A Sorcerer’s Treason

by Sarah Zettel

  This time, Aunt Grace did not try to stop her from walking away. Bridget’s chest swelled to bursting with all the things she had not said. But for all her anger, she could not help the feeling that Aunt Grace had left at least as much unsaid. She could not, however, make herself turn around to find out what any of those unsaid words might be. All she had the strength to do was keep walking down the hill and back into town.

  A thriving community, Bayfield provided its residents a selection of six churches where they might worship. Bridget aimed her steps down Third Street toward Christ Episcopal with its sloping roof and delicate gingerbread trim. Like the church, the priest’s house next door was white and neat. Its flower beds had all been turned in preparation for winter and its lawn had been raked clear of leaves.

  Bridget mounted the steps of the brownstone porch and rang the bell that had been imported by the town shortly after the house was built as a gift for the first priest, the current Mr. Simons’s father.

  Unfortunately, it was Mrs. Simons, the priest’s upright wife, who answered the door. Mrs. Simons recognized Bridget immediately, but still looked her up and down, taking in the state of her dress, her bonnet with her hair somewhat disordered underneath it, her mended shawl, and her creased and muddied shoes.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Simons,” said Bridget, as if she had not seen the disapproval on the other woman’s face. “Is Mr. Simons at home?”

  “No he is not,” replied Mrs. Simons in a tone that suggested Bridget was ignorant for even posing the question. “Mr. Simons is a very busy man and is not generally to be found wasting time at home.”

  “Of course,” said Bridget calmly. “Would it be possible for me to leave a message for him? A matter has arisen at the lighthouse which — ”

  “Surely any such matter would be the concern of your employers at the Lighthouse Board.”

  Bridget pressed her lips together. She should have known better than even to try. Mrs. Simons would not let Bridget cross her threshold if she could help it, lest her very presence soil the sanctity of this respectable, Christian home. Old frustration roiled inside Bridget, and the encounter with Aunt Grace had worn her patience paper thin, but she knew from long experience that any expression of it would only make the situation worse, and give the good women of the town something more to talk about.

  “I apologize for having disturbed you, Mrs. Simons. Good morning.”

  “Good morning.” At least Mrs. Simons had the decency to wait until Bridget had turned away before shutting the door.

  Anger and embarrassment burning in her cheeks, Bridget descended the steps. She was halfway down the block when a voice hailed her.

  “Good morning, Miss Lederle.”

  The Reverend Zachariah Simons proceeded up the cobbled walk with several parcels of brown paper in his arms. Bridget allowed herself a small smile.

  “Good morning, Mr. Simons. I was just at your house and disappointed to find you not at home.”

  “Well, I shall be at home momentarily.” He nodded toward his porch. “Will you walk with me?”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Simons.” Bridget fell into step beside him.

  Reverend Simons was a tall, grave man with a long, brown face and a prodigious Roman nose. His lack of ambition and pretense had not recommended him for a brilliant career of any kind and left him somewhat marooned in northern Wisconsin. Mrs. Simons had never managed to forgive him this failing.

  Mr. Simons asked after Bridget’s health, and that of Mrs. Hansen and Samuel. He inquired how she had weathered the recent gale. Bridget replied quite well, thank you, omitting the rescue of the stranger. She wanted to go into that in detail, somewhere other than the public street.

  Mr. Simons climbed the porch and held open his door for her. Bridget stepped into the foyer and had the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Simons come out of the sitting room and blanch.

  “Your shopping, Mrs. Simons,” said Mr. Simons, handing off the parcels. “And if we might have some coffee in my study? Miss Lederle has a matter on which she wishes to consult.”

  The internal struggle was so plain on Mrs. Simons’s face, Bridget thought she might explode. But the priest’s wife kept her manners, if not her countenance.

  “I will have Margaret see to it.” Mrs. Simons retreated toward the kitchen.

  “Miss Lederle?” Mr. Simons gestured for Bridget to follow him. They both walked along the narrow corridor, pretending the previous scene of domestic tenderness had not occurred.

  Bridget truly did not wish to bring discord to the priest’s house. While in his wife’s eyes she was irrevocably a fallen woman, Mr. Simons himself had been as understanding of her circumstances as it was possible for him to be. He had made several offers, meant to be nothing but kind, for the provision of her daughter. At the time, Bridget had been confident that Anna’s father would return and had not taken Mr. Simons up on any of them. Still, she appreciated his attempts. Even more, she appreciated the fact that when the time came, he had been the only one willing to give Anna a Christian burial.

  Mr. Simons’s study was a small, book-lined room with two deep chairs and a lovely inlaid writing desk he had inherited from his father. Mr. Simons drew back the drapes to let in the watery sunshine and settled into one of the chairs.

  “Please, sit down, Miss Lederle, and tell me how I might be of assistance.”

  Bridget did as she was bidden. She described the rescue of the stranger, leaving out her vision. Her second sight was a touchy subject with the priest. She described the stranger’s odd clothing and boat, and then his startling declaration.

  “It was my intent to return with Dr. Hannum to ascertain whether this is a temporary disorder in his wits, or a more permanent condition. In either case, I do not believe it safe or appropriate to lodge him in a house with only two women and an overgrown boy. I was hoping to apply to you to find him more secure quarters.” Mr. Simons she could trust to hold his tongue about where the man had come from. He would help keep any additional rumors at bay.

  Mr. Simons nodded soberly. “I quite understand. Unfortunately, you will not find Dr. Hannum in his office. He was called away to the lumber camp, where there has been an accident involving a band saw, I believe. He is not expected back for at least another day.”

  “Oh.” Bridget’s face fell. She smoothed her sleeve down. “Well then, I …”

  “If I may offer a suggestion?”

  “If you please, Mr. Simons,” said Bridget.

  “Permit me to accompany you back to the lighthouse and interview the gentleman. I have some acquaintance with medicine.” He dropped his gaze as he spoke, a modesty that looked almost girlish. “I may be able to form at least a provisional diagnosis, and thus determine the most appropriate place to lodge him for everyone’s comfort.” He lifted his eyes and went on with greater confidence. “If he is too weak to move, I shall stay the night at the light station and we shall make a further determination in the morning.” A slightly pleading look came over his long, horsy face.

  Now it was Bridget’s turn to look down at her hands. The offer was a sound one, made with good intentions. But Mr. Simons’s relations with Mrs. Simons were not peaceful; even she knew that. An excuse to get out of the house and into more … agreeable female company was probably extremely welcome to him. Not that he meant anything harmful by it. Oh, no, of course not. Mr. Simons’s conscience was too well honed an instrument to permit even the thought. But it opened the door to accusation. Mrs. Simons, if she took it into her head, could blacken Bridget’s name so thoroughly and so widely that when the next inspector came from the Lighthouse Board, Bridget might find herself in truly desperate circumstances. Her savings were not such that she could live in comfort. She needed her income.

  On the other hand, there was a madman on Sand Island, which was more than she was willing to handle on her own, and, whether she liked it or not, Aunt Grace’s warning nagged at the back of her mind.

  “Thank you, Mr. Simons,” she said at
last. “I appreciate your offer. If it will not inconvenience Mrs. Simons, of course …”

  Mr. Simons’s face fell, just a little, but he rallied. “Mrs. Simons will certainly understand the requirements of the situation.” I am glad you are able to think so well of her, sir, thought Bridget, as the priest went on. “I shall ask Johann Ludwig to accompany us, if his father can spare him.” Johann was the eldest son of Tod Ludwig, the blacksmith back in Eastbay on Sand Island. He was a big, cheerful young man who was patiently courting Vale Johnson’s daughter, and was unconcerned about anything that did not involve her or ironmongery.

  Involving him, however, would mean that news of the stranger at the lighthouse would spread rapidly throughout the town, for Johann would tell his mother and his mother would tell the entire world.

  Well. Bridget steeled herself. It cannot be helped. It would look much worse if no one else came with you.

  “Thank you, Mr. Simons. That is an excellent suggestion.”

  Mr. Simons beamed kindly, and Bridget tried not to see the relief in his eyes. “Then it is settled.” He stood. “If you will wait here, I will explain matters to Mrs. Simons and see to a small bag of necessaries.”

  Mr. Simons left her there. Bridget was quite content not to have to venture forth into the household. She sipped the good coffee Margaret brought and looked at the titles of the books. Mostly there were books of philosophy and theology, but interspersed among them were a few novels, Twain and Dickens and the like, a book on the moral education of children and a few treatises on medicine. She picked up The Pickwick Papers and did her best to peruse it, ignoring the shrill voice of Mrs. Simons, which penetrated the walls with its rise and fall, and the occasional comprehensible phrase, such as “that woman,” or “how could you.”

  At length, however, the furor died away. Bridget finished her coffee and skimmed the book until Mr. Simons returned with a carpetbag in his hand.

  “If you are quite ready, Miss Lederle.” His voice was strained. Bridget had half a mind to dismiss the matter, but she merely stood up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Simons. Let us go.”

  Mr. Simons was a good sailor, and quite comfortable aboard Francis Bluchard’s noisy, smoky tugboat. She knew he spent much time going back and forth among the Apostle Islands, seeing to his various charges, whether or not they were parishioners. He stood beside her in the bow, content to watch the blue-grey water, the gulls and the passing islands of red stone, their green crowns of trees tattered and torn from the attentions of the lumber companies.

  Unlike Bayfield, with its straight streets and fine, stone houses, Eastbay was a haphazard settlement. Clapboard houses with fieldstone chimneys were scattered along dirt tracks and rutted paths. Its inhabitants mostly divided their time between fishing and farming, but there was a general store, a post office and the smithy to serve them.

  While Mr. Simons sought out the Ludwigs’ forge, Bridget stopped in at Mr. Gage’s store, where she had left her list to be filled and where she could now supervise the loading of her little dory. The amount for the supplies went onto her account, which would be paid with her next check from the Lighthouse Board. She answered Mrs. Gage’s righteous glower with her own cool stare, until the bone-thin woman dropped her attention back to her cans and bales.

  Upon joining Mr. Simons at the forge, Bridget found Johann and his father amenable to the plan, and his mother eager to hear the details of the stranger’s arrival. Bridget gave as good an account as she felt able, knowing it would be embellished and improved on, no matter what she said.

  The two men and the household purchases were almost too much for Bridget’s little boat. It sailed low enough in the water that the occasional wave lapped over the side, but Bridget was an expert hand at sail and tiller and they rounded Sand Island safely, reaching Lighthouse Point a little after four in the afternoon.

  The house was quiet as they came up the path from the jetty. Bridget noted that the broken boat had been shifted from the rocks to the boathouse. Samuel, back to sawing at the woodpile, seemed unperturbed by anything, to Bridget’s relief. She was not such an expert liar that she could tell herself she had not been in the least concerned.

  Johann volunteered to help Samuel shift the stores from the dory to the cellar. Bridget thanked him, and let herself and Mr. Simons into the house, which smelled deliciously of Mrs. Hansen’s smoked meat and bean soup. The sound of their entry brought the housekeeper to the kitchen threshold.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hansen, is all well?” asked Bridget.

  “Yes, Miss Bridget,” she answered without hesitation, and, despite all, Bridget found herself much relieved. If anything had happened to Mrs. Hansen or Samuel, she would be unable to forgive herself. “Good afternoon, Reverend.” Mrs. Hansen went on to make a small curtsy to the priest, and vanished back into the kitchen to tend her soup.

  “Can I offer you some supper, Mr. Simons?” Bridget asked as she removed her shawl, coat and bonnet and hung them on their pegs.

  “Thank you, but I think I would like to see the patient first.” He handed her his own coat and hat as she held her hands out for them.

  “Very well.” Bridget hung Mr. Simons’s outer clothes next to her own. “This way, if you please.”

  She took Mr. Simons upstairs. The guest-room door was closed. Bridget knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Bridget hesitated for a bare instant. Something had changed in the stranger’s voice. She could hear it even through the door. It held a rough, nasal quality that had not been there before.

  Wondering what fresh oddity was occurring, Bridget walked into the room. The stranger sat up in bed, wearing an old shirt of Poppa’s that Mrs. Hansen must have given him. The remains of a bowl of porridge and a mug of coffee sat next to the bed on the nightstand.

  “‘Evenin’, Miss,” the stranger said brightly. “‘Evenin’, Reverend,” he added, seeing her companion’s collar.

  Mr. Simons looked at Bridget with raised brows and turned back to the stranger. “Good morning, sir. I am Reverend Zachariah Simons.”

  “Pleased to know you.” The stranger held out his hand. “Dan Forsythe. I’m from over Marquette way. Come to see if I could swap the fish trade for lumberjacking for the winter.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Forsythe.” Mr. Simons shook the man’s hand. “How do we find you today?”

  “A little battered, but I’m still breathing, thanks to Miss Lederle, here.” The stranger nodded toward Bridget. “Hauled me straight out of the water after my boat smashed up. Don’t know what I would’ve done else. I was out cold.”

  “You are not the first to have cause to thank God for Miss Lederle and her diligence,” said Mr. Simons soberly.

  “I’m sure I’m not.” The stranger beamed at her, all sincere friendliness and attention.

  Bridget frowned, but what could she say? What about the things you told me earlier? What about the visions you made me see?

  Mr. Simons pulled up the bedside chair. “Mr. Forsythe, Miss Lederle brought me here because she was concerned that some of your earlier statements might indicate a more serious condition than just the aftereffects of a severe ducking.”

  “Statements?” The stranger’s smile faded and his gaze shifted from Mr. Simons to Bridget. “I said something? Improper, I mean? ‘Cause I swear, Reverend — ”

  “No, no, Mr. Forsythe, not improper,” Mr. Simons reassured him. “Peculiar, perhaps.” He proceeded to give a decent repetition of Bridget’s story.

  As Mr. Simons spoke, the stranger, Mr. Forsythe?, grew grave. “I said that?” He ran a hand through his hair. “God Almighty …’scuse me, Reverend. I must’ve been under way too long, or maybe it was sailing all alone in that d … darned Finn’s boat, put me out of my head for a while.”

  “Finn’s boat?” inquired Mr. Simons.

  “Yes, sir. Seen it? Outlandish-looking thing, but had it for a song. A Finn sailed it up the Soo. Said he was staying in Marquette and needed
a stake. Swore it’d get me across Superior, or wherever else I wanted to go. He was mostly right.” The stranger shook his head ruefully. “All I can say, miss, is that I’m sorry if I alarmed you at all. I don’t even remember saying any of … what you say I said.”

  Bridget stared hard at him. She saw nothing in his eyes but confused innocence. Yet something was not right. She knew it. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Forsythe,” she said at last, because she could think of nothing else to say. “I’m sure you did nothing deliberately.”

  “Still, it is best to err on the side of caution in these cases,” said Mr. Simons heartily. “I am sure we are both pleased to see your health of mind restored.” He stood. “I shall let you rest now. Perhaps, Miss Lederle, we might have that luncheon you suggested?”

  “Of course, Mr. Simons.” She backed into the hallway, not taking her eyes off the stranger. “If you’ll come with me, please.”

  Halfway down the stairs, Bridget stopped. “Please go ahead to the kitchen, Mr. Simons. I’ve forgotten something in my room.” She turned and hurried back up the stairs.

  She paused to make sure the priest did not take it into his head to follow her, and opened the stranger’s door without knocking.

  He was sunk back against the pillows, breathing heavily. He blinked when he saw her, but did not sit up.

  “Forgive me, mistress,” he said. The nasal tone was completely absent from his voice.

  “An excellent ruse.” Bridget planted her hands on her hips. “What lie do you next intend to tell?” He is dangerous. He means to take you away with him.

  “I knew you did not believe my assertions,” he said, his voice was harsh, whispery. “I could not let you send me away before I had a chance to prove them.”

  “You can prove this fantastic tale of dowagers and sorcerers?”

  He nodded. “Come to me again. Bring a mirror and some cording or thongs such as might be fashioned into a net or braid. I will prove all I say then.” He closed his eyes. “I am sorry. I am most profoundly wearied.”

  Bridget simply stared at him, uncertain what to think. His breathing grew deep and regular as he drifted once more into deep sleep.