A musical scale has seven notes, and it could be said that everything was created by music, or from music, or rather in the form of fundamental oscillations. And there are Seven Sorcerers, too, and each one of them has a particular planet in the solar system, namely Mārs, Jūpiter, Venus, Sāturnus, Mercurius, Lūna, and Sōl. They gave to humankind the ancient metals which they needed to fashion civilization, that is, gold, copper, tin, lead, iron, and mercury, that the modern world was forged with. And then again there are seven basic units in the international system used to measure physical attributes, namely metre, kilogram, second, ampère, kelvin, mole, and candela. The Sorcerers rule over the seven liberal arts, that is, grammar, logic, rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, music, and astrology, and it is they who are the masters of the seven basic types of catastrophe. They have taught humankind that the regular heptagon cannot be drawn using a compass and straight-edge only, and that it is possible to define a cross-product in seven dimensions as well as in the three usual dimensions. But by doing all this, the Sorcerers have also given to the inhabitants of the Eyrth the power to commit the seven deadly sins, namely possessing wealth without work, over-indulging in pleasure without pangs of conscience, seeking knowledge without strength of character, conducting business without morality, using science without fellow-feeling, celebrating faith without sacrifice, and playing politics without principles. And thus they catch the unwary, and corrupt the strong, so that they can feed on the souls of the great and the small alike in the end. 

 

Here’s the ragged and half-blind youth fighting bravely against the pressure of fate, and doing his very best to stand still as he cannot go on, but he’s drowning in time’s flow, getting terribly tired. The lad has penetrating eyes like azure balls under the thick reddish brows, the kind of brows that belong to an ancient, inhuman, unreasoning creature, a creature like a goat. He’s come to his senses in the middle of an enormous plain, where the ground is covered in serrated glass shards. As far as the eye can see, there are millions of rocky trees in the shape of distorted bodies clawing the sickly yellow sky. In the exact centre of the Sorrowful Field, there is an enormous piece of slippery black stone, some three metres in height, and in its centre, there is the terrible symbol of the Sorcerers, painted in red liquid like living fire. For a second he crouches silently, with the scars like red rwnic letters covering his body hurting him dreadfully. 

 

Ever since his birth (or maybe before then), the stinking, unkempt lad has been playing with shadows, conjuring strange images from the imagination to escape from his lack of personal identity, and the scarcity of real friends. But by now the symbols and the concepts formed from the fruitful material of language and dream have come alive. And now in the form nightmarish monsters, they’ve pursued him until he fled to the Nw Yrth. And there, freezing worry and voracious desire are rearing up and falling back down constantly. He has been dragged through a jet-black scrying-glass made from myriad fragments, by the wrinkled Old Soldier’s chanting, which was as correct this time as that specified in the ‘Book of Mirrors.’ Despite that, as it happens, it is not the words alone that are important in such a situation, but the intention of the utterer, and the desire in the heart of the fake-Wizard was contrary to that which he was saying.

 

Now, therefore, on the part of the teacher and the pupil (or the mercenary and the kid in the sack, perhaps – the smuggler and his booty – the priest and the sacrifice – the father and his son), the tide has turned, and this time it’s the older one who’s lying on the sacrificial stone. For the time being at least. Although the lad doesn’t understand where the conviction stems from, he knows without a doubt that he has to rummage through the mind of the prisoner to discover a way out. And indeed, he goes to it with zeal to undo the magic of the slave from the other side who’s struggling weakly, despite his initial unwillingness and his constant clumsiness. But, to his great disgust, he soon begins to enjoy the experience of torturing the old wreck. And as he does this, without knowing the source of the ability, the lad remembers, or reveals, the tale which explains why all the inhabitants of the Nw Yrth had been battling so fiercely for millennia. 

 

In his head, symbols and ideas fly about and fight [*]. The say that one’s life flashes before one’s eyes before he dies. But maybe it’s not just your life that materializes to bless you or curse you, but all the unprompted but noisy memories dammed up within you. And without a doubt, that is true in this case. And amongst all the images, there rises up the oldest charm of creation and binding, and so the boy begins to chant, repeating his litany over and over in order to weave a magical web over the Other World beyond the throbbing mirror, which will stop existence in the Two Worlds from melting completely – “‘Dalatha’ is the rabbit, the lynx is ‘bravlu,’ the marten is ‘klendru,’ and the housefly is ‘eshempa’.” 

 

And now he begins to see, or remember, or realise, forgotten things, or facts which have been hidden from him so far. The lad’s Father’s mind was always troubled, and he had eyes that saw strange things that no-one else could discern. Even as a child, he was stubborn, and fierce, and strong. As a result, he was always causing a headache to his parents. And that was why, in his opinion, he was rejected by them, and why he had to live as a wild beast that wandered on the banks of the River Sed in the Haunted Homeland. As he grew up, he drifted through life like a cheeky but lucky monkey, but soon on the streets of the Rosy Fortress he came under the influence of older children who were cruel bullies who used him and hurt him terribly. He had to deceive, and fight, and kill even, to survive, and the voices whispering in his mind helped him to do all that.

 

Throughout his life, the lad’s always felt that he’s broken, and has been trying do understand himself, seeking health and wholeness, whilst hoping to avoid the dark currents. He wants to be filled with light, freedom, peace, love, and harmony, helping to reform young offenders, reclaim society from the ruling classes, and transforming the World. But he knows that hatred and affliction lurk under the surface of the laughable idealism, and can break through easily, and as he yearns for reparation, there’s a part of him praying for revenge at the same time. Combined with the strange mentalist power belonging to him, all this means he could be dangerous – but very useful – weapon, in the right hands, if he’s treated right. And unfortunately for him, he’s exceptionally susceptible to the influence of world-builders and idea-merchants who peddle complex and captivating plans – the more abstruse the better, to be perfectly honest. Perhaps this whole sorry situation is the final test gone wrong. 

 

But whilst looking for causes, whilst fleeing from consequences. He’s convinced himself that death and destruction will follow in his wake wherever he goes. But the deeper he digs, the more the internal voices possess him. And here’s his own hidden history unfolding in his head. He doesn’t know what to believe, because sometimes they tell the truth, but they tell lies often, too, mocking him when he falls into their traps, hurting himself and causing pain to others. And these are voices including that of a drunken priest, a violent school-master, and a deranged smuggler. But from some murky pool in his mind, other weak, female voices are sounding, to join in with the choir, warning the orphaned and underprivileged refugee of half-true facts and deceptive suppositions regarding the Stupendous Planet:

 

“And what could have caused the whole terrible commotion? Well, on the Nw Yrth, the inhabitants are ceaselessly fighting the war of the powers. At present, the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers of the Yrthians’ Extremely Elevated Empire, the oppressors, are governing from within the chief ziggurat on the Planet’s Southern Continent, waving their splendid blue banner. And they rule through strict laws and steely discipline…”

 

– And the lad continues: “‘Silpistí,’ is the bee, ‘madrolu’ is the thrush, the moose is ‘bamlaru,’ and the spider is ‘zileví’.”

 

The leader of the wild party was a charismatic but capricious youth from somewhere far overseas called the Young Soldier. He preached a message of salvation through complete subservience to otherworldly forces, promising prizes beyond imagining if the proper practices were followed, and the perplexing rites completed. The Red Priest was another name for him, because of his orations dripping with blood, and tears, and fire. It is horrendous to relate that the members of the crew had to do reprehensible things to other children, and to his great terror, the Father enjoyed this so much that he invented new ways to induce fear and cause pain. And so he won the name ‘Ivan’ in memory of the Atrocious Prince who had led a crusade to rid the land of unbelievers centuries ago. (Later, he would use his awful training to develop into one of the great men of the black market, who stole from Peter to pay Paul, losing his profits every time). That’s when Ivan discovered drugs, and went completely crazy. 

 

“…In the South, the Seraphic Sorcerers are waited upon by their legions of servants, under the eagle eye of freezing shadows in the form of winged serpents, and under the flaming lash of troops of flying apes, whilst none is enslaved to the Idolaters in the North. Over the millennia, as the Planet transformed around them, the Sorcerers have done everything they needed to do to withstand the development, and stop the growth. The reason for this is that they are terrified that any change will destroy them. They are not friends of truth, therefore, and will go to any lengths to protect themselves and survive. They have learned to harness the immense red-hot power in the heart of the Nw Yrth, which is very like the white-hot power of the Sun. And using this force, they have fashioned exceptionally ingenious machines, in order to reason, predict, compel nature, and oppress. Information is their green life-blood, and control is their raison-d’être. From within their ziggurats of quartz, they command with unswerving surety, exercising the right to curse and bless, and wielding the power of life and death. The mechanisms, the practices, and the substances, used in the Hoses of Rebirth mean that they will have eternal life…”

 

Once, full of super-marrow and remorse, the Father tried to kill himself and the Young Soldier in a fire, but he failed, and the two landed up in the sanatorium where a dear and loving young woman was volunteering. Strange to say, the Red Priest convinced him they’d been saved by the Ineffable Forces to make the World bend to their will. Ivan was a compulsive liar, and the girl a saintly soul, and he swept her off her feet with his wild charm – or so he thought. They married much too young and soon had two children to satisfy, in his view, his brutish need to be patriarch to a fearful and submissive tribe. The gift of life did not bring peace, therefore, and the Mother never escaped from his compulsive control, which was subtle and sneaky to start with, and easy to hide from others. But little by little, he became worse and worse, tending to explode at the least provocation. To be honest, she was totally sure she could never leave Ivan, as he threatened that he would maim her and kill the children if she did anything, or failed to obey him completely. He was re-living the atrocities of his past, he said, well, that was the heart-breaking story and the ready excuse every time. Although she was constantly abused, however, she never let herself be broken by her husband. And her love, humour, creativity, and mischievousness were an exceptional shield for the children, who had inherited considerable strange strength from her. 

 

“…The Idolaters, on the other hand, however, do not work hard; rather they do nothing but feast, and carouse, and sing, and make love, and play. They always live on the seashore, or on the teeming flood-plains near the strands of rivers, whilst avoiding the mines and the spires dear to the insectile Sorcerers. And there in their mossy strongholds, the Unformed Idol-worshippers dance madly under the light of the Blue Moon, which ebbs and flows, rises and falls, as others toss and turn on their silken sofas, being thrown hither and thither on waves of careless existence. They achieve so much by doing so little by all accounts, although neither they, nor very many of the Yrthians, understand how important this all is in fashioning the fate of the blue and green Eyrth so far away…”

 

Despite his cruelty, there was something about Ivan which was attractive, almost magical, which would bind people to him and compel them to obey him. Despite that, he was basically a coward, but as things across the Eyrth went from bad to worse, he took advantage of the situation, collecting around him a large band of bandits and mercenaries to be his lapdogs. When the Great Tribulation descended, they would roam the countryside throughout the Continent, looting and killing, in the name of purity, faith, and strength. The kid had to travel with the men, and join in with the atrocities – to build his character, according to Ivan. Before that, the abuse at home had been ceaseless, to such an extent that it was a blessed release to the Sister and the Mother when the Father and the Son went off. From that point of view, the Son was his family’s saviour, despite, or because of, his own suffering. The Sister would never forget her Brother, although he did not realise this, perhaps. One of the most heinous acts occurred during a meeting in a House of Repentance, when every single person there was forced to wear sack-cloth and ashes. And then they were all tarred and feathered, men, women and children. And then the place was set on fire with them in it, to purify the ground, and save the sinners’ souls. Every time the son would refuse to take part in the acts of violence, and every time, unfailingly, the Father would mock him and beat him, leaving a collection of scars over his body. But despite that, somehow, the Father exercised some magnetic influence over him, so that the Son admired the old devil, whilst hating him at the same time. 

 

“... The Seven Seraphic Sorcerers insist on unflinching allegiance; they provide nothing but enslavement and torment in the end...”

 

– And now the lad can hear the sound of the insects’ carapaces ceaselessly rustling, and it’s assaulting his ears terribly. Despite the distress, he’s still listening to the words that are resounding, it appears, from the distant past. At the same time, he's trying not to pay attention to the sound of wings beating. teeth gnashing, and scales rasping. And he’s fighting with all his strength to take himself off, away from the vile monsters, which spread despair and cause terrible fear. And so, he tries to protect himself as they begin to extend their greedy, spiny tentacles, to envelop him in the Bottomless Pit for ever – or worse. And still he chants – “The cockerel is ‘turikikihí,’ the cricket is ‘thirularop,’ the dog is ‘bahuakah,’ the polecat is ‘veraza’.”

 

Then again, there’s the lost Sister who used to be so carefree, so full of fun when they were growing up together, despite the hellish circumstances. Well, that’s how it used to appear to the lad, anyway, when she would cheer him up, tell him tall tales, fill his imagination with strange images, and make him laugh till he almost died. And she used to look after him, and protect him, and stand up for him, too, even when she got locked in the terrifying cellar for days on end without food or water as a result. Without a single doubt, she tried to take the part of Mother after she departed, soothing the lad’s fears and encouraging his dreams as bloodshed and terror laid waste to the land and annihilated the folk around them. When he was in her company, his anger would transmogrify into joy. But everything changed when she met that other lad when she was a teenager, as it was obvious that she couldn’t control her feelings, not to mention hide them. Indeed, she’d fallen head over heels in love with him. She doted on him, like she had no common sense left. And worse than ever, his family belonged to the other side, too. 

 

“…Like beasts of burden are all the lesser creatures, in the war of the powers. Sometimes, on that puny Planet called the Eyrth, the Sorcerers come into view in the form of terrible, cowled shadows, in dreams or nightmares, to collect mortal souls. But first, they must win the minds of the people. They call together powerful men and women, be they preachers, entertainers, press magnates, or politicians, to name but a few, so that they can control those who create consensual reality, common sense, and standards of behaviour, giving them more worldly power and causing them to become stronger. But then, after they reach the top, they have to humble themselves, and bow down before the Otherworldly Old Masters. It is not the powerful alone who are tempted either, but the weak and those in need, too, on occasions. To them are offered promises of a better life, full of fame, and plenty, and luxury. And when they have been truly entrapped so they cannot escape, all the fake reassurance is withdrawn. And then they will all need to whisper the mantra: Sanctified susurration to the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers of the Extremely Exalted Empire of the Yrthians, whilst serving the needs of the Lords of Untruth for ever...”

 

– And the lad goes on with the chanting, still trying to stop the Two Worlds from fragmenting: “The frog is ‘endilda.’ the goat, ‘ andíshis,’ the hen, ‘lilivalis,’ the horse, ‘kestala’.”

 

The Sister never stopped thinking about her new boyfriend, and she would talk about the lad incessantly. She became so sane and sensible, beginning to read poetry about cherishing and perishing, and writing melancholic love songs. And for some reason she would dress in a long black gown, and wander all over the place, even when there were bombs exploding, singing the praises of the natural world, and mourning the atrocities of humankind, her face as white as chalk, apart from the black lipstick. To tell the truth she looked rather terrifying, and perhaps she was practising being a witch who could transform into a nihilālis, slimy, murderous, and full of teeth, to save her Brother from the grasp of a rapacious predator, before fleeing the blood-stained nest. The last words he can remember from her before she abandons him is that strange verse translated by Mamrick of the Haunted Homeland in the White-land: “All things that wither are sent but as guidelines; The Eyrth’s Lack of lustre thus outstrips its confines; Escaping description here all lies completed; By feminine soul untruths’ wiles are defeated.” And indeed, she would become a famous poet, and founder of the Mentalist School, which would have an enormous influence on society in several ways she could not have foreseen. But when she left without a word, having done that one last favour, and the Mother having died as well, his heart broke. He swore an oath that he too would escape from his home so that he would never be hurt again. And that led in the end to the situation that pertains now, where he is forced to fight against his shadow on the Field of Possibilities, to conquer or perish. 

 

“…Here, on the Nw Yrth, every man-jack who fights against the Sorcerers must face his fears to get rid of them, so that he shall not be shattered asunder by the oppressive system. Only by doing this can a real individual become the crafter of her own history: on peril of self-destruction, possibly. But at least she’ll escape from the chains of intolerance, and deception, and shame, and then, by fighting back, and suffering, and developing, it’ll be possible for her to think, and create, and live just for herself…”

 

– And then the chanting intensifies, as waves of exhaustion wash over the lad: “The bear is ‘brubumbu,’ the mole is ‘elentlova,’ ‘kualuru’ is the owl; ‘tithihenta’ is the mouse.” 

 

In the middle of the forest in the Other World, near the stinking river, the forester has spat on his axe, before the sharp tool descends for the last time, as the cabal of expectant entities watch astutely, lurking so eagerly on the trembling doorstep. And then, from the utter, boiling darkness, comes Wezir, the spectre who is always working exceptionally keenly, paying detailed attention to his all-important tasks. And wherever he goes, in his wake he leaves a trail full of terrible and nameless enchantment, to tempt the weak, corrupt the strong, and so overcome the Eyrth.

 

“…Having said all this, working against the Lonely Despots are the freedom-fighters, that is comrades of the Innumerable Indolent Idolaters, the Ineluctable Unauthoritative Overseers of the Nw Yrth, who operate (when they see fit to do such a thing) under the ragged, red flag. They live amongst the pine forests in Turgon, on the other side of the Miraculous Pool, on the Planet’s Northern Continent. Although they do not give a single magical bean about anything under the Resplendent Sun as a rule, they feel that they should put a spoke in the Sorcerers’ wheel whenever that is possible, to impede their plans for untrammelled dominion, iron organization, and harsh control, as these will obstruct evolution and lead to death, sooner or later. But they do not do this by fighting directly, rather, they choose non-violent opposition, constant interference, and indirect actions, playing tricks, disseminating an attitude of insatiable curiosity, killing holy cows of all kinds (as it were), sowing discord, and spreading disorder...” 

 

Despite the fearsome prognoses from the host of voices holding a conference in the back of his mind, the fearful but defiant lad cannot stop himself from trying to get an eyeful of the awful forms which are solidifying mutely from the sullen, yellow mist hanging heavily about the black stage. And then, the Vexatious Voice summons the soaking wet monsters who are appearing so slowly from the stifling heat-haze, coming into view limb-by-limb, while clicking their sharp pincers threateningly, and gnashing the tusks in their numberless mouths. 

 

“...They do not claim tribute nor delight in doctrine, and they do not have vassals either on the Nw Yrth nor on the Eyrth, apart from an unknown number of self-chosen followers. These – the wizards, the artists, the poets, the mad-men, and the shamans – shall be mocked and ostracized at best. But at the worst they shall be exterminated and purified amongst rivers of blood, and waterfalls of tears, and seas of fire, because of their efforts to create themselves and transform the World. It is these who dance and sing with wild abandon, unrestrainedly spreading creative chaos and constructive disorder. And to a great extent, they pay no attention to their fate on the Eyrth, as creativity, and freedom, and individuality are rewards in themselves. And perhaps the strange Old Gods shall crown their heads with wreaths of laurel in the Underworld at last, if they can be bothered about it.”

 

– And although he’s losing heart terribly by now, the Unwillingest Shaman keeps on with the incantation: “‘Anvisashé,’ is the pig, the crow is ‘kouroakrí,’ the sheep is ‘ankelrerek,’ the old serpent, ‘shezesista'."

 

A bitter gloom descends as all the living light disappears from the sky leaving nothing but a steely-blue glow behind. Under the weight of the Sorcerers’ enchantment, those who hate all difference, aim to master every secret, and control every irregularity, the texture of existence distorts until it almost splits. But labouring with all his soul, the boy succeeds in mumbling: “‘Vilizda’ is the swan, the worm ‘huiklé.’ ‘vildarsí’ is the buffalo, and our name is ‘deklo’.” 

 

And the lad remembers himself amongst the pine trees, crying tears of blood, without a friend worth mentioning. From where in the Two Worlds had come the idea of transforming the Eyrth, by spreading the mistaken and self-destructive idea of peace, mercy, working together, and sharing the fruits of your labour and your resources? He’s in hellish trouble again because he’s been organizing free parties to celebrate life and declare his message of free love to everyone. The fool of a Wýkinger’s fallen off his motorbike, and is good for nothing as usual. The authorities of the Big, Bad City have been watching him all the time, and now they’re accusing him of selling drugs, or transporting them anyway. The lad, who’s slurped a gutful of magical fungus and is flying, is terribly distressed. And to top everything off, there’s that Blodeuwedd insisting that her Urban Commando do a very important errand for her, immediately, despite all his other troubles. 

 

Tefnuth, so beautiful, vivacious leader and carer for all the dead, who loves wealth, appears next, tempted by the taste of strong drink containing all kinds of herbs. She’s itching to open the Gate between the Two Worlds so that the spirits can chat and dance with the living, hurting them or healing them, as appropriate. And once they’re totally exhausted by the Dance of Death, she shall conduct them all to the Nw Yrth’s Asphodel Fields, to Elfan, where the terrifying tarantella, enslaved to the Old Masters, shall never cease. 

 

This time, the lad’s decided to meet them, the oppressive forces, although he’s out of his tree, to try and persuade them to listen at least to his plans about brotherly and sisterly love, and about the possibilities regarding establishing a community based on the same principles as the Kwm-ran Kommune, if not to accept them. Then again, there are lots of details to be worked out still. But instead of members of the Works Committee, it’s armed officers who turn up, and he must escape in a hurry in the white van borrowed from the Clinic. But the Wýkinger smashes it against a pine tree ‘cos some girl, all bruised up, and wearing sack-cloth and black lipstick to all accounts, has run into the road from nowhere. Blood everywhere, Concussion. Darkness. Forgetting. Sleeping for ages. Dead, almost.

 

And there’s the lass who’s so strange, so beautiful, so intelligent, so stuck-up, he loves from the bottom of his black heart. Does she love him, does she not like him? Is she fond of him, or does she hate him? Oh, she loves playing games! She reminds him so much of a Sister, perhaps, in an ancient tale about never-land, who abandoned her brother when she ran off to win fame and fortune. Well, anyway, after she arrived from abroad so suddenly, she used to bicker with him like a broody hen or an anxious older sister, day after day. On the other hand, she would appear in the early hours of the morning to gab on about his brave adventures in the Heart of the Continent, and his plans to transform the Old Troubled World. Sometimes, it would be as if she was going through a questionnaire, scribbling notes. And hearing the answers she would laugh till she almost sobbed her eyes out.

 

Third comes Lushfé, By·elzebub, Azazel, the united trinity who bears the title Lord of the Files and the Morning Star, as he leads the Sun and follows the Moon, flying without wings on the prayers of the living and the screams of the dead. He is the Divinity who died and was reborn through the strength of his sister. By him was bound Swtakh who possesses myriad slimy tentacles, in the excruciating blue hive. And the pupils of his eyes are horizontal, and his fur is red, and his horns are sharp, and he wields his sword of incandescent flame to seal those who deserve a particular prize, sending them to the Bottomless Pit, be they justified or sinners. 

 

But, strange to say, only some year and a half later, she’d lose her temper and rush off, every time he tries to chat with her poetically about his feelings about their future together. Oh, there was so much on her mind, what with everything, by then, but he could never stop staring at her so lovingly. If he could only work out what her big problem was, he was sure he could help her. But he was no numerologist, more’s the pity, who could interpret the rwnen according to the Black Doctor’s instructions. And although he was proud of the fact that he had learned to read people’s feelings to some extent by then, she was still like a closed book to him. He knew nothing at all about women, sure to Lushfé, having lost his Mother, poor thing, and his only, dear Sister. But, having said that, there was one occasion (or two), when he’d beguiled her. And that’s when they’d cuddled up so closely together on the hairy green carpet, in his favourite place, the old blue cottage, that was like a mossy knoll beside the River Sed. And at that time, she’d declared that he was her Handsome Prince. And that meant that she would be his Beautiful Princess forever. Well, that’s the picture in his head, anyway.

 

And then time slips back to a previous lifetime in the Heart of the Continent, years ago. What about the lad’s Mother, then? She follows the path of creative inspiration, taking the council of hear heart rather than using her mind, and she’s so sensitive, loving, reassuring, and imaginative. This is the woman who always wants to support her Son, despite everything. He squirms when he thinks about her, about everything that happened to her during her life. In the first place, she almost died when he was born, in a way the lad believes he shouldn’t be alive, that it’s him who killed her in the end by surviving. And of course, even before that, she had to put up with the Father, even though she’d saved him from himself when he was on death’s door. Although she’s so tired all the time after their Son arrived, she keeps on working so hard in the hospital, and in the house, and in the refuge for drug addicts. And of course, his Father hates the lad as a result, bullying him, and forcing him to do terrifying and odd things connected with magical rituals. 

 

In that region, deep below the ground, where a baby doesn’t know his own mother, where no sister remembers her brother, where a husband no longer loves his wife, there, in the cave of the Teary River, that enormous stream that flows so quick and sad, a sour, inquisitorial wind is picking up. And there Nebesh, who usually sleeps peacefully, awakes, to visit her grieving family. And in her presence, and in the wake of her ceaseless weeping, the whole Eyrth will drop blood-tears as well. 

 

And then, Mother herself is in the hospital, and she’s so ill, stuffed with drugs of all kinds and losing weight until she becomes an old scarecrow, and begins coughing blood, whilst getting weaker and weaker. But the confused and wild Father tries to cast magic spells to keep her in the land of the living, strengthening by accident the path between the Two Worlds. So, she lingers on for a very long time before giving up the ghost having suffered terribly, and much worse, and much longer, than she should have done. Eventually, only her eyes are left, more or less, and those plead for permission to close for ever, and she whispers in the Son’s ear: “Do not fade; do not wither; do not grow old,” as she transfers some fertile energy to him, and then departs. There’s no praying not chanting that can bring her back then, no combination of salt, and tears, and fire. And that’s not to mention the long-drawn-out rites of the Supreme Father-Church, and her Son’s improvised gory ceremonies. But her good little chick does what she’s asked, in his imagination at least, nourishing the voices and fostering the magic bubbling in him, so that from within the shadow of eternal night the light of creation shall spring forth. And the lad decides to be a thorn in the side of his Father from then on, who shall spoil his empty hopes, and swamp all his futile efforts to take the World over.

 

Nuthkí also is listening and obeys. And here's the one who is Mother and Father to everyone living and dead, Queen of the corn and King of the ocean, strolling through the primal gardens distributing existence and death, sustenance and famine, understanding and confusion, contentment and despair, wealth and poverty, causing some to flourish whilst others wither. For Nuthkí represents the power of cosmic balance, as even the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers are subject to the laws of nature, indeed that is why they itch, in their fear and their frustration, to govern every aspect of existence so strictly. But whoever receives the prize will also therefore receive the punishment in his turn, in accordance with the Great Order, and through Nuthkí’s work, everyone, willing or unwilling, will reach the incredible kingdom of the Seven in the end. 

 

The lad has one friend, anyway, although he’s not sure about the correct word to describe him. What would fit? Companion, comrade, fake older brother, co-offender, sacrificial bull, object of ridicule? Which one of them has had more problems? Come to think about it, he comes from a really posh family, he’s had a very expensive education in the best schools at least, there’s been no trouble when he declares he wants to work drawing cartoons for the rest of his life (well, to be a graphic novelist as he says). But there’s something fundamentally wrong with him. He’s not comfortable around people, he prefers numbers, and words, and pictures. And of course, there’s all the problems with the other lads … and the girls … and the confusion about his true … personality … with … who he is … and what’s going on in the World around him. 

 

Then some really cunning spirit in the form of a mare that’s skin and bone arrives, prancing wildly but silently on a hurricane from the Well of Souls. It is Hebé, the Eyrth’s Old Mistress, who shall be galloping uncontrollably through the Two Worlds in due course, betraying both the living and the dead into the grip of the Seven with her half-truths, and her broken oaths, and her lies containing a chunk of truth. But, also, too, the Agent of Utter Darkness will tell the whole truth about trivial things, to gain trust, prompt rash and ill-considered actions, and then cause serious damage. Then those who have been ensnared shall all be pursued by the Wild Hunt until their flesh melts and their blood boils, although they shall never rest in peace. But even she has been silenced at the moment because of the fake-Wizard’s command.

 

He’s always carrying on so much without any need for it, playing the drama queen. What’s that song or whatever from that musical he recites through the corner of his mouth all the time? “And crawling on the Planet’s face, Some insects called the human race, Lost in time, and lost in space, And meaning.” That’s the kind of old nonsense that summarizes his attitude to life, and it’s not very positive to say the least! Ooh, the old fool, he’s chatting with extra-terrestrials most of the time, although that wasn’t a lot of use to him when he got to the end of his tether! 

 

Then again, in this place, where reality melts, behold Isheth who has torn the veil before, slashing through the curtain again. And here’s the Ancient of Days, Lord of the Ancestors; who ploughs the void prior to planting all the seeds of disorder; who is composed of millions of brilliant globes; who unites every instant by means of the Scarlet Seal; who’s always waiting on the threshold since it is he who guards the door, and he who is the porter, the gate, and the silver key. And he can scarcely restrain himself now before pouring himself across the unsuspecting Eyrth to grab everyone’s souls with his uncountable mucoid tentacles. And then he’ll devour their essence, and digest their desires so that he can grow, and multiply, and expand himself. And Oh, here he is materializing!

 

How many times has that fool of a friend (or whatever he is) fallen off his motorbike, so that his minder has been forced to take him to the hospital? The silly boy has been there so often, causing the staff a headache, and sticking his nose into the cubicles, and racing up and down on the wheelchairs, and helping himself to drugs – he should be a nurse or something! And then, there he is playing with the broken cigarette-lighter that used to belong to Father, in that petrol station, almost causing an explosion. Well, he only had minor burns, thank Swtakh! But fire wasn’t the worst thing for him, ‘cos water was worse, and he’d come close to killing himself in the river several times. Not on purpose, probably, but when someone insists on jumping in without being able to swim, to grab some wild pig caught in an old shopping trolley, what’s the mate who saves him supposed to think? Said that someone called the Old Holy Warrior told him to do it, ‘cos he was Captain of the Z-Men (or some grander title like in his comic-books). Crazy! But more than anything, the lad remembers that they’ve been through thick and thin together, and that they’ve stuck together no matter what, one following the other unswervingly. And he wants with all his heart for the old Bulky Bull to live to a ripe old age. Probably.

 

And the ancient powers of the Nw Yrth, all the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers, have gathered together, trembling from hearing the summons. They understand that human existence is nothing nut a trembling flash, which perishes as it rises from the altar, but that the pure soul is full of spiritual energy, that will keep them alive for ages. And one of these essences has been consecrated to them since time immemorial, and when the sacrifice has been completed, when the shadow departs, then so much power will be released that they shall escape from their exile in the Hazy Dimension once and for all. 

 

And here’s his dreadful and intelligent Uncle, sharp-tongued and with bloodshot eyes, his nails dirty talons, who’s suffered from many a long year of education, from too much in the opinion of the majority of people. In a way, he’s a twin and opposite to the Father who’s dull and rash. It’s as if they’d been enemies in the womb, competing for their Mother’s nourishment. The vile Uncle has a dry sense of humour, they say, although he gives them goose-bumps when he speaks, and he laughs as he hurts the young boy to teach him a lesson. But never mind the accusations, faith is his fake shield because he’s a very pious man by all accounts. He weighs and measures his words, using them like the weapons of the solider as much as those of the linguistician, to create shame and guilt. He claims he worships blind justice and so he tends to be cold and merciless, and he behaves as hypocritically as Tefnuth when she met Sorakados in the Cloudy Castle ages ago. To tell the truth, the red priest fetters his emotions to master his understanding. He’s stuck up, valuing independence more than anything else, and indeed he’s a sadistic bully who needs to control everyone and everything around him, who sows seeds of contention for entertainment, enjoying causing fear and distress. He always blames other people, asking how could he himself be a sinner while the rest of the World is so evil. 

 

Such desirous pleasures can the Sorcerers share with their enemy, unknown spawn of the Idolaters, that young apostate! As the boy scrunches his eyes so tight that they hurt, to try and stop the fear, the ectoplasmic entities begin to jump at him, to embrace him, take him back, and chastise him so thoroughly. And the multi-coloured forms are dripping with thick, stinking fluid, that will completely fry the brain of any human being if he touches the tiniest bit of it. Then, all hell breaks loose, when all the candles are extinguished in a cellar in the Other World, by a shake of the spectral beasts’ leathery wings. And after this, well, perhaps silence is golden, sometimes, since now, the centuries’ oppressive quiet descends, as the young offender swallows his words. And the Seven Sorcerers appear in the flesh.

 

The Uncle will be there whenever the lad’s depressed, and needs to receive professional support, counselling is the appropriate word, and in this matter the Cowled Brother is exactly the same as the worst of all the other abusers {Black Hole}. Oh, how much the boy hates all the endless nights when he must stay on his own with the criminal, to pray, and mortify the flesh’s desires, and humble the soul, and make amends for sins that don’t exist yet. And suffer – in the name of Lushfé dismembered – suffer and hurt! And how often this happens, as the monk, although so full of worldly and spiritual wisdom, isn’t comfortable at all in social situations. He only wants to spend time with the poor lad, to teach him to see his multitudinous errors, and tutor him in the ways of righteousness. Well, as with everybody else, those are his gut-churning platitudes, and his vile euphemisms, anyway. Indeed, he deserves to be torn to pieces under the hooves of the vampiric horses that are crystallizing from the sweaty air, as his eyes get stuck through with burning pencils. And then the World will explode. Although the exhausted boy can scarcely admit the fact to himself, that’s the fate he desired for his Father, too. And the lad’s words – and thoughts – have exceptional power to influence the Order of Things. But what he desires, in his anguish and his pain, needless to say, is not the best thing on every occasion. 

 

And the least significant member (but of course, also the most important) of the Idolaters’ tribe screams at the top of his lungs, as he tries insistently to open the Gate between the Worlds, (or to close it, perhaps, he knows not), but anyway he has to escape to somewhere else; anywhere will do. But by now, he’s lost contact with the mind of the so-called Old Holy Warrior who is lying on the black stone, his body glowing radioactively as it twitches. The lad’s also forgotten the words of the old charm of naming and binding that he was extracting so diligently painfully from the brain of the other man. He does understand that it’s in the ancient language that is traditional, old-fashioned, dead, and which belongs to the enemies. And this is the fourth time all the Sorcerers have assembled in the same place, mustering their power, after the journeys of Lwgalmakh, Sorakados, and then the visit of the Youngest Wizard.

 

They’ve not learned much from these, either, despite their prodigious strength, believe it or not, for they are casting exactly the same spells. (That’s what happens when you manage to avoid all change, you become set in your ways, getting stubborn and inflexible). And although fire and metal are their elements, the Idolaters own the water and the soil which are in this place (the two factions share the air, the fifth element which neither party can control satisfactorily) [**]. So, they can subvert the coercive magic to some extent, without getting all hot and bothered, holding back the deluge of pent-up wrath for a little while, at least, as the Battle for the Two Worlds goes on. Until they get bored, of course.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] I’m experiencing exactly the same thing at the moment (well, as far as I know), as I immerse myself in this terrifying scene like I was taking part myself. The symbols I’ve imagined or invented have come back to mock me as I prepare to lose my naivety, my innocence, and then my life. The beginning becomes an end, which turns into a new beginning [¶].

 

They’re not rwnen like those beautiful ones we use in the Haunted Homeland, these monstrous entities that will not leave me alone any longer. Nor sacred glyphs from Kúma in the midst of Great Red Desert, either. And now, it’s like they’re carved on a red-hot meteorite made of iron, iridium, nickel and palladium, hurtling towards the surface of this Pathetic Planet to wipe us out. I wish I’d never begun to excavate this linguistic graveyard. But the images are inside me now (maybe they always have been!) and they’ve grown roots and I can’t get rid of them, of the enigmatically mocking syllables. What exactly are these mutant fruits, though?

I tumble, arse over tit, ending up trapped inside a Venus flytrap full of belladonna and poison sumac, where I get digested. Then, I’m in an endless, empty waiting room, gawping at a dusky scrying-glass. It’s on the verge of melting, to birth a legion of unnameable things, their inescapable disembodied voices gabbling Doctor Atrōx’s double speech with their forked tongues. Here, whilst dark history’s ribbon slithers by unseen, the malignant words cause cancerous toothache. To my horror, I see that shadowless Hthohla’s descend from the twilit mountains on the shore of the primal ocean of blood, his cloak crackling like a cloudy sail. Oh, his winged brightness’s about to penetrate the rosy, perfumed dusk, and send me and everything else to oblivion. How I regret doing magic on the face of the Eyrth! But I have to persist. — P.M. [¶] As T’hẃgir za-Hal and Zéva ah-Walfwo say in “Experiments with Time: Journeys through Darkness”: “The future is utterly unchangeable and hunts the mysterious past through the eternal present in an inexplicable spiral. Time will heal all wounds by deleting possibilities if only we accept this bargain.” — G.Ll.

 

[**] To the bio-ergo-mancers (or “spiritoneers”), matter represents the “lower realm” of existence, and light, the “upper realm” (Hey, that’s a stupendous idea, right?). They’ve been burning the midnight oil for aeons to integrate the two kingdoms (there’s hardly any of this sacred substance left now), without even the slightest success. Only the “Magister Suprēmus” will be able to reconcile, through tender brutality (or harsh love), liquids and minerals, rocks and herbs, gems and winds – “to-kháos” and “ho-kósmos.” To this end, he has striven to blend the thaumaturgists’ stone, the superb elixir, the rufous tincture, and the meteoric alloy, and so create the “essentia quīnta.” With the aid of this “fifth element,” he will unite the “internal light of nature,” “balsamum astrōrum” (the “starry balm”), “iliaster” (“māteria animī prīma,” or the “chief spiritual substance”), and the fabled “ideoplasm.” And as a result, he’ll dissolve his flesh, and re-create himself in the form of the “fīlius praedictus,” who’ll grow into the “primal man” in due course. And it’s this “Ádh-ám Hakadmó-níy” who’ll overthrow the Old Order at last, laughing as the World burns, or drowns under a stinking black sea, or both (so they say). Ooh, now I’ve come to my senses after all this merciless slog, I feel like silent Tristero, the “Vir Dolōrum,” able to see all but not act, as he does not fully exist. I am so dispirited and am desperate for just a little break so that I can sleep for once. I can but agree with the words of the Unconverted Preacher in “The Forty-nine Smallest Pleasures” [v]: “There is no end to excavating secrets; and wearisome to mind and body is studying without rest. It is by enjoying simple things that we should discover meaning in life.” [v] Note that this is the fourth square prime number, and so exceedingly magical. — P.M.

Mae i raddfa gerddorol saith nodyn, ac fe ellid dweud y crëwyd popeth gan gerddoriaeth, neu o gerddoriaeth neu yn hytrach ar ffurf osgiladiadau sylfaenol. A Saith Swynwr sydd hefyd, ac mae i bob un ohonynt blaned neilltuol yn y gyfundrefn heulog, sef Mārs, Jūpiter, Venus, Sāturnus, Mercurius, Lūna, a Sōl. Rhoddasant hwy i ddynolryw y metelau hynafol oedd arnynt eu hangen i lunio gwareiddiad, hynny yw, aur, arian, copr, tun, plwm, haearn, a mercwri, y cafodd y byd modern ei ofannu ganddynt. Ac eto i gyd mae saith uned sylfaenol yn y system ryngwladol wedi’i defnyddio i fesur priodoleddau ffisegol, sef medr, cilogram, eiliad, amper, kelvin, môl, a chandela. Mae’r Swynwyr yn rheoli dros y saith celf freiniol, hynny yw, gramadeg, rhesymeg, rhethreg, rhifyddeg, geometreg, cerddoriaeth, a seryddiaeth, a hwynt-hwy sydd yn feistri ar y saith math sylfaenol o gatastroffeau. Maent wedi dysgu dynolryw na all yr heptagon rheolaidd gael ei dynnu gan ddefnyddio cwmpas ac ymyl syth yn unig, a’i fod yn bosibl diffinio trawsluoswm mewn saith dimensiwn yn ogystal ag yn y tri dimensiwn arferol. Ond trwy wneud hyn oll, mae’r Swynwyr hefyd wedi rhoddi i drigolion y Ddaear y pŵer i gyflawni’r saith pechod fydd yn arwain at drais, sef: meddu ar gyfoeth heb waith, syrffedu ar bleser heb wewyr cydwybod, ceisio gwybodaeth heb gadernid cymeriad, cyflawni masnach heb foesoldeb, defnyddio gwyddoniaeth heb ddyngarwch, dathlu crefydd heb aberth, a chwarae gwleidyddiaeth heb egwyddorion. Ac felly y byddant yn dal y rhai anwyliadwrus, a llygru’r rhai cryf, fel y gallant fwydo ar eneidiau’r rhai mawrion a’r rhai bychain fel ei gilydd yn y pendraw.

 

Dyma’r glaslanc rhacsog a hanner dall yn brwydro’n ddewr yn erbyn pwysedd ffawd, a gwneud ei orau glas i sefyll yn stond gan na all fynd yn ei flaen, ond mae’n boddi yn llif amser, gan fynd yn flinedig ofnadwy. Mae gan y llanc lygaid meinion fel pelenni asur, o dan yr aeliau cochlyd, trwchus, llygaid o'r fath sy’n perthyn i greadur direswm, annynol, hynafol, creadur fel gafr. Mae wedi dod at ei goed yng nghanol gwastatir enfawr, ble mae’r tir yn deilchion gwydr danheddog i gyd. Hyd y gwêl llygad, mae miliynau o goed creigiog ar ffurf cyrff gwyrgam yn crafangu’r awyr felen, gyfoglyd. Yng nghanol union Cae Galar, mae darn enfawr crwn o garreg ddu, lithrig, yn rhyw dri medr o uchder, ac ar ei ganol dyna arwydd arswydus y Swynwyr, wedi’i baentio mewn hylif coch, fel tân byw. Am eiliad mae’n cyrcydu’n ddistaw, a’r creithiau fel llythrennau rwnig, coch dros ei gorff i gyd yn brifo’n wael.

 

Byth oddi ar ei enedigaeth (neu ddichon cyn hynny), mae’r llanc aflêr, drewllyd wedi bod yn chwarae gyda chysgodion, gan gonsurio delweddau rhyfedd o’r dychymyg i ddianc rhag ei ddiffyg hunaniaeth bersonol, a phrinder gwir ffrindiau. Ond erbyn hyn mae’r symbolau a’r cysyniadau wedi’u llunio o ddeunydd ffrwythlon iaith a breuddwyd wedi dod yn fyw. Ac yn awr ar ffurf angenfilod o hunllef, maen nhw wedi’i ymlid nes iddo’i hun ffoi i’r Nw Yrth. Ac yno, mae gofid rhewllyd a chwant rheibus yn ymgodi ac ymollwng yn gyson. Mae wedi’i lusgo trwy ddrych sgrio purddu a wnaed o gyrbibion fyrdd, gan lafar-gân yr Hen Filwr crebachlyd, oedd cyn wired y tro hwn â honno a bennir yn ‘Llyfr Drychau.’ Er hynny, fel y mae’n digwydd, nid y geiriau yn unig sydd o bwys yn y fath sefyllfa, ond bwriad y llefarwr, ac roedd dyhead yng nghalon y ffug-Ddewin yn groes i’r hyn a ddywedai.

 

Bellach, felly, o ran yr athro a’r disgybl o leiaf (neu’r hurfilwr a’r crwt mewn sach, efallai – y smyglwr a’i ysbail – yr offeiriad a’r aberth – y tad a’i fab), mae’r llanw wedi troi, a’r tro hwn yr un hynaf sydd yn gorwedd ar yr aberthfaen. Am y tro, o leiaf. Er nad yw’r llanc yn deall o ble mae’r argyhoeddiad yn tarddu, mae’n gwybod heb amheuaeth fod rhaid iddo dwrio drwy ymennydd y carcharor i ddarganfod ffordd allan. Ac yn wir mae’n mynd ati gyda sêl i ddadwneud swynion y caethwas o’r ochr arall sydd yn strancio’n wan, er ei anfodd cyntaf a’i lletchwithdod parhaus. Ond, er ei fawr ffieidd-dod, yn fuan mae’n dechrau mwynhau profiad arteithio’r hen ddyn drylliedig. Ac wrth wneud hyn, heb yn ‘nabod ffynhonnell y gallu, mae’r llanc yn cofio, neu ddatgelu, y chwedl sy’n esbonio pam roedd trigolion oll y Nw Yrth wedi bod yn brwydro mor ffyrnig am filenia.

 

Yn ei ben, mae symbolau a syniadau’n hedfan o gwmpas a ffraeo [*]. Maen nhw’n dweud bod bywyd dyn yn fflachio o flaen ei lygaid cyn iddo farw. Ond efallai nad eich bywyd chi yn unig sy’n ymrithio i’ch bendithio neu’ ch arteithio, ond yr holl gofion digymell ond swnllyd wedi’u cronni oddi mewn i chi. A heb os mae hynny’n wir yn yr achos ‘ma. Ac ymhlith yr holl ddelweddau, dyna godi geiriau swyn hynaf creu a rhwymo, ac felly mae’r bachgen yn dechrau siantio gan adrodd ei lafar-gân drosodd a throsodd er mwyn gweu gwe hudol dros y Byd Arall tu hwnt i’r drych dychlamol, fydd yn atal bodolaeth yn y Ddau Fyd rhag toddi’n llwyr – “‘Dalatha’ yw’r gwningen, y lincs yw ‘bravlu,’ y belau yw ‘klendru,’ a’r pryf yw ‘eshempa'.”

 

Ac yn awr mae’n dechrau gweld, neu gofio, neu sylweddoli, pethau anghofiedig, neu ffeithiau a guddiwyd rhagddo hyd yn hyn. Roedd meddwl Tad y llanc wastad yn gythryblus, ac roedd ‘da fe lygaid a welai bethau rhyfedd na allai neb arall eu canfod. Hyd yn oed yn grwt, roedd e’n ystyfnig, a ffyrnig, a chry’. O ganlyniad roedd e’n peri penbleth i’w rieni drwy’r amser. A dyna oedd pam, yn ei dyb e, fe gaeth ei wrthod ganddyn nhw, a pham gorfodwyd e i fyw fel bwystfil gwyllt a grwydrai ar lannau Afon Sed yn y Famwlad Aflonydd. Fel y tyfai lan, fe ddrifftiai trwy fywyd yn fwnci eofn ond lwcus, ond yn fuan ar strydoedd yr Uchelgaer Rosliw daeth dan ddylanwad plant hŷn oedd yn fwlïod creulon a’i defnyddiai fe a’i frifo fe’n enbyd. Roedd yn rhaid iddo fe dwyllo, ac ymladd, a lladd hyd yn oed, i oroesi, a’r lleisiau’n sibrwd yn ei feddwl a’i helpai fe i ‘neud hynny oll.

 

Trwy gydol ei oes, mae’r llanc wastad wedi teimlo'i fod wedi’i dorri, ac wedi bod yn trio’i ddeall ei hunan, gan geisio iechyd a chyfanrwydd wrth obeithio osgoi’r ceryntau tywyll. Mae e eisiau cael ei lenwi â golau, rhyddid, heddwch, serch, a harmoni, gan helpu i ddiwygio troseddwyr ifainc, adennill cymdeithas o'r dosbarthiadau llywodraethol, a thrawsffurfio'r Byd. Ond mae'n gwybod bod casineb a chystudd yn llechu dan wyneb y ddelfrydiaeth chwerthinllyd, ac yn medru torri trwyddo'n hawdd, ac wrth iddo ddyheu am atgyweiriad, mae ‘na ran ohono’n gweiddi am ddial ar yr un pryd. O'i gyfuno â'r nerth meddyliaethol rhyfedd yn perthyn iddo, mae hyn oll yn golygu y gallai fod yn arf peryglus – ond defnyddiol – iawn, yn y dwylo cywir, os caiff ei drin yn iawn. Ac yn anffodus iddo fe, mae e'n eithriadol chwannog i ddylanwad adeiladwyr bydoedd a masnachwyr syniadau'n pedlera cynlluniau cymhleth a llesmeiriol – gorau po ddyrysaf, a bod yn berffaith onest. Falle taw’r holl sefyllfa druenus ‘ma yw’r prawf terfynol wedi mynd o chwith.

 

Ond wrth chwilota am achosion, mae wedi ffoi rhag canlyniadau. Mae wedi’i ddarbwyllo'i hunan fe fydd tranc a dinistr yn dilyn yn ei sgil ble bynnag yr aiff. Ond y dyfna’n y Byd mae'n palu, y mwya’n y Byd mae'r lleisiau mewnol yn ei feddiannu. A dyma’i hanes cuddiedig ei hunan yn mynd rhagddo yn ei ben. Dyw e’m yn siŵr be’ i’w gredu, am taw rywbryd maen nhw wedi dweud y gwir, ond maen nhw’n dweud celwyddau'n aml ‘fyd, gan ei wawdio pan fydd e’n syrthio i'w trapiau gan frifo'i hunan a dod â phoen i rai eraill. A dyma leisiau’n cynnwys eiddo ffeiriad wedi meddwi, ysgolfeistr treisiol, a smyglwr wedi drysu. Ond o ryw bwll lleidiog yn ei feddwl dyna swnio lleisiau benywaidd, gweinion eraill i ymuno â’r côr, gan rybuddio’r ffoadur amddifad a difreintiedig am ffeithiau hanner gwir a thybiau twyllodrus ynghylch y Blaned Aruthrol – “A beth allai fod wedi achosi’r holl stŵr anfad? Wel, ar y Nw Yrth, mae’r trigolion yn brwydro’n ddiorffwys ryfel y galluoedd. Ar hyn o bryd, Saith Swynwr Seraffiaid Ymerodraeth Dra Dyrchafedig yr Yrthiaid, y gorthrymwyr, sy’n llywodraethu oddi mewn i’r prif sigwrat ar Gyfandir Deheuol y Blaned, wrth chwifio eu baner las, ysblennydd. Ac maent yn rheoli trwy ddeddfau llymion a disgyblaeth dduraidd…” – Ac mae’r llanc yn parhau: “‘Silpistí,’ yw’r wenynen, ‘madrolu’ yw’r fronfraith, yr mws yw ‘bamlaru,’ a’r corryn yw ‘zileví’.”

 

Arweinydd y garfan wyllt oedd glaslanc carismatig ond chwiwgar o rywle pell dramor o’r enw y Milwr Ifanc. Fe ‘nâi bregethu neges o waredigaeth trwy waseidd-dra llwyr i rymoedd arallfydol, gan addo gwobrau tu hwnt i’r dychymyg os dilynwyd yr ymarferion priodol, a chyflawnwyd y defodau dyrys. Y Ffeiriad Coch oedd enw arall arno o achos ei areithiau’n gyforiog o waed, a dagrau, a thân. Arswydus dweud bod yn rhaid i aelodau’r criw ‘neud pethau gwael i gryts eraill, ac er ei fawr ddychryn, roedd y Tad yn mwynhau hyn gymaint, fe ddyfeisiodd ffyrdd newydd i hela ofn ac achosi poen. Ac felly enillodd e’r ffugenw ‘Ivan’ er cof am y Tywysog Dybryd oedd wedi arwain crwsâd i waredu’r wlad rhag anghredinwyr ganrifoedd o’r blaen. (Yn hwyrach, fe fyddai’n defnyddio’i hyfforddiant ofnadw’ i ddatblygu’n un o wŷr mawrion y farchnad ddu, a ddygai o'r naill law i dalu'r llall, gan golli’i elw bob tro). Dyna pan ‘naeth Ivan ddarganfod cyffuriau, a mynd yn hollol hurt.

 

“…Yn y De, y Swynwyr Seraffaidd y gwasanaethir arnynt gan eu llengoedd o weision, dan lygaid barcut cysgodion rhewllyd ar ffurf seirff asgellog, ac o dan lach fflamllyd minteioedd o epaod ehedog, tra nad yw neb yn gaeth i’r Delw-addolwyr yn y Gogledd. Dros y milenia, wrth i’r Blaned weddnewid o’u cwmpas, mae’r Swynwyr wedi gwneud popeth yr oedd arnynt angen ei wneud i wrthsefyll y datblygu, ac atal y tyfu. Y rheswm dros hyn yw eu bod yn brawychu y bydd unrhyw newid yn eu difa. Nid ffrindiau gwirionedd ydynt, felly, ac fe wnânt unrhyw beth yn y Ddau Fyd i’w hamddiffyn eu hunain a goroesi. Maent wedi dysgu harneisio’r pŵer chwilboeth dirfawr yng nghalon y Nw Yrth, sy’n debyg iawn i nerth gwynias yr Haul. A chan defnyddio’r grym hwn, maent wedi llunio peiriannau eithriadol o gywrain, er mwyn rhesymu, rhagfynegi, gorfodi natur, a gormesu. Hysbysrwydd yw eu gwaed gwyrdd, a rheolaeth yw diben eu bodolaeth. Oddi mewn i’w sigwratau o greigrisial, y gorchmynnant a sicrwydd diwyro, gan arfer hawl melltithio a bendithio, gan fynnu hawl gollwng a dienyddio. Mae’r mecanweithiau, yr ymarferion, a’r sylweddau a ddefnyddir yn Nhai Aileni ymhellach yn golygu y byddant yn byw’n drwgwyddol…”

 

Unwaith, yn llawn goruwch-fêr ac atgno, fe driodd y Tad ei ladd ei hunan a’r Milwr Ifanc mewn tân, ond methodd, ac fe laniodd y ddau yn y sanatoriwm ble roedd llances annwyl a chariadus yn gwirfoddoli. Ryfedd dweud, fe’i darbwyllodd y Ffeiriad Coch ef iddyn nhw gael eu hachub gan y Grymoedd Anhraethadwy i beri i’r Byd blygu i’w hewyllys hwythau. Celwyddgi oedd Ivan a’r ferch yn enaid santaidd, a ‘naeth e’i hysgubo oddi ar ei thraed â’i gyfaredd wyllt – neu dyna oedd ei syniad e ta beth. Fe briodon nhw’n rhy ifanc o lawer ac yn fuan gaethon nhw ddau o blant i foddhau, yn ei dyb e, ei angen brwnt bod yn batriarch i lwyth ofnus ac ymostyngar. Ddaeth anrheg bywyd ddim â heddwch, felly, a ddihangodd y Fam ‘rioed rhag ei reolaeth orfodol, oedd yn gynnil a llechwraidd i ddechrau, ac yn hawdd i'w chuddio oddi wrth pobl eraill. Ond o dipyn i beth, aeth e’n waeth waeth, gan dueddu i ffrwydro ar y pryfociad lleia’. A bod yn onest, roedd hithau’n hollol siŵr na allai hi byth adael Ivan, achos ei fod yn bygwth y byddai'n handwyo hi a lladd y plant 'sai hi'n 'neud unrhyw beth, neu'n methu ufuddhau iddo'n llwyr. Roedd e’n ail-fyw erchyllterau’i orffennol, meddai fe, wel, dyna oedd y stori dorcalonnus a’r esgus parod bob tro. Er iddi gael ei cham-drin yn gyson, fodd bynnag, ni addawai hi byth iddi’i hun gael ei thorri gan ei ŵr. A’i chariad, hiwmor, creugarwch, a direidi oedd yn darian eithriadol er gyfer y plant, oedd wedi etifeddu cryn nerth rhyfedd ganddi.

 

“…Y Delw-addolwyr, ar y llaw arall, fodd bynnag, nad ydynt yn gweithio’n galed; yn hytrach, ni wnânt ddim byd ond gwledda, a chydyfed, a chanu, a charu, a chwarae. Maent yn byw bob tro ar lan y môr, neu ar orlifdiroedd toreithiog ger traethellau afonydd, wrth ochel y cloddfeydd a’r meindyrau’n annwyl gan y Swynwyr trychfilaidd. Ac yno yn eu cadarnleoedd mwsoglyd, dawnsio’n wallgof mae’r Eilunaddolwyr Afluniaidd o dan olau’r Lloer Las, sydd yn treio a llenwi, yn codi a gostwng, wrth i rhai eraill droi a throsi’n amwys yn eu soffas sidan, gan gael eu taflu yma a thraw ar donnau bodolaeth ysgafala. Gyflawnant gymaint trwy wneud cyn lleied yn ôl pob golwg, er nad ydynt hwy, na llawer iawn o’r Yrthiaid, yn deall pa mor bwysig ydy hyn oll i lunio ffawd y Ddaear werdd a glas cyn belled i ffwrdd…”

 

Er gwaetha’i greulondeb, roedd ‘na rywbeth yng nghylch Ivan oedd yn ddeniadol, bron yn hudol, fyddai’n rhwymo pobl ato a’u cymell nhw i ufuddhau iddo. Serch hynny, cachgi yn y bôn oedd e, ond wrth i bethau dros y Ddaear fynd o ddrwg i waeth, fe fanteisiai ar y sefyllfa, gan gasglu o’i gwmpas gnud fawr o wylliaid a hurfilwyr i fod yn gŵn bach iddo. Pan ddisgynnodd y Cythrwfl Mawr, fe fyddent yn rhodio’r cefn gwlad ledled y Cyfandir gan ysbeilio a lladd, yn enw purdeb, ffydd, a nerth. Roedd yn rhaid i’r crwt deithio gyda’r dynion, ac ymuno â’r erchyllterau – i adeiladu’i gymeriad yn ôl Ivan. Cyn hynny roedd y gamdriniaeth gartre’ wedi bod yn ddi-baid, i'r fath raddau, ei fod yn rhyddhad bendigedig i'r Fam a'r Chwaer, pan âi'r Tad a'r Mab i ffwrdd. O'r safbwynt hwn, y Mab oedd achubwr ei deulu, er gwaetha’, neu o achos, ei ddioddefaint ei hunan. Fyddai’r Chwaer byth yn anghofio’i Brawd, er na sylweddolai fe’r ffaith, falle. Un o’r gweithredoedd mwya’ anfad ddigwyddodd yn ystod cyfarfod mewn Tŷ Edifeirwch, pan orfodwyd pob copa walltog yno i wisgo sachliain a lludw. Ac wedyn, fe ddodwyd tar a phlu arnyn nhw i gyd, yn ddyn, gwraig, a phlentyn. Ac wedyn, rhowyd y lle ar dân, a hwythau yno fe, i buro’r tir, ac achub eneidiau’r pechaduriaid. Bob tro fe fyddai’r Mab yn gwrthod cymryd rhan yn y gweithredoedd treisiol, a bob tro’n ddi-feth fe fyddai’r Tad yn wawdio fe, a’i guro fe, gan adael casgliad o greithiau dros ei gorff. Ond er gwaetha’ ‘ny, rywsut, arferai'r Tad ryw ddylanwad magnetig drosto fe, fel yr edmygai’r Mab yr hen ddiawl wrth ei gasáu ar yr un pryd.

 

“… Fe fynna’r Saith Swynwr Seraffiaid wrogaeth ddi-syfl; ni ddarparant ddim byd ond caethiwed a phoenedigaeth yn y pen draw…”

 

– Ac yn awr mae’r llanc yn gallu clywed sŵn argregyn pryfed yn di-baid siffrwd, ac mae’n ymosod yn enbyd ar ei glustiau. Er y cyfyngder, mae’n dal i wrando ar y geiriau sy’n atseinio, mae’n ymddangos, o’r gorffennol pell. Ar yr un pryd, mae'n ceisio peidio rhoi sylw i sain adenydd yn curo, dannedd yn brathu, a chennau’n rhygnu. Ac mae’n brwydro nerth ei ben i ddod â fe’i hun ymaith, oddi wrth yr angenfilod ffiaidd, sydd yn taenu anobaith a pheri ofn ofnadwy. A dyma fe’n ceisio'i ddiogelu’i hunan wrth iddynt ddechrau estyn eu tentaclau pigog, barus, i’w amgáu yn y Pydew Diwaelod tros byth – neu waeth. Ac eto mae’n siantio: “Y ceiliog yw ‘turikikihí,’ y cricsyn yw ‘thirularop,’ y ci yw ‘bahuakah,’ y ffwlbart yw ‘veraza’.”

 

Eto i gyd, dyna’r Chwaer golledig oedd yn arfer bod mor ddibryder, mor llawn hwyl pan o’n nhw’n tyfu lan gyda’i gilydd, er gwaetha’r amgylchiadau uffernol. Wel, dyna sut oedd e’n arfer ymddangos i’r llanc ta be’, pan fyddai hi’n ei lonni fe, dweud hanesion hynod wrtho fe, llenwi’i ddychymyg â delweddau rhyfedd, a ‘neud iddo fe chwerthin nes iddo bron â marw. Ac fe fyddai hi’n ei garco fe, a’i ddiogelu, a sefyll yn gefn iddo. Hyd yn oed pan fyddai’n cael ei chloi yn y seler arswydus am ddyddiau bwygilydd heb fwyd na dŵr o ganlyniad. Heb os nac oni bai, roedd hi’n trio cymryd rhan Ma ar ôl iddi hithau ymadael, gan leddfu ofnau’r llanc a hybu’i freuddwydion wrth i dywallt gwaed ac arswyd ddiffeithi’r wlad, a difodi’r werin o’u cwmpas nhw. Pan oedd e yn ei chwmni, fyddai’i fet yn newid yn llawenydd. Ond ‘naeth popeth newid pan gwrddodd hi â’r llanc arall ‘na yn ei harddegau, achos fod e’n amlwg doedd hi’m yn gallu rheoli’i theimladau, heb sôn am eu cuddio nhw. Yn wir, roedd hi ‘di cwympo dros ei phen a'i chlustiau mewn cariad gyda fe. Mopio’i phen arno fe roedd hi, fel ‘doedd dim synnwyr cyffredin ar ôl iddi. Ac yn waeth byth, roedd ei deulu’n perthyn i’r ochr arall, ‘fyd.

 

“…Fel anifeiliaid gwaith yw’r creaduriaid llai i gyd, yn rhyfel y galluoedd. Rywbryd, ar y Blaned bitw honno, o’r enw y Ddaear, mae’r Swynwyr yn dod i’r golwg ar ffurf cysgodion cycyllog, aruthrol, mewn breuddwydion neu hunllefau, i gasglu eneidiau meidrol. Ond yn gyntaf, rhaid ennill meddyliau’r bobl. Maent yn galw dynion a gwragedd nerthol ynghyd, boed nhw’n bregethwyr, diddanwyr, meistri’r wasg, neu wleidyddion, i enwi ond ychydig, fel y gallant reoli’r rhai sy’n creu realiti cydsyniol, synnwyr cyffredin, a safonau ymddwyn, gan roi rhagor o rym bydol iddynt a pheri iddynt gryfhau. Ond wedyn, wedi iddyn nhw gyrraedd y brig, fe fydd arnynt angen ymddarostwng, a moesymgrymu gerbron yr Hen Feistri Arallfydol. Nid y rhai grymus yn unig a demtir ychwaith, ond y gweinion a’r rhai mewn angen hefyd, ar adegau. Iddynt hwy y cynigir addewidion bywyd gwell, yn llawn enwogrwydd, digonedd, a moethusrwydd.. A phan y’u rhwydwyd yn deg fel na allant byth ddianc, fe dynnir yr holl gysur ffug yn ei ôl. Ac wedyn bydd arnynt i gyd angen sibrwd y mantra: Sisial santeiddiedig i Saith Swynwr Seraffiaid Ymerodraeth Dra Dyrchafedig yr Yrthiaid, wrth wasanaethu anghenion Arglwyddi Anwiredd am byth…”

 

– Ac mae’r llanc yn mynd ymlaen gyda’r corganu, gan geisio eto atal y Ddau Fyd rhag chwalu: “Y broga yw ‘endilda,’ yr afr ‘andíshis,’ yr iâr ‘lilivalis,’ y ceffyl ‘kestala’.”

 

Doedd y Chwaer byth yn peidio meddwl am ei chariad newydd, ac fe fyddai’n sôn am y llanc fel pwll y môr. Aeth hi mor synhwyrol a chall, gan ddechrau darllen barddoniaeth am garu a threngi, a ‘sgrifennu caneuon serch, drist. Ac am ryw reswm fe fyddai hi’n gwisgo amdani â gŵn hir du, a chrwydro dros bob man, hyd yn oed pan fyddai bomiau’n ffrwydro, gan ganu clodydd byd natur a galaru erchyllterau dynolryw, a’i hwyneb difrifol cyn wynned â’r galchen, heblaw am y minlliw du. A gweud y gwir, roedd hithau i’w gweld yn eitha brawychus, a falle’i bod hi’n ymarfer bod yn wrach a allai drawsffurfio’n ddifodfil mileinig, llysnafeddog ac yn ddannedd i gyd, i achub ei Brawd rhag gafael ysglyfaethwr gwancus, cyn ffoi’r nyth gwaedlyd. Y geiriau ola’ mae’n gallu’u cofio ganddi hi cyn iddi’i gyfradael yw’r pennill rhyfedd ‘na wedi’i chyfieithu gan Mamrick o’r Famwlad Aflonydd yn y Wlad Wen: “Popeth byrhoedlog anfonir yn arwydd; Diffyg y Ddaear sy’n tyfu o herwydd; Heb ei ddisgrifio, yn y fan ‘ma y’i cwplir; Hanfod menywod a’n harwain o anwir.” Ac yn wir, fe ddeuai hi’n farddes enwog, a sefydlu’r Ysgol Feddyliaethol, a gâi ddylanwad anferth ar wareiddiad, mewn sawl ffordd na allai hi fod wedi’u rhagweld. Ond pan adawodd hi heb air, wedi ‘neud yr un ffafr ola' ‘na, a’r Fam wedi marw ‘fyd, fe dorrodd ei galon. Fe ‘naeth e dyngu llw y dihangai fe ‘fyd o’i gartre’ fel na fyddai fe fyth yn cael ei frifo eto. A dyna arweiniai yn y pen draw at y sefyllfa sydd ohoni bellach, ble gorfodir ef i ymladd yn erbyn ei gysgod ar Faes Posibiliadau, i goncro neu ddarfod.

 

“…Yma, ar y Nw Yrth, bydd rhaid i bob copa walltog sy’n brwydro yn erbyn y Synnwyr wynebu’i ofnau er mwyn cael gwared arnynt, fel na chaiff ei chwalu’n chwilfriw gan y gyfundrefn orthrymus. Dim ond trwy wneud hyn gall unigolyn go iawn ddod yn grefftwr ei hanes ei hunan: ar hunanddinistr, o bosibl. Ond, o leiaf y bydd yn dianc o gadwyni culni, a thwylliad, a chywilydd, ac wedyn, trwy wrthryfela, a dioddef, a datblygu, fe fydd yn bosibl iddi feddwl, a chreu, a charu, a byw ar ei liwt ei hun...”

 

– Ac yna mae’r siantio’n dwysáu, wrth i donnau o orflinder olchi dros y llanc: “Yr arth yw ‘brubumbu,’ y wadd yw ‘elentlova,’ ‘kualuru’ yw’r dylluan, ‘tithihenta’ yw’r llygoden.”

 

Yng nghanol y goedwig yn y Byd Arall, ar bwys yr afon ddrewllyd, wedi poeri ar ei fwyell mae’r fforestwr, cyn i’r arf miniog ddisgyn am y tro olaf, wrth i’r cabál o endidau disgwylgar wylio’n astud, gan lechu mor chwannog ar y trothwy crynedig. Ac yna, o’r tywyllwch berwedig, llwyr, daw Wezir, y rhith sy wastad yn gweithio’n eithafol frwd, wrth dalu sylw manwl i’w dasgau hollbwysig. A ble bynnag mae’n mynd, yn ei sgil mae’n gadael trywydd yn llawn hudoliaeth ddienw ac erchyll, i demtio’r gweinion, llygru’r cryfion, ac felly goroesi’r Ddaear.

 

“…Wedi dweud hyn oll, gweithio yn erbyn yr Unbeniaid Unig y mae’r ymladdwyr dros ryddid, hynny yw cymrodyr Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd Dirifedi, Arolygwyr Anawdurdodol Anochel y Nw Yrth, sydd yn gweithredu (pan welant yn ddoeth wneud y fath beth) o dan y fflag goch, garpiog. Maent yn byw ymhlith y fforestydd pin yn Turgon, yr ochr draw i’r Pwll Gwyrthiol ar Gyfandir Gogleddol y Blaned. Er nad ydynt yn malio’r un ffeuen hudol am ddim byd dan yr Haul Disglair fel rheol, maent yn teimlo y dylent roi sbrag yn olwyn y Swynwyr pa bryd bynnag bydd yn bosibl, i lesteirio’u cynlluniau o ran goruchafiaeth ddihafal, trefniadaeth haearnaidd, a rheolaeth lem, gan mai’r rhain fydd yn rhwystro esblygu ac arwain at dranc yn hwyr neu’n hwyrach. Ond ni wnânt hyn trwy frwydro’n uniongyrchol, yn hytrach, byddant yn dewis gwrthwynebiad di-drais, ymyrraeth gyson, a gweithredoedd anuniongyrchol, gan chwarae castiau, lledaenu agwedd chwilfrydig anniwall, difetha pethau cysegredig o bob math (fel petai), hau hadau cynnen, a thaenu anhrefn…”

 

Er gwaetha’r argoelion enbyd gan y lliaws o leisiau yn cynnal cynhadledd yng nghefn ei feddwl, dyw’r llanc ofnus ond herllyd ddim yn gallu’i atal ei hunan rhag trio cael cip ar y ffurfiau ofnadwy sy’n caledu’n fud o’r niwl melyn, sarrug yn hongian yn drwm o amgylch y llwyfan ddu. Ac wedyn dyna’r Llais Trallodus yn galw ar yr angenfilod gwlyb diferol sy’n ymddangos mor araf o’r tes myglyd gan ddod i’r golwg fesul aelod, gan glicio’u pinsiyrnau miniog yn fygythiol, a disgyrnu’r ysgithrau yn eu cegau dirifedi.

 

“…Ni hawliant deyrnged nac ymhyfrydu yn nysgedigaeth, ac nid oes ganddynt daeogion nac ar y Nw Yrth nac ar y Ddaear, ar wahân i nifer anhysbus o ddilynwyr hunan-ddewisedig. Fe gaiff y rhain – y dewiniaid, yr artistiaid, y beirdd, y gwallgofddyn, a’r siamaniaid – eu gwawdio a’u diarddel ar y gorau. Ond ar y gwaethaf, fe gânt eu difodi a’u puro, ymhlith afonydd o waed, a rhaeadrau o ddagrau, a moroedd o dân, oherwydd eu hymdrechion i’w creu eu hunain a thrawsffurfio’r Byd. Y rhain sydd yn dawnsio a chanu gydag afiaith gan ledu caos creadigol ac anhrefn adeiladol heb rwystr. I raddau helaeth, nid ydynt yn talu sylw ar eu ffawd ar y Ddaear, am mai creadigrwydd, a rhyddid, ac unigoliaeth yw gwobrau ynddynt eu hunain. Ac efallai y bydd yr Hen Dduwiau rhyfedd yn coroni’u cofion â phlethdorchau o lawryf yn yr Isfyd o’r diwedd, os gallant drafferthu yn ei gylch.”

 

– Ac er ei fod yn diffygio’n wael erbyn hyn, dyma’r Siaman Anfodlonaf yn dal ati gyda’r swyngan: “‘Anvisashé’ yw’r mochyn; y gigfran yw ‘kouroakrí,’ y ddafad ‘ankelrerek,’ yr hen sarff ‘shezesista’.”

 

Dyma wyll chwerw yn disgyn wrth i’r golau byw oll ddiflannu o’r awyr gan adael dim ond tywyn haearnlas ar ôl. O dan bwys hudoliaeth y Swynwyr, y rhai sy’n casáu pob gwahaniaeth, ceisio meistroli pob cyfrinach, a gwastrodi pob afreoleidd-dra, dyna wead bodolaeth yn ystumio hyd nes iddo bron â hollti. Ond gan ymdrechu nerth ei enaid mae’r bachgen yn llwyddo i fwngial: “‘Vilizda’ yw’r alarch, y mwydyn ‘huiklé.’ ‘vildarsí’ yw’r byfflo, a’n henw ni yw ‘deklo’.”

 

Ac mae’r llanc yn gofio ei hun ymhlith y coed pinwydd, yn wylo dagrau o waed, heb ffrind gwerth sôn amdano. O ble yn y Ddau Fyd roedd y syniad o drawsffurfio’r Ddaear ttrwy ledu'r neges gyfeiliornus a hunanddinistriol am heddwch, trugaredd, gweithio gyda’ch gilydd, a rhannu cynnyrch eich llafur a’ch adnoddau wedi dod? Mae e mewn trafferth uffernol eto achos ei fod wedi bod yn trefnu partïon rhydd i ddathlu bywyd a datgan ei neges o gariad rhydd wrth bawb. Mae’r ffŵl o Ficing wedi cwympo oddi ar ei fotor-beic a dyw e dda i ddim fel arfer. Mae awdurdodau’r Ddinas Fawr, Ddrwg wedi bod yn ei wylio bob amser, a bellach maen nhw’n gyhuddo fe o werthu cyffuriau, neu’u cludo nhw ta be’. Mae’r llanc, sy wedi llowcio llond bol o fwyd y barcud ac yn hedfan, yn poeni’n ofnadw’. Ac i goroni popeth, dyna’r Blodeuwedd ‘na yn mynnu bod ei Chomando Trefol yn ‘neud neges bwysig iawn ar ei chyfer hi ar unwaith, er gwaetha’i drafferthon eraill oll i gyd.

 

Mae Tefnuth, mor brydferth, arweinydd hoenus a gofalwr y meirwon oll, sy’n dwlu ar gyfoeth, yn ymddangos nesaf, wedi’i themtio gan flas diod gadarn yn cynnwys bob math o berlysiau. Mae’n ysu i agor y Porth rhwng y Ddau Fyd fel y gall yr ysbrydion sgwrsio a dawnsio â’r bywion gan eu brifo neu’u hiacháu nhw fel y bydd yn briodol. Ac unwaith eu bod wedi’u blino’n lân gan Ddawns yr Angau, fe fydd hi’n eu hebrwng nhw i gyd i Feysydd Cilgain y Nw Yrth, i Elfan, lle na fydd y darantela erchyll yn gaeth i’r Hen Feistri, byth yn dod i ben.

 

Y tro hwn mae’r llanc wedi penderfynu cwrdd â nhw, y grymoedd gormesol, er iddo fe o’i go’, i drio’u perswadio nhw i wrando o leia’ ar ei gynlluniau am serch brawdol a chwaerol, ac am y posibiliadau ynglŷn â sefydlu cymuned wedi’i seilio ar y un egwyddorion ag yng Nghomiwn Kwm-ran, os nad i’w derbyn nhw. Eto i gyd mae llawr o fanylion i’w dyfalu o hyd. Ond yn lle aelodau’r Pwyllgor Gwaith, swyddogion arfog sy’n cyrraedd, ac mae’n rhaid iddo fe ddianc ar frys yn y fan wen wedi’i benthyca o’r Clinig. Ond dyma’r Ficing yn ei dryllio yn erbyn pinwydden achos taw rhyw ferch yn gleisiau i gyd ac yn gwisgo sachliain a minlliw du yn ôl pob golwg, sy wedi rhedeg i’r ffordd o rywle heb ei disgwyl. Gwaed ym mhob man. Cyfergyd. Gwyll. Ango’. Cysgu am achau. Marw, bron.

 

A dyna’r llances mor rhyfedd, mor brydferth, mor ddeallus, mor ffroenuchel, mae’n ei charu o waelod ei galon ddu. Ydy hi’n ei garu fe, dydy hi ddim yn ei lico fe? Ydy hi’n hoff ohono, neu ydy hi’n gasáu fe? O, mae hi’n dwlu ar chwarae gemau! Mae hi’n ei atgoffa fe cymaint am Chwaer, falle, mewn hanes hynafol am wlad hud a lledrith, a gyfradawodd ei brawd pan redodd hi bant i ennill clod a golud. Wel, be’ bynnag, ar ôl iddi gyrraedd o dramor mor sydyn, roedd hi’n arfer cega gyda fe fel mamiar neu chwaer hŷn, bryderus, y naill ddiwrnod ar ôl y llall. Ar y llaw arall, dyna fyddai hi’n ymddangos yn oriau mân y bore i falu awyr am ei anturiaethau dewr yng Nghalon y Cyfandir, a’i gynlluniau i drawsffurfio’r Hen Fyd Cythryblus. Rywbryd fe fyddai fel ‘sai hi’n mynd trwy holiadur, gan sgriblan nodiadau. Ac o glywed yr atebion, fe fyddai hi’n chwerthin nes bu bron iddi hi feichio crio.

 

Drydydd daw Lushfé, By·elzebub, Azazel, y drindod unedig sy’n dwyn y teitl Duw Cylion a Seren Fore, gan ei fod yn arwain yr Haul a dilyn y Lleuad, gan hedfan heb adenydd ar weddïau’r rhai byw a sgrechau’r meirwon. Efe yw’r Duwdod a fu farw a chafodd ei eni drachefn trwy nerth ei chwaer. Ganddo fe y rhwymwyd Swtach sy biau tentaclau seimllyd fyrdd, yn y cwch glas, dirboenus. Ac mae canhwyllau’i lygaid yn llorwedd, a’i flew’n goch, a’i gyrn yn finiog, ac mae’n trin ei gledd o fflam tanbaid i selio’r rhai sy’n haeddu gwobr neilltuol, gan eu hanfon i’r Pwll Diwaelod, boed nhw’n gyfiawn neu’n bechaduriaid.

 

Ond, ryfedd dweud, dim ond ryw flwyddyn a hanner wedyn, fe fyddai hi’n colli’i thymer a rhuthro bant bob tro byddai fe’n trio sgwrsio â hi’n farddonol am ei deimladau ynghylch eu dyfodol gyda’i gilydd. O, roedd ‘na gymaint yn pwyso ar ei meddwl rhwng popeth, erbyn hynny, ond allai fe byth roi’r gorau i syllu arni mor gariadus. ‘Sai fe ond yn gallu gweithio mas be’ oedd ei phroblem fawr, roedd yn siŵr fe fyddai’n gallu’i helpu hi. Ond nage rhifolegwr mo fe, gwaetha’r modd a allai ddehongli’r rwnau yn unol â chyfarwyddiadau’r Doethur Du. Ac er ei fod yn falch o’r ffaith iddo ddysgu darllen teimladau pobl i ryw raddau erbyn ‘ny, roedd hi fel llyfr caeedig iddo 'to. Wyddai fe ddim oll am fenywod, siŵr Lushfé, wedi colli ei Fam, druan â hi, a’i unig, annwyl Chwaer. Ond, wedi dweud ‘ny, roedd ‘na un achlysur (neu ddau) pan oedd e wedi’i rheibio hi. A dyna pan o’n nhw wedi cwtsio mor agos at ei gilydd ar y carped gwyrdd blewog, yn ei hoff le, yr hen fwthyn glas, oedd fel cnwc mwsoglyd ar bwys Afon Sed. A bryd ‘ny roedd hi ‘di datgan taw fe oedd ei Thywysog Golygus. A dyna olygai taw hithau fyddai ei Dywysoges Brydferth hyd byth. Wel, dyna’r llun yn ei ben, ta be’.

 

Ac wedyn dyna amser yn llifo'n ôl i fywyd blaenorol yng Nghaolon y Cyfandir, flynyddoedd yn ôl. Beth am Fam y llanc, te? Mae hi’n dilyn llwybr ysbrydoliaeth greadigol, gan dderbyn cyngor ei chalon yn hytrach na defnyddio’i meddwl, ac mor deimladwy, cariadus, cysurus. a dychmygus yw hi. Dyma’r wraig sy wastad eisiau cefnogi ei Mab, er gwaetha’ popeth. Mae’n gwingo wrth feddwl amdani, am bopeth a ddigwyddodd iddi yn ystod ei bywyd. Yn y lle cynta’, bu bron iddi farw pan gaeth e’i eni, mewn ffordd mae’r llanc yn credu na ddylai fe fod yn fyw, taw fe a’i lladdodd hi yn y pen draw trwy oroesi. Ac wrth gwrs hyd yn oed cyn ‘ny, roedd hi angen ymgodymu â’r Tad, a hithau wedi’i achub e rhag ei hunan pan oedd e ar farw. Er ei bod hi mor flinedig drwy’r amser ar ôl i’w Mab gyrraedd, mae hi’n dal i weithio mor galed yn yr ysbyty, ac yn y tŷ, ac yn y warchodfa i’r caethion i gyffuriau. Ac wrth gwrs dyna’i Dad yn casáu’r llanc o ganlyniad, gan ei fwlian, a’i orfodi i ‘neud pethau dychrynllyd ac od ynglŷn â defodau hudol.

 

Yn y fro ‘na’n ddwfn dan y pridd, ble dyw babi ddim yn nabod ei fam ei hunan, ble ‘does chwaer sy’n cofio’i brawd, ble dyw dyn ddim yn caru’i wraig mwyach, yno yn ogo’r Afon Ddagreuol, y ffrwd enfawr ‘na sy’n llifo mor gyflym a thrist, mae gwynt chwilysol, sur yn codi. A dyna Nebesh, sy fel arfer yn cysgu’n dawel, bellach yn dihuno i ymweld â’i theulu galarus. Ac yn ei gŵydd hi, ac yn sgil ei llefain di-baid, fe fydd y Ddaear i gyd yn gollwng dagrau gwaed hefyd.

 

Ac wedyn mae Mam ei hunan yn yr ysbyty, ac mor sâl yw hi, wedi’i stwffio â chyffuriau o bob math, ac yn colli pwys nes iddi ddod yn hen sgerbwd, a dechrau pesychu gwaed, wrth fynd yn wannach wannach. Ond mae’r Tad dryslyd a gwyllt yn trio bwrw hud i’w chadw hi yn nhir y byw, gan gryfhau ar ddamwain y llwybr rhwng y Ddau Fyd. ‘Lly mae hi’n llusgo byw am amser maith cyn rhoddi’r ysbryd i fynu wedi diodde’n enbyd, ac yn waeth o lawer, ac yn hirach o lawer, nag y dylai hi fod wedi ‘neud. O’r diwedd dim ond ei llygaid sydd ar ôl, mwy neu lai, a’r rheiny’n ymbil am ganiatâd i gau am byth. A dyna hi’n sibrwd yng nghlust y Mab: "Paid â phylu; paid â gwywo; paid heneiddio," wrth drosglwyddo rhyw egni ffrwythlon iddo, ac wedyn ymadael. ‘Sdim gweddïo na siantio all ddod â hi’n ôl wedyn, dim cyfuniad o halen, a dagrau, a thân. A dyna heb sôn am ddefodau hirfeithion y Dad-Eglwys Oruchaf, a seremonïau byrfyfyr, gwaedlyd ei Mab. Ond dyna’i chyw bach da’n ‘neud beth mae hi ‘di ofyn, yn ei ddychymyg o leia’, gan lithio’r lleisiau a meithrin yr hud yn byrlymu ynddo fe, fel taw oddi mewn i gysgod nos dragwyddol y bydd golau creu’n ymdarddu. A dyna’r llanc yn penderfynu bod yn ddraen yn ystlys ei Dad o hynny‘mlaen, fydd yn difetha’i obeithion gwag, a llethu’i ymdrechion ofer i gyd o ran cymryd y Byd drosodd.

 

Mae Nuthkí hefyd yn gwrando ac ufuddhau. A dyma’r un sydd yn Fam ac yn Dad i bawb sy’n byw ac sy wedi marw, Brenhines yr ŷd a Brenin y cefnfor, sy’n rhodio trwy’r gerddi cysefin gan ddosbarthu bodolaeth a thranc, lluniaeth a newyn, deall a dryswch, bodlondeb ac anobaith, cyfoeth a thlodi, wrth beri i’r naill flodeuo tra gwywo’r lleill. Oherwydd bod Nuthkí yn cynrychioli grym cydbwysedd cosmig, gan mai hyd yn oed y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd sy’n ddarostyngedig i ddeddfau natur, yn wir dyna pam maen nhw’n ysu, yn eu hofn a’u seithuctod, am reoli pob agwedd ar fodolaeth mor llym. Ond a dderbyn y wobr felly a dderbyn y gosb yn ei dro yn unol â’r Drefn Fawr, a thrwy waith Nuthkí, fe fydd pawb, o fodd neu o anfodd, yn cyrraedd teyrnas anhygoel y Saith yn y pendraw.

 

Mae ‘da’r llanc un ffrind, ta be’, er fod e ddim yn siŵr am y gair cywir i’w ddisgrifio. Beth fyddai’n ffitio? Cydymaith, cymrawd, brawd hŷn ffug, cydbechadur, tarw aberthol, testun sbort? P’un ohonon nhw sydd wedi cael mwy o broblemau? Erbyn meddwl amdano fe, mae’n dod o deulu posh iawn, mae wedi cael addysg dra drud yn yr ysgolion gorau o leia’, ‘sdim trafferth pan mae e’n datgan fod e eisiau gweithio’n tynnu cartŵns am weddill ei oes (wel, bod yn nofelydd graffig fel mae’n gweud). Ond mae rhywbeth yn y bôn o’i le ‘da fe. So fe’n gyfforddus o gwmpas pobl, mae’n well ‘da fe rifau, a geiriau, a lluniau. Ac wrth gwrs, dyna’r holl broblemau gyda’r llanciau eraill … a’r merched … a’r dryswch ynglŷn â’i gwir … bersonoliaeth … gyda … pwy yw e … a be’ sy’n mynd ‘mlaen yn y Byd o’i gwmpas.

 

A dyma ryw ysbryd cyfrwys iawn ar ffurf caseg o groen ac esgyrn yn cyrraedd, gan brancio’n wyllt ond yn ddistaw ar gorwynt o Ffynnon Eneidiau. Hebé ydy, hen Feistres y Ddaear, a fydd yn carlamu’n aflywodraethus trwy’r Ddau Fyd maes o law, gan fradychu a’r rhai marw a’r rhai byw i afael y Saith gyda’i hanner gwirioneddau, a’i hanudonau, a’i chelwyddau’n cynnwys talp o gywirdeb. Ond yn aml, hefyd, fe fydd Asiant y Fagddu yn dweud yr holl wir am bethau dibwys, i ennill ffydd, annog gweithrediadau byrbwyll ac anystyriol, ac wedyn achosi newid difrifol. Wedyn fe fydd y rhai a faglwyd i gyd yn cael eu herlid gan yr Helfa Wyllt nes i’w cnawd doddi a’u gwaed ferwi, er na fyddan nhw byth yn gorffwys mewn heddwch. Ond hyd yn oed hyhi sy’n tawelu ar hyn o bryd oherwydd gorchymyn y ffug-Ddewin.

 

Mae e wastad yn cario ‘mlaen gymaint heb angen, yn chwarae brenhines y ddrama. Beth yw’r gân neu beth bynnag o’r sioe gerdd ‘na mae’n hadrodd o gil y foch drwy’r amser? "Rhai pryfed a elwir yn Ddynoliaeth, Sy’n cropian dros wyneb y Blaned alaeth, Ar goll yn y Gofod ers amser helaeth, Heb ystyr o gwbl. Heb ystyr." Dyna’r fath o hen lol sy’n crynhoi’i agwedd at fywyd, a dyw hi’m yn bositif iawn a dweud y lleia’! Ww, yr hen ffŵl, mae’n sgwrsio gyda bodau arallfydol ran fwya’r amser, er doedd ‘ny fawr o werth iddo pan ddaeth i ben ei dennyn!

 

Eto i gyd, yn y lle ‘ma, ble mae realiti’n toddi, wele Isheth sy ‘di rhwygo’r llen o’r blaen, yn treiddio’r llen unwaith eto. A dyma’r Hen Ddihenydd, Arglwydd yr Hynafiaid, sy’n arddu’r gwagle cyn plannu had anhrefn oll; sy’n cynnwys miliynau o gronellau disglair; sy’n cyfannu pob eiliad drwy gyfrwng y Sêl ‘Sgarlad; sy bob tro’n aros ar y rhiniog gan mai fe sy’n gwarchod y drws, ac mai fe yw’r porthor, y glwyd, a’r ‘goriad arian. Ac o’r braidd y gall e’i ffrwyno ei hunan bellach cyn ei arllwys ei hunan ar draws y Ddaear ddi-feddwl-ddrwg i gipio eneidiau pawb gyda’i dentaclau llysnafeddog, aneirif. Ac wedyn bydd e’n llyncu’u hanfod, a threulio’u chwantau fel y medr dyfu, a lluosogi, a’i ehangu ei hunan. Ac O, dyma fe’n ymrithio!

 

Sawl tro mae’r hurtyn o gyfaill ‘na (neu be’ bynnag yw e) wedi cwympo oddi ar ei fotor-beic, fel bod ei warchodwr wedi’i orfodi i fynd â fe i’r ysbyty? Mae’r twpsyn wedi bod yno cymaint o weithiau, gan achosi penbleth i’r staff, a gwthio’i big i mewn i’r ciwbiclau, a rasio lan a lawr yn y cadeiriau olwyn, a helpu'i hunan i gyffuriau – fe ddylai fe fod yn nyrs neu rywbeth! Ac wedyn dyna fe’n chwarae gyda’r taniwr ffags diffygiol oedd yn arfer perthyn i Dad, yn yr orsa’ betrol ‘na, gan bron ag achosi ffrwydrad. Wel, dim ond mân losgiadau gaeth e, diolch i Swtach! Ond nage tân oedd y peth gwaetha’ iddo fe, achos bod dŵr yn waeth, ac roedd e wedi dod yn agos at ladd ei hunan yn yr afon sawl gwaith. Ddim ar bwrpas, mae’n debyg, ond pan fydd rhywun yn mynnu neidio i mewn heb fedru oefad i afael mewn rhyw fochyn gwyllt wedi’i ddal mewn hen droli siopa, beth mae’r ‘achan sy’n ei achub rhag boddi i fod i feddwl? Gweud a ‘naeth e taw rhywun o’r enw yr Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd wedodd wrtho fe am ei ‘neud, achos taw Capten y Dynion Sed oedd yntau (neu ryw deitl mwy crand fel yn ei lyfrau comics). Gwallgo’! Ond o flaen dim, mae’r llanc yn cofio’u bod nhw ‘di mynd drwy’r tew a'r tenau gyda’i gilydd, a’u bod nhw ‘di glynu at ei gilydd doed a ddelo, y naill yn dilyn y llall yn ddi-droi'n ôl. Ac mae eisiau o waelod ei galon i’r hen Darw Swmpus fyw i oedran teg. Siŵr o fod.

 

Ac mae grymoedd hynafol y Nw Yrth, y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd i gyd wedi’u casglu at ei gilydd, yn crynu o glywed yr alwad. Maent yn ddeall nad bodolaeth ddynol ond fflach grynedig, fydd yn trengi wrth iddi godi o’r allor, ond mai llawn egni ysbrydol yw’r enaid pur, fydd yn eu cadw’n fyw am hydoedd. A chysegrwyd un o’r hanfodion hyn iddynt ers cyn cof, a phan fydd yr aberth wedi’i gyflawni, pan ymadawa’r cysgod, wedyn rhyddheir cymaint o bŵer nes y dihangant o’u halltudiaeth yn y Dimensiwn Niwlog unwaith ac am byth.

 

A dyma’i Wncwl dychrynllyd a deallus, ffraeth ei dafod, a’i lygaid yn waetgoch, a’i ewinedd yn grafangau brwnt, sydd wedi dioddef o flynyddoedd lawer o addysg, o ormod ym marn y rhan fwya’ o bobl. Mewn ffordd mae’n efell a gwrthwyneb i’r Tad sy’n ddwl a byrbwyll. Mae fel petasen nhw wedi bod yn elynion yn y groth, yn cystadlu am faeth eu Mam. Mae gan yr Ewythr ffiaidd synnwyr digrifwch sych, meddan nhw, er ei bod yn rhoi croen gŵydd iddyn nhw pan fydd yn siarad, ac mae’n chwerthin wrth iddo fe frifo’r bachgen ifanc i ddysgu gwers iddo fe. Ond waeth beth fo’r cyhuddiadau, crefydd yw ei darian ffug achos taw dyn duwiol iawn yw e yn ôl pob sôn. Mae’n pwyso a mesur ei eiriau, gan eu defnyddio fel arfau’r milwr cymaint ag eiddo’r athronydd, i greu cywilydd ac euogrwydd. Mae’n honni ei fod yn addoli cyfiawnder dall ac felly mae’n tueddu i fod yn oer a didostur, ac mae’n ymddwyn mor ddauwynebog â Tefnuth pan gwrddodd â Sorakados yn y Castell Cymylog amser maith yn ôl. A dweud y gwir, mae’r offeiriad coch yn llyffetheirio’i emosiynau i feistroli’i ddealltwriaeth. Mae’n ffroenuchel, ac yn gwerthfawrogi annibyniaeth yn fwy na dim byd arall, ac yn wir mae’n fwli sadistaidd mae arno angen rheoli pawb a phopeth o’i gwmpas, sy’n hau dannedd y ddraig er mwyn digrifwch, gan fwynhau achosi ofn a gofid. Mae wastad yn gweld bai ar bawb arall, gan ofyn sut allai fe’i hunan fod yn bechadur tra mae gweddill y Byd mor ddrwg.

 

Y fath bleserau chwantus y gall y Swynwyr eu rhannu â’u gelyn, epil anhysbys y Delw-addolwyr, y gwrthgiliwr ifanc hwnnw! Wrth i’r bachgen grychu ei lygaid mor dynn nes bod nhw’n ei frifo, i geisio atal y braw, mae’r endidau ectoplasmig yn dechrau neidio ato, i’w fynwesu, ei gymryd e’n ôl, a’i geryddu fe mor drylwyr. A dyna’r ffurfiau amryliw’n diferu o hylif drewllyd, trwchus, fydd yn hurtio unrhyw fod dynol yn llwyr os bydd yn cyffwrdd â’r mymryn lleia’ ohono. Yna, â hi’n banics llwyr, pan ddiffoddir y canhwyllau i gyd mewn seler yn y Byd Arall, gan ysgwyd adenydd lledraidd y bwystfilod rhithiol. Ac ar ôl hyn, wel, dichon mai taw piau hi, rywbryd, gan fod yn awr, mae tawelwch llethol y canrifoedd yn disgyn, wrth i’r troseddwr ifanc lyncu ei eiriau. Ac ymddengys y Saith Swynwr yn y cnawd.

 

Fe fydd yr Wncwl yno bryd bynnag bydd y felan ar y llanc, a bydd yntau angen derbyn cymorth proffesiynol, cwnsela yw’r gair priodol, ac yn hyn o beth, yr un fath yn union â gwaetha’r camdrinwyr eraill yw’r Brawd Cycyllog. O, cymaint mae’r bachgen yn casáu’r nosweithiau di-ben-draw i gyd pan fydd rhaid iddo fe aros ar ei ben ei hunan gyda’r troseddwr, i weddïo, a marwhau chwantau’r cnawd, a darostwng yr enaid, a thalu iawn am bechodau nad ydynt yn bod eto. A diodde’ – ‘neno Lushfé wedi’i ddiaelodi – diodde’ a brifo! A pha mor aml mae hyn yn digwydd, achos dyw’r mynach, er mor llawn doethineb bydol ac ysbrydol, ddim yn gyfforddus o gwbl mewn sefyllfaoedd cymdeithasol. Dim ond eisiau hala amser gyda’r llanc druan mae e, i ddysgu iddo weld ei gamgymeriadau fyrdd, a’i hyfforddi am lwybrau cyfiawnder. Wel, fel gyda phob un arall, dyna’i ystrydebau troëdig a’i eiriau teg, ta be’. Yn wir, mae’n haeddu cael ei fathru’n gyrbibion dan garnau’r ceffylau fampiraidd sy’n crisialu o’r awyr chwyslyd, wrth i’w lygaid gael eu trywanu â phensiliau ar dân. Ac yna bydd y Byd yn ffrwydro. Er taw prin na all y bachgen lluddedig gyfadde’r ffaith wrtho’i hunan, dyna’r ffawd roedd e’n dymuno ar gyfer ei Dad hefyd. Ac mae gan eiriau – a meddyliau – y llanc, bŵer digynnig o ran effeithio ar y Drefn Fawr. Ond yr hyn mae’n awchu arno, yn ei gyfyngder a’i boen, ni raid dweud, dyw’r peth gorau bob gafael.

 

A dyna aelod lleiaf arwyddocaol llwyth y Delw-addolwyr (ond, wrth reswm, yr un pwysica’ ‘fyd) yn sgrechian nerth ei ysgyfaint, wrth geisio’n daer agor y Porth rhwng y Bydoedd, (neu’i gloi, falle, ni ŵyr e), ond be’ bynnag, rhaid iddo fe ddianc i rywle arall; fe wna unrhyw le y tro. Ond erbyn hyn, mae wedi colli cysylltiad â meddwl yr Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd, bondigrybwyll, sy’n gorwedd yn llesg ar y maen du, a’i gorff yn eiriasu’n ymbelydrol wrth iddo blygio’n ysbeidiol. Mae’r llanc hefyd wedi anghofio geiriau hen swyn enwi a chlymu fu’n echdynnu mor ddyfal o boenus o ymennydd y dyn arall. Deall mae e, ei fod wedi’i gyfansoddi yn yr iaith hynafol, sy’n draddodiadol, hen fasiwn, marw, ac sy’n perthyn i’r gelynion. A dyma’r pedwerydd tro mae’r Swynwyr i gyd wedi ymgasglu yn yr un fan, gan grynhoi’u pŵer, ar ôl teithiau Lwgalmakh, Sorakados, ac wedyn ymweliad y Dewin Ieuengaf.

 

Nid ydynt wedi dysgu fawr gan y rhain, ‘chwaith, er eu nerth anferthol, coeliwch neu beidio, gan eu bod yn bwrw’n enwedig yr un hud. (Dyna beth fydd yn digwydd pan fyddwch chi'n llwyddo i osgoi pob newid, fe ddewch yn geidwadol iawn eich ffyrdd, gan fynd yn gyndyn ac anhyblyg). Ac er mai tân a metel yw’u helfennau nhw, y Delw-addolwyr biau’r dŵr a’r pridd sydd yn y fangre hon (mae’r ddwy garfan yn rhannu’r awyr, y bumed elfen na all yr un o’r pleidiau ei rheoli’n foddhaol) [**]. Felly gallant hwythau wyrdroi’r hud gorfodol i ryw fesur, heb fynd yn chwys i gyd, gan ddal y dilyw o lid cronedig yn ôl, am fyr o dro o leia’, wrth i’r Frwydr dros y Ddau Fyd fynd yn ei blaen. Tan iddynt ddiflasu, wrth gwrs.

 

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Dw i’n profi’r un peth yn union ar hyn o bryd (wel, am wn i), wrth ymdrwytho yn yr olygfa frawychus hon fel petawn i’n cymryd rhan fy hunan. Mae’r symbolau dw i wedi’u dychmygu neu’u dyfeisio wedi dod ‘nol i ‘ngwatwar i wrth i fi baratoi am golli fy naïfrwydd, fy niniweidrwydd, ac wedyn fy mywyd. Mae'r dechrau’n dod yn ddiwedd sy’n troi’n ddechrau newydd [¶].

 

Nage rwnau fel y rheiny hardd a ddefnyddiwn ni yn y Famwlad Aflonydd yw’r endidau erch ‘na na adawan nhw lonydd i fi mwyach. Na glyffiau glân o Kúma yng nghanol yr Anialdir Mawr Coch, chwaith. Mae fel petaen nhw wedi’u cerfio ar awyrfaen chwilboeth wedi’i neud o haearn, iridiwm, nicel a phaladiwm yn rhuthro tuag at wyneb y Blaned Bathetig ‘ma i’n difa ni. Fe ddymunaf do’n i ‘rioed wedi dechrau cloddio’r fynwent ieithyddol ‘ma. Ond mae’r delweddau tu fewn i fi bellach (falle buon nhw ‘na ‘rioed!), ac wedi tyfu gwreiddiau a dw i’m yn gallu cael gwared arnyn nhw, ar y sillafau dyrys o watwarus. Be’n union yw’r ffrwythau wedi mwtadu ‘ma, er ‘ny?

Dyna fi’n cwympo tin dros ben, a’i gorffen wedi ‘nal mewn magl Gwener yn llawn beladonna a gwyrddling gwenwynig ble ga i ‘nhreulio. Wedyn dyna fi mewn stafell aros ddiderfyn, wag, yn rhythu ar ddrych sgrio tywyll. Mae ar fin toddi ac esgor ar leng o bethau anenwadwy, eu lleisiau ansylweddol, annihangol yn clebran llafar dwbl Doctor Atrōx â’u tafodau dichellgar. Yma, tra mae rhuban hanes tywyll yn sleifio heibio heb ei weld, mae’r geiriau malaen yn achosi dannoedd ganseraidd. Er fy arswyd, dw i’n gweld taw Hthohla digysgod sy wedi disgyn o’r mynydd llwyd ar lan y cefnfor cysefin o waed, ei gochl yn clindarddach fel hwyl o gwmwl. O, dyna’i oleuni adeiniog ar dreiddio i’r gwyll persawrus, rhosliw, a hala fi a phopeth arall i ebargofiant. Cymaint yr edifarhaf fwrw hud ar wyneb y Ddaear! Ond rwy'n gorfod dyfalbarhau.  — P.M. [¶] Fel y dywed T’hẃgir za-Hal a Zéva ah-Walfwoyn yn “Arbrofion gydag Amser: Teithiau drwy Dywyllwch”: “Mae’r dyfodol yn gyfan gwbl ddigyfnewid ac yn hela’r gorffennol dirgel trwy’r presennol tragwyddol mewn sbiral anesboniadwy. Amser a fydd yn iacháu pob briw trwy ddileu posibiliadau, ond inni dderbyn y fargen hon.” — G.Ll.

  

[**] I’r bio-ergo-swynwyr (neu’r “ysbrydianwyr”), mae mater yn cynrychioli “bro isaf” bodolaeth, a golau, y “fro uchaf” (Hei, mae hynny’n syniad syfrdanol, on’d ydy?). Maen nhw’n gweithio fel lladd nadredd ers oesoedd (does fawr ddim o’r creaduriaid sanctaidd ar ôl bellach!) i integreiddio’r ddwy deyrnas, heb hyd yn oed y llwyddiant lleiaf. Dim ond y Meistr Blaenaf all gysoni, trwy gieidd-dra tyner (neu gariad ysgethrin), hylifau a mwynau, cerrig a pherlysiau, gemau a gwyntoedd – “to-kháos” a “ho-kósmos.” At hyn mae wedi llafurio uwchben cyfuno maen y gwyrthwneuthurwyr, yr elicsir rhagorol, y tintur melyngoch, a’r aloi meteorig i greu’r “essentia quīnta.” Trwy gymorth y “bumed elfen” hon, bydd yn uno “golau mewnol natur,” “balsamum astrōrum” (y “balm serol”), “iliaster” (“māteria animī prīma,” neu “brif sylwedd y cymeriad”), a’r “ideoplasma” chwedlonol. Ac o ganlyniad bydd yn toddi ei gnawd, a’i ail-greu ei hun ar ffurf y “mab darogan,” fydd yn tyfu i fod y “dyn cysefin” maes o law. A’r “Ádh-ám Hakadmó-níy” hwn fydd yn dymchwel yr Hen Drefn o’r diwedd, dan chwerthin tra bo’r Byd yn llosgi, neu’n boddi dan môr du drewllyd, neu’r ddau (meddan nhw). Ww, nawr i fi ddod ar ‘nghoed ar ôl yr holl ymdrech ddidostur ‘ma, dw i’n teimlo fel Tristero mud, y Gŵr Gofidus, sy’n gallu gweld popeth ond nid gweithredu, gan nad yw’n llawn fodoli. Dw i mor ddigalon, ac mae arna i angen taer am gael rhyw hoe fach a gallu cysgu am unwaith. Ni allaf ond gytuno â geiriau’r Pregethwr Didroëdig yn “Y Naw Pleser Lleiaf a Deugain” [v]: “Nid oes diwedd ar ddatgloddio cyfrinachau; a blinder i gorff a meddwl ydy astudio heb ball. Trwy fwynhau pethau syml y dylen ni ddarganfod ystyr mewn bywyd.” [v] Noder mai’r pedwerydd rhif cysefin sgwâr yw hwn, ac felly mae’n dra hudol. — P.M.