Berwyn, son of Eilonwy, the seventh son of a miller from near Cardiff, sat with his head propped in his hands, staring out the window overlooking the courtyard, watching distant black specks in the sky. Ever since he had met Mac Carthy, any crow flying far away filled him with a vague sense of reverence.

Below the window, Dr. Blodwedd, the botany instructor for the senior classes, had rolled up one sleeve and was watering the nasturtiums. Beyond her, on the stones of the courtyard, a small crowd was debating whether to play “Three Ages” or “The Metamorphoses of the Bard Taliesin.”

“Many forms I have taken before I found freedom,” intoned Llewellys, throwing out the traditional opening formula of the game of Metamorphoses, after which no one else could join in. Berwyn sighed.

“I was the blade of a sword; truly, that was…”

“I was a shard of mica in a chapel window, a flute made of reed, and a creaking weather vane…”

Berwyn shifted his position, tucking the other leg beneath him. He had a particular struggle with the poetry of the Tuatha Dé Danann. The poetry of the Tuatha Dé Danann was unique in that, when recited from memory, everything spoken aloud would manifest—everything pronounced incorrectly would also appear.

Thus, when Berwyn began reciting about “the meadows of Cerne and the morning dews of Macha,” the most horrendous, disheveled wolverines would materialize. Dr. Mac Carthy would heave a deep sigh, send the wolverines back to wherever they had come from, and mutter to himself, “Iesu, when will I ever teach them to love poetry!”

At the end of each lesson, Dr. Mac Carthy would cheerfully hum to himself as he treated the scratches and scrapes left by the various hellish creatures summoned by careless students with iodine.

Whenever Berwyn saw Mac Carthy, he would drop whatever he was holding, lose the ability to speak, and look like a complete fool. Mac Carthy fascinated him as a person.

Most likely, Berwyn would have paid no special attention to Dr. Mac Carthy if not for a strange dream. After his very first lesson on the signs of the times, Berwyn dreamed of Mac Carthy dressed in medieval clothing. In the dream, Mac Carthy sat by a large window made of greenish mica pieces, writing a letter, oblivious to the figures creeping up the staircase behind him. These people attacked him from behind, killed him, and set the castle on fire.

Though in the dream Berwyn had the fleeting thought that this could not be Owen Mac Carthy, and that he was likely seeing a distant ancestor with a strong resemblance, he was still deeply frightened for Mac Carthy and wanted to warn him to turn around.

From that moment, Berwyn developed an acute sense of the transience of existence, especially—strangely enough—of Mac Carthy’s existence. During every one of his lessons, Berwyn could not shake the feeling that it might be the last.

As for Mac Carthy, he smoked dreadful cigarettes, told ribald anecdotes, snacked on sandwiches, and seemed as lively as ever.

During the very first lesson on the poetry of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Mac Carthy, after briefly reminding the students who the Tuatha Dé Danann were, read aloud a few fragments of their poems. Castles arose and crumbled, jasmine swirled through the air, herds of deer thundered past, the sun set, and blackbirds fell asleep in yew groves. Berwyn’s mouth fell open wide enough for a lark to fly into.

That day in Carmarthen was overcast, but Mac Carthy ended with Finn’s poem about the arrival of summer, summoning a ray of sunlight. Berwyn was unable to move, unable to tear his eyes away from Mac Carthy, even when everything else had vanished. “The long strands of heather creep across the ground,” he repeated silently, moving only his lips.

“Berwyn, if you’d like to sit here a while longer, I’ll leave you the key,” Mac Carthy said cheerfully, preparing to toss him the tower key across the classroom. There wasn’t a soul left in the room.

That night, Berwyn, carefully mouthing the words without daring to say anything aloud, reread the mind-bending texts of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He would go to the lesson, freeze at the sight of Mac Carthy, open his mouth, and at Loch Leane, the water itself would bloom instead of the lilies.

“Focus, please, Berwyn. This word has two syllables—the first is long, the second is stressed,” Mac Carthy said serenely.

Berwyn was invariably struck by the fact that Mac Carthy taught the Signs of the Times. To him, it seemed a complete absurdity. When the teacher appeared before them on a Saturday, cheerfully holding a Coca-Cola bottle at arm’s length to discuss the properties of this peculiar substance, Berwyn’s heart ached. He couldn’t understand why such a profound scholar had to spend his time and energy on such strange matters.

Notes:

1. The “seventh son”: The “seventh son” is a deeply symbolic phrase in many mythological and folkloric traditions. In Welsh and broader Celtic lore, as well as in other European traditions, the seventh son of a seventh son is often attributed with special powers or a unique destiny. This could include prophetic abilities, healing, or magical prowess. Even outside of a strictly magical context, the phrase carries a sense of exceptionalism, marking the individual as someone significant.

In the case of Berwyn, being the seventh son of a miller—a humble, everyday figure—introduces an interesting tension. It juxtaposes the mundane origins of his family with the potential for extraordinary traits. This might hint at a latent capability or fate for Berwyn that could unfold as the story progresses. The connection with crows, sparked by his interaction with Mac Carthy, might also suggest an alignment with omens, wisdom, or transformation—qualities often associated with crows in myth.

2. Taliesin: Taliesin is one of the most renowned figures in Welsh mythology, often described as a bard, a prophet, and a shapeshifter. His story is central to the Mabinogion and other medieval Welsh texts, where he is depicted as a figure of immense wisdom and creativity. Taliesin’s life story includes themes of transformation, destiny, and enlightenment, making him an archetype of the inspired poet and mystic.

The reference to “The Metamorphoses of the Bard Taliesin” directly evokes his legendary ability to transform into various forms—a fish, a bird, a hare, and more—during his flight from the sorceress Ceridwen. These transformations were symbolic of his journey toward ultimate knowledge and self-realization. Taliesin’s ability to take many shapes before achieving freedom mirrors a universal theme of growth through change.

3. The Dream, the Mica Window, and the Medieval Setting: The dream that Berwyn experiences is rich in symbolism and resonates with themes of foreboding, continuity, and the weight of history.

• The Mica Window: The “large window made of greenish mica pieces” evokes a medieval aesthetic, as mica was sometimes used in windows of churches or castles when glass was scarce or expensive. Its shimmering quality adds an ethereal, magical feel to the scene, symbolizing fragility or distorted perception.
• The Medieval Setting: The setting links Mac Carthy to an ancestral or historical past, reflecting cycles of violence and power. It hints at his possible ties to legend or history.
• Berwyn’s Foreboding: The dream emphasizes Berwyn’s awareness of mortality and impermanence, foreshadowing events or reflecting the story’s themes of fate and transformation.