Original

Merlin’s school in Carmarthen accepted anyone who managed to find it, step inside, locate Professor Merlin, and answer his question. This question, scribbled on a worn examination ticket, was always the same. Merlin would fish it out from the folds of his robe each time, and anyone would be right to assume it hadn’t changed in decades. The other widely known requirements—being sixteen years old, knowing Latin, not having a runny nose, and keeping a clean handkerchief in the left breast pocket—were strictly optional.

Gwydion arrived at the school on foot, carrying a staff and a satchel, wearing an excellent pair of trousers made of sheep’s wool—and shame on anyone who’d call them out of fashion. In Gwydion’s dark eyes gleamed a readiness to answer any questions on the ticket, to acquire a handkerchief, and even, if it came to that, to find a breast pocket for it. His admission marked the first and only exception in the entire history of the Carmarthen school.

On the day he passed through the city gates, found the school in the market square, and knocked on its door, Merlin was away. Before leaving, Merlin had scrawled an illegible note on the wall with chalk, instructing that anyone who appeared should take their entrance exam with whichever teacher they could manage to catch. Gwydion tossed his hair back and got to work gathering information.

From the ogham schedule carved on the wall of the western hall, built from roughly hewn stones, he learned the following: Professor Orbilius taught Latin; a certain Tarquinius Snake handled chemistry; Professor Fintan, son of Fingen, taught the heritage of the Fomorians; Professor Lutgarde, daughter of Runhild, daughter of Grendel, lectured on runology; Professor Meldun oversaw astronomy; Professor Curoi, son of Dáire, managed hands-on training (of what, exactly, Gwydion couldn’t determine); Archivist Chlodwig Nachtvogel taught paleography; Professor Morgan-ap-Cerrig specialized in the art of forgetting; and Dr. Mac Carthy taught the poetry of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Irish literature, Welsh literature, two or three languages unknown to Gwydion by name, and held practical workshops on ST (Signs of the Times).

It seemed likely that Mac Carthy was the youngest of them all—young professors always get saddled with all kinds of nonsense.

The topmost notches Gwydion could reach—since the hall was dark, and he had to read the schedule by touch—revealed that a medical class was currently in session in the Pictish Tower of the Northern Quarter. Gwydion decided to take his chances.

The school building, adorned with countless towers, walkways, flying arches, and hanging bridges, was divided into three parts, called Quarters: the Southern, Northern, and Western. Each tower’s appearance was so distinct and so perfectly suited to its name that there was never any doubt which was which. The Wine Tower, for example, perched above the wine cellars, was occasionally tipsy, and its carefree demeanor made it clear when it had overindulged. One tower was exceptionally shy and always tried to hide behind the others to draw as little attention to itself as possible. It was colloquially called the Shy Tower, though it had its own proper name—Branwen’s Tower. It wandered around the school and could, out of embarrassment, end up anywhere. The most charming of the towers, Anthony the Southerner, was perpetually cold and often wrapped itself in mist to stay warm.

The Pictish Tower caught Gwydion’s eye as soon as he stepped onto the bridge connecting the Western Quarter to the Northern. It was unmistakable. Black, with arrow slits, battlements shaped like fangs, crests of various families and cities, crossed halberds, and mottos like “We die but we never surrender.” It had to be the oldest of them all. Gwydion quickened his pace.

Finding the door behind which the lesson was taking place—decorated with such traditional symbols of medicine as a hammer and anvil—Gwydion cautiously opened it a crack and peeked inside. The first thing he saw, naturally, was Dr. Dian Mac Cecht.

Dr. Mac Cecht had a cascade of thick red hair reaching all the way to his knees, which he neither cut, braided, nor pinned up. He was under a geis (a binding magical obligation) to keep it loose during any medical procedure. Consequently, for every operation, he would order someone to gather and hold his hair behind him so it wouldn’t fall into his face. The opportunity to hold Mac Cecht’s hair was considered a tremendous honor. Girls were absolutely swooning for the chance to do it.

At all other times, Mac Cecht’s hair was gathered up at the back and carelessly secured in several random places with brightly colored pharmaceutical rubber bands. His clothing, preemptively and permanently stained with stone bramble juice to mimic blood, ensured that any new bloodstains wouldn’t stand out. He had the steady gaze of a consummate professional and a voice that was deeply reassuring.

“If someone happens to lose an arm—don’t worry,” Mac Cecht’s gentle voice drifted to Gwydion. At that point, Gwydion reconsidered trying to take his exam with Mac Cecht and only came back to his senses once he was already crossing the bridge back to the Western Quarter.

To his right was the entrance to the manuscript repository. Gwydion remembered that Archivist Chlodwig Nachtvogel resided there—a teacher as well, and someone who could also administer the entrance exam.

For a long while, Gwydion struggled with the massive, stubborn door, which wouldn’t budge until someone finally opened it from the inside. Gwydion slipped across the slick floor and into the dim interior. Between rows of towering bookshelves crammed with enormous folios, he spotted the archivist.

Nachtvogel, wearing snakeskin slippers, a nightcap, and carrying a lantern—it was three in the afternoon—squinted at Gwydion with a mild, almost amiable gaze.

“Here for dragonography practice?” he asked, leading Gwydion deeper between the rows of books and already preparing to unlock some unnoticed, dusty door for him.

“Oh, no, no,” Gwydion hurriedly replied. But before he could say anything more, the archivist made a vague gesture that seemed to mean, “Ah, well, make yourself at home, take whatever you need,” and then disappeared among the towering shelves of unknown purpose.

Gwydion hesitated to go after him; who knew where one might end up in such a place? Besides, he felt a bit guilty for having disturbed the venerable teacher. Carefully, he retraced his steps back to the narrow opening in the door and slipped out of the repository.

His next hope was Professor Lutgarde, daughter of Runhild. According to the schedule, she was nearby, and her runology lesson, if the sundial in the courtyard wasn’t lying, was nearing its end. Gwydion descended six flights of stairs and, still unsure whether he needed to go further, was drawn by the sound of a thunderous voice:

“If we unpack your kenning, Dilwyn, son of Olwen, it turns into complete nonsense! To avoid bias, I had five senior students decode it independently. Here’s what they came up with: a dead cat’s tail” — the voice paused dramatically — “a rotten turnip, another dead cat’s tail, a rag, and a bit of sponge. And what, pray tell, did you mean by this? Speak up, I can’t hear! Oh, the battle blade of King Harald? Of course, I thought as much. Clearly, you don’t hold this king in high regard!”

The voice continued its tirade, sparing no one.

“You will construct nine-part kennings until your blade stays a blade by the end!” it bellowed from behind the door.

A terrible suspicion crept into Gwydion’s heart: this had to be Lutgarde. Holding his breath, he peeked through a tiny crack in the door and froze.

Professor Lutgarde was a giantess—a ferocious-looking stone giantess. She was pounding the table with a fist that seemed to weigh a ton. Though Gwydion harbored no prejudice toward other races, sheer terror sent him tumbling over the railing, headfirst, into the courtyard below. Thankfully, a kind young man caught him mid-air and set him gently back on his feet.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Gwydion recounted his troubles.

“My goodness!” the man burst out laughing. “You can take the exam with me.”

Gwydion’s jaw dropped.

“I’m Mac Carthy.”

Mac Carthy took Gwydion with him to the Southern Quarter, into Anthony’s Tower, poured him some tea, and began the examination, honestly admitting that he didn’t have Merlin’s famous ticket. Instead, he would ask questions at his own discretion.

Mac Carthy had hawk-like eyes and black hair tied back in a sleek ponytail, reminiscent of a Native American style. On his right cheek, he had a magical mole from birth, which drew the gazes and hearts of all women—but only outside the school. When he went to the market in town, he covered it with a bandage.

He referred to Merlin as his teacher, not his colleague, and was lenient toward students’ mental lapses, as he hadn’t graduated from the school so long ago himself and still remembered what it was like.

When Mac Carthy learned that Gwydion was from the village of Llandilaver near Caer Dillion, he lit up with excitement and asked:

“Do you know what was there before your village church?”

Gwydion thought of their church. They had spent a long time choosing its location, calculating everything, and when they finally built it, everything seemed fine—except for the stream running right through the middle of it. Somehow, that had been overlooked. Since the seventh century, the stream had dwindled somewhat, but it still trickled softly from the entrance to the altar.

“The bed of a stream, and before that, a mill hidden among viburnum bushes, and before that, a pasture, and before that, a stone circle, and before that, the sea floor.”

Mac Carthy nodded, satisfied.

“The three battles of the Island of Britain fought over trivial causes?”

“The Battle of the Trees at Caer Nefenhyr, which started over a roe deer and a greyhound puppy; the Battle of Arfderydd, which started over a lark’s nest; and the Battle of Camlan, which began with a quarrel between Gwenhwyfar and Gwenhwyvach.”

“The three terrible plagues that befell the Island of Britain?”

“The Yellow Plague that ravaged the island during the reign of Maelgwn, son of Caswallon; the locust swarm that consumed all royal stores under Lludd, son of Beli; and the Anglo-Saxons, who haven’t left the island to this day.”

Gwydion had known these triads by heart since early childhood, lying on the shore under an old, dried-out, overturned boat and staring through the cracks at the sky, repeating them to himself out of boredom.

“The three skilled bards of King Arthur’s court?”

“Myrddin Emrys, Taliesin, Chief of Bards, and Myrddin, son of Madoc Morvran.”

“Mae hynny’n wych! You live in Llandilaver in the time of King Math, son of Mathonwy. You’ve decided to marry. What do you need first of all, even before the bride herself and her consent?”

“The agreement of my four great-grandmothers, if they’re still alive,” Gwydion replied without hesitation.

“Gwych,” repeated Mac Carthy, leaving the local antiquities alone. Now Gwydion, suddenly drenched in sweat, found himself struggling with the names of Irish kings. All those Aeds, Conns, and Donns felt alien and incomprehensible, their names impossible to pronounce—nothing like the familiar and straightforward Llawnrodded Ceinfarfawg, Gleulwyd Gafaelfawr, or Lleuddyn Euddodd, for instance.

Finally, Mac Carthy, scratching the tip of his nose, said:

“I can’t hide from you that, judging by all indications, your abilities are far greater than those of any student I’ve known at this school. Therefore, I’d like you to take my next question with the utmost seriousness: what exactly do you plan to accomplish after completing your studies?”

Gwydion hesitated. Mac Carthy stared at him without blinking.

“To find the valley where everything lost on earth has been gathered? To finally bring some order to the world’s literature? To discover islands where the sun never sets? To correct the most glaring errors on the tablets of history?”

Gwydion let out a heavy sigh. He was gathering his courage.

“Well? To bring happiness to all living things? To rise above the world and weave all the threads of power into your hands?”

“Actually… I’d just like to learn how to heal sheep,” Gwydion said hopefully, exhaling.

Mac Carthy leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing.

“You’re accepted,” Mac Carthy said, catching his breath. “Yes, I was testing you when I spoke about your abilities. In truth, what matters isn’t how great your abilities are, but rather… well, simply that you love sheep.”

And with that, Mac Carthy offered to escort Gwydion to Dr. Rhiannon, under the roof of the Tower of Paradoxes, so he could immediately undergo the required aptitude test and put an end to all the formalities.

Dr. Rhiannon sparked a genuine interest in Gwydion, so much so that he instinctively pressed a hand to his suddenly pounding heart. As soon as he saw her, calmly setting aside her harp to test him, Gwydion silently resolved to get a grip on his emotions.

The aptitude test was peculiar but appeared simple. The first three questions brought only a smile to Gwydion’s face—they didn’t seem to require answers—but evidently not everyone reacted with a smile, as Rhiannon immediately jotted something down with her owl-feather quill.

Next, she produced a small box. Gwydion fleetingly thought it might contain seashells. Rhiannon nodded as if in response to his thought, but she didn’t open the box or reveal its contents. Instead, she tucked it into the folds of her dress, and the questions began:

“What’s the first thing you would do if a sick woman asks for water, there’s no water in the house, a hungry baby is crying, an unmilked cow is mooing in the barn, and the wind is blowing through a broken window?”

“If you could aim a rainbow so that it always pointed to something when it appeared—to places where treasure is buried, to sites of future disasters so people could leave, to children destined for greatness, to children who will grow up to cause terrible harm, or to missing people long sought after—what would you aim it at?”

“Saint Columba gathered all the birds and promised that the one who could fly the highest would become their king. The eagle honestly soared above the clouds. But when it grew tired, a tiny wren, hidden on its back, sprang up and flew higher than the eagle. Saint Columba, not very pleased, recognized the wren as the king of birds but cursed it to never fly higher than the bushes, so now it flits among the shrubs and never rises above knee height. Do you feel sorry for anyone in this story?”

“You are walking north on a starless night, guided by a compass. Before your eyes, the compass needle, which had been pointing north, smoothly turns and begins pointing south. What is the first thing you think: that there’s a magnetic anomaly under your feet, that the compass is broken, that you’re losing your mind, that the needle had been wrong all along and only now corrected itself, or that the needle is showing you that you really need to go south?”

But no matter how much Gwydion’s heart ached with love while he answered Rhiannon’s questions, feverishly pondering when and where he might see her again and what he’d be willing to sacrifice for that chance—it turned out this, too, was part of the test. Mac Carthy, waiting by the door, explained this to him as they descended the stairs, apologizing along the way.

“Your capacity for love,” he said, reading from a piece of parchment Rhiannon had handed him, “is extraordinary.” Then, to reassure Gwydion, he added, “Mine is just as high,” glanced over the rest of the parchment, muttered something under his breath, and concluded, “In short: whenever they ask you to divide into groups based on mental aptitude, you’ll be in Group V.”

Gwydion said nothing.

“And the girls?” he asked at last.

“The girls—alas,” Mac Carthy replied with a heavy sigh, immediately understanding what Gwydion meant.

And from that sigh, Gwydion realized that testing the girls’ mental aptitude was typically assigned to Mac Carthy himself, and therefore, their capacity for love was evaluated based on their feelings toward his insignificant person.

“Sometimes, though, Mac Cecht helps. When I’m too exhausted,” Mac Carthy explained mournfully.

“I was so scared of Dr. Mac Cecht! I almost died,” Gwydion admitted.

“Dr. Mac Cecht is the best of men,” Mac Carthy replied. “The only person a newcomer really shouldn’t meet on their first day is Professor Curoi. You were lucky.”

“Is he the one who teaches hands-on training?” Gwydion asked, concentrating as he recalled.

“Yes, exactly.”

“And hands-on training… of what, exactly?” Gwydion finally dared to ask.

“Oh, quite literally: he just applies his hands to everyone.”

Gwydion glanced at Mac Carthy’s face, but in the twilight, he couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or not.

Comments and Clarifications on “Chapter I” #

Gwydion #

• The name Gwydion belongs to a legendary figure from Welsh mythology, particularly in the Mabinogion. He is a magician, trickster, and hero known for his cunning and poetic talent.
• In this story, Gwydion is a contemporary youngster aware of his name’s mythological origins. This creates a layer of depth, as he may feel pressure to live up to the legendary figure’s legacy or find inspiration in it.

Professor Lutgarde #

• Lutgarde is a Northern European name, fitting her lineage as the “daughter of Runhild, daughter of Grendel.” The connection to Grendel from Beowulf ties her to Norse and Germanic mythology.
• As a stone giantess, Lutgarde is a powerful and intimidating figure, befitting her role as a runology professor. Her thunderous voice and no-nonsense approach underscore her imposing personality.

Professor Fintan, son of Fingen: Fintan’s name connects him to Irish mythology, where Fintan mac Bóchra is a wise figure and the “Salmon of Knowledge.” His role in teaching the heritage of the Fomorians—the ancient, monstrous enemies of the Irish gods—fits his mythological associations with Irish lore.

Tarquinius Snake: A peculiar and intriguing name, Tarquinius recalls the legendary Roman kings, specifically the last king of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, whose reign ended in tyranny and downfall. The addition of “Snake” adds a sinister or alchemical edge, perfect for a chemistry professor.

Dr. Dian Mac Cecht #

• Based on the Irish mythological figure Dian Cecht, the god of healing from the Tuatha Dé Danann.
• His uncut, unbound red hair and its geis (magical obligation) reflect his mythological roots. In the myth, Dian Cecht’s surgical skills and creation of Nuada’s silver arm showcase his ingenuity, paralleling the whimsical and authoritative doctor in the story.
• The permanent bloodstains on his clothes (simulated with stone bramble juice) humorously allude to his constant engagement with healing.

Dian Cecht is a significant figure from Irish mythology, particularly from the lore surrounding the Tuatha Dé Danann, the mythical race of deities and heroes. Here’s a brief summary of his role and characteristics, which seem to have influenced the portrayal of Dr. Dian Mac Cecht in the text: Mythological Background

God of Healing: Dian Cecht was the physician of the Tuatha Dé Danann, famed for his unparalleled knowledge of medicine and healing. He is often depicted as a stern yet immensely skilled figure who could cure even the gravest of injuries.

The Silver Hand: One of his most famous feats was crafting a silver arm (or hand) for Nuada, the king of the Tuatha Dé Danann, after Nuada lost his arm in battle. This act allowed Nuada to continue ruling, as physical wholeness was a requirement for kingship in Irish tradition.

Rivalries: Dian Cecht had a somewhat fractious relationship with other healers in the myths, including his own son, Miach, who was also gifted in healing. A notable story recounts that Miach perfected the silver hand by replacing it with a fully functioning one of flesh and blood, which angered Dian Cecht so much that he killed him. Dian Cecht's actions here underscore his complex character—proud, perhaps envious, but undeniably dedicated to his craft.

Healing Wells and Herbs: Dian Cecht was associated with the creation of sacred healing wells and the use of herbs. He supposedly blessed a well where warriors could bathe and be fully restored after battles.

Connection to Dr. Mac Cecht

The character of Dr. Dian Mac Cecht in the story seems to playfully mirror the mythological healer:

Hair as a Geis: The geis to keep his hair loose during medical procedures reflects the ritual and magical obligations that often surrounded figures like Dian Cecht. It adds a humorous yet reverent nod to the mystical nature of ancient healers.

Bloody Clothes: His permanently blood-stained attire could be a reference to Dian Cecht's association with battlefields, where his healing skills were in constant demand.

Calm Authority: The reassuring voice and professional demeanor align with the image of a healer who inspires confidence even in dire situations, a characteristic Dian Cecht would likely embody.

Symbolism of the Hammer and Anvil: Though these are not traditionally associated with Dian Cecht in mythology, they suggest industriousness and craftsmanship, qualities he certainly possessed as the maker of Nuada’s silver arm.

This character, while humorous and whimsical in the text, carries the essence of the mythological Dian Cecht, blending reverence for ancient healing traditions with a playful, modern twist. Let me know if you’d like any additional details or further connections!

Chlodwig Nachtvogel #

• A reference to Hoffmann’s Nutcracker, tying him to the fantastical and gothic traditions of German literature.
• His ability to transform into an owl fits his role as archivist, symbolizing wisdom and nocturnal scholarship.

Morgan-ap-Cerrig: Clearly a Welsh name (“Morgan, son of Cerrig”). Morgan might evoke a connection to the legendary enchantress Morgan le Fay, tying him to themes of magic and forgetting, which aligns with his subject, “the art of forgetting.”

Mac Carthy #

• A younger professor with hawk-like eyes, Mac Carthy combines youthful energy with a deep connection to Irish poetic traditions.
• He refers to Merlin as his teacher, not his colleague, suggesting a humility and respect for the school’s senior faculty.
• His comment about “hands-on training” humorously describes Professor Curoi’s teaching style while adding to the playful tone.

Professor Curoi #

• Likely based on Cú Roí mac Dáire, a cunning and challenging figure from Irish mythology known for testing others.
• His “hands-on training” involves physically “applying” students, though this remains humorously ambiguous in the original. The idea of time travel (implied in earlier discussion) adds a fantastical layer to his teaching methods.

Dr. Rhiannon #

• Based on the goddess Rhiannon from Welsh mythology, a figure of wisdom, grace, and mystery in the Mabinogion.
• Her presence in the Tower of Paradoxes reflects her enigmatic nature, and her owl-feather quill and harp tie her to themes of art, insight, and divination.
• The test she administers subtly probes Gwydion’s emotional depth, logical reasoning, and moral character, reinforcing her role as a figure of profound understanding.

Historical and Geographical Context #

1. Llandilaver and the Village Church: The progression of the site from seabed to stone circle, mill, and church reflects Britain’s layered history.

Stream through the church: This detail may reflect an old tradition or mythological motif where natural features, such as streams or springs, were considered sacred. Churches were often built on or near pre-Christian sacred sites, incorporating these features into the structure as a way of integrating older traditions into Christianity. Layers of history: Gwydion’s account of the church’s location layers multiple eras: a streambed, a mill, a pasture, a stone circle, and even a seabed. This echoes the way landscapes in Britain hold traces of successive civilizations, from prehistoric to medieval times. The mention of a stone circle aligns with the region’s rich Neolithic and Bronze Age heritage.

2. The Three Battles of Britain:

   • Battle of the Trees (Cad Goddeu): A mythological conflict tied to the Cad Goddeu, symbolizing cosmic and territorial disputes. A famous mythological battle in Welsh tradition, where trees were magically brought to life to fight. The cause—a roe deer and a greyhound puppy—might symbolize a dispute over hunting rights or an allegory for deeper cosmic conflicts.

   • Battle of Arfderydd: A historical and legendary battle tied to Welsh tradition, often linked to Myrddin (Merlin), who supposedly went mad afterward. The lark’s nest as a cause might symbolize the fragile and absurd triggers for conflict.

   • Battle of Camlan: The legendary final battle of King Arthur. The legendary final battle of King Arthur, which started with a quarrel between Gwenhwyfar (Guinevere) and her sister Gwenhwyvach. This reflects the Triads’ theme of small, domestic disputes spiraling into catastrophic events.

3. Plagues of Britain: Reflect mythologized accounts of real events, such as the Yellow Plague and Anglo-Saxon invasions.

4. Arthurian Bards:

   • Myrddin Emrys (Merlin), Taliesin, and Myrddin, son of Madoc Morvran represent key figures in Welsh bardic tradition.

5. Marriage Custom: The requirement for great-grandmothers’ consent humorously exaggerates Celtic respect for ancestry.

Narrative Humor and Themes #

• The school blends mythology, academia, and absurdity, creating a whimsical yet intellectually rich setting.
• The characters reflect a mix of mythological archetypes and human quirks, making them both relatable and fantastical.
• Themes of learning, responsibility, and emotional growth run throughout the story, framed by humor and lighthearted exaggeration.