Communicating can often be like playing charades while doing an obstacle-race in the dark (and that’s when everything goes according to plan, too!). We must predict and guess what other people are thinking when we speak to them, and we have to be really careful when interpreting their meanings to avoid deep-seated prejudice {Plain Words}. Even then, it’s so easy for underhanded interlocutors to try and massage us, convince us, use us, and control us using captivating but soporific words especially when they set upon our minds by over-using senseless phrases such as the following – “mis-speaking in the name of a greater truth, performing wonderfully under the most difficult circumstances, working day and night whilst straining every sinew, focusing on progress rather than problems, that’s an excellent question but there are no easy answers, the truth of the matter is that our cast-iron commitments are under constant review, achieving wonderful results in extremely difficult circumstances, I don’t want to comment on this ongoing situation but just let me say we won’t rule anything out at this stage, our general policy is not to comment publicly on individual cases but this is a complete no-brainer and everything’s still on the table.” In the sphere of education, we don’t escape either and are plagued mercilessly by weasel words like “added value, attainment metrics, enablement, engagement, excellence, innovation, measurable outcomes, world-beating research.” Do not allow yourself to be enchanted by such sickening linguistic miscarriages!

 

“Waking the Slumbering Giant”

Ms Sesiline Arian

 

 

Friends, Eyrthlets, Fellow Wizards! Here's your favourite Fred, sharing a juicy secret or two once again! What about this? I’ve been attending sessions on Beguiling Bewitchery in Comrades’ Hall in Hellsgate town centre recently {Enlightenment}. I sat the exam at the end of the course, and we needed to speak fluently in the Oldest Language of the Sothern Continent (probably) about topics such as theoretical alchemy, scientific astrology, contemporary numerology, and so on. A rather frightening woman and her son from abroad called Deldru and R'dlu (aviation engineers, I think) were in charge. All the words were very short (like "li, tha, ru, ha, ho, si, he, ni, sa, a, ra, ze") and you could put them in different orders and combine them to say anything you wanted.

 

I did tons of work preparing, including writing scripts beforehand and learning them off by heart. So, it’s fair to say that I don’t know a lot about such things. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, nor mention a word of what I recited on the day, as it’s highly confidential. But I can say I enjoyed that part of the exam very much, and I passed, thank goodness, although it was touch and go in places. So instead of going on about that, I’ve decided to be light-hearted for a change and express my comedic voice by sharing some details with you about my background and my life up to now. 

 

Anyway, to change the subject a bit (“stirring the cat in the pan” we say here in Kimbria, but I’d never hurt such a lovely creature!). I’ve been learning Kimbric for ages now you know, always learning, perhaps. I come from the Midlands originally of course, near the centre-point of our small but magical land, according to the Ordnance Survey. I went to work somewhere else in the end (I can’t say where, it’s private) as a magical scientician. I’m a special boy you see (as my demoniacal dad used to say), and I used to do experiments till I had a bit of trouble with the job. Then I came back to sunny Kimbria years ago when a co-worker had an accident in the workplace, but I wasn’t to blame, and I didn’t cause the problem either. I’m a bit of a wizard in the bio-alchemy laboratory, I’ll tell you.

 

I was trying to create an “elixir of youth,” mun (well, beauty cream for spots and wrinkles). I didn’t have any issues with the task myself, but everything went horribly wrong, to tell the truth, when I brought my lucky changeable-colour cat Rosepetal into the lab and she ate all the stuff instead of her usual “Puss-purrfect Moggy Munch.” She almost went completely invisible – like a ghost in the mist, in a way – when I inadvertently shouted out the top-secret magic words, “D— E—” {Datta Etgar-íym}. The good Doctor named Richard Radish (I'm not using his correct name for security reasons, although one must say he’s an extraordinarily good vitenergispex [“bio-ergo-mancer” — P.M.], despite all the problems we experienced) had a terrible shock when he heard the sound of something unseen purring on his desk, and threw his cup of cold loopy-lichen tshay over her. Oh, the little creature went bonkers and jumped into the vat of “saltatory salve” wailing like a banshee. The slimy liquid went everywhere, Richard slipped, and fell on my dear familiar spirit, swearing like a tom-cat and turning the air blue. 

 

I don’t want to chat on about it, if I’m totally honest; it’s enough to upset anyone. And more than that, I am not allowed to talk about it, because the court order prevents me. It’s enough to say that the cat that was injured by accident has got her appetite back now, but Dr Prichard is still staying off work (I’d say that he’s mitching off), although his broken ribs healed satisfactorily in the end. After that, I had to work in a school as part of the community service, but it was too hard and I had an enormous problem one Sadderday having eaten an exceptionally hot curry the night before (gosh, I love spicy snail curry), but that’s another story [*].

 

Anyway, I’m living at home now on my own in a big house in Yellowhill, with my lodger (or my “letting-lady” to be posh and totally accurate at the same time) called Enwen. It’s very interesting, the name means something like the rather sour milk that remains in the cask when you’ve churned the butter. She’s a lovely lady, and her skin’s actually rather like yellow margarine, but more slimy. I feel like I’ve known her all my life. Needless to say I have to help Enwen in the house, of course. She doesn’t ask me to do lots, because she declares that I’m a bit of a “bird,” whatever that means. But then she says that “birds of a feather flock together,” so everything’ll be OK while we stay here in our comfy nest, I s’pose. 

 

She only shouts at me when I’m a silly boy. Hmm, all the time, then, she’s very busy! In fact, she bawled at me the other day when I lost Dustí Iktzar the Metebelan tarantula (who's usually a lovely shade of Martian red, weirdly enough), and we found him inside my hyper-naturalistic symbolo-emotico arousal-actuator that hasn’t been working for a long time. Dear, dear, it was rib-tickling and sad at the same time, because he was trying to hibernate, or locate a mate maybe (how he got in there, I'll never know!). He was a funny colour by then, too, and he’s still blue, although I tried to paint him, but that didn’t do the trick, I don’t understand why (isn't nature so wonderful?) {Tarantella}. Anyway, back to the main story. Sometimes, I need to go shopping. O, Lordy! 

 

I don’t like shopping at all. In fact, I hate shopping. I think that this is because my mum used to drag me all around town so often, kicking and screaming, when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Every day, it seems, we’d go to hundreds and hundreds of shops. I’d have liked to play in the park if I could have. I was as bored as the most bored thing in the entire world, believe you me. It was hot, and too noisy in the shops, and there were too many people and not enough room to move. I was a cheeky little devil who screamed and cried and tried to run off. Oooh, I still feel like that, from time to time, but I’ve learned that you have to face the music whenever things go wrong. Whatever’s done by night is seen by day, said my dad, and he was quite right (the horrendous old devil!). 

 

Once, I escaped, when mum wasn’t looking, and I went in the lift, where I pressed every button. The lift got stuck, and I needed to be rescued by a fireman. He was a big strong man, wearing a lovely uniform. If it wasn’t for him, I would still be there. After that I had to be attached tightly to mum by a cord, in case I escaped again! And also, I’ve loved firefighters ever since then. And look at me now that I’ve grown up into a tall brave man. Perhaps I can be a fireman someday soon – the saying “The day is coming when the little ones will be on top” comes to mind, I think. I wave at every fire engine every time one of them rushes down our street with its siren blaring loudly when I set the house on fire.

 

So, my most hated thing is shopping, even today. Well, anyway, I’m grown up now, sure enough, and sometimes, I must go shopping, like it or not. A man must eat, they say. I try to plan the trip to the shops when it’s quiet, if I can, not on Sadderday mornings, definitely (I’ve got terrifying memories about that, and I wake up from a nightmare sweating about it now and then. but that’s a totally different story). I make a detailed list of all the things I want to buy, and hope I can find everything in one big shop, in a supermarket, if truth be told. 

 

Tesbyro is the least bad place to shop, and its name means “purring while lying in the sun’s warmth,” I don’t understand why. Never mind about that. I like supermarkets to some extent, you see, as you can play with the trolleys, sliding up and down. Oooh, I’m still a big kid! Well, Once a man, twice a child, is the proverb, and I entirely agree. I had a telling off from the store detective once or twice, or three times, to be honest. Least said about that the better, but his uniform was resplendent. Despite that, I go around the hellish place in the same order every time, from one end to the other, as quickly as possible! And I pretend that it’s a little chapel, full of the aroma of incense and arcane symbols. 

 

And then I go for it, after all, a naked boy plays but a hungry one doesn’t. I’ll begin with fruit and veg (mushrooms and chillies in particular), then bread, butter, and milk, then cereal, after that tinned food (not forgetting curry sauce), and sources of amino-acids like pea-gel, sour-beans, or “Freakifun Protofung.” I finish up with little bottles of bitter beer like “Mad Swan” and a box of sweetmeat for Enwen. I try to choose one that’s full of tasty chocs like Utmaan's Indulgence, because she won’t eat a single one of those, so I can guzzle them all. I would use the self-service check-out desk if I could, but the last time I did that, the thing exploded. We all had to get out of the place while the fireperson put out the flames again – some things never change, do they? 

 

Whatever, I choose the shortest queue, and I smile at the sales assistant in the same way every time. They wear fine uniforms, in my opinion, although some of them are pupils in the upper echelons who’ve got terrible spots, poor things, and that spoils the overall effect, rather. I’ve got a recipe that could help with that, I was working on it when my formal life of indentured servitude ended, and I understand a bit about students too having worked for a while in that infernal school. They told me it opened on Sadderdays and then I rushed in after a curry-night. Oh, there’s a shame, but button your lip, lad, so that there’ll be no more upset and anguish!

 

I wouldn’t like to work there (in the supermarket, to be sure) but then again it’s not possible anyway. I’m not clever enough with folk, unfortunately. I prefer cats (but definitely not beetles) to people, doesn’t bother me, but Enwen’s a real special woman. So, that’s how I go shopping now without too much of a problem, and as a result I’m delighted and as happy as a fish in water. But on the other hand I’m very sad because I haven’t driven a fire engine yet – only a trolley! Steady on cowboy! Ooooh, Good Heavens, doesn’t time fly! Perhaps we can chat again before long, I’ve got lots of other stories. Oh, by the way, seriously, not a single animal was hurt helping with this story. Don’t be a stranger, will you? Cheers for the mo! Fred.

 

 

[WSG] And that’s without mentioning the poisoned gardens of religion where the fake-hope-mongers bandy about puzzling pronouncements like “the oneness of the all is in the wholeness of the one: impure, decrepit, sinful, and fundamentally evil is every divided thing; deserving of destruction are all the Thorlin, spawn of Davuth and Elena who brought disorder and dirtiness, degradation and death into the Realm of Endless Woe; it is better to drown in abyssal angst than be tempted by the lie of transient bliss to defect from the eternal posthumous gifts of IGNIS” [**]. As every one of us is much too aware, all this confusion, the institutional dishonesty, the accepted anomalies, the condoned contradictions, and the complete lack of clarity and transparency have led to the birth of a “fake-reality,” where every grand narrative has been shattered and satire has become reality (and vice-versa). This is an Unspeakable World, where every rule concerning public and private discourse has gone on permanent holiday to all appearances. Here, space expands and shrivels and time-lines criss-cross and get knotted, so that characters slip and slide whilst historical figures and events come to appear contemporary. In this Brave New Meaningless Existence, dissimilarity is seen as the shadow of likeness so there is no way for anyone to recognise truth or falsehood any longer, let alone separate the sheep from the goats. As a result, folk are divided, battling over whether similar differences are more important than distinct correspondences, and the smallest details become the cause of bloody and deadly discord. We have no choice, therefore. We must take possession of our language and be brave enough to begin speaking, discussing, debating, scheming, and screaming as vigorously as possible. This is the only way we can resist, rebel, and in the end, overcome the external enemies seeking to corrupt us inside. Only then, will we become strong enough to avoid being melted down and recast as flesh-puppets dancing to the monotonous tune of a heartless, moribund species.

 

 *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] THE STUPIDEST THING EVER [from a manuscript scribbled by F Llwynlesg on the back of old exam-papers found in the cellar of Challavas Manor. — P.M.] I've done a lot of stupid things during my long life, if I'm honest. Some people would say I’ve done too many of them. Maybe that's right, I don't know now. Anyhow, I'm going to tell you, dear readers, about what happened one sad day, some years ago, when I was living on my own, in a flat in the middle of some large city in the Frozen Wastes of the North in the Oppressive Pink Zone. I was working for a spell at least in an experimental and innovative faith school for unique children, “The Sorrow of the Inveterate Failings” under the control of the Siblings of the Humble Society of Invigilators and Correctors.

 

What was my elevated function, I hear you ask? Well, I was some kind of trainee deputy teaching-assistant at that time, for one reason or another I can't mention now. The situation was great, and I enjoyed everything, in general, apart from the work, as it were. I had to spend a great deal of good time in classrooms (all day, every day, frankly!), and there was much too much administration (questionnaires about success in completing progress forms, registers and detailed plans for each teaching period of less than one minute, and so on, and so forth.) And yes, that's the thing, the place was full of monkeys in uniforms running around everywhere, jumping from desk to desk, and climbing up the walls, and I hated that (although the uniforms were lovely, very fashionable, and highly colourful).

 

In a way, it was a happy accident that I happened to be forced to do my time there under the auspices of Sister Disciplinarian Bridjid. "Zeren-tipití" was my name for that odd cricket, who was always leaping around like a squash-ball, burning everyone with her sarcastic words and her flaming flail. She was so kind as to tell the class every day that there was more intelligence in the little fingernail of the least of them than in my whole body, and mind, and soul. You can imagine the impact such well-deserved and appropriate chastisement had on my ability to perform this complex and difficult job. So holy are the Officers of the EGO! All praise to the Cosmic Power!

 

I felt that I was very good at teaching, but I couldn’t do anything right, as far as I know. (In the opinion of the Definitive Director of Insignificant Instructions and the Loftiest un-Lettered Lectrice at least, who used to perform depraved "religious services" in the official timetabling cubicle all day and all night, whilst inventing, developing, writing, publishing, and implementing the most detailed plans for eradicating evil and enforcing good. And that's without mentioning that so-called inculcator of indescribable applications, the most bellyaching and fussy ferret on the face of this Screeching Sphere, the poisonous imp, who existed there only due to the patronage of his consort, the bullying giantess and mistress of two-faced ambition.) In fact, I was all dazed and confused. If it wasn't for the fact that I was forced to work there, I would have run away at top speed. But other than that, there was one thing keeping me there, some spicy secret (every EIFSUCh or experimental and innovative faith school for unique children contains some occult relic or other), and I was itching to find out something about it.

 

Now then, I regularly used to work until about one o'clock in the morning. And then I’d go to the pub, "The Drunkards’ Demise” (which was conveniently next door to the flat), almost every night after I’d finished the Great Work of filling the young minds with abstruse and explosive information, and then igniting them (as well as getting crushed under mountains of reports, minutes, incomprehensible documents, and worthless paperwork), to guzzle a bottle or four of "Old Crude Oil" and drown my sorrows. (The drink tasted terrible, but that was all they had, and, unholy Wezir, it was so prodigiously strong!)

 

Well, one night, I did that as usual (I'm regular if nothing else, it must be said!). I chatted with the barman Jack (“Bluebeard the Pirate” to the very few of us who were his real friends) O'Nóhrí, gulping down six or so bottles before going to get snail curry in my favourite restaurant, “The Sintu Valley Glory.” That’s when things started going wrong, I think, because after a huge meal, I suddenly realized I had no money, and I had to run round the corner to get cash out of the hole in the wall, but it wasn’t working, worse luck! Isheth help us! Eventually, I found a machine that wasn’t bust, rushed back to the restaurant, and paid the bill. Before staggering home, I left a big tip to make up for all the chaos, and they gave me a small sack of very hot chillies in return. (Maybe there were some of the extremely tasty mushrooms in it, too.) And then, at three o'clock, more or less, in the small, tidy flat (I'm not lying!), after swallowing half the chillies, I fell into the deepest slumber in no time snoring like crazy too, probably.

 

When I woke up to the next day, the morning after the night before and no mistake, everything started to go crazy! “The more you sleep, the longer you live,” they say, but, when I looked at the clock, I saw that it was ten minutes to nine, and I had to perform my sacred duties in the most wonderful educational institution at nine! “Oh dear,” I thought to myself (not to pull any punches). “What could have happened, in the name of the Terrible Old Gods?”, I asked out loud, but no answer came. “Why did I drink so much last night? How could I be so stupid?” And all the time there were those awful, nagging voices reproaching me for my incurable laziness – “No good will come from sleeping late!"

 

I dressed as quick as possible and tried to dash through the dirty streets of the town, my head banging horrendously. Good grief, it was more busy than usual for some reason. There were half-human people everywhere – exhausted parents with tribes of wild kids, cruel-faced elders using pointed sticks to fight through the crowds, and teenagers with nose-rings and tattoos drinking, smoking, thieving, swearing, spitting, and fighting. I don’t want to talk about it, dear friends, but, well, I had, should we say, a horrendous stomach-ache, and certain parts of my anatomy were burning like hellfire.

 

I ran on as best I could, pushing my way through the demonic hordes towards the school site in the middle of the town. I was sweating like a racehorse to be honest, my eyes were red, and I felt as if a pig had shat in my head! And on top of that it was incredibly cold and stinking, brown snow was starting to fall, although it wasn't sticking, but turning to lethally slippery sludge. At last, I reached the gates of the damned institution – thanks to the Inexplicable Order of the Two Worlds – only a couple of minutes late ... but... but ... things were very odd there. It was as quiet as the Eve of Downcast Individualistic Quietude in an Independent Tabernacle, and there were no people at all to be seen rushing around. “Oh, what on the Nw Yrth’s happened?", I thought, "It's like some kind of horror film after a zombie apocalypse" (but without the undead revenants, of course!). Next, I noticed that all the buildings were completely dark – there was not even the smallest glimmer in sight anywhere.

 

Then, in a whipstitch, like a lighting-flash, the truth dawned on me, the words thundering in my ears – “Sadderday ... it’s Swtakh’s Day … Swtakhivé – Sávato, Shumatketshe, Shanivār, Shônibarô, Siga-vakarauwai, Sònsta, Sue’vet! No work on Sadderday ... by the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers ... gotta relax over the weekend ... you can stay in bed ... you need to sleep ... you can forget the numberless worries of this Cruel Eyrth for a while!” I almost fell straight down on the pavement, crying with laughter, I was so relieved. But despite that, cutting across my own voice were the words of some old proverb mocking me – “Short sleep, long life!”

 

For some reason, instead of giggling and prancing about, something different happened. Suddenly, a burning desire to be a very naughty boy came over me, so that I could possess secret information at the expense of the hateful Humble Society. And I knew exactly where to find it. I would never have behaved so badly usually. But there was some perverse and self-destructive imp urging me on, and I acted unhesitatingly. Maybe it was the after-effects of the stupid volume of Crude Oil still running through my inflamed veins. Now, I’m not lacking a talent or two though I don’t like blowing my own trumpet. And although that wonderful troublemaker called Dai Baxter, the Young Trainee, would have a couple of things to teach me in terms of breaking and entering in the future, I already had several magical skills in that department even then, believe me!

 

So, with the dastardly and super-powered “internal aliens” egging me on despite myself, I sneaked round to the briar-patch in the wilderness behind the holy establishment. Having braved (and evaded) the antagonistic thorns, I immediately picked the lock on the hidden trapdoor leading to the subterranean tunnel and clambered down and down, towards the guts of the Cruel Eyrth, it seems. Once I got to the bottom of the shaft, I managed to get past all the explosive traps, the skeletons of the dead adventurers, and the bloated, baying beetles, and to avoid the rampaging, flesh-eating roots of the giant rope-weed. At last, I reached the adamantine gate of the Null Room, shut up with the terrifying Scarlet Seal, probably, or some other Very Colourful Symbol (they always glow in the dark and things like that). I knew that there would be no way for me to get me into the Room – literally or physically. Of course. How does one go into some place that isn't really present on this plane of existence? I'm not very clever but I'm not completely stupid either.

 

But, y’see, I didn't have to do that. Ooh, I was so excited to be able to do the thing I’d been dreaming about for such a long time. I placed my hands on the gate made of the unknown but proverbially hard mineral. Respectfully, I leant forward so that my forehead touched the thick piece of cold material and started reciting under my breath – “Yanoda – Lé-ah – Heyhé – Haolé – Yadash – Miyholé – Taovetz" – over and over again – faster and faster. The words had no conventional meaning in the first place, except the one I wanted to give them, and indeed, by the time I’d been at it, reciting them for half an hour without a break (probably), my brain was almost melting, and I was about to pass out.

 

Then, with the help of the tortuous headache, and with the disgusting taste of the Oil still attacking my tastebuds and making me want to throw up, something happened. I felt like I was becoming part of the door and slipping through it. It was a repulsive feeling, to be honest, as if my churning guts were being pulled out through my nose with a pair of red-hot spoons. But, without warning, there I was, part of the substance of the Room, wherever it really was, and if it existed at all. And, Oh! I was floating in the middle of a pristine void, part of the molecules of the paper and the ink forming the pages of an ancient book, and on them the neat writing of the old Black Doctor himself. I was reading myself – and I was “The Doctrine and Rituals of Transcendental Magic”!

 

I was on cloud nine to discover such a treasure. I was euphoric, like my soul had dissolved. How long I swirled around like that, wherever I was, I can't guess. But then some invisible force began to pull on the scattered threads of my personality, and to my great horror I felt my spiritual form solidifying. No, no, that shouldn't be happening at all. My thoughts were crystallizing inside something resembling a sphere of black hornblende wrapped in a layer of silver so I could never escape from it. And there, I realized, I’d stay forever, damning and blasting, but without a single secret word to enable me to escape.

 

Around me some substance, dark violet and so wetly muscular, was squeezing me like the scaly coils of a basilisk. I was drowning, somehow, in the waves of pain and nausea washing over me. But that was nothing compared with what would happen next. Although I screamed so loudly, I was falling without making any sound at all. Some ... presence ... umbratile and preposterously other ... was approaching me, with enormous wings, smooth, and colourless, and freezing cold, like virgin ice. And although it had a legion of names in every language, living and dead, on the face of the Cruel Eyrth, I did not know at that time a single one of them.

 

But it knew me inside out, including my magical name. No, no, not me! I had released the Starry Light by sneaking in and trying to read the banned book! It was the Avatar of the Telok-vovim! And that shiniest and noisiest entity called fire from the Nw Yrth at last, with its talons of light and its teeth of lightning. I sensed, so full of fear, the pages of that priceless Grimoire, which was also me myself, burning to ashes. And then, abruptly, the world turned inside out, and me with it. Ooh, it was a truly horrid feeling!

 

Six o'clock in the evening. I woke up – not before time – in a right state on the floor of the small kitchen in the flat. Sick, bruised, wounded, bleeding. Barely alive and infernally confused. It was stinking and nobbling cold, although I was burning up. Outside, the crowds of disenfranchised people were finishing their shopping for to the Feeble Festival to celebrate the end of the Season of Long Repentance. (If that was the right word. There wasn’t much enjoying yourself by rejoicing in public or in private on that special occasion, which tended to be sombre, and full of guilt, and shame, and breast-beating.)

 

What a drunken fool I’d been, but by then I’d come to my senses. I’d been playing with fire and had got burned. I just wanted to get a glimpse of what was there, but my blasted curiosity – and the Crude Oil – had got the better of me. I’d intended to discover something interesting and entertaining, that's all, but’d managed to steal, and plunder. I hadn’t wanted to do any harm, but I’d destroyed a unique relic.

 

And now, Oh Sweet Hebé, I'd learned things that I couldn't unknow from then on. I kid you not, I swore that I would be a new man after that gut-wrenching experience. But there again, because I hadn’t been in the Null Room (which was not in our dimension, after all), and because I was still in the land of the living, (if by no means healthy), it was as if nothing had happened, wasn’t it? Or at least just the same old story after a night in the company of Bluebeard the Pirate in the Drunkards’ Demise, I s’pose. The more things change, the more they stay the same (to quote the incomparable old rogue Shaman-no)!

 

I crawled on my hands and knees straight to bed, exhausted after all the excitement, a worthless penitent as usual. And as I began to fall into an uneasy slumber, plagued by nightmares, not about dying, but about living forever in brutal anguish, there was the voice of the old Black Doctor, my voice, prattling – “This is how to make a very powerful magic tool, using the mandragora ... You can then use it to communicate with the frightful Telok-vovim, to find secrets, to rule people and events, and to satisfy your every desire.” I felt like I was melting in a river of living, pitch-black sludge, and the only thing I could do was fart horrendously, and choke back the tears.

 

Very soon thereafter, as a result of the mental and physical injuries I'd just sustained (which, in their turn, would lead to even more incapacitating damage to body and mind) I was transported, somehow or other – and not, I must say, totally, against my will – to the healing-house, and to a turning-point.

 

To conclude: I am writing this down now in order to try and cast the devils out, in vain, I fear, and because I have never been able to tell anyone what actually happened that terrible day. The import of all these events is as clear and as true as I can render it, even through time blurs and smears out as it slips by, doesn't it? I know for certain I was very poorly in the flat for some reason. I am sure I experienced portentous intimations. I seized, very definitely, on the opportunity of ill-health to return to the Beloved Kimbrian Homeland. And I am so, so glad now, as things go from worse to unbearable everywhere, that I slunk my way back home at last. However I got here!

 

Maybe, if the intention (or the outcome) is right, the details cease to matter, in the long run. I feel in my bones that that is the case here. You'll come to realize it in due course too, I hope. [I'm petty sure that this last paragraph is an interpolation by the incorrigible Dr P. It really doesn't sound like good ol' Fred to me at all! — P.M.]

 

[**] Īnstrūmentum Glōriōsissimum ad Necandum et Īnstruendum Sempĭternē – “The Superbest Edifice for Constant Suppression and Instruction (SECSI). — P.M.

 

 

Gall cyfathrebu’n aml fod yn debyg i chwarae siarâds wrth wneud ras rwystrau yn y tywyllwch (a dyna pan fydd popeth yn mynd yn ôl y bwriad, hefyd!). Rhaid i ni ragddweud a dyfalu beth mae pobl eraill yn ei feddwl pan siaradwn ni â nhw, a rhaid i ni fod yn dra gofalus wrth ddehongli’u hystyron i osgoi rhagfarn ddwfn. Hyd yn oed wedyn, mae mor haws i gydsgyrswyr llechwraidd ceisio’n tylino, ein darbwyllo, ein defnyddio, a’n rheoli gan ddefnyddio geiriau cyfareddol ond cysgbair. yn enwedig pan ymosodan nhw ar ein meddyliau trwy or-ddefnyddio ymadroddion disynnwyr fel y canlynol – “cam-dweud yn enw gwirionedd mwy; perfformio’n wych dan yr amgylchiadau anhawsaf; gweithio ddydd a nos wrth roi pob gewyn ar waith; ffocysu ar gynnydd yn hytrach na phroblemau; dyna gwestiwn gwych ond ‘sdim atebion parod; y gwir amdani yw mai’n hymrwymiadau cwbl bendant dan adolygiad cyson; cyflawni canlyniadau ardderchog o dan amgylchiadau anodd iawn; nid wyf am gyflwyno sylwadau am y sefyllfa gyfnewidiol hon dim ond gadewch i fi ddweud nad ydym yn diystyru dim ar hyn o bryd; mae’n bolisi gennym yn gyffredinol beidio â sôn am achosion unigol yn gyhoeddus ond mater hollol syml ydy hyn ac mae’r holl ddewisiadau dan ystyriaeth eto.” Yn sffêr addysg nid ydym yn dianc ‘chwaith ac yn cael ein plagio heb saib gan eiriau slec fel “arloesi, effeithiau mesuradwy, dulliau o fesur cyrhaeddiad, galluogi, gwerth ychwanegol, rhagoriaeth, sgiliau trosglwyddadwy, ymchwil o’r radd flaenaf, ymgysylltu.” Peidiwch â gadael i’ch hun gael eich swyno gan y fath erthyliadau ieithyddol cyfoglyd!

 

“Dihuno’r Cawr yn Cysgu”

Ms Sesiline Arian

 

 

Ffrindiau, Ddaearolion, Gyd Ddewiniaid! Dyma'ch hoff Ffred chi'n rhannu cyfrinach flasus neu ddwy unwaith ‘to. Beth am hyn? Rwy wedi bod yn mynychu sesiynau ar Rheibio Swynol yn Neuadd y Cymrodyr yng nghanol dre Pyrth-y-Fall yn ddiweddar. Nes i sefyll yr arholiad ar ben y cwrs ac roedd rhaid i ni siarad yn rhugl yn Iaith Hynaf y Cyfandir Deheuol (siŵr o fod) am bynciau fel alcemeg ddamcaniaethol, astroleg wyddonol, rhifoleg gymwysedig, ac yn y blaen. Wrth y llyw roedd menyw eitha brawychus a'i mab o dramor, o'r enw  Deldru a R'dlu (peirianwyr hedfanaeth, wi'n meddwl). Roedd y geiriau i gyd yn fyr iawn (fel "li, tha, ru, ha, ho, si, he, ni, sa, a, ra, ze"), a gallech chi'u hail-drefnu nhw a'u cysylltu nhw â'i gilydd i weud unrhyw beth o'ch chi ishe.

 

Nes i lawer o waith wrth baratoi, gan gynnwys sgrifennu sgriptiau o’r blaen llaw a’u dysgu nhw i gyd ar go’. Felly teg dweud taw 'chydig a wn i am y fath bethau. Dw i’m yn gallu dweud wrthoch chi be’n enwedig ddigwyddodd, na chrybwyll gair o’r hyn a adroddais ar y dydd, achos fod e’n gyfrinachol iawn. Ond rwy’n gallu dweud i fi fwynhau’r rhan hon o’r arholiad yn fawr iawn, ac i fi lwyddo, diolch byth, er bod hi’n cael a chael ar adegau! Felly yn lle malu awyr wrth sôn am ‘ny, rwy wedi penderfynu bod yn ysgafngalon am newid a mynegi’n llais doniol i drwy rannu ychydig fanylion gyda chi am ‘y nghefndir a ‘mywyd hyd yn hyn.

 

Ta be, a throi'r gath yn y badell tipyn bach (fel dyn ni'n weud yma yng Nghimbria, ond fyddwn i fyth yn brifo'r fath greadur hyfryd!). Wi’n dysgu Kimbreg ers achau erbyn hyn ch’mod, wastad yn dysgu falle. Wi’n dod o'r Canolbarth yn wreiddiol wrth gwrs, ar bwys pwynt canolog ein gwlad fechan ond hudol ni, yn ôl yr Arolwg Ordnans. Es i i weithio yn rhywle arall yn y pen draw (sa i’n gallu dweud ble, mae’n breifat) fel huddol-wyddai. Achan arbennig dw i, ch’wel (fel y dywedai 'nhad cythreulig), ac o’n i’n arfer neud arbrofion cyn i fi gael tipyn bach o drafferth gyda’r swydd. Wedyn, des i adre i Gimbria heulog flynyddoedd yn ôl pan gaeth cydweithiwr ddamwain yn y gweithle, ond ddim fi oedd ar fai, nac achosais i mo’r problemau chwaith. Peth o ddewin yn y labordy bio-alcemeg dw i, fe weda i wrthoch chi.

 

O'n i’n ceisio creu “elicsir ieuenctid,” w (wel, hufen harddu ar gyfer plorod a rhychau). Do'dd dim problemau 'da fi'n hunan o ran y dasg, ond aeth popeth o'i le'n llwyr, a dweud y gwir, pan ddes i â 'nghath newidliw lwcus i Rosdail i mewn i’r lab a bwytodd hi’r stwff yn lle'i “Byrbrydau Titw” arferol. Bu bron iddi fynd yn hollol anweladwy – fel ysbryd yn y tarth, mewn ffordd – pan sgreches i'r geiriau hudol tra chyfrinachol, “D— E—” yn ddamweiniol. Gaeth y Doethur da o’r enw Rhisiart Rhuddygl (sai'n defnyddio'i enw cywir er rhesymau diogelwch, ond rhaid i ddyn weud taw bio-ergo-swynwr anghyffredin yw e, er gwaetha'r problemau bach ôn ni'n eu profi) sioc aruthrol pan glywodd e sŵn rhywbeth na allai fe weld yn canu grwndi ar i ddesg, a thaflodd e i ddysglaid o de cen crac, oer drosti. O, aeth y greadures fach yn wirion bost a neidio i’r gerwyn o “ennaint llamsachu” gan oernadu fel cyhyraeth. Aeth yr hylif seimllyd ym mhob man, ymlithrodd Rhisiart, a chwympo ar y nyfyn-ysbryd annwyl, gan regi bob yn ail air fel cwrcyn.

 

Sa i eisiau sgwrsio amdani, os wi’n hollol onest, mae'n ddigon i hala rhwng tramp a'i gwdyn. Ymhellach, sa i’n gallu siarad amdani, gan fod gorchymyn y llys yn fy ngwahardd i. Digon yw dweud i’r gath oedd wedi’i hanafu ar hap ailfagu blas at fwyd bellach, ond mae Dr Prisiart yn dal i aros oddi ar waith (fe ddwedwn i taw mitiso bant mae e) er i’w asennau ysig wella’n foddhaol o’r diwedd. Ar ôl hynny oedd yn rhaid i fi weithio mewn ysgol fel rhan o’r gwasanaeth cymuned, ond oedd yn rhy anodd a ges i broblem enfawr un Sobr-ddydd wedi bwyta cyrri eithriadol o boeth y noson gynt (Jiw, wi’n dwlu ar gyri mawlod sbeislyd), ond stori arall yw hynny [*].

 

Ta be, wi’n byw gartre erbyn hyn ar fy mhen fy hunan yn nhŷ mawr ym Mryn Melyn, gyda’n lojar (neu’n “lletywraig” a bod yn posh ac yn fanwl gywir ar yr un pryd) o’r enw Enwen. Mae’n ddiddorol iawn, mae’r enw’n golygu rhywbeth fel y llaeth lled sur sy’n aros yn y fuddai wedi corddi’r ymenyn. Menyw hyfryd yw hi, a’i chroen yn eitha debyg i farjarîn melyn a bod yn onest, ond yn fwy seimllyd. Wi’n teimlo fel sen i wedi nabod hi ar hyd yn oes, ch’wel. Sdim rhaid dweud mod i’n gorfod helpu Enwen yn y tŷ, wrth gwrs. So hi’n gofyn i fi neud llawer, achos bod hi’n datgan mod i’n “dderyn,” beth bynnag mae hynny’n olygu. Ond wedyn fe fydd hi’n dweud bod “adar o'r un lliw hedant i'r un lle,” felly bydd popeth yn iawn tra arhosa hi yma yn yn nyth cysurus, sbo.

 

Fe fydd hi’n gweiddi arna i dim ond os bachgen dwl fydda i. Hmm, drwy’r amser, te, mae hi’n fishi iawn! Mewn gwirionedd, naeth hi arthio’r dydd o’r blaen pan gollais i Dwsti Ictsar y tarantwla Metebelaidd (sy fel arfer yn arlliw hyfryd ar goch Mawrthaidd, ryfedd gweud), a daethon ni o hyd iddo fe tu fewn i'n ysgogydd cynhyrfiad symbolaidd-emosiynol goruwch-anianegol sy’m yn gweithio slawer dydd. Diar, diar, oedd yn ddoniol ac yn drist ar yr un pryd, gan fod e’n trio gaeafgysgu, neu ffeindio cariad, falle (sut aeth e yno, sdim clem da fi!). Oedd e’n lliw od erbyn ny fyd, ac mae dal i fod yn las, er i fi drio beintio fe, ond naeth hynna mo'r tro, sa i’n deall pam (ma natur mor rhyfeddol on'd ydy!). Sut bynnag, yn ôl i’r brif stori. Ambell waith, fe fydd angen i fi siopa. O, nefi bliw!

 

Sa i’n lico siopa o gwbl. Yn wir, wi’n casáu siopa. Wi’n meddwl bod hyn achos bod yn mam yn arfer yn llusgo fi o gwmpas y dre mor aml pan o’n i’n ddim o beth a finnau'n stranco. Bob dydd, mae’n debyg, fe fydden ni’n mynd i gannoedd ar gannoedd o siopau. Fe fyddwn i wedi mwynhau chwarae yn y parc sen i wedi gallu. O’n i mor ddiflas â’r peth mwya diflas yn y byd crwn cyfan, credwch chi fi. Oedd yn boeth, ac yn rhy swnllyd yn y siopau, ac oedd gormod o bobl a dim digon o le i symud. O’n i’n ddiawl bach ewn oedd yn sgrechain a llefain, a thrio rhedeg bant (wi di gweud ny wrthoch chi eisoes, wi'n credu!). Ww, wi’n teimlo fel ny eto, o bryd i'w gilydd, ond wi di dysgu bod rhaid i chi wynebu'r canlyniadau pryd bynnag yr â pethau o chwith. A wnelir liw nos a welir liw dydd, meddai y nhad, ac oedd e yn llygad i le yn i farn (yr hen ddiawl dychrynllyd!).

 

Unwaith, nes i ddianc, pan doedd mam ddim yn edrych, ac es i yn y lifft, lle nes i wthio i bob botwm. Aeth y lifft yn sownd, ac oedd angen arna i gael yn achub gan ddyn tân. Gŵr mawr cryf oedd e, ac yn gwisgo lifrai hyfryd. Oni bai amdano fe, fe fyddwn i yno o hyd. Wedi ny, oedd yn rhaid i fi gael y nghlymu yn dynn i fam gan gordyn, rhag ofn i fi ddianc unwaith to! A hefyd, wi’n dwlu ar ddiffoddwyr tân byth oddi ar hynny. Ac edrychwch arna i nawr, wedi tyfu lan yn ddyn tal, dewr. Falle galla i fod yn ddyn tân ryw ddydd fuan – daw'r dywediad ‘Daw dydd y bydd mawr y rhai bychain” i gof, wi’n meddwl. Fe fydda i’n codi llaw ar bob injan dân bob tro y gwela i un ohonyn nhw’n rhuthro lawr yn stryd ni a’i chorn yn canu’n uchel pan fydda i wedi rhoi’r tŷ ar dân.

 

Felly, y nghas beth yw siopa, hyd yn oed heddi. Wel, ta beth, wi mewn oed nawr, siŵr iawn, ac weithiau, rhaid i fi fynd i siopa, lico neu beidio. Rhaid i ddyn fwyta, meddan nhw. Bydda i’n trio cynllunio taith i’r siopau pan fydd hi’n dawel, os wi’n gallu, ddim ar fore Sobr-ddydd yn bendant (mae da fi gofion brawychus am ny, ac wi’n deffro o hunllef gan chwythu amdani nawr ac yn y man, ond dyna stori hollol wahanol!). Gwna i restr fanwl o’r holl bethau bydda i eisiau prynu, a gobeithio galla i ddod o hyd i bopeth mewn un siop fawr, mewn archfarchnad, mewn gwirionedd.

 

Tesbyro yw’r fan lleia drwg i siopa, a’i henw’n golygu “canu grwndi wrth i chi orwedd yng ngwres yr haul,” sa i’n deall pam. Ni waeth befo am ny. Wi’n lico archfarchnadoedd i ryw fesur, ch’wel, achos bod chi’n gallu chwarae gyda’r trolïau, gan sglefrio lan a lawr. Www, crwtyn mawr dw i to! Wel, unwaith yn ddyn, dwywaith yn blentyn yw’r ddihareb, ac wi’n cytuno’n llwyr. Ges i bryd o dafod gan dditectif y siop, unwaith neu ddwy, neu dair, a bod yn onest. Gorau po leia a ddywedir am ny te, ond oedd i lifrai’n ysblennydd. Serch ny, a i o gwmpas y lle uffernol yn yr un drefn bob tro, o'r naill ben i'r llall, cyn gynted â phosib! Ac fe fydda i’n cymryd arna i taw capel bychan ydy, ac yn llawn gwynt arogldarth a symbolau cyfrin.

 

Ac wedyn, mynd ati na i, wedi’r cwbl, chwery mab noeth, ni chwery mab newynog. Fe ddechreua i gyda ffrwythau a llysiau (madarch a tsilis yn enwedig), wedyn bara, menyn a llaeth, wedyn grawnfwyd, ar ôl ny bwyd mewn tun (heb anghofio saws cyrri), a ffynonellau asidau amino fel gel pys, ffa wedi suro, neu “Chwilhwyl Protoffwng.” Fe gwpla i da photeli bychain o gwrw chwerw fel “Alarch Gwirion” a bocs o felysfwyd i Enwen. Ceisia i ddewis un sy’n llawn dop o siocledi blasus fel Boddhad Wtman, achos fydd hi ddim'n bwyta’r un o’r rheiny, felly, galla i’u llowcio nhw i gyd. Fe fyddwn i’n defnyddio’r ddesg dalu helpu'ch hunan pe gallwn i, ond y tro diwetha nes i ny, naeth y peth ffrwydro. Gorfu i ni oll symud mas o’r lle tra oedd y tân-ddiffoddydd yn diffodd y fflamau unwaith to – dyw rhai pethau byth yn newid, ydyn nhw?

 

Ta p’un i, dewisa i’r ciw byrrach, a gwena i ar y cynorthwywyr gwerthu’r un modd bob tro. Fe fyddan nhw’n gwisgo lifreion cywrain, yn y marn i, er fod rhai ohonyn nhw’n ddisgyblion yn y rhengoedd ucha sy’n blorynnog ofnadw, trueiniaid bach, a dyna'n sbwylo'r effaith esthetig gyfan, i ryw raddau. Fi sy biau rysáit a allai helpu gyda ny, o’n i’n gweithio arni pan ddaeth yn oes waith ffurfiol i ben ac wi’n deall tipyn bach am fyfyrwyr hefyd wedi gweithio am dipyn bach yn yr ysgol gythreulig na. Fe ddwedon nhw wrtha i i bod hi ar agor ar Sobr-ddydd, ac wedyn, nes i ruthro i mewn ar ôl noson gyri. O dyna resyn o beth, ond gad dy lap achan, fel na fydd rhagor o drafferth a helynt!

 

Licwn i’m gweithio yno (yn yr archfarchnad wrth bob rheswm) ond eto i gyd so fe’n bosib ta be. Sa i’n ddigon clyfar gyda phobl, yn anffodus. Mae’n well da fi gathod na bodau dynol (ond ddim chwilod, yn bendant!), sdim ots da fi, ond menyw reit sbesial yw Enwen. Felly, dyna sut wi’n mynd i siopa nawr heb ormod o broblem ac o ganlyniad wi wrth yn modd ac mor llawen â'r gog. Ond ar y llaw arall wi’n drist iawn achos mod i ddim wedi gyrru injan dân to – dim ond troli! Gan bwyll gowboi! Www, neno'r daioni, on’d yw'r amser yn mynd heibio'n gyflym! Falle byddwn ni’n sgwrsio cyn bo hir, mae na lawer o straeon eraill da fi. O gyda llaw, o ddifri, ddim yr un anifail gaeth i nafu wrth helpu gyda’r stori ma. Peidiwch â bod yn ddieithr da chi! Pob hwyl am y tro! Ffred.

 

[DCC] A dyna heb sôn am erddi gwenwynig crefydd, ble mae masnachwyr gobaith ofer yn taflu o gwmpas ddatganiadau astrus fel “mae undod y cyfan yng nghyfanrwydd yr un: amhûr, musgrell, pechadurus, a drwg yn y bôn ydy pob peth rhanedig; haeddu eu difa y mae’r Thorlin oll yn epil i Davuth ac Elena a ddaeth ag anrhefn ac aflendid, llygredd a marwolaeth i Fro Trallod Anorffen; gwell boddi mewn ing affwysol na chael eich temtio gan gelwydd dedwyddwch darfodedig i wrthgilio o anrhegion tragwyddol yr UFEL [**] yn aros ar ôl marwolaeth.” Fel mae pob un ohonom yn rhy ymwybodol o lawer, mae’r holl ddryswch hwn, yr anonestrwydd swyddogol, yr anghysondebau wedi’u harddel, y croes-ddweud wedi’i gymeradwyo, a’r diffyg llwyr o eglurder a thryloywder wedi arwain at eni “ffug-realedd,” ble mae pob naratif mawr wedi’i chwalu’n deilchion a dychan wedi dod yn ddirwedd (ac yn groesymgroes). Dyma Fyd Anhraethol, ble mae pob rheol yn ymwneud â thrafodaethau cyhoeddus a phreifat wedi mynd ar wyliau parhaol yn ôl pob ymddangosiad. Yma, mae’r gofod yn ymestyn a chrebachu a llinellau amser yn cris-croesi a mynd yn gylymau, fel bod cymeriadau’n llithro a sglefrio wrth i ffigurau a phenodau hanesyddol ddod i ymddangos yn gyfoes. Yn y Fodolaeth Anystyrlon Newydd Braf hwn, mae gwahaniaeth i’w weld fel cysgod tebygrwydd nes nad oes modd i neb gydnabod gwirionedd nac anwiredd mwyach, llai fyth didoli’r defaid oddi wrth y geifr. O ganlyniad, mae’r werin yn cael ei rhannu wrth frwydro dros a ydy gwahaniaethau tebyg yn bwysicach na chyffelybiaethau gwahanol. a’r manylion lleiaf yn dod yn achos anghytgord gwaedlyd a marwol. Nid oes gennym ddewis felly. Bydd yn rhaid i ni feddu ar ein hiaith a bod yn ddigon dewr i ddechrau siarad, trafod, dadlau, cynllwynio, a sgrechian mor egnïol ag y bo modd. Dyma’r unig ffordd y gallwn ni wrthsefyll, gwrthryfela, ac, yn y pen draw, goresgyn y gelynion allanol a ddymuna’n llygru y tu mewn. Dim ond wedyn y byddwn ni’n dod yn ddigon cryf i osgoi cael ein toddi a’n hailfwrw ar ffurf pypedau cnawdol yn dawnsio i alaw undonog rhywogaeth galon-galed ar ddarfod.

 

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[*] Y TWPA PETH ‘RIOED [o lawysgrif wedi’i sgriblan gan Ff Llwynlesg ar gefn hen bapurau arholiad a ddarganfuwyd yn seler Maenordy Challavas. — P.M.] Wi di neud llawer o bethau twp yn ystod ‘y mywyd hir i, os wi’n onest. Dwedai rhai pobl i fi neud gormod ohonyn nhw. Falle fod hynny’n gywir, sai’n gwybod nawr. Ta be, wi’n mynd i weud wrthoch chi, annwyl ddarllenwyr, am beth ddigwyddodd un dydd trist, rai blynyddoedd yn ôl, pan ôn i’n byw ar ‘y mhen fy hunan, mewn fflat yng nghanol rhw ddinas fawr yn Anialdir Rhewllyd y Gogledd yn y Parth Pinc Gormesol. Ôn i’n gwîtho am sbel o leia i ysgol ffydd arbrofol ac arloesol i blant unigryw, “Dolur y Ffaeleddau Anniwygiadwy” dan reolaeth Brodyr a Chwiorydd Cymdeithas Ostyngedig Arolygwyr a Chywirwyr.

 

Be ôd ‘yn swyddogaeth dra phwysig, wi’n eich clywed chi’n gofyn? Wel, rhw fath o ddirprwy gynorthwyydd dysgu dan hyfforddiant ôn i bryd ‘ny, am rw reswm neu’i gilydd sai’n gallu cyfeirio ato nawr. Ôdd y sefyllfa’n wych a finnau’n mwynhau popeth yn gyffredinol, ar wahân i’r gwaith fel petai. Ôdd yn rhaid i fi hala llawer iawn o amser mewn stafelloedd dosbarth (drwy’r dydd, bob dydd, a gweud y gwir!), ac ôdd gormod o lawer o weinyddiaeth (holiaduron am lwyddiant o ran llenwi ffurflenni cynnydd, cofrestrau a chynlluniau manwl ar gyfer pob cyfnod addysgu o lai nag un funud, ac yn y blaen, ac ati). Ac ie, dyna’r peth, ôdd y lle’n llawn o fwncïod hy mewn iwnifformau’n rhedeg o gwmpas ym mhob man, yn neidio o ddesg i ddesg, a’n dringo lan y waliau, ac ôn i’n casáu ‘ny (er bod yr iwnifformau’n hyfryd, yn ffasiynol iawn ac yn dra lliwgar).

 

Mewn ffordd, ôdd yn ddamwain ffodus i fi ddigwydd câl ‘y ngorfodi i fwrw ‘nhymor yno o dan nawdd y Chwaer Ddigyblreg Bridjid. “Zeren-tipití” ôdd fy enw i ar y cricsyn od ‘na, ôdd wastad yn llamu o gwmpas fel pêl sboncen, gan losgi pawb gyda’i geiriau coeglyd a’i fflangell fflamllyd. Ôdd hi mor garedig ag i weud wrth y dosbarth bob dydd fod 'na fwy o ddeallusrwydd yn ewin bys bach yr un lleia ohonyn nhw nag yn ‘yn holl gorff, a meddwl, ac enaid. Chi’n gallu dychmygu’r effaith gâi'r fath gystwyad haeddiannol a phriodol ar fy ngallu i berfformio’r swydd gymhleth ac anodd 'ma. Mor lân Swyddogion yr EFE! Pob clod i’r Pŵer Cosmig!

 

Ôn i’n teimlo mod i’n dda iawn am ddysgu, ond ôn i’m yn gallu neud dim byd yn gywir, am a wn i. (Ym marn Cyfarwyddwr Diamheuol Cyfarwyddiadau Diystyr a'r Ddarlithwraig Ddyrchafedicaf heb Ddoethuriaeth o leia, a arferai berfformio "gwasanaethau crefyddol llygredig" yn y cwtsh amserlennu swyddogol drwy'r dydd a gyda'r nos, wrth ddyfeisio, ddatblygu, ysgrifennu, cyhoeddi, a gweithredu'r cynlluniau mwyaf manwl ar gyfer dileu drygioni a gorfodi da. A dyna heb sôn am yr argymhellwr bondigrybwyll cymwysiadau annisgrifiadwy 'na, y ffured fwya cwynfanllyd a ffwdanus ar wyneb y Sffêr Sgrechlyd ‘ma, y pwca gwenwynig, na fyddai wedi bodoli yno ond o ganlyniad i nawdd ei wraig y gawres o fwli a'r feistres ar uchelgais ddauwynebog.) Mewn gwirionedd, ôn i’n ddryslyd a dan bwysau. Oni bai am y ffaith mod i’n câl ‘y ngorfodi i wîtho yno, fe fydden i wedi rhedeg bant nerth ‘y nhrâd. Ond heblaw hynny, ôdd un peth yn ‘y nghadw i yno, rhw gyfrinach sbesial (mae pob YFfAABU neu ysgol ffydd arbrofol ac arloesol i blant unigryw'n cynnwys rhw grair ocwlt  neu'i gilydd), ac ôn i’n ysu am ffeindio ma’s rwbeth amdani.

 

Nawr te, ôn i’n arfer gwîtho tan tua un o’r gloch y bore’n rheolaidd. Ac wedyn bydden i’n mynd i’r dafarn, “Dinistr y Diotwyr” (ôdd yn gyfleus y drws nesa i’r fflat), bron bob nos ar ôl i fi gwpla’r Gwaith Mawr o lenwi’r meddyliau ifanc gyda gwybodaeth astrus a ffrwydrol, ac wedyn eu tanio nhw (yn ogystal â chael 'ngwasgu dan fynyddoedd o adroddiadau, cofnodion, dogfennau annealladwy, a gwaith papur di-werth), i lowcio potel neu bedair o “Hen Olew Crai” a boddi ‘ngofidiau i. (Ôdd y ddiod ‘na’n blasu’n ofnadw, ond dyna i gyd ôdd gyda nhw, a, neno Wezir, ôdd mor andros o gryf!).

 

Wel, un noson, nes i hynny fel arfer (wi’n rheolaidd uwchlaw dim, raid dweud!). Sgwrsies i gyda’r barmon Jac (“Glasfarf y Môr-leidr” i’r ychydig iawn ohonon ni ôdd yn wir ffrindiau iddo fe) O'Nóhrí, wrth lyncu rhw chwe photel cyn mynd i gael cyrri malwod yn ‘yn hoff dŷ bwyta o’r enw “Gogoniant Dyffryn Sintu.” Dyna pan ddechreuodd pethau’n mynd o chwith, wi’n meddwl, achos ar ôl cwpla pryd enfawr, nes i sylweddoli’n sydyn dôdd dim arian da fi, ac ôdd yn rhaid i fi redeg rownd y gornel i dynnu arian o’r twll yn y wal, ond dôdd e’m yn gwîtho, gwaetha’r modd! Isheth a’n helpo! Yn y pen draw, des i o hyd i beiriant nad ôdd wedi torri i lawr, rhuthro nôl i’r bwyty, a thalu’r bil. Cyn gwegian adre, gadawes i gildwrn sylweddol i dalu’n iawn am yr holl helynt, a rhoddon nhw sachaid fach o tsilis tra phoeth i fi yn eu tro. (Falle bod rhai o’r madarch eithriadol o flasus ynddi ‘fyd.) Ac yna, am dri o’r gloch mwy neu lai, yn y fflat fach, daclus (sai’n dweud celwydd!), ar ôl llyncu hanner y tsilis, fe gwympes i i gysgu fel twrch mewn dim o amser,  gan rochian fel mochyn fyd, siŵr o fod.

 

Pan ddihunes i’r dydd nesa, drannoeth y ffair fel petai, fe aeth hi'n helynt! “Po fwyaf y cwsg, hwyaf yr einioes,” meddan nhw, ond, pan edryches i ar y cloc, gweles i ei  bod hi’n ddeg munud i naw, ac ôn i’n gorfod perfformio ‘nyletswyddau sanctaidd yn y sefydliad addysgol ardderchocaf am naw! “O diar,” meddylies wrtha i’n hunan (a siarad yn blwmp ac yn blaen). “Be alle fod wedi digwydd, neno’r Hen Dduwiau Dychrynllyd?” ôn i’n holi’n uchel, ond dôdd dim ateb yn dod. “Pam yfes i gymaint neithiwr? Sut medrwn i fod mor dwp?” A drwy’r amser dyna ôdd y lleisiau anynad, ofnadw’n  dannod y segurdod anwelladwy i fi – “Ni cheir da o hir gysgu!”

 

Gwisges i mor gyflym â phosib a thrio gwibio drwy strydoedd brwnt y dre, a ‘mhen i’n curo’n enbyd. Bobol bach, ôdd yn fwy prysur nag arfer am ryw reswm. Ôdd pobl hanner dynol ym mhob man – rhieni lluddedig da llwythau o gryts gwyllt, henwyr creulon eu hwynebau’n defnyddio ffyn miniog i frwydro drwy’r tyrfaoedd, a phlant yn eu harddegau da thlysau trwyn a thatŵs yn yfed, smoco, lladrata, rhegi, poeri, a ffraeo. Sai’n moyn sôn amdani, ffrindiau annwyl, ond, wel, ôdd, ddylwn ni weud, fola tost arswydus arna i, ac ôdd rhannau neilltuol o ‘nghorff i’n llosgi ar y diawl.

 

Rhedes i ‘mlaen orau y gallwn i, gan wthio’n ffordd drwy’r llengoedd cythreulig hyd at safle’r ysgol yng nghanol y dre. Ôn i’n chwysu fel ceffyl a dweud y gwir, ôdd ‘yn llygaid i’n goch, ac ôn i’n teimlo fel ‘se mochyn wedi cachu yn ‘y mhen i! Ac ar ben 'ny, ôdd yn andros o oer ac yn dechrau bwrw eira brown, drewllyd, er dôdd e'm yn aros am hir, ond yn troi'n slwj ôdd yn farwol o lithrig. O’r diwedd, cyrhaeddes i byrth y sefydliad uffernol – diolch i Drefn Anesboniadwy’r Ddau Fyd – ddim ond gwpl o funudau’n hwyr ... ond ... ond ... ôdd pethau’n od iawn ‘na. Mor dawel â Noswaith Llonyddwch Arwahanol Athrist mewn Tabernacl Annibynnol ôdd hi, a dôdd dim pobl o gwbl i’w gweld yn rhuthro o gwmpas. “O, be ar y Nw Yrth sy di digwydd?”, meddyliwn i, “Mae fel rhwbeth o ffilm arswyd ar ôl apocalyps sombi” (ond heb y meirwon wedi'u hadfywio wrth gwrs!). Nesa, sylwes i fod yr adeiladau i gyd yn hollol dywyll – dôdd hyd yn oed y golau lleia ddim i’w weld yn unman.

 

Wedyn, chwap, fel mellten, fe wawriodd y gwir arna i, a’r geiriau’n taranu yn ‘y nghlustiau i – “Sobr-ddydd ... dydd Swtach yw hi ... Swtachivé – Sávato, Shumatketshe, Shanivār, Shônibarô, Siga-vakarauwai, Sònsta, Sue’vet! Sdim gwaith ar Sobr-ddydd  ... myn y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd ... rhaid ymlacio dros y penwythnos ... galli di aros yn y gwely ... byddi di angen cysgu ... ti’n medru anghofio am ofidiau aneri’r Ddaear Greulon ‘ma am ysbaid!” Bu bron i fi gwympo i lawr ar y palmant, dan grio chwerthin, ôn i wedi esmwytho i’r fath raddau. Ond serch hynny, yn taro ar draws ‘yn llais ‘yn hunan ôdd geiriau rhw hen ddihareb yn ‘y ngwatwar i – “Byr ei hun, hir ei hoedl!”

 

Am rw reswm, yn lle piffian a phrancio, nâth rwbeth gwahanol ddigwydd. Yn sydyn, fe ddaeth awydd ysol neud rhw ddrwg drosta i, fel gallen i feddu ar wybodaeth gyfrin ar draul y Gymdeithas Ostyngedig ffiaidd. Ac fe wyddwn ble yn union i’w ffeindio. Fydden i ‘rioed wedi bihafio mor ddrwg â hynny fel arfer. Ond ôdd rhw ellyll gwrthnysig ac hunanddinistriol yn ‘y ngwthio i ‘mlaen, a nes i weithredu’n ddibetrus. Falle taw ôl-effeithiau'r cyfaint twp o Olew Crai ôdd hi, yn dal i redeg trwy ‘ngwythiennau llid. Nawr, nage heb dalent neu ddwy dwi er dwi’m yn lico seinio ‘nghlodydd ‘yn hunan. Ac er byddai gan y ci twrw campus ‘na o’r enw Dai Baxter yr Hyfforddai Ifanc, beth neu ddau i’w ddysgu i fi o ran torri i mewn i lefydd yn y dyfodol, ôdd eisoes sawl sgil hudol ynghylch y fath bethau da fi bryd hynny, gredwch chi fi!

 

Felly, a'r “aliwns mewnol” gwarthus gyda'u huwchrymoedd yn y mhrocio i er gwaetha'n hunan, nes i snecian rownd i'r clwt drysi yn yr anialdir tu ôl i'r sefydliad glân. Wedi herio (ac osgoi) y drain gelyniaethol, fe ddatodes i'n syth y clo ar y trapddor cuddiedig yn arwain i’r twnnel tanddaearol a bustachu dringo i lawr ac i lawr, tuag at berfeddion y Ddaear Greulon, mae’n ymddangos. Unwaith i fi gyrraedd gwaelod y siafft, fe lwyddes i i fynd heibio i’r holl faglau ffrwydrol, sgerbydau’r anturiaethwyr marw, a’r chwilod chwyrnog chwyddedig, ac i osgoi gwreiddiau  cigysol gwyllt y chwyn rhaff enfawr. O’r diwedd fe gyrhaeddes i borth adamantaidd yr Ystafell Anfodol, wedi’i selio â’r Sêl Sgarlad arswydus, siŵr o fod, neu rw Symbol Lliwgar Iawn arall (maen nhw bob tro’n eiriasu yn y tywyllwch a phethau fel hynny). Fe wydden i na fyddai modd ar unrhyw Fyd i fi fynd i fewn i’r Ystafell – yn llythrennol na’n gorfforol. Wrth reswm. Sut mae dyn yn mynd i mewn i ryw le sy ddim yn bodoli ar y plân ‘ma o fodolaeth? Sai’n glyfar iawn ond sai’n hollol dwp chwaith.

 

Ond, ch’wel, dôdd dim rhaid i fi neud hynny. Www, ôn i mor llawn cyffro o allu neud y peth ôn i di bod yn breuddwydio amdano ers tro byd. Fe osodes i ‘nwylo ar y porth wedi’i neud o’r mwyn anhysbys ond diarhebol o galed ‘na. Gyda pharch, nes i bwyso ‘mlaen fel bod ‘y nhalcen yn cyffwrdd â’r darn trwchus o ddeunydd oer a dechrau adrodd dan ‘y ngwynt – “Yanoda – Lé-ah – Heyhé – Haolé – Yadash – Miyholé – Taovetz” – drosodd a throsodd – yn gyflymach gyflymach. Ôdd gan y geiriau ddim ystyr confensiynol yn y lle cynta, ac eithrio’r un ôn i ishe’i roi iddyn nhw, ac yn wir, erbyn i fi fod wrthi’n eu dweud nhw am hanner awr heb saib (yn ôl pob tebyg), ôdd ‘yn ymennydd i bron â thoddi, a finnau ar fin llesmeirio.

 

Wedyn, gyda help y pen tost arteithiol, a blas ffiaidd yr Olew’n dal i ymosod ar ‘y mlasbwyntiau gan beri i fi eisiau chwydu, fe ddigwyddodd rhwbeth. Fe deimlwn fel ‘sen i’n dod yn rhan o’r drws ac yn llithro trwyddo. Teimlad atgas ôdd e, a bod yn onest, fel ‘se ‘mherfeddion yn corddi yn câl eu tynnu ma’s trwy ‘nhrwyn â phâr o lwyau chwilboeth. Ond, heb rybudd, dyna ôn i, yn rhan o ddeunydd yr Ystafell, ble bynnag ôdd hi mewn gwirionedd, ac os bodolai hi o gwbl. Ac, O! Arnofio ynghanol gofod dilychwin ôn i, yn rhan o folecylau'r papur a’r inc, yn ffurfio tudalennau llyfr hynafol ac arnyn nhw ysgrifen daclus yr hen Ddoethur Du’i hunan. Ôn i’n ‘y narllen ‘yn hunan – ac “Athrawiaeth a Defodau Hud Trosgynnol” ôn i!

 

Ôn i wrth ‘y modd o ddarganfod y fath drysor. Ôn i mewn perlesmair, ôdd fel petai’n enaid i wedi hydoddi. Am faint o amser chwyrlïen i o gwmpas fel hynny, ym mha le bynnag ôn i, sai’n gallu dyfalu. Ond wedyn dechreuodd rhw rym anweledig dynnu ar edafedd gwasgaredig ‘y mhersonoliaeth, ac er ‘yn mawr arswyd fe deimlen i‘n ffurf ysbrydol i'n ceulo. Na, na, ddylai hynny ddim bod yn digwydd o gwbl.  Ôdd ‘yn meddyliau’n crisialu tu mewn i rwbeth yn debyg i sffêr o gornblith ddu wedi’i lapio mewn haen o arian fel na allwn i byth ddianc ohoni. Ac yno, sylweddolen i, fe fydden i'n aros am byth bythoedd dan dyngu a rhegi, ond heb yr un gair cyfrin i ‘ngalluogi i i ddianc .

 

O ‘nghwmpas ôdd rhw sylwedd, yn fioled dywyll ac mor wlyb gyhyrog, yn ‘y ngwasgu i fel torchau cennog brenhinsarff. Ôn i’n boddi, rywsut yn y tonnau o boen a chyfog yn golchi drosta i. Ond dôdd hynny'n ddim o'i gymharu â beth fydde’n digwydd nesa. Er i fi sgrechian mor uchel, ôn i’n cwympo heb neud yr un sain. Ôdd rhw ... endid ... niwlog ac afresymol o amgen ... yn nesáu ata i, ag adenydd enfawr, yn llyfn, a di-liw, ac iasoer fel iâ gwyry. Ac er bod arno enwau fyrdd ym mhob iaith fyw a marw ar wyneb y Ddaear Greulon, na wydden i bryd ‘ny’r un ohonyn nhw.

 

Ond fe ôdd yn ‘yn nabod i’n llwyr, yn cynnwys ‘y nglasenw hudol i. Na, na, nage finnau! Ôn i di rhyddhau’r Golau Serol drwy sleifio i mewn a thrio darllen y llyfr gwaharddedig! Afatar y Telok-vovim ôdd e! Ac fe alwodd yr endid mwya gloywi a swnllyd ‘na dân o’r Nw Yrth o’r diwedd, â’i grafangau o olau a’i ddannedd o fellt. Fe glywn i, mor llawn dychryn, dudalennau’r Llyfr Hud a Lledrith amhrisiadwy ‘na, ôdd hefyd fi’n hunan, yn llosgi’n ulw. Ac wedyn, yn ddirybudd, fe drodd y byd tu chwith ma’s, a finnau gyda fe. Ww, am deimlad mor ach y fi!

 

Chwech o’r gloch yr hwyr. Dihunes i – nage cyn pryd – mewn cyflwr gwael ar lawr y gegin fach yn y fflat. Sâl, cleisiog, clwyfedig, yn gwaedu. Ôn i ond prin yn fyw ac wedi drysu'n uffernol. Ôdd hi’n drewi ac yn cydio er taw ar dân ôn i. Tu fa’s ôdd y torfeydd o bobl ddifreintiedig yn cwpla’r siopa at yr Ŵyl Bitw i ddathlu diwedd Tymor Edifeirwch Hir. (Os hynny ôdd y gair cywir. Dôdd fawr o’ch mwynhau'ch hunan drwy lawenhau yn gyhoeddus na’n breifat ar yr achlysur arbennig ‘na a duedde i fod yn brudd, a llawn euogrwydd, a chywilydd, a maeddu’r ddwyfron).

 

Dyna dwpsyn meddw fues i, ond erbyn hynny ôn i di dod at ‘y nghoed. Ôn i di bod yn chwarae â thân ac wedi câl ‘yn llosgi. Dim ond eisiau câl cip ar be ôdd yno ôn i, ond ôdd ‘yn chwilfrydedd melltigedig – a’r Olew Crai – wedi mynd yn drech na fi. Ôn i’n golygu darganfod rhywbeth diddorol a difyr, dyna oll, ond wedi llwyddo i ddwyn, ac anrheithio. Ôn i’m wedi dymuno neud niwed ond fi ddinistriodd grair unigryw.

 

A nawr, O, Hebé Gu, fe wydden i bethau na allen i beidio’u cofio o hynny ‘mlaen. Wir i chi, fe es i ar ‘yn llw taw dyn troëdig fydden i, ar ôl y profiad troëdig ‘na. Ond eto, achos nad ôn i wedi bod yn yr Ystafell Anfodol (nad ôdd yn bod yn ein dimensiwn ni, wedi’r cyfan), ac am mod i’n dal ar dir y rhai byw, (os nad yn iach o bell ffordd), ôdd fel ‘se dim byd wedi digwydd, on’d ôdd? Neu o leia dim ond yr un hen hanes ar ôl noson yng nghwmni Glasfarf y Môr-leidr yn Ninistr y Diotwyr, sbo. Mwya’n y byd bydd pethau’n newid, mwya’n y byd byddan nhw’n aros yr un peth (a dyfynnu’r hen gono digymar ‘na, Shaman-no)!

 

Nes i gropian ar ‘y mhedwar yn syth i’r gwely wedi ymlâdd ar ôl yr holl gyffro, yn benydiwr di-werth fel arfer. Wrth i fi ddechrau syrthio i gwsg anesmwyth wedi ‘blagio gan hunllefau, nage am farw, ond am fyw am byth mewn ing ciaidd, dyna ôdd llais yr hen Ddoethur Du – ‘yn llais innau – yn preblan – “Dyma sut i wneud teclyn hud grymus iawn, gan ddefnyddio’r mandrag ... Wedyn fe allwch ei ddefnyddio i gyfathrebu â’r Telok-vovim anaele, i gael hyd i gyfrinachau, i reoli pobl a digwyddiadau, ac i fodloni’ch chwantau i gyd.” Fe deimle fel ‘sen i’n toddi mewn afon o slwj purddu, byw a’r unig beth allen i neud  ôdd taro rhech yn enbyd, a llyncu’r dagrau.

 

Yn fuan iawn ar ôl hynny, o ganlyniad i’r anafiadau meddyliol a chorfforol dw i wedi’u cael (fyddai, yn eu tro, yn arwain at niwed hyd yn oed yn fwy andwyol i gorff a meddwl), fe ges i ‘nghludo, rywsut neu’i gilydd – ac nid, dw i’n gorfod dweud, yn hollol anfodlon – i’r tŷ iacháu, ac i drobwynt.

 

I orffen: dw i’n ysgrifennu hyn nawr i drio bwrw’r cythreuliaid allan, yn ofer, dw i’n ofni, ac achos nad ydw erioed wedi gallu dweud wrth neb be ddigwyddodd mewn gwirionedd y dydd dychrynllyd hwnnw. Mor glir ac mor wir ag rwy’n gallu’i adrodd yw ystyr yr holl ddigwyddiadau hyn, er fod amser yn pylu a dylu wth iddo lifo heibio, onid ydy? Dw i’n gwbod i sicrwydd mod i’n sâl iawn yn y fflat am ryw reswm. Wi’n siŵr mod i’n profi argoelion tyngedfennus. Manteisies i, yn bur bendant, ar gyfle afiechyd i ddod yn ôl i Hoff Famwlad Kimbria. A dw i wrth 'yn modd bellach, a phethau'n mynd o wâth ym i annioddefol mhob man, i fi sleifio'n ffordd yn ôl adre o'r diwedd. Sut bynnag des i 'ma!

 

 

Efallai, a bod y bwriad (neu’r canlyniad) yn gywir, fod y manylion yn peidio bod mor bwysig, yn y pen draw. Rwy’n ei deimlo ym mêr fy esgyrn fod hynny’n wir yma. Gwelwch chi hynny maes o law hefyd, gobeithio. [Rwy'n eitha siŵr taw'r Dr P anniwygiadwy sy wedi ychwanegu'r paragraff ola 'ma. Dyw e ddim yn swnio fel yr hen Ffred da i fi o gwbl, mewn gwirionedd! — P.M.]

 

[**] Hynny yw, yr “Un Falchaf Eglwys Lawn.” “Ufel” ydy gair hynafol sy’n golygu “tân, gwreichion.” — P.M.