In the lessons on the language of beasts and birds, taught by Doctor Rhiannon, silence was broken only by the clicking of blackbirds that flew through the windows and the sighs of awestruck students who could not concentrate. Llewellys, being a sociable creature, was simultaneously a member of the Rhiannon Fan Club, the Society of Heritage Studies (the most mysterious of student organizations), the unruly crowd of disciples and followers of Dio Chrysostom, and, generally, any chaotic group that formed in the corridors, staircases, and galleries, whether in the evenings or during breaks. In short, during the lessons on the language of beasts and birds, he would run both hands through his hair, gape wide-mouthed, and follow every subtle change in the delicate and wondrous features of the teacher. Gwydion was one of the few male students who more or less kept his wits about him.

Doctor Rhiannon, dressed in green-blue robes, her dark hair partly pinned back and partly cascading like a waterfall, was saying:

“If we turn to the comparative typology of the fox language and the deer language, the first thing that strikes us is the variability of the former and the archaism of the latter. The fox language sensitively reacts to the slightest changes in habitat and immediately develops words for a variety of new concepts, while the deer language has remained practically unchanged for tens of thousands of years, preserving a highly archaic structure. The foxes have a literary language based on a translation of the Bible by Saint Reynard, whereas the deer language is essentially a collection of dialects. Speaking of dialect zones…”

Gwydion nudged his friend in the side.

“Lleu, about fox dialects!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Llewellys mumbled.

“Would a steppe fox-corsac understand a Siberian fox? Yes—in broad terms, excluding terms related to local terrain, vegetation, and the like. Would an urban scavenger fox understand a forest fox, Gwydion, son of Cleddyf?”

“Yes, except for some specific vocabulary related to hunting and burrows.”

“Absolutely correct, but can such differences be called dialectal if these foxes come from the same geographic region?”

“No, they’re more like sociolects,” Gwydion forgot to nudge Llewellys and became completely absorbed in the lesson.

Hastily scribbling the last lines of invaluable information in scrawled handwriting, he would finally look up to see that the map of fox habitats had already been rolled up, his classmates—having stuffed their notebooks into their bags and howling like foxes—had gone off to their Latin lesson, Llewellys waiting for him by the door, and Doctor Rhiannon, cheerfully chatting with a blackbird perched on the windowsill, was removing large diagrams from the board. These showed the intonational patterns of fox howls: “Oh, good heavens, kind foxes, what is the world coming to?” and “My bitter fate—bitter and unpalatable.”

Notes:

1. Doctor Rhiannon: A character inspired by Rhiannon from Welsh mythology, often associated with grace, birds, and magical qualities. Her depiction in the book aligns with these traits, adding an ethereal dimension to her teaching.
2. Saint Reynard: A playful reference to Reynard the Fox, a trickster character from medieval European fables. Linking him to a Bible translation is both humorous and fitting for the whimsical nature of the text.
3. Sociolects and dialects: This discussion cleverly mirrors linguistic studies, using animal languages to introduce concepts of sociolinguistics. It enriches the narrative while adding humor through anthropomorphized animal behaviors.