And then – and then Bernard saw a violet flash, something that he had never seen before...

A man that has magically travelled from Bernard's future wants to help him avoid his mistakes, but Bernard finds that destiny has a mind of its own.

Part 1 of 2.

Written by: Jonathan Cohen

Narrated by: Joe Cruz

A Faustian Nonsense production.

To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-scrying-eye-part-1

Content warnings: tobacco, alcohol

Transcript

Bernard, a strong young man of sixteen with longish brown hair, green eyes, and tan skin came to the beach as often as he could. Once his lessons in the cooking academy were done for the day and once he had helped his parents in the field, he stole along the path to the beach, listening in pleasure as the oppressive silence of his home and quiet of the town gave way to the rushing of the river and the lapping of waves against the beach.

If he waited long enough, he could sit at the edge of the beach and watch the stars come out of a deep purple dusk. But usually, Bernard had to hurry home, explain to his parents that he’d become lost in thought dreaming of a new recipe, and then bury his head under his pillow and try to sleep through his parents arguing followed by silence.

There was no silence here, only the rhythmic waves against the beach and against the wooden pier that the fishers used. This night, a fall chill filled the air, and the waves were disturbed by a cool breeze coming from across the far end of the lake.

And then – and then Bernard saw a violet flash, something that he had never seen before. It was not a falling star; the flash started and ended behind the large hill that led back up to the town. 

He was not afraid; there was little to be afraid of in the town besides the disapproval of others. Bernard marched over to the edge of the hill, sandals slapping against the sand, and there he discovered a man.

The man was tall, and solidly built, but indistinct somehow, as if he had been drawn by an artist with an unsure hand. Before Bernard could say anything, the man spoke.

“I am Radolf,” he said, “and you are Bernard.”

Bernard smiled. “You know me, then. Are you a visitor that came to our town once when I was a child?”

The man shook his head. “I am from times yet to come. Or, to be plainer, your future.”

Bernard laughed. “Ah, then you can tell me what is on my test at the cooking academy tomorrow morning.”

The man shrugged. “Much further ahead. Many years.” He turned, and walked along the beach. Bernard, fascinated, followed him, stepping quickly to catch up. He saw that despite the man’s solid build, his feet hardly left imprints in the sand.

“I am not a child,” Bernard said. “My parents have told me of men and women coming to the town pretending to be wizards, or witches, and trading worthless potions for gold.”

Radolf stopped, looking out at the lake. “This I offer you,” he said, taking a pouch from his belt. “You do not believe that I am from your future, and I doubted you would. But these three ‘testaments’ will show you that I speak true.”

He passed the pouch to Bernard and Bernard felt a mild tingle as their hands touched. He blushed; Radolf was an attractive man, stocky in the way Bernard liked and with a beard, unlike the boys in his classes. He hefted the pouch. “Shall I open it now?”

Radolf shook his head. “They would mean nothing to you. But they will mean a great deal, later.”

And then he turned to Bernard, and grasped both of his wrists in his hands. Bernard again felt the shock, but now wondered: was this the touch of magic, or of simple physical attraction? Radolf came closer, and his eyes were very intent.

“I know you,” Radolf said simply. “From your future. You are a desperately unhappy man. You have made poor choices, in love and in life. A failed relationship, among other things.”

Bernard tried to wrest himself from Radolf’s grip, but he could not. “And so you come back to give me a warning,” he said.

“More than a warning. A second chance. You are meant for something more, Bernard,” the man said. “I want you to help me build the Scrying Eye.”

“The Crying Eye?” Bernard asked. 

“Scrying. The Scrying Eye. Through it you can see what has been, what is, and what is yet to come. And with the right magic, you can pass through it…and that is how I came to visit you on this night, all those years ago.”

Bernard felt the tug of desire, and bowed his head, not wanting to look Radolf in the eyes. “What would you have me do?”

“Simple,” Radolf replied. “You shall become a painter.”

Bernard burst out laughing. “A painter? That is the one thing I have no skill in. My father is a painter, and he tells me that when I was a child, I was better at throwing paint on the ground than onto a canvas.”

Radolf put his left thumb and forefinger on Bernard’s hairless chin and lifted it until they were looking into each others’ eyes again. “You will be a painter. You will be a great painter. And we will need someone to paint the story of the Scrying Eye. You will document the past, and I will see it in the future.”

His lips passed very close to Bernard’s cheek, and Bernard imagined he could feel the bristle of Radolf’s beard on him. “And I will come back to you,” Radolf whispered into his ear.

A wind had whipped up, and now the waves were topped with white crests, and Radolf studied them for a moment. “I must return to my time…to your future. The Scrying Eye cannot be held open for long.”

He released Bernard’s wrist and Bernard stumbled back, but he caught himself. The strange man was becoming more indistinct as a violet light came up from the lake. “I have one last request,” he said, and his voice sounded very far away.

“Yes,” Bernard said. 

“Will you wait?” Radolf asked, just before he disappeared. “Will you wait for me?” his voice echoed.

And then he was gone, and Bernard stood on the beach with the pouch of testaments in his hands. He hefted it, then held it like a secret to his chest.

Bernard turned from the beach and the lake and the place Radolf had stood, and walked home, mind full of stories and images of a future, and an Eye, and a man who had travelled an unknowable distance to meet him.

He told his parents he had become distracted by thoughts of a new way of preparing meat, and they forgave him for being late. His mother gave him pottage, and he thought it could use some arrowroot and fennel.

After dinner, he asked his father if he could use the other side of one of his discarded artworks for a sketch. Surprised, his father allowed it, though Bernard’s sister Tai thought this a foolish idea. “He sees nothing!” she said, sticking out her tongue. “I can draw better dragons than him.”

He took up his father’s paints, and added a little water from the jug by the door and mixed the colors. Then, taking the boar’s-hair brush, he dabbed it in the paint and applied it to the canvas…

But there was nothing. Tai was right. He had drawn swirls and lines and violet spots, but no reality was captured there. “In time,” he murmured. “In time.”

That night, as he lay in his bed, surrounded by Radolf’s secret, he opened the pouch. As Radolf had said, the testaments told him nothing. There was a large heavy wax ball, a split arrow, and a blank vellum scroll. The vellum itself would have paid for food for the family for a month, but he wrapped the testaments back up in the leather pouch. Since Tai liked to take things, Bernard dug a hole in the dirt under the jug by the front door, and buried it there.

He dreamed of the pouch. And he dreamed of Radolf.

Since the fish had become scarce over the last few years, the town had opened itself to itinerant instructors, and now – unusually, for a small town – it held four academies. Bernard was enrolled in the cooking academy, given his skill at preparing dishes of all types, and his instructor was dumbfounded when Bernard informed him that he would be switching to the painting academy. “Young man, you have a gift for food,” the instructor said, shaking his head. “Anyone can slap paint on a wall, but you were born to a different calling – to feed the town.”

Mind filled with visions of the future, Bernard submitted his termination notice and left the low, squat building with multiple chimneys that smoked and gave off delicious aromas.

His parents were equally astonished. “A painter?” his father asked. “Are you sure, Bernard?” Bernard had the sense that his father would not contradict him, that this was as far as he would go. His mother was the opposite.

“You’re a fool, Bernard,” she said. “Look how little the paintings fetch that your father makes. And he is a master tradesman.”

His father shot a look at his mother, and his mother fell silent. And when Bernard repeated he wanted to be a painter, his father offered to stand as his reference for the painting academy.

Unlike the cooking academy, the painting academy was a light, breezy building open to the sun, with a patio where students could draw in natural light. Bernard met his new instructor, Blayed, there. She was a taciturn tall woman with a permanent frown and slitted eyes. 

“You have a reference from the best painter in our town,”