Snow-haired and hawk-nosed, Professor Fintan, with the collar of a thickly knit Aran sweater visible beneath his sturdy cloak, sat in the middle of the courtyard, squinting against the northern wind as he wove a fishing net. His hands moved with mesmerizing speed, and the coarse wooden amulet around his neck, set with a piece of amber, swayed in rhythm with his movements. Around him sat the first-year students.

“If the mountains to the south wear their caps in the morning, it means the ocean is off-limits by evening,” he explained, his voice carrying over the wind. “But if Manannán, son of Ler, stretches his fingers from behind the clouds at sunset toward the shallows of Finntra, then at dawn, from Sron Brin to Ive Rathach, you can gather dark red seaweed and pearl moss. However, if in the evening, the roof tiles clatter as if someone’s fingers are running across them, then a storm will rage for four days, so fierce that herring will fly ten miles through the air.”

Fintan, son of Fingen, drew no academic line between the wisdom of the Fomorians and contemporary notions of anything. He would sit in a circle with the students and, like an Irish seanchaí, pack his pipe and begin his lecture:

“They say that amber used to fall from the heavens…”

Or:

“Stones still grow three days a year. But only those stones grow that no one touches; if a stone is touched, even lightly, it will never grow again.”

The students quickly grew accustomed to taking these teachings literally and, when presenting their theoretical knowledge, would speak directly and without hesitation, looking the professor straight in the eyes:

“In the northern mountains, there are people with only one leg and one arm. They would pair up and run so fast it was impossible to catch them—only to shoot them.”

“Why does winter come to the land? A sheep from the sea arrives—pure white with long ears. This sheep wanders the valleys, and wherever it passes, everything freezes. It’s called the Frost Sheep, and where it flaps its ears, lakes freeze to the bottom.”

Fintan nodded with satisfaction.

For the upcoming exam on the material culture of the Fomorians, Professor Fintan divided the class into pairs—without asking for any preferences—and assigned the boys to carve a wooden cradle while the girls were to line it with down and memorize the only Fomorian lullaby to have survived. The song sounded strange and sinister:

Tonight, to the mountains, to the cliffs of Cuinn-na-Barra, The wren will fly to build its nest… Tonight, to the cliffs, to the headland of Carrig-Leithe, The owl will fly to build its nest. Tonight, to the mountains, to the summit of Croghan, The vulture will fly to build its nest…

The song was quite lengthy, its events developing with a certain monotony, and it ended with a dragon flying in to build its nest. Nonetheless, Ceridwen, daughter of Peblig, paired with Gwydion, learned it instantly and sang it with a spiteful expression, mimicking a true Fomorian and even squinting her left eye, as Fomorians were known to have only one eye.

There were no books for Professor Fintan’s subject, and it was clear that even questioning their absence was inappropriate.

…

Fintan, son of Fingen, was in exile in Wales. Long ago, he had been forced to leave Ireland, but his disgrace had passed, and every autumn since, he had been seized by the urge to return to his homeland. Each time, he and Merlin had the same conversation about it.

“My dear colleague,” Merlin would say, “Where would you go? You have no idea what is happening in Ireland right now. Especially in the north, where you’re so desperate to return. Read the newspapers. Owen,” he would call out to Mac Carthy passing by. “Do you have a newspaper?”

Merlin pronounced the word “newspaper” with obvious relish; it was clear he didn’t get to use it very often. Mac Carthy would pull an aging copy of The Times, five or six years old, from an inner pocket.

“Is this a newspaper?” Merlin would quickly confirm to avoid any mistake, snatch it from Mac Carthy’s hands, and turn back to Fintan. “Here, my dear colleague. Here’s a newspaper. Please, read it. Do you see what it says? Slaughter! Bloody slaughter.”

“One might think there was ever anything else in northern Ireland,” Fintan grumbled. “For as long as I can remember, the Gaels have been slaughtering the Picts. Even if they now call themselves by different names, there’s nothing new in the conflict.”

“Well, in the end, I simply forbid it!” Merlin would exclaim. “How can you leave your students in the middle of the term? It’s a violation of academic discipline and… and… ultimately, I am unwell. Anything could happen to me… at any moment.”

And Fintan stayed every time. This conversation had repeated every autumn for two thousand years.

Notes:

1. Professor Fintan shares similarities with the mythical Fintan mac Bóchra, a figure in Irish mythology known as a wise seer who survived the Great Flood. His portrayal as a storyteller and a repository of ancient wisdom reflects this mythological connection.
2. The reference to Manannán mac Lir draws from Celtic mythology, where he is a sea god known for his magical abilities and connection to the ocean’s bounty.
3. The Frost Sheep’s description echoes folkloric explanations for natural phenomena, blending whimsy with mythological elements.
4. The Fomorian lullaby reflects their mythological connection to nature and the eerie, foreboding aspects of their culture.
5. Ceridwen’s portrayal mirrors her role in mythology as a figure of transformation and knowledge, adding a playful yet ominous touch to her actions here.
6. Fintan’s exile in Wales ties back to his mythical origins, where he is portrayed as a wise survivor of the Great Flood, bringing ancient knowledge to his surroundings.
7. Merlin’s fascination with newspapers humorously contrasts with his mythical grandeur, blending ancient and modern elements.
8. The repeated autumn conversation highlights the timeless and cyclical nature of these characters, blending humor with mythological timelessness.