Candlemas Eve

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  She was beginning to tremble violently and tears were welling up in her eyes, and Simon put his arms around her. "Hey, come on, take it easy! Calm down!" I don't believe this! he thought to himself. I finally hook onto something which seems about to make me a rich man, and it ends up depending on a crazy woman. Great. That's just great. My luck strikes again.

  She continued as if she were almost unaware of his presence. "So I prayed to Satan to grant me a boon. I sold him my soul, and Mary sold hers with it in exchange for his promise."

  "His promise to do what?" Simon asked, stroking her hair sadly and feeling very sorry for himself, visualizing piles of money shrinking into nothing.

  "His promise either to give me back my beloved whom they hanged in Salem, or to give me leave to destroy his breed, to wipe the Proctors from the face of the earth!"

  Simon looked at her warily, realizing for the first time that Gwendolyn's delusion might be a source of danger to him. "I, uh—I hope that you don't feel that—I mean, uh, it seems to me—"

  She smiled at him warmly. "It was love which I had hoped for, and the opportunity for vengeance which I had feared. Had you not loved me, then my wrath would have been horrible, and I would have swept you and your family away like chaff beneath the broom. But the Master granted me what I hoped for, not what I feared. You love me, Simon Proctor, and my joy grows daily in your embrace."

  I never said I loved you, you poor thing, he thought to himself, looking sadly into her intense eyes. "But I'm not John Proctor, Gwen," he said gently. "I'm not that man. I'm just his descendant."

  She slid from the edge of the bed onto the floor and knelt before him, placing her hands upon his knees and gazing up at him with adoration. "But you are he," she whispered. "His blood runs in your veins. His face is your face, his voice is your voice. I do not believe in reincarnation, Simon, for I know it to be false; and yet I feel that only if your body actually housed the soul of John Proctor, only then could you be any more like unto him, only then could you be any more the man I loved three hundred years ago."

  He shook his head sadly. "Jesus, Gwen," he said in a soft, sorrowful voice. "You need help, honey, you need care—"

  "I need you," she said earnestly. Her lips tightened as she whispered, "I have spent the past three centuries in hell, suffering the torments of the damned, burning in a lake of fire, blind, deaf, speechless, in horrible agony, in horrible pain. I made my pact with the Devil and I suffered for it, but 'twas worth it, 'twas worth every moment of it, for I knew that someday, somehow, my Master would fulfill his end of the bargain."

  "Gwen—"

  She seemed not to hear him. "And fulfill it he did, last Eve of All Hallows. 'Twas a Proctor's lust which ruined me in Salem, a Proctor's wife who drove me from my home to the streets of Boston; and then, in the fullness of time, 'twas a Proctor's child who summoned me forth from the pit, me and Mary Warren with me—"

  "A Proctor's child! What are you talking about?"

  "Lucas," she said simply." 'Twas he who read the words and said the prayer. He called us forth into the physical world, not knowing that he was doing Satan's bidding. She smiled warmly at him. "And now has Satan blessed me with a Proctor's love—nay, not just a Proctor; a mirror image of my John, my John reborn, my dear, sweet John alive again!" She began to weep freely, and she leaned her head against his knee. "Oh, Simon, how I love you, how I love you!"

  Simon pushed her away, a bit more roughly than he had intended. "Jesus, Gwen, are you listening to yourself?!" he asked. "Don't you realize how crazy this is? You are not Abigail Williams! Abigail Williams was a girl who lived and died centuries ago. You are Gwendolyn Jenkins! And Adrienne is Adrienne, not Mary Warren!"

  She smiled up at him, sadly, patiently, lovingly. " 'Tis hard to understand, I know. But someday you will understand. I have faith in that, my 'dear, sweet love. Trust and understanding will grow from year to year, once we are wed."

  Wed! he thought. Wed! My God!!! Very, very gently, he said, "Gwen, please listen to me. I have a great deal of affection for you, I really do, and I want to do what's best for you. But you have to understand that you need help, professional help!"

  She laughed softly. "Now hear me, Simon Proctor. You and I are destined to be man and wife. 'Tis fate, 'tis what must be. We shall be wed according to the old ritual, the satanic ritual, and Satan shall bless our union. We shall be wed privately, secretly, without any of the fanfare and flourish which you relish so greatly. No disbelieving eyes shall gaze upon our nuptials, no money shall be made from them. This will not be entertainment, not be a performance before the public. It is too imporant to me to allow it to be used in such a manner." She ran her hands gently up and down his legs from knee to hip. "You must promise me this, Simon. If you love me, you will wed me in the manner I wish."

  Entertainment? he thought. A performance?

  A tear dropped from her eye to his knee as she whispered, "I have suffered the agonies of hell for you. I have given myself to Satan for you. All that I have done has had but one object, my dear Goodman Proctor. I would be your wife. I must be your wife." She fell silent and gazed up at him expectantly, seeming to hold her breath as she awaited his response.

  As Simon looked down into her wide green eyes, as her words echoed in his ears, an idea began to germinate in his mind and an ever increasing flow of dollar signs began to drift through his interior vision. No, hold on a minute, he told himself. That would be a terrible thing to do, a cruel, heartless thing to do.

  Marry her according to a satanic ritual.

  Film it!

  Tack it onto the end of the concert video!

  No, no, that's a horrible thing to think of doing! I can't take advantage of this poor, sick girl! It would be inhuman, inhuman!

  Of course, a person with this kind of a delusion needs psychiatric help, and that costs money, lots of money. I certainly couldn't be faulted for trying to help her make some of it, could I? Why, it wouldn't even be a legal marriage.

  It'd be a great scene. We didn't do the little skit we worked out for the Corwin Museum, so why not do this instead? Sort of like a climax to the whole video. The kids'll eat it up. They'll love it! A marriage made in hell. That's it, that's it, that's the hook! A marriage made in hell! Fantastic!

  Wait a minute, wait a minute! What are you thinking of?! This girl has been sitting here telling you that she's a resurrected witch from three centuries ago! This girl is crazy, she needs help! She needs therapy, she needs care! You can't exploit her illness like this! It would be monstrous! What kind of cold-hearted bastard would you be if you took advantage of her?!

  Have to film it secretly, of course. Can't let Gwen know about that. She takes it all much too seriously. She can't find out that the whole thing would be essentially a publicity stunt. Have to hide cameras and microphones around the place where we do it, film it secretly. Someday, when she's cured, she'll thank me for doing it, getting her the money for a good psychiatrist, a good rest home. Yeah, and one for Adrienne too. She's probably as daffy as Gwen is.

  Film it secretly! Are you nuts? Use her like that, abuse her like that, lie to her, take advantage of her illness, exploit her emotions, just to make a few more bucks?

  Nothing wrong with a few more bucks. . .

  She's gonna need expensive therapy. . .

  Not my fault that she's nuts. . .

  You can never have too much money. . .

  Got to strike while the iron is hot. . .

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. . .

  She'd be even more upset if I didn't agree to marry her. . .

  So we film it. So what? She'll get over it. . .

  Won't be a real marriage anyway. . .

  Simon Proctor smiled down at Gwendolyn Jenkins and took her hands gently in his. "My dear," he grinned, "you may set the date."

  Gwendolyn sprang up from her knees and threw herself into his lap. She covered his face with kisses.

  But what about the dreams? a voice buried deep in Simon's
mind asked him. What about the dreams?

  Simon ignored the voice and dismissed the dreams as irrelevant as he began to unbutton Gwendolyn's blouse.

  Chapter Seventeen

  December 24

  Rowena stood precariously upon an old stepladder, carefully draping tinsel from the boughs of the large evergreen tree which occupied the far corner of the large sitting room. Without turning around she asked, "Jeremy? Have you found it?"

  Jeremy Sloan was searching through a large cardboard box, whose discolored hue and tattered flaps bespoke years of use. "Not yet," he replied. "You sure it's in here?"

  "Gotta be. We've used the same star on top of the Christmas tree for as long as I can remember, and we always keep all the ornaments in that box."

  "Well, I don't—" He paused and smiled. "I got it, I got it. It's in a little box with lights and other stuff." He took out the small, delicate glass star and handed it to Rowena. She reached up toward the very top of the evergreen, but she could not quite reach it. "Hold it, Row," he said. "Let me do it. My arm's longer."

  "Okay with me," she said. "I get nervous on ladders." She descended carefully.

  "Right," he laughed. "I mean, you might fall two or three feet from a stepladder!"

  "Oh, shut up," she said good-naturedly, punching him lightly in the stomach. "Just put the star up there."

  Jeremy hopped up onto the top step of the ladder and deftly affixed the star to the top of the tree. He jumped off and said, "You want me to plug in the lights?"

  "Hold on, let me get Grampa and your uncle." She walked out of the room and went down to the kitchen where the two old men were having lunch. Jeremy made a few last-minute improvements upon the decorations, moving an ornament or two and lifting a string of lights so as to fill in a gap, and then stood back and appraised it. Not bad, he thought. He smiled. I've decorated a lot of trees in my day, but it's never been as much fun as this. Must be the company!

  Rowena returned shortly, followed by Floyd Proctor and Reverend Wilkes. "Okay, let 'er rip!" she said merrily. Jeremy went over to the wall and knelt down to plug the cord into the outlet. The tall evergreen burst immediately into bright, blinking color.

  "Looks great, Row," Floyd said.

  "Real pretty, real pretty," Wilkes smiled, not entirely honestly. His Puritan forebears had regarded Christmas as a pagan holiday, and they had not celebrated it. The passing of the centuries had softened this attitude, but Wilkes, as a Congregationalist minister of decidedly antiquated predilections, still felt just a bit uneasy during this season of the year. Christmas should be celebrated, he believed, as a commemoration of God's gift of His Son; but the orgy of consumerism which the season engendered, coupled with the decorated trees, rosy-cheeked Santas, talking snowmen, and heroic reindeer, rubbed his old Calvinist fur the wrong way. Still, he thought, no need to make an issue of it. Save the sermons for Sunday. Let the boy and girl enjoy themselves.

  "It looks pretty as a picture," Jeremy said, gazing at the tree which stood off to the left of the large picture window which overlooked Bradford's street. "Like a painting or something. The tree all decorated, and all the snow out there in the background and everything. You know what I mean?"

  "Yes," Rowena sniffed, "but the painting just got messed up."

  "Huh?"

  "Look," she said, nodding toward the window. Jeremy looked outside to see Simon's car approaching the old Proctor Inn along Bradford's street, followed very closely by a battered old van which Rowena recognized as belonging to Mark Siegal. "The children are back," she muttered.

  Reverend Wilkes glanced out the window and then, turning to Floyd, said, "I mean no offense, but I'm not in the mood to make social pleasantries with your son and his friends at the moment. I think Jeremy and I had best be going."

  Floyd nodded. "I know just what you mean, Fred. If this weren't my house, I'd be leaving with you."

  Wilkes walked toward the door. "Come along, Jeremy."

  Jeremy cast Rowena a pained look and shrugged. "It's getting near suppertime anyway," he said. "I'll come back over later on tonight, okay?"

  "Sure," she smiled. She gave him a warm kiss and said, "I'll see you later."

  Jeremy followed his uncle out of the house and Rowena watched them cross the street to the parsonage just as Simon and Mark pulled their respective vehicles to a stop in front of the old inn. Expressions of annoyance formed on the faces of Rowena and her grandfather as they watched the doors of the car and the van swing open and their passengers began to step out into the cold New Hampshire air. Simon had driven Gwendolyn, Karyn, and Lucas in his car. Adrienne had ridden with the four other musicians. Rowena noticed that it was Simon, not Lucas, who assisted Karyn in her departure from the vehicle. How much longer until the baby comes? Rowena thought. Another six weeks maybe. It figures that Lucas doesn't even know enough to help her. What a jerk.

  The front door was unlocked and the sounds of footsteps, laughter, and cheerful conversation reached the sitting room from the foyer. Gwendolyn preceded Simon into the sitting room, and she smiled broadly at the decorated tree. "Ah! An evergreen! And so nicely adorned!"

  "Thanks," Rowena grumbled. "And Merry Christmas, for all that means to you."

  "Nay, but it is a joyous solstice, child," Gwendolyn laughed. "The sun is reborn and soon the powers of the world will burst forth in new life upon the branches of the trees and in the fields and meadows."

  "Please," Rowena muttered. "Spare me. And don't call me child."

  "And how then should I call you?" Gwendolyn grinned unkindly. "I have never had a stepdaughter before, nor," and she looked at Floyd, "a father-in-law."

  They stood in silence, at first not comprehending the implication of her words. Then Rowena said, "What?!" It was an expression of disbelief, not a question.

  Floyd looked angrily at Simon, who had removed his coat and was just now entering the room. "Boy, what the hell's goin' on here?"

  Simon shrugged nervously, defensively. "Well, uh, Gwen and me—that is, well—"

  "Simon!" Floyd bellowed. "What the hell did she mean by that!"

  "We shall be wed within the week, Father," Gwendolyn said, smiling. She grabbed Simon's arm and squeezed it to her body happily, her face radiating joy and ecstasy.

  For a very brief moment Rowena thought she looked almost normal; but the moment passed quickly, and she shouted, "Daddy, you can't be serious! You just can't be serious!"

  "Row, take it easy. I'll explain everything to you later."

  Simon winked at her, trying to communicate the idea that all was not as it seemed. She either did not notice the wink or did not understand its import.

  "Damn it, Daddy!" she shouted, beginning to cry "What in the world is wrong with you!"

  "Simon, Simon," Floyd shook his head in disgust. "You can't mean this! You just can't mean this!"

  "Hold on, here, everybody," Simon said with annoyance. "If I want to marry Gwen, that's my business, no one else's." He looked from Rowena to Floyd. "I'll explain everything to you later, in private."

  "What the hell is there to explain?" Floyd shouted. "If you're serious about marrying this—" he groped for a sufficiently derogatory word, and could not find one, "this woman, then I have nothing to say to you, now or ever again."

  "Hey, come on, Dad. You told me yourself that I should get married again, settle down with—"

  "I mean you should marry a normal woman, not someone like this!"

  Gwendolyn disliked being discussed as if she were not present, but she repressed her anger. "Mr. Proctor," she said with as much kindness as she could muster, "I shall be your daughter-in-law. I shall strive to be a good wife to your son. Will you not strive to accept me into your family, as a daughter? I have done you no harm, sir, none whatsoever. I—"

  "You say you're a witch," Floyd snapped, "not a make-believe witch like Simon, right? A real, dyed-in-the-wool witch, right?"

  "I am a witch, 'tis true." She nodded. "But I fail to—"

  "Well, if y
ou think you're a witch, then you belong in a padded cell somewhere, not sitting at my dinner table, not sleeping under my roof, with my son!"

  She laughed, arching her eyebrows in amusement. "Mr. Proctor, becoming your son's wife has nothing to do with sharing his bed. I have done that already."

  Floyd stood immobile, glowering at her. Then he muttered a few words in disgust and, pushing his way past Simon, stormed out of the room. Rowena followed him out, shaking her head and weeping. Simon turned to Gwendolyn and said, "They'll settle down. Don't let it bother you."

  She laughed again. "It bothers me not at all, my love."

  He glanced at the door of the sitting room. "Look, I think I'd better go and have a few words with them, try to get them to see things our way."

  "Yes, do so. I must speak with Adrienne—" she stopped and chuckled, "I mean, with Mary. There is much we must do in preparation. When shall we be wed?"

  Simon thought quickly. Got to get video and audio equipment up here, get it hidden in—in what room? Maybe the old barn out back. Yeah, yeah, the old barn'd be great! We could fix it up real spooky! Take a day or two to fix it up, a day for the installation— "How about in five days, on the twenty-ninth? Can you wait that long?" He grinned at her.

  She slid her arms around him and hugged him tightly. "I have waited for nearly three hundred years. I can wait five days."

  He pecked her lightly on the lips. "Okay. Go find Adrienne. I'll—"

  "Mary," she reminded him. "Mary Warren."

  "Yeah, right. I'll go talk to Dad and Row." He kissed her again quickly and then left the room. She watched him leave, her eyes following him with unabashed adoration.

  Simon found his father and his daughter sitting in the kitchen. Rowena was still weeping, and Floyd was pounding his closed fist softly upon the table, his face slightly purple with rage. "Now listen to me, both of you," Simon said sternly.

  "Boy, I got nothing to say to you," Floyd spat.