroom. Simon went in after her, believing himself to be too excited, too exhilarated to sleep; but as he lay down beside her, still fully clothed, as was she, he felt his eyelids growing suddenly, irresistibly heavy. Sleep washed over him in an instant, and he and Gwendolyn lay motionless and calm upon the bed.
Simon heard a voice, an angry voice, speaking to him, and he attempted to ope
n his eyes, attempted to rouse himself to consciousness, but found that he could not. Didn't I lock the door? he asked himself. Who could have gotten into the room?
He was not aware of himself awakening and sitting up, but he found himself suddenly sitting upon the edge of the bed, looking at the angry face of a plain but wholesomely attractive woman in her late thirties. She was dressed oddly, somehow antiquely, and her blond hair was tucked carefully beneath the rim of the plain white bonnet which matched the white apron which girdled her waist. Her balled fists rested angrily upon her hips, and the folds of her rather austere black dress rippled as she stamped her feet.
"I'll not have that whore resting beneath my roof one more night," the woman said furiously.
Simon rose to his feet and began to ask her who she was and what she was doing in his hotel room, but the words died in his mouth as he realized that he was no longer in that room. He looked around in confusion at the log walls, the unvarnished wooden floor, the crude but sturdy table and chairs, the blazing fire which burned in the fireplace. "Wh-what—?" he stammered.
"And I'll thank you to give me your attention when I'm speaking, John Proctor!" the woman demanded.
Simon looked down at the bed, and found both that it was not the bed in which he had fallen asleep and that Gwendolyn was nowhere to be seen. He looked back over at the woman. "What—?" he repeated, "What are you talking about—?"
" 'Tis a bit late for games, husband," the woman said firmly, her nostrils flaring. "You have confessed your sin to me, and I am warmed by that. But it cannot be as 'twas before. I want that harlot out from beneath my roof this day, else I shall depart myself!"
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but the words which he heard pouring forth from his lips were not the words he was attempting to say. "As you wish, Liz," he heard himself saying. "I'll do naught to hurt you more."
The woman sniffed back a tear. "Nor should you," she said, seeming to retreat from anger into slightly mollified sorrow. "Send her out today. I’ll get Mary to take her place." She laughed bitterly. "She is plain enough to be safe in your company."
"Liz . . ." Simon heard himself saying, and then a sudden blast of cold wind assaulted his face. He spun around, panicking, confused, and frightened at finding himself standing in an open, barren, snow-covered field.
"But you said that you loved me!" a voice said from behind him.
He turned around and faced a distraught, weeping Gwendolyn, her face somehow younger and more innocent than the face he had kissed so often of late. "Gw—" he began, and then once again lost control of his voice. "It does me no happiness, Abby," he heard himself say. "In my sin and my weakness have I used you ill and betrayed my wife. No words you can say to me will be any worse than the words which I've said to myself."
"But you said that you loved me!" she wept.
"Abby—" he heard himself saying, "don't, please—"
"I gave my maidenhead unto you!" she cried. "I gave you all my hopes and all my trust and all my joy! I cannot live without you, John, I cannot!"
"You cannot love another woman's husband," he said firmly. "It is contrary to the laws of God and man. It is my sin, Abigail, it is my sorrow."
"Your sorrow!" she cried, her voice mingling pain and confusion with anger and astonishment. "And what of my sorrow? What of me? I gave you my love, I gave you my innocence, and you cast me off like a strumpet?! What of me?!"
"I am sorry, Abigail," Simon heard himself saying, "but I am wedded to another."
"Aye, you are," she spat, "but that can change, that can change!"
"Confess, Goodman Proctor!" he heard a voice shouting. "There is yet time! Confess now, and save your life! Confess, and save your soul!"
Simon tried to turn around and find the voice which was shouting at him, but he found that he was being held stationary by two brawny men, one on either side of him. He turned his head to the left and felt a peculiar and unfamiliar scratching on his throat. He began to tremble when he realized that he was standing upon the platform of a gallows, and that a noose was around his neck.
"Confess, Goodman Proctor!" the voice cried.
"Aye, John," he heard Gwendolyn say, "confess to me that you love me, and I shall save you! Confess to me that you have no love for your wife, and we shall see her swing from the rope, not you! Confess to me that it has always been me you've loved, swear to love me forever, pledge yourself to me, and I shall save you from the hangman! I can do it, John, none other but me!"
"Confess, John Proctor!" the other voice cried. "I'll not hold up the execution longer! Confess!"
"Love me or die, John!" Gwendolyn said. "There is no third choice! Love me or die!"
Simon felt the wooden platform upon which he stood drop suddenly out from under him and he fell feet-first into nothingness. He felt the rope snap tight about his neck, and then he bolted from his bed and slammed himself into the night table of the hotel room.
He fell backward from the sharp edge of the small piece of furniture and landed upon the floor with a resounding thud. He was drenched with sweat and his arms and legs were shaking violently. He placed his hand upon his chest, attempting instinctively to still his racing heart and calm his rapid breathing.
"Jesus Christ!" he whimpered. "God Almighty!"
"Nay, 'tis another whom you should invoke," Gwendolyn said quietly, a hint of amusement in her voice. He looked up at her as she raised herself up on her elbows near the edge of the bed upon which she was lying, and she smiled down at him. "Do you understand, my dear love?"
"Wh—what? Understand what?"
"Do you understand your dreams?"
"My—my dreams? What the hell are you talking about?" He got up from the floor and rose unsteadily to his feet.
She held out a hand to him and said, "Come, sit beside me. I have a tale to tell you."
Simon sat down upon the edge of the bed and gazed into her deep green eyes with confusion. "Look, Gwen," he said shakily, "I'm sorry, but I just had one hell of a nightmare, and I don't really feel like—"
" 'Twas no nightmare," she said softly. " 'Twas a memory, of sorts. My memory, not yours. I sent my spirit out to you, and you did dream."
His distress was being replaced by irritation. "Gwendolyn, let's just go to sleep, okay?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. Simon, not yet, not now. 'Tis time for the truth. I have not been honest with you, my dear. I have told you half-truths and untruths, but I did so for love of you, not from a desire to deceive you." She moved from a prone to a sitting position beside him, and she placed her hands upon his arm. "Simon," she said, her voice steady and calm, "I am not who you think me to be. I am not Gwendolyn Jenkins. Gwendolyn Jenkins is dead. So is Adrienne Lupescu. They died last All Hallows' morn. We killed them, took their places, for we knew you were expecting them to show up at your door."
"Killed—! Gwen, what the hell are you talking about!" He frowned, confused, annoyed, and strangely frightened of the woman who sat beside him.
"Listen to me well, Simon Proctor," she said. "My name is Abigail Williams. Our friend, whom you have called Adrienne, is Mary Warren."
Simon began to laugh despite himself. "Gwen, are you smoking something you haven't been sharing with me?"
"Be quiet and listen," she hissed, and the ferocity of her tone silenced him immediately. "Three centuries ago I lived in Salem Village in New England. I was the niece of the town's minister, Samuel Parris, and I earned my keep as a housekeeper and a serving maid." She took his hand and squeezed it gently; "I loved your ancestor, John Proctor. I loved him more than my own life, more than my own soul. I lied and cheated and did perjury that I might have him."
"Gwen," he said gently, "cut it out, will you? I know the whole story. I know that Abigail denounced John's wife Elizabeth as a witch, I know that their maid Mary Warren accused John of witchcraft, and I know that he was hanged and that his wife survived. That's all family history to me." He shook his head. "I really don't understand why you're trying to—"<
br />
"You do not know the whole story, Simon," she said evenly, a bitterness underlying her tone. "You do not know that my anger was so great and my despair so deep that I struck a bargain with Satan. You do not know that I, who had sent so many others to the gallows by my perjured testimony, sold my soul, sold myself. I swore that I would serve the Devil in this world and the next, if only he would grant me the answer to my prayers."
Simon gazed into the emerald eyes and noted with growing discomfort a mad glow, a staring wildness, an unblinking, insane intensity. My God! he thought. Harry was right! This chick is nuts! "Uh, Gwen—" he began.
"Abigail," she corrected him. "My name is Abigail."
"Yeah, sure, right," he said quickly. "I think that maybe we'd better talk about this tomorrow, after we've had some sleep, after we've let some of that wine wear off—"
"Simon," she said, unsmiling but not unkind, "I know that this is all very hard for you to accept or understand, but you must try, you must listen and believe. I am not Gwendolyn Jenkins. I have never been Gwendolyn Jenkins. 'Twas but a role I played, a name I took, to enable me to become close to you, to enable me to see if my prayer would be answered in the way I hoped or in the way I feared."
"And what prayer was that, may I ask?" he inquired gently, as if he were speaking to a patient on the brink of breakdown.
"Know and understand," she said bitterly, "that I loved your ancestor and I hated him. I hated the Proctor name and I longed to make it my own name. I would have done anything for him, anything. I would have killed for him, I would have died for him, but he used me, he lied to me, he robbed me of my innocence, he polluted my purity."
Candlemas Eve Page 30
