It’s the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers who give seven years when the cattle look well-fed and virile, and the grain healthy, followed by seven years when the thin grain shall be scorched by the south wind, and then the cattle shall be ugly and gaunt. And as a result, the rulers of the Eyrth shall have to pay tribute to the Old Masters of the Nw Yrth, shedding the blood of innocents seven times as the sword sings loudly in recompense for their weaknesses, and for the sins of all the planet. Because of them there are seven pillars to the House of Wisdom, seven Days of Mourning after death, seven Gates which lead to the Nw Yrth. And it is they who own the seven orifices of the human skull, namely the eyes, the nostrils, the ears, and the mouth, and the seven chakras, and through them, claim the right to control the thoughts, feelings, and emotions of their ministers, using seven candles. But the frontal suture, the eighth orifice on the head, belongs to the Unnameable One.

 

And then the lost lad becomes terribly afraid when the dread creatures arrive, that are born from his own imagination, which represent, of course, aspects of himself. Although sometimes he’s Daud, and other times David, or Dai. And what about Daa·hweeth, and the Urban Commando, even, and lots of things worse still? How many characters and personalities has he created? How many names has he stolen, or won? How often has he borrowed stories from other people, and used them for his own ends? He’s standing on the border between living and dying, on the melting threshold between the Eyrth and the Nw Yrth, balancing being and non-being. And before him, the surface of the sacrificial stone which is also a jet-black scrying-glass is beginning to hiss and become disturbed. His body tosses and turns in agony as some slimy substance is drawn from within him, to writhe opposite him. The ectoplasmic heap isn’t one thing or the other, like the lad. Instead of that, it continues to change all the time, from one form to another – the beast of loneliness, the demon of depression, the spectre of madness, the monster of abandonment, the imp of loss, the shadow of shame. 

 

On top of that its size keeps on changing, from inches to yards in height and width, and it’s extremely powerful, like the essence of being itself. The thing is mesmerizingly tempting, but he understands instinctively that it’s deadly, and wants to absorb him and digest him. Fight or flee, that’s the usual choice. And he’s been fighting for his life all through his life, well and running off, sometimes, and escaping, once or twice. And all the time, he’s been building Worlds for himself, and filling them with characters, and languages, and places, and histories, and magic, to keep him company, and protect him, and help forget, and save him from destruction. But this time, the choice has been made for him, another author’s written the script, and he’s in the middle of a story where he doesn’t know then end at all. And the same time that Daud, David, Dai is battling to survive right here and now, it’s like he’s watching a cartoon-film based on his Alternate Worlds, although different from them, too, being shown inside his head [*] —

 

“Once, on the Harsh Planet, a long time ago when the Blue Moon and the Resplendent Sun were young, there were two tribes, or two factions, fighting against each other. One side was conservative, disciplined, and militaristic, and rejoiced in their purity, their ruthlessness, and their strength. The subjects of this kingdom spoke the original language of the Planet, and each one of the seven great families claimed that it descended from a branch of the kindred of the ancient rulers. And these are the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers who were said to have founded the tribe, and given them laws, and order. They acknowledged the teaching and authority of these beings, although no-one knew whether they had existed in reality, or had been invented by the tribe millennia ago to strengthen their beliefs, and justify their actions. And all of these were bloody and oppressive indeed...” 

 

Now there's a semi-human figure which has thin lips, and piercing eyes, hovering above the stone, and bawling with laughter whilst sticking out its tongue and panting terrifyingly. There’s a sticky, purple light slithering from it as it slurps all the energy from the air around it, which is full of sinister creatures grunting, and stamping, and whinnying. And the lad gets lifted up by a tornado, and as he’s thrown left and right by the wild currents, he’s forced to fight ferociously against a pack of starving wolves, baying insanely, as well as a herd of zombie-goats, their rotting bodies green, and great eyes aflame. Bitten and trampled till he’s almost dead, he’s dropped, all bruised and bloody, and half-naked. And he’s rushing down, and down, falling heavily, and hitting the floor with a sickening bang. 

 

“…Progressive, open, and equitable was the other society, where everyone, women and men, old and young, foreigners and natives, lived in harmony with the World and each other, mostly anyway. There, there was a great variety of peoples, and very many languages were spoken, and things were always changing, including the lively language. A considerable number of the citizens would communicate often with the forces of nature, receiving inspiration, sharing ideas, and absorbing ever-changing attitudes. And their name for these entities, or this world-view, was the Indolent Idolaters, who were represented in the form of myriad carvings and pictures, combining the characteristics of animals, and people, and objects. The leaders of the Farmers were the Wise Man and the Great Woman, who were elected every five years from amongst the elders to steer the council containing one member of each family that had lived in the land for two years, tending the ground, and looking after the animals…”

 

Amidst the electrical storm that’s beginning to rage around him, scarcely can the lad see that there are two forms dance-fighting, getting buffeted by the wind like two scarecrows. And their voices are trying to contend although their mouths are holding a coin to pay for their journey over the Tearful River. And then a burning man can be seen, as a lad jumps towards him to grab him. And on the bank of the Stream of Tears he sees an ass driving a man who’s crawling on all fours, laden down with his property and his money, as three women fashion the fate of the human race on an iron loom. Here are the organized systems of culture ineluctably attacking nature’s wild, inhuman forces. The one voice bellows and purrs in turn, insisting on the strength of the wilderness, as the other rapidly states and restates, earnestly but courteously, magical charms to bind and release. 

 

“…The flag of one group, the inheritors of the Sorcerers, namely the Warriors, was a trident aimed at the Sun on a blue background, and that of the others, the children of the Idolaters, that is, the Agriculturalists, was a pitchfork planted in the earth on a red ground. The Warriors were very fond of inventions and would spend considerable time making and analysing machines of all kinds, whilst the Farmers would sing, and carve, and tell tales after finishing their work. The former group considered that they were civilized, and upright, and correct, but that the other side was uncivilized, backwards, and degenerate. Therefore, the Warriors were full of boiling bile, as it were, and wanted to destroy the Cultivators entirely. Their enemies, however, had no such ideas, and they were peaceful, democratic, and welcoming…” 

 

And to start with, out of the vibrating substance congeals the very unwholesome form of a boy, similar to a glaucous corpse, which is also greedy, defiant, and mouthy, on the back of a three-headed dragon. And as he rushes straight at the lad, he changes into the Old Soldier, squatting on his dirty chair, like an enormous, tattered rag-doll, his face peevishly purple. And the Old Holy Warrior’s almost exploding with agitation, as he gesticulates wildly, making an enormous effort to avoid the fate that awaits him. But he’s also laughing at the lad, and swearing, promising him punishment and torture in the Underworld for ever. And then the villainous lizard’s chanting ceaselessly, trying to overcome and control the lad he wants to possess, body and soul, to save his own life.

 

“…Sole ruler over the Warriors was the Tyrant, who lived in the Rosy Citadel above the Paths of Wickedness, an enormous network of tunnels, and passages, and chambers weaving through one another which was mighty difficult (if not impossible) to find the way out of. The Despot alleged that he was a descendant of Swtakh, who had been exiled from the Sorcerers’ tribe. And he would gain supremacy through deceit and murder most often, rather than through birth-right, as Swtakh had tried to do before him. May·nover was the name of the current Tyrant, as he believed that life was futile were it not for the constant fight to survive and oppress. And living with him at the start was the Queen called Oal·layt, as her pure face shone with the light of all the stars, although she was not permitted to exercise particular influence in political affairs. They had a daughter, too, the Princess Ari·adní, whose name meant that she was Mistress of Snakes…” {Ancient Murderously Noxious Zest}

 

And a contest of wits is going on between the man and the lad, to see which one’ll offer the other on the altar of the self, on the slippery, black sacrifice-block. For the man wants to ascend to glory, getting rid of the broken Eyrth, so that a brand-new existence shall sprout forth amongst the white dust of destruction, to create a new, glittering World. Only one thing’s needed to unite the will of the fake-Wizard with his desire, so that the destroyer can begin creating afresh, realising all his imaginings. And that’s the exchange of one soul for all of creation. But the Old Soldier’s life and strength are flowing away, as his mind fails and his will breaks. And with that, the scene changes once again. 

 

“…After the Queen died, the Despot had taken another woman as wife, to be a companion for himself, and a stepmother for his daughter. This woman used to be Lady of the Bedchamber to the late Queen, and some would say that she killed her mistress to be able to marry the Tyrant, and take the kingdom over. In no time, the Lady had borne a son, the Bull-man (that is, Man·toru to the Warriors, and Nanathuru to the Husbanders). As the name suggests, he was part man and part bull, and some would whisper that she had created him through evil magic that we could call genetic engineering these days. When he was born, his skin was as white as the face of Lotké servant to Nebesh who was transformed into a pillar of chalk. It’s no surprise to say that he wasn’t jumping with joy as a result of his condition…” [**]

 

And now, behold the lost lad! He’s full of hatred and pain, as he stands over his enemy who’s bound on the sacrificial stone, wielding the deadly knife. Only one movement’s needed to finish everything off. Both his mind and his body want to give up fighting back, as he remembers his Mother and his Father, and everyone else who’s come and gone during his life, that he’s tried to connect with to some extent, without success for the most part, except that lout of a best friend and the short-lived girl-friend he likes so much. And so the lad raises the hunting knife to complete the task. 

 

“…A haughty, and ambitious, and cruel woman was the Stepmother, and she would not be gainsaid, despite the customs of the Warriors. After she took up the reigns in the Fortress, she commanded that the Princess be kept under lock and key in a green tower of jade on a sumptuous estate in the heart of the stronghold. This was for her own benefit, said the Stepmother, as she was so beautiful, and it was necessary to keep her safe. The Stepmother hit upon another excellent idea, too. Every year, she suggested, youths from the Growers’ tribe should come to visit the Stronghold under the white flag, and meet the Princess as she looked down at them from the splendid isolation of her high tower...” 

 

But before the knife descends, the corrupt flesh melts, and boils, and bubbles, and in place of the dying schoolmaster, there’s the corpse of his vile Uncle dancing in the form of a terrifying cowled monk, his head crawling with maggots. And then he too changes once again, becoming a fiery demoness, the voracious, utterly insatiable spirit of warfare, who’s spreading hellish destruction, ferociously attacking everyone that lad’s ever known, cutting, and slicing, and tearing, and killing. The lad’s madly labouring to fight for his life against her, to prevent the slaughter in the middle of the living darkness. But he’s struggling empty-handed after she knocks the weapon from his slippery hand with her long, steel-plated, prehensile tail, almost slicing him in half. And it really does make him want to puke getting slathered with all the guts, and the blood, as the merciless she-creature despoils the bodies amongst the stinking gloom. And so, everyone dies around him, as she tries to follow the trail towards him, sniffing her way along a path made of stress, hesitancy, emptiness, anger, and pain.

 

“…And after that, it would be possible for the Princess’s suitors to ask the Despot for permission to marry her, if they thought they were good enough for her. She would give them tasks to complete then to prove that they were worthy. And these would always involve being sent down to the Paths of Wickedness to meet the Man-bull, and their destruction. The Tyrant would pretend that they had died trying to accomplish a quest in search, for example, of the Cauldron of Rebirth, Sorakados’ Sword, the Multi-coloured Coat, the Holy Grail, the Thaumaturges’ Stone, or the Grey Wizard’s Staff. In this way, year after year, the lazy Despot and the scheming Stepmother would get rid of the brave and strong young men from the rival faction. And as the lads would bring tribute every time, they believed they would get rich beyond their wildest dreams at same time, too. Or so they thought. And that’s why everyone said that the Lady was the Bloody Stepmother from then on…” 

 

There’s only one way to escape from the nihilālis about to leap on her prey, frozen with fear. And so the lad’s preparing to fling himself into the scrying-glass that was unperturbed before, but has just turned into a cauldron of boiling lead. But then again, the child who has transgressed must receive his penance bravely. And if he will not, if he refuses, kicking, and shouting, and hitting, and crying – well, then he’ll be chastised a thousand times worse. What shall be the penalty, then? How much the lad covered in sweat and tears wants to look back. He can hardly stop himself, so harshly tempting is she, like the perfect killing machine. But he remembers the legends of the Yrthians, the story about Lotké servant to Nebesh turned to a pillar of chalk whilst fleeing from Swtakh in his Excruciating Hive. And he makes himself go forward, like a guilty man trying to miss a Service of the Sacrament of Communal Mortification in the local House of Repentance. And he’s thrown all over the place, slipping down with reluctant steps, down and down. And he knows that she’s following at his heels. And the worst thing of all is that he’s totally sure that it’s the Sorcerers themselves who are lurking at the root of the inverted watchtower. And they intend to love him so cruelly.

 

“…To tell the truth, by the time he had matured, his skin as red as the sand in the desert around the Houses of Rebirth, the Bull-man had had a gut-full of his exile as the wretch downstairs in the cellar as it were, amongst the dust, the darkness, and the cold. He was an enormous, muscular creature, and of course, he could have attacked his unwilling visitors, and torn them limb from limb easily, one or two at a time, at least. But he craved light-hearted chat, and intellectual discussion, and mental stimulation. Thus, rather than killing his comrades in oblivion, he would encourage them to join him, suggesting that they could train, keep fit, and learn the art of warfare, to create an army and overthrow the Tyrant and the Bloody Stepmother. From time to time he had to roar, and rage, and stamp his forked hooves to persuade them. It was no great surprise to him, then, when they would agree not to fight, become blood brothers, and swear an oath to fight the good fight shoulder to shoulder with each other, prevailing or perishing in the attempt…” 

 

Then, as the lad tumbles towards the spinning vortex emanating from the pool of molten metal, to avoid the demoness, there’s Tefnush sailing into the rippling haze so majestically. She’s wearing an evening-gown of green silk, and a golden crown, and long, black gloves. And the lad’s dancing a tarantella with the Mistress of the Dead, and round and round they go, as the most beautiful sorceress flirts shamelessly, although she’s just been deserted by her husband-to-be, whilst on the verge of having a child. And as they fly and whirl about, here’s her restive stallions dragging the spirit of the lad’s dead Mother, who looks like she’s living, and suffering beyond all description still. And there she is appearing in the flesh, eaten up by wasting disease, her tortured voice begging him to bend over and stare into her eyes for the last time – and in them there is death. 

 

“...In the meantime, the situation was developing very interestingly upstairs. The Princess Ari·adní, trapped in her tower, had become a pampered vixen after her Mother departed, so great was her sadness that she herself had not killed the blessed woman. She was wasting half the resources of the whole kingdom on fulfilling her needs and satisfying her whims. And despite how busy she was with the constant stream of suitors for her hand, she always had plenty of time to laugh at the Bloody Stepmother using a megaphone. Furthermore, she would sow the seeds of discord my means of satirical shadows cast on the walls of the keep. And to crown it all, she would also threaten to do totally silly things like giving the serfs the citizens’ rights, especially the right to vote, freeing all the slaves, and creating a society where all could participate as equal members…”

 

And the boy‘s begging: “Don’t make me look! Oh, the Old Blessed Masters, you are the only ones still – help me! I’m very sorry I’ve done all those bad things. I couldn’t stop myself in a way. I was calling on you. But you were too busy playing and singing to hear.” And then, when he can’t prevent himself anymore – and he’s turning, or being turned, round and round – and there he is being made to bend over until he’s almost doubled up – and his eyes are opening, or being forced to open – and there’s a face – a phantasmal face – a face tortured by pain, and worry, and regret, and love. And in it – there’s the living eyes of his dead Mother begging him from under the River of Tears to do whatever’s needed to let her go free. Like some fabled demoness, she’s feeding on all the lad’s mad energy, as he fights to escape from her clawing grip. And then the prayer that reverberates, howling, through the sand-palace of Etneksha is hurling him towards her: ‘Your body shall be soil; Your blood shall be water; Her spirit shall fly free!” 

 

“…Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? What a social-justice warrior-woman! And talk of doing the impossible! But one year, a Bumpkin from the other side joined the visiting team from the Country-folks’ fruitful fields on the sly, pretending that he was a Handsome Lord. He chose the name Kuv·ínoor (or Hufanoru in the language of his own tribe), as in him were united many conflicting characteristics: he was ugly but charming, fearful but brave, rough but loving. And there he was bowing before the Princess in her eyrie in due course. From the first moment he heard her harsh voice ejaculating from the top of the tower, he decided to fall head over heels in love with her. Perhaps it was because their social status was so different that she was so attractive to him, with him having descended from an excellent line of butchers. And that meant that he was highly respected amongst his community, as although they could kill, the majority were reluctant to do so. Come to think of it, it would be a very practical marriage, as he’d not expressed romantic love before, and she’d not yet exercised her deadly instincts. But then again, the young lovers weren’t thinking logically, as the two of them were suffering terribly from love-sickness from being kept apart for so long. They could conquer the Cosmos together, not as Warrior-woman and Agronomist, but as Skilled Leaders, after uniting his smouldering passion with her creative nightmares!...”

 

The boy screams. And in that instant of weakness, when he could’ve delivered his Mother from her living death, and saved himself, the stage changes again. There he is being thrown through the burning air, full of stinging sparks, towards the living fort in the middle of the enormous pine forest, where the roof’s made of skin and sinew, and the pillars are bones, the walls flesh, and the floors muscle. And he’s falling into the alabaster scorpions’ vault under the castle, and there’s Dendrah the Assassin jumping on him, wielding her singing flint dagger, as the pack of otherworldly creatures accompanying her set about him fearsomely. And the lad’s coughing, and groaning, and crying, whilst calling on the Indolent Idolaters to do – something – anything would do. But as soon as he opens his mouth to speak, in a trice, the battle’s moved to the overgrown grounds of a mansion. And the lad’s blindly blundering, trying to avoid the roots of the hellish pines that’re cutting through the ground to pierce him like spiky snakes, while their intrusive arms grab him like steel whips to choke him and tear him apart. 

 

“…But although the Bumpkin was son to the Leaders of the Growers-and-Breeders, the Wise Man and the Great Woman (she’d got to know about him from the two talkative birds, a white dove and a black crow, that he was using to send messages back to the tribe in the Hinterland), the Princess believed that it would be a good idea to put him to the test. So, she arranged for him to undergo trial by ordeal like in the Red Book of Rust and Blood. And indeed, he had to squat in a dungeon painted sky-blue for many a long day without food or water, staring at a matt-black scrying-glass, with a thick layer of iridescent oil on its surface, to call on the Idolaters to share more of their mystic power. And after that, he had to dance around a bonfire on the top of a minaret until he collapsed of exhaustion, trying to force the Sorcerers to reveal a tiny morsel of their hidden knowledge. But as he completed the tasks, he came by complete accident into mental contact with a seer amongst the rebels’ hidden army deep below the Citadel. They had been practising for ages under the authority of the Bull-man, and were ready to run amok by then. When the Princess heard all this, she decided that they needed to take the opportunity immediately, and hatched a daring plan. Then the Bumpkin told the rebels to attack the keep from below through the sewers, on the night of the Festival of Glory and Gladness, that is, two days thence (he would remind those living without the Sun about the timing) …”

 

This time, however, the Indolent Idolaters have got bored, have had more than enough of people’s complaints, as shall be their wont from time to time. And that’s if they’ve ever given a bean anyway about the insects called the human race, who crawl about on the face of the Fierce Planet, so far away in space, and lost on the seas of time. And because of this, or maybe on a whim, only since that’s what they wish, there’s no flash of lightning, no violet glow, no stench of ozone. There’s no irrepressible belly laughter disturbing the place, either, wherever it happens to be, or if one can call it a place at all. Also, in order to cross the border between, well, between Here and There, without harm, the traveller must use four tokens before following the trail backwards (or forwards) to the Other World. That’s the Rules of the Game for fictional characters in search of an author. It’s the Sorcerers who made them, not the Idolaters, and it’s not the latter who are to blame. And of course, the lad hasn’t brought anything to help him face the challenges on the journey, not knowingly, anyway. 

 

“…The forces of the Man-bull acted decisively, following constant mentalist instructions from the Bumpkin, while the Despot and his followers were blind drunk on mead during the yearly party to celebrate the wedding of the Royal Couple. All the Lords and Ladies of the kingdom were there, and not for nothing was the occasion called the Red Feast in the Annals of the Harsh Planet from the on, but at least the fighting came to an end quickly, since the soldiers had spent so much time preparing, and all the guests were blotto. Fittingly, the freedom-fighters (or the terrorists, depending on your point of view), wielded tridents that were very similar to pitchforks. Having said that, the Bull-man wasn’t feeling too well that day, as he’d gobbled down too many mushrooms-in-honey for breakfast, and he stayed in his lair in the guts of the labyrinth sulking. Anyway, the prospective Dictator did not need to fight too hard against the odds (as it were) to succeed in snatching his lover after all. He did not need to steal her away, either, as she flung herself into his hairy arms (although not from the top of the green tower, thank goodness!). And they both took control together in the Rosy Citadel immediately…”

 

Mischievous are the Old Masters, but they can appear callous, too. And indeed, all this has happened merely because the Unformed Idol-worshippers are very fond of playing, and so they have devised, or found, the riddle that runs, ‘By losing one wins, and whoever wins shall lose.’ They extend existence, on occasions, smiling sagely, so that one can finish some task essential to one’s development, even when one squawks about throwing in the towel due to one’s discomfort. Then again, they are willing to allow the sands of life slip away prematurely, if someone unprincipled tries to buy, or steal, more time to do evil. But, we must remember, they are inconsistent, and fickle, and prone to change their minds, and their ways are unutterably mysterious, even to themselves. 

 

“…After the Rapid Revolution by the inhabitants of the maze succeeded, it was necessary to punish the old Tyrant and the Bloody Stepmother, who had not been killed by then. She was covered with a thick layer of bull-fat, and locked in a small, blue chamber, full of prickly fire-lice, which infested her, and feasted on her until she became a living corpse. He was forced to drink all her toxic potions, so that his body swelled up into an enormous ball of ectoplasm, which constantly belched and bubbled. And after experimenting on them both for a long time, the Skilled Leader killed the Tyrant and the Bloody Stepmother and their heads were displayed on the ramparts of the Stronghold, as a warning to anyone who would attempt to oppose the new Despots. There was one important thing waiting to be done, however, and that was for the Princess to get rid of the Man-bull, who was competition for the Steel Throne, and a constant reminder of the Bloody Stepmother. So, Ari·adní slipped into the Paths of Wickedness, with a wheelbarrow carrying a large ball of poisoned thread, as sharp as a razor…” 

 

Once, on another occasion, somewhere else, in a different ceremony, when someone should have died, the Indolent Idolaters interfered in the Order of Things (or, it would appear that they’d done this) to give more life, but at the expense of opening the Gate between the Worlds. But to the Old Masters, all time is one seamless block, that they can swim through in their inscrutable minds to taste history unfolding, and feel space evolving. From their viewpoint, then, these higher-dimensional beings, there are many things starting and coming to an end, being born and dying, hiding and being revealed, at the same time, in the same place. And the Nw Yrth is but one locus amidst an incredible number of Worlds where they direct their attention, and realise their essence.

 

“…Ari·adní had got this deadly present (the toxic razor-string, not the wheelbarrow) from Ithru, son to Thethalu, who was an accomplished spy, an ingenious inventor, and a sly assassin for any one of the great families who would pay her. They were both under great suspicion by then, and had plotted to escape from the iniquitous hosts by flying away on fake wings. But to do this they had to get hold of the appropriate bits-‘n’-bobs, like an awful lot of wrapping paper, a considerable amount of sealing-wax, and yards of leather laces, as well as the most important element, namely an enormous quantity of the best parchment. Whilst they could buy everything else in the market, they had to turn to the Princess to provide the hide from the palace scriptorium. As it happens, they succeeded in fleeing, but whether because the materials bought from the merchants were lacking, or because the Princess had tricked them, to test some abstruse hypothesis, somehow other, when they flew so high that they approached the Sun, a Cleft opened in the heavens which they fell through, whence, no-one knew… "

 

In a way, perhaps, they’re thankful to the lad, the Indolent Idolaters, and appreciate the gift of being provided by him on the Eyrth, one could say, through his belief and his imagination. After all, he created them, they saved him, and so the wheel has kept on turning, whilst the arrangement was practical, useful, possible. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours, as they say on that Harsh Planet.

 

“…But the Princess was too busy to give a fig about them anyway by then. So, she was standing stock-still in the heart of the Paths of Wickedness to wait for her bull of a mutant half-brother, pretending that she’s a life-size marble statue (and so inspiring too many street performers today). She was white as death, wearing a long, black cloak that used to belong to the Stepmother, to hide her in the shadows, and on her terrifying lips was jet-black lipstick. Truly, she looked quite similar to Lotké servant to Nebesh after being turned into a pillar or chalk whilst trying to steal Lushfé’s tears from Swtakh in his Excruciating Hive…” 

 

But, of course, this kind of perpetual motion does not exist in the real World, and all the energy of the system gets dissipated in the end, through friction between the multitudinous parts. And thus shall the will of the Old Deities be done, and what they wish shall be, although they do not know for sure what that is, nor worry too much about the results, either.

 

“… And because Lotké failed to complete this all-important task, the Tearful River would never stop flowing. Nebesh would never give up weeping in her fitful sleep, either, before coming to the Eyrth, and turning all the seas there to tears of blood. But the Princess has firmly decided that she will not fail in her task. So, as the Man-bull rushes by Ari·adní lurking in the cowardly shadows, cut to shreds by her trap which is almost invisible, but extremely dangerous, she pierces him once again, cursing his soul. And the Bull-man retreats to his lair to die, in the deepest depths of the Paths of Wickedness below the Rosy Citadel. And when he dies, his skin is as black as the fake-wings of the first aviators when they disappeared through the Cleft between the Words, unbeknownst to them."

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] This tale has now appeared in “The Bloody Kingdom (A text-heavy graphic novel),” by the Shadow (Mamrick), and the Wýkinger (Grossmann), based on an idea by the Unfortunate Hero (Baxter). — P.M.

 

[**] No-one amongst the population (neither the elevated but restive lords, nor the stinking but servile commoners) knew his true name, although they whispered that he was Asatharafa (or As·tiríun), that is an other-worldly creature that had fallen from the stars. And they added too that in the numberless chambers of the Paths of Evil were doors or gates to Alternate Worlds that were shameful, and cruel, and terrifying. Of course, there was not an infinite number of rooms there (even if such a thing were possible in the real world), but rather 14 to the power of 14 of them. (That is, 11,112,006,825,558,016, or about 100,000 times number of stars in our galaxy, or roughly the number of metres in a light year, or 60,000 times more than the number of galaxies in the part of the All-World we can see, or the number of ants living on Orbis Tertius at any time.) And that should be no surprise, for after all, seven is a magic number, and fourteen days is the length of a fortnight. Be that as it may, As·tiríun or Asatharafa had a sharp mind and loved numerology, but although he had heard words like “love” and “fear” he had no understanding of the feelings that coursed through his body. He used to communicate with immortal serpents there, in his lair, they claimed, who coiled themselves around the roots of the World-Tree and taught him how to use extra-strong magic so that he could command life and death, bring images to life, and exchange good and evil. Never mind about that, as a result of his loneliness and his isolation, the monster had indeed developed many very strange ideas regarding himself and his place in the Great Chain of Being,  and very great mental powers, although he did not know it. He thought that through giving his life he would escape from the pain he endured in body, and mind, and spirit every second of every day. And maybe, he dared hope, he would purify the Dirty World and wake like the Seven Sleepers in the Pure Realm over the Rainbow-Bridge. In the blue days of some doubtful future, the enlightened mentalists would say that this childish but sensitive beast had a death-wish or some kind of saviour-complex. One thing is completely certain, however: Asatharafa As·tiríun was the sole owner of the labyrinth, and also its undisputed master. And that’s why the Chief Wizard (Dá·hwyth Baldrog Prok·ethra, or Thehithe Falathale Poluhothula) hated him with a vengeance, and wished to eliminate him from the map of existence. — P.M. [Master Veythra Marm·íku].

 

Y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd sydd yn rhoi saith mlynedd pan fydd y gwartheg yn edrych yn dda ac wedi’u pesgi, a bydd y tywys yn iach, wedi’u dilyn gan saith mlynedd pan fydd y tywys gwag wedi’u crino gan wynt y de, ac wedyn gwael a thenau fydd y gwartheg. Ac o ganlyniad, bydd angen ar reolwyr y Ddaear dalu teyrnged i Hen Feistri’r Nw Yrth gan golli gwaed rhai diniwed saith gwaith wrth i’r cleddyf ganu’n uchel i wneud iawn am eu gwendidau, ac am bechodau’r blaned oll. O’u plegid hwy mae saith piler i Dŷ Doethineb, saith Dydd Galar ar ôl marwolaeth, saith Porth sy’n arwain at y Nw Yrth. A hwynt-hwy sydd biau’r saith agorfa ar y penglog dynol, sef y llygaid, y ffroenau, y clustiau, a’r geg, a’r saith chakra, a thrwyddynt, yn honni’r hawl i reoli meddyliau, synhwyrau, ac emosiynau eu gweinyddion, gan ddefnyddio saith cannwyll. Ond yr asiad talcennol, yr wythfed agorfa ar y pen, sydd yn perthyn i’r Un Anenwadwy.

 

Ac wedyn mae ar y llanc colledig ofn ofnadwy pan gyrhaedda’r creaduriaid dychrynllyd a enir o’i ddychymig ei hun, sy’n cynrychioli, wrth reswm, agweddau yntau’i hunan. Er taw rywbryd Daud ydy, weithiau eraill David, neu Dai. A be’ am Daa·hweeth, a’r Comando Trefol, hyd yn oed, a llawer o bethau gwaeth byth? Sawl cymeriad a phersonoliaeth mae wedi’u creu? Faint o enwau mae wedi’u dwyn neu’u hennill? Pa mor aml mae wedi benthyca straeon gan bobl eraill a’u defnyddio nhw at ei ddibenion ei hunan? A bellach mae’n sefyll ar y ffin rhwng byw a marw, ar y trothwy toddedig rhwng y Ddaear a’r Nw Yrth, gan fantoli bod ac anfod. Ac o’i flaen e, mae wyneb y maen aberthu sydd hefyd yn ddrych sgrio purddu yn dechrau hisian a chynhyrfu. Mae’i gorff yn troi a throsi mewn loes wrth i ryw sylwedd seimllyd gael ei ddwyn oddi mewn iddo, i wingo gyferbyn â fe. Dyw’r swp ectoplasmig ddim y naill beth na’r llall, yn debyg i’r llanc. Yn lle ‘ny, mae’n parhau i drawsffurfio drwy’r amser o un ffurf i’r llall – bwystfil unigrwydd, cythraul iselder, rhith ynfydrwydd, anghenfil adawiad, coblyn colled, cysgod gwarth.

 

Ar ben hynny mae’i faint yn dal i newid, o fodfeddi i lathenni o ran taldra a lled, ac mae’n rymus tu hwnt, fel hanfod bod ei hunan. Mae’r peth yn llesmeiriol ddeniadol, ond mae’n deall yn reddfol ei fod yn farwol, ac eisiau’i amsugno a’i dreulio. Ymladd neu ffoi, dyna’r dewis arferol. Ac mae wedi bod yn ymladd am ei fywyd drwy gydol ei oes, wel, a rhedeg bant rywbryd, a dianc, unwaith neu ddwy, ‘fyd. A drwy’r amser, mae wedi bod yn adeiladu Bydoedd ar ei gyfer ei hunan, a’u llenwi nhw gyda chymeriadau, ac ieithoedd, a llefydd, a hanesion, a hud, i gadw cwmni iddo, a’i ddiogelu, a’i helpu i anghofio, a’i achub rhag dinistr. Ond y tro ‘ma, mae’r dewis wedi’i ‘neud drosto fe, awdur arall sy ‘di ‘sgrifennu’r sgript, ac mae yng nghanol stori ble na ŵyr e mo’r diwedd o gwbl. A’r un pryd bod Daud, David, Dai yn brwydro i oroesi yn y fan a’r lle, mae fel ‘sai fe’n gwylio ffilm gartŵn wedi'i seilio ar ei Fydoedd Amgen, er yn wahanol iddyn nhw 'fyd, sy’n cael ei dangos yn ei ben [*] —

 

“Unwaith, ar y Blaned Yrth, amser maith yn ôl pan oedd y Lleuad Las a'r Haul Disglair yn ifanc, roedd yna ddau lwyth, neu ddwy garfan yn brwydro yn erbyn ei gilydd. Roedd yr un ochr yn geidwadol, disgybledig, a milwrol, ac yn ymfalchïo yn eu purdeb, eu hanhrugaredd, a’u nerth. Siaradai deiliaid y deyrnas hon hen iaith gysefin y Blaned, a honnai pob un o’r saith teulu mawr iddo fe hanu o gangen tylwyth y rheolwyr hynafol. A dyma’r Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd y dywedwyd amdanyn nhw iddyn nhw sefydlu’r llwyth a rhoi iddyn nhw gyfreithiau a threfn. Roedden nhw’n arddel athrawiaeth ac awdurdod y bodau hyn, er na wyddai neb a oedden nhw wedi bodoli mewn gwirionedd, neu wedi cael eu dyfeisio gan y llwyth filenia yn ôl i gryfhau eu coelion, a chyfiawnhau eu gweithrediadau. A gwaedlyd a gormesol oedd y rhain i gyd yn wir….”

 

Nawr mae 'na ddelwedd led ddynol sydd â gweflau tenau, a llygaid treiddiol, yn hofran uwchben y maen, ac mae’n bloeddio chwerthin wrth estyn ei thafod mas a dyhefod yn frawychus. Mae ‘na olau porffor, gludiog yn llithro ohoni wrth iddi lowcio’r holl egni o’r awyr o’i chwmpas, sy’n llawn creaduriaid anfad yn stampio a gweryru. A dyma fe’n cael ei godi gan gorwynt, ac wrth gael ei daflu yma ac acw gan y gwynt gorffwyll, fe orfodir iddo ymladd yn ffyrnig yn erbyn haid o fleiddiaid llwglyd yn candryll gyfarth, wedi’u hymuno â phraidd o eifr sombi, a’u cyrff pydredig yn wyrdd, a’u llygaid marw ar dân. Wedi’i frathu a’i sathru nes fod e bron â marw, mae’n cael ei ollwng, yn gleisiau a gwaed i gyd, ac yn hanner noeth. A dyna fe’n rhuthro i lawr, ac i lawr, yn syrthio’n drwm, a bwrw’r llawr â chlep gyfoglyd.

 

“…Blaengar, agored, a chyfartal oedd y gymdeithas arall, ble roedd pawb, yn wragedd a dynion, yn henoed a phlant, yn dramorwyr a brodorion, yn byw mewn cytgord â’r Byd a’i gilydd, gan amlaf beth bynnag. Yno, roedd amrywiaeth helaeth o bobloedd, a siaradwyd llawer iawn o ieithoedd, ac roedd pethau wastad yn newid, yn cynnwys yr iaith fywiog. Fe gyfathrebai cryn nifer o’r dinasyddion yn aml â grymoedd natur, gan dderbyn ysbrydoliaeth, rhannu syniadau, ac amsugno agweddau cyfnewidiol. A’u henw nhw ar yr hanfodion hyn, neu’r byd-olwg hwn, oedd y Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd, a gynrychiolid ar ffurf cerfluniau a lluniau fyrdd, yn cyfuno nodweddion anifeiliaid, a phobl, a gwrthrychau. Arweinyddion yr Amaethwyr oedd y Gŵr Hysbys a’r Wraig Fawr a gafodd eu hetholi bob yn bum mlynedd o blith yr hynafiaid i lywiai’r cyngor yn cynnwys aelod o bob teulu oedd yn byw yn y wlad ers dwy flynedd, wrth drin y tir, ac edrych ar ôl yr anifeiliaid…”

 

Ymhlith y storom drydanol sy’n dechrau trystio o’i amgylch, prin mae’r llanc yn gallu gweld bod ‘na ddwy ffurf yn dawnsio brwydro, wrth gael eu hergydio gan y gwynt fel dau fwgan brain. A dyna’u lleisiau’n ceisio ymryson er bod eu cegau’n dal darn o arian i dalu am eu taith dros yr Afon Wylofus. A dyna ddyn i’w weld yn llosgi, wrth i fachgen neidio tuag ato fe i’w gipio. Ac ar lan Nant Dagrau mae’n gweld asyn yn gyrru gŵr sy’n cropion ar ei bedwar, gan grymu dan faich ei eiddo a’i arian, wrth i dair menyw lunio ffawd yr hil ddynol ar wŷdd o haearn. Dyma systemau trefnus diwylliant yn ymosod yn anorfod ar rymoedd annynol, gwyllt natur. Mae’r naill lais yn bugunad a chanu grwndi, y naill ar ôl y llall, gan haeru nerth y diffeithwch, wrth i’r llall glou ddweud ac ail-ddweud, yn daer ond gwâr, gyfareddau hudol i rwymo a gollwng.

 

“…Fflag y naill grŵp, etifeddion y Swynwyr, sef y Rhyfelwyr, oedd tryfer yn anelu at yr Haul ar gefndir glas, ac eiddo'r lleill, plant y Delw-addolwyr, hynny yw, yr Amaethwyr, oedd picfforch wedi’i phlannu yn y ddaear ar gefndir coch. Roedd y Rhyfelwyr yn hoff iawn o ddyfeisiadau a bydden nhw’n treulio cryn amser yn gwneud a dadansoddi peiriannau o bob math, tra byddai’r Amaethwyr yn canu, a cherfio, a chwedleua ar ôl cwpla’u gwaith. Fe dybiai’r grŵp cyntaf eu bod nhw'n wâr, a chyfiawn, a chywir, ond bod yr ail ochr yn anwar, annatblygedig, a dirywiedig. O'r herwydd, llawn bustl berwedig oedd y Rhyfelwyr fel petai, ac am ddinistrio’r Amaethwyr yn llwyr. Nid oedd tybiad o’r fath gan eu gelynion, fodd bynnag, oedd yn heddychlon, rhyddfrydol, a chroesawgar…”

 

Ac i ddechrau, dyna galedu o’r sylwedd dychlamol ffurf dra afiach bachgen, yn debyg i gelain lwydlas sy hefyd yn farus, herllyd, a chegog, ar gefn draig driphen. Ac wrth iddo ruthro’n syth at y llanc, dyna yntau’n newid i fod yr Hen Filwr yn cwato ar ei gadair front, fel doli clwt enfawr, rhacsog, a’i wyneb piwis yn biws. A dyna’r Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd bron â ffrwydro gan gynnwrf wrth iddo ystumio’n wyllt gan ‘neud ymdrech enfawr i osgoi’r ffawd sy’n ei aros. Ond hefyd mae’n chwerthin am ben y llanc, a rhegi’n giaidd, gan addo cosb ac artaith iddo yn yr Isfyd am byth. Ac wedyn dyna’r fadfall ysgeler yn siantio’n ddi-baid wrth geisio goresgyn a rheoli’r llanc mae eisiau meddu arno yn gorff ac enaid i achub ei fywyd ei hunan.

 

“…Unig reolwr dros y Rhyfelwyr oedd y Teyrn, oedd yn byw yn yr Uchelgaer Rosliw uwchben Llwybrau Drygioni, rhwydwaith enfawr o dwneli, a chynteddau, a siambrau’n gweu drwy’i gilydd roedd yn dra anodd (os nad amhosibl) cael hyd i’r ffordd allan ohono. Fe honnai’r Teyrn taw disgynnydd Swtach, a alltudiasid o lwyth y Swynwyr, oedd e. Ac fe fyddai’n ennill goruchafiaeth trwy dwyll a llofruddiaeth gan mwyaf, yn hytrach na thrwy enedigaeth-fraint, fel yr oedd Swtach wedi ceisio’i wneud o’i flaen. May·nover oedd enw’r Uwchben presennol, gan ei fod yn credu taw ofer oedd bywyd oni bai am y frwydr barhaol i oroesi a gormesu. A byw gyda fe ar y dechrau roedd y Frenhines o’r enw Oal·layt, am fod ei hwyneb pur yn disgleirio â golau’r sêr i gyd, er na adawyd iddi feddu ar ddylanwad neilltuol mewn materion gwladol. Roedd ganddyn nhw ferch hefyd, y Dywysoges Ari·adní, a’i henw yn golygu taw Meistres y Seirff oedd hi…”

 

A dyma ornest ystrywiau’n mynd yn ei blaen rhwng y dyn a’r llanc, i weld p’un fydd yn offrymu’r arall ar allor yr hunan, ar yr aberthfaen du, llithrig. Achos bod y dyn eisiau esgyn i ogoniant, gan gael gwared ar y Ddaear doredig, fel bydd bodolaeth newydd sbon yn blaguro ymhlith llwch gwyn difrod, i greu Byd disglair, newydd. Dim ond un peth sydd ei angen i gyfuno ewyllys y ffug-Ddewin â’i awydd, fel gall y difethwr ddechrau creu o’r newydd, gan sylweddoli’i ddychmygion oll. A dyna gyfnewid un enaid am yr holl gread. Ond mae bywyd a nerth yr Hen Filwr yn llifo ymaith, wrth i’w feddwl fethu a’i ewyllys dorri. A chyda hyn, dyna’r olygfa’n trawsnewid unwaith eto.

 

“…Ar ôl i’r Frenhines farw, roedd y Teyrn wedi cymryd menyw arall yn wraig, i fod yn gymar iddo yntau, ac yn llysfam i’w ferch. Arferai’r fenyw hon fod Boneddiges y Siambr Wely i’r ddiweddar Frenhines, a rhai a ddywedai iddi hi ladd ei meistres i gael priodi’r Teyrn, a chymryd y deyrnas drosodd. Cyn pen dim, roedd yr Arglwyddes wedi dwyn mab, y Dyn-darw (hynny yw, Man·toru i’r Rhyfelwyr, a Nanathuru i’r Amaethwyr). Fel yr awgryma'r enw, roedd e’n rhannol dyn a'n rhannol tarw, a sibrydai rhai iddi ei greu trwy ddewiniaeth ddrwg y byddem yn ei galw'n beirianneg genetig y dyddiau hyn. Pan gaeth e ei eni, roedd ei groen cyn wynned â wyneb Lotké was i Nebesh a drawsffurfiwyd yn biler o sialc. Nid syndod dweud nad oedd e'n cael modd i fyw o ganlyniad i'w gyflwr…” [**]

 

Ac yn awr, wele’r llanc colledig! Llawn casineb a phoen ydy, wrth iddo sefyll dros ei elyn a rwymwyd ar y maen aberth, gan drin y gyllell angheuol. Dim ond un symudiad sydd ei angen i roi pen ar y mwdwl. Mae’i gorff a’i feddwl ill dau eisiau rhoi’r gorau i frwydro yn ôl, wrth iddo gofio’i Mam a’i Dad, a phawb arall sydd wedi mynd yn dod yn ystod ei fywyd, mae wedi ceisio cysylltu â nhw i ryw raddau, heb lwyddo gan amla’, ac eithrio’r labwst ‘na o ffrind gorau a’r gariad fyrhoedlog mae’n lico gymaint. A dyna’r llanc yn codi’r gyllell hela i gyflawni’r dasg.

 

“…Menyw drahaus, ac uchelgeisiol, a chreulon oedd y Llysfam, ac ni chymerai ei gwrthod, er gwaethaf arferion y Rhyfelwyr. Ar ôl iddi hithau gymryd yr awenau yn yr Uchelgaer, fe orchmynnodd i’r Dywysoges gael ei chadw dan glo mewn tŵr gwyrdd o jâd ar ystâd foethus yng nghalon y cadarnle. Dyma oedd er ei lles ei hun, meddai’r Llysfam, am ei bod mor brydferth, ac roedd rhaid ei chadw’n ddiogel. Fe darodd y Llysfam ar syniad ardderchog arall, hefyd. Bob blwyddyn, awgrymodd hithau, fe ddylai glaslanciau o lwyth yr Amaethwyr ddod i ymweld â'r Ysgor dan y faner wen, a chwrdd â'r Dywysoges wrth iddi edrych i lawr arnyn nhw o arwahanrwydd gogoneddus ei thŵr uchel…”

 

Ond cyn i’r gyllell ddisgyn, dyna’r cnawd pwdr yn toddi, a berwi, a byrlymu, ac yn lle’r ysgolfeistr ar farw, dyna gelain ei Wncwl ffiaidd yn dawnsio ar ffurf mynach cwflog arswydus, a’i ben yn gynrhon byw. Ac wedyn dyna yntau’n newid unwaith eto, gan ddod yn gythreules o dân, ysbryd rheibus rhyfela na ellir byth ei ddiwallu, sy’n lledu dinistr uffernol, gan ymosod yn ffyrnig ar bawb mae’r llanc wedi’u nabod erioed, wrth dorri, a slaesio, a rhwygo, a lladd. Dyna’r llanc yn gorffwyll ymlafnio i frwydro am ei einioes yn ei herbyn er mwyn atal y lladdedigaeth yng nghanol y tywyllwch byw. Ond mae’n stryffaglio’n waglaw ar ôl iddi gnocio’r arf o’i law llithrig gyda’i chynffon hir, afaelgar o ddurblat, wrth bron â’i dorri’n ddau hanner. Ac yn wir mae’n codi cyfog arno fe gael ei ysgeintio â’r holl berfeddion, a’r gwaed, wrth i’r greadures anhrugarog ddistrywio’r cyrff ymhlith y gwyll drewllyd. A dyna bawb yn marw o’i gwmpas, wrth iddi drio dilyn y trywydd tuag ato, gan snwffian ei ffordd ar hyd llwybr wedi’i ‘neud o dyndra, petruster, gwacter, dicter, a gloes.

 

“…Ac ar ôl hynny, byddai'n bosibl i’r ymgeiswyr am law’r Dywysoges ofyn i’r Teyrn am ganiatâd i’w phriodi hi os oedden nhw'n meddwl eu bod yn ddigon da iddi. Fe fyddai hithau’n rhoi gorchwylion iddyn nhw i'w cyflawni wedyn i brofi eu bod yn deilwng. Ac fe fyddai'r rhain bob tro'n cynnwys cael eu hanfon i lawr i Lwybrau Drygioni i gyfarfod â'r Dyn-darw, a'u tranc. Fe fyddai’r Teyrn yn cymryd arno iddyn nhw farw wrth geisio cyflawni ymchwil, i gyrchu, er enghraifft, wrthrychau anhygoel fel Pair Dadeni, Cleddyf Sorakados, y Siaced Fraith, y Greal Sanctaidd, Carreg y Gwyrthwneuthurwyr, neu Hudlath y Dewin Llwyd. Fel hyn, o'r naill flwyddyn i'r llall, fe fyddai’r Teyrn diog a’r Llysfam gyfrwys yn cael gwared ar lanciau ifanc, cry’ a dewr o’r garfan groes. Ac am y deuai’r llanciau â theyrnged bob tro, fe greden nhw y bydden nhw’n dod yn graig o arian ar yr un pryd, hefyd. Neu felly y meddylient. A dyna pam roedd pawb yn dweud taw'r Llysfam Waedlyd oedd yr Arglwyddes o hynny ymlaen…”

 

Dim ond un fodd sydd i ddianc rhag y difodfil ar lamu ar ei hysglyfaeth wedi sythu gan ofn. A dyna’r llanc yn paratoi i ymdaflu i’r drych sgrio fu’n ddidaro gynt, sy newydd droi’n bair o blwm berw. Ond eto i gyd, bydd rhaid i’r plentyn sy wedi tramgwyddo dderbyn ei benyd yn wrol. Ac os na fydd e, os bydd yn gwrthod, neu’n strancio, gan gicio, a gweiddi, a bwrw, a llefain – wel, dyna fydd e’n cael eu cystuddio milwaith gwaeth. Beth fydd y gosb, felly? Gymaint mae’r llanc yn chwys a dagrau i gyd eisiau edrych yn ei ôl. O’r braidd gall e beidio, mor ysgethrin ddeniadol ydy hi, fel y peiriant marwol perffaith. Ond mae’n cofio chwedlau’r Yrthiaid, y stori am Lotké was i Nebesh wedi’i droi’n biler o sialc wrth ffoi rhag Swtach yn ei Gwch Dirboenus. Ac mae’n orfodi’i hunan i fynd yn ei flaen, fel dyn euog yn trio colli Gwasanaeth Sagrafen Marwhad Cymunedol yn y Tŷ Edifeirwch lleol. A dyna fe wedi’i daflu yma a thraw, yn llithro i lawr â chamau hwyrfrydig, i lawr. Ac mae’n gwybod taw hithau sy’n dilyn wrth ei sodlau. A’r peth gwaetha’ oll yw ei fod e’n hollol siŵr taw’r Swynwyr eu hunain sy’n llechu ar wraidd y ddisgwylfa bendraphen. Ac maen nhw’n bwriadu garu fe mor greulon.

 

“…A dweud y gwir, erbyn iddo aeddfedu, a’i groen cyn goched â’r tywyn yn yr anialwch o gwmpas y Tai Aileni, roedd y Dyn-darw wedi cael llond bol ar ei alltudiaeth fel y truan lawr staer yn y seler fel petai, ymhlith y llwch, y tywyllwch, a'r oerni. Creadur enfawr, cyhyrog oedd e, ac wrth gwrs, fe allai fod wedi ymosod â’r ymwelwyr anfodlon, a’u tynnu nhw’n bedwar aelod a phen yn hawdd, fesul un neu ddau o leiaf. Ond roedd e’n ysu am ymgom siriol, trafodaeth ddeallusol, ac ysgogiad meddyliol. Felly yn hytrach na lladd ei gymrodyr mewn ebargofiant, fe'u hanogai nhw i ymuno â fe, gan awgrymu y gallen nhw hyfforddi, cadw’n heini, a dysgu rhyfela, i greu byddin a dymchwel y Teyrn a’r Llysfam Waedlyd. O bryd i’w gilydd roedd yn rhaid iddo fe ruo, a ffromi, a stampio’r llawr â’i garnau fforchog i’w darbwyllo nhw. Doedd dim syndod mawr iddo felly, pan gytunen nhw i beidio â ffraeo, dod yn frodyr gwaed, a thyngu llw i ymdrechu ymdrech deg ysgwydd wrth ysgwydd â’i gilydd, gan drechu, neu farw ar y cynnig…”

 

Wedyn, wrth i’r llanc godymu tuag at y fortecs troellog yn deillio o’r pwll o fetel tawdd, i osgoi’r gythreules, dyna Tefnush yn hwylio i mewn i’r tes crychdonnol mor urddasol. Mae hi’n gwisgo ffrog fin nos o sidan gwyrdd, a choron euraid, a menig hir, du. A dyna’r llanc yn dawnsio tarantela gyda Meistres y Meirwon, a rownd a rownd maen nhw’n mynd, wrth i’r swynwraig brydferthaf fflyrtian yn ddigywilydd, er ei bod hi newydd gael ei chyfradael gan ei darpar ŵr, a hithau ar fin dwyn plentyn. Ac wrth iddyn nhw hedfan a chwyrlïo o gwmpas, dyma’i meirch anhywaith yn llusgo ysbryd Mam farw’r llanc sy’n edrych fel ‘sai hi’n byw, a diodde’ tu hwnt i bob disgrifiad o hyd. A dyna hithau’n ymddangos yn y cnawd, wedi’i hysu gan glefyd nychu, a’i llais arteithiedig yn begian arno fe i blygu drosodd i sythu i’w llygaid am y tro ola’ – ac ynddyn nhw dranc.

 

“…Yn y cyfamser, roedd y sefyllfa’n datblygu’n ddiddorol lan staer. Roedd y Dywysoges Ari·adní, yn gaeth i’w thŵr, wedi mynd yn genawes fwythlyd ar ôl i'w Mam ymadael, cymaint oedd ei thristwch nad oedd hithau'i hun wedi lladd y wraig fendigedig. Gwastraffid hanner adnoddau’r deyrnas oll ar gyflenwi ei hanghenion a bodloni ei mympwyon. Ac er gwaethaf pa mor brysur oedd hi gyda’r llif cyson o ymgeiswyr am ei llaw, roedd ganddi bob tro ddigon o amser i chwerthin am ben y Llysfam Waedlyd gan ddefnyddio megaffon. Ymhellach, fe fyddai’n hau dannedd y ddraig trwy gyfrwng cysgodion dychanol wedi’u taflu ar waliau’r gorthwr. Ac i goroni popeth, fe fyddai hefyd yn bygwth gwneud pethau hollol dwp fel cyflwyno hawliau dinesydd i’r taeogion, yn enwedig yr hawl i bleidleisio, rhyddhau'r caethweision i gyd, a chreu cymdeithas lle gallai pawb gymryd rhan yn llawn fel aelodau cyfartal…”

 

Ac mae’r bachgen yn erfyn: “Peidiwch â ‘ngorfodi fi i edrych! O’r hen Feistri Bendigedig, chi yw’r unig rai o hyd – helpwch fi! Mae’n flin iawn ‘da fi mod i ‘di ‘neud yr holl bethau drwg ‘na. Fyddwn i’m yn gallu peidio mewn ffordd. Ro’n i’n galw arnoch chi. Ond ro’ch chi’n rhy brysur chwarae a chanu i glywed.” Ac wedyn, pan dyw e’m yn gallu atal ei hunan rhagor – ac mae’n troi, neu’n cael ei droi, rownd a rownd – a dyna fe’n cael ei ‘neud i blygu drosodd nes iddo’n ei ddyblau, bron – ac mae’i lygaid yn agor, neu’n cael eu gorfodi i agor – a dyna wyneb – wyneb drychiolaethol – wyneb arteithir gan boen, a phryder, ac edifeirwch, a serch. Ac ynddo – dyna lygaid byw ei Fam farw'n begian arno fe oddi dan ddyfroedd Afon Dagrau i ‘neud beth bynnag fo angen i adael iddi fynd yn rhydd. Fel rhyw gythreules chwedlonol, mae’n bwydo ar holl egni gorffwyll y llanc, sy’n brwydro i ddianc rhag ei gafael grafangog. A dyna’r weddi sy’n udo diasbedain trwy balas tywod Etneksha’n ei hyrddio fe tuag ati hi: ‘Bydd eich corff yn bridd; Bydd eich gwaed yn ddŵr; Bydd ei henaid hi’n hedfan yn rhydd!’

 

“…Wel, dyna fyddai’n neis, on’ fyddai? Am ryfelwraig dros gyfiawnder cymdeithasol! A sôn am gael caws o fola ci! Ond un flwyddyn, ymunodd Llabwst o’r ochr arall â thîm yr ymwelwyr o feysydd ffrwythlon yr Amaethwyr ar y slei bach, gan ymhonni bod yn Arglwydd Golygus. Dewisodd e’r enw Kuv·ínoor (neu Hufanoru yn iaith ei lwyth ei hunan), gan taw ynddo fe yr unwyd llawer o nodweddion anghyson: roedd e’n hyll ond swynol, yn ofnus ond dewr, yn arw ond yn gariadus. A dyna lle roedd e’n moesymgrymu gerbron y Dywysoges yn ei huchelfan maes o law. O'r foment gyntaf iddo glywed ei llais cryg yn ebychu o dop y tŵr, fe benderfynodd e gwympo dros ei ben a’i glustiau mewn cariad â hi. Efallai mai am fod eu statws cymdeithasol mor wahanol, roedd hithau mor deniadol iddo, ac yntau'n disgyn o linach wych o fwtsieriaid. A dyna olygai ei fod yn dra pharchedig ymhlith ei gymuned, gan mai er eu bod nhw’n gallu lladd, cyndyn o wneud felly oedd y mwyafrif. Erbyn meddwl amdani, fe fyddai'n briodas ymarferol iawn, ac yntau heb fynegi cariad rhamantus o'r blaen, a hithau heb ymarfer ei greddfau marwol eto. Ond eto i gyd doedd y cariadon ifainc ddim yn meddwl yn rhesymegol, gan fod y ddau ohonyn nhw’n dioddef yn enbyd o wewyr serch o gael eu cadw ar wahân ers cyhyd. Fe fedren nhw goncro'r Cosmos gyda'i gilydd, nid fel Rhyfelwraig ac Amaethwr, ond fel Tywyswyr Mentrus ar ôl uno'i angerdd yn mudlosgi â'i hunllefau creadigol hi!…”

 

Dyna sgrechian y bachgen. Ac yn yr eiliad ‘na o wendid, pan allai fod wedi gwaedu’i Fam rhag ei marwolaeth byw, a’i achub ei hunan, mae’r llwyfan yn newid ‘to. Dyna fe’n cael ei daflu drwy’r awyr ar dân, yn llawn gwreichion colynnog, tua’r gaer byw yng nghanol fforest enfawr o binwydd, ble mae’r to wedi’i ‘neud o groen a gewynnau, ac esgyn yw’r pileri, y waliau gnawd, a’r lloriau gyhyr. Ac mae’n syrthio i mewn i gromgell y sgorpionau alabastr dan y castell, a dyna Dendrah Leiddiad yn neidio arno fe gan drin ei dagr fflint sy’n canu, wrth i’r haid o greaduriaid arallfydol yn ei hebrwng ymosod arno’n enbyd. A dyma’r llanc yn pesychu, a thuchan, ac wylo, wrth alw ar y Delw-addolwr Dioglyd i ‘nued – rhywbeth – ‘nâi unrhyw beth y tro. Ond gyda’i fod e’n agor ei geg i siarad, mewn chwinciad chwannen, mae’r frwydr wedi symud i diroedd plasty yn llawn tyfiant. A dyna’r llanc yn dall heglu wrth drio osgoi gwreiddiau’r pinwydd uffernol sy’n torri trwy’r ddaear i’w drywanu fel nadredd pigog, a’u breichiau ymosodol yn gafael ynddo fel chwipiau dur i’w dagu a’i larpio.

 

“…Ond er taw mab i Arweinyddion yr Amaethwyr, y Gŵr Hysbys a’r Wraig Fawr, oedd y Llabwst (roedd hi wedi cael gwybod amdano fe gan y ddau aderyn siaradus, colomen wen a chigfran ddu, roedd e’n defnyddio i hala negeseuon yn ôl i’r llwyth yn y Gefnwlad), fe gredai'r Dywysoges taw syniad da fyddai ei roi fe ar brawf. Felly fe drefnodd iddo ddioddef diheurbrawf fel yn Llyfr Coch Rhwd a Gwaed. Ac yn wir, roedd yn rhaid iddo gyrcydu mewn dwnsiwn a beintiwyd yn las yr awyr am ddyddiau maith heb fwyd na dŵr, gan syllu ar ddrych sgrio du, afloyw ac ar ei wyneb haen drwchus o olew symudliw, i alw ar i'r Delw-addolwyr rannu rhagor o’u pŵer cyfrin. Ac ar ôl hynny, roedd arno angen dawnsio o amgylch coelcerth ar ben meindwr nes iddo syrthio o orflinder, gan geisio gorfodi’r Swynwyr i ddatgelu mymryn bach o’u gwybodaeth gêl. Ond wrth iddo gyflawni'r gorchwylion, fe ddaeth ar hap a damwain i gysylltiad meddyliol â gweledydd ymhlith byddin guddiedig y rebeliaid yn ddwfn islaw'r Uchelgaer. Roedden nhw wedi bod yn ymarfer ers talwm dan awdurdod y Dyn-darw, ac yn barod i redeg yn benwyllt erbyn hynny. Pan glywodd y Dywysoges hyn oll, fe benderfynodd y byddai'n rhaid iddyn nhw’i mentro hi ar eu hunion, a dyfeisio cynllwyn beiddgar. Wedyn fe ddywedodd y Llabwst wrth y rebeliaid am ymosod ar y gorthwr oddi isod trwy'r carthffosydd, noson Gŵyl Gogoniant a Gorfoledd, ddau ddiwrnod wedyn (yntau fyddai’n atgoffa’r rhai’n byw heb yr Haul am yr amseru)…”

 

Y tro hwn, fodd bynnag, mae’r Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd wedi diflasu, wedi cael hen ddigon ar gŵynion pobl, fel bydd eu harfer o bryd i’w gilydd. A dyna os oedden nhw wedi malu’r un daten erioed beth bynnag am y trychfilod o’r enw bodau dynol, sy’n ymlusgo ar wyneb y Blaned Yrth, mor bell i ffwrdd yn y gwagle, ac ar goll ar foroedd amser. Ac oherwydd hyn, neu yn hytrach ar fympwy, dim ond gan taw dyna beth maen nhw’n ddymuno, ‘does dim fflach o fellten, na llewyrch fiolet, na drycsawr osôn. Does dim bloeddio chwerthin aflywodraethus yn cythryblu’r lle ‘chwaith, ble bynnag mae’n digwydd bod, neu os gall dyn ei alw’n lle o gwbl. Hefyd, er mwyn croesi’r ffin rhwng, wel, rhwng Yma ac Acw, heb niwed, mae rhaid i’r teithiwr ddefnyddio pedwar tocyn cyn dilyn y trywydd yn ôl (neu ymlaen) i’r Byd Arall. Dyna Reolau'r Gêm ar gyfer cymeriadu mewn ffuglen yn chwilio am awdur. Y Swynwyr ‘naeth nhw, ddim y Delw-addolwyr, a nage’r ail rai sydd ar fai. Ac wrth gwrs, dyw’r llanc ddim wedi dod â dim byd i’w helpu i wynebu’r heriau ar y siwrnai, ddim drwy wybod iddo, ta be’.

 

“…Fe weithredodd grymoedd y Dyn-darw’n ddibetrus, gan ddilyn cyfarwyddiadau meddyliaethol cyson gan y Llabwst, a’r Unben a’i ddilynwyr wedi meddwi'n gaib ar fedd yn ystod y parti blynyddol i ddathlu pen-blwydd priodas y Cwpl Brenhinol. Roedd holl Arglwyddi ac Arglwyddesau’r deyrnas yno, ac nid am ddim cafodd yr achlysur ei enwi fel y Wledd Goch ym Mlwyddnod y Blaned Yrth o hynny ymlaen, ond o leiaf daeth y brwydro i ben yn gyflym, gan fod y milwyr wedi treulio cymaint o amser yn paratoi, a bod y gwesteion i gyd yn chwil ulw. Yn weddus, fe driniai’r ymladdwyr dros ryddid (neu’r terfysgwyr, yn dibynnu ar eich safbwynt) dryferi oedd yn debyg iawn i bicweirch. Wedi dweud hynny, doedd y Dyn-darw ddim yn teimlo’n rhy dda y dydd hwnnw, am iddo slaffio gormod o fadarch wedi’u preserfio mewn mêl i frecwast, ac fe arhosodd yn ei ffau ym mherfeddion y labyrinth dan bwdu. Beth bynnag, doedd dim rhaid i'r ddarpar Unben frwydro yn rhy galed yn erbyn galluoedd cryfach (fel petai) er mwyn llwyddo i gipio'i gariad wedi’r cwbl. Doedd arno angen ei dwyn hi ymaith, 'chwaith, gan iddi’i thaflu’i hunan i’w freichiau blewog e (er nad oddi ar dop y tŵr gwyrdd, diolch byth!). A ’naethon nhw ill dau gymryd y llyw gyda’i gilydd yn yr Ysgor Rosliw ar unwaith…”

 

Cellweirus yw’r Hen Feistri, ond maent yn gallu ymddangos yn ddienaid, hefyd. Ac yn wir mae hyn oll i gyd wedi digwydd dim ond gan fod yr Eilunaddolwyr Afluniaidd yn hoff iawn o chwarae, ac felly maent wedi dyfeisio, neu ddod o hyd i’r pos sy’n rhedeg, ‘Trwy golli mae ennill, a’r sawl a ennill a gyll.’ Bodolaeth fyddan nhw’n hymestyn, ar adegau, gan wenu’n ddoeth, fel gall dyn orffen rhyw dasg angenrheidiol i’w ddatblygiad, hyd yn oed pan fydd yn crawcian am roi’r ffidil yn y to, o achos ei anesmwythder. Eto, byddan nhw’n fodlon gadael i dywod bywyd lithro ymaith cyn pryd, os bydd rhywun diegwyddor yn trio prynu, neu ddwyn, mwy o amser i ‘neud drwg. Ond, raid cofio, anghyson ydynt, a gwacsaw, ac maent yn dueddol o newid eu meddwl, a dyfnderoedd anchwiliadwy yw eu holl ffyrdd hyd yn oed iddyn nhwythau eu hunain.

 

“…Ar ôl i'r Chwildro Chwim gan drigolion y ddrysfa lwyddo, roedd rhaid cosbi’r hen Deyrn a’r Llysfam Waedlyd, nad oedd wedi cael eu lladd erbyn hynny. Caenwyd hithau â haen drwchus o saim twrw, a chlowyd mewn siambr fechan, las, yn llawn llau tân, pigog, a’i heigiodd hi, a gwledda arni nes iddi fynd yn gelain fyw. Gorfodwyd yntau i yfed ei dognau gwenwynllyd oll, fel y chwyddodd ei gorff yn belen enfawr o ectoplasm, oedd yn bytheirio a byrlymu’n gyson. Ac ar ôl arbrofi arnyn nhw ill dau am amser maith, fe laddodd y Tywysydd Medrus y Teyrn a’r Llysfam Waedlyd ac fe ddangoswyd eu pennau ar fylchfuriau’r Amddiffynfa yn rhybudd i neb fyddai’n ceisio gwrthwynebu’r Unbeniaid newydd. Roedd un peth pwysig yn aros i’w wneud, fodd bynnag, a dyna oedd i’r Dywysoges gael gwared â’r Dyn-darw, oedd yn gystadleuydd am yr Orsedd Ddur, ac atgoffäwr cyson am y Llysfam Waedlyd. Fe wnaeth Ari·adní sleifio i mewn i Lwybrau Drygioni felly, gyda whilber yn cario pelen fawr o linyn gwenwynig, mor finiog â rasel…”

 

Unwaith, bryd arall, yn rhywle arall, mewn seremoni wahanol, pan ddylai rhywun fod wedi marw, ‘naeth y Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd ymyrryd â’r Drefn Fawr (neu, ymddangosai iddyn nhw ‘neud hyn) i roi mwy o fywyd, ond ar draul cilagor y Porth rhwng y Bydoedd. Ond i’r Hen Feistri, mae amser i gyd yn un bloc di-dor, y gallan nhw nofio drwyddo yn eu meddyliau anhreiddiadwy i flasu hanes yn mynd rhagddo, a theimlo’r gofod yn esblygu. O’u safbwynt nhw, felly, y bodau uwch dimensiynol ‘ma, mae ‘na lawer o bethau’n dechrau a dod i ben, yn cael eu geni a marw, yn cuddio a chael eu datgelu, ar yr un pryd, yn yr un lle. A dyw’r Nw Yrth ond yn un llecyn ymhlith nifer aruthrol o Fydoedd ble maen nhw’n cyfeirio’u sylw, a sylweddoli’u hanfod.

 

“…Roedd Ari·adní wedi cael yr anrheg angheuol hon (y llinyn rasel gwenwynig, nage'r whilber) gan Ithru, mab i Thethalu, oedd yn gampwr ar ysbio, dyfeisiwr cywrain, a lleiddiad cyfrwys i unrhyw un o’r teuluoedd mawr a fyddai’n ei thalu hi. Roedden nhw ill dau dan amheuaeth fawr erbyn hynny, ac wedi cynllunio i ddianc rhag y lluoedd anfad trwy hedfan i ffwrdd ar adenydd ffug. Ond i wneud hyn roedd yn rhaid iddyn nhw gael hyd i'r geriach priodol, fel llawer iawn o bapur llwyd, cryn dipyn o gŵyr selio, a llathenni o gareiau lledr, yn ogystal â'r elfen bwysicaf, sef maint mawr o'r memrwn gorau. Tra gallen nhw brynu popeth arall yn y farchnad, roedd yn rhaid iddyn nhw droi at y Dywysoges i ddarparu'r croen o ysgrifendy'r palas. Fel mae’n digwydd, fe lwyddon nhw i ffoi, ond p'run ai am fod y deunyddiau wedi'u prynu o'r masnachwyr yn ddiffygiol, neu gan i'r Dywysoges eu twyllo nhw i brofi rhyw ddamcaniaeth ddyrys, rywsut neu ’ i gilydd, pan wnaethon nhw hedfan cyfuwch nes iddyn nhw nesáu at yr Haul, agorodd Hollt yn y nefoedd y syrthion nhw trwyddo, i ble, ni wyddai neb…"

 

Mewn ffordd, efallai, maen nhw’n ddiolchgar i’r llanc, y Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd, ac yn gwerthfawrogi rhodd bod a ddarparwyd ganddo ar y Ddaear, ellid dweud, trwy’i gred a’i ddychymig. Wedi’r cwbl, fe a’u creodd nhw; y nhw a’i hachubodd e, ac fel hyn mae’r olwyn wedi dal i droi, tra oedd y trefniad yn ymarferol, yn ddefnyddiol, ac yn bosibl. Cân di bennill mwyn i’th nain, fe gân dy nain i tithau, fel y meddan nhw ar y Blaned Yrth honno.

 

“…Ond roedd y Dywysoges yn rhy brysur i hidio taten amdanyn nhw beth bynnag erbyn hynny. Dyna oedd hi'n sefyll yn stond yng nghalon Llwybrau Drygioni i ddisgwyl ei tharw o hanner brawd mwtant, gan gymryd arni ei bod hi'n gerflun marmor o faint naturiol (ac fel hyn, yn ysbrydoli gormod o berfformwyr stryd heddiw). Cyn wynned â’r angau oedd hi, ac yn gwisgo mantell hir, ddu oedd yn arfer perthyn i’r Llysfam, i’w chuddio hi yn y cysgodion, ac ar ei gwefusau arswydus roedd minlliw purddu. Yn wir roedd hi i'w gweld yn eithaf tebyg i Lotké was i Nebesh ar ôl cael ei droi’n biler o sialc wrth drio dwyn dagrau Lushfé oddi wrth Swtach yn ei Gwch Dirboenus…”

 

Ond wrth gwrs nad yw’r fath beth â symudiad diddiwedd yn bodoli yn y Byd go iawn, a bydd holl egni’r system yn cael ei wasgaru yn y pendraw, trwy ffrithiant rhwng y rhannau amryfal. Ac felly fe wneir ewyllys yr Hen Dduwiau, ac a fynnan nhw a fydd, er na wyddan nhw i sicrwydd beth yw hwnnw, na phoeni ormod am y canlyniadau, ‘chwaith.

 

“…A chan i Lotké fethu cyflawni’r neges hollbwysig hon, ni pheidiai’r Afon Wylofus byth â ffrydio. Ni fyddai Nebesh yn rhoi’r gorau i wylo yn ei drwmgwsg ysbeidiol, ‘chwaith, cyn dod i’r Ddaear, a throi’r moroedd oll yno’n ddagrau o waed. Ond roedd y Dywysoges wedi penderfynu’n gadarn na fyddai’n ffaelu yn ei thasg. Felly, wrth i’r Dyn-darw ruthro heibio Ari·adní yn llechu yn y cysgodion cachgïaidd, wedi'i falu'n chwilfriw gan ei bagl oedd bron yn anweladwy, ond yn dra pheryglus, dyna hi'n drywanu fe unwaith eto, gan felltithio'i enaid. A dyna'r Dyn-darw'n encilio i'w ffau i farw, ym mherfeddion dyfnaf Llwybrau Drygioni o dan yr Ysgor Rosliw. A phan fu farw, roedd ei groen cyn ddued ag adenydd ffug yr awyrenwyr cyntaf wrth iddyn nhw ddiflannu trwy’r Hollt rhwng y Bydoedd, heb yn wybod iddyn nhw.”

 

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[*] Mae’r hanes hwn wedi ymddangos erbyn hyn fel “Y Deyrnas Waedlyd (Nofel Graffig yn drwm o ran testun),” gan y Cysgod (Mamrick), a’r Ficing (Grossmann), ar sail syniad gan yr Arwr Anffodus (Baxter). — P.M.

 

[**] Doedd neb ymhlith y boblogaeth (na’r arglwyddi dyrchafedig ond anhydrin, na’r werinos ddrewllyd ond taeog) yn gwybod ei wir enw, er eu bod yn sibrwd taw Asatharafa (neu As·tiríun) oedd e, hynny yw, creadur arallfydol a syrthiodd o’r sêr. Ac fe ychwanegan nhw hefyd taw yn siambrau dirifedi Llwybrau Drygioni roedd drysau neu byrth i Fydoedd Amgen a oedd yn gywilyddus, a chreulon, a brawychus. Wrth gwrs, nid oedd anfeidredd o ystafelloedd yno (hyd yn oed pe bai’n bosibl i’r fath beth fodoli yn y byd go iawn), ond yn hytrach 14 i’r pŵer 14 ohonyn nhw. (Hynny yw, 11,112,006,825,558,016, neu tua 100,000 gwaith yn fwy na nifer y sêr yn ein galaeth ni, neu o gwmpas y nifer o fetrau mewn blwyddyn golau, neu 60,000 gwaith mwy na nifer y galaethau yn y rhan o’r Holl Fyd rydym yn gallu ei gweld, neu nifer y morgrug yn byw ar y Drydedd Blaned ar unrhyw adeg.) Ac ni ddylai hynny fod yn syndod, gan mai wedi’r cwbl, rhif swyn yw saith, a phedwar diwrnod ar ddeg yw hyd pythefnos. Bid a fo am hynny, roedd gan As·tiríun neu Asatharafa feddwl craff, a charai fe rifoleg, ond er iddo glywed geiriau fel “serch” ac “ofn” do’n e ddim yn deall o gwbl y teimladau a lifai trwy’i gorff. Arferai fe gyfathrebu â seirff amoral, anfarwol yno, yn ei ffau, honnen nhw, a ymgordeddai am wreiddiau’r Pren Hynaf a’i dysgodd sut i ddefnyddio hud tra chryf fel y gallai reoli bywyd a marwolaeth, dod â delweddau’n fyw, ac ymgyfnewid da â drwg. Heb sôn am hynny, o ganlyniad i’w unigrwydd a’i arwahanrwydd, roedd y bwystfil wedi datblygu mewn gwirionedd sawl syniad rhyfedd iawn yn ei gylch ei hun ac ynglŷn â’i le yng Nghadwyn Fawr Bod. Roedd yn meddwl taw trwy roi’i fywyd y byddai’n dianc rhag y boen a oddefai mewn corff, a meddwl, ac ysbryd bob eiliad o bob dydd. Ac efallai, roedd yn beiddio gobeithio, y byddai’n puro’r Byd Budr a dihuno fel y Saith Gysgadur yn y Fro Lân dros Bont yr Enfys. Yn nyddiau glas rhyw ddyfodol amheus, byddai’r meddyliaethyddion goleuedig yn dweud taw awch angau neu ryw fath o gymhleth iachawdwr a oedd ar y bwystfil plentynnaidd ond sensitif hwn. Un peth sy’n hollol sicr, fodd bynnag: Asatharafa As·tiríun oedd yn unig berchennog ar y labyrinth, a’i feistr diamheuol hefyd. A dyna pam roedd y Prif Ddewin (Dá·hwyth Baldrog Prok·ethra, neu Thehithe Falathale Poluhothula) yn ei gasáu â chas perffaith, ac yn dymuno’i ddileu o fap bodolaeth. — P.M. [y Meistr Veythra Marm·íku].