In general it is believed that shadows are a lack of light, and that lies are the absence of truth, one pole entwined inextricably with the other in the two cases alike. How far would it be going to ask whether shadows steal light, and so, tell lies? So, could there be different versions of the same lie, in the same way that various translations of the same book exist, and multiple interpretations of the same text? You may be sure that there will be many aspects to be considered, all inconsistent with each other, when investigating such questions. For example, from time to time, some unexperienced people will think that a kind word or gentle touch is a sign of deep love; occasionally, others will imagine that awkward fumbling is passionate love-making. But the problem that arises is that these individuals then go on to act on what they believe, often, then, causing results that were neither intended nor foreseen. Should we, society, accuse ourselves for this lack of understanding, for the damaging lies and half-truths spread underhand with a knowing smile? Or instead of that, can we forgive ourselves for offences of this kind, whilst casting the blame on the shades of shame, misinformation, and prurience?

 

Then, it’s as if you’re awakening from a hypnotic slumber caused by the best hallucinogenic drugs. You see yourself, looking from the outside, as if you’re watching a strange lad who’s squatting on his haunches. You hover on the brink of something – what? Feel like a metal chain pulled really tight, or an over-wound spring. Your nose quivers, tasting the air, as every sense squeals, trying to break through the heavy moistness all around. You feel your feet pressing deep into a quilt of pine-needles. The atmosphere’s full of – something, trees – wha-d’y-call-it – you’ve no clue – p’rhaps – evergreens – pines? You can’t think or remember anything. Without warning your body doubles over in response to the cramps, those gnashes of pain that come as the muscles of your legs and stomach tighten suddenly. You hear a voice – somewhere – mocking you – a coward who runs from his shadow – but there’s no shadows here, nor any real light, either – no fresh air – like you’re underwater – slowly drowning, but drowning for sure. 

 

Who are you? What’s your name, mate? It’s something like – Ooh – boxer – banker - burglar – baker – Baxter? By – by savant – school-lad – sootblack – screwjack – Swtakh! Your mind’s a soggy cardboard box full of shattered cogs. There should be something – someone – here – some bloke, maybe – or bull – huge, strong, stupid – called – chef – cypher – strife – stuff – Steff? Where is he, then? What on Eyrth’s happened? And more to the point, where are you, anyway – tide – tie – tail – toil – dole – dale – day – die – Dai?

 

Your hands are wet with a hot, red liquid. Somewhere, someone – or something – has broken the usual connection between the environment and its constant supply of reality. The whole place is sprinkled with a green-grey powder, whilst the sky itself is grizzled as if the old Sun had hidden his impudent face, sulking. Tattered shapes lie everywhere, and out of sight in the distance, there are guttural voices of furtive creatures, snuffling eagerly as they wander about. But, somehow, all the angles are totally wrong, here in the No-man’s Land between the Worlds, to your tired eyes, anyway – Dai – Dvaldí – Davuth – Thavoh – Thoahatha – Dá·hwyth – Daud – Davo – if you recognised the name. A horde of insubstantial things that seem like big, shining bubbles with iridescent ripples all over them, move from one place to another in an instant, without crossing the gap separating them, it appears. It’s like you’ve been placed in a hologram, cast inside vibrating jelly.

 

An unnatural pressure beats ceaselessly within your skull. Wherever you’ve gone, this military pulsing represents the oppressive, muggy feel pervading the forest perfectly. And the monotonous landscape extends to dark oblivion in every direction. You can’t understand whether the noise in your ears is coming from inside or outside. Only a few feet off, there’s something like a giant fleshy fern – is the thing animal, vegetable, or fungus? It’s as big as a large child, coloured like a bruise, blue and purple. It beats like a heart on the verge of having a coronary, the same way as everything else in the rest of the place, as it relaxes a sphincter. And then, whistling shrilly, it blows out a mist of stinking spores. 

 

You step back, sneezing explosively, waves of revulsion breaking over you. You’ve been running. Your lungs are scorched. You’re panting shallow and fast after staggering, flailing your way through some blood-red sludge, by all accounts. Your skin’s been burned raw by the salty sweat full of chemicals indicative of stress and fear. You can smell the terrible stench coming off your wounded body after the endless days you’ve spent fleeing. But, where have you escaped from, and how, and where’re you heading for, and why, and what kind of place is this anyway? 

 

Quite close by, amongst the leafless trees, their branches thin as combs, there’s a load of russet chunks made of some soft stuff, festering on top of a few low, slimy rocks, belching noisily. From inside them a sharp and acrid smell is mixing with the rotten odour flowing out of the hateful, brown things, making you want to gag, whilst causing you to feel as sleepy as a three-toed sloth that’s eaten a bottle of tranquilizers, slow as anything. You reel back and groan. Your heart beats fast, as a chimerical slug with whirling wings sweeps past your bare back, which is covered in gashes and bruises. Its multitude of feelers flash, and its mandibles are chattering. It’s not possible that this beast should be able to fly, but fly it does, that’s the plain truth. All around the unbelievable insects click and hiss without let-up – 'chep-er, chep-er, chep-er’ – as if there’s some wild imp trying to sharpen an enormous number of blunt scissors, snapping them each time.

 

Think, mun, remember! – You’re still telling yourself, but your brain’s running wild. Like a windmill with broken sails, your thoughts are getting out of control, as vortices of stupid imaginings rouse up and start to fight. Then, the unreal topology throws you off balance, and your eyes dart back and forth, trying to follow the trail of the hosts of otherworldly creatures. Unexpected tears force their way out through you enflamed eyelids. You fall on all fours, sinking into the soil that welcomes you like it was a prickly carpet. You bawl your eyes out until your heart almost breaks, your hands holding your bloody head. Most of the beasts there don’t care for your spluttering, and start to attack your defenceless flesh furiously. 

 

For some reason, you lurch to your feet once again. But when you realise at last that you don’t even know who you are, the fact hits you like a series of body-blows. The situation couldn’t have been worse if you were a punch-bag in the gym where the Arch-guardian of Public Behaviour works out. You reel forward like you’re a felled tree, as your arms beat the air like a crazed scarecrow at the same time {Tree-Felling}. By now your painful empty belly’s bringing up hot bile, while your thoughts search hopelessly for a shred of meaning to grab onto. Simultaneously, the thousands of wounds that’ve happened because of the flight you can’t remember, are exploding. Your body’s begging you to sleep, or to die. 

 

You fall all the way down into a void of sorrowful lethargy, and the ground greets you with the bitter embrace of a girl-friend – called – eland – elope – elfin – eleven – Elen, perhaps? In your troubled sleep, you toss and turn, remembering love turned to hot tears. And in the dream realm you play with a magical knife, remembering wonders without having to analyse them logically, and kindling the fire of revenge. 

 

And then, why’ve you woken up? A girl’s spirit laughs, the one who left you, or who you jilted much too suddenly a long time ago, probably {Love-slick}. She almost died because of you, apparently, in some accident when you were out in the van, you’ve deleted the details of from your mind. It wasn’t you who was at fault, definitely, anyway. You’d left her in the graveyard of memories for sure, but she’s been dragged out of the grave, although hopelessly, just now, to what end, you can’t guess.

 

Abruptly, a lightning-bolt materializes in the firmament on the left, forking towards the right. Is this the beginning of the final test? The void opens, severing a gap in time and space. An electric flash, and stone-rending blast on a golden trumpet, shatter the gluey hotness. Behind you, the vexatious voice of Swtakh himself, trembling from tasting the sacrifice, repeats the words of the ritual, although you don’t dare to look over your shoulder. The querulous voice scraping hope away causes your ears to bleed. And he declares, shouting, like Father Ishakí orating over the body of Adauvam the Son, but he’s talking to someone else, as if he’s giving orders: “You shall kill the beast, and you shall devour the body, and you shall put it to burn in the flames as a fire-offering to Swtakh, and then the two of us shall feast on the tasty flesh of all the Divinities for ever.” 

 

Very close, amongst the dead trees in the Grove of Frustration, the Old Soldier who desires to be a Wizard has conjured a crooked tower of mangled bodies, safeguarded by the terrible Scarlet Seal. Here he had intended to lie down for his last nap in the form of a mortal man in a sumptuous chamber decorated like the House of Rebirth. But blowing through it is a hurricane of lost dreams, bearing hundreds of out-of-tune nursery-rhymes, as well as legions of shredded hopes. One minute, you’re flying through the air, full of stinging embers, towards the living structure built of bones, flesh, muscles, sinews, and skin. The next thing, you’re fighting against the taloned arms of the devilish trees which guard the place, their roots breaking though the soil to pierce you like thorny snakes, as you stumble blindly through the hateful palace’s garden as did Sorakados the Prince in the Red Book of Rust and Blood. 

 

Next, an explosion hurls you into a bonfire of pines which blazes like a river of fire where someone’s tried to put out petrol flames with water. You can’t stop yourself from thinking about the alchemy classes, remembering brimstone, the brittle, yellow element, which burns with a blue flame and toxic gas. Or then again, there’s lead, that blue-grey metal that’s heavy, soft, and malleable. There are molten seas of it on the Nw Yrth containing armies of souls, dancing to the tune of all their previous desires, which they failed to satisfy, but are regretting nevertheless. And now, even the wind you’re breathing is burning you inside. All around, unseen entities try to stop you with their claws, and beaks, and hooves. And as you struggle in vain, the whatever-they-are drop from their flanks thousands of feathers as white as the freezing breeze tickling the stupendous blocks of ice in the walls of the Castle Futility. And the only thing you can do is moan, “Hebé help me.”

 

Then, just at that moment, you’re flung back, out of the way of the Winged Serpents, just in time to join that part of the usual nightmare where you’re bound hand and foot on the sacrificial stone. The last time you were there, you couldn’t move, or fight, or do anything. But now, you’re the Urban Commando, wearing the remnants of a military uniform, and in your fist is a serrated hunting knife. And you foresee, or feel, or intuit, within a sparkling red mist, a muscular lad waiting, on the edge of a precipice. Maybe he’s on the front court of a garage, or in the cellar of a cottage, or on the bank of a river by a pine-forest. He looks so sad, the poor lost kid, terrified, without a friend in the world. With an unannounced shock, you realise that he wants to end it all, by throwing himself into the flaming stream. And you rush towards him. 

 

And at once – you glimpse movement – through the corner of your eye. You see, perhaps, an enormous bivalve shell, held up on many pairs of flexible legs. In it, some shape, grey and sickly, grows and ripples. Like rotting aspic jelly it shakes, shining purple. Protruding from the substance as rubbery as a colossal squid and full of worm-like striations, are many flexible limbs in the form of muscular tentacles with greedy suckers all along them. In the middle of this plastic mass, there’s something like a bestial face, covered in wet, ginger hair, with the eyes sunk deep in its head. And as the creature burbles, and chokes, and coughs, as if in agony, chunks drop down from it, and slither off to wreak havoc elsewhere, all alone. 

 

Your Father’s unctuous voice is still justifying his evil, and telling you what’s what, whilst gratingly imploring you to sacrifice that idiot to save you both, Father and Son. Truly, these childish words flowing out of the gob of such a wicked man, especially when he’s in the form of a giant mollusc, make your skin crawl. And the more he complains, the more your impatience, and your anger, grow, as well as your hatred towards him. So, you make your mind up for yourself this time, definitively, once and for all. Perhaps all the old rubbish in the free parties under the influence of the special snuff, the peace and love, and the rest, has come home to roost, although its’s touch and go on that front.

 

But then again, the voice of that wondrous girl, who you love with all your soul, probably, and who’s carrying a baby, Swtakh forefend, cuts across too to speak plainly, without scolding or coaxing, about the fate of her half-brother. What she means is of no import to you, but on hearing this voice which as usual is clear, penetrating, and mellifluous, fraternity sprouts in place of contempt – strange how things can happen in the right circumstances – and tenderness, even, in place of mockery. The single word, ‘ithlon,’ is being repeated in your ears, although you don’t understand its significance yet. So, you get ready to put every ounce of strength into launching yourself through the void towards the pitiful shape of your mate, shouting at the top of your lungs – “Buddy! I’m here, bro! You’re safe! Jump, Jump!” But thanks to the profane order of the No-man’s Land between the Worlds, as you vacillate for the tiniest instant before doing what is required, you black out once more, for how long, you cannot calculate. 

 

In a flash, therefore, or after a long time, there’s no knowing in this place, the scene changes as if some unique species of ministering spirit blinks her holy eye whilst pausing for a moment from singing the woes of the Ancient of Days. And there’s our favourite Old Soldier, completely confused and covered in sweat, pleading justification like a sinner in sack-cloth and ashes. When his time comes, he hopes he’ll gain an enormous prize and satisfaction beyond excess, being invited into eternal life in a region one can get into only through treading the strict path of the Seven. There, Faith shall be Purity, and Purity, Strength. There every secret shall be revealed and every blemish annulled. There, the chosen disciples shall serve the Old Masters forever under the piercing gaze of the Dazzling Sun. There, he shall drink the true soma, and eat the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and the produce of the tree of life on top of that. 

 

And, Oh, furthermore, it is he who shall vanquish every other Divinity. He shall be reborn in the form of the Lord of Order who shall tame the red wilderness to raise a palace where there shall be lakes of tears and gardens of howling rocks, where he can feast on forbidden dainties, brought by flying monkeys. Through two deaths, with the sacrifice of two souls, he shall be born again. And there with his Lost Wife, he shall experience every delight and satisfy every desire.

 

Well, that had been the clever plan, in the Old Soldier’s mind at least. But instead of all that, the two fools had survived the van accident. Oh, as his health worsened so badly recently he had fidgeted on his throne scratching his head and racking his brains. In the end, he’d consulted the oracle ‘Emo he-Maket’ in a series of visions, which had revealed many tricks of the trade as it were. And so, he’d decided he could succeed in his aim by using a stupendous set of ancient symbolic correspondences called ‘Ver da-Imakh We.’ 

 

Swtakh knows what’d happened when they’d rushed into the cellar at the zenith of the ceremony, as here they are again, but unprepared and filthy. And that’s why he’s bawling in frustration and angst whilst imagining failing on the verge of success. But having come as far as this, he’s not ready to give up yet, and little by little he comes to his senses. He needs to push the Great Work forward. Well, he was supposed to provide two souls to complete the rite after all, by hook or by crook. And now two lads have appeared, come to think about it. Perhaps perdition isn’t calling on him, then, not yet. Thrice striking his staff on the quaking ground, he utters the Charm of Cleansing, simpering: “Nok im on orken! Nokim onor ken! No ki mo no r’ken!” 

 

You’re full of hatred towards the wrinkled man, but staring at his sour face, distorted with pain, you sense a pang of pity too, from where in your injured body the feeling comes, you don’t know. It’s something to do with the smell of burning flesh, probably, and that’s a stink that’s filling your nostrils and making you feel sick. You shift yourself to jump on him, your weapon ready. But here in the middle of the Old Soldier’s stronghold, moving is like swimming through treacle, and everywhere there are hands like knifes slashing you to ribbons. The freezingly hot atmosphere teems with mouths with myriad teeth as sharp as razor-wire, biting and tearing. 

 

A huge tremor runs through your whole body, as you labour towards the pin-prick of light in the distance above you head. The moon, of course? Your heart drums wildly and your muscles are burning. Before the Old Soldier can slink off into the Cleft between the Worlds, you grab the skinny body and drag it up, and up. You want to put the injured animal out of its misery in style, having freed yourself of the former pangs of conscience with alacrity as the pain intensifies. But the full ending of the Summoning Ceremony echoes wanly through the fake-Wizard’s tight, white lips – “Oh, Powers, quake!”

 

When the Old Soldier gets yanked from his imaginary kingdom by his enemy, the young usurper, the sinister attackers explode, screaming sickeningly, as chunks of white-hot, scaly ectoplasm splash the walls of the unreal prison. With his last breath, more or less, he finishes the Transformation Mantra – ‘Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre’ – and this time, the words are totally correct. 

 

He’s succeeded, perhaps, this fake-Wizard, in bringing his plan to fruition, but what kind of fruit it’ll bear, he could never have guessed. From nowhere comes a violet explosion and the pong of ozone, accompanied by uncontrollable cackling laughter. And the two, the lad and the man, are swept off the melting landscape of the No-man’s Land between the Worlds to meet their fate on the Nw Yrth. Two magical phrases hang in the air for a while  – “S’da Oryrt Nuok! Gid Elwg Dh’ryf!” And then, silence.

Yn gyffredinol y credir mai cysgodion yw prinder golau, ac mai celwyddau yw absenoldeb gwirionedd, y naill begwn wedi’i gyfrodeddu’n annatod â’r llall yn y ddau achos fel ei gilydd. Pa mor bell fyddai’n mynd i ofyn ai cysgodion sydd yn dwyn golau, ac o’r herwydd, yn dweud celwyddau? Felly, a allai fod fersiynau gwahanol o’r un bywyd, yn yr un modd ag y bydd cyfieithiadau amrywiol o’r un llyfr yn bodoli, a dehongliadau lluosog o’r un testun? Bid siŵr y bydd llawer o agweddau i’w hystyried, pob un sy’n anghyson â’i gilydd, wrth holi’r fath gwestiynau. Er enghraifft, o bryd i’w gilydd, bydd rhai heb brofiad yn meddwl mai arwydd cariad dwfn yw gair tirion, neu gyffwrdd tyner; o dro i dro bydd rhai eraill yn dychmygu mai ymbalfalu chwithig yw caru angerddol. Ond y broblem fydd yn codi yw mai wedyn y bydd yr unigolion hyn yn mynd yn eu blaenau i weithredu ar sail yr hyn a gredant, gan achosi’n aml o’r herwydd, ganlyniadau nas bwriadwyd neu ragweld. A ddylem ein cyhuddo’n hunain gymdeithas am y diffyg hwn o ddealltwriaeth, am y celwyddau niweidiol a hanner gwireddau gwatwarus wedi’u lledu dan din gyda gwên henffel? Ynteu’n lle hyn a allwn ni faddau i’n hunain am droseddau o’r fath, wrth fwrw’r bai ar gysgodion cywilydd, camhysbysrwydd, ac anlladrwydd?

 

Wedyn, mae fel ‘set ti’n dihuno o drwmgwsg seicedelig a achoswyd gan y cyffuriau rhithbair gorau. Ti’n dy weld dy hun, yn edrych o’r tu mas, fel ‘set ti’n gwylio llanc dieithr sy’n swatio ar ei garrau. Ti’n hofran ar fin rhywbeth – beth? Teimlo’n debyg i gadwyn fetel wedi’i thynnu’n dra thyn, neu sbring a weindiwyd yn ormod. Crynu mae dy drwyn di, gan flasu’r awyr, wrth i’th synhwyrau di i gyd wichian o drio torri drwy’r lleithder trwm o boptu. Ti’n teimlo dy draed di’n pwyso’n ddwfn mewn cwilt o nodwyddau. Mae’r awyrgylch yn llwyn o – rywbeth, coed – be’ ti’n galw – ‘sdim clem ‘da ti – falle – coed bythwyrdd – pinwydd? Ti’m yn gallu meddwl na chofio dim byd. Heb rybudd mae dy gorff di’n plygu mewn ymateb i’r clymau gwythi, y brathiadau ‘na o boen a ddaw wrth i gyhyrau dy goesau a’th stumog dynhau yn sydyn. Ti’n clywed llais – rywle – yn dy wawdio di – cachgi fydd yn rhedeg rhag ei gysgod – ond ‘sdim cysgodion ‘ma, na golau go iawn ‘chwaith – ‘sdim awyr iach – fel ‘set ti danddwr – yn ara’ foddi, ond boddi’n bendant.

 

Pwy wyt ti? Be’ yw d’enw di ‘te, mêt? Mae’n lled debyg i – Ww – baster – bacsau – bacswr – batsler – Baxter? Myn – myn bwbach – swbarch – swpach – swtrach – Swtach! Bocs cardbord soeglyd yn llawn cogiau wedi’u malu yw dy feddwl di. Fe ddylai fod rhywbeth – rhywun – yma – rhyw ddyn, falle – neu darw – enfawr, cryf, gwirion – o’r enw – sieff – seiffr – steiff – stwff – Steff? Ble mae e, ‘te? Be’ ar wyneb y Ddaear sy ‘di digwydd? A’n fwy pwysig, ble wyt ti, ta be’ – taid – tai – tain – tail – dail – daill – daint – dain – Dai?

 

Mae dy ddwylo di’n wlyb gan hylif coch, poeth. Rywle, mae rhywun – neu rywbeth – wedi torri’r cysylltiad arferol rhwng yr amgylchedd a’i gyflenwad cyson o realiti. Mae’r lle i gyd wedi’i ‘sgeintio â phowdr gwyrddlwyd, tra mae’r awyr ei hun yn llwydaidd fel ‘sai’r hen Haul wedi celu’i wyneb haerllug dan sorri. Mae siapiau llarpiog yn gorwedd ym mhobman, ac o’r golwg yn y pellter, mae lleisiau gyddfol creaduriaid llechwraidd yn snwffian yn daer wrth iddyn nhw grwydro amgylch ogylch. Ond, rywsut, hollol anghywir yw’r onglau i gyd yma yn y Tir Neb rhwng y Bydoedd, i’th lygaid blinedig ta waeth – Dai – Dvaldí – Davuth – Thavoh –Thoahatha – Dá·hwyth – Daud – Davo – ‘set ti’n nabod yr enw. Dyna liaws o bethau ansylweddol sydd i’w gweld fel swigod mawr, llachar a chrychdonnau symudliw drostyn nhw, yn symud o’r naill le i’r llall ar amrantiad, heb groesi’r bwlch yn gwahanu nhw, mae’n ymddangos. Mae fel ‘set ti wedi dy osod mewn hologram a deflir tu mewn i jeli’n dychlamu.

 

Mae pwysau, croes i natur, yn curo’n ddi-baid oddi mewn i’th benglog. Ble bynnag y byddi di wedi mynd, mae’r pwlsadu milwrol ‘ma’n cynrychioli’r naws drymllyd, ormesol yn treiddio’r fforest i’r dim. Ac mae’r dirwedd undonog yn ymestyn i ebargofiant tywyll ym mhob cyfeiriad. Dwyt ti’m yn gallu deall a ddaw’r sŵn yn dy glustiau o’r tu mewn neu’r tu fas. Dim ond rhai troedfeddi i ffwrdd, mae rhywbeth fel rhedynen fawr, gnodiog – ydy’r peth yn anifail, llysieuyn, neu ffwng? Mae cymaint â phlentyn mawr, wedi’i liwio fel clais, yn las a phorffor. Fel calon ar fin gael harten mae’n dyrnu, yn yr un ffordd â phopeth arall yng ngweddill y lle, wrth iddo fe laesu sffincter. Ac wedyn, dan chwibanu’n fain, mae’n chwythu tarth o sborau drewllyd allan.

 

Ti’n camu’n ôl gan ffrwydro tisian a thonnau o ffieidd-dra’n torri drosot ti. Ti ‘di bod yn rhedeg. Mae d’ysgyfaint di wedi’u deifio. Ti’n dyheu’n fas a chyflym ar ôl honcian ffusto dy ffordd drwy ryw laca gwaetgoch yn ôl bob golwg. Mae dy groen di wedi’i losgi’n gignoeth gan chwys hallt, llawn o gemegion yn dynodi straen ac ofn. Ti’n gallu gwyntio’r sawr ofnadw’n codi o’th gorff clwyfus ar ôl y dyddiau di-rif ti ‘di hala’n ffoi. Ond, o ble ti ‘di dianc, a sut, a ble ti’n bwrw hi, a pham, a sut le yw hyn ta be’?

 

Yn eitha agos, ymhlith y coed heb ddail a’u canghennau’n denau fel cribin, mae ‘na lwyth o dalpiau cochddu wedi’u ‘neud o ryw stwff meddal yn crawni ar ben rhai creigiau llysnafeddog, isel, a bytheirio'n uchel. Oddi mewn iddyn nhw mae gwynt siarp a llymsur yn cymysgu â’r sawr pwdr yn llifo allan o’r pethau brown, atgas, gan ‘neud i ti eisiau cyfogi, wrth achosi i ti deimlo mor gysglyd â diogyn tribys sy ‘di bwyta’n ara’ deg botel o dawelyddion. Ti’n cilio’n ôl ac ocheneidio. Curo’n gyflym mae dy galon di wrth i falwen wlith ffansïol ag adenydd chwyrlïol ysgubo heibio dy gefn noeth, sy’n archollion a chleisiau i gyd. Mae’i luosogrwydd o deimlyddion yn fflachio, a’i malwyr yn rhincian. Dyw’m yn bosibl dylai’r anghenfil chwyddedig ‘ma allu hedfan, ond hedfan y mae, dyna’r gwir cas. Ar bob ochr dyna’r trychfilod anghredadwy’n di-stop glecian a hisian – ‘chep-er, chep-er, chep-er’ – fel ‘sai ‘na ryw ellyll gwyllt yn trio hogi nifer fawr o siswrn pŵl, gan eu torri nhw’n glec bob tro.

 

Meddylia di, w, cofia! – Ti’n dal i weud wrthot ti dy hunan, ond mae d’ymennydd di’n mynd yn wyllt. Fel melyn wynt a’i hwyliau wedi’u torri, mae dy feddyliau’n mynd tu hwnt i reolaeth, wrth i fortecsau o ddychmygion hurt gynhyrfu a dechrau brwydro. Wedyn, mae’r dopoleg afreal yn dy fwrw di oddi ar d’echel, ac mae dy lygaid yn gwibio yn ôl a blaen, gan geisio dilyn trywydd y lluoedd o greaduriaid arallfydol. Mae dagrau dirybudd yn gwthio eu ffordd allan trwy d’amrannau llidus. Dyma ti’n cwympo ar dy bedwar, gan suddo i’r pridd sy’n croesawu di fel ‘sai hi’n garped pigog. Ti’n beichio wylo nes dy fod di bron â thorri dy galon, a’th ddwylo’n dal dy ben gwaedlyd di. Dyw rhan fwya’r bwystfilod yno ddim yn lico dy fwldagu, a dechrau ymosod ar dy gnawd diamddiffyn yn ffyrnig.

 

Am ryw reswm ti’n rhoncian codi ar dy draed unwaith ‘to. Ond pan ti’n sylweddoli o’r diwedd fod di’m yn nabod hyd yn oed pwy wyt ti, mae’r ffaith yn dy fwrw di fel cyfres o ergydion i’r corff. Allai’r sefyllfa’m bod yn waeth ‘set ti’n fag dyrnu yn y gampfa ble bydd Arch Warchodwr Ymddygiad Cyhoeddus yn ymarfer. Ti’n gwegian yn dy flaen fel ‘set ti’n goeden a gymynwyd, wrth i’th freichiau bwno’r awyr fel bwgan brain gorffwyll ar yr un pryd. Erbyn hyn mae dy fol poenus o wag yn chwydu bustl poeth, tra mae dy feddyliau’n chwilio’n anobeithiol am fymryn o ystyr i afael ynddo. Ffrwydro ar yr un pryd mae’r miloedd o ddoluriau sy ‘di digwydd o ganlyniad i’r ffo dwyt ti’m yn gallu’i gofio. Mae dy gorff di’n crefu arnat ti i gysgu, neu farw.

 

Ti’n cwympo’r holl ffordd i lawr i wagle o syrthni gofidus, ac mae’r tir yn dy gyfarch di gan gofleidiad chwerw wejen – o’r enw – elfen – elain – elëin – elin – Elen, falle? Yn dy gwsg aflonydd, ti’n troi a throsi, gan gofio cariad wedi’i droi’n ddagrau poeth. Ac yn nheyrnas breuddwyd, dyna ti’n chwarae gyda chyllell hudol, gan gofio rhyfeddodau heb fod rhaid eu dadansoddi nhw’n rhesymegol, a chynnau tân dial.

 

Ac wedyn, pam wyt ti ‘di dihuno? Dyma ysbryd merch yn chwerthin, ‘naeth dy adael di, neu ‘nest ti roi’r hwi iddi’n rhy sydyn o lawer amser maith yn ôl, siŵr o fod. Bu bron iddi hi farw o’th achos di, yn ôl y sôn, mewn rhyw ddamwain pan o't allan yn y fan, ti ‘di dileu’r manylion ohoni o’th feddwl. Nage ti oedd ar fai'n wir, ta be'. Ro’t ti ‘di gadael hi ym mynwent cofion heb os, ond hi sy ‘di cael ei chipio allan o’r bedd, er yn anobeithiol, gynnau fach, at ba ddiben, ti’m yn medru dyfalu.

 

Yn ddisymwth, fe ddaw mellten drwy'r wybren ar y chwith, a fforchio hyd y dde. Ife dyma ddechrau’r prawf terfynol? Agor mae’r gwagle, gan dorri bwlch mewn gofod ac amser. Dyna fflach trydan, a chaniad daeargrynol gan utgorn o aur yn dryllio’r poethder gludiog. Tu ôl i ti, llais trallodus Swtach ei hun yn crynu o flasu’r aberth sy’n ail-adrodd geiriau’r ddefod, er dwyt ti’m meiddio edrych dros dy ysgwydd. Mae’r sain gwynfanllyd yn crafu gobaith ymaith yn achosi i’th glustiau waedu. A dyma fe’n gweiddi datgan, fel Ishakí Dad yn areithio dros gorff Adauvam Fab, ond ei fod yn sôn wrth rywun arall, fel ‘sai fe’n rhoi gorchymyn: “Mi leddi di’r bwystfil, ac mi ddifethi di’r corff, ac mi roddi di fe nes iddo losgi yn y fflamau fel poethoffrwm i Swtach, ac wedyn mi wleddwn ni'n dau ar gnawd blasus y Duwdodau i gyd am byth.”

 

Yn agos iawn, ymhlith y coed marw yn Llwyn Rhwystredigaeth, mae’r Hen Filwr sy’n dymuno bod yn Ddewin wedi consurio tŵr gwyrgam o gyrff drylliedig, a ddiogelir gan y Sêl Ysgarlad arswydus. Yma roedd e ‘di bwriadu gorwedd am ei gyntun ola’ ar ffurf dyn marwol, mewn siambr helaethwych wedi’i haddurno fel Tŷ Aileni. Ond yn chwythu trwyddo mae corwynt o freuddwydion colledig yn dwyn cannoedd o hwiangerddi allan o diwn, yn ogystal â llengoedd o obeithion cynhiniog. Un funud, ti’n hedfan trwy’r awyr lawn gwreichion colynnog tuag at y strwythur byw wedi’i adeiladu o esgyrn, cnawd, cyhyrau, gewynnau, a chroen. Y peth nesa’, ti’n ymladd yn erbyn breichiau crafangog y coed cythreulig sy’n gwarchod y lle, a’u gwreiddiau’n torri drwy’r pridd i’th drywanu di fel seirff dreiniog wrth i ti faglu’n ddall drwy ardd y palas atgas, fel ‘naeth Sorakados Dywysog yn Llyfr Coch Rhwd a Gwaed.

 

Nesa’, dyna ffrwydrad yn dy hyrddio i goelcerth o binwydd sy’n ffaglu fel afon o dân lle mae rhywun wedi ceisio diffodd fflamiau petrol â dŵr. Ti’m yn gallu atal dy hun rhag meddwl am y gwersi alcemeg, gan gofio brwmstan, yr elfen felen, frau sy’n llosgi â fflam las a mwg gwenwynig. Neu eto i gyd, dyna blwm, y metel glaslwyd ‘na sy’n drwm, meddal, a churadwy. Mae ‘na foroedd tawdd ohono ar y Nw Yrth yn cynnwys byddinoedd o eneidiau’n dawnsio i diwn eu chwantau blaenorol oll, fethon nhw eu bodloni pan o'n nhw'n fyw, ond maen nwh'n difaru heb frys serch 'ny. A bellach, hyd yn oed y gwynt ti’n anadlu sy’n dy losgi di’n fewnol. O boptu dyna endidau anweladwy’n ceisio dy rwystro gyda’u crafangau, a’u pigau, a’u carnau. Ac wrth i ti stryffaglio’n ofer, dyna be’ bynnag ydyn nhw’n gollwng o’u hystlys filoedd o blu mor wyn â’r awel rewllyd yn cosi’r blociau dirfawr o iâ yn waliau Castell May·nover. A’r unig be’ ti’n gallu ‘neud yw cwynfan, “Hebé a’m helpo fi!”

 

Yna, ar y gair, ti’n cael dy daflu’n ôl, allan o ffordd y Seirff Asgellog, mewn union bryd i ymuno â’r rhan ‘na o’r hunllef arferol lle ti ‘di dy glymu draed a dwylo ar y maen aberthol. Y tro diwetha’ o’t ti ‘ma, do’t ti’m yn medru symud, na brwydro, na ‘neud dim byd. Ond bellach, y Comando Trefol wyt ti, sy’n gwisgo olion lifrai milwrol, ac yn dy ddwrn mae cyllell hela danheddog. A dyna ti’n darogan, neu deimlo, neu sythweld, oddi mewn i darth coch, pefriog, ryw lanc cyhyrog yn aros ar fin diben. Falle’i fod ar gwrt blaen garej, neu mewn seler bwthyn, neu ar lan afon ar bwys coedwig bin. Mae’n edrych mor drist, y crwt druan ar goll, mewn dychryn, heb ffrind yn y byd. Gyda sioc na chyhoeddwyd, ti’n sylweddoli fod e eisiau rhoi diwedd arno’i hunan. trwy fwrw ei hun i’r ffrwd fflamboeth. A dyna ti’n rhuthro tuag ato fe.

 

A chwap – dyna ti’n cael cipolwg drwy gil dy lygad ar symudiad. Ti’n gweld, falle, gragen enfawr, ddwyfalf wedi’i dal i fyny gan lawer o barau o goesau hyblyg. Ynddi hi, dyna ryw siâp llwyd a gwelw’n tyfu a chrychu. Fel jeli asbig, braen mae’n crynu, wrth lewyrchu’n borffor. Gwthio allan o’r sylwedd mor ryberaidd â môr-lawes anferth ac yn llawn stribedi llyngyraidd, mae sawl aelod hyblyg ar ffurf tentaclau cyhyrog ac ar eu hyd sugnolion barus. Yng nghanol y cruglwyth plastig ‘ma, mae ‘na rywbeth fel wyneb bwystfilaidd, yn wallt cringoch, gwlyb i gyd, a’i lygaid ambr, gafraidd yn ddwfn yn y pen. Ac wrth i’r creadur fyrlymu, a thagu, a phesychu fel ‘sai mewn loes, dyna dalpiau’n gostwng i lawr oddi arno a nadreddu i ffwrdd i ‘neud llanast o bethau yn rhywle arall, ar eu pennau’u hunain.

 

Dyna lais sebonllyd dy Dad yn dal i gyfiawnhau’i ddrygioni, a dweud y drefn wrthi di, wrth rygnu erfyn arnat ti i aberthu’r pwdryn ‘na i achub y ddau ohonoch chi Dad a Mab. Yn wir mae’r geiriau plentynnaidd ‘ma’n llifo allan o geg dyn mor anfad, yn enwedig pan fydd ar ffurf molwsg enfawr, yn dân ar dy groen di. A mwya’n y byd y cwyniff, mwya' y tyfiff dy ddiffyg amynedd, a’th ddig, yn ogystal â’th gasineb tuag ato fe. A dyna ti’n penderfynu’n bendant drosot dy hun y tro ‘ma, unwaith ac am byth. Falle fod yr holl lol yn y partïon rhydd dan ddylanwad y snisin sbesial, yr hedwch a’r cariad a’r gweddill, yn cyrraedd adre’, er taw cael a chael yw hi o ran ‘ny.

 

Ond eto i gyd, mae llais y ferch ryfeddol ‘na, ti’n charu gyda’th holl enaid, mae’n debyg, ac sy’n magu esgyrn bychain, na ato’r Saith, yn torri ar draws ‘fyd i sôn yn blwmp ac yn blaen, heb geryddu na chocsio, am ffawd ei hanner brawd. Be’ mae’n feddwl dyw’m o bwys i ti, ond o glywed y llais ‘ma sy fel arfer yn glir, treiddgar, a phêr ei oslef, dyna dyfu brawdoliaeth yn lle dirmyg – ryfedd sut all pethau ddigwydd yn y gwir amgylchiadau – a thiriondeb hyd yn oed, yn lle gwawd. Yr un gair, ‘ithlon’ sy’n cael ei ailadrodd yn dy glustiau, er dwy ti’m deall ei arwyddocâd ‘to. ‘Lly ti’n paratoi i roi pob gewyn ar waith i lansio dy hunan drwy’r gwagle tuag at siâp truenus dy fêt gan weiddi nerth d’ysgyfaint – “‘Achan! Fi sy ‘ma frawd! Ti’n saff! Neidia! Neidia!” Ond diolch i drefn gableddus y Tir Neb rhwng y Bydoedd, wrth i ti anwadalu am yr eiliad leiaf cyn ‘neud yr hyn sydd ei eisiau, dyna hi’n mynd yn nos arnat ti unwaith yn rhagor, am faint o amser, ti’m yn gallu cyfri’.

 

Mewn chwinciad, felly, neu ar ôl amser maith, ‘does wybod yn y fangre hon, mae’r olygfa’n newid fel ‘sai rhyw rywogaeth unigryw o ysbryd gwasanaethgar yn ‘smicio’i llygaid sanctaidd wrth oedi am eiliad rhag canu trallodion yr Hen Ddihenydd. A dyna’n hoff Hen Filwr ni, wedi’i ddrysu’n llwyr ac yn chwys i gyd yn pledio cyfiawnhad, fel pechadur yn ei sachlen a lludw. Pan ddaw ei dro mae’n gobeithio fe fydd yn ennill gwobr enfawr a boddhad tu hwnt i ormodedd, gan gael ei wahodd i fodolaeth fythol mewn bro yr aiff dyn i mewn iddi ond trwy droedio llwybr llym y Saith. Yno, Ffydd fydd Purdeb, a Phurdeb, Nerth. Yno y byddir yn datguddio pob dirgelwch a diddymu pob mefl. Yno, fe fydd y dewis ddisgyblion yn gwasanaethu’r Hen Feistri byth a hefyd dan drem deryll yr Haul Disglair. Yno, fe fydd yn yfed y gwir soma, a bwyta ffrwyth pren gwybodaeth da a drwg, a chynnyrch pren bywyd ar ben hynny.

 

Ac O, ymhellach, efe a drecha bob Duwdod arall. Fe fydd yn cael ei aileni ar ffurf Arglwydd Trefn fydd yn dofi’r anialwch coch i godi palas lle bydd lynnoedd o ddagrau a gerddi o gerrig yn udo, lle fe all wledda ar ddanteithfwydydd gwaharddedig, y deuir â nhw gan fwncïod sy’n hedfan. Trwy ddwy farwolaeth, gydag aberth dau enaid, fe fydd yn cael ei eni drachefn. Ac yno, gyda’i Wraig Golledig fe fydd yn profi bob mwynhad, a boddio pob chwant.

 

Wel, dyna fu’r cynllun clyfar, ym meddwl yr Hen Filwr o leiaf. Ond yn lle hynny oll, roedd y ddau ffŵl wedi goroesi’r ddamwain fan. O, wrth i’w iechyd waethygu cynddrwg yn ddiweddar, roedd e ‘di gwingo ar ei orsedd gan grafu’i ben a meddwl yn galed. Yn y pen draw, roedd e wedi cysylltu â’r oracl ‘Emo he-Mekat’ mewn cyfres o weledigaethau oedd wedi datgelu llawer o gyfrinion y grefft fel petai. Ac o ganlyniad, roedd wedi penderfynu fe allai fynd â’r maen i’r wal drwy ddefnyddio set syfrdanol o gyfatebiaethau symbolaidd, hynafol o’r enw ‘Ver da-Imakh We.’

 

Swtach a ŵyr be’ oedd wedi digwydd pan o’n nhw wedi rhuthro i mewn i’r seler ar anterth y seremoni, achos taw yma maen nhw unwaith eto, ond heb eu paratoi ac aflan. A dyna pam mae’n bloeddio mewn rhwystredigaeth ac ing wrth ddychmygu boddi yn ymyl y lan. Ond wedi dod cyn belled â hyn, dwy e’m yn barod i roi’r ffidil yn y to, a bob yn dipyn mae’n dod at ei goed. Fe fydd arno angen gyrru’r Gwaith Mawr yn ei flaen. Wel, roedd e i fod i ddarparu dau enaid i gyflawni’r ddefod wedi’r cwbl, drwy deg neu drwy dwyll. A dyma dda lanc wedi ymddangos, erbyn meddwl amdano. Nage difancoll sy’n galw arno felly, hwyrach, ddim eto. Wrth fwrw’i hudlath deirgwaith ar y tir crynedig mae’n yngan y Gyfaredd Lanhau dan gilwenu: “Nok im on orken! Nokim onor ken! No ki mo no r’ken!”

 

Llawn bet tuag at y dyn crebachlyd wyt ti, ond o rythu ar ei wep sur wedi’i hystumio gan boen, ti’n clywed gwayw o dosturi ‘fyd, o ble yn dy gorff anafus mae’r teimlad yn dod, wyddost ti’m. Rhywbeth a wnelo â gwynt cnawd yn llosgi ydy, siŵr o fod, a dyna ddrewdod sy’n llenwi dy ffroenau a chodi pwys arnat ti. Ti’n hwylio i neidio arno fe, a’th arf yn barod. Ond yma yng nghanol cadarnle’r Hen Filwr mae symud fel oifad drwy driagl, ac ym mhob man mae ‘na ddwylo’n debyg i gyllyll yn dy slaesio di’n rhacs. Mae’r awyrgylch rhewllyd o boeth yn heigio â chegau ac ynddyn nhw ddannedd fyrdd mor finiog â weiren raser yn brathu a rhwygo.

 

Dyna gryndod enfawr yn rhedeg trwy dy ffrâm oll, wrth i ti ymlafnio tuag at y pigiad pin o olau yn y pellter uwch dy ben di. Y lleuad, heb os? Mae dy galon yn drymio’n wyllt a’th gyhyrau’n llosgi. Cyn i’r Hen Filwr allu sleifio ymaith i’r Hollt rhwng y Bydoedd, ti’n cipio’r corff esgyrnog a’i lusgo i lan ac i lan. Ti eisiau gwaredu’r creadur anafwyd mewn steil, wedi ymryddhau o’r hen amheuon cydwybod yn ddiymdroi, wrth i’r boen ddwysáu. Ond dyna ddiwedd llawn y Ddefod Wysio’n atseinio’n dila trwy wefusau gwynion, tyn y ffug-Ddewin – “O Rymoedd, crynwch!”

 

Pan gaiff yr Hen Filwr ei halio o’i deyrnas ddychmygol gan ei elyn, y disodlwr ifanc, dyna’r ymosodwyr anfad yn ffrwydro gan sgrechian yn gyfoglyd, wrth i dalpiau dirifedi o ectoplasm cennog, gwynias ysgeintio waliau’r carchar afreal. Gyda’i anadl olaf, mwy neu lai, dyna fe’n gorffen Mantra Trawsffurfio – ‘Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre’ – a'r tro hwn, hollol gywir yw’r geiriau.

 

Mae ‘di llwyddo, ddichon, y ffug-Ddewin ‘ma, i ddod â’i gynllun i’w derfyn, ond pa fath o ffrwyth fydd yn ddwyn, allai fe’m bod wedi dyfalu ‘rioed. O nunlle daw tanchwa fiolet a drewi osôn, y cyfeilir iddyn nhw gan gogor chwerthin anhydrin. A dyma’r ddau, y llanc a’r dyn, yn cael eu hysgubo oddi ar dirwedd gartwnaidd y Tir Neb rhwng y Bydoedd i gwrdd â’u ffawd ar y Nw Yrth. Dau ymadrodd hudol sy’n hongian yn yr awyr am sbel – “S’da Oryrt Nuok! Gid Elwg Dh’ryf!” Ac wedyn, tawelwch.