Happy Valentine’s Day! You know what that means: We have a brand new season of Love Is Blind to devour. Courtney Revolution (The Circle) joins host Chris Burns to delight in all of the pod romances and love triangles. Plus, Meg joins the podcast to debrief the Madison-Mason-Meg love triangle. Leave us a voice message at www.speakpipe.com/WeHaveTheReceipts Text us at (929) 487-3621 DM Chris @FatCarrieBradshaw on Instagram Follow We Have The Receipts wherever you listen, so you never miss an episode. Listen to more from Netflix Podcasts.…
コンテンツは Jonathan Cohen によって提供されます。エピソード、グラフィック、ポッドキャストの説明を含むすべてのポッドキャスト コンテンツは、Jonathan Cohen またはそのポッドキャスト プラットフォーム パートナーによって直接アップロードされ、提供されます。誰かがあなたの著作物をあなたの許可なく使用していると思われる場合は、ここで概説されているプロセスに従うことができますhttps://ja.player.fm/legal。
Come join us in the Lavender Tavern for original gay fairytales. Each story is about 30 minutes long. You're always welcome to sit by the tavern fire. There are many nights, and many stories. Join us, won't you? We'll keep a light on in the window.
コンテンツは Jonathan Cohen によって提供されます。エピソード、グラフィック、ポッドキャストの説明を含むすべてのポッドキャスト コンテンツは、Jonathan Cohen またはそのポッドキャスト プラットフォーム パートナーによって直接アップロードされ、提供されます。誰かがあなたの著作物をあなたの許可なく使用していると思われる場合は、ここで概説されているプロセスに従うことができますhttps://ja.player.fm/legal。
Come join us in the Lavender Tavern for original gay fairytales. Each story is about 30 minutes long. You're always welcome to sit by the tavern fire. There are many nights, and many stories. Join us, won't you? We'll keep a light on in the window.
For two powerful wizards, there is only one thing stronger than love: stubbornness. Final episode of Season 1! If you like what you've heard, leave a review on Apple Podcasts or Podchaser . Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.
Auerbach's Destiny: Some people are born to greatness, destined to be saviors of their land. Others...not so much. Memorial: A cottage in the woods built for two. Three perfect coneflowers. And a single, fresh grave. Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.…
Forbidden: Don't go in the forest. Don't open your eyes after sunset. And don’t look behind the cellar door.... if you know what's good for you. ( Trigger Warnings: Mental / emotional abuse & kidnapping) The Gods Above the Table: Each week, two men play at being gods. And each week, millions of tiny people live and die by their hands... Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.…
The Silver Thread: If you wake up with a silver thread attached to you, of course you're going to look for the other end. But what are you going to find there? Heart of a Soldier: Magic is remarkably good at putting injured soldiers back together. Even when the mages can't find all of the pieces. Trigger Warnings: Violence ( Heart of a Soldier ). Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.…
The Arbiter's Ruling: All Ministers are equal, and all Ministers are as one. Except those who would keep magical spells for themselves. Set in the same world as Myer's Helping Hand . Next Year in Elysium: Welcome to the wedding...Pour some ale, raise a glass, and join us in a toast. Next Year in Elysium! Trigger Warnings: Emotional abuse ( The Arbiter's Ruling ). Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.…
Gallants in Distress: Just as there are damsels in distress, there are gallants in distress. Hamlyn the street-ale vendor is about to find out how knights track down these distressed men. The Next Town Over: The Collective has forsworn violence. But how then to deal with the People, who have not? Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.…
The King's Cup-Bearer : For five years, the king and his cup-bearer have been trapped in the king's chambers. Now, finally, his servant is going to venture forth and find out what is really going on in the kingdom... The Merchant of Dreams: Every day Dimitri sold dreams to anyone who asked, but he could not dream himself. Written by: Jonathan Cohen for the Lavender Tavern . Narrated by: Ben Meredith A Faustian Nonsense production.…
There was one place where there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of magical ley lines that gathered and writhed like snakes. It was destiny that this should be the greatest city ever built: Frostford. Meet Myer, an absentminded young mage who works for the Ministry in Frostford. Now meet Myer's helping hand: Stepwise, the daemon he creates so that he can find the things he misplaces. Myer is about to discover that giving humanity the ability to search for anything, at any time, can lead to catastrophe. Part 2 of 2. Written by: Jonathan Cohen Narrated by: Trevor Schechter A Faustian Nonsense production. To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/myers-helping-hand-part-2 Transcript According to Myer’s tracking spell, there were now nine Stepwises – eight of them outside of his control. Now it was time to panic. Myer tried to slow his breathing and thought of his lesson on Runaway Magic. How could he not think of it? It was the highlight of every Ministry student’s first year of study. The magister who taught the course showed them how a magic spell that simply doubled objects would lead to disaster. He started with a copper coin and kept doubling it with a simple incantation. The single coin became two coins, then four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and by the tenth doubling the magister showered the podium in copper and told the students that there were now over a thousand coins…before he made all but one of them disappear with a flourish. Any magic that was not properly cast could lead to runaway magic. There were rumours that this was one of the reasons the Ministry had been formed in the first place, but the magister would neither confirm nor deny this. He had scraped the chalk across the large slate at the front of the class, then tapped each syllable, emphasizing the word: “Cat-tas-stro-phe!” Myer re-read the spell he’d written to conjure the first daemon. There were no flaws that he could see. No, Stepwise had been copied by human means, at least at first. He bit his lip. “Stepwise, double yourself,” he said with some dread. Stepwise stretched and split down the middle. Now there were two Stepwises in front of him. Eleven red spots on the line symbol. Cat-tas-stro-phe. He could duplicate enough Stepwises to catch the other Stepwises now, but since at least one other person knew how to duplicate the rogue daemons, there was no stopping them. And each daemon used a tiny bit of manna…unnoticeable at first, but once it became a case of Runaway Magic, the manna would start adding up. Myer was a clever young man. He often had many clever ideas and brought these clever ideas to Alastair or the lower magisters. This time, he felt that the cleverest thing he could do was to…say nothing. It would have been simple to deconstruct the Stepwises. All Myer needed to do to make them disappear was to reverse the spell inscribed on the sheet of parchment he now kept locked in the bottom drawer of his chest of drawers. He could even tear the parchment into pieces, if he did not mind the thought of every Stepwise suddenly deconstructing violently. But the moment Myer broke the spell, all of the accumulated manna that animated the daemons would instantly flow back into the manna reservoir at the end of the street, and from there into the neighborhood’s ley line. The Ministry would not fail to notice an *increase* in the supply of manna…especially when a young, clever minister resided only a short walk away. The next morning Myer noted with a dull resignation that there were fourteen red dots on the symbol. On his walk to the Ministry, he spotted at least two Stepwises flitting about the buildings above him: one had a hammer in its mouth, and the other carried an apple. If Alastair suspected anything, he remained mute. Sueanna claimed to be busy with solstice preparations. Even Getty was busy with what he called “temple business.” Raven, Myer noticed, had started to make elementary mistakes in the work room: using agate instead of tourmaline, trying to undo a spell by drawing a sigil in a clockwise rather than counter clockwise direction, even cracking her jade wand on the edge of her table as she attempted a particularly difficult incantation. She seemed newly preoccupied. Or, Myer thought, a bit ashamed, she had been preoccupied for a while and he had only now started to notice. Raven usually stole away every midday on their break, leaving Alastair and Myer to eat hand meals and commiserate. On one break, Myer followed Raven at a distance, and saw her enter the narrow winding staircases that flanked the tower. When he stepped into the staircase, he saw her some flights above, huffing and puffing her way up. Then she suddenly reversed direction and came towards him. She must have seen him, and Myer was trying to determine an appropriate excuse when Raven came upon him and expressed surprised. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “The…same as you,” Myer said, tentatively. “I take exercise in these stairs every midday,” Raven said. “You are free to join me.” Then she turned from him and started back up the stairs. Myer was not much for exercise aside from the flight of stairs he had to climb to his lodging every night, so he struggled to keep pace with Raven. They climbed stairs in silence broken only by his wheezing. When they neared the top of the Ministry building, Myer asked her: “Are you all right?” “I’m fine,” Raven said, turning again down the stairs. “Completely fine.” She said this in the tone of one who is not at all fine. A minute later, Myer tried to bring the conversation back to life by saying, “I’m looking forward to the winter solstice. Are you?” Raven did not reply directly. Instead, she asked, “Will you spend it with your parents?” Myer had never discussed his parents with her, but he still wore the family emblem around his neck. Despite his distance from them, he was proud of the family history of spell work and service. “We no longer speak,” Myer breathed. The stairs were now causing his legs and lungs some distress. “I left them a long time ago.” “I never knew my parents,” she said, picking up her pace and marching ahead of him. “I am sure you had your reasons, but I would gladly spend solstice with mine every year.” Myer knew little of Raven, although they had worked side by side for two years. She was from a village in the east; she ate spicy food that smelled of cumin; and she sketched funny, distorted faces of himself and Alastair when she thought they were not looking. Had he known she missed her parents, he never would have spoken in so cavalier a fashion – But of course she missed them, he thought as they came to a final stop at the bottom of the stairs. And as he heaved and gasped for breath, Myer compared her to Getty, the foundling. Getty was happy to be apart from his parents: the temple elders were his parents now. But Raven – he had seen her looking unhappily at the higher-up magisters during Ministry celebrations. She had no surrogate parents among them. He had never heard her speak of friends, or other family. If anyone lived in shadows, it was her. Everyone, it seemed, was in search of something they did not – or could not – possess. The following morning, Myer could not find his ebony staff again, and as he was running late, he asked one of his Stepwises to locate it. He felt no guilt. The miniscule amount of manna this would use would go unnoticed among the total amount used by all Stepwises. And the daemon was so helpful! A Stepwise fetched him some freshwater from a nearby pond to aid in the Ministry work he brought home. A Stepwise quenched the light after Myer had gone to bed. A Stepwise even lit his way to the chamber pot in the middle of the night. What else could a Stepwise do? Myer spent a tipsy evening testing his daemons with queries. A Stepwise could predict the weather, with some degree of success – about the same success as any lay prognosticator. A Stepwise could determine the best path to take to reach the archives and warn if a horse-drawn barrow had upended and blocked the way. What else? The next night, Sueanna came up with some solstice pie of her own, claiming that Myer must be hungry. How had she known his pantry was bare? Could a Stepwise have…told her? Myer cringed and asked: “Stepwise, how much food is there in Sueanna’s pantry?” And Stepwise told him. Myer had always slept well, but now he stayed awake most nights. Not from the worry that consumed him – he had resigned himself to that – but to the fighting and shouts that started as a murmur and rose to a din each night as the days until the winter solstice ticked down. “I know you were with that woman!” a man yelled to his partner from across the way. “You didn’t go to work today; you went to the tavern!” a woman scolded her partner. “You have been taking a potion, so you need not conceive!” a husband sobbed to his wife. Every question had an answer, and every Stepwise could find out any reasonably-accessible information, even if it would normally remain a secret. The red dots multiplied along the line on the tracking parchment. The saga of Stepwise took some unusual turns. On a day when he felt little like cooking, Myer went by Ogden the street vendor’s stall to pick up some rabbit-on-a-stick, but the old man was under a cloud. Literally: Several Stepwises floated in the air above his stall, each holding a banner reading: “Terrible food,” “Bad service,” “Don’t eat here,” and so on. They were just high enough to be out of reach, but low enough that anyone in the street could see them. Ogden batted at the sky in futility. “Do you see them?” he demanded. “I have tried to move my stall, but no matter where in Frostford I go, they follow me with their infernal banners.” Myer did not know what to say, being the source of Ogden’s problems, in some way. “Do you know why they are here?” he asked finally. Ogden shrugged. “Well…perhaps the rabbit was not as fresh as it could have been…ONE NIGHT. One night. But does such a lapse merit this kind of retribution?” Myer promised he would dispatch a Stepwise with a positive message once he reached his lodgings and took the rabbit-on-a-stick with him. In times past, had he bought take-away food from a street vendor, Myer would have had little recourse if it had been spoiled or lacked flavour. But now, anyone could challenge the vendors…and at least one person had had the idea to do so. In his lodgings, Myer took one of his Stepwises out of the cage and wrote a message on a long strip of cloth: “Reliable, tasty food.” It occurred to him that the negative banners he’d seen did not have to be truthful. They could be from someone who bore a grudge against Ogden, or even a competing street vendor who wished to destroy the man’s business. He tied the banner to the Stepwise’s left foot and commanded it to fly to Ogden’s stall. There was no way, Myer thought, that anyone who saw those banners could know if they were true at all. Anyone could say anything. Myer himself could start a campaign of whispers against someone, without anyone being able to track it back to him. By the time he had released this last Stepwise, the tracker parchment was a solid red line. The tracker had given Myer another idea: he took a smaller strip of cloth and imbued it with a distance spell, then wrapped it around his left wrist like a bracelet. Now he could summon and command his Stepwise when he was away from his lodgings, even when he was in the work room. All he needed to do was to speak his command into the wristband, and a Stepwise would obey. Raven had been even more withdrawn than usual as the solstice finally approached. Myer went to the staircase at lunch to look for her, but it was empty and silent. He commanded his Stepwise to search for her, and when the daemon flew to him, Myer followed it to one of the side doorways of the Ministry, where he saw Raven from a distance, eating lunch alone. Myer could imagine some of the pain she felt; he knew what it was like to miss someone with all of your heart. He contemplated his Stepwise, now safe and hidden within his robes. A daemon could not search for something connected that distantly to the present, though…could it? “Stepwise,” Myer whispered to the daemon, “can you find Raven’s parents?” The daemon did not reply. Was this a problem too difficult for his creation? Then he pulled back his robe and observed the glyph inscribed on the back of Stepwise’s head. The symbol was rotating, as if the daemon were thinking. Daemons could not think of course – but something was happening. Myer imagined the skies of Frostford darkened with Stepwises flitting to and fro on their errands. Seeking information, delivering packages, pilfering valuables, and spying on neighbours, friends, lovers. Not only Frostford. From his figures, Myer knew there were more Stepwises than humans in the city. The daemons must be spreading to neighboring towns. His suspicions were confirmed when, the day before the winter solstice, a Stepwise flew in through his window and dropped a note onto his table. Myer knew it was not one of ‘his’ Stepwises; he’d daubed a bit of red paint on their backs so he could tell them apart from the others. The note was from his parents, wishing him a happy winter solstice. They had not written it themselves; it was a ready-made greeting that could be bought at any stall in any small town. He was angry at the impersonal nature of it but touched at the same time. They were a hundred leagues away, and yet they could wish him a merry solstice as if they lived next door. He dropped off a fat suckling pig at Sueanna’s lodgings that afternoon. She had the same seamed face and button eyes, but she was lighter, happier. “I’ve been writing back and forth with old friends,” Sueanna told him. “We had lost touch so many years ago.” Her Stepwise sat proudly on the table by the hearth; clearly, she saw no need to conceal it. Everyone, it seemed, was having their wishes granted in some way. Except for Raven...and his own half-whispered wish that night so many weeks ago. He was ashamed to think of what he had wished for, and ashamed that he still wanted it to come true. In his Ministerial training, Myer had often heard the metaphor of the mage who was impotent to grant his own wishes. Perhaps in the shadows of his mind, he did not truly want Stepwise to fulfil his heart’s desire. Candles hung from the trees that lined Frostford, and a gentle snow fell on the day of the solstice. Peace and calm, Myer thought – although the fighting and the wishing and the spying continued. He locked his red-daubed Stepwises in the tiny cage, hung it far from Bedlam’s reach, and went for a walk by the light of the candles. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the previous year’s solstice. Laughter and company and – It was then that a hand clamped down on each of Myer’s shoulders. He knew the insignia on the black gloves at once. There was no point in struggling. The Ministry was quiet on this solstice day. He had never been this high up in the building; the room was vast, cavernous. The woman who spoke to him was mild and ordinary; this frightened him more than anything else. He did not remember the words. He did not have to. Myer was to stop all of the daemons, immediately. There were to be no more requests, or wishes, or messages. He was the only one who could reverse the spell. Of course, they knew he had created them. The contours of the spell he had used marked him as clearly as if he had stamped each Stepwise with his own sigil. If he did not stop the daemons that evening, he would be dismissed from the Ministry. Blacklisted. Banned from the city. And the Ministry would use every Stepwise it could muster to hound Myer for the rest of his days. “You are a clever young man,” the woman concluded. “Surely you can see that there is no other way.” The gloved hands marched him downstairs. Stepwise had fulfilled many requests. And now there was only Raven’s wish, and the wish he had made…but there was barely any time left for them to be fulfilled. He saw once more Raven’s downcast face in his mind’s eye, and Myer started to walk more and more slowly, dragging his feet through the slush of the Frostford street and sending mental wishes for the Stepwises to grant Raven’s wish. Why was he so intent on helping her? Perhaps, he thought, it was so he could prove that he could undo what had happened…reunite people who had once loved each other. Love, though, was a task beyond Stepwise. “Enough dawdling,” one of the guards said, and pushed him along roughly. “Make haste.” When they arrived at his lodgings, the men in the black hoods and black gloves stood impassively, while Bedlam hissed and spat at them. Myer reluctantly unlocked the drawer and drew out the original spell sheet. Then he began tracing the lines backwards with his stylus, unmarking the parchment as ink flowed out of the paper. He saw the two Stepwises in the cage suddenly wink out of existence. It was over. The day after winter solstice was known as the Day of Commerce, but this year it became known as the Day of Complaint. Those who had become accustomed to using the daemons for their everyday tasks did not like having those daemons taken away from them – particularly on a solstice. Myer went to the Ministry the following day as usual, but the door to the work room was shut. He inserted his ebony staff into the lock, but the door would not open. He started to wiggle the staff back and forth in the lock, but from behind him, Alastair said, “You need not bother.” The disgraced former magister was wearing street robes, and he held out a square of parchment with Myer’s sigil on it. When Myer took it, it unfolded into a letter that explained that his employment was severed and listed the items he was to return to the Ministry. “They did not tell me they would get rid of me!” Myer complained. Alastair smiled. “You know too much.” “Can you at least let me in so I can retrieve my summer robes?” Myer asked. The other man held up his own letter. “It would seem that I know too much as well.” But Alastair was too easygoing to stay despondent. “No doubt they have been planning this for me since my demotion.” He tore up the letter. “Let us go fetch a drink.” “Where is Raven?” Myer asked. Alastair shrugged. “I wonder if she arrived early and received her own letter at that time.” Stripped of his Ministry possessions, Myer accompanied Alastair through the Ministry, where people deliberately avoided looking at them as they passed…then no doubt watched them with fascination from behind their backs. Myer felt guilt over Raven; she should not have been caught up in this. She was completely innocent. Then he saw her in the Ministry rotunda. Her hair was well-trimmed, and she wore gray robes: the mark of an archivist. Their eyes met, and Raven pointed to an alcove at one side. Myer left Alastair and went to meet her. “I have been promoted,” Raven said. “You know what happened, then?” Raven smiled. “Everyone knows what has happened. They have all kept silent about it.” So, Raven had pulled success from his ashes. Myer was happy for her. “I wish you well,” he said. She seemed much happier than before. “I have you to...…
Every world in this realm is crisscrossed by ley lines; filaments of earth energy that connect places of worship, monuments, and historical sites. You have passed through innumerable ley lines in your life: think of any desolate place you have been where the hair on the back of your neck stood up for no reason you could fathom... Meet Myer, an absentminded young mage who works for the Ministry in Frostford. Now meet Myer's helping hand: Stepwise, the daemon he creates so that he can find the things he misplaces. Myer is about to discover that giving humanity the ability to search for anything, at any time, can lead to catastrophe. Part 1 of 2. Written by: Jonathan Cohen Narrated by: Trevor Schechter A Faustian Nonsense production. To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/myers-helping-hand-part-1 Transcript Every world in this realm is crisscrossed by ley lines; filaments of earth energy that connect places of worship, monuments, and historical sites. You have passed through innumerable ley lines in your life: think of any desolate place you have been where the hair on the back of your neck stood up for no reason you could fathom. The more ley lines that intersect in an area, the more magically powerful that area is. Some unfortunate towns only have a single ley line passing through – barely enough to allow a local mystic to dowse for water. Other towns are gifted with an abundance of ley lines. And of course, once the men and women of this world understood ley lines and how they could work to their advantage, they built towns and villages at the great crossroads of these lines. A mage might wander an unspoiled land, with enchanted spectacles on his nose, until he found a spot that burned with a grid of reddish-gold ley lines arcing across each other. Then he would send back word to those who had sponsored his expedition: here shall be a great city. There was one place where there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of ley lines that gathered and writhed like snakes. It was destiny that this should be the greatest city ever built. Those of temperaments sensitive to magic had already settled it as a village, but with the ley lines to power their efforts, it grew into a city of spires and minarets, columns and porticos. Frostford: The largest city in the known world. One cannot simply dip a wand or a staff into a ley line and extract the magic needed for a spell or incantation; it takes training and skill to handle the ley lines. It takes a Minister. And so, it came to pass, in a section of Frostford that was neither too poor nor too wealthy, that a young junior minister named Myer was late for his work. Myer was no more than twenty, with a shock of black wavy hair that never quite stayed where it should. He had hazel eyes and the babyish curious face of a child, and at this moment he stood among a pile of his clothes, looking for his staff. He could summon the staff, of course; this was a trifling cantrip for any minister. But Myer had nearly expended his allotment of magic for the thirty-days, and he did not want the Ministry to sanction him. Thomas would know where the staff was. But Thomas was not here, Myer thought. The staff was ebony. Why had he chosen ebony? With his black robes and furniture of dark wood, and black walls, the staff was nearly impossible to find. The only spot of light in his chambers was – And here he turned to his cat, Bedlam. Bedlam was officially a familiar, as far as the Ministry knew, but the luminous white cat with light green eyes, pink nose and ears spent his time sleeping or looking on with disdain. As Myer now saw, the cat had his paws wrapped around the ebony staff. “Give that to me!” Myer said, leaping for the cat. In a flash, Bedlam picked up the staff in his mouth and dropped it at Myer’s feet. “Now,” Myer sighed. “Now you provide me with it after an hour of searching.” Bedlam looked up with innocent eyes and began to lick his paw. There would be no useful argument with a cat, Myer thought, hurrying from the house with his staff tucked in his belt. Arguments were for his employer. Myer was late to the Ministry, the largest building in the city, at the center of all traffic and all commerce, with multiple spires that soared into the sky. He ducked his head and rushed past the rows of desks where men and women copied papers and scrolls by hand. The Ministry was arranged in the manner of the heavens: the higher a room was to the building’s top, the more important it was. Myer’s work room was in the basement, next to a wall that dripped water and the Scrap Heap. His stomach spoke to him: Thomas had not made him a morning meal to take to work. He pushed the thought aside and entered the work room. There stood his two collaborators: Raven, a short, stout woman with red hair and green lip tint, gesturing angrily with a sheaf of papers. And Alastair, the subject of her wrath, tall and lean and fidgety, with cropped brown hair, caramel skin and a finicky mustache. They were the least of the Ministry, and it made them angry…even if the anger ended up directed at each other. “I do not want to make copies of these papers,” Raven said, slamming them onto a table. “I have written them and that should be enough.” Alastair had the bored look of the magister. Which was only fair, as he had once been a magister before being demoted. “All requests for supplies must be presented with three copies to the Supply Magister.” He saw Myer come in and welcomed him to his cause. “What say you, junior minister?” Myer sat on his wooden stool and started to lay out his work: leather blotter, rune blocks and ink, staff holder, bottles and papers of his own. The Ministry was said to produce all of the magic and the motive energy that drove Frostford, but it occurred to Myer often that their primary output must surely be papers. “I say that there should be a magical way to duplicate such papers,” Myer said, sliding into the groove of a discussion they had had many times. “Hand copying always leads to the introduction of errors into a work.” Raven pursed her green lips at Alastair, who simply shook his head. “Not allowed,” Alastair told Myer. “It simply is not allowed.” Myer did not tell Alastair that taking gold from the Ministry coffers was not allowed; this is what had led Alastair to leave his exalted position as magister and come to work in the basement. “There are some Ministry rules which should be broken,” he said instead. The former magister could not argue with that. Raven nodded. “I stand with Myer,” she said. “If we were free of these papers, we could spend our time serving the public.” Alastair wiggled his mustache at her. “How have you served the public today?” “Once I have copied these papers,” she replied, “I shall send manna along the Ardium sector ley line to power their water wheel.” “They have been without water for some time,” Myer pointed out. “Ardium,” Alastair also pointed out, “pays the least taxation of all of the sectors in Frostford. They have the lowest average income in the city. It stands to reason that they may wait some time longer.” He put down his own sheaf of papers on top of Raven’s. “Bix sector is planning a harvest merchant festival for next week.” “Bix has had three festivals in the last month,” Raven protested, and she and Alastair were off again. Myer bent his head of unruly hair to his own work and paid them no mind. He too would spend much of his day writing papers, copying papers, and ferrying papers upstairs to those who read the papers, stored the papers, and no doubt burned the papers. The next item he needed was his peridot stone, but where was it? How could he infuse the vitality glyphs for the city gardens without the peridot stone? Thomas would have told him he was absent-minded, that he could only keep his head by virtue of having a scarf around his neck. But everyone lost things at one time or another, Myer thought. It was not his fault that the things he owned were simply easier to lose. There had to be a solution. That night, in his quiet and echoing chambers, Myer put a pot of soup on the hearth for dinner and thought about the ebony staff, and the peridot stone, and all of the other things he had misplaced of late. A spell to retrieve them would not suffice: that type of ritual would draw enough manna from the ley lines to bring attention to him. He scratched a purring Bedlam behind the ears and thought of the Scrap Heap. The Scrap Heap was a room next to his work room where the bits and scraps of magical materials ended up after the materials themselves had been consumed: fragments of milky opals, strips of fairy cloth, splinters and shards of warm golden amber. Nobody was supposed to remove anything from the Scrap Heap without signing the correct papers. But six months earlier, Warren, the old man who had overseen the Scrap Heap had found wine more to his liking than papers, and the ministers were told to manage the access to the Scrap Heap themselves – “to economize on behalf of the Ministry,” as the paper announcing the change had read. It was a temptation. Perhaps not a temptation for the average minister, but Myer was not average. He lay alone in the large bedding that night, thinking and scheming. He needn’t have schemed. Myer discovered that he could have pulled a barrow into the Scrap Heap room and taken anything he wished. Even then, he was sure to rearrange the piles of materials just so, to cover what he had taken, and to scrawl illegible entries in the Scrap Heap’s ledger book. If Alastair or Raven noticed that his minister robes bulged a bit more than usual, they said nothing. He had a moment’s panic when he was leaving the Ministry that evening and a marble of polished topaz slipped from his robe, bouncing and clicking across the tiled floor, but at that hour, nobody noticed. The theft made him giddy, exhilarated. Not theft, he corrected himself – borrowing. His spirits were so high that he stopped at his favorite street vendor. Ogden, an elderly man who was cheerful despite his hunched back, welcomed one of his best customers: “The usual, my friend?” Myer held up two fingers. “Special occasion tonight.” Ogden raised an eyebrow as he packaged up two servings of rabbit-on-a-stick with potatoes. “A…special friend?” “No, no,” Myer replied, shaking his head. “Just a regular friend.” He walked home in the waning dusk. Wait until I tell Thomas what Ogden said, Myer thought, and then he remembered. It was an ongoing process, it seemed: gradual forgetting and sudden remembering. He knocked on the door of the rooms below him, and Sueanna came to the door after a time. Matronly and solid, her long gray hair was in a braid and curled up under a kerchief. She looked at him with button eyes in a seamed face but smiled when he offered her the second meal he’d bought. “I remember when I worked at the Ministry,” Sueanna said as they ate the rabbit-on-a-stick in Myer’s rooms. “Long before you. Probably before you were born.” “Was it very different?” he asked politely, his mind on what he had looted from the Scrap Heap. “We ran wild like children,” Sueanna said, then smiled at her own memory. “No supervision, few restrictions. We were the ones who made the city move, all on our own.” Myer wondered if that Ministry had been looser and freer, or simply more negligent. Sueanna misunderstood his silence. “Do you miss him?” she asked at last. “Of course not,” Myer said, and glanced involuntarily at the spot on the wall where one of Thomas’ paintings had hung, a watercolor of the city in mists of rain. Now there was only a light rectangle to mark where it had been. “There is nothing to miss.” When the meal was done and Sueanna had gone, Myer spread his takings from the Scrap Heap on the table in the same way he would lay out his work surface. Then he pondered. Finding what was lost: a location spell would not use much manna. But a location spell only worked within a couple of feet of the spellcaster. Myer had the tendency to leave things all about his rooms. A location spell to cover the entire property would expend more manna than he was paid in a week. There would have to be a rudimentary mind at the heart of the spell, an intelligence that could search the areas that Myer instructed, look for the object he requested, and locate it. To bring the object back…he could use apportation – the transmission of an object through the air, but that was also expensive. If something were to carry the object in a manner similar to how Bedlam carried mice, then it might be doable. It was a complex problem, and Myer spent many evenings with the gems and woods and cloths from the Scrap Heap, alongside his ebony staff and runes and glyphs. Then he discovered an obstacle. He could speak the usual incantations that he used every day in his work as minister. The more complex ones he would need for this task, however, were beyond his vocal range – both too high and too low. He tried the chants for a week but ended up with a sore throat and needed nettle tea to soothe it. The path he took to and from the Ministry each day passed a temple framed by columns and greenery. He had heard the singing of vespers many evenings when he had been late coming home. Oh, how Thomas had begged him not to come home late when he was cooking dinner...Those singers had the range he needed. Perhaps they could also teach him to sing. The fall weather had turned the air cold, and Myer was glad that he’d worn his winter robes into the temple; the marble rooms were even chillier. At that late hour, there was only one acolyte tending to the vestal fires, and Myer went over to warm himself by the flames. The acolyte had long, copper-brown hair and a bushy beard; the flickering dim light made him look as if his head was on fire. He was banking the coals with a distracted expression but turned to Myer with inquisitive eyes and a wry smile once he’d neatly finished his task. “Are you looking for something?” he asked. “No,” Myer said. “Yes. I don’t know. I’m not in need of any prayers.” The acolyte barked a laugh. “I think we could all use a prayer now and then. My name is Getty.” “Myer.” They shook hands; Getty’s were dry and warm. “I’ve heard your choir sing vespers in the evenings,” Myer said. “They’re quite good, aren’t they?” Getty asked. “When I started teaching them, they sounded like a thunderstorm in a cooking pot.” Myer explained his problem. He did not, could not say that he wanted to extend his vocal range so that he could create more powerful spells. Getty looked at his Ministry robes and listened to his vague explanation and seemed to make the connection himself. “I can get you up one octave and down two octaves from where you are now,” he proclaimed after listening to Myer sing a verse of a well-known song. “That should help you with your…project.” “And in return?” Myer asked. “A donation to the temple?” Such arrangements were common in Frostford. Getty smiled his canny smile. “As you can no doubt tell, we have been having issues with the heating system. One of the vestal girls tells me there’s a partial blockage with the manna in the temple’s ley line.” These arrangements, too, were common in Frostford. Myer promised to look into it; it was in fact his job to do so. By order of the Ministry, ministers lived in the neighborhoods they supported. The Ministry claimed that this policy brought ministers closer to the people, but Myer and Alastair both felt it more likely that those ministers who were inconvenienced by a district’s manna issues were more motivated to solve them. As with the spell design, it was slow going. Getty had Myer open his mouth wide while singing, point his chin downward toward the floor, and press his tongue down onto the floor of his mouth. This, Getty explained, would help him to sing higher notes. Myer thought that the expression he wore during this exercise made him look like someone who had been caught doing something wrong, but he said nothing and continued to practice on his own, in the bath, while cooking, and even late at night until Bedlam yowled and Sueanna banged on her ceiling with a broom. Leaves fell from the trees and the weather turned even colder, but the temple was finally warm with manna heat. When Getty thanked Myer, he protested, saying that he’d had nothing to do with it. Ministers were not supposed to gain recognition for their work; they toiled anonymously on behalf of the Ministry. “But thank you regardless,” Myer said to the acolyte, grinning. Getty’s sly smile was infectious. Every week, after a surreptitious nip of the temple’s sacramental wine, Myer would practice singing lower and lower notes until his throat ached and his voice scraped along the floor. Getty would not let him rest until he had completed each exercise; then he would send him home with a sprig of mint leaves tied up in a red ribbon to steep as tea, and strict instructions not to talk until the following morning. Myer sang, and Getty listened. And one night, Myer was ready. He’d already written out the incantation, and now all he had to do was speak it in the correct tones. Having locked Bedlam in the other room, Myer passed his hands over the mandala he’d sketched onto a scrap of parchment. He sang the high notes, then the low notes, and finally tossed a handful of black salt into the air…And there it appeared. The daemon was about a hand’s length tall, with folded wings and a beaky head. Its eyes did not blink. Bedlam meowed from the other room; Myer would have to keep an eye on the cat to make sure he didn’t eat it when he was asleep. But what to call it? The word ‘Daemon’ was too…prosaic. Myer thought of Getty’s instructions, how he had taught him to raise and lower his voice by steps. Stepwise, he thought. “Stepwise is your name,” he told the daemon. It nodded. “Stepwise, find my ebony staff,” Myer commanded. The daemon extended its wings, flapped around in increasingly wide circles, and stopped when it saw the staff on the floor next to Myer’s bedding. Then Stepwise grasped the staff in its clawed hands and flew back to Myer, depositing it neatly at his feet. Excellent, Myer thought. There would be no more misplacing of objects. He experimented with how he could command Stepwise: the daemon responded to “find,” “locate,” and “search,” followed by the name of a tangible object. The manna requirements were minimal, judging by how cool his staff had remained during the process. The next morning, Myer awoke and bade Stepwise to fetch him a cup of water. The daemon did so. For once, he was up early, and for once, he did not misplace anything. It was almost disappointing. Thomas would have been proud of him, however. The next morning, though, Myer could not find his staff. He prepared to make the usual search, then remembered and said, “Stepwise, find my ebony staff!” One of the reasons Myer had settled in this building was the large window facing the street. Now he watched, horrified, as Stepwise passed through the window and kept going. He must have left the staff at work, Myer thought. There would be a trail of manna right from his house to the work room! He waited until Stepwise returned with the ebony staff, then made his way to the Ministry. Nobody had noticed. Nobody said anything. Perhaps it...…
It had been decades since the last dragon had been sighted in the region; Goodwife Bayliss was the oldest Baravian, and even she could only dimly recollect her grandparents telling tales of an ice dragon spraying the countryside with frost and icicles, freezing the cattle and sheep where they stood. Nobody had seen a dragon since then. Until now. Every town menaced by a dragon could use a knight. Every lonely wizard could also use a knight. What happens to a love affair when the dragon has been defeated? 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-knight-and-the-dragon Transcript Once, there was a quiet town called Baravia that was nestled in between two hills on the eastern edge of the continent. Baravia was well-situated: it had a river that brought water, and fish, and boats with trade from other villages down the coast. The plain it stood upon was high enough that the temperature was moderate. It was considered the friendliest town in the region. The Baravians prided themselves on being friendly. At the entrance to the town stood a statue of the town’s founder with open arms, and an inscription in several languages reading, “Welcome to Baravia, all strangers who seek it!” Baravia was also known throughout the region to welcome travel from visitors, commerce from visitors, and certainly gold from visitors. But there was one type of visitor that Baravians did not like at all. It had been decades since the last dragon had been sighted in the region; Goodwife Bayliss was the oldest Baravian, and even she could only dimly recollect her grandparents telling tales of an ice dragon spraying the countryside with frost and icicles, freezing the cattle and sheep where they stood. Nobody had seen a dragon since then. Until now. The farm animals smelled the sulfur and fled, spooked. The farmers also smelled the sulfur, but they did not know to run until a shadow fell across their land. With a wingspan several yards wide, orange-red scales, and yellow slitted eyes, the dragon swooped and soared and buzzed the tops of the farmhouses until the farmers cowered in their cellars. Then came the fire: magical fire, green and blue and orange, straight from the dragon’s mouth, scorching the thatched roofs and searing the rows of corn, and somehow miraculously missing the animals which stood fearfully at the edge of the river, trying to decide which was a worse fate: to enter the river, or be burned by the dragon. Goodwife Bayliss was not afraid; at the age of ninety-six years, she was only afraid of the aches that afflicted her hips. She stood in the largest scorched cornfield with her non-magical scythe and her non-magical voice and shouted at the dragon. “Get away!” she cried. “Leave Baravia alone!” The dragon made a long swooping arc downwards, and the one farmer who could see Goodwife Bayliss later said it looked as if the dragon was coming straight for her, fire lashing the field in a straight line. At the last moment, the dragon pulled up, but Goodwife Bayliss’s arms were more agile than her hips, and she reached up and hooked the dragon’s head, which spun down towards her and incinerated her. “Our beloved Goodwife Bayliss has been slain,” Olliver, the council leader said at the hastily-assembled council meeting. There were a few murmurs at the use of the word “beloved,” but nobody wanted to be a person who would speak ill of the dead, especially one who was still standing in scorched-carbon form in the field where she had been struck. “We must do something.” “Our crops are in danger,” one farmer said. “Tradesmen are avoiding our town,” a merchant added. They sent soldiers to fight the dragon. Baravia had a small contingent of friendly soldiers who spent their time guarding the bank and the merchants, and greeting visiting tradesmen. The soldiers were not familiar with battle. They returned, scorched and singed and smelling of smoke and sulfur. “We could not get close!” one of them gasped, and the others nodded in unison. Then they went to change their garments and returned to their patrol of the bank. “We must approach Wynn,” Olliver said at the next town meeting. There were more murmurs. Wynn was Baravia’s new wizard, and he had only been in the town a few months. That led to suspicion, particularly since he had yet to make a deposit at the town bank. It was Olliver’s opinion against the group of farmers and merchants, none of whom would take a firm position for or against. And so Olliver won the day, and he went to see Wynn. Wynn had a thatched hut on the edge of town. The hut had belonged to the previous wizard, a disreputable soul who had been ‘asked’ to leave Baravia when it had been discovered that he was laying trances upon the townspeople that caused them to withdraw their gold from the bank and give it to him. Wynn had not changed anything about the hut. His clothes still lay in a box at the foot of the bed. His books and papers were in the box he’d brought with him months ago. His only additions to the hut were the vials and phials and philtres and potions on the far wall. When Olliver entered through the open door, Wynn, a tall stooped man with red hair and freckles, was taking stock of the potions and muttering to himself: “Attar of roses, turmeric, sage…” “Friend Wynn,” Olliver said. “Councilman Olliver,” Wynn replied. Olliver was a man courageous in council, and yet fearful in private. Wynn waited. “A dragon has attacked Baravia,” Olliver said finally, as if that should explain his presence in Wynn’s hut. “I have heard,” Wynn said drily. More silence. “Goodwife Bayliss has been slain,” Olliver added. “No doubt her kinsmen will mourn.” Goodwife Bayliss had no kinsmen or kinswomen. Olliver stepped from side to side, and appeared to Wynn as if he needed to relieve himself. “The council has asked me to come here.” Wynn moved his right hand in a circle as if to speed the conversation. “…to ask me to defeat the dragon?” “Yes!” Olliver burst out in relief, then caught himself. “As the town wizard, it is your sworn duty to rid Baravia of this scourge.” He blushed. “The payment shall be the usual amount of gold.” Wynn mused. “I suppose this falls within my responsibilities,” he said. “What will you need to accomplish this?” Olliver asked. “I will need to collect information,” Wynn said, looking at his shelf of potions. “Read up on dragons, perform research…” Olliver sighed and nodded. For any request the council had, Wynn needed to read and read – as if there was time for reading when there was a dragon on the loose! A small archive of books and papers and scrolls stood at the south edge of Baravia, where Wynn had spent many an afternoon reading and thinking in the intense haze of sputtering candle smoke. The archivist, a wizened woman named Clydia, collected the admission fee for the archive and showed him where the material on dragons was. There was very little of it. A troupe had passed through Baravia fifteen years ago with a poorly-received play about a dragon. A youth had drawn a dragon in chalk on the council chambers’ door and had been flogged. There were history books about dragons from long ago, but no dragons had been seen since before Goodwife Bayliss had been born. Even so, Wynn paged idly through the tomes, reading to himself such fascinating words as: “The dragon is known to shed skin twice a day, and such skin mayhap be used for clothing and other crafts…” Baravia’s archive held no clues to this particular dragon, unless it was on the verge of shedding skin and crafts were needed. When Clydia closed the archives for the day, Wynn took the long route past the welcome gate of the town toward his hut. As he passed the gate, he saw a dusty man in traveling leathers. A knight, Wynn thought. The man had a sword and a bow and quiver, but he did not need any special garb for Wynn to know him to be a knight. Even through the dust, the man held himself straight and proud, though he walked slowly towards the gate, looking very tired. Several townspeople were present: a young woman was carrying a basket of reeds, two men were talking commerce, and a boy was pulling a wagon filled with round smooth river stones. They each glanced at the knight, but none said a word or approached him. Welcome to Baravia, Wynn thought. This had been the same greeting he had received when he had arrived at the town several months ago. Despite the statue, despite the sign, the people had not greeted him or taken him in…until he had cured a councilwoman’s son of a sleeping sickness. It was fear, he thought, fear of the unknown, or perhaps fear of losing their gold to the unknown. So Wynn stepped forward, and came up to the knight, who stopped in front of him. Wynn was taller than the knight by a good foot, but the knight was well-built and smelled faintly of sweat and the road. “Well-met, traveller to Baravia,” Wynn said. The knight lifted his helmet, and Wynn saw his dark, dark eyes. Intense and curious and wary. “Thanks,” the knight said, looking pointedly around at the other townspeople who had stopped to watch them, but continued to keep their distance. “Would you like a drink?” Wynn asked. The knight seemed to relax as if the burden of his trip had suddenly come down around him. “Thank you,” he said. “Call me Tristan.” Wynn’s hut was already too small for him, and with the knight, there was barely enough room for them to sit at the low wooden table with glasses of wine between them. “You are a knight,” Wynn said, stating and not asking. Tristan downed the wine in a single gulp, then coughed and sputtered. “Yes, an honorable profession.” He shook his head. “Or rather, it was an honorable one until our mission disbanded. Now I work for hire.” A mischievous thought flashed through Wynn’s head, thinking of hiring Tristan for something related to ‘knightly’ duties, but he dismissed it. “Have you been hired much of late?” The sun was setting outside, and the orange rays illuminated Tristan’s dark brown eyes as he poured another cup. “Here and there. I make enough gold to get by.” Then, looking at the potions and vials on the wall of the hut, Tristan asked, “And you? Does Baravia pay its wizard well?” “I am yet on probation,” Wynn said. “They remain unconvinced that I am a fine enough wizard for such a fine town.” At his tone, Tristan looked at him more sharply, then smiled. “Yes, I see. What must you do to convince them of your worth?” Wynn sighed heavily. “I am afraid that I am about to fail at that task.” He took a book out of his pack that he had borrowed from the archives and laid it on the table, opening it to a drawing of a winged, fire-breathing creature. “A dragon is threatening Baravia.” Tristan smiled, and it occurred to Wynn that he liked that smile a great deal. “Did I not mention that I am a slayer of dragons?” “Surely there cannot be enough dragons in this world for you to specialize in such a profession,” Wynn said, running his index finger around the rim of his cup. The wine had traveled from his stomach to his head. “I have been far and wide across this country,” Tristan said. “Even in the last few months, I have slain dragons of fire and dragons of ice.” The wine was touching the knight’s tongue as well, Wynn thought. “Let us speak of this tomorrow,” Wynn said. “Will you sleep here tonight?” That last, he said with more bluntness in his voice than he had wished. Tristan looked at the narrow single bed and shook his head, getting to his feet unsteadily. “As is my custom, I shall sleep under the stars.” Wynn saw him to the door. “Perhaps I shall join you under the stars one day, knight.” Tristan’s breath, scented with wine, was very light on Wynn’s cheek. “Perhaps, wizard. You may always follow me.” Alone, Wynn paced in his hut. There was no doubt that Tristan claimed to be a slayer of dragons for hire. There was no doubt that he could slay this dragon, if what he said were true. And there was no doubt that Wynn himself could not slay or enchant or magick the dragon on his own. Wynn had collected the information, and read about dragons, and done his studying, despite Olliver’s sighing. Wynn knew that he could craft a weapon that would defeat the dragon…but he could not get close enough to strike it. But conceivably, Tristan could. “You would entrust the defence of our town to a…stranger?” Olliver asked Wynn the following morning. Olliver and his group of farmers and merchants were in the town council building, and Olliver sat underneath the portrait of the town’s founder, the famous painting depicting the man standing with open arms and a welcoming smile. Tristan stood next to Wynn, but said nothing. A bowl of fresh water and a rag had transformed him from a dusty stranger into a proud and confident young man with a broad chest and massive arms, sword at his side. “Am I not still a stranger in Baravia as well?” Wynn asked quietly. Olliver coughed. “Yes, but…well, we need your assistance. We have been blessed to have had your help on several occasions over the last few months. You are known to us.” He pointed to Tristan. “He could be a fraud. Or a common thief.” Wynn felt Tristan bristle beside him, and heard the slight clip-clip of his leather-clad fingers gripping the handle of the sword. “I vouch for him,” Wynn said simply. “He has told me his story, and I have investigated it.” At the word ‘investigated,’ Olliver gave a heavy sigh, but Wynn did not stop. “He is the man who shall defeat our dragon.” That evening, in Wynn’s thatched hut, Tristan scooped meat and vegetables from a bowl. He eats like a man starving, Wynn thought, though he has the broad shoulders and heft of a man who is well-fed. Wynn had already finished his meager dinner, and he was looking at potions and philtres and making notes while Tristan finished his meal. “You did not do any investigation of me,” Tristan said, smiling as he surfaced for air at last. Wynn reached over with a cloth and dabbed the knight’s beard. “I investigate in my own way,” he said. Tristan indicated the bottles and vials with an inclination of his head. “What are these?” Wynn picked up a purple vial and hefted it in his hands. “I gathered this last winter, on the shortest day of the year, just as the sun set.” He handed it to Tristan, who looked at it in surprise. “It is cold – like ice,” Tristan said. Wynn smiled. “It is the distillate of winter – Winter’s Bane.” He took the vial back and looked at it reverently. “This shall be the base of the weapon you will use against the dragon.” Tristan looked confused, then nodded. “A weapon of ice. I see…I have slain dragons with sword and bow and arrow, but never by magical means.” “We shall dip your sword in the potion once it is complete, and the tips of your arrows.” Wynn looked him directly in the eyes. “If your aim is true, the dragon cannot help but fall.” “My aim is always true,” Tristan replied. And Wynn saw this for himself, as Tristan practiced in the clearing behind the hut over the next days while Wynn mixed potions, read recipes from scrolls, and boiled various liquids over the hearth-fire. Whenever he stopped to rest, Wynn saw Tristan slashing at a makeshift fighting figure made of straw and clay, the knight’s muscles taut, glistening with sweat. Tristan spent each night under the stars, until the day a heavy storm fell upon Baravia. Then, shivering and shaking the water from his leathers, he came indoors and allowed Wynn to dry him off. “You do not like to accept hospitality when it is offered,” Wynn suggested, toweling Tristan’s hair roughly and playfully until Tristan pulled the cloth away from him. Tristan’s face was ruddy. “I have learned,” he said, “that there is a price to be paid for hospitality. And of course, I do not stay in any one town for very long.” “I have lived in Baravia for eight months,” Wynn said. “The longest I have stayed anywhere, in many years.” Tristan grinned, pointing at the open box on the floor. “And yet you keep your robes in a box. Do you expect that you may need to flee Baravia if we do not conquer the dragon, wizard?” Wynn looked away from Tristan. “I have been expecting to be sent away from here from the moment I arrived, but I shall not leave until my task is done, knight.” Rain fell heavily on the roof, and Wynn saw that it was late. “Will you sleep in my bed tonight?” he asked, then reddened. Tristan raised an eyebrow. “I notice that your bed is scarcely large enough for the one of us, let alone both.” “Then,” Wynn said very carefully, “perhaps we may stack ourselves vertically, like dishes on a shelf.” Tristan slowly smiled. “Shall we discuss who shall stack on whom? Or is that a matter to be discussed once the dishes are put away?” They lay against each other in the tiny bed, Tristan wrapped around Wynn and pressing into his back, his breath warm on Wynn’s neck in the darkness. Wynn could not sleep. After a while, he asked: “What will you do with the gold the townspeople of Baravia give you?” He felt Tristan shrug, and pull his arms around Wynn further. “Live,” Tristan said simply. “Although I have slain many dragons, they are not common in this land. The gold should allow me to live and eat and rest for a year.” “You need not leave Baravia once you have vanquished the dragon,” Wynn said. “There is always need for men who can wield a sword.” Another shrug. “The soldiers of Baravia are mere money-guards,” Tristan replied. “And the Baravians are not the friendliest of folk, are they?” Wynn stared out into the darkness. “I have found my place.” He thought that Tristan might speak again of the clothes he kept in the box, but the knight said instead, “A town can always use a healer, or someone to deliver babies, or ward off evil spirits...or make potions. But how many dragons will attack Baravia in the coming years?” Wynn stayed awake as Tristan moved and sighed and fell into slumber, his grip on the wizard loosening. You are a traveler, Wynn thought. You will always be moving from town to town. Like me. “Nuri,” Tristan whispered in his dreams. Nuri, Wynn wondered. A lover, a parent, the town where he had been born? Holding onto Tristan would be like trying to hold onto a summer’s breeze. Wynn worked slowly and methodically on the ice potion. Then, he worked even more slowly, and went to the archives often to read and make notes. Then, he tried to do as little work as possible, but Tristan came upon him in the hut one day and asked after his progress. “I am sorry to say that my work is complete,” Wynn said, hefting a jar of liquid that shifted and spun like flurries in a snowstorm. “Sorry?” Tristan said. “Is this not good news?” “Once you have slain the dragon,” Wynn said, turning away so that Tristan could not see what was in his eyes, “this adventure shall be at an end.” He could not go with Tristan on the day of combat. The ice weapon was also a shield that would protect its bearer, but neither Wynn nor the Baravian soldiers would be protected. The soldiers were thankful not to have to go. And so Tristan went alone, and Wynn waited in the town square with the rest of the town. He was sure of the outcome, sure of Tristan returning...…
In the small town of Wolfwater, every door was always open to Finn, except for one... Finn can go through any door in the town of Wolfwater except one...because he's too fat to fit through it. But Finn is determined to find out what's behind the golden door. No matter what. Part 2 of 2. Written by: Jonathan Cohen Narrated by: Joe Cruz A Faustian Nonsense production. Content warning: disordered eating, body image To read the full transcript of this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-golden-door-part-2 Transcript Finn got little sleep that night as he paced the kitchen, taking notes and writing down ideas, and cooking and tasting bits and samples of food. Eating the food helped him to think, to sharpen his mind. He missed Celine, missed her laughing, dancing conversation and how she challenged him to be better than he was. She was ambition personified, unusual for an inhabitant of Wolfwater. Celine had been a singer since she was a child, but now she was famous in the town, and fame meant performances and planning and trips to other towns and villages. He took one night off from planning his feast and went to hear her perform at an alehouse in the center of town. It was a shabby, disreputable place propped up by drunkards and slatterns, and Finn was surprised that his childhood friend should sing at such a venue. But when Celine came out from behind the curtains onto the small raised stage, he forgot about the stale smell of ale and the acrid tobacco haze that hung in the air. She wore a simple black shift as if it was a grand dress from a distant city. Her hair was done up in curls, and gleamed in the lights of the stage. She elevated the alehouse and those who were in it, and Finn was glad to have come. Celine spotted him as she took her place; he saw the smile of recognition, the little nod. And then he forgot everything, and listened to her song. Finn wondered later if she had decided to sing that song once she had seen him: it was a song of being different, of not belonging, a black swan among a bevy of white ones. But no, Finn realized, that song was not for him alone. It was for Celine as well. She was as much an outsider to the town of Wolfwater as he was. His difference was obvious to all who saw him, but hers lay hidden on the inside. She could pass as one of them on the street, but when she opened her mouth to sing… “It was wonderful,” Finn told her afterwards, as the bartender stood protective guard over Celine while she drank water to refresh herself. “I heard the message in your words.” Then he added, “We do not belong here in Wolfwater.” Her smile was as sad as always. “Oh Finn,” she said. “We belong wherever we go. It is not for others to accept us, but for us to accept them.” He slept and dreamed of song and meals, and come dawn, he tied his apron and walked to Finn’s Inn to continue planning his feast. Valery was waiting at the door. Somehow, he had persuaded Abriel to let him go out, or so Finn thought. He clearly was not a prisoner of the temple. Finn stood back and let him into Finn’s Inn, which Valery looked over with great interest. Part of Finn’s mind cringed, seeing the tall, elegant Valery stooped under the low roof of the Inn. “What do you think?” Finn asked at last. He wished he had not asked it, but he had seen Valery’s anticipation when Finn had been about to eat his food behind the golden door, and he knew the desire to be judged by another. “It reminds me of you,” Valery said. His smile was warm and genuine. He is the enemy, Finn thought. A man who serves terrible food and sees more patrons in a day than I do in a month. “Wide and squat?” Finn laughed, and then wished he hadn’t said that, either. Valery shook his head. “You are not wide,” he said, passing his left hand just over the space where Finn’s belly had once been. “Let me show you what I’ve been up to,” Finn said, guiding Valery over into the kitchen. “I’m planning a feast.” Now he saw the difference in Valery’s eyes; where they were curious and challenging before, now they were cool and analytical. Finn made no secret of his menu. He knew that Valery would not copy him. It was not within Valery’s power to cook like Finn, just as it was not possible for Finn to construct meals shaped like baskets and towers and children’s blocks. “Here, try this mutton,” Finn said, lifting a large chunk to Valery’s mouth. Valery took the tiniest bite, frowned, then nodded, wiping his lips. “A strong gamey taste underneath,” Valery said. “And the sauce?” “If you took a larger bite, I imagine you would be able to identify the ingredients yourself,” Finn said with a smile. Valery looked down at his slim body with a glance that Finn took as uncertainty. Then: “I cannot eat too much, of course. I need to be able to get back through the door to my tavern.” Of course, Finn thought later. Valery had returned beyond the golden door, no doubt sliding through with ease. Finn was hungry; his stomach growled and he tossed and turned. Finally he got up and went to Finn’s Inn and prepared himself a meal. A proper meal, not the scraps and bits he’d been subsisting on for the past few months. Rabbit with roasted turnips, and a mug of golden honey mead. That was better, Finn thought afterwards. Now he could think. Now he could cook. And Finn plotted, and Finn sketched, and Finn cooked and cooked and cooked, nibbling here and tasting there, and thinking how much better his cooking was than Valery’s. Valery came to visit every few days, and a ritual developed: Finn would show him his latest dish, and Valery would take a morsel, and Finn would encourage him to eat more. Then Valery would laugh and shake his head ruefully. Finn’s belly had started to grow again. The apron strings started to get shorter. Dron, the young man who had taken him on a Saturday afternoon to the river, was suddenly too busy to see him. Finn tried to eat less. He tried to ration his food. But he enjoyed the dishes he was creating and testing for the feast too much. He was a man, after all, Finn thought, hands on his belly after another late night in the Inn’s kitchen. Not a thin blond statue with green eyes who could not cook. But sometimes, very late at night, in his bed he thought, what if I can’t fit through the golden door anymore? He couldn’t stand the idea. Not because the meals were laid out like artwork. Not because the townspeople were there. But because the golden door existed and he needed to be able to pass through it. Late in fall, Finn and Valery took a walk in the forest surrounding the town, and they spoke easily of food and of cooking. Finn recalled the heavy awkward silences of his trip to the river with Dron and marveled that conversation with this blond man was so much simpler. It was clear Valery had no attraction to him, except the same attraction for a fellow craftsman that Finn also felt for his rival. Valery explained the cantrip that animated the images of the forest behind the windows in the golden tavern. It was the first he’d spoken of his own tavern, and Finn took the risk to ask, “Were you always there?” Valery laughed. “I did not spring full-formed from Abriel’s forehead, if that’s what you are suggesting.” They stopped in a small clearing, and Valery sat down on dry leaves and patted the spot beside him. “Your elder will now tell you a story,” he said. Finn had forgotten how much older Valery was; aside from the wrinkles around his eyes, he had the energy of a younger man. “The temple priests used to serve food during their services,” Valery said. “They believed that the food represented the gods they worship. In fact, to them, the food WAS a manifestation of the gods. You have heard the term ‘food of the gods’? This is where it began. “All of the townspeople who came to the temple were welcome to partake, and the temple priests were happy for the crowds.” Valery’s face darkened. “Until one day, which would have been when you were a child. Wolfwater’s crops failed; all of them at the same time. Some said it was retribution for our wickedness. “More and more of the citizens of Wolfwater came to the temple for food. Some were religious. Many were not, but claimed to be, so that they would not starve. “Abriel – for Abriel was the leading temple priest by this point – tired of feeding those who he saw as the unbelievers. And so he built the golden door.” Valery looked at Finn. “You see, it was intended to keep those who lacked worth and those who lacked need from the ‘food of the gods.’” “If they were thin enough to pass through the door,” Finn said, “they were starving and needed the food.” Valery nodded. “The famine lasted a year. Once the new crops came in healthy and full, the townspeople who had been emaciated became happy and plump. Abriel did not like this either. He felt that this would only lead to sloth and hedonism. “Now that only some could pass through the golden door, it was a privilege, and it soon became a badge of honour to be able to enter the golden tavern.” Valery looked down at his own slim body and smoothed out his tunic as reddish leaves fell around them. “I had served at the temple altar as a child. Since I was born slight and remained thin no matter how tall I grew, I could go through the golden door regardless of how narrow Abriel made it. He tired of cooking the ‘food of the gods,’ because he hated to eat. He bade me become the cook, and went back to delivering his message: that to enjoy in excess was to sin.” He fell silent, and Finn imagined Valery’s life behind the golden door. How he had a talent for shapes and colours and finesse, but not for taste or flavour. The townspeople could only fit through the golden door if they remained slender, Finn thought, so they asked for lighter and healthier fare. And Valery’s food began to look more and more beautiful, and have less and less flavour. Not, Finn suspected, that the townspeople of Wolfwater cared. The asceticism of the golden door and of Abriel had passed beyond the temple into the town itself, and pastimes and pleasures had been set aside in favour of speed and economy. Valery got to his feet suddenly. “I must be back to the tavern before supper,” he explained, brushing the leaves from his tunic. “We have all the time in the world,” Finn replied. “If only you’d take a moment, you would see that.” But Valery had started walking towards the temple, and this forever was not to be. The feast did not take forever to plan. The date rushed towards Finn like a speeding horse. The next time Celine ate at Finn’s Inn, he sat down at her table and told her, “I am calling in a favour.” She was even thinner than before, with dark circles in the hollows of her eyes and not even a sad smile to give. “You want me to sing,” she said. “One night only, I promise,” Finn said. “I won’t be able to pay you much – I will not be asking coin for the feast. Donations, yes, but not gold. I want everyone to be able to come and enjoy it.” “An idealist to the end, my Finn,” Celine said, and there was her smile. A genuine one, for once. “Of course I’ll help you. One artist always helps another. But what will happen to the Inn after the feast?” “There is an eternity of time to worry about that,” Finn scoffed. “First comes the feast.” Finn invited his parents, and asked them to invite their friends. And he asked Celine to invite HER friends. And he posted signs and handed out leaflets. But finally, he did the only thing he could to make the feast a success: he convinced Valery to close the golden tavern for one night. “Abriel will not like this,” Valery muttered. They had met around the back of the temple, as Finn was no longer able to fit through the golden door and Valery did not want to be seen at Finn’s Inn. “One night,” Finn said. “It’s not forever.” He saw Valery’s teeth flash in the near-darkness. “Eternity…forever…you have no sense of time, Finn.” “Maybe I am the only one in Wolfwater with a sense of time,” Finn protested. “They rush to and fro. They spend their days in the doing and not in the being. Perhaps we have an infinite amount of time, if we only realized that it was so.” Was Valery’s look one of pity, or exasperation? He could not imagine Valery ever understanding how a man of the earth like Finn felt. The blond man with the green eyes belonged to the air and the sun and the wind. Abriel raged, and complained, and threatened, but Valery had not closed the golden tavern in years, and Abriel had no good argument left. The priest gritted his teeth, and pouted, and did not attend the feast. The rest of Wolfwater did. Finn rejoiced to see the tables full of townspeople, the men and women he’d known since he was a child. His parents were there, sitting at a table, quiet and unsure. He could see the emotions flash across Anna’s face: I am proud of my son…should I be proud of my son?…are others proud of my son? Celine broke the silence by starting to sing quietly, accompanying herself on a vielle. She sang of longing, and of company, of friends breaking bread together and a celebration after a long harvest. It was music to stir the appetite, and Finn’s stomach rumbled in sympathetic appreciation. But then he became worried, for nobody was truly eating. They picked at their food, and waved morsels on knives and spoons around them as they talked. They ate no more than crumbs, and Finn despaired, looking at the mountain of food he had prepared. Valery sat with the town leaders, and Valery was not eating either; his plate was undisturbed. When their conversation lagged, Finn stole up behind Valery and begged him to eat. “Please, just a bite.” Valery looked from the plate heaped high to Finn, and back again, his unease evident. “I am not in the habit of eating such…rich…food,” he said. Valery was a man of the five senses, Finn thought, even if his own cooking appealed to only one of them. Not taking his eyes from Valery’s, Finn picked up the spoon next to Valery’s plate and very deliberately spooned up a large helping of food. This first dish was a pottage, a broth that Finn had boiled with beef and carrots, adding herbs from the town fields and lentils and beans. He brought the steaming spoon up to Valery’s mouth, and Finn’s own lips parted. Valery imitated him and opened his own mouth, then Finn eased the spoon into Valery’s mouth and waited. Valery’s eyes closed and his head tilted back very slightly in pleasure. Then he swallowed, grinned his dazzling grin, and burst out: “My friends! You must try this. This is absolutely delicious!” Finn thought he might have to spoon another helping into Valery’s mouth, but the blond man took the spoon from his hand, then started to scoop up the pottage in great spoonfuls. And like that, the dam had broken. Finn heard the sounds of spoon against bowl, knife against meat, lips smacking and sighs of contentedness. Then, as he looked around, the chatter rose in the room. The men and women of Wolfwater were talking…and they were eating. Even his parents. Celine smiled at him from the corner, and he noted that the light from the hearth fire filled in the hollows beneath her eyes and brought her back to the memory he had of her as a youth. Then he went back to the kitchen to serve the rest of the feast. The feast..It was a memory that would last in Wolfwater for a generation. It was not over that night. It was not over the next day. Finn’s feast lasted three days, with breaks for rest and laughter and song and dance. After the pottage came frumenty, a thick hearty boiled porridge with golden sugar, rare saffron Finn had bartered from a trader with the promise of recipes, chewy, crunchy almonds boiled until they popped out of their skins, currants the colour of a summer night sky, and the freshest eggs Finn could find in town. Calabas the drunk had donated the eggs upon hearing what would go into the dish. After the frumenty, the meat and fish: thick slabs of venison steaks with bacon, red wine and cinnamon; a wild boar’s head with teeth bared, decked with rosemary, an orange studded with cloves in its mouth; salmon fresh from the river beside the town, sliced into hefty cutlets and cooked in grog, onion, and aromatic ginger; pike from the same river, ground and cooked with parsley, peppercorns, and mead into a fish pie. After the meat and fish, a swan. Finn had wanted to serve a peacock, but there were none in Wolfwater or the surrounding towns. The swan was roasted, crackling like duck and dripping with juices, rubbed with garlic, dark and tender. It reminded him of the black swan Celine had sung about. For dessert, an arrangement of savory and sweet: tart berry pudding with mint, a caramel custard that wobbled and jiggled to the diners’ laughter, thin wafers of chocolate and orange, dough shaped into circles and boiled in sugar water until puffy and light, sweet pancakes wrapped around a syrup of chocolate, fragrant almond cakes, compotes of prunes and peaches and apricots, creams and fruits cooked in sugared and spiced wine, tangy cheese pies, salted custards, and sheets of pastry enrobed around meats. And lastly, on the third day, when they were full to bursting and couldn’t eat another bite – but of course they could – candied fruit and cheese: Sweet sugared plums, cherries, beets and lemon peels; cheeses from the cellars of Wolfwater, ripe and aromatic and mild and soft and runny. The townspeople had come together to contribute this final course. At the end of the feast, all of the townspeople had to rest, including Finn. He could tell from his apron strings that he had gained weight, and he could see on the cheeks and chins of his fellow men and women that they had as well. Even Valery was no longer the austere statue that he had once been. All feasts must come to an end, even the one Finn thought would go on forever. He accompanied Valery and many of the townspeople as they trudged back to the temple. For who could abandon the golden tavern, he thought, even after such a feast? Abriel the priest stood with disapproving eyes but said nothing as a young man stepped up to the golden door. And could not pass through it. An older woman who was herself quite thin tried as well, but she could not pass through either. Finally Valery stepped forward and wedged himself into the golden door, but it was too small even for him. Whispers among the townspeople. “We’ve gained weight,” one said. “We’ve done something terribly wrong,” said another. Finn thought that they could not have gained THAT much weight in three days, no matter how much they had feasted. Abriel shook his head and looked at them with fire in his eyes. “The golden door has shrunk,” he said. “A magick has occurred.” More whispering. Though the townspeople of Wolfwater were credulous, Finn was more suspicious of any claimed magickal cause. Abriel smiled with thin lips. “The gods are displeased that you have chosen to feast for three days at the…Inn.” He could not bring himself to say Finn’s name. “You shall have to refrain from food and drink to atone for your sins. Only then will the golden door open once again to you.” This with a significant look at Valery. Valery walked Finn back to Finn’s Inn, but said little. “I am sorry,” Finn said, casting about for explanations. “Really, I am. But if you would permit me to offer a theory about...…
In the small town of Wolfwater, every door was always open to Finn, except for one... Finn can go through any door in the town of Wolfwater except one...because he's too fat to fit through it. But Finn is determined to find out what's behind the golden door. No matter what. 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-golden-door-part-1 Content warning: disordered eating, body image Transcript In the small town of Wolfwater, every door was always open to Finn, except for one. Finn – or Phineas, as his parents had named him – went from a hefty, cherubic smiling baby to a husky, inquisitive child, a large and awkwardly-private teenager, and then into his current incarnation as a broad-faced, wide-shouldered, large-bellied man. He was fat. Fat – the word was fat. He hated the terms the townspeople and even his parents were forever using to get around saying “fat”: husky, big-boned, full-figured, large. No, he was fat, and they were not. Wolfwater had been through a terrible crop failure and famine in the year when Finn had been born, and the memory had imprinted a certain asceticism on the town and the townspeople. They rushed from task to task, ate light, simple food, and poured their energies into tilling the fields and harvesting the crops so that there would never be another famine. But Finn…sometimes he thought that the famine had imprinted itself on him in another way, as he lay in bed at night, hands clasped over his belly. He liked to eat, to savour the elements of a meal. Even the simple meals his mother prepared over the fire. Though they were too simple, with few spices, and often overcooked or underdone. When he turned twelve, he insisted on helping her with the meals. “You can sit and relax,” he said, “while I make supper for the family.” Anna, his mother, was a tall and thin nervous type who could not relax. But she used the time while he cooked to fret over him. He could not pull a plow or stack sheaves, or carry wood – it was simply too much for his body in the heat of the summer. But Finn could cook. Even though Anna told him not to use up the spices, to make the dishes smaller, to leave some for later, he baked vast meals from the simple meat and potatoes and root vegetables they had available. Finn would try to draw his parents into conversation over the dinner table, but his father Marin was hungry from the fields and ate whatever Finn put in front of him. Anna was too worried about gaining weight to eat much. Look at Finn, she thought; look at Finn. So he was usually left alone to eat the remains of the dinner, staring thoughtfully out the window and thinking of an infinite number of dinners, a myriad of fantastic meals made from ingredients he’d only ever heard about. Even though he could not work the fields, people liked Finn. He had a broad, easy smile, and was quick to pitch in with whatever non-physical help he could provide. The housewives and househusbands appreciated his advice on recipes and how to stretch a meal when there wasn’t much food. All the doors in Wolfwater were open to him – from the town’s gathering chamber to the shack that sat by the lake and held paddling boats and oars. All the doors, except for one. In the temple, at the back of the main room, there was a golden door that led…somewhere. Finn did not know where it led, and he could not find out. Because Finn could not physically fit through it. The door was as narrow as his mother – as narrow as all of the other townspeople, actually. Finn would have used his hands to take its measure, but Abriel the priest did not like people fiddling with the golden door. It could not be more than a hand’s breadth in width. The other townspeople could only fit through by turning sideways, taking a deep breath, and wriggling their shoulders until they popped through into…somewhere. When Finn had been a child, like the other children, he hadn’t cared about the temple or the golden door. He had heard the stories, knew that it led somewhere, but it was a mystery, like why the birds left towards the end of every year and came back every spring. Instead, as a child, Finn always dreamed of cooking, and dreamed of having his own tavern and inn. Anna – for she was less nervous back then – joked with him that they would have to call it “Finn’s Inn,” and he laughed and laughed. Then he grew older and laughed less. The others his age started to wonder what was behind that golden door, and he did too. Only, at some point they were able to cross the threshold, and he was not. His belly got in the way. If he sucked his belly in, his chest pushed out too far. The sides of the door scraped against him and left bruises, but he could not pass through the golden door no matter what he did. Abriel let him try three times: the priest thought that three was a reasonable number. Each time, Finn tried desperately to see beyond the golden door, see where the other townspeople were going, but there was a golden corridor just beyond the door that turned and twisted, and beyond that he could see nothing…only the bruises on his chest and belly the next day from his three attempts. What always galled him was that nobody would tell him what was behind the door. Not his parents, not his best friend Celine. Nobody. Everyone had an excuse for why they couldn’t tell him. His parents told him to wait until he was older. Abriel the priest told him only true believers who could pass through the golden door would be able to find out. And Celine? Celine, a tall redheaded woman who was as thin as he was fat, would simply look at him with a sad smile. “I am sworn to secrecy,” she said one day as they sat in the village square eating a hand meal he’d prepared and watching the townspeople hurry by. “We’ve known each other since you sprained your ankle that time and I took you to the healer,” Finn protested. “Surely that counts for something.” Celine ate another dainty bite of the hand meal. He was proud of the dish: a stew of beans and meat and sauce that was bound up in a light pastry. One could eat it anywhere, without making a mess of one’s hands or clothing. “It’s wonderful, but that’s all I can say. I’d get in trouble,” she said at last. “And someday, you’ll find out for yourself how wonderful it is.” He looked down at his ample proportions under the rough cloth and sighed. Then, looking at the hurried townspeople, he said, “Do they never slow down? Do they never stop to think?” The men and women passed before them herky-jerky, as if they were in a shadow play put on by an amateur puppeteer that had no idea how fast or slow real people walked. Wolfwater was built in such a way to encourage this: all of the streets ran straight and true, with no detours or curves. Shops and other places of business were set in from the street so that there was no reason to stop or dawdle. Finn half-closed his eyes and saw the townspeople as a blur upon the buildings. “If they could only see,” he murmured. “There is all the time in the world, if they were only to take it.” Celine shot him a look and got to her feet. “I have to buy my mother a bolt of cloth! I had nearly forgotten…” Then her sad smile returned. “Oh, and I am becoming one of the hurrying crowd, but I’m afraid I don’t have all the time in the world. I won’t forget you Finn, even if I outpace you.” And she was gone. Finn tried to return to the golden door to see if he could fit through one more time, but Abriel the priest stopped him at the door to the temple. “You are not ready to go through,” Abriel intoned. “When you are, you will be able to pass through it.” This he spoke as if it were a mental trial, but Finn knew better. There was only one way to pass through the golden door. A relative passed away and left his parents some money and a house, and when Finn came of age, they helped him with his dream: turning the abandoned house into Finn’s Inn. He called it The Inn at first, since Phineas’s Inn didn’t sound right either, but everyone ended up calling it Finn’s Inn. At Finn’s Inn, he hosted lodgers and those who came to drink and talk and play cards. But the real purpose of Finn’s Inn, the reason he’d always dreamt of it, was to serve food. The type of food he wanted to serve. Heavy stews of lamb and goat, aromatic with spices from cities across the sea, accompanied with cream potatoes in cheese sauce and loaves of rye with freshly-churned butter that melted in the bread’s peaks and valleys. Wolfwater was not a large town, and it was far from the trade winds and caravans. As a result, there were few visitors, except for some merchants who passed through and left quickly once they realized the townspeople had little appetite for luxurious satiny fabrics or scented jewels. At first, the townspeople came out to support Finn’s Inn, and he had a crowd every night the first week. But they left their dishes piled high with uneaten food; his portions were too large. Finn tried cutting back, but by then the townspeople had decided that Finn’s Inn had seen enough of their patronage, and why should they eat at an Inn when they could eat more cheaply, more quickly, and more healthily at home? Celine sat at a table every night and ordered a different dish each time. He’d watch her from the bar, as she poked at the food with a spoon and took bird-sized bites of it, face lighting up in pleasure but never really surrendering to the meal. Then, when he came over to ask how it was, she’d praise it and say, “Could you pack it up for me, so I may take the rest home? There was so much!” Every night, a package for her to take home. Finn imagined an endless stack of lovingly-wrapped bowls of stew, shepherd’s pies, cassoulets, chops – crowding Celine out of her own home. He knew she was there out of friendship, nothing more. As teenagers they had experimented and kissed and tried more; but she discovered that she liked women just as he liked men. Celine had her eyes on the blacksmith’s daughter, but of the men who liked men in Wolfwater, Finn knew only of Calabas, the wild-haired town drunk who fought ceaselessly with his stick-thin partner Yoav. He could depart for another town, of course…but he had promised his parents he would stay as long as he could keep Finn’s Inn afloat. The townspeople, he thought that night after Celine had been the only one to visit, had abandoned Finn’s Inn. Finn ladled himself some stew from the pot that had served nobody else and sat in the empty Inn, drawing the spoon through the stew. I’m not hungry, he thought. I do not wish to eat my stew. And when he forced himself to try a spoonful, he could not eat a second one. He felt depressed, and the stew tasted bad, although he knew it was a fine stew. Over the next weeks, Finn tried hanging a sign outside the Inn, and then he tried putting up a sign in the village square, and then he desperately tried to convince Abriel to let him put a sign up inside the temple, but Abriel told him that Inns and drink and hearty foods were the province of men, and not gods. Then one morning, Finn unlocked Finn’s Inn and turned his body sideways to enter the Inn door as he always did…only he no longer had to turn sideways. His shoulders grazed the sides of the oaken doorway, but he could enter it without turning. When he knotted the drawstrings of his apron behind his back, the ends were longer than usual. He puttered around the kitchen, but did not taste the food he was making, for he had no appetite. Having no mirror, he could not see what was happening, but he saw it reflected in the eyes of the townspeople. Where they had once rushed to and fro in front of him, now they would sometimes stop to talk to him and ask him how his day had gone. Even Calabas the drunk grinned toothlessly at Finn from across the village square. Finn’s parents were all smiles. “Finn, you look wonderful!” Anna said. Marin said nothing, but stole looks at Finn while he made supper for them – a supper Finn did not want to eat. Finn did not feel particularly wonderful, but he did like the smiles and the compliments. Celine had her usual sad smile for him, and told him at their next meeting, “You’ve lost weight. Finn, how did you go and do that?” “I don’t feel like eating. Isn’t that strange?” She prodded him in his lessening stomach. “Watch yourself, Master Finn. If you drop too much weight, you will lose yourself and disappear entirely.” But Finn did not feel as if he was losing himself; he felt as if he was becoming himself, after all the years of his life. The drawstrings on the apron became longer, and as winter turned to spring, Finn needed a rope to keep up his pants. The looks and compliments of the townspeople were like honey to his ears, and he would sprint to Finn’s Inn and slam the door behind him, blushing and smiling. One day, one of the farmers that supplied him with vegetables fell ill, and his son, a strapping young man named Dron, came instead. Finn had spoken with Dron before, curt conversations where the man made Finn feel like he was wasting his time with his inquiries. And the gods forbid he should want to sample the vegetables before he bought them! This time was very different. Once the horse and barrow were parked by Finn’s Inn, Dron looked at Finn, then smiled. “You came to show me your vegetables?” Finn prompted him. “Yes, vegetables,” Dron said. Then, snapping his fingers, he nodded and pointed to the display in the barrow: luscious red tomatoes and emerald green snap peas that looked fresh to the point of still ripening on the vine. “Are these to your liking?” Finn did not know what to say. In times past when Dron’s father had been ill, the vegetables Dron showed him had been of middling quality. “They look…fine?” Finn said. Dron packaged up the vegetables Finn pointed to and wrapped them in sackcloth. Then he surprised Finn yet again by offering to take them down to the Inn’s root cellar. Normally, Finn would have to haul the sack himself, stooping and panting with the exertion. He followed the farmer’s son down into the cool cellar, and Dron busied himself putting the vegetables upon the shelves with the potatoes and turnips and peppers. Dron even straightened up the vegetables Finn already had, and it finally occurred to him that Dron was stalling for some reason. “As to the matter of payment,” Finn said, clearing his throat and looking at Dron meaningfully. Dron’s father would only accept gold on hand; credit was foreign to him. “Next time,” Dron said, and smiled again. “Next time I come you can pay me. Don’t worry about it.” His eyes stayed on Finn. More than Finn’s face: his gaze roamed about Finn’s body and made him feel peculiar, as if he were a vegetable at market being examined for suitability in someone’s stew pot. “I’ll pay you now,” Finn announced. Credit, his father Marin had told him many times, was the start of the road to ruin. He had managed to run Finn’s Inn on a gold-only basis so far. He took out a gold piece from the sack at his belt and passed it to Dron, who rubbed it with his fingers, but made no move to go back upstairs. Finally, Dron asked, “Are you busy this coming rest-day?” Finn imagined that Dron’s father might have more wares to sell, that they might come back with different vegetables – and, knowing Dron’s father, most likely with vegetables that were very close to being spoiled. “I have no plans as yet.” “Would you like to go to the river?” Dron asked. Finn was not usually slow, but it had taken him up until this moment to get Dron’s point. The looks, the attention, the payment on credit. He was unused to such a handsome young man paying attention to him. He was not interested in Dron; the farmer’s son was like a beautiful meal that gave no sustenance. But it was such a novel experience that Finn accepted. They spent the day at the river, and when Dron offered him a meal he had brought, Finn refused. He did not wish to eat. Dron spoke of crops, and the land, and minerals and horses. Finn spoke of cooking times and wooden spoons and baking pans. Dron wished to see him again, but Finn kindly told him he was too busy with the business of the Inn. As the days passed, if Finn’s stomach complained, he pretended that he did not hear it. If sometimes, stirring a hot stew after a long day, he felt dizzy and broke into a sweat, he pretended that he did not feel it. He measured himself with hand-widths and lay in bed, ignoring the growling of his insides, dreaming of the golden door. And it came to pass in late summer that Abriel knocked at the door of Finn’s Inn. Abriel did not enter the Inn, but from the outside, he suggested that Finn come to the temple. With trepidation and pride, Finn went to the temple the next day after gathering up the courage to do so, feeling that the eyes of the townspeople must be upon him. The golden door seemed wider than he remembered. Finn angled himself just so, and took the deepest breath he’d ever taken, and tried to shrink himself in his mind so that he was nothing more than a flat Finn, a Finn on a sheet of parchment…and he wriggled and pushed and felt his bones scrape across the doorway…and then after a timeless moment, he was through the golden door. As he had seen so many times from the Wolfwater side of the door, there was a golden corridor that took him three steps to cross. He rounded the corner in anticipation, but then stopped with a gasp of recognition. It was the last thing he would have expected, and the first thing he should have guessed: a tavern. Where Finn’s Inn was squat, low to the ground, and welcoming, this tavern had walls that soared to a high ceiling. Paintings with splotches and dashes of colour hung from the walls. Golden light streamed in from windows that seemed to look out onto a forest; there was no forest around the temple, however. The tables were narrow and long, thin slabs of white surrounded by simple but elegant wooden chairs that made the chairs of Finn’s Inn look like something carved by a childish orc. Men and women sat at the tables: a selection of the townspeople of Wolfwater, talking and laughing, and sometimes, rarely, eating. From where he stood, Finn could not see what they were eating, but he could see the man who had cooked the food. He stood in the kitchen to one side of the eating area, a kitchen of long counters, bowls and ladles and ingredients placed in precision. The man was surrounded by his own halo of light, and Finn thought that he was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Yes, beautiful. It was an odd word to assign to a man, but it fit this one. Tall and slender. Pale, pale skin, penetrating green eyes, and long blond hair tied up in a topknot. This, so as not to get in the food, Finn thought. A good twenty years older than Finn, with wrinkles at the corners of...…
If you venture far enough to the west, the world comes to an end... On the edge of an endless fog, a lonely bartender welcomes a weary traveler. They've each got a tale to tell the other, but who's really telling the truth? 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-tavern-at-the-edge-of-the-world Content warnings: homophobia, sexism Transcript [ Intro: This story is called “The Tavern at the End of the World.” It does not take place in the Lavender Tavern…but somewhere where men and women come together to eat, drink and tell each other stories. You might call it a tavern…or you might call it home. ] If you venture far enough to the west, the world comes to an end. Leave your town, forsake your village, abandon your hamlet and wander the land, always facing the sunset. After the last few settlements have faded, and the cobblestone road has become a dirt path, and then a mere hint of wheel tracks in the grass, you will come to a single, low-slung building at the end of the world. It has no name; it needs no name. There is a sign outside that reads “LAST CHANCE FOR SUPPLIES.” The lettering of the sign has faded. Worse, the lettering has been eaten away, like everything else, by the fog. For beyond the building, there is a line of rolling fog that never moves eastward and never recedes westward. It stands guard in a long straight line that stretches past where the eye can see. There is no further going west unless you step into the cold, unknowable fog. And if you are standing at the Edge of that fog, trying to peer into what lies beyond, and thinking about those who have already come this way, it may occur to you to pause, for just a moment. To turn and look at the low stone building with the thatched roof and smoke coming from a chimney at one end. To walk away from the mist – even five feet away from it is a relief – and put a hand on the stone next to the building’s door, where a bronze plate has also been worn down by time and the fog. The bronze plate, if you pass your fingers over it, will tell you that the name of the building is The Tavern. But anyone who has heard of it from travelers and explorers knows it as the Tavern at the End of the World. Inside, there is a giant burly man tending bar. He has long blond-red hair in braids down his back, and his beard is also braided. He conceals his belly, unsuccessfully, under a large leather apron. On this night, the man, Chaol, is polishing mugs. There are no guests at the Tavern tonight. A willowy black woman named Bellona is straightening the tables and chairs. They are both quiet, listening to the wind and the snow howl outside. It is an hour before closing, and Chaol is contemplating closing up early. He walks to the front door and pushes it open a crack to look out, shivering at the frosty winter air. The fog has caused the stones in the wall to settle, and Chaol is the only one who can fully close the door. The night is a sliver of black. Before Chaol can use his meaty hands to slam the door shut, he sees the traveler. The person is struggling through the wind, staggering from step to step but clearly moving towards the Tavern. Chaol calls back to Bellona, “A guest!” and steps out into the storm, heedless of the driving snow. The traveler is heavily bundled up in furs and leathers, and only once Chaol has brought him inside and the traveler has peeled the outside clothes away that he is revealed: a young man of no more than twenty-and-five. Standing by the fire, he warms himself and Chaol notes the man’s lean, muscular body and piercing blue eyes. The young man turns, and seeing Chaol’s glance, smiles. His gaze passes to a deck of cards strewn on one of the tables. “Do you play Hearts?” the young man asks in a soft tenor voice. “No,” Chaol replies, and hears the deep rumbling in his own voice for what seems like the first time. “That deck is for customers.” The young man pulls his arms around himself as if for warmth, but Chaol senses disappointment. “I am Akain,” he says after a time. A silence. “You must be hungry,” Chaol offers, shyly. “Can we get you some dinner?” “Is it good?” Akain asks, then shakes his head. “It is the only meal available within a day’s walk. Of course it is good. Please.” Bellona, who has been watching this interplay, moves towards the kitchen but Chaol stops her with a paw. She raises an eyebrow, then goes over to Akain. “You are quite brave to come out all this way,” Bellona says. This is what she usually says to travelers, the male, handsome ones, and often it works. When it does not, sometimes it works if Chaol says it. Akain’s eyes, however, are looking toward the kitchen. “Yes, there are many legends about the End of the World. I’m sure you’ve heard them all.” Bellona smiles. “I have heard legends from every town in the land. If you tell me where you are from, I can tell you their stories.” Akain shakes his head. “‘It does not matter where we start out. We shall all arrive together at the end.’ One of our poets said that.” Bellona does not know poetry, and so she says nothing, until Chaol brings out a wooden tray with a hearty meal and a tankard of ale. Chaol can see the food-hunger in Akain’s eyes, and their game of watching each other comes to a quick stop. “Let us go put up the chairs in the back,” Chaol says to Bellona, and motions her away from Akain’s table, where a feast is now in progress. “No, please,” Akain says suddenly, lifting his head from the food, beard damp with stew-juice which he mops with a cloth. “I bid you stay with me and give me some company. I have been on the road – or whatever passes for a road out there – for so long, without another soul. I need some company on this snowy night.” And when Chaol and Bellona look at each other uncertainly, Akain adds, “I’d be happy to buy you each an ale if you join me.” There are no other customers. The night is cold and wintry. So Chaol pours two more ales and he and Bellona sit across from an increasingly-satisfied Akain. Once Akain has finished the meal, he asks: “Where did all this come from? Did you build the Tavern?” His eyes are very, very blue, Chaol notes. Akain is waiting for an answer. “Ah,” Chaol says, feeling clumsy and a bit foolish in his burliness. “Adventurers have been passing this way, and going beyond the End of the World for tens of years, perhaps hundreds of years. There were no supply stops, and many froze, or starved, or perished in other ways before they reached the Edge. I decided to build a Tavern here to serve what you may call a captive market.” He shrugs. “The rest of the story is for another time.” Akain slams down the empty tankard. “Yes, a story! A story is what I want.” He looks back and forth between Chaol and Bellona. “We travelers have little else for currency but the stories we bring. If you care to tell me a story of yours, I will tell you one of mine.” Chaol sits back – a rejection, Akain wonders? But Bellona is smiling, and Akain can see a story unspooling in her mind. She leans forward and says, “I will tell you my story.” ------- BELLONA’S STORY ------- “I had always been a bookish type (Bellona said), and so my parents despaired that I would never marry. When a famous cartographer came to our town, they bargained with her to take me. I know not what they asked in exchange for me, but Seren the cartographer was happy to have someone to carry her scrolls and books, sharpen her quills, and haul her packs. “I had been born in the town of Wells, and with Seren, we traveled from Wells to Antimony, from Antimony to Imo Gate, from Imo Gate to Jordan Crossing, and from Jordan Crossing – well, from there the land opened up and we had the world at our heels.” “Seren and I traveled long and far across the land, North and South at first, and then covering all of the distance East until we arrived at the ocean. I learned how to sew, and how to mend, and how to cook for a finicky cartographer, and care for a sick cartographer, and heal a lovesick cartographer. “I saw a town where everyone was a different shade of blue – light, medium, dark, all of the blues you can imagine. I saw a town dug into a quartz outcropping a mile long. I saw a village on stilts that the villagers picked up during storms and wars, and moved to safer grounds. “Once we had finished traveling North and South and East, of course we went West. Seren wanted to travel beyond the known world. She wanted to go past the Edge and map the other side. I knew no other life, and no other person in my life, so we went West together. “And finally we came to the fog and we stood at the End of the World. And I realized that I did not want to go past the boundary. “Seren went on ahead, and I came to this Tavern to rest for the night. In these days many explorers were trying to conquer the Edge, and Chaol was run ragged. I offered to help, and he offered me a job.” She stretches out her hands to encompass Chaol, the roaring fire in the hearth, and the rest of the Tavern. “And here I am today.” ------- BELLONA’S STORY END ------- Akain smiles. “Do you not want to find out what is beyond the Edge?” he asks. “No,” Bellona answers. “I have seen and experienced and learned all that our land holds; there is no more mystery to it. If I were to go beyond the Edge, that mystery would be snuffed out as well. As long as I stay on this side of the fog, I have one last mystery to keep in my heart. I can peer out at the Edge whenever I want to.” She pointed to a window at the back that looked out onto the fog, criss-crossed by snowfall. “Did Seren ever come back?” Akain asks quietly. Chaol leans forward at this point, eager to add something to the conversation that seems to have slipped away from him. “More than half of those who pass beyond the Edge never return.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Or at least, they have not returned SO FAR.” “Some of those who come back bring treasure,” Bellona explains. “And some are locked within their minds and never wake. None has ever remembered what happened to them on the other side.” There is a moment of shared silence as the wind batters the shutters of the fog-laden window. Then Akain asks Chaol, blue eyes burning, “What do you think is on the other side?” “I have not been on the other side,” Chaol says simply, and rises to secure the shutters. “He is a man of few words,” Bellona whispers to Akain. “And I like that,” Akain says. Ah, Bellona thinks. “Another round for us?” he asks. Chaol returns with the ales and he and Akain share a silent look. He feels a longing, something he has not reckoned with for many years. From Akain’s sharp eyes, it seems that the young man feels it too. Bellona’s exasperated expression suggests that she too feels it. “And now it is your turn,” Chaol tells Akain, smiling. “You wanted to trade in the currency of explorers. Bellona and I have been tending the Tavern for months with no new tales. What stories do you have for us?” The smile Akain gives Chaol is perhaps too close, too intimate, but he collects himself and nods. “Yes, a story.” Then, pulling his chair a bit closer to the rough-hewn table, Akain says, “This is the story of someone who could have anything they wanted, except for their heart’s desire.” ------- AKAIN’S STORY ------- “There was a town (Akain said) called Galatium. This was a fancy name for a town, and yet it was little more than a hamlet, with a church and perhaps ten houses, and some common buildings.” “I know Galatium,” Bellona says, wrinkling up her nose. “They did not like that Seren was a cartographer and a woman. Nor did they like that I was assisting her and a woman, or that we were unaccompanied by men.” “Yes (Akain continued), Galatium was a village of traditional men. The men led the village, and the women were told from birth that their role was to serve the men. “One year, a baby girl was born into the largest family. They named her Havila. Ordinarily, Havila would have served and listened, and married and had children. “But Havila liked to fight. She liked to play with toy swords. And she liked to play in the dirt and mud, and come home with soiled and torn clothes, having sparred with some of the local boys and having taught them that women too can fight. “Her parents scolded her, and told her time and time again, this was not a proper pastime for girls. Havila was to learn music, and to write perfumed letters, and stitch happy messages. “Havila had a friend, Orlow, a boy one year younger than she. While he had been happy to fight and wrestle and make mud pies with her, once she followed more ladylike pursuits, it seemed that Orlow was even happier. “When Havila was sixteen, she escaped from the music and perfumed letters and happy messages. She ran into the forest, telling not even Orlow she was leaving, and she laughed and ran and jumped in the mud as much as she desired. “And then she stole some clothing from the men of her own family, and bound her chest tight, and put dirt on her face and cut her hair short with a sharp rock. And she presented herself to a group of men who were fighting on behalf of Galatium and other nearby villages. “Havila was naturally gifted at fighting, and at swordplay. She would have succeeded at her aims, only one day she gashed her leg and the healer had to remove her leathers to treat her. She begged the healer not to say anything, but the healer believed that men should rule and women should serve. He sent a messenger to her father. “I understand what you wish,” her father said. Her father did not understand, for as a man, he had been granted everything he desired. “That is simply how people are – men and women. We are different for a reason.” “A reason!” Havila told Orlow bitterly. “There is no reason that one must lead and one must follow. I will not follow.” They were in the town library, where Havila had dragged Orlow to look up tomes on a particular obscure subject. They were surrounded by dusty books and scrolls, and Orlow thought Havila had never looked prettier. “There is a reference here,” Havila pointed to one scroll, “and a recollection here, and it is all very difficult to follow. But I have ascertained the truth.” Orlow said, “There is no truth here. There is only fantasy.” Havila rolled up the scroll with quick, jerky movements. “There are two wizards. One in the North, and one in the South. They can do what I ask.” “You cannot become a man, as much as you would like,” Orlow said. “It is beyond magic.” Havila tossed her head. “I can do whatever I wish. If I must become a man to live the life of a man, then I shall ask one of the wizards to cast a magic on me.” Orlow placed his hand on hers. “Would you stay if I offered you all the benefits of being a man? You could have the run of our household. You could make all of the decisions.” She pulled away slowly. “I have told you that I do not love you, Orlow,” Havila said. Then, seeing his forlorn face: “There is no fault in you. But you are a man, and I love only women.” “You only love women because in truth, you wish to be a man,” he said, very quietly. “All right, Orlow. I will never go through with it,” Havila promised. “I tell you, I will never go through with it, on my grandmother’s grave.” She was lying. Her grandmother was yet alive. That was the last they spoke on the subject, or on any subject. Once Havila had saved enough of her allowance, she scrounged an explorer’s pack, walking clothes and staff, and she left Galatium for the South. The Northern wizard seemed just as skilled as the Southern wizard, but Havila did not like the cold, and so she traveled south. She met monsters and foul weather and pirates and liars and knaves, and she reached the South, where the wizard had a simple hut. “How much?” she demanded of the wizened fellow in the rune-inscribed robes. “How much to transform me into a man?” He wrinkled up his nose. “You have been traveling long, and your manner has the roughness of the explorer.” He shrugged. “I can transform you, if you stay for a month. But you must know what you will be.” “I will be able to lead, and rule, and decide,” Havila said. She did not want to hear any more, but the wizard went on. “You will grow hair here and there, and your body will become hard instead of soft. You will be clumsy at times, and headstrong, and have sudden anger. You will know courage and fear together, and you will not love those you love now.” Havila smiled. “I already have hair here and there, and I am hard and clumsy and angry and –“ She looked at him carefully. “What do you mean, ‘those you love now’?” “Do you love men, women, both, or neither?” the wizard asked solemnly. “Women,” she said. “Then once the transformation is complete, you shall love only men.” For a woman to love women was not spoken of in Galatium, but it was known to happen. For a man to love another man in Galatium? This was impossible. It was unmanly, and it left no possibility of family heirs. But Havila was determined, and she nodded at the wizard and brashly said, “Let us begin.” Thirty days later, Havil set off from the South wizard’s hut back towards Galatium. The trip was easier and faster because of his new strength and size, and because monsters fled before his sword. Also, Havil admitted privately to himself one night as he camped by a fire, because he longed to see Orlow. What had been friendship and affection for Orlow as Havila the woman, now was attraction and something close to love as Havil the man. It was unthinkable, it was impossible, but Havil knew he and Orlow could manage it. Until he arrived at Galatium, and found Orla. Havila had told Orlow she would never change her body, or her mind. For Orlow, the only way he could have Havila was to become the woman she wanted. And so he went to the wizard of the North, through the marshes and swamps and ice floes and glaciers. Thirty days later, Orla returned to Galatium and discovered that Havila was missing… The Northern wizard was less scrupulous than the…
There was a land, long ago, that had been scoured of magic. It is strange to say, it is strange to believe, but there it was: a world without runes, without sigils and even without potions. How did this happen? How it usually happens. With a decision by one man... Even though magic has been dead for a century, Edric, an old student of Clover Academy wants to convince his professor Sorrel that he's rediscovered it. Sorrel, however, wants to convince Edric that the magic he's performing is all in his mind. Written by: Jonathan Cohen Narrated by: Joe Cruz A Faustian Nonsense production. To read the full transcript for this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/a-plague-of-reason Content warnings: mentions of homophobia, murder Transcript There was a land, long ago, that had been scoured of magic. It is strange to say, it is strange to believe, but there it was: a world without runes, without sigils and even without potions. And yet the sun and moon continued to rise, and the rains fell and the crops grew. Nothing lay beyond the vale they called reality, except for more reality. How did this happen? How it usually happens. With a decision by one man. That man saw mages and witches and warlocks grow strong and powerful across the land. He witnessed wars between armies with magic in their ranks, laying waste to entire castles and even mountains. And he decided that this would end. The man stirred fear and anger and hatred in the breasts of his fellow men and women, and one night – when the mages and witches and warlocks slept the sleep of the magical – they slaughtered them and their families. All of them: men, women and yes, children. In the books and scrolls that came to be written, this great day was known as the Restoration. There was a School at the northernmost tip of the land that stood in a field of clover, and so it was called the Clover Academy. Before the Restoration, the Clover Academy had taught flight and invisibility and fireballs, and all manner of spells. After the Restoration, the instructors started teaching how to read and write glyphs, how to tell which plants were edible and which were not, and how to cure those with maladies of the heart and the mind. The miraculous blinding light of magic was replaced with the constant warm illumination of science. And a hundred years passed. It is always a century, or a millennium before anything momentous occurs, for the gods like round numbers, just as we do. Great wet flakes of snow fell in spirals around the Clover Academy. In a chilly turret that student wizards had once used to unleash their magical projectiles upon the commons, a portly man in professor’s robes opened the small door and let a younger man in. The portly man’s name was Sorrel, and he had taught physical sciences at the Academy for the last twenty years. He had the spectacles and narrow eyes of a scholar who had spent too much time reading by the light of a flickering candle. The young man, thin and so tall that he had to duck under the transom to enter, was named Edric. He had been Sorrel’s student eight years earlier. He wore no spectacles, and his eyes were clear, but the years had already begun to etch lines of intellect into his forehead. And now I step back in silence, for it is their words that tell this story, not mine. “It has been a long time,” Sorrel said, and settled his frame into the leather hide-covered chair behind his desk. “I received your letter.” Edric nodded, head bobbing up and down atop a long neck. “Good, good,” he replied, then nothing. Sorrel knew the ways of students – and former students. How they became shy in the presence of their professors. “Come now,” he coaxed. “You wrote to me and asked if you could visit and seek advice?” The lump in Edric’s throat lurched up and down as he swallowed. “Yes. Yes, you have been on my mind of late.” To Sorrel, this came as no surprise either. Many young men had had infatuations with their professors over the years, and the school masters always warned of the foolishness of indulging such nonsense. Sorrel knew that he was not an attractive man, nor a commanding man – though even he had received his share of propositions over the years. So long after graduating, though? “I am partial to men,” Edric said after a while. Yes, Sorrel thought, I have the professor’s gift of anticipating the student’s train of mind. But this was awkward, and even though years had passed, Edric was still, and would always be his student. Silence was Sorrel’s best response, and he waited. “I like men,” Edric said, then elaborated: “I am attracted to them. Fond of them.” He blushed. “And I do not wish to be!” Ah. This was simpler than infatuation, but more complex in its own way. “Edric, fetch me that bench from the corner,” Sorrel ordered. When Edric had complied, he asked the young man to turn it so that his back was facing the professor’s desk. Sorrel had found that men and women of all ages were more likely to speak their minds – and the truth – if they did not have eyes directly upon them. Sorrel saw Edric relax slightly, and then asked him to tell him more. “It’s as I said,” Edric stammered, and Sorrel could see the flush on the tips of his ears and back of his neck. “When I was a child, all of my friends were boys.” “That is not unusual.” “I only wanted their company,” Edric went on. “I had no interest in girls. Or women, when I grew older.” He looked at the snow falling behind the window with what seemed like longing. “I felt more for my male friends than they did for me.” “Did you…follow your inclinations while you were at the Academy?” Sorrel probed. Edric shook his head. “No, no. I heard Master Pritcher’s talk. The one he gives every year. I was a good boy.” Then, laughing bitterly: “Until I graduated and went home. Then I met a young man. Marcus.” His voice took on a thoughtful quality. “We were of like minds.” And like bodies, no doubt, Sorrel thought. “Did he break your heart?” “If it were only that easy!” Edric’s hands gripped the arms of the bench. “No, my parents found out about us. Found us. Together.” He shook his head. “We were in love. So foolish, taking risks. They bade me leave their house.” “You have not been wandering the land all this time, I hope?” Sorrel asked. “I have an aunt Nell. My mother’s sister. She is a strange one. Strange but sweet. She asked me to stay with her. Now it’s her, me and her faithful friend, the Lady Charlotte.” “And Marcus?” Edric placed his hands in his lap in seeming resignation. “He wants to be a priest. Nobody could know. He had to choose between the temple and me.” And it was the temple, Sorrel concluded. The professor sighed. “I have seen male animals coupling with male animals in the farms and barns of this world. As a professor of the physical sciences, I say that this seems to be a natural occurrence, though a rare one.” “There is more,” Edric said. Sorrel waited and waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. Finally, he used the voice he reserved for wayward students and commanded Edric: “Tell me.” “I think...” Edric said weakly. “I am certain...I believe that…that I have the ability of magic.” Oh. Partiality to men was nothing serious (and quite common at the Academy, if Sorrel was to admit it to himself), but…this? “You know, Edric,” Sorrel said gently, “there is no such thing as magic. There has been no magic in the world since the Restoration.” Edric shrugged, looking as if he wished he could turn around. “I did not study the Restoration. I know what anyone knows of it. But I still wonder. Could there be --? Might there be --?” “No,” Sorrel said flatly. Now his own hands gripped the front of his desk. A delusion such as this… “Could some have survived?” Edric mused. “Gone into hiding, a century ago?” “Perhaps we may both take a step back and examine your case together,” Sorrel said, not unkindly. “I shall keep an open mind.” This, the smallest of lies. “Why do you believe you have the ability of magic?” The dim light through the window had begun to slant across the small room, and it fell across Edric’s drawn face. “Signs. Signs and portents. Let me tell you. Can I turn around?” Sorrel sighed. Now that the dam had broken, Edric seemed enthusiastic to speak. “Face me, and tell me.” A minute for Edric to swivel the bench around and seat himself again. Then, with an earnest expression on his face: “I received a letter.” “A magical letter?” Sorrel asked. “You jest. Of course. But the writer of the letters. Name of Berand. He sent six of them. He predicted things. And they all came true.” “Go on,” Sorrel said. Edric looked up at the ceiling and to his right, a sign that Sorrel knew meant he was recalling a memory. “The first was a storm the following week. A terrible storm we had. Unlike any other. First storm of the summer.” “Storms are not uncommon.” “The second letter. A merchant would visit from another land. This was a rarity in our town. But it happened, three weeks later.” Sorrel was starting to see a pattern. “And the other four letters?” “That an animal would die. The bishop’s cow passed away. Then, that a couple would fight at the tavern. Then, an apostate in the temple. And last, that the sun would be blotted out at midday. All of which came true.” “Did the writer of the letter seek anything? Gold, property, promises?” Edric shook his head violently. “Not a thing. I answered each letter. Told Berand they’d come true. So he said I had a gift, and that he would visit me.” Sorrel could see that Edric yet retained his limbs and clothes, so Berand could not have made off with much, but still… “Shall I tell you how he accomplished this wonder?” “Magic?” “Some may think it so,” Sorrel said. “I call it the magic of numbers.” He stood and went over to the green-black slate on the wall. He rubbed it clean with the sleeve of his robes, then picked up the chalk and began to draw, talking as he did so. “You mentioned six letters,” Sorrel said. “In fact, there were many more letters.” “I do not understand.” “The first letter he sent to thirty-two people, yourself included, in thirty-two separate towns or villages. This might have cost him a bit of gold, though I wonder that he did not have an accomplice in this scheme.” Sorrel wrote the number thirty-two on the slate. “Perhaps half of the recipients saw a storm within a month. To those who wrote back to tell him of this successful prediction, he sent sixteen letters, predicting the merchant’s visit. I wonder if this merchant might also have been an accomplice, but I shall not speculate.” Sorrel wrote the number sixteen after the number thirty-two. “Regardless, perhaps eight of you witnessed a merchant visit your town. To those eight he sent a letter that an animal would die. Perhaps half of those readers were unlucky enough to have a cow or horse pass away in their towns. To those four, a letter predicting a fight in a tavern. And to the two who saw such a fight, a story of an apostate in the temple.” “True. Those are all common events,” Edric said, and Sorrel was glad that the young man had remembered some of his teachings. “But what of the sun? Blotted out at noon, as I said.” “Every few years, in different places in the land, the sun is darkened for a while. We do not know the reason, although some suspect it is snuffed out momentarily like a candle, or that it is hidden by another object. Regardless, it is a predictable phenomenon. There are tables that have been drawn up, which show when these events occur. Your Berand planned this series of letters to end with the blot on the sun.” Sorrel smiled and shook his head. “My boy, I am afraid that of the thirty-two recipients of the letters, you were the only one fortunate enough – or unfortunate enough – to see a summer storm, have a merchant visit your town, witness the bishop’s cow pass away, and all of the other events this man pretended to predict.” Edric nodded slowly. “Very well. Very well. But that was only the start.” Then his belief ran deeper than he had contemplated, Sorrel thought. This was troubling. “I shall endeavour to assist you in the interpretation of any event you care to describe.” “You mock me,” Edric said with a smile. “But I appreciate your logic.” He drew in a breath. “I dreamed that my mother’s mother would die. She did so. Only four days later.” Sorrel closed his eyes briefly. “Had you seen her recently?” he asked. Edric nodded. “She lived with us. Shared a room with me. Since I was born.” “Had she seemed…different of late? Ill, perhaps?” “Not at all. It was very sudden. The dream worried me. I did not sleep for a week before she died.” There it was, Sorrel thought. “Do you know why you could not sleep?” he asked. “Because of my ability for magic? That I knew she would pass away?” “You said that you could not sleep,” Sorrel explained. “I suspect that she was indeed ill, at least for the week before her passing. In my time of studying the ill and enfeebled, I noticed that those who were about to pass away often breathed heavily, or more lightly, or differently in some manner.” He exhaled and inhaled dramatically to demonstrate. [Inhale and exhale here] “You who slept in the same room with her from your birth had accustomed yourself to her method of breathing. Once she began her slide towards...the next life, her respirations changed and you could no longer sleep.” “This is possible,” Edric admitted. “I admit it is possible. But not all of my stories can be explained so easily.” So he was not immune to reason! Sorrel thought. There was hope yet. He did not need to prompt Edric to continue. “Berand arrived, three weeks later. He had the air of a mystic about him.” “Airs are not evidence,” Sorrel reminded him. “No,” Edric said. “But he knew everything of me. As if he’d been a friend since my childhood.” Sorrel nodded. “May I attempt to divine what Berand told you about yourself?” “Sir, with all respect…you do not claim the ability of magic.” “Neither did Berand,” Sorrel said. “And I shall prove it.” Still standing, he paced before Edric, waving a hand at him as he declaimed: “You are sometimes unsure of yourself, especially with those you do not yet know. When you were a child, you had an accident where water was involved. You need others to like you, but you are often critical of yourself. And you are left-handed.” Edric looked startled. “He did not – did not say exactly this. But some of it. How did you know? And how did you know I use my left hand?” My dear Edric, Sorrel thought. Eight years out of school and still the innocence of a student. “Everyone is sometimes unsure of themselves, particularly with strangers. Everyone seeks approval and blames themselves. It is the rare child who has not had an accident in their life – I would not be surprised if water was involved in some way or another.” “And my left hand?” Sorrel laughed. “There I confess to cheating. I remember you well from your days at Clover Academy. When you would write a test or paper, the writing would always be smudged from your left hand passing over the fresh ink.” “Berand told me I’d broken my right foot jumping from the roof when I was six. That is why I limp,” Edric said. “He could not have guessed this so accurately.” “I suspect that Berand spoke with someone in your town on his way to visit you,” Sorrel said. “I would be unsurprised if, when he asked about you, someone did not tell him this notable story.” Edric seemed crestfallen. “I trusted him.” Sorrel wondered – was Berand a handsome man? Had there been other reasons in the young scholar’s mind to trust him? Did a stab of envy prick at him for a moment? “What did you give him?” Edric shook his head. “I gave him nothing. He sold me something. A magical kit.” Sorrel nodded. He had seen such kits before: wands, pendulums, black velvet inscribed with runes and glyphs, incense and candles that sparked and smoked. “Did he do any ‘magic’ with it?” He hoped that Edric did not sense any mocking in his words, but the man seemed sincere in his reply. “No. That was for me to learn. He showed me something at the tavern that night, though.” He shook his head in wonder. “A man became a woman.” Perhaps, Sorrel thought, there was a master list of trickery that every rogue consulted before proceeding on their campaign of deception. It would not surprise him. “How was this accomplished?” “I know not. The bearded man stood in a far corner as we drank ale. Then I turned my head. A moment later I turned back and he was a woman. Wearing still the same clothes and cap.” “You are aware that men often costume themselves as women in plays, and women as men,” Sorrel said. “Long hair hidden under a cap, perhaps a beard made of wool. These are magic tricks, but those of a magician, and not a wizard.” Edric smiled suddenly. “Master Sorrel, you were always of quick wit. Students were helpless against you. But I yet think I am of magical ability. And I yet plan to convince you.” Then play on, Sorrel thought. Teaching was a lonely profession, and he maintained a professional distance from his students. A young, handsome, thoughtful man in his rooms was not unwelcome, even if the jousting was reasonably one-sided. “Berand left the next day. I set up the kit in my room. That night, I concentrated on the pendulum. Thought and thought.” “And it moved,” Sorrel finished for him. “It started slowly. Back and forth, then round and round. I could feel the power of my mind moving it,” Edric said. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Sorrel asked. Edric frowned. “Three brothers, but –” The professor cut him off. “I note that only you have been sent to Clover Academy, and not your brothers.” He reached forward and lifted the frayed cuff of Edric’s tunic. “Your family struggles with money.” Edric sputtered: “I do not – that is not –” Sorrel was kindly. “And that is why I suspect that your house is not well-built nor well-maintained. That there are holes and cracks to let the wind in. And that a summer of storms such as we had this...…
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 2 of 2. Written by: Jonathan Cohen Narrated by: Joe Cruz A Faustian Nonsense production. To read the full transcript for this episode, go to https://thelavendertavern.captivate.fm/episode/the-scrying-eye-part-2 Content warnings: tobacco, alcohol Transcript This is Part Two of The Scrying Eye. In Part One, Bernard, a young man with a gift for cooking, is visited by Radolf, claiming to be from his future. Radolf has three ‘testaments’ – proofs, he says that Bernard will be unhappy in life and unhappy in love…unless he does as Radolf says. Bernard becomes a painter and prepares himself to work on the Scrying Eye, a magical device that Radolf had used to project himself back into the past. In the meantime, Bernard falls in love with old-fashioned Kedrin, although if Radolf’s predictions are correct, their relationship is doomed. Kedrin is on the town council, and at an important meeting about the Scrying Eye, a woman from the opposing party has just shot an arrow at Kedrin… -- And Bernard raced forward without thinking and pushed the woman as hard as he could, as hard as he had thrown the rock in the forest, and she struck the ground. But the arrow still flew through the council chamber and struck a man, and the man fell. Kedrin, Bernard thought. My heart. There was a silence as the members drew back from the slain man, and Bernard saw that it was not Kedrin after all. He felt guilty for a moment that he was rejoicing that another man had been killed, but all thought stopped a moment later. Kedrin, cradling the man, withdrew the arrow from him and held it up. It was split in two. Men and women crowded around Bernard, thanking him, holding down the woman who had fired the arrow, talking and shaking their heads. He felt surrounded by a great stillness. The dead man – Farah – was the leader of the conservative faction, Bernard knew. It had only been his own intervention which had diverted time’s arrow… For the split arrow was the same one as the second testament in Radolf’s pouch. “They want me to take over the conservative faction now that Farah is dead,” Kedrin mused later that night at their home. It was as if he had to keep talking, keep moving to prove to himself that he was yet alive. “But nobody can replace him. We’re going to lose the vote against the Eye.” Bernard wanted to laugh. The vote! Of course they would lose the vote. The Scrying Eye must be built. His life had been cast in iron from the moment Radolf had come back to him all those years ago. “A failed relationship,” Radolf had said. If time itself could not be changed, how could he ever hope to keep Kedrin? Nobody blamed Bernard for Farah’s death, and he was encouraged to take some time to himself. Contemplating Radolf and his past made Bernard think of Blayed, his old instructor. He decided to visit the painting academy and talk to her. A warm spring wind blew through the windows of the painting academy, and Blayed was marching about like a soldier, as always. She was much older and gray, but still as wise and wily as ever. She eyed him with a vinegar expression: “My old student. What prompts you to visit your older tutor?” He had brought his newer paintings with him, the best ones. They were rolled up and tied with a leather strap, and he took them out and asked her to look at them. “You’re a respected illustrator,” Blayed said acidly. “Do you still need my approval?” She sighed and placed the paintings on a table. He watched as she flipped through them, saying nothing. At last, she rolled them up again, tied them off, and gave them back to him. “It is good that you are not following the latest fashions,” she said. “It must be Kedrin’s influence.” He smiled, pained. “You capture the events of history well,” she added. “But?” Bernard asked. “There is no ‘but.’ You capture the events well.” “Buuuut,” Bernard said, “my heart is not in it?” Blayed sighed. “Did you bring a lunch, Master Bernard?” He could not recall her ever calling him Master. “As a matter of fact, I did,” Bernard said, and drew out from his satchel a small box. He opened it: a riotous combination of colours and textures and scents, spirals of meat and twists of bread, carrot curls and radish roses. With the sauces and colours, it suddenly occurred to Bernard that it resembled nothing so much as an artist’s easel. Blayed looked at the box and nodded. “You are a competent painter,” she said. “But I do wonder where your heart is.” Thinking of Kedrin, Bernard wondered the same thing. “What do you think of The Scrying Eye?” he asked her. The news had finally been announced around town, and discussions were vigorous and intense on both sides. “Will it take away my employ? Will they truly be able to see everything through it?” Blayed shrugged and drew her cloak closer, and he saw afresh how she had aged. “Your parents’ generation needed painters and illustrators,” she said. “Your generation needs painters and illustrators. The day that a giant Eye tells us that we no longer need painters or illustrators…that is the day when I shall retire.” He left her standing in the courtyard, a soldier still defending her keep. Kedrin, with other council representatives, was to visit other nearby towns and request their investment in The Scrying Eye. Their town would provide intelligence and information to the other towns in exchange for the vast sums of gold that would be needed to build it. It all sounded rather circular to Bernard. “I haven’t been to see my family in some time,” Bernard mentioned to Kedrin. “Would you mind if I stayed in town while you travel?” “Of course,” Kedrin said, somewhat distant. Bernard suspected that Kedrin felt strange about him having saved his life, but they had never discussed it. Kedrin’s mind was now on the Eye, and the council, and the magistrate’s position. Although they shared meals and a bed, there was a distance that Bernard did not like. His parents were also older. Tai was a delightful young woman who had not married and did not plan to. His mother drew him aside that night and spoke to him in hushed tones. “Your father has contracted the forgetting illness,” she said. Bernard shook his head. “I have been with you and him all day, and I see nothing wrong. He is as he has always been.” “It takes time for one to see it,” she said, shaking her head. “I tell you that something is wrong.” After dinner, he left his parents to their usual bickering and wandered through the rooms of the small house, stopping at his father’s easel. It had not been used in months; the paints were dry and cracked. “An artist is always working,” Bernard remembered his father telling him, and a chill prickled his spine. Am I misinterpreting the signs, he wondered, or does my father truly have the illness? But he soon forgot about his father, for Kedrin, the council, and the entire city became caught up in the planning, building, and creation of The Scrying Eye. The town had become a city, and the city now had its project. Everyone in the city was involved – from the builders who constructed the giant building that would house the Eye, to the drafters and designers, to the mages of arcane arts who gave the Eye its power, and even the graduates of the cooking academy, who supplied the builders and drafters and designers and mages with food and drink. Bernard’s task was to document the progress of the Eye. He sketched as the builders laid down the foundations, the mages scratched symbols and runes in the Eye’s enormous circle of glass, the city alchemist poured the dyes that swirled and ran across the surface of the Eye, and finally a hundred men and women used ropes and pulleys to lift the Eye into place. The Eye did nothing, and would do nothing, until it was told what to do. One of the mages explained it to Bernard thusly: “If I ask you to cook me a pie, and you have never done so before, you would not be able to cook one. But if I give you a list of steps, very clear and very simple, then you would be able to follow those steps, one at a time in order, and bake a pie. The Eye is similar: It is powerful and can do much, but we must tell it exactly what to do.” The mages and alchemists could not tell the Eye what to do; there were few in the entire world that had the skill of, as Bernard thought of it, “recipe writing.” A young man from several towns over was the only person nearby known for his skill at writing such instructions, and the city council spared no expense at sending a messenger with the promise of a great deal of gold. “Some say that they’re going to offer that man more gold than it took to build the Eye,” Kedrin said darkly one night, tamping the contents of his pipe. He’d taken to smoking an aromatic mixture at night, which Bernard thought made him look even older. “But it is only a rumor.” “I would have thought that the council would have arranged for such an artisan before the Eye was built,” Bernard said as he cleared the dinner dishes in the kitchen. The smell of pipe tobacco – of Kedrin – wafted into the kitchen. “Such is the power of haste,” Kedrin replied. “Every task is out of step.” The man with the talent for writing ‘recipes’ came to the city at last, and there was a large crowd assembled to meet him. Bernard had been given the assignment to illustrate the meeting, and he sketched furiously as the hansom cab pulled up and discharged its passenger. There were rules to sketching an open public event: first, to roughly draw the outlines of the people Bernard already knew. Then, he would focus on the most important person he did not know – this man. But as the door to the hansom cab opened and the man stepped out of it, the charcoal stick fell from Bernard’s hand. The man was tall and of stocky build; Bernard did not need to hear the mayor speak to know his name. It was Radolf, Radolf after all of these years. He was no longer indistinct; Bernard’s artist’s eye imprinted his blond hair, hazel eyes, sly smile, and thick beard. After a very long moment, he bent down, picked up the stick, and continued to sketch. There was a long ceremony, with much clapping and huzzahs, and when the people began to disperse, the mayor, a rotund middle-aged man with a red face and long sideburns brought Radolf to Bernard. “This is Radolf,” the mayor said. It isn’t necessary, Bernard thought, looking at Radolf. Of course we know each other. We have known each other for years…he has directed my life as surely as an archer directs his arrow. But Bernard saw no hint of recognition in Radolf’s eyes, and he realized that to Radolf, this was the first time they had met. “I’m charmed,” Radolf said, and again showed that sly grin. “You will work together,” the mayor announced as if there was a scribe nearby to take down his pronouncement. “While Radolf prepares the Eye, you will document his work for our town history. And once the Eye is ready, the city will be transformed.” Transformed, Bernard thought for the first time: transformed into what? There was little time to think about such things over the next several months. Radolf plunged himself into the work of writing the instructions for the Eye, and Bernard drew Radolf, and the mages and alchemists who helped him, and even the builders who cursed at him. Radolf walked back and forth, singing, chanting sometimes, muttering to himself and writing strange symbols in chalk on a large slate in the building that housed the Eye. “What do you think of this?” he would demand of Bernard. And when Bernard admitted he knew nothing of those symbols, Radolf would shake his head. “Does it look correct? Does it feel correct?” And he’d smile his sly smile and clap Bernard on the back, telling him of his wonderful, wondrous work and how much Bernard was helping him. Radolf would often forget to eat, and his body grew worryingly lean. Bernard, of course, brought his own food to the Eye building, and started forcing bits of it on Radolf, who would grab it out of his hand and eat while muttering about the stars and the sky. Eventually, Bernard decided that Radolf had to eat, and so he cooked double portions, and brought an extra wooden box with lunches that he gave to Radolf every morning. Radolf said nothing about this, but he dutifully ate the colorful meals on their midday break as they sat on the hill overlooking the far river and beach. “The Eye grows ready,” Radolf said at one point, gazing off into the distance. “It will see the beach, the river, all the lands beyond. There will be nothing it cannot see.” He was young, and impetuous, and his enthusiasm and energy made Bernard smile. But then Bernard would come home to Kedrin. The same old dusty Kedrin with his old clothes and old books and pipe tobacco. Spectacles perched on his forehead, shaking his head and grumbling about The Dangers of the Scrying Eye. Bernard would kiss Kedrin on the cheek and go to the kitchen to make the meals for him and Radolf for the next day. And so the time passed, and though Kedrin held him close at night, Bernard felt more and more distant. At one point in Radolf’s work, Bernard became useful for more than simply documenting the passage of time. There were images and illustrations that needed to be drawn and then passed beneath the Eye’s gaze. The mages had attempted to do so, but they lacked the skill and precision that Bernard had. After all this time, he had become attuned to Radolf’s way of thought, and so the illustrations were easy to sketch. A thought could pass between Radolf and him without words needing to be spoken. The days grew shorter and shorter again, and Bernard started spending longer and longer hours at the City Center where the Building of the Eye was now complete. One day, a messenger brought a note from his mother: “Your father is ill. Come quick.” His father sat in his chair as usual, but he saw nothing and said nothing. Bernard put his hand under his father’s nose to make sure that he still breathed. His father breathed, but did not respond to words, entreaties, touches, or even a gentle slap to the cheek. His mother stood next to him, arms crossed. He would have expected her to be angry, or upset, but she seemed determined…or resigned. “He has been this way since early this week,” she said at last. “This is the forgetting illness.” “Have you consulted the healer?” Bernard asked, without hope. The forgetting illness struck few at his father’s age, but it was well-known that there was no cure, and no treatment. Death would follow. “Charms and amulets,” his mother said bitterly. “I would have been better off buying bread and salt.” She pushed her hands into her pockets and drew out trinkets that must have cost her several gold pieces. She tossed them onto the dirt floor in front of his father. Glittering, they reminded Bernard of the testaments that were still hidden in the buried pouch. “He is in there somewhere,” she pleaded, “but he sees nothing.” She grasped Bernard’s shoulders. “Can you help him see?” Bernard returned to the Building of the Eye later, and, viewing the blood-red swirls and symbols of the Scrying Eye, he thought about his father. “Can you help him see?” The Eye could see everything, but surely it could not see wherever his father had gone. Radolf greeted him with a hearty hug, but as they resumed their work, said less and less. “You are upset,” he commented when Bernard made an error in an illustration and had to scrape the paint from the canvas. “My father,” Bernard said. They had spoken of his father before, and Radolf knew of the illness that was consuming him. “He does not move, he does not speak.” “There was a woman in our town, a great scholar. She had the forgetting illness. There was no cure,” Radolf said quietly. Bernard looked up at the Eye. “He sees. I know he sees something inside himself.” And then: “Could we use the Eye to help him see?” It was a foolish question, born of hope and despair, and Bernard expected Radolf to discard it. But Radolf stepped forward and looked up at the Eye himself. The moonlight that shone in through the eye cast a dim red light on Radolf. “The Eye is meant to see,” Radolf said. “What was, what is, what is to be. It is not meant to alter…” A curious look came over his expression. Bernard held his breath. This is the moment where the world changes, he thought, and wondered why he would think such a thing. Radolf was furiously drawing on the slate. There were new symbols, and new runes, and even the builders had to be recalled to change the shape of one end of the Building of the Eye, though Bernard did not understand why. Thirty days later, Radolf asked him to bring his father to the Eye. His mother was beyond protest, and she helped his father into the cart that Bernard had hired, riding up front with Bernard. Bernard had not understood much of how the Eye was to function. He had a vague sense that it would be similar to a telescope, or spectacles. That one would peer through and see, as Radolf said, “What was, what is, and what is to be.” But Radolf placed Bernard’s father in a chair in the center of the large main room of the Building of the Eye, facing the Eye itself. The Eye was at least a hundred feet up, and it was tilted so that the sunlight shone through into a circle on the floor…where his father sat. Bernard noticed then that the floor was a checkerboard of black and white, the black squares not black at all, but filled with thousands of dark runes and symbols written on each one. The square where his father’s chair sat was blood-red, an arcane circle drawn around it. There were large levers that Radolf pulled, and small levers that Radolf flipped, and the light from the Eye grew brighter and brighter. Bernard expected the blood-red color of sunset, but it was the violet of dusk that poured down from the Eye and bathed his father in an unearthly glow. Beside him, his mother gave a strangled cry. They stood in silence and waited. The silence drew out, became unbearably loud. Every time Bernard thought to ask Radolf if it was working, he looked at his mother and stayed silent. And at last – at last he heard the raspy voice of his father, like a creaking door that had not been used in a long time. “I see them,” he said, awe in his voice. “What do you see?” Bernard asked, heart quickening. “I see the fish…the fish have come back to the river.” His father’s eyes shone with the violet light as he peered into a place where Bernard could not go. His mother cried,...…
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