Candlemas Eve

by Sackett, Jeffrey

  He led them to the front row and smiled at them insipidly as they took their seats, Rowena taking the first seat and pulling Jeremy behind her by the hand, followed by Karyn and Lucas. As they settled into their seats Lucas said, "I guess Dad's doin' okay. We've gotten pretty good treatment."

  Rowena sniffed. "If Rickie the Magic Pixie were on the show, and his kids Trixie and Mixie showed up, they'd get good seats too."

  Lucas glanced at her with annoyance. "You know, Row, it doesn't matter where we are or what we're doin', you're always a royal pain in the ass."

  Rowena was in the mood neither for a debate nor their customary exchange of insults. "Lukie, just shut up, will you?" She sank down into the uncomfortable seat and folded her arms across her chest, determined neither to be pleasant nor to enjoy herself

  About ten minutes passed and then the houselights dimmed very slightly. It was the practice of the Campbell show to maintain an atmosphere of audience presence even when the audience was not actually participating in the day's presentation, so the houselights were never completely dimmed.

  A technician wearing a set of headphones, which were to all appearances connected to nothing, strode onto the stage. He reached up and grabbed the boom mike which hovered above him and, after tapping it to make certain that it was working, he spoke into it and said, "Ladies and gentlemen . . . ladies and gentlemen . . . your attention please . . ."

  The general buzzing in the studio fell almost immediately into an attentive silence.

  "The show's gonna start in a moment or two. I'd like to direct your attention to the audience response screens, which are on either side of the stage . . ." He gestured to his left and his right with clipboard-encumbered hands. "This show is taped and will be shown in three days, but it is still a live show."

  Say what? Rowena thought.

  "Sometimes we need to enhance the audience's response with taped laughter or applause, but we like it to be as real and honest as possible. So please respond appropriately when the monitors say applaud or laugh or cheer. Okay?"

  There was a murmur of assent from the audience, and the man with the headphones smiled and walked off the stage. There was a bustling sound of activity and preparation among the stagehands, and then a voice from the glass-encased control booth which was set, elevated, into the left wall of the studio said, "Roll tape. Recording. Cue music in five, four, three, two . . ."

  The bouncing melody of "You Are My Sunshine," Percy Campbell's theme song, broke from the speakers, and Campbell himself walked purposefully onto the stage, smiling at the audience and waving. His ruddy, freckled face beamed out at the applauding spectators, and he came to a stop in the middle of the stage and stood humbly, allowing the waves of admiration to wash over him. He moved his eyes over the audience from left to right, a puckish grin alternating upon his face with a businesslike frown. At last he raised his hands, saying, "Thank you, thank you," and the audience quieted down.

  "Hello, everybody," he said. "Welcome to our show. We're going to be trying something a little different today. Instead of our usual assortment of panelists discussing an issue, we're going to have only two—oh, er, I mean three."

  He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. "A few weeks ago we did a show on the use of witchcraft and Satanism in rock and roll and in the movies, and talked about the effects this all may be having upon our young people. Well, you people at home seemed to find that topic interesting, judging by the mail we received, so we've decided to reopen the question once again, to present it once more for your consideration."

  He stepped forward, close to the edge of the stage. The hovering boom mike followed him. "Two of today's guests were members of that panel we had on the show a few weeks ago. Dr. Ludwig Eisenmann is Professor of Anthropology and History at New York University. Professor Eisenmann is a scholar of international repute, and is a specialist in the area of comparative religion. He is an authority on the practice and history of witchcraft."

  Campbell paused for a moment. "Our other returning guest is Mr. Simon Proctor, well-known rock singer and composer. Mr. Proctor is also by his own admission a practicing warlock. Our other guest is Miss Gwendolyn Jenkins—"

  Oh, great, Rowena thought.

  "—a new member of Simon's band. Miss Jenkins is also a practicing witch. We'll be talking to all three of these people in a moment."

  He stepped back slightly, more toward the center of the stage, until his back was against the closed curtain. "But first, we have an unexpected treat. Simon and his band will be beginning a concert tour in a few days, and they are going to perform one of their new numbers for us. Ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome Simon Proctor and his band, Witch's Sabbath."

  The audience reaction screen began to flash Applause over and over, and the audience did what it was told. But this collection of housewives and retirees seemed to stir impatiently in their seats, not at all pleased at having to sit through a few minutes of what they believed would doubtless be blaring rock music. Only Jeremy and Lucas clapped loudly and with enthusiasm. Karyn gave her applause perfunctorily. Rowena sat motionless, her arms still folded across her chest. I hope he doesn't point me out, she thought as she sank lower into her seat. I'll die, I'll just die!

  The curtain parted and the band began to play music which, to everyone's pleased surprise, was not at all discordant. Neither was it of earsplitting intensity, though the rhythm was somewhat eccentric. Rowena surveyed the people on the stage, noting their costumes and makeup. Her father wore his customary Merlin outfit, monk's robe, false goatee, white-face coloring. She had met her father's band on numerous occasions, and she looked from one to the other with a modicum of interest. Mark Siegal, dressed in green and brown clothing, the sleeves of his shirt billowing as he pounded upon the drums, looked for all the world like a pirate. Tom Mahoney was made up to look elfin, with tight green leotards and sprigs of holly in his blond hair. He has the face of an elf, Rowena thought. Kind of cute. Mahoney thumped away happily on the bass.

  Carl Strube's erratic, buzzing lead guitar was establishing the melody of whatever it was they were about to play. The black man accentuated his coloring by dressing in stark white, even to the white bows which lay at the end of each twisting dreadlock which fell from his head down about his back and shoulders. Larry Herricks, typically, refused to wear a costume at all, dressing instead the way he always dressed and thus presenting yet another unique visual image. He wore a fringed buckskin coat which appeared not to have been cleaned for at least a decade. His dungarees were covered with patches, and his boots scruffy and wrinkled. He wore a faded old headband to keep the hair from falling into his eyes as he ran his fingers over the piano keys. Beads of perspiration dripped from his forehead and ran down his nose and cheeks to be trapped in his bushy beard.

  Rowena looked at Adrienne Lupescu and thought, Doesn't she look pretty! I guess they got costumes for the girls too.

  Adrienne stood off to one side, delicately fingering her lute. 4 contact microphone had been taped to the instrument so that it could be amplified and thus heard along with the other louder instruments. She was dressed as a fairy princess in a long, flowing white gown with a simple blue sash around her waist. The long white sleeves hung down to her knees, and her plain brown hair, which had been styled into a bowl cut reminiscent of Joan of Arc, was adorned with a garland of white flowers and green leaves. She looked delicate, frail, vulnerable, ethereal—lovelier than Rowena had thought it possible for Adrienne to look.

  Gwendolyn Jenkins, on the other hand, looked the consummate whore. She wore a jet black dress which hugged her torso tightly from bodice to belly and then erupted into streams of tatters and jagged points at the extremities, after the fashion so popular with contemporary British punks. The neckline plunged down practically to her navel, and the rounded contours of her breasts were clearly visible beneath the ragged, carefully tattered fabric. The long hemline was likewise cut into jagged points, though one side was slit almost up to the hip so that as
she moved the fishnet stocking which encased her shapely leg was in constant view. Her hair, still long and blue black, had been layered so as to frame her face with soft, wispy points. Her shoes with winklepicker toes and stiletto heels were bound to her calves by strips of leather.

  As the music played, Simon said into the standing microphone, "This is an ancient tale of shapechangers, magicians who can change their shapes at will." He was strumming the rhythm guitar easily, and he stepped back as Gwendolyn tool his place at the microphone. She began to sing, joined by a motionless Adrienne off to the side in front of another standing microphone.

  "She danced into the meadow, as white as any milk,

  And he ran into the meadow, as black as China silk.

  Alack-a-day, alack-a-day, you coal black smith.

  Heed well my warning song. . . ."

  They proceeded to play through the song which the two women had first presented to the others a few days before, and the work, effort, practice, and imagination which the band had put into their rendition showed clearly. Simon joined the women for each chorus, his resonant bass voice blending perfectly with Adrienne's soprano and Gwendolyn's alto. In the musical breaks between verses Gwendolyn would dance about the stage, swirling and twirling her long black hair and long black skirt shamelessly. As before when first she had danced to this song, she seemed a joyous beast, a frenzied pagan. She radiated animal lust. She exuded sexuality.

  The band drove the song home to its conclusion, and the audience responded enthusiastically, some of them pleased that the music was not just the raucous noise they had expected, and others, the older men in particular, responding to Gwendolyn's performance. As the last note sounded and the last cymbal clashed, loud applause drowned out the fading music, and the band acknowledged the audience's reaction. Simon bowed slightly, Adrienne executed an awkward curtsy, Mahoney, Siegal, and Strube nodded. Herricks ignored everyone as he pulled out and lighted a cigarette despite the clearly visible No Smoking sign. Gwendolyn stood haughtily, her balled fists resting upon her hips, her feet placed arrogantly wide apart, her chest heaving from her exertions, the sweat upon her face, throat, and bosom glistening beneath the studio lights. She stared out at the audience.

  Percy Campbell walked onto the stage, clapping his hands and mouthing congratulatory phrases to Simon, who nodded his thanks without allowing a smile to break onto his face. They loved it! he thought to himself gleefully Even if the kids don't, this may be a whole new market! Fantastic!

  "Simon Proctor and his band, Witch's Sabbath, ladies and gentlemen," Campbell said. "We'll be right back to talk to Simon, Gwendolyn, and Professor Eisenmann in a moment. Please don't go 'way." He waited for the engineers to signal that taping had been halted before turning to Simon and saying, "Hey, that was great. That's a lot different from the stuff you usually do, isn't it? I mean, my kids have some of your records, and none of them sound like that!"

  Simon allowed himself a laugh. "That's Gwen's influence, and Adrienne's. They have a vast repertoire of old songs about magic and wizardry. We've been at work all week adapting them for rock instruments."

  "Well, it sounds to me like a good departure for you. Let's get over to the dais and get ready for the rest of the show." His eyes twinkled. "Think you're ready to take on the professor?"

  Simon smiled. "I think so," he said darkly. He took Gwendolyn by the arm and led her to the seats which stood beside the desk on the raised platform off to the left of center stage. The stage crew worked quickly at dismantling the instruments and moving them off, and when this had been accomplished the dais, which was on rollers, was pushed over to the center of the stage. Simon grinned at Gwendolyn as they rode the few yards. "You did great, Gwen, unbelievably great!"

  She smiled at him warmly. "I am pleased that I have pleased you. I seek to do naught else." She looked around the dais. "Where is the bag I brought with me?"

  "Backstage," he said. "I made sure the prop men know to bring it out here before the talking starts. Hey, what's in that bag, anyway? Props for the spell?"

  "Materials for the spell, yes," she said softly. As she was speaking a member of the stage crew walked over and handed her the very bag she had been discussing. It was a plain leather purse, about a foot long, caught together at the top by a strip of thin rope. She took it from him without comment or thanks, and placed it at her feet. She and Simon sat quietly, waiting for Campbell to return with Eisenmann.

  After a few minutes Percy Campbell came back into view, leading Ludwig Eisenmann toward the dais. The middle-aged Austrian once again wore a silly little bow tie, and once again fiddled with it nervously. Seeing him, Simon experienced a knot involuntarily growing in his stomach. As the chubby little man walked up the two steps onto the dais and heaved his girth into one of the chairs, Simon began to have second thoughts. I hope this wasn't a mistake, he thought. I hope we get the kind of PR out of this that we need.

  Simon was distracted by hands waving at him from the audience, and he looked out to see Lucas standing up and flailing his arms back and forth. "Hey, Dad!" he shouted. "Hey!"

  Simon smiled at his son and returned the wave. He saw Karyn sitting beside him, and he saw Jeremy Sloan as well. Where's Row? he wondered. Didn't she—? Then he saw the top of a blond head just barely visible above an opened program magazine which the station distributed to studio audiences. Rowena seemed to be hiding behind it.

  Simon was about to make an attempt at getting Rowena's attention when Campbell sat down behind his desk and said, "Professor Eisenmann, you of course remember Mr. Proctor, don't you?"

  Eisenmann smiled his little-boy grin and extended his hand to Simon. "Of course, of course."

  Simon shook his hand quickly and coldly and then released it without a word. Son of a bitch, he thought to himself.

  "And this is Miss Gwendolyn Jenkins," Campbell said. "Professor Ludwig Eisenmann."

  "Charmed, miss," Eisenmann said, nodding politely. He did not extend his hand to her, which was wise, for she would not have taken it. "That was a very interesting interpretation of that song."

  "Oh?" she asked easily. "Are you familiar with the tale of the shapechangers ?"

  "Yes, oh, yes," he said. "It originated in the steppe region of what is now Soviet Central Asia some two thousand years ago. In its original form it dealt with a woman who could change into a deer and a man who could change into a wolf. Of course," he added, "it has undergone quite a few—"

  "Ah, Professor," Campbell said, "that sounds very interesting, but maybe you should wait until we start taping again so you can share the information with the audience."

  "Oh, of course, certainly," Eisenmann giggled.

  "Jake?" Campbell called out. "We're ready when you are." A pause, and then a voice from the control booth said, "Tape on, cue music in five, four, three, two . . ."

  "You Are My Sunshine" began playing once again, and as it was faded out by the audio control technician, Percy Campbell smiled into the camera and said, "Welcome back to the Percy Campbell show. My guests today are Professor Ludwig Eisenmann, Mr. Simon Proctor, and Miss Gwendolyn Jenkins." Each of them nodded in turn at their host. "Professor," he said, turning to Eisenmann with a serious and interested look on his face, "just before, you were beginning to tell us something about the song which Simon and his band just played. Would you mind beginning again, for the benefit of the home audience?"

  "Certainly," he said and cleared his throat. "I was saying that the song about the shapechangers—more commonly entitled 'Two Magicians,' by the way—originated in what is now Soviet Central Asia about two thousand years ago, and dealt with a deer-woman and a wolf-man. It underwent many, many changes over the centuries, of course, and exists today in many forms in many different countries. The song we just heard—very pretty, by the way, very nicely performed—is a Celtic variant. In India the story involves the god Krishna as the man capable of assuming a variety of shapes, and the woman has become seven women who are cow-women."

  "Interesting
, interesting," Campbell nodded. To Gwendolyn he said, "I suppose that you learned this song as a child in—Wales, isn't it? You're from Wales?"

  "That is correct," she said calmly. "Yes, 'tis an old song of my land."

  "And of many other lands as well," Eisenmann pointed out.

  She shrugged. "Of that I know nothing. But the shapechangers of Wales have always been spoken of and sung of. We have many of them, still dwelling in the hills where the old tongue is still spoken."

  There was a titter of amusement from various parts of the audience when she said this, and Eisenmann laughed slightly. "Of course, there are no such things as shapechangers."

  "Nay, but there are," she said firmly.

  "I think this'll lead us into our topic," Campbell broke in. "Professor, you said the last time you were here that Mr. Proctor and the other entertainers who popularize witchcraft and Satanism were—" he turned to Simon, "pardon, Simon,"

  and then resumed, "—that they were not really Satanists."

  "Not exactly," Eisenmann said. "Whether Mr. Proctor and his friends happen to be devil worshipers or not, I do not know. But the practices in his film and, from what I understand, in his stage show are purely imagination without any connection with witchcraft as it was practiced."

  "And I still maintain that this is a matter of opinion," Simon said heatedly. This was starting to become depressingly familiar. Gwendolyn patted his hand reassuringly and smiled at him. She was calm, unruffled, confident, much more at ease than he.

  "Mr. Proctor, I do not wish to re-cover old ground here," Eisenmann said, "but surely you must admit—"

  "Hold,"' Gwendolyn said firmly. "Let us not waste words or trifles. May I ask you a question, Professor?"

  Eisenmann shrugged. "Uh, yes, well, certainly you may."

  "Thank you," she said. She crossed her legs as she spoke, and the long, curvaceous limb distracted Eisenmann from her voice for a moment. As she spoke to him she fixed her eyes unblinkingly upon his as if to master him, and he found himself looking down frequently so as to avoid the penetrating stare. Unfortunately, when he did this he found himself looking at her chest, and thus becoming further discomfited. "Allow me to ask you if you believe in witches."