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,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied.

“He is your father,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied.

“You have no examples of your work.”

“No,” he replied.

Blayed sighed. “Your father has given us gold in exchange for you to come to the academy. I have my doubts that you can ever be an artist, but you may yet become a decent illustrator. Let us begin.”

So Bernard began to learn the skills of painting, how to choose a canvas and how to stretch it, how to draw from life, what pencils, charcoal and chalk to use, and many other things.

And he drew, and he drew. And nothing came from his drawing, although Blayed occasionally allowed that one of his pieces was not altogether unpleasing. “But you know that a man’s legs should both be the same length,” she snapped. “Remember that.”

“Old man Virgus has two legs of different lengths,” Bernard muttered.

“If this is a painting of old man Virgus, where is his eyepatch?” Bernard had no reply.

The cooking academy, painting academy, historical academy, and civil service academy stood at the corners of the largest park in the town. One day, Bernard spent his lunch hour at the cooking academy, watching the cooks toil over pots and cauldrons. Then he bought some of their cooking for lunch. He was hurrying back along the path towards the painting academy when he bumped into a man carrying a satchel.

Scrolls and pages and pens flew out of the satchel and onto the ground. Bernard apologized profusely, and the man looked at him in consternation. “Do you ever look where you’re going?” he asked.

He was wearing spectacles, and he had the dusty air of the past about him. He was wearing clothes Bernard remembered his father wearing when Bernard was a child. There was something…old…about him, though he could not have been more than two years older. Dark eyes, tall and lanky.

And then a smile cracked the man’s face, something like the light from a church window: the change from a peevish old man to a charming young one. “I’m sorry,” the man said, gathering up the scrolls. “I was rushing to get some lunch. I’m just as much to blame as you.” He put out his hand. “I’m Kedrin.”

His hand was warm and callused. Kedrin smelled faintly of old parchment and clothes stored for a long time; not an unpleasant smell. 

“I’m Bernard,” he said, returning the smile. “You’re in the historical academy?”

Kedrin raised his eyebrows. “No, I’m in the civil service academy.”

Bernard shook his head and couldn’t think of anything to say. Kedrin belonged in an old scroll about knights and dragons and fair maidens. “You mentioned lunch,” Bernard replied. “Can I offer you some of mine? It’s from the cooking academy.” 

“You had the same idea as me, then,” Kedrin said. “Let’s sit under that tree and share what you’ve got.”

They sat in the shade of an elm, and the wind through the branches filled in the companionable silence as they ate goat chunks and turnips baked with bread.

“Are you from town?” Bernard asked. “I don’t recognize you, although we’re a lot larger than we used to be.”

“No,” Kedrin replied, patting at his mouth with a cloth taken from his pocket (another old tradition, Bernard thought). “I came here a year ago to study the civil service. I find it remarkable that this town has four academies, though.”

“When I was a child, it was a fishing village,” Bernard said. “It has changed a great deal in the last ten years.” 

“Not always for the best, I imagine,” Kedrin replied.

“Now, we have academies dedicated to sustenance, art, history, and governance,” Bernard said, pointing to each building in turn. “I’d say it’s a change for the better.”

Kedrin looked down at his cloth and folded it carefully into quarters. “Change for its own sake is not always the best, Bernard. What of the fishermen and fisherwomen, I wonder?”

“I imagine they found work at the academies, or the textile mill, or some other industry,” Bernard said, somewhat irritated. An outsider who had only been here a year, and this man was already criticizing the town. 

“Yes, that’s a good thing to imagine,” Kedrin said, and got to his feet, thanking Bernard for the meal. “You must excuse me again; I find progress a tiresome thing.”

As Kedrin walked off towards the squat civil service academy building, Bernard thought, progress brings the future. My future.

Bernard continued to cook meals and other delicacies for his family, which delighted his mother and perplexed his father. “Bernard, you need to concentrate on your art,” his father would say. “An artist is always working.” Then, smacking his lips, “It’s unconscionable for you to ignore your sketches...Is there any more casserole?”

After dinner one night, Bernard sat down at the easel for his daily practice, dreading it. He picked up the charcoal and lifted his hand tentatively. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” his father said from behind him.

“It has to be something,” Bernard said.

“You’re trying so hard,” his father said. “Just let your hand relax and see what comes out.”

But Bernard knew what would come out. Without the discipline of holding his hand tightly to the canvas, the swoops and curls from the charcoal would be even messier.

After his father had left him to argue quietly with his mother, Bernard thought of Kedrin. The man from the past, he thought. He lifted the charcoal to the canvas and imagined Kedrin’s wavy hair as a scroll, his eyes as windows to a place of worship, his lips as…

After a few minutes, he appraised what he had drawn. It was misshapen, it was malproportioned, and it had no art to it. But it was Kedrin. There was some life to the sketch that his other sketches did not have.

A few days later, Bernard was sketching a bowl of fruit for a still life in the open courtyard of the painting academy when Blayed interrupted him with a tap on his shoulder. He was sure she would tell him that his banana resembled an apple, or that his grapes were concave instead of convex, but instead she passed him an envelope with a red seal.

Kedrin. He didn’t even have to open it to know it was Kedrin. Who else would seal a note in wax?

“Since you’re a fan of the cooking academy’s meals, how about joining me for noon lunch at the open house next week? Kedrin.” The note was surprisingly breezy, but written in the scrolling loops of an older age.

Bernard wrote his own on a scrap of canvas in charcoal, simply saying “Yes,” and dropped it at the civil service academy, where a wizened old man promised to deliver the note to Master Kedrin.

They had lunch at the open house, and they laughed and talked history and art and politics. They took a walk through the quad after the school day was over the following week, telling each other of books they’d read, books they’d only heard of, and books they’d imagined. They went to an itinerant visiting carnival, giggling with pleasure at the japes of the masked men and women, strolling and eating candy and exotic meats until they were stuffed.

One night, Bernard had stayed late at the painting academy when it occurred to him to pay Kedrin a visit. Kedrin was staying in the modest student quarters behind the park, and he thought he’d surprise him.

He was too late, however. The door to the quarters was locked. Bernard stepped back, trying to ascertain which window belonged to Kedrin’s room. When he saw Kedrin pass behind the top window on the left side, he considered calling out, but he did not wish to wake anyone up.

He found a handful of pebbles on the ground, and tossed them at Kedrin’s window, but they fell short.

Bernard looked around for something bigger and saw a rock which he thought would get Kedrin’s attention. Without thinking further, he flung the rock up into the air and it crashed through Kedrin’s window with a tinkling sound.

A muttered exclamation from Kedrin, then a thud, then a scream. Bernard knew now that it did not matter whether he was quiet or not.

Later that evening, Bernard sat in the waiting room at the healer’s house while Kedrin was tended to. Kedrin eventually limped out and sat next to Bernard.

“You must think I am a fool,” Bernard said after a while.

“Must I?” Kedrin asked.

“I had hoped we could go for a walk…”

Kedrin tapped his bandaged foot. “An excellent idea.” Then he grinned. “You are a silly man.” Again, that beam of sunlight Kedrin grin, Bernard thought.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked.

“Of such things are interactions between men made,” Kedrin said.

Bernard didn’t understand.

“It is the little events that move forward greater things,” Kedrin said. “History…friendships…relationships.” Bernard flushed.

Unbidden, Radolf’s face came to Bernard’s mind. He had not thought of him for some time, although he’d contemplated the pouch of testaments that still lay buried under the jug by the front door of his house. What had Radolf said?

“You have made bad choices, in love and in life.” Bernard heard his voice echo in his memory, as if Radolf was standing before him again.

After a moment, Kedrin withdrew his hand and looked away, and the spell was broken. Bernard wanted to say...