Life is a message scribbled anonymously in the dark, or a commentary on some abstruse unfinished poem. We – those still living – almost die trying to have a serious influence on this fake-reality which seeks to manifest the imagination of the dead. To assert life over death we must first create a safe and independent place that isn’t a forum, nor a house, nor a parliament, nor a pyramid, nor a school, nor a stadium nor a temple, nor a tomb. From this safe haven, we must question the claims and the presuppositions about the putative essences underpinning every economic, pedagogic, sophological, political, religious and societal structure. We should always endeavour to try and create through the magic of our art a special reality that is completely different from anything that’s ever existed on Eyrth, and which goes beyond the desires of the individual. Then, having sparked blue beguilement by painting the sky and riding the wind, we’ll leap with a heavy flash of wild joy onto the butterfly of forgotten revelation, quickly wean ourselves off common practices, and see the weave of the World, feel the warp and weft, unpick it, and re-thread it. After all that, we should release ourselves completely, give up meditating in towers of yellow ivory, escape, and go out to snatch the peaches, figs and pomegranates available in the real World, and devour them as greedily as possible.

“Waking the Slumbering Giant”

Ms Sesiline Arian

 

 

Salutations, my comrades on existence’s journey of discovery! Here’s old Fred holding forth once again. Oooh, I’ve just read a volume called "Mysteries: The Book of Unexplained Facts" by Mikayl Goa'uld. It’s excellent and font of wonders indeed, talking about exotic things like the following. Did you know that reciting the names of Shaman-no's Seven Sweethearts (that is, Ama-rí, Dom-ník, Elí-ane, Havrí-el, Ísavel, Klaw-dín, and Veytris) over and over would work like a mysterotronic emetic to empty the brain of every thought so it could be filled by the All-World's prattling voice? How fascinating! Now then, I have a mystery too, believe it or not! As some of you will know, the smallest chapel in the world (called the Temple of the Hidden Glory) is in Worldsend near where I come from originally ("Kall-lavasus," but no-one says that). They spin the tale that old Trey stayed there, terribly injured in days of yore. Well, here’s the exciting news: they discovered ancient manuscripts in earthenware wine-jars, about eighteen years ago. At the turn of the century, and turn of the millennium to boot, at the beginning of the Age of Hustwr the Irrigator according to my calculations {New Age Dawns}. What such things were doing in a chapel I don’t know (the wine-jars, you know — chapels are overflowing with incomprehensible documents of course).

 

Everybody else’s opinion was that they were modern counterfeits by pranksters. No-one could read them. The handwriting’s awful, like the scribbling of ants that have eaten acid (but not formic acid, they’re full of that), and the whole thing looks like crayon on grease-proof paper, covered in little pictures, blood-coloured symbols, and mirror-writing, probably. I've been working my socks off learning about things like rwnen, and invisible ink, and ancient languages like Etruscan from Etruria, the Old Sintu Valley Tongue, and Primal Kimbric. I’ve been dreaming about translating something important, but “you don’t undo a knot by cutting it” as they say, whatever that means. So rather than working on the manuscripts themselves, I’ve been waiting for a flash of inspiration, and I’m near as damn it to succeeding. Hey that’s lifelong learning for you, isn’t it? But enough about my hobbies, here’s a sketch of the great work up to now. I’m thinking of “Under the Pines” as the title, because it was “Alré Kineltien hlí” originally, which means the same thing… 

 

My dearest Mates! Well, the Great, Free Party under the Pines is over for sure. I’d be content if only you passed the least bit of time in my company. Only an hour I asked you to spend with me. But I’m on my own, talking with the winds of change, cruel and biting, whilst I hurriedly scribble this epistle. So, is it a letter or a monologue? It’s not important. It feels like I’ve already been here for forty days and forty nights. I’m so thirsty, and knackered, and and unsure about everythin. Ah, I can't help thinkin about ending it all by jumping off this mountain right now. (Only jokin – anyway, with my luck I think I’d probably get sucked down the cosmic plug’ole to another dimension! But I am freakin fed up talkin to myself, lads!).

 

I could be a cock crowing at the sun, for that matter, I wouldn’t wake you. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and I just have to share my deepest thoughts and worries, get them out of me head, scribble them down. Then I’ll feel better, probably, ‘cos I can’t tell you all face-to-face right now. So, I’m going to give this message to my special comrade, a bonny but headstrong lass from the Heart of the Continent, to keep it safe for the time-being. Magda-Elen’s her name, the maiden in the watch-tower unsullied by the sins of this Wearisome World. She lives in the secluded community not too far away from here, the “Kwm-ran Kommune.” There, life is completely different, and much better, and everyone has the same rights and corresponding privileges. This message should be safe in her lovely hands, although the sisters and brothers tend to be exceptionally devout and behave like they’re in some kind of reclusive cult. Hopefully you’ll never need to read it at all anyway, and I can tell you all this myself soon enough, but it’ll be there just in case.

 

By the way, keep your eyes skinned for a bloke nicknamed ‘Balrog.’ He’s my oldest comrade. You don’t know him yet, but we’ve been on a long journey up until now, wandering life’s highways and byways together. He came to see the light as it were when he fell off his motorbike and hit his head on the rocks. There’s a really gifted lad for you. He’s buzzin’ with revolutionary ideas, and I believe he’ll help us to spread the word so well and make the movement grow. I do hope he won’t get too big for his enormous Ellingham Boots in the future as a result of all his talents and accomplishments, though, the lovely old llama. Well, time will tell, and I live in hope, as always!

 

In truth, I’m completely wiped out. After all, what with all the travelling, the DJ-ing, and the public speaking to spread the message, I’ve been working like a fiend. I need to have one hell of a good night’s rest. Workin' to educate the oppressed masses 'as been as hard as rousing the dead in loads of places, not to mention the towns where they wanted us to give 'em beer and vodka instead of bottles of water. And good grief! I might as well have been tryin' to feed all the thousands of hungry folk in the free festival last weekend with me packed lunch, for all the good the event actually did to raise consciousness. Anyway, ecstasy's what they were cravin', but better than that, bangin' music and mental dancing's what they got, all night long – that, mixed in with a good ol' sneaky dose of the “good news,” of course! Might isn’t right, that’s all I wanted to tell 'em; and that they should share the love freely, too, to make the whole world a better place to live in (for what that was worth at the time). On the other hand, I shouldn't complain too much I s'pose, 'cos in other places, it's fair to say that the party-people've been hangin' on my every word, haven't they? I think this weekend was one of the much more successful “dos” of all, from my point-of-view – although I can't talk for you, you faithless lazy-bones!

 

Despite that, I can’t understand why I had to go into Hellsgate before the Big Party on the back of a white horse (as it were, it was a white van chock-full of sound and lighting equipment, right?), while they threw pine branches on the street in front of me. If I’d had a purple cloak, and a crown, and a sceptre, I would have looked like an emperor, a king or a pompous rap artist, or a boxer entering the ring. But I couldn't help thinking that while some of them were sweeping the way, others were preparing a funeral pyre like the Wýkingren used to. And then, all the fussy organizers were beavering about, trying to pamper me, washing me down and drying me off, and oiling up my body, before spraying stinky aftershave everywhere. I was imagining the old days in the Red Desert or something. It was as if I’d died, and they were preparing me before I was buried. And there was everyone shouting out “You're the best! Our hero! You're a god!" when I came out in the stage before starting to perform. We’re all sons of women, and daughters of men, and every one of us is just as deserving as the other, isn't she, or he? So goodness knows what they meant.

 

What was the problem? Some ancient custom, probably I should’ve taken notice of the teachers' words in school, but even when I was a finicky kid, some years back, I knew the Ancient Literature better than them. I’d never listen! Anyhow, I’m definitely not prince of this world. I met some slimy bigwig who claimed that honour when I was on retreat in the desert to try and think clearly about the future. I wanted to give up my old, hateful ways, 'cos I was sure that that way of life was going to kill me, or drive me insane. I'd decided, seriously, that I had to arrange to be initiated in a way, undergoing a ceremony of death and rebirth using the strongest magic, so I could be totally sure about the path to follow. It was like I'd travelled to the threshold of Another World, but I don't know exactly happened, everything was so strange, so wonderful, so terrifying. My mind wasn't working right because of, well, because of the magic. 

 

Anyway, he was a creature totally different from any human being, that old yellow lizard, a real snake in the grass, no two ways about it. He soft-soaped me in the form of a red priest, I believe, with the blandishments of the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers from the hidden lore, but in vain, and I resisted with the help of the Indolent Idolaters, who came to my aid in my hour of need. Better the wraith you know than the ghouls you don’t recognize, perhaps. And, yup, I died and came back, somehow, that's how I feel now, anyway, and now I know what to do, despite the baying of the bloody phantom that's hunting me and trying to overcome me. Although I've forgotten most of the experience by now, I learned lots of exceptionally important things for definite, and I saw as clear as day what I should do next. I scribbled lots of stuff down at the time, as I was still reeling. I've hidden the pages in the cellar of the old "Lost Sheep", that pub that's so awfully lovely where we were living it up last night.

 

And here we all are, the morning after the night before, at the foot of the Pine Mountain, where the bulldozers've been sleeping overnight. A burden shared is a burden halved, to be true, but it’s an awful thing, isn’t it, when even a boy’s best friends can’t stay awake while he tries to solve the world’s problems. At least the machines would only be making a din if they were working. You lot are snorting like pigs while you sleep! Three times I’ve walked by you, you sleeping-beauty country lads, but no-one answered a word. A great pity that you weren’t here, I’d hoped for better, but while the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. Well, Let sleeping dogs lie, right?

 

I’ve been debating about what to do next, and I’ve come to a firm decision now. I’m no spineless pacifist, heavens above, but I can’t support bloody violence either. It’s right and fitting to die for your homeland, someone said, sometime, but I think that that’s a pile of old rubbish. I’m going to meet the authorities later tonight. I'd prefer to talk to the oppressors than try to overthrow them, the hateful creatures! I hope I won't be casting my pearls before swine. But, let’s see what happens. My lifelong buddy has arranged everything, and he’s pleased as the Burlesque Clown from the Absurd Circus. He’s like my shadow, to tell the truth, but he likes to play the spy, and he’ll do anything to get his hands on filthy lucre. He should be here before long.

 

Look here now, mates (haha!), I gotta to get this out in the open, just for the record like. Maybe it’s easier to do it this way, chunnering on to myself while you lot are comatose! The real trouble comes when I ask myself, time and again: am I really just a rebel without a clue? After all, you all know I don’t care at all for organized religions of any kind, to say the least, because of, well, because of all my ... past experiences. But, deep down, I wonder if that’s the only reason why I’ve developed this very particular worldview, and been seized by this heretical sophology. And that then leads me on to question whether I’m really doing the right things, or whether I’m just confused and mistaken. Then again, I still couldn’t resist giving a good account of myself when they started selling knick-knacks and trinkets in the Yellowhill Independent Tabernacle as if it were no more than than the marketplace in the Big, Bad City. (And there the Seven Sorcerers’ whiles beguile the mind of the populace with bread and circuses, so that they follow the primrose path to perdition without any compunction.) They were forced to put up barbed wire and mirror-shards to keep me (and me can of red spray-paint!) off the roof, pretending they wanted to scare the ravens away. Oh, how the walls would wail if they knew what was happening! (But, anyway, never mind that. I have another ... rather more magical ... way to get in there ... or anywhere else come to that ... whenever I want!).

 

On the other hand, maybe these hellish torments are just an inseparable but totally natural part of being what I am: the icy lock and the fiery key, the steely way and the airy gate. So, setting all that angsty stuff aside for the time-being, and despite all the niggling worries about the whys and wherefores of how I’ve got to where I am now, I want to set the following down loud and clear, once and for all. So here’s my view of the world, straight up. The Teachings say that you lot are all Gods. How so? You have to stress that love is the Source of Everything. And what, then, is love? It’s not some abstract entity, nor a phantom made up by the Heladic technoglossists. Rather, it’s a state of mind, when you are prepared to give your life for the sake of other beings, with the greatest of readiness. On the Eyrth shall come the kingdom of love, this Nw Yrth, sooner that you imagine.

 

It’s not the dream of some old hippy, nor a never-never land, nor a trifling place, nor an enchanted realm. It’s a location that offers reality right then and there, and which frees us from the images of desire that would vex us in a hopeless future wasteland. It’ll be hard work getting there, which calls for self-discipline and determination. It’s me who points out the way, I who open the door, but I can’t force people to go through. I only want to show you how to share the love. That's how we get closer to the Source, and to each other, well, in my opinion, upon my word, and hand on heart. 

 

And everyone who loves can come in. And they’ll do this by following in my footsteps, fighting the good fight, and talking to their hearts whilst listening too. So, don’t judge like those who've been badly damaged, who offer only gall and vinegar to drink, and don’t over-analyze things. Love, love from the bottom of your hearts, because love always protects, always believes, always hopes, always keeps going. When the kingdom comes, the seas’ bile shall boil, and the Eyrth’s flesh shall rend, and the veil that hides us from the secrets of the Temple shall be torn asunder. (As we spread the message, though, we've got to remember that not all of us will manage to find true love. Maybe those working hardest will be the ones to fail worst. But, I have complete faith in the ebb and flow of the All-World's unfathomable emotional currents, truly I do!).

 

Truly, I had a skinful last night, in the party above the pub. I needed to drown my – insecurity – although I was begging someone to take the cup away from me. I’ve been having visions since then, and hellfire, it’s been getting me down, if I’m honest. It’s so warm here, I’m sweating buckets, and my blood’s boiling. I’m almost crying tears of blood. If it wasn’t for the self-doubt, and the fear of unknown consequences, I’d explain to you how someone could make the appointed sacrifice to start the transmogrification, right and proper. The Old ‘Uns almost knew, had it half right but, because of that were so terribly wrong, just ‘cos they couldn’t see past the obvious and accept the truly weird: the mystical truth of the knowing sacrificial goat and the pure escaping bull. Ohhh, if only I could stand my ground!

 

I have to go now. I think I hear the members of the Local Committee on Faith and Morals approaching. Perhaps I’ll be away for quite some time to come, but you lot remember: wherever you go, there I’ll be, staring down on you with the piercing eyes of a ravenous raven. I’ll always be in your minds and your memories. Needless to say: I’ll be back, sometime in the future, I promise with all my might! Well, the big cheese's here at last with her horde of humble henchpersons, thank goodness...

 

Well that’s the best I can do right now, but sad to say that more than likely the thing's a forgery, after all, made by that troubled boy from the Clinic up the hill who died about the time the jars were discovered. My most friendly enemy, him; by Isheth, I miss him so much. You see, ‘Daa·hweeth Oh·fé’ was the name on the back of the pages, as far as I know. That is, ‘David Baxter’ from ‘daa’ (‘constant’), ‘hweeth’ (‘beloved’), ‘ofhs’ (‘dough’), a ‘fé’ (‘fire’). That’s the lad who always used to pretend he was a soldier from the Heart of the Continent, and who caused so many problems! Always taking intoxicating substances, and driving dangerously, and setting things on fire. And the bloody beetles everywhere, Lordy, mun! Chep-er, chep-er, chep-er! Enough to drive a man mental! They were extra-terrestrial creatures from a totally different planet he said.

 

And then there was the breaking in everywhere, and the raving in the dead of night (dancing and drugs no doubt), and the malicious damage in the Hall of the Images with his friend who draws sci-fi cartoons (Steff or something was his name? Odd man somehow, anyway, but I can’t put my finger on what his problem is). But he –Dai – was such a kind lad, no two ways about it. He would always help you without having to ask. Poor dab, after everything he’d been through! Despite the mistreatment he was like some old-world hipster, still bursting with peace and love. But then there's the very last bit, really hard to read, and even harder to understand (no-one else's seen it,  I think):

 

... ... ... But I’m terribly frightened now. What's 'appenin'? What's all that awful noise? ... Why are there Patriotic People's Militia 'ere, the dirty demons? ...  What’s all that awful noise? ... Why are there Patriotic People’s Militia ‘ere, the dirty demons? ... Who’re those bumptious people wearing long, black gowns and looking so severe? … Ah! By Nuthkí’s breasts and beard … The Choleric Chaplains!  ... What's the Balrog done? ... Sweet Hebé! I feel sick and I’m terrified for my life. My blood’s frozen, I’m losing heart, there’s no spirit in me anymore ... Ooh, I want some otherworldly host to snatch me from death’s jaws and take me to safety, but that’s not how things work down here, more’s the pity. Someone, give me strength to do all that’s needed. O Dad, my Dad, where are you? ... Seven last words – there's a sick joke for you! But, but, I got something in reserve, something up my sleeve, some greedy shadow inside that wants to gobble everything up. What do the Old Masters want? I hope, I hope ... May their will be done! —

 

Ran off for a few days he did, Dai, with his pre-eminent pocketable pneumatic-periscopic peashooter, just before the ... the fire. Some mysterious project he said. Hocus-pocus, “leaving his mark on the future.” I didn't think of it at the time, but several of the nobs round by 'ere and further afield popped their clogs without any apparent warning 'bout then. Anyway, he would’ve been a good enough dad, if he’d calmed down a bit. Hmmm. Elfan Baldrog Bacster (the engrossing "Childe Horrid"). That’s the strange name of the son who’s coming of age now, but that’s the way of the world for you. He’s exceptionally strong but tends to be sloppy and cruel too as far as I can see. He’s been asserting himself and is ready to take the place over now his Mam’s gone off to work elsewhere. Him and the rest of the "Sed People" (or "Z-People," so-called as their genes originate from the lands round the River Sed in the Heart of the Continent, and, more ironically, because these superlatively strange young'uns have so often been relegated to the "bottom of the barrel" as it were – although now, of course, the dregs are rising up to take over the World).

 

And that Steff, the “Skilled Leader” or whatever his stupid title is, is a terribly bad influence in my view. It makes you think, doesn’t it, I s’pose. I’m surprised the old Dai Procter doesn’t keep them in check. But then again, everything’s gone to the dogs to such an extent now. No joke there, I’m not exaggerating, but it feels as if the World’s rushing headlong towards complete destruction in the Bottomless Pit, what with all the chimeras appearing everywhere as people change and turn bestial. Perhaps we do need the League of Superheroes after all, to keep things in order, but it looks like they want to sweep us, the untarnished folk, away before them ... I dunno, I can't stop thinking about that ruddy scribbling. The goat that gets killed and the bull that's set free, indeed. I just wish I understood!

 

If only my hero Mor·dwnom the Wizard, Undead Mawdryn, Mulrin, pirate on the primal ocean, Nulolana, master of the sacred words, were here to help us! But he’ll never come to set the World on fire, and so it’s me who’ll have to wake the power of the sleeping Planet. But having said that, I don’t know what to do, nor how to slip under the radar of the numerologists, mentalists, priests, astrologers, alchemists, inquisitors, and interpreters belonging to the Religious Institutions on the one side, and the irrepressible hordes of the Patriotic People’s Militia on the other, either. Hmm. Right, there we are then, I’m rather upset now. Can’t get those strange words out of me bonce: “Shezesista-duí sivuva-mu, soraka-hohé klilté-dí krinsa-zuhí hílé, elaté-dolé izné-mí elí-ruí” – “Serpent’s breath, charm of death and life, thy omen of making” – but I don’t understand what to do with them, although they’re very important, without a doubt, as spells in the most complex Ancient Yrthian always are. I feel like I must keep on saying them over and over all the time.

 

They keep on changing, like they’re dancing about in my head, I can hardly cope, and now it sounds like: “A sesiha i sifufa, a lithe rira lirī soraha, a leli i elu i rinau.” What on Eyrth’s the meaning I can’t find out? Who knows for sure? But it’s something to do with controlling the forces of nature, uniting opposites, creating a new Dvaldí and Hlevné (or Thoahatha and Lehenefa, perhaps), and using elements like metal and water to open a gate to Other Worlds, perfecting the interface between flesh and plastic, silicon and stainless steel, whilst sundering spirit and substance, splitting time from space, and breaking cause and effect, whatever that means. Then Sister Fox-Eyes and the acephalic leaden angels shall descend through the inter-galactic rabbit hole to feed upon us, but the maiden’s son shall save us, destroying the Old Order at the same time.

 

I must confess that after all my – problems – in the Oppressive Pink Zone, when I had a bit of a breakdown, I forgot so much – or chose not to remember it. At that time, and for quite a while after, I'd never have understood such things, not to mention believed them. But Daud, and his stories, and his performances, were so damned convincing, you couldn't but be enchanted by them. And bit by bit the ideas started to slide back, filling me with terror and pain, but with curiosity and wonderment, too. Ooh, dear me, I don’t know what I should do at all now. It makes me want to puke. Why me? I’m only trying to do my very best, helping Dai Procter out and keeping me head down. I’ve got to go to lie down in a dark room for the afternoon now then and await orders from above as it were. See you before long, I hope, well, at least maybe I can communicate with you somehow or other, the Terrible Powers permitting! Fred.

 

Neges wedi’i sgriblo’n ddienw yn y tywyllwch yw bywyd, neu esboniad ar ryw gerdd anorffenedig astrus. Byddwn ni – y rhai’n dal i fyw – yn bron â marw wrth ceisio dylanwadu o ddifrif ar y ffug-realiti hwn sy’n gweithio i arddangos dychymyg y meirw. Er mwyn mynnu byw yn lle marw, bydd yn rhaid i ni greu gyntaf le diogel ac annibynnol nad yw’n dŷ, na theml, nac ysgol, na senedd, na marchnadfa, na beddrod, na phyramid, na stadiwm. O’r hafan ddiogel hon, byddwn ni’n gorfod cwestiynu’r honiadau a’r rhagdybiau ynghylch yr hanfodion tybiedig yn tanategu pob strwythur athronyddol, crefyddol, cymdeithasol, economaidd, gwleidyddol, a phedagogaidd. Dylen ni lafurio bob adeg uwchben ceisio creu trwy hud ein celf ni realiti arbennig yn hollol wahanol i ddim sy erioed wedi bodoli ar y Ddaear ac sy’n mynd tu hwnt i ddymuniadau’r unigolyn. Wedyn, wedi tanio swyngyfaredd las trwy baentio’r awyr a reidio ar y gwynt, byddwn ni’n llamu gyda fflach drwchus o lawenydd wyllt ar löyn byw datguddiad anghofiedig, ein diddyfnu ein hun yn gyflym oddi ar arferion cyffredin, a gweld gwead y Byd, teimlo’r ystof a’r anwe, ei ddadbwytho, a’i ail-wau. Ar ôl hynny oll, dylen ni’n rhyddhau’n hun yn gyfan gwbl, rhoi’r gorau i synfyfyrio mewn tyrrau o ifori melyn, dianc, a mynd allan i gipio’r eirin gwlanog, y ffigys, a’r pomgranadau sydd ar gael yn y Byd go iawn, a’u llyncu more farus a phôsib

“Dihuno’r Cawr yn Cysgu”

Ms Sesiline Arian

 

 

Henffych well, fy nghymrodyr ar daith ddarganfod bodolaeth! Dyma’r hen Ffred yn traethu unwaith to. Www, wi newydd ddarllen cyfrol o'r enw "Dirgelion: Llyfr Ffeithiau Anesboniedig" gan Mikayl Goa'uld. Mae’n ardderchog a llawn rhyfeddodau’n wir, a ôn am bethau egsotig fel y canlynol. A wyddech chi byddai adrodd enwau Saith Gariad Shaman-no (sef, Ama-rí, Dom-ník, Elí-ane, Havrí-el, Ísavel, Klaw-dín, a Veytris) drosodd a throsodd yn gweithredu fel cyfoglyn rhyfeddomatig i wagio'r ymennydd o bob meddwl fel y gallai gael ei lenwi â llais yr Holl Fyd yn preblan? Dyna gyfareddol i chi! Nawr te, mae dirgelwch da fi hefyd, credwch neu beidio! Fel y gwyddoch rhai ohonoch chi, mae capel lleia’r byd (o’r enw Teml y Gogoniant Cuddiedig) ym Mhendraw’r Ddaear ar bwys y man o ble wi’n dod yn wreiddiol (“Kall-lafasus,” ond does neb yn dweud ‘ny). Maen nhw’n chwedleua i’r hen Trey aros yma wedi’i frifo’n wael yn yr hen amser gynt. Wel, dyma newyddion cyffrous; fe wnaethon nhw ddarganfod llawysgrifau hynafol mewn jariau gwin af ffurf llestri pridd, ryw ddeunaw mlynedd yn ôl. Ar droad y ganrif, a throad y milflwyddiant ar ben hynny, ar ddechrau Oes Hustwr (y Dyfrwr) yn ôl y nghyfrifon i. Beth oedd y fath bethau’n neud mewn capel dwn i’m (y jariau win, ch’mod — mae capeli’n llawn o ddogfennau annealladwy wrth gwrs).

 

Tyb pawb arall oedd eu bod nhw’n ddynwarediad modern gan chwaraewyr castiau. Doedd neb yn gallu’u darllen nhw. Mae’r llawysgrifen yn wael, fel sgriblan morgrug sy di bwyta asid (ond nage asid fformig, maen nhw’n llawn o hwnnw), ac mae’r holl beth yn edrych fel creon ar bapur menyn, llawn lluniau bach, symbolau o liw gwaed, a sgrifen o chwith, siŵr o fod. Wi di bod wrthi hi’n dysgu am bethau fel rwnau ac inc anweledig, ac ieithoedd hynafol fel Etrwsgeg o Etrwria, Kimbreg Cyntefig, a Heniaith Dyffryn Sintu. Wi di bod yn breuddwydio am gyfieithu rhywbeth o bwys, ond “nid datod cwlwm yw ei dorri” meddan nhw, beth bynnag mae hynny’n ei olygu. Felly yn hytrach na gweithio ar y llawysgrifau’u hunain, wi di bod yn aros am ysbrydoliaeth sydyn, ac wi o fewn ychydig i lwyddo. Hei, dyna ddysgu gydol oes i chi, on’d ife? Ond digon am yn hobïau i, dyma fraslun o’r gwaith mawr hyd yn hyn. Wi’n meddwl am “Dan y Pinwydd” fel y teitl, achos taw “Alré Kineltien hlí” oedd e’n wreiddiol, sy’n golygu’r un peth…

 

F'annwylaf Mêts! Wel, mae'r Parti Mawr, Rhydd dan y Pinwydd wedi dod i ben yn wir. Fe fyddwn i’n fodlon ond i chi dreulio’r mymryn lleiaf o amser yn ‘y nghwmni i. Dim ond awr ro’n i’n gofyn i chi i’w threulio gyda fi. Ond ar ‘y mhen ‘yn hunan ydw i, yn sgwrsio â gwyntoedd cyfnewidiad, creulon a main, wrth i fi sgriblan yr epistol ‘ma ar frys. Felly ai llythyr neu ymson yw hyn? Dyw hi ddim o bwys. Mae’n teimlo fel rwy eisoes yma ers pedwar deg dydd a deugain noson. Rwy mor sychedig, ac wedi ymlâdd, ac ansicr am bopeth. A, alla i'm peidio meddwl am ddifetha ‘mywyd i drwy neidio oddi ar y mynydd 'ma yn y fan a'r lle. (Dim ond jocan dw i – ta be, gyda'n lwc i, fe gelen i'n sugno i lawr y twll plwg cosmig i ddimensiwn arall, siŵr o fod! Ond, ufern dan, dw i wedi danto ar siarad i'n hunan, bois bach!).

 

Fe fedrwn i fod yn geiliog yn clochdar ar yr haul, 'tae waeth am ‘ny, fyddwn i’m yn eich effro chi. Dw i’m yn gwybod be fydd yn digwydd nesa’, a ‘sdim dewis ‘da fi, rhaid i fi rannu’n meddyliau ac ofnau mwya’ dwfn i, cael nhw ma’s o ‘mhen i, sgriblan nhw i lawr. Wedyn bydda i’n teimlo’n well, siŵr o fod, achos dw i’m yn gallu dweud wrthoch chi i gyd wyneb yn wyneb y funud ‘ma. Felly, dw i’n mynd i roi’r neges ‘ma i ‘nghymrawd sbesial, croten bert ond ‘styfnig o Galon y Cyfandir, i’w chadw’n ddiogel am y tro. Magda-Elen ydy’i henw hi, y forwyn yn y tŵr gwylio heb ei difwyno gan bechodau’r Byd Blin ‘ma. Mae hi’n byw yn y gymuned neilltuedig ddim yn rhy bell oddi yma, “Komiwn Kwm-ran.” Yno, mae bywyd yn hollol wahanol, a llawer gwell, a phawb yn y gymuned sydd â’r un freintiau a chyfrifoldebau cyfartal. Dylai’r neges ‘ma fod yn ddiogel yn ei dwylo hyfryd hi, er bod y chwiorydd a’r brodyr yn tueddu i fod yn dduwiol tu hwnt, ac yn bihafio fel ‘sen nhw mewn rhyw fath o gwlt meudwyaidd. Gobeithio fyddwch chi fyth angen darllen hi o gwbl ta be, a galla i ddweud popeth wrthych chi fy hunan yn ddigon buan, ond bydd hi yna rhag ofn.

 

Gyda llaw, byddwch â llygad ar eich ysgwydd am ŵr o’r llysenw ‘Cythraul Grymus’. Fy hynaf cyfaill i ydy e. Dydych chi’m yn ei nabod e ‘to, ond rydym wedi bod ar daith hir iawn hyd yn hyn, gan grwydro priffyrdd a mân ffyrdd bywyd gyda’n gilydd. Daeth e i weld goleuni fel petai pan ‘naeth e gwympo oddi ar ei feic modur, a dyrnu ei ben yn erbyn y creigiau. Dyna lanc galluog iawn i chi. Mae’n llawn i’r ymyl â syniadau chwyldroadol, ac rwy’n credu bydd yn helpu ni i roddi’r gair mas cystal a ‘neud i’r muddiant dyfu. Gobeithio aiff hwnnw ddim yn fwy na llond ei Fotas Ellingham enfawr e yn y dyfodol o ganlyniad i’w ddoniau oll a’i lwyddiannau, fodd bynnag, yr hen lama hyfryd. Wel, amser a ddengys a dyma fi’n byw mewn gobaith fel arfer!

 

Mewn gwirionedd, rwy wedi blino’n lân. Wedi’r cwbl, rhwng yr holl deithio, y troelli disgiau, a’r siarad cyhoeddus i ledaenu’r neges, dwi ‘di bod yn gweithio fel yr Andros. Rhaid i fi gael uffern o noson dda o orffwys. Ma’ gwîtho dros addysgu’r miloedd gorthrymedig wedi bod mor anodd â thynnu gwaed o garreg mewn sawl man, heb sôn am y trefi ble ro’n nhw am i ni roi cwrw a fodca iddyn nhw yn lle poteli o ddŵr. A, bobol bach! Man a man a mwnci melyn i fi fod wedi trio bwydo’r holl filoedd o werin lwglyd yn yr ŵyl rydd y penwythnos diwetha gyda ‘nghinio pecyn, o ystyried pa mor dda aeth y digwyddiad ar ran codi ymwybod. Ta be, ecstasi ro’n nhw’n ddymuno, ond yn well ha hynny, miwsig gorawenus a dawnsio gwyllt a gaethon nhw drwy gydol y nos – a hynny wedi’i gymysgu â dogn sylweddol o’r “newyddion da” ar y slei bach, wrth gwrs! Nage trechaf yw treisied; dim ond hyn ro’n i eisiau weud wrthyn nhw; ac y dylen nhw rannu’r cariad yn deg, hefyd, i ‘neud y ddaear gron yn fan gwell i fyw ynddo (be bynnag oedd gwerth ‘ny ar y pryd). Ar y llaw arall, ddylen i’m cwyno gormod, sbo, achos mewn mannau eraill, mae’n deg gweud, fod y partïwyr yn llyncu ‘ngeiriau oll, on’d o’n nhw? Dw i’n credu taw un o’r digwyddiadau mwya llwyddiannus ohonyn nhw i gyd oedd y penwythnos, ‘ma, yn ‘y nhyb i – er alla i’m siarad drosoch chi, y pwdrod anffyddlon!

 

Serch ‘ny, dwi’m yn gallu deall pam bues i’n gorfod mynd i mewn i Byrth-y-Fall cyn y Parti Mawr ar gefn ceffyl gwyn (fel petai, fan wen yn llawn o offer sain a goleuo oedd hi, reit?), wrth iddyn nhw daflu canghennau coed pinwydd ar yr heol o ‘mlaen i. 'Tasai gyda fi fantell borffor, a choron, a theyrnwialen, byddwn wedi ymddangos yn ymherodr, yn frenin neu artist rap rhwysgfawr, neu focsiwr yn dod i mewn i'r ring. Ond allwn i'm peidio meddwl taw wrth i rhai ohonyn nhw ysgubo'r ffordd, rhai eraill oedd yn paratoi coelcerth angladdol fel nâi'r Cenhedloedd Duon. Ac wedyn, roedd y trefnwyr ffyslyd i gyd yn pydru arni, gan dreio'n mwytho i, gan 'molchi i a'n sychu i â lliain, ac wedyn oelio 'nghorff i cyn chwistrellu afftyrsief drewllyd ym mhobman. Ro'n i'n dychmygu'r hen ddyddiau yn yr Anialdir Coch neu rywbeth. Roedd fel 'swn i ‘di marw, a bydden nhw’n ‘mharatoi i cyn i fi gael ‘y nghladdu. A dyna oedd pawb yn gweiddi “Ti yw'r gorau! Ein harwr! Duwdod wyt ti" pan ddes i mas ar y llwyfan cyn dechrau perfformio. Dyn ni i gyd yn feibion i fenywod, a merched i ddynion, a phob un ohonom ni’r un mor deilwng a’i gilydd, on’d ife? Felly dyn a ŵyr beth ro’n nhw’n feddwl.

 

Beth oedd yn bod? Rhyw arfer hynafol, siŵr o fod. Dylwn i fod wedi ‘neud sylw eiriau’r athrawon yn yr ysgol, ond hyd yn oed pan o’n i’n grwt neis-neis, rai blynyddoedd yn ôl, fe wn i’r Hen Lenyddiaeth yn well na nhw. ‘Nawn i byth wrando! Sut bynnag, nage tywysog y byd ‘ma ydw i’n bendant. Cwrddais i â phwysigyn seimlyd a arddelai’r anrhydedd hwnnw pan fues ar encil yn y diffeithdir i drio meddwl yn glir am y dyfodol. Ro'n i'n moyn rhoi'r gorau i'n hen ffyrdd atgas i, achos mod i'n siŵr bod y ffordd o fyw 'na'n mynd i'n lladd i, neu 'ngyrru i'n wallgo. Ro'n i 'di penderfynu o ddifri fod rhaid i fi drefnu cael 'yn urddo mewn ffordd, wrth ddiodde seremoni marw ac ail-eni yn defnyddio'r hud cryfa', fel gallwn i fod yn hollol siŵr am y llwybr i'w ddilyn. Roedd fel 'swn i wedi teithio i drothwy Fyd Arall, ond dw i ddim yn gwbod be'n enwedig ddigwyddodd, roedd popeth mor rhyfedd, mor gyfareddol, mor frawychus. Doedd 'yn meddwl ddim yn gweithio'n iawn o achos yr, wel, o achos yr hud.

 

Ta be, creadur yn gyfan gwbl wahanol i unrhyw ddyn oedd e, yr hen fadfall felen 'na, neidr gudd go iawn, ‘sdim dwywaith amdani. Fe sebonodd fi ar ffurf offeiriad coch, greda i, gyda gweniaith y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd o’r llên gêl, ond yn ofer, a ‘nes i wrthsefyll gyda chymorth y Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd, a ddaeth i roi help llaw i fi yn amser ‘y nhrallod. Gwell yr ellyll a wyddys na’r cythreuliaid nad adweinir, falle. Ac yn wir fe fues i farw a chael 'yn aileni, rywsut, dyna sut dw i'n teimlo bellach, ta be, a nawr dw i'n gwybod be i neud, er gwaetha udo'r bwgan gwaedlyd sy'n hela i a thrio 'ngorlethu. Er mod i 'di gollwng y rhan fwya o'r profiad dros gof erbyn 'yn, nes i ddysgu llawer o bethau eithriadol o bwysig heb os, ac fe welais i mor olau â'r dydd be ddylwn i neud nesa'. 'Nes i sgriblan llawer o stwff i lawr ar y pryd, wrth i fi ddal i fwydro. Dw i 'di cuddio'r tudalennau yn seler yr hen "Ddafad Golledig", y dafarn mor ofnadw o hyfryd 'na ble ro'n ni'n cael randibŵ neithiwr. 

 

A dyma ni i gyd, drannoeth y ffair, ar droed Mynydd y Pinwydd, ble mae’r teirw dur wedi bod yn huno dros nos. Ysgafnu’r baich yw ei rannu, yn wir, ond mae’n beth enbyd, on’d ydy, pan na fydd hyd yn oed ffrindiau gorau boi’n gallu cadw’n effro wrth iddo geisio datrys problemau’r byd. O leia’r peiriannau fyddai’n cadw sŵn dim ond ‘sen nhw’n gweithio. Chi sy’n rhochian fel moch wrth gysgu! Deirgwaith rwy wedi cerdded heibio i chi, y llanciau cefn gwlad hir eich cwsg, ond atebodd neb ddim gair. Mwya’r gresyn nad o’ch chi yma, ro’n i wedi gobeithio am well, ond tra ydy’r enaid yn fodlon, mae’r cnawd yn wael. Wel, Na ddeffro’r ci sy’n cysgu, reit?

 

Rwy ‘di bod yn dadlau am beth i’w wneud nesaf, ac wedi dod i benderfyniad pendant erbyn hyn. Ddim heddychwr di-asgwrn-cefn ydw i, y nefoedd wen, ond alla i’m cefnogi trais gwaedlyd chwaith. Gweddus a phleserus yw trengi tros eich mamwlad, ebe rhywun, rywbryd, ond dwi’n meddwl bod pentwr o hen sothach yw hyn. Rwy’n mynd i gwrdd â’r awdurdodau yn hwyrach heno. Fe fyddai’n well ‘da fi siarad gyda’r gormeswyr na thrio'u dymchwel nhw, yr hen greaduriaid ffiaidd! Gobeithio nad taflu ‘y ngemau o flaen y moch a wna i. Felly, gadwech i ni weld beth fydd yn digwydd. Mae 'yn ffrind bore oes wedi trefnu popeth, ac mae mor llawen â'r Clown Bwrlésg o'r Syrcas Absẃrd. Fel ‘y nghysgod i ydy a dweud y gwir, ond mae’n lico chwarae rhan yr ysbïwr, ac fe ‘naiff unrhyw beth i roi’i llaw ar fudrelw. Dylai fe fod yma cyn hir.

 

‘Drychwch ‘ma nawr, mêts (haha!), rhaid i fi ddod â hyn i olau dydd, jyst er mwyn i chi oll gael gw’bod, reit? Falle fod e’n haws ‘neud ffor’ hyn, gan siarad â fi’n hunan a chithau oll ynghwsg! Fe ddaw’r gofid pennaf pan wy’n gofyn i’n hun, dro ar ôl tro: ife dim ond gwrthryfelwr heb glem dw i mewn gwirionedd? Wedi’r cyfan, chi i gyd sy’n gwybod mod i ddim yn hoff iawn o grefyddau cyfundrefnol o unrhyw fath, a dweud y lleia’, o achos, wel ... o achos popeth dw i wedi’i brofi yn y gorffennol. Ond, yn y bôn, dw i’n meddwl tybed ife dyna’r unig reswm pam dw i wedi datblygu’r byd-olwg neilltuol ‘ma, wedi cael ‘yn meddiannu gan yr athroniaeth anuniongred ‘ma. A hynny yn ei dro sy’n ‘yn arwain i i ofyn ife ‘neud y pethau cywir mewn gwirionedd dw i, neu ydw i wedi drysu ac yn camddeall a dyna oll. Eto i gyd, allwn i’m peidio rhoi cyfrif da ohono fi’n hunan pan ‘naethon nhw ddechrau gwerthu hen drugareddau a swfenîrs yn Nhabernacl Annibynnol Bryn Melyn fel petai’n ddim mwy na’r farchnadfa yn y Ddinas Fawr, Ddrwg. (Ac yno mae ystrywiau’r Saith Swynwr yn hud-ddenu meddwl y boblogaeth gyda bara a chwaraeon, fel y maen nhw’n dilyn y llwybr briallog i’r Fall.) Gorfodwyd nhw i godi weiren bigog a rhoi teilchion o ddrychau yno i ‘nghadw i (a 'nghan o baent chwistrellu coch!) oddi ar y to, gan esgus iddyn nhw ddymuno dychryn y brain mawr ymaith. O sut byddai’r waliau’n wylo pe gwyddent beth oedd yn digwydd! (Ond ‘sdim ots am ‘ny. Mae ‘da fi ffordd arall ... dipyn yn fwy hudol ... o fynd i mewn yno ... neu i unrhyw le arall o ran hynny ... pryd bynnag dw i’n moyn, ta be!).

 

Ar y llaw arall, falle dyw’r gwewyr uffernol ‘ma ond yn rhan annatod ond hollol naturiol o fod yn beth dw i: y clo rhewllyd a’r allwedd tanllyd, y ffordd ddur a’r porth disylwedd. Felly, ac anghofio’r holl ing am hyn o dro, ac er gwaetha’r holl bryderon plagus am y rhesymau dros gyrraedd ble dw i bellach, dw i’n dymuno dodi’r canlynol ar galwr yn glir ac yn hyglyw, unwaith ac am byth. Dyma ‘ngolwg i ar y byd, yn blwmp ac yn blaen, ‘te. Mae’r Dysgeidiaethau’n dweud taw duwiau ydych chi i gyd. Sut felly? Rhaid i chi gadarnhau taw cariad yw Ffynhonnell Popeth. A beth, wedyn, yw cariad? Ddim rhyw endid haniaethol, na chysgod wedi’i ddyfeisio gan yr athronwyr Heladig ‘mo fe. Yn hytrach, cyflwr meddwl ydy, pan fyddwch yn barod i roi’ch bywyd er mwyn bodau eraill gyda’r parodrwydd mwyaf. Ar y Ddaear daw teyrnas cariad, y Nw Yrth hwn, yn gynt nag y dychmygwch.

 

Nage breuddwyd rhyw hen hipi ‘mo hi, na gwlad byth bythoedd, na lle gwacsaw, na gwlad hud a lledrith. Mae’n fangre sy’n cynnig realiti yn y fan a’r lle, ac sy’n ein rhyddhau ni o ddelweddau chwant a’n haflonyddai ni fel arall mewn tir diffaith dyfodol heb obaith. Bydd cyrraedd yno’n dalcen caled a alwa am hunanddisgyblaeth a phenderfyniad. Fi sy’n dangos y ffordd; fi sy’n agor y drws; ond sa i’n gallu gorfodi pobl i fynd drwyddo. Dim ond eisiau dangos i chi sut i rannu’r cariad dw i. Dyna sut rydyn ni’n mynd yn nes at y Ffynhonnell, ac at ein gilydd, wel yn ‘y nhyb i, petawn i’n marw, â’m llaw ar ‘y nghalon.

 

A phawb sy'n caru yn gallu dod i mewn. A byddwn nhw’n ‘neud hyn drwy gerdded yn ôl ‘y nhraed i, ymdrechu ymdrech deg, a siarad â’u calonnau dan glywed hefyd. Felly, na farnwch fel y rhai sy wedi'u hanafu'n wael, sy’n cynnig dim ond afal derw a finegr i’w hyfed, a pheidiwch dadansoddi pethau ormod. Carwch, carwch o waelod eich calon, achos bod cariad bob amser yn amddiffyn, wastad yn credu, o hyd yn gobeithio, bob adeg yn dal ati. Pan ddaw’r deyrnas, bydd bustl y moroedd yn corddi, a hollta cnawd y ddaear, a’r lien sy’n ein cuddio ni rhag cyfrinachau'r Deml a rwygir i lawr. (Serch 'ny, wrth i ni ledaenu'r neges, raid cofio na fydd pawb ohonon ni'n llwyddo i gael hyd i'w wir gariad. Falle taw'r rhai'n gweithio fwya caled fydd yn ffaelu waetha. Ond, mae 'da fi ffydd lwyr yn llanw a thrai ceryntau emosiynol anesboniadwy'r Holl Fyd, heb air o gelwydd!).

 

Yn wir, ges i flas ar y ddiod neithiwr, yn y parti uwchben y dafarn. Roedd arna i angen boddi ‘yn – ansicrwydd – er ‘mod i’n ymbil ar rywun i fynd â’r ddysgl oddi wrtha i. Dwi ‘di bod yn cael gweledigaethau ers ‘ny, ac yffach cols, ma’ hi’n gwasgu arna i, os wy’n onest. Ma mor dwym yma, dwi’n chwysu’n stecs, ac ma’ ‘ngwaed i’n berwi. Bron ag wylo dagrau o waed dw i. Oni bai am yr hunanamheuaeth, ac arswyd canlyniadau anhysbys, fe fydden i’n egluro i chi sut allai rhywun ‘neud yr aberth cwmws i ddechrau’r trawsffurfio’n bendant. Fe wydden nhw bron, Bobol yr Henfyd, ro’n nhw’n hanner cywir ond, o achos ‘ny, mor ofnadw o anghywir, yn union am allen nhw ddim gweld tu hwnt i’r amlwg a derbyn y peth hollol ryfedd: y gwirionedd cyfrin am yr afr aberthol henffel a’r tarw dihangol glân. Www, ‘swn i ond yn gallu sefyll yn ‘yn rhych!

 

Rhaid i fi fynd nawr. Wi’n meddwl ‘mod i’n clywed aelodau’r Pwyllgor Lleol ar Ffydd a Moesau yn dynesu. Falle bydda i bant am gryn amser i ddod, ond cofiwch chi: ble bynnag yr ewch, yno y bydda i, yn eich llygadu chi â llygaid treiddgar cigfran reibus. Bydda i bob amser yn eich meddyliau a’ch cofion. Dw i'm angen dweud: fe fydda i ‘nôl, rywbryd yn y dyfodol, wi’n addo ar ‘y mheth mawr! Wel, mae'r pen-bandit yma o'r diwedd gyda'i gosgordd ostyngedig, diolch byth ...

 

Wel dyna’r gorau alla i neud y funud ma, ond trist dweud falle taw mwy na thebyg ffugiad yw’r peth wedi’r cwbl, wedi’i neud gan y bachgen trwblus hwn o’r Clinig lan y bryn a fu farw tua’r amser gaeth y jariau’u darganfod. Fy ngelyn mwya cyfeillgar oedd e; 'neno Isheth, dw i'n gweld ei eisiau cymaint! Ch’wel, ‘Daa·hweeth Oh·fé’ oedd yr enw ar gefn y tudalennau, hyd y gwn i. Hynny yw, ‘David Baxter’ o ‘daa’ (‘gwastad’), ‘hweeth’ (‘annwyl’), ‘ofhs’ (‘toes’), a ‘fé’ (‘tân’). Dyna’r llanc a oedd yn arfer cymryd arno fe taw sowldiwr o Galon y Cyfandir oedd e, ac a achosai gymaint o broblemau! Wastad yn cymryd sylweddau meddwol, a dreifo’n danjerus, a rhoi popeth ar dân. A’r chwilod dieflig ym mhobman, ‘Resgob, w! Chep-er, chep-er, chep-er! Digon i yrru dyn o’i go! Ro’n nhw’n greaduriaid arallfydol o blaned hollol wahanol, fe ddywedai.

 

Ac wedyn roedd y torri i mewn i bobman, a’r rafio ym mherfeddion y nos (dawnsio a chyffuriau heb os), a’r neud difrod maleisus yn Neuadd y Delweddau gyda’i ffrind a dynniff gartwnau ffug-wydd (Steff neu rywbeth oedd ei enw? Dyn od rywsut ne’i gilydd, ta be, ond sa i’n gallu gosod y mys ar y dolur o ran be sy’n bod arno fe). Ond llanc mor garedig oedd e – Dai – sdim dwywaith amdani. Fe fyddai’n helpu chi bob amser heb i chi angen gofyn. Pŵr dab ag e, ar ôl popeth roedd e wedi mynd drwyddo! Er gwaetha’r cam-drin roedd e fel rhyw hen hipi, llawn heddwch a chariad eto. Ond dyna'r darn olaf un, dw i'm wedi'i grybwyll 'to, sy'n anodd iawn ei ddarllen, ac yn anos fyth ei ddeall (does neb arall wedi'i weld e, dwi'n credu):

 

... ... ... Ond ma’ arna i ofn erchyll bellach. Be' sy'n digwydd? Be' yw'r holl stŵr ofnadw 'na? ... Pam ma’ Milisia’r Bobl Wlatgar 'ma, y diawliaid budron? ... Pwy yw’r bobl hunanbwysig ‘na’n gwisgo’r gynau hir, ddu ac yn edrych mor galed? A, myn barf a bronnau Nuthkí ... Y Caplaniaid Candryll! ... Be' ma'r Balrog wedi 'neud? ... Hebé gu! Wi’n teimlo’n sâl ac yn dychryn am ‘yn hoedl. Ma’ ‘ngwaed i wedi mynd i rewi nawr, wi’n digalonni, a ‘sdim ysbryd yno i mwyach ... Www, dymuna i taw rhyw lu arallfydol ddôi i ‘nghipio i oddi ar safnau angau a mynd â fi i ddiogelwch, ond nage dyna sut ma’ pethau’n gweithio i lawr fan hyn, gwaetha’r modd. Rhywun a rô nerth i fi ‘neud y cwbl sy eisiau. O Dad, fy Nhad, ble rwyt ti? ... Saith air ola – 'na jôc gyfoglyd i chi! Ond, ond, ma' da fi rwbeth wrth gefn, rhwbeth lan 'yn llawes, rhw gysgod rheibus tu fewn sy eisiau llyncu popeth. Beth a mynn yr Hen Feistri? Gobeithio, gobeithio ... Gwneler eu hewyllys hwy!  —

 

Rhedeg bant a wnaeth e, Dai, am rai dyddiau, gyda'i gorn pys niwmatig-berisgopig pocedadwy dihafal, jyst cyn y ... y tân. Rhyw brosiect rhiniol, meddai fe. Hud a lledrith, “i adael ei ôl ar y dyfodol.” Do'n i'm yn meddwl amdani ar y pryd ond fe fu farw'n sydyn sawl un o'r crachach rownd fan hyn ac yn bellach i ffwrdd heb rybydd bryd 'ny. Ta be, fe fyddai wedi bod yn dad digon da, sai fe wedi ymdawelu dipyn. Hmmmm. Elfan Baldrog Bacster (y "Crynddyn Cethrin" cyfareddol). Dyna’r enw rhyfedd ar y mab sy’n dod i oed bellach, ond dyna ffordd y byd i chi. Mae’n eithriadol gryf ond yn tueddu i fod yn anniben chreulon ‘fyd hyd y gwela i. Mae di bod yn mynnu cydnabyddiaeth ac yn barod i gymryd y lle drosodd nawr bod ei Mam wedi mynd bant i weithio’n rhywle arall. Fe a gweddill Pobol Sed (neu'r "Z-Bobl," a alwyd felly am fod eu genynnau'n tarddu o'r gwledydd o gwmpas Afon Sed yng Nghanol y Cyfandir, ac, yn fwy eironig, gan fod y bobl ifanc dra rhyfedd 'ma wedi'u diraddio mor aml i fod yng "ngwaelod y gasgen" fel petai – ond bellach, wrth gwrs, mae'r gwaddod yn codi i gipio awennau'r Byd).

 

Ac mae’r Steff ‘na, y “Tywysydd Medrus” neu beth bynnag yw’i deitl twp, yn ddylanwad drwg ofnadw i ‘nhyb i. Mae’n neud i chi feddwl, on’d ydy, sbo. Dw i’n synnu dyw’r hen Dai Procter yn neud dim byd i gadw’r ffrwyn arnyn nhw. Ond eto i gyd, mae popeth wedi mynd i’r cŵn i’r fath raddau bellach. Dim jôc yna, dw i’m yn gor-ddweud, ond mae’n teimlo fel petai’r Byd yn rhuthro ar ei ben tuag at ddinistr yn y Pwll Diwaelod, rhwng yr holl gimerâu’n ymddangos ym mhob man wrth i bobl newid a mynd yn fwystfilod. Falle taw angen Cynghrair yr Uwch-Arwyr sydd arnon ni wedi’r cwbl, i gadw trefn ar bethau, ond mae’n ymddangos bod nhw ishe’n hysgubo ni’r werin ddilychwin ymaith o’u blaen nhw .. 'Dwn i ddim, dw i'm yn gallu peidio meddwl am y sgriblan diawl 'na. Yr afr a gaiff ei lladd a'r tarw a ryddheir, wir. Dw i'n moyn deall, dyna'r cwbwl!

 

O na bai’n arwr Mor·dwnom Ddewin, Mawdryn Ddifarw, Mulrin, môr-leidr ar y môr cysefin, Nulolana, meistr y geiriau glân, yma i’n helpu ni! Ond ni ddaw e byth i roi’r Byd ar dân, ac felly fi fydd yn gorfod dihuno nerth y Blaned gwsg. Ond wedi dweud ‘ny, ‘dwn i’m beth i’w neud na sut i lithro o dan radar y rhifolegwyr, y meddyliaethyddion, yr offeiriaid, y sêr-ddewiniaid, yr alcemyddion, y chwilyswyr, a’r dehonglwyr yn perthyn i’r Sefydliadau Crefyddol ar y naill ochr, a lluoedd anataliadwy Milisia’r Bobl Wlatgar ar y llall, chwith. Hmm. Iawn, dyna ni te, wi’n eitha di-hwyl nawr. Dw i’n methu cael gwared ar y geiriau od ‘na o ‘mhen i – “Shezesista-duí sivuva-mu, soraka-hohé klilté-dí krinsa-zuhí hílé, elaté-dolé izné-mí elí-ruí” – “Anadl y sarff, swyn bywyd a thranc, d’argoel wneuthur” – ond dw i’m yn deall be i neud gyda nhw, er eu bod yn bwysig iawn, heb os, fel y mae swynion mewn Hen Hen Yrtheg cymhlethaf bob amser. Wi’n teimlo bod rhaid i fi’u hadrodd nhw drosodd a throsodd drwy’r amser.

 

Ond maen nhw’n dal i newid, fel bod nhw’n dawnsio yn ‘mhen i, o’r braidd fe alla i ymdopi, a bellach mae’n swnio fel: “A sesiha i sifufa, a lithe rira lirī soraha, a leli i elu i rinau.” Be ar y Ddaear yw’r ystyr dw i’m yn gallu cael hyd iddo? Dyn a ŵyr i sicrwydd? Ond mae’n rhywbeth i’w neud â rheoli grymoedd natur, uno gwrthgyferbyniadau, creu Dvaldí a Hlevné newydd (neu Thoahatha a Lehenefa, falle), a defnyddio elfennau fel metel a dŵr i agor porth i Fydoedd Eraill, gan berffeithio’r rhyngwynebu rhwng cnawd a phlastig, rhwng silicon a dur gwrthstaen, wrth wahanu ysbryd oddi wrth sylwedd, hollti amser oddi wrth ofod, a thorri achos ac effaith, be bynnag yw ystyr hynny. Wedyn fe fydd Chwaer Lygaid Cadno a’r angylion plwm di-ben yn disgyn drwy’r twll cwningen rhyngalaethog i fwydo arnon ni, ond mab y forwyn fydd yn ein hachub ni gan ddinistrio’r Hen Drefn ar yr un pryd.

 

Rhaid i fi gyffesu taw ar ôl fy holl - broblemau - yn y Parth Pinc Gormesol, pan dorrodd fy nerfau (i ryw raddau), nes i anghofio cymaint, neu ddewis peidio â'i gofio. Bryd hynny, ac am gryn amser wedyn, fyddwn i 'rioed wedi deall y fath bethau, heb sôn am eu credu nhw. Ond roedd Daud, a'i straeon, a'i berfformiadau, mor uffernol o argyhoeddiadol, rywsut, ni allai dyn lai na chael ei swyno ganddyn nhw. A fesul tipyn dechreuai'r syniadau lithro'n ôl, gan fy llenwi â dychryn a phoen, ond â chwilfrydedd a rhyfeddod hefyd. Ww, diar, diar, dw i’m yn gw'bod be ddylwn i neud o gwbl nawr. Mae’n codi pwys arna i. Pam fi? Dim ond trio neud ‘ngorau glas dw i, gan helpu Dai Procter a chadw ‘mhen i lawr. Rhaid i fi fynd i orffwys mewn stafell dywyll am y pnawn nawr te, a disgwyl gorchmynion oddi uchod fel petai. Wela i chi cyn hir, gobeithio, wel, o leia falle bydda i’n cyfathrebu gyda chi rywsut neu’i gilydd, a bod y Pwerau Dychrynllyd yn caniatáu! Ffred.