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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he turned to Bernard, and grasped both of his wrists in his hands. Bernard again felt the shock, but now wondered: was this the touch of magic, or of...

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