Candlemas Eve

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  She was still buttoning her coat as she descended the stairs of the high school and walked out into the cold, clear air. She had taken care of all her last-minute academic concerns that afternoon, returned her books, arranged for the guidance department to send a transcript to her at a post office box number. As she walked away from the school, she did not bother to look back.

  She searched for Mark Siegal's van and saw it parked along the narrow road which bordered on the school building. It was nice of Mark to drive her to school that morning, nice of him to pick her up now. Heck, it was nice of him to drive up here to help them move. Of all weeks for Simon's old car to break down! They would all fit in Mark's van with no trouble. They could get to Kennedy Airport in New York by sunset and could be in Idaho before midnight, before February first. Before Candlemas Eve.

  Idaho, she thought. The Rocky Mountains. Am I ever going to live anywhere where it doesn't snow like crazy? Of course, Idaho was a good choice for relocating, she knew that well. She, Lucas, and Simon had discussed possible places at great length. They had settled on Idaho because old Floyd would feel comfortable in the mountains, because it was far distant from New England, and because it was a very unlikely place for Gwendolyn, or Abigail, or whoever the hell she was, to look for them. It would have been better had they been able to get a direct flight from the airport in Burlington, Vermont, to Boise, but they could not. No matter, though. Mark Siegal would get them to Kennedy in plenty of time.

  "Hi, Mark," she said, attempting to sound chipper as she climbed into the passenger seat of the van.

  "Hiya." He smiled. "All set? You take care of everything?"

  "Yup," she replied. "Handed in my books, got a copy of my transcript, cleaned out my locker."

  Mark felt sorry for the girl, having to abandon the only school she had ever attended, the only town she had ever lived in, the only home she had ever had. "Burned all your bridges, I guess," he said gently,

  She sighed. "Every last one." She sat in silence as he started the engine and began to drive back toward the river, beyond which she could see the town of Bradford, New Hampshire, one last time. Mark tried to make conversation, but Rowena's monosyllabic responses soon caused him to abandon the attempt.

  They pulled into the driveway beside the old Proctor Inn a few minutes later. Rowena avoided looking at the For Sale sign which the realtor had planted on the front lawn. Great old house, she thought to herself. Don't see why we have to sell it. I know that Daddy doesn't want anything left here which can connect us with another address, and he doesn't want any letters or anything sent here which would be forwarded or anything, but I still don't see why we have to sell the old house just to avoid that. I think he wants a clean break with the past, that's all.

  She and Mark left the van and climbed the few steps to the front door. As they entered the house she heard her brother's voice saying, "Listen, baby, everything's gonna be okay, honest to God! We got nothin' to worry about!"

  She walked back toward the kitchen where Lucas and Karyn were obviously arguing about something, and she said, "Hi. Everything okay?"

  "No, everything isn't okay!" Karyn snapped. Rowena could see from the rings around her eyes that she had either been sleeping poorly or crying recently or both. "Everything sucks, if you want to know the truth."

  Rowena sat down at the table beside Karyn. "What's the matter?"

  Karyn whipped out a cigarette and lighted it with trembling hands as Lucas answered, "She's scared, just like the rest of us."

  "Not just like the rest of you," Karyn insisted. "I'm the pregnant one around here, not you. What if I go into labor on the airplane, or in the van? What if I go into labor up in fuckin' God's country in Idaho? Idaho! Where the hell is Idaho, anyway?" Her eyes were darting madly around the room. "What the fuck am I doin' movin' to Idaho?! I don't even know where the fuckin' place is, for Christ's sake! What am I doin' in this fucked-up situation? Some nut is gonna try to kill me because I got a fuckin' Proctor bun in the oven? This is nuts, this is nuts!"

  "Karyn," Rowena said, taking her hand, "calm down. Getting upset like this isn't going to help anybody."

  Karyn pulled her hand away. "How can you be so goddamn calm? Don't you realize that there's a crazy person out there someplace who wants to kill all of us?"

  "Sure I realize it," Rowena said evenly. "We all realize it. That's why we're getting out of here today." She took Karyn's hand again and this time the older girl did not pull it back. "Listen, Karyn, you know that I had that dream, the one with Adrienne in it, telling me that we had until February first. Well, I'm convinced, and Daddy's convinced, that it wasn't a regular dream at all. I don't know who Gwen and Adrienne really are —I mean, we know they aren't normal people, that's certainly obvious—and I can't bring myself to believe what Daddy believes, that they're a couple of witches come up from hell, but I do believe that they have some powers of some kind, and I believe that Adrienne was trying to warn me. We're safe here until tomorrow, and by tomorrow well be three thousand miles away, living somewhere where nobody knows us." She squeezed Karyn's hand reassuringly. "Lukie's right. Everything's gonna be okay, it really is. You have to believe that."

  Karyn looked intently at Rowena and seemed to smile slightly. "Yeah, I guess so. I'm just—I don't know, a little funny. I'm just about due, you know?"

  "Sure, of course. I understand. Look, you really seem worn out. Why don't you go and lie down for a little while. It's only two-thirty and we're not gonna leave until four or so, so you can catch some sleep."

  "No, I shouldn't," Karyn said. "There's so much to do, packing and closing up the house and stuff. I mean, I know it isn't my home, but I've lived here for a couple of years, and I kinda feel that I ought to—"

  "Don't be silly," Rowena said. "We can do whatever needs to be done. You go and rest a while, okay?"

  Karyn smiled. "Yeah, okay. I'm really tired. But listen, you guys wake me up if you need my help with anything."

  "You bet," Rowena said. She watched as Karyn rose awkwardly to her feet and left the kitchen. She turned to Lucas. "When is she due?"

  "Due to do what?" he asked.

  Rowena gritted her teeth in annoyance. "Due to give birth!"

  "Oh. I'm not sure. Sometime this week." He paused. "Hey, how come you can calm her down so easy? I been tryin' to do that for over an hour. Why does she listen to you and not to me?"

  "Because she knows that you're a jerk and I'm not," she replied.

  "Hey, fuck you, Row, y'know?" he muttered.

  "Cut it out," Simon said darkly as he entered the kitchen. "We're all in this together. We can't afford any arguments just now." He was carrying a shotgun in his arms and as he drew near to his son and daughter he slid the gun onto the table.

  "What's that for, Dad?" Lucas asked.

  "That's for you," he said as he reached into his pocket and drew forth a handful of shotgun shells. "Row, I have a pistol that I want you to carry. It's only a .22, but it's a weapon anyway."

  Rowena and Lucas looked at each other, and then Lucas said, "Dad, I don't know a goddamn thing about guns, you know that. If I ever tried to use one I'd probably blow my own head off."

  "Daddy," Rowena added, "I'm terrified of guns."

  "Yeah, and we can't take these things on the plane with us! They'll think we're trying to hijack the plane or something."

  Rowena giggled. "We could pull a gun on the pilot and say, 'Fly this plane to Idaho!'" Her brother joined her laughter.

  "Be quiet!" Simon commanded. There was not one iota of humor in him at the moment. "Pay attention. We can ship the guns by plane. We just can't carry them on board, so that's no problem. We'll still have them when we get to where we're going, and even if we don't, we'll have them until we get to New York. Lucas, you used to shoot when you were a little kid, so don't tell me you don't know how."

  "Hey, Dad, I haven't held a gun since I was, like, seven years old, and even then it was only a. 22 rifle, a squirrel gun!"

  "A gu
n is a gun,"' his father replied. "You point it at whatever you want to shoot and you squeeze the trigger. The only difference is the force of the recoil. Rowena, you should never be afraid of anything which exists to help you. In our situation, guns are means of defense. You will carry the pistol."

  "Daddy, I'm afraid of guns, honest to God I am! I don't think I could even fire one in self-defense! Honest!"

  Simon stared at her for a moment. "Row, if you had been holding a gun when you came running into the barn last month, what would you have done?" She did not answer and he did not press her to. The point was made. She looked away.

  Floyd Proctor entered the kitchen a moment later, saying, "Boy, I can't find that old Winchester anywheres."

  "It doesn't matter, Dad," Simon said. "We have three shotguns, a rifle and a pistol. That'll be enough."

  "Coulda sworn it was up in the attic. Thought I saw it there just a few years ago."

  "Dad, forget it. It doesn't matter."

  "My pa give me that gun when I's a boy," Floyd said. "Hate to go off and leave it. Hate to go off at all, for that matter!"

  "Dad," Simon repeated patiently, "just forget about the Winchester. It really doesn't matter. We have enough weapons already."

  Floyd's pensive frown suddenly smoothed out. "Hold on, now. I remember. Back in—when was it?—two, three years ago. Yeah, yeah, I lent it to Fred Wilkes. He was holding that turkey shoot the week before Thanksgiving, to raise money for his church, you remember?"

  "I remember that," Rowena said. "Jimmy Groverson's mom had a turkey already bought, and when his dad shot a turkey at the turkey shoot he ended up taking turkey sandwiches to school for lunch for a month."

  "I'll betcha that old gun's over t'the parsonage somewheres. I'm gonna go over'n look around."

  "Dad," Simon said, "we really don't need—" He stopped speaking as Floyd disappeared down the hallway.

  "Daddy, let me ask you something," Rowena said.

  "Go ahead," he replied, sitting down in a chair by the table.

  "What's the purpose of carrying guns? I mean, either Gwen and Adrienne are just a couple of crazy people, or they're three-hundred-year-old witches. If they're just nuts, we don't need guns. We just need to get out of here." She paused. "For that matter, if they're just nuts, we just have to wait until the police locate them. And if they do have special powers of some sort, what good are guns going to do against them?"

  Simon paused before replying. "Look, Row," he said at last, "I don't know what'll be effective against those two. If I thought garlic would drive them away, I'd give you both garlic. Do you understand?"

  "No," she said.

  "Well, I know that guns can injure living things. If they're alive, then guns'll hurt them. And if they're not alive, not like you and me are alive, then—" He stopped speaking. "Then I don't know what to do. Just carry the gun, use it if you have to. Why take any chances."

  "Makes sense," Lucas nodded. "Makes sense."

  "Fine," Rowena said testily.

  Her father smiled at her with understanding. "Row, we don't have any choice. Hey, listen, we probably won't have to use the guns. We probably won't even see Gwen and Adrienne. We're gonna be leaving in an hour and a half or so, and we'll be thousands of miles away by tomorrow."

  She nodded, resigned to his logic. "I guess so. I just hate guns!"

  Mark Siegal walked into the kitchen and said, "Simon, if you're just about done packing, we could start loading up the van. I got a luggage rack for the roof yesterday, just in case we need it."

  "All we got left to pack up are the instruments down in the basement. Lucas, give me a hand with them, will you? Row, why don't you and Mark start carrying the suitcases outside?"

  "Okay," she replied. "Oh, Daddy?"

  "Yeah, honey?"

  "It went real well today."

  He frowned. "What went real well?"

  "My last day at school. You know, saying good-bye and stuff."

  He smiled at her, amused. Her high-school career was the last thing on his mind at the moment. "That's nice, honey, real nice." He walked out and went down the hallway toward the basement stairs, with Lucas following close behind him.

  The next hour and a half was spent loading up the van, trying to fit the accumulated possessions of an entire family into the limited available space while leaving room for the people themselves. Suitcases stuffed to bursting with clothes, heavy cardboard boxes filled with mementos and sundry private treasures of no intrinsic value, records, books, musical instruments, photograph albums—all were fitted, moved, forced into place in the van. By four o'clock Mark Siegal's vehicle was filled from back door to luggage rack, overfilled, perhaps; but everything had been allocated a place, and room still remained sufficient for Mark, Simon, Floyd, Rowena, Karyn, and Lucas.

  Simon and Mark stood back and surveyed the van. "Looks to me like we're ready," Mark said.

  "Yeah, looks that way. What time is it?"

  Siegal looked at his watch. "Ten to four."

  "Good, good." Simon placed a hand on Siegal's shoulder. "Markie, I can't thank you enough for this, for all your help."

  Siegal grinned and made a gesture of dismissal. "Skip it. Next time I'm being chased by witches, I'll expect your help."

  Simon laughed. "Yeah, sure. Go tell everybody that we're ready to leave, okay? I want to—well, I'll wait here."

  "Okay, Simon." Siegal ambled back toward the house.

  Simon Proctor sighed as he looked up at the old white building which had been his home, and that of his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and so on all the way back to that day in the late seventeenth century when Elizabeth Proctor had migrated from Salem Village to this backcountry river valley. A damned shame, he thought to himself. Never realized how much I love this old house, this boring little town, these mountains. I hate to leave, I truly hate to leave. Must be even worse for Dad. Floyd's never lived anywhere else, never known any other kind of life.

  He repressed the feeling of guilt which was assailing him. It's full circle, that's all, he thought. Full circle. Elizabeth's life seemed to have been ruined back in Salem, ruined by witchcraft, but it wasn't. She came here, found herself a new husband, a new life. That's my story too. Witchcraft. Making me leave Bradford, making me get out, go to Idaho. A new life for me, for Row, for Lucas. Dad'll adjust soon enough, I'm sure. Hell, he's gonna have a great-grandchild pretty soon. That oughta put a sparkle in his eye.

  Still, he thought, I hate to leave. I love this old house. "Daddy?" he heard Rowena say from the window, "where's Grampa?"

  "Isn't he—? Oh, yeah, he's probably still over at the parsonage, looking for that old gun of his. I'll go get him. Everybody else ready to go?"

  "Everybody except Karyn. She's sound asleep, and Lukie doesn't want to wake her until we're just about to leave."

  "Good idea. Wait until I find Dad. Then you can help her get herself together. Okay?"

  "Okeydokey," Rowena said, and disappeared from the window.

  Simon walked across the street to the parsonage. As he mounted the narrow staircase which led to the upstairs apartment, he felt a pang of sorrow, of grief. Poor Jeremy, he thought. Poor kid. Wish I'da been nicer to him. Wish I hadn't gotten him into this. First his uncle disappears, then he's killed . . . horrible, horrible. My fault. All my fault. I guess we'll never know what happened to old Reverend Wilkes. Probably dead. My fault. My fault.

  He shook his head as if to dispel the unwanted thoughts. "Dad?" he called out as he opened the door to the apartment. "Dad? You in here?" There was no answer, and he began searching the rooms. Floyd was not in the apartment. Maybe up in the attic, Simon thought. He pulled down the attic ladder which was embedded in the ceiling above the top of the stairs and climbed up into the small, sloping room just below the roof of the house. "Dad? Dad?" No reply.

  Simon left the parsonage and walked back over to the old inn. He's probably wandering around, getting a last look at things, visiting an old friend or two,
something like that, he thought. He went into the house and found Lucas, Rowena, and Mark having coffee in the kitchen. "Can't find him anywhere. Did anybody see him leave?"

  "Just when he went over to look for the gun," Lucas said. "I ain't seen him since."

  "Probably making a few good-byes in town," Simon suggested.

  "I wonder if he's upstairs with Karyn?" Rowena said. "I heard some voices up there a while ago. I figured it was probably Lukie up there talking to her, but I guess it couldn't have been if he was in the basement with you, getting the guitars and stuff together."

  "Why would he be talking to Karyn?" Lucas asked. "He can't stand Karyn!"

  Simon smiled. "It's amazing how a baby can change people's opinions of each other. Maybe he's trying to make friends with her or something. I'll go up and see."

  He walked from the kitchen to the stairs and proceeded up to the bedrooms. He saw that the door to Lucas and Karyn's room was closed, and he knocked on it softly. "Karyn?" he said. "You awake?" He turned the knob and pushed the door gently open. His father was not in the room, but the loud snores which emanated from beneath the blanket on the bed told him that Karyn was sleeping soundly. He turned to go, but then thought, She has to get up soon anyway, and maybe she's seen Dad. Couldn't hurt to wake her up and ask.

  He walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Karyn? Wake up. Time to go." The blanket moved above the reclining form and a soft yawn arose from beneath it. "Wake up, Karyn," he said. "We're gonna be leaving soon." He pulled the blanket gently from her.

  His heart jumped into his mouth as Gwendolyn Jenkins reached up and grabbed him by the throat, laughing horribly. He tried to tear her hand away from him, but her grip was like a vise, her fingers were as hard as rock, her steely skin was as cold as ice, sepulchral, inhuman. He swung his fist wildly at her, tried to strike her in the face. His fist moved through her body as if through steam, leaving wispy traces trailing behind it, but touching nothing, only a thin film of cold moisture upon his skin serving as proof that something, something was there. Only her iron grip seemed real.