Elphin was widely regarded by the clan as the most unlucky youth who ever lived. Nothing he set his hand to flourished, and nothing he ever attempted came to good. Stories about his astonishing bad luck were told from one end of Gwynedd to the other-like the time he had set out one morning with five others on horseback to hunt wild pigs in the dells around Pencarreth.

The hunting party returned an hour after sunset with three horses missing, two men badly injured, one small pig between them, and all five blaming Elphin-though how he had caused the misfortune, no one was prepared to say precisely. But all agreed it was his fault. “It is no more than we deserve for going out with him,” they said. “From now on, either he stays back or we do.”

Once he traveled with his father and a few kinsmen to a nearby village for the burial of a revered clan chief. Being Lord Gwyddno’s son, Elphin was given the honor of leading the horse-drawn bier to the cromlech where the body would be laid to rest. The trail to the burial place passed through a beech copse and up a steep hill.

As the bier crested the hill, a screech went up and a flurry of wings resolved itself into a covey of terrified quail taking flight. Although Elphin held tight to the reins, the horses reared, the bier tilted, and the body slid off to roll down the hill in a most startling and undignified manner. Elphin barely managed to escape joining his host in the cromlech.

Another time Elphin was out on the estuary in a small boat, fishing the tideflow, when the anchor line gave way and the boat was swept out to sea. His kinsmen thought they had seen the last of him, but he returned the next day, tired and hungry but unharmed, having lost the boat-nets, catch, and all-on some rocks a fair distance up the coast.

Other catastrophes large and small visited Elphin with dependable regularity. It was as if the day of his birth had been cursed so that he lived under a dark star, although no one could recollect any such spell. And as Gwyddno was a just and respected lord, there was little reason why anyone would want to curse his issue.

Be that as it may, Elphin’s chances of succeeding his father as lord were exceedingly slim. No one would follow a man known to be unlucky; and for such a man to become king would betoken certain destruction for the clan. In fact, the clan had begun to discuss the problem among themselves and some of the older members were now seen making the sign against evil whenever Elphin’s back was turned. It was clear to Gwyddno that a solution would be needed soon.

Gwyddno, who dearly loved his son, was determined to help him all he could. What was needed was a clear demonstration of a reversal of Elphin’s luck. This was where the salmon weir came in.

In a few days it would be Beltane, a most propitious time of year. A day when herds and fields would be blessed and the Earth Goddess importuned and appeased for a plentiful harvest in the fall. A day of strong magic. If a wealth of salmon were taken from the weir on this day it would be a portent of good fortune for the year to come. And if Elphin were the man to take the salmon, no one could call him unlucky.

As it was Gwyddno’s custom to give the take of the Dyvi weir to a clansman on this day each year, he decided that this year the man would be Elphin. In this way, the world would see whether his son’s fortunes would ever improve or if he would go to his grave as luckless as he had come from his mother’s womb.

Gwyddno fingered his tore and smiled to himself as he turned away from the workers on the estuary. It was a good solution. If Elphin succeeded in a good catch, his fortunes would change; if not, he was no worse off than before and the tribes could begin searching among Gwyddno’s younger cousins and nephews for an heir.

The king walked back among the clustered dwellings of the caer: sturdy log-and-thatch, most of them, but here and there one of the low, round houses of an earlier time still stood. Nearly three hundred kinsmen-members of two related fhains who could trace their descent back to a common ancestor-called Caer Dyvi home and sought refuge behind its encircling ditch and stout wooden palisade.

Gwyddno moved through the village, greeting his people, stopping now and then to exchange a word or hear a comment from one of them. He knew them all well, knew their hopes and fears, their dreams for themselves and their children, their hearts and minds. He was a good king, well-loved by those he ruled, including the lords of the outlying cantrefs who paid tribute to him as overlord.

Red pigs rooting for acorns squealed and scattered as he came to stand beside the council oak in the center of the caer. An iron bar hung by a leather strap from one of the lower branches. Taking up the iron hammer, Gwyddno struck the bar several times. In a moment clansmen began gathering to his summons.

When most of the older tribesmen were present, he said, speaking in a loud voice, “I have called council to announce my choice for the take of my salmon weir two days hence.” This news was greeted with murmurs of approval. “I choose Elphin.”

The murmurs ceased. This was unexpected. Men looked to one another and several made the sign against evil behind their backs. “I know what you are thinking,” Gwyddno continued. “You Believe Elphin ill-favored”

“He is cursed!” muttered someone from the crowd, and there was general agreement.

“Silence!” someone else shouted. “Let our chief speak.”

“The salmon weir shall be Elphin’s test. If he brings back a great catch, the curse is broken.”

“If not?” demanded one of the clansmen.

“If he fails, you may begin searching for an heir. I will not remain king beyond Sarnhain. It is time to choose a new leader.”

This last and more important news was received in respectful silence. Elphin’s luck was one matter, choosing a king was another. “Return to your work. That is all I have to say,” said Gwyddno, and thought: “There, it is done. Let them chew on that.”

As the tribe dispersed, Hafgan, the clan’s bard, came forward, wrapped in his long blue robe although it was a bright spring day.

“Cold, Hafgan?” said Gwyddno.

The druid twisted his face and cast an eye toward the sun, now standing at midday. “I feel the chill of a snow that will be.”

“Snow? Now?” Gwyddno looked up at the high clouds floating across the sun-washed sky. “But it is nearly Beltane-winter snows are past.”

Hafgan grunted and pulled his robe around him. “I will not argue about the weather. You did not consult me about this matter of the salmon weir. Why?”

Gwyddno turned his eyes away. He disliked entrusting too much to a druid-one who neither fought, nor married, nor devoted himself to anything normal men might do.

“Your answer is slow in coming,” observed Hafgan. “A lie often sticks in the throat.”

“I will not lie to you, Hafgan. I did not consult you because I did not think it wise.”

“How so?”

“Elphin is my only son. A man must do for his true sons what he can to advance their fortunes. I made up my mind that Elphin should have the take of the weir this year. I did not want you to gainsay the plan.”

“You Believed I would interfere?”

Gwyddno looked at the ground.

“There was your mistake, Gwyddno Garanhir. Your plan showed wisdom, but the weather will go against you. I could have told you.”

Gwyddno’s head snapped up. “The snow!”

The bard nodded. “A storm is coming. Wind and snow from the sea. The salmon will be late and the weir empty.”

Gwyddno shook his head sadly. “You must not tell Elphin. There may still be something for him.”

The druid huffed and made to turn away. “The Great Mother is ever generous.”

“I will make an offering at once. Perhaps it will help.”

“Do not think you will turn aside the storm,” called Hafgan over his shoulder.