Hiya! Welcome to my crazy world, and to my magical life, lads and lasses! Me here, “The Balrog.” That’s not my real name, of course, that’s a secret, but “Balrog” sounds right Kimbric, doesn’t it? It comes from the words “bal” (“white mark, white star, or white stripe on someone’s forehead”), and “rog” (“dishonest or unprincipled person, knave, rogue, villain”). So, “Balrog” means “hooligan with a star above the brows” like Lushfé in the stories about the Nw Yrth by that strange and wonderful old boy, Mamrick. He’s my hero – not Petey of course – the old awful Lushfé, who’s also Azazel and By·elzebub, I believe. But I do love the old geezer, and his imps, and his hairy-foots, and his pigmies, and his talkative dinosaurs, and his good and bad wizards, and the rest, don’t you? “The Balrog’s Blog” – excellent! But “The Balrog’s Lair” sounds better, probably, like “Man·toru’s Lair” deep in the Paths of Wickedness in the Tale of the Princess and the Lout. “The Balrog’s Lair” it is then!

 

WOUNDSDAY (after school / gaol): Well, a bit about me now. I’m a lovely lad of two-and-fifteen, almost (seventeen, talking sensibly, and that’s a magic number, too), well, I’m about to celebrate my birthday, and I was swanning about in my Mum’s womb for nine months before appearing in this Bloody World, of course, ha, ha! Well, I’m a cheeky little monkey according to my Uncle, who’s my right-hand man, and a Strong Little Devil, according to the old Good Doctor! Don’t look so surprised, I’m in the prime of my life, if it weren’t for the exams I’ve got to sit soon in that hateful prison of a scarcely-mentionable school. Well, in the Psychic Asylum (not its real name, that’s my name for it) – they’ve told us to make a Blog to practise our transferable skills in Kimbric or something. In passing – this stupid idea came from the KILT [“Kimbric Institute of Lingualistic Technology” — P.M.] e-site (which sounds a bit like something else), although they’ve got rid of it now (the e-site, not the idea), why I don’t know. They were saying (the hateful teachers, not the kilted men from the Blue Zone with the amazing ginger beards!)  that we had to write about travel, sports, family, politics, and so on, and so forth, ad nauseam. 

 

Well, now then, I hate everything like that, and so often I’m sure I’m an extra-terrestrial creature from some strange World or an unknown cephalopod from the depths of the inky main {Squid Sonnet}. Something indescribable, created from salty spray, sugary sex,  bloody soil, sweaty magic, and red-hot chili love tinged with frigid hate. But anyway, there was I, sitting miserably in front of the artificial-brain terminal, when suddenly I had an excellent idea. I’ll give you a glimpse of a quite special group, The Kimbric Community of Alternative Youth. I shall strike a blow for freedom whilst speaking out loud and proud on behalf of everyone with special abilities, who loves seyko-punk music, tends to wear multi-coloured clothes, and gets bullied all across this land day after day at the moment. That shall be my particular task on the IEN as the spokesperson for every teenager with a chalk-white face, and black lipstick and nails. The Outsiders, The Weirdos. The Weaklings. The Misfits. The Z-People. That’ll be a lesson for all the fools in this Malicious Madhouse.

 

So, I’m going to chat about an element of contemporary life I’m really familiar with, I mean being a Kimbric-speaking lad in his teens with extra-special talents (it’s not me who says that, but the Good Doctor). But I’m not some kind of stinkin’ old “Drain-vole”, either, remember! He was a stupid mummy’s boy, anyway, writing a secret diary at something and three-quarters years old just to get on the telly! Well, in my opinion, special people, and teenagers, and Kimbric-speaking Kimbrian folk (“a phobl o Gimbria sy'n medru'r Gimbreg” – look at the mutations there!) all get oppressed alike! Everyone trodden under heel by the oppressive system needs to rise up against the forces of the old paternalistic pigs! I’ll be starting with this Blog. Oh, by the way, readers, comrades, fellow-shamans, since I’ve been forced to do this, I’ll be letting myself go, writing how I speak. Stream of Consciousness, then, to use the appropriate literary term. But before that, I want to have a cup of warm milk before going to bed. So, night-night, all! 

 

THIRSTDAY: I’m a wizard with words, apparently, just like that Wilko Shake-a-Shaft. I really love his play “MaC Beth?” in the Kimbric translation by the genius Daud Pekar (My poor Dad, of course). Tomos Aildon’s odes are great too. Oooh, I love the Kimbric language, to be honest, perhaps ‘cos my Dad learned it so well when he came here. Isn’t the language magical? That was what the old Aildon was chattering on about, but I’ve had my fill of minstrelsy now because of Mum and all her mentalist poems. I prefer music by seyko-punk bands from the noughties, like my fave one, “Devils in the Flesh.” I love their concept albums, they’re exceptionally long, and complicated, and so great! They almost make your head explode, whilst transporting you to Other Worlds, especially if you’ve wolfed down a couple of bowlfuls of scorched spicy-bean curry. I like most the one called “Strange Screams from a Distant Star” – seven hours of sweet hellish noise, including tracks like “Ari·adní’s Anguish,” “The Mountains of Madness,” and “In Swtakh’s Excruciating Hive.”

 

Now then, you’ll be bound to ask – how did a nice boy like me get imprisoned in such a place? Well, about thirty-seven years ago, a little boy was born amongst tons of bombs, and rivers of blood, in some insignificant land in the Heart of the Continent. There, where the Fickle Moon affects people more than usual, there were two tribes trying to kill each other, using mind-bending nightmares and black magic (psychological warfare, you know) as well as the usual methods. My Dad was the baby, who became a soldier very young, trying to look after his family. His own Father would go off all the time to travel about and do his so-called business. His mother was ill, and the older Sister was training to be a poetess. The lad won fame and renown by succeeding to save lives without killing anyone. With the help of the Founder of this Clinic, who’d been scouting for kids with special talents, they tried to escape. 

 

To be honest, my Grandpa and Grandma were dead special people too, with him a double-agent, and her a non-combatant paramedic on the front-line. The gene-pool must be particularly strong there! But the one was too undisciplined, whilst the other was too loving to get much done at all for the greater good. The old man tried to use his powers for his own benefit, but he was always one for the ladies, too. Whilst his wife was suffering from wasting disease, he started to have a relationship with a girl from the other side, who betrayed him, causing his death in an explosion. Unfortunately, the children were then under the care of an Uncle, who abused them, before he had a stroke and died, when the Sister ran off to be a busker. After lots of adventures, my Dad reached the Clinic where he was supposed to train, but he was lazy and disorganized. On top of that enemies of his Father from the Haunted Homeland were attacking him, desiring to drag him back to brain-wash him, and persuade him to use his exceptional powers to work for them. it was only my Mum’s skills that prevented such an outcome. 

 

Strange to say, she’d come from the Continent too. She was so committed to her work that she’d never loved anyone, but, whilst teaching my Dad how to defend himself against the dark arts, her strong heart melted. Well, my Dad succeeded to some extent to spread a message about avoiding the constraints of conventional society, expanding the mind’s horizons, and swimming unrestrainedly in the sea of terrifying creativity. He thwarted the oppressive authorities too, which were seeking him out to punish him and suborn him, but he wasn’t much of a hero. After a short, tempestuous courtship, should we say, my Mum became pregnant, Then, although my family did their best to hide and keep safe, in the end my Dad couldn’t control himself. Together with the Old School-master and Uncle – that Unholy Trinity – he was trying to call on the five forces of nature, namely air, fire and metal, water and soil, to unite them in one form, a demon from the Moon called Pafunethu with the body of a woman and the head of a goat, and a star on his forehead.

 

That entity would have contained the sum-total of the Universe, combining all opposites, and it could’ve helped them to create a Perfect World Order, but it was too clever and strong for them, more than likely. As far as I know, the Astral Light was unleashed, and my Dad disappeared off the face of the Eyrth, a hero at last, whilst saving the life of the one man he’d completely trusted, and the life of his bosom buddy, too. And that all happened before I came on the scene – the Old Masters’ Chosen One, ha, ha, ha! But I’m sure I can hear a lad’s voice telling me – “know thyself” – from time to time during the long lonely nights, if I let my mind wander. 

 

FIREDAY: Perhaps there’s been a bit too much on my mind lately. I can’t sleep for the life of me! Uncle’s said that there’ll be some kind of initiation ceremony taking place Fireday night, a week today, in the brand-new blue dwelling on the bank of the Waters of Strife, under the pines. He won’t say much about it at all, but all the Z-People will be there, and I’ll need to wear all the formal gear, so it must be a dead special occasion. They, the Poisonous Lizards, will let us have a party then in the spiral steel tower besides the Training Centre refectory where the rest of the Misfit Crew live.

 

I’ve been trying to solve a little puzzle the Good Doctor set for me a couple of weeks or so ago. A “Future Echo” he called it. He had a real bee in his bonnet about it. In one of our “special sessions,” he told me to let the voices in me bonce whisper, and chat, and sing for a while, and that I should concentrate on symbols, words, and colours at the same time. He was rambling on about creating an acoustic hologram from the metaphorical substrate of reality and giving it concrete existence or something. He said that when I’d found the answer and passed the challenge, I’d be ready to move on to the next level (it sounds like a great console game doesn’t it?). Well, like always, I did just what the nutty old windbag commanded (not a hope in Heli-hrelí of that then, ha, ha!).

 

But then, when I went back to me room one night, I found this ... artefact ... that’d materialized out of nowhere on the bed (although no-one can get in there, it’s sealed with the strongest charms). It’s a dead old parchment of some kind, just like I’d been dreaming about all the time. It reminds me of skin – yuck! There’s lots of squiggles, like ideograms, or logograms, or something. Most of them are red, with some other colours, too. I’ve been trying like nobody’s business to work out what the meaning is but I’ve not succeeded at all, it’s exceptionally hard. I’m sure it’s got something to do with my poor, lost Dad, the Unfortunate Hero. Anyway, I’m not going to give up. Here’s a picture of the dratted thing for you!

 

 

Of course, they’re not real picture-symbols from the Red Desert, nor sacrosigns from the South-eastern Steppes – I understand that – nor true rwnic letters either. After all, it was me who mastered that old charm belonging to Khepri which sounds like the beetles making the sound “chep – chep – chep” over and over, even when I was a kid. And I know lots about the Wýkingren’s seidhr, although it’s women who used to sing the spells most often. I'm completely confused to be honest. So, let me sleep on it, maybe I’ll get some inspiration from the familiar spirits. Ta-ta till later, then! 

 

SADDERDAY (much too early): It’s pouring down, as usual. I wanted to say something else, but I’m trying to avoid too much bad language – after all, language is so powerful, isn’t it? There’s only rubbish on the telly at the moment. Sports, cooking, doing up houses. Well, it’s my fault, I woke up before 11 o’clock. It’s lucky that I don’t watch lots of TV, I’m too busy, well, entertaining myself in one way or another. The trainee shaman’s work will never cease! Everything’s so boring on the telly usually, to be honest. At least there’s some stuff a bit more interesting to be seen in the horror series, “Out of the Shadows” on the NIBA. That Man·toru’s a cool lad no two ways about it. He’s a Wýkinger, probably, from the Monotonous Ice-fields. He’s had so many problems, the poor dab, as he’s a prospective super-hero who can’t master his enormous powers – exactly the same as me, well, more or less. I love all his tricks, that old smelly mongrel!

 

Oooh, and what about the visions, and chanting, and telepathy, and turning into animals, and astral projection, and telekinesis, and extra-sensory perception? But I can control my powers, almost perfectly, by now. That’s what Uncle Staffy says anyway, and he’s helped me so much, since when Mum went off on holiday for a long spell in that expensive hotel at the seaside. I’d have wanted her to stay, but she would be interfering with my development, in the opinion of the Wise Man and the Great Woman (the Good Doctor and Blodeuwedd) who run this place, so she had to go. It’s so sad, in a way, she’d been working much too hard, and she couldn’t cope with me and all my little ways, and her on her own as I don’t have a Dad, but come on, it’s not me who’s to blame for that. It’s true, anyway, that I do have a unique way of doing things. But I don’t use my extra skills to get whatever I want anymore, well, not all the time. And now I don’t set fire to things by accident, either, because that was a real problem to start with. 

 

Hey! I love doing this Blog. You can say anything like on a e-site and those who want to will choose to read it, but no-one else will give a hoot about it. And hey, no political correctness here, you old fools! When other kids call you names, that’s wrong, isn’t it? But I can use words like “misfit” because I’m one of them. We’re Z-Lads and Z-Lasses, ‘cos we’ve got an extra gene or something like that, as well as the usual “X” and “Y” ones. They derive from the Heart of the Continent, I believe, around the River Sed, and allow us to do strange things. That’s why we need to do all the training here (I can’t say where, of course). And I’m the best of them. “The first amongst equals,” that’s what the Good Doctor says, but Uncle says “Chief of the Superheroes’ Union.” By the way, I’m going to be totally honest here on my Blog (look at the mutation!), but I can’t use my real name, right? Oh, I’m dead sorry, I’ve got to scarper as that really old Blodeuwedd (Mrs G, once again, I can’t use her real name) needs me to help her to do the shopping, or some other all-important errand, maybe!

 

SUNDERDAY (day of rest – hurrah!): Oooh, Tommo’s on the telly now, apparently, playing netball in the White-land with the orphans there, and then collecting prickly fire-lice in the New Green Territory, and adventuring through the Unseen Jungles of the West with war-wounded soldiers, too {Testament to Trouble}. He’s a complete hero isn’t he, don’t you think? Group-Captain Tomos Tesbyro-Llwynlesg I mean. He’s a real man, and whatever’s up, he’s the man for the job. Kimbrian too. Dead posh. Blond hair. Enormous muscles on the muscles. Unitechnic in Emerald Town. Certificate in Practical Warfare with honours. Like a pig in clover when he’s fighting and killing. Killed hundreds of enemies with just a steel pitchfork. It’s lucky he doesn’t look like his father at all, that fat old fool. Well, then again, the tycoon, the Honourable Piers, is a millionaire several times over, and he’s setting up hateful supermarkets everywhere now, called Super-shops to steal the customers from all the local merchants, and drive them out of business. My Dad would be exactly the same age as Tommo now. Well, it he was alive. But of course, he’s not. 

 

I can’t help thinking about the ceremony and the party. The whole crew’s going to stay awake until the wee small hours, watching films and drinking pints of malt liquor and cans of lemon-grass lager – under the eagle eye of the Good Doctor of course! Well, he’ll be using the scrying screen to look at us from afar, if he hears anything unfortunate happening. I’ve not been allowed to go to lots of parties up till now, in case I cause – well, when things would go wrong, I wouldn’t have known what to do before, but now things are a lot better, I suppose – and this is the first time I’ll be joining them. I think they’ll be playing with the Spirit Board too, so I’ll be able to show them a thing or two about calling and binding otherworldly powers. Oooh, I’m feeling so excited all the time, now! 

 

Oh by the way, when that Tommo was fighting as one of the Resistance Warriors (under the red flag), against the Oppressive Forces (waving the blue banner) somewhere in the desert, I heard him chatting about the attitude of “taking life to save life.” He said he’d delight in doing this as he was very fond of playing console games, and knew how to use his thumbs very well! When someone from the other team would try and harm one of the good guys, Tommo could delete him from the game (there’s a mutation for you, mun!). What a brave warrior! I love video games too. Uncle says that playing them’s a good way of using virtual reality to hone my mentalist skills. I hope I can save lives someday, sweeping some people off their feet. I won’t be killing anyone, mind! Now you’d better leave me in peace, I want to practice my computational techniques!

 

MOANDAY (worst day of the week): Nothin’ to report today, my comrades in the fight to survive. I was keeping my nose to the grindstone in the dark and devilish education factory all day, pushing on with the Great Work, and keeping my head down. I’m sure that Barry (not his real name, who’s called Barry these days anyway?) was still trying to show me that he’s got some extra powers in the “Eyrth-Transformation” class this morning. When the Bug-eyed Master wasn’t looking (not his real name, blah, blah, he doesn’t pay attention to what’s going on most of the time either). He (Barry) kept on letting his kit drop on the floor under the table on the other side of the class-room, and then he was bending over, pulling faces and quivering, and muttering. Fair play to ‘im, he managed to make the things shoot towards me without touching them, but although he was aiming them at me ‘ead, he missed the mark every time, and every one of them sailed through the window behind me. Hmm, well, compared to me, that boy’s a rank amateur. 

 

There’s no need for me to move at all to make things happen. To be honest the biggest problem for me is that things happen that I want, without me even thinking about them, in a way. Oooh, that caused a huge headache before I learned how to – well, how to go with the “flow.” The worst thing you can do is try to force the power when it’s insisting on streaming like wild-fire through you. On the other hand, if you don’t understand what’s going on, that can lead to terrible consequences too, for yourself, and for other innocent bystanders in your vicinity. But that’s more than enough of the lip-flapping for one day. I’m off to the bedroom, then. Homework. I’ve got to write a report on “Secret Beasts of the Seven Seas.” What joy! Bye-bye for now! 

 

TRUTHSDAY (there’ll be worse to come): The torturers in that sewer force us to do Phys. Ed. every Truthsday Morning, you know. It’s awful, every second. I’m sure that their sadists, all the PE teachers throughout the whole World, and especially the one in this Lamentable Looney-bin who lurks in the gym smirking at our pain all the time. Why would he force us to wear a shiny lime-green tracksuit otherwise? And then there’s all the climbing, and jumping, and running, and vaulting, and throwing and catching. Not to mention having to play all those games even when it’s cold enough to freeze the crows. Good Heavens! I’m not Hufanoru in the Paths of Wickedness, am I? Having said that, that actor (from the Land of the Thousand and One Islands, I believe) in the film “Slaughter on the Harsh Planet” is a tidy boy for his age (thirty at least, probably), and he’s got a great six-pack too.

 

I was reading an interview with that Tommo, and he was saying that he’s a “primal man” who’s “animalistic” apparently. He’s really as clever as an angel, but a bit of a rogue, too, you can see it, his eyes sparkle like that. I’d bet that he’s real popular with the ladies! The lucky old solider! I hate my body, I don’t have enough muscles. Oooh, I feel so jealous from time to time, like an angry young man who wants to burn the World to a cinder. But other times, I’m happy as Larry. Must be my hormones that are playing up. I’ve got special ones, because of the extra chromosome or whatever, and it’s a difficult age too. That’s what the Good Doctor says when he’s discussing the results of the blood tests and giving me the special medicine every week. 

 

It works, at least; that old sickly stuff, made from stink-horn, I think (that’s a smelly vegetable like toadstool that grows in forests and especially where there’s decaying undergrowth). Oooh, it’s tastes totally awful, y’know! Anyway – all the running up and down, back and forth, and climbing up ropes, and jumping over things, that’s the worst thing in the whole World! And then again, the changing room stinks of sweaty feet. Yuck! And there, all the sporty boys play the fool and run about, and swear like tinkers every other word. But I’m lots smarter than them, I could buy them and sell them under their own noses. Anyway, I don’t need to sweat buckets like that, I can move from one place to another without moving a muscle, y’know? I just need to focus my mind – concentrate – visualize, they say – and then kind of push myself, and there I am, off! Well, I know that you don’t understand, but that’s the truth! It’s the same thing with doing the other tricks, too. The secret words in the old languages, and the movements like in some martial art, are supposed to help you get exactly the result you want, that’s all.

 

WOUNDSDAY (4:00 am): Oooh, my mind’s reeling after the class yesterday on “Ruling the World.” There’s things afoot in the World today, and everything’s changed so much over the recent years – during my lifetime to be truthful. Talk about the white heat of technology! What with all the genetic engineering, and the nanobots, and the various artificial intelligences, and the consciousness-sharing machines, it’s hard to know what’s happening from day to day. And they’re transplanting brains, and growing organs and bodies, and turning the deserts green, and creating new, hybrid species. The Second Scientific Revolution, they say, and no-one understands where the ability to realize all these world-shattering ideas has come from so suddenly. Everything looks great from one point of view, but unfortunately, there are lots of unexpected consequences – “The old order changes, making way for the new, Mankind fulfils itself in sundry ways.” Well, the common folk don’t know what’s going on, but we, the Z-People, know that it’s the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers who are stalking the World, trying to destroy everyone and everything. 

 

(Half an hour later): Well, back to my linguistic problem. The thing’s a piece of seven lines. There’s a total of 49 “words,” and there’s 36 different words, and the majority of the “words” are short. On average, there’s seven “words” in each of the lines. Then again, there’s a total of 86 different symbols. That Fred’s been giving me a helping hand, and it seems he knows his stuff. He’s done lots of translating before. The most common word (“tha”) appears six times, the next most common (“la”) is there five times, the third most common (“thi”) can be seen four times, and the fourth most common words (“ha” and “ra”) are there twice. Fred says that these words mean “be,” “lots,” “not,” “do,” and “have” – “somehow or other” – but things aren’t as simple as all that, not by a long way, let me tell you. I’m not sure about the grammar at all. And the biggest problem is that all the other "words" are different from each other.

 

(An hour later again): Well, here's me again, surfing the IEN, in the early hours of this morning, and I've found lots of stuff on e-site called “The Rosy Fortress.” They talk about everything to do with codes and ciphers there, and they were able to send loads of stuff to me, including files with the "Red Book of Rust and Blood," and "Zleba Hava·róth" in them. As it happens, it’s a syllabary in the Good Doctor’s problem, where “S = sa, Y = ze, O = ni, Q = na, C = ra,” and so on, and there’s loads of other interesting symbols too. Between all of us, we’ve been able to turn the symbols into Kimbric letters (or Pretanic ones, or Etruscan ones, or whatever). Thank you very much, say I, to those boys who’ve got too much leisure time, definitely. Here’s the results up to now, the words. But, I still don’t know what the meaning is – I’ve no clue, and those helpful (but exceptionally boring) people don’t know anything about it either. But Oh, Good Grief, I’ve got to get my skates on! 

 

Tha la safe fahe tha furulu;

Sizeni la ra nara la sifi;

Thuri the thi ropupaha hapi lisapa;

E thi tha a thi sali la lenithe;

Poru punu ele tha ua la thi aha;

Afi ra seho uro uhufi life sesiha;

Filisi tha hui hafa tha leri thehe lo.

 

As the night of the ceremony approaches, I’ve been thinking a lot about all kinds of things. And I’ve concluded that as people commit themselves completely to the new technology, and splice themselves to the devices, and transform their bodies and minds with the drugs, they’re changing from being human beings, to being – well, I dunno, but something that’s a mixture of the organic and the artificial, partly human, and partly mechanical, and very frightening. Crypto-zoology say the news-sites, but no-one fully sees what’s happening throughout the World. And that’s why the International Technocratic Council is becoming so strong, and getting more and more important – and richer than ever, too.

 

THIRSTDAY: Look, now, like I was saying, I’ve no idea what the meaning of the words is. At the first glance, it appears that it’s a list of animals of all kinds, but we’re both, Fred and me, in a quandary to be totally honest. I’ll be spending considerable time going through ancient texts like “The Voynich Manuscript,” “Dē Khan·ōkh Invocātiōnibus” (“Concerning the Invocations of Khan·ōkh”), and “Unaussprechliche Kulte” (“Unspeakable Cults”). Oh, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on a copy of “Countless Curses of the Profane Peoples.” Once, I sneaked mentally into the Impossible Crypt very deep beneath the Seminary of the Strictest Disciplinarians and managed to get a glimpse of the book’s cover, covered in human skin, although I couldn’t penetrate inside to see its contents. But of course, the Supreme Father-Church has now splintered into fragments as it were, only to create dozens of denominations, each one fighting more fiercely than before to discipline our stubborn minds, control our troublesome bodies, and save our black souls. So the war-mongering goes on in the four corners of the World as usual, but no-one can work out why exactly, or over what, and the sides keep changing all the time. The human race (or whatever they are by now) is so destructive, they could wipe all life off the face of the Planet. And that’s why I, and the other Z-People, are here! 

 

(Midday): Well, there we are, I’ve succeeded at last. I’ve been mitching to be honest, I’ve had enough of the educational torture. I had to find some stuff my Dad translated here in Aberdydd, and I’ve worked the code out perfectly, probably. Thank goodness for the IEN and all the misfits on the odd e-sites there – “Krimson Kids of the Desolate Dawn” this time! I don’t just understand the writing system now, but the language itself, too, more or less. It’s interesting I suppose, but very strange, if I’m reading everything right in the little piece I have. It’s some kind of charm or prayer. I wonder where it came from? 

 

(Dinner time): One thing’s sure and that’s that this language is slippery to say the least! Every time I look at the symbols, think about the text, or try to pronounce the words, it’s like they’re flying around me like a flock of tiny birds twittering, changing their meaning second by second. But it’s something to do with sorcery definitely – that’s the “great work” without a doubt. It’s nothing like anything I’ve learned about in the Scandalous School, mind you. The magician, or better would be to say the shaman – the “vessel” – is preparing for something, some ceremony, calling on the appropriate powers to help him by bringing the “due power.” Chaos magic, probably, because it’s talking about the “river of disorder.” Interesting, then, that it concentrates so much on language – what’s the connection between the “voice” and the “fiery words,” I wonder?

 

(Before bedtime): He’s trying to create a new synthesis by uniting opposing elements – “light and dark” – “pain and release” – “loss and gain” – “life and death.” He has to wield the appropriate tools in the sacred place, although the piece doesn’t specify what they are. Then again, the shaman’s only channelling the power. And he’ll need to be brave to complete the task of “forming a world,” whatever that means. I can’t stop thinking about the last couplet of that verse my Dad wrote before he went to sleep forever – “If one man dies, then all survive; Through him will human-kind still thrive?” for some reason. Who’s going to die, I’m wondering? Well, at least I’m starting to trust in my own instincts. Of course, the intention of the one casting the spell is so important whilst conducting extraneous energies. You have to identify yourself with the source, commit yourself totally to the outcome, and open yourself fearlessly to the vital flow. Anyway, I’m not certain at all, but well, I’ve concluded, or guessed, or decided, that this is the real meaning of the charm [*] — 

 

O hear these words of fire, this is my voice –

That my great work shall have all due power now,

And the chaos-river mix both dark and light!

Let no essential tool be absent from the appointed place!

Then this life of sharp pain shall yield real enduring release,

When the vessel has the courage to break himself, making a world,

Where the loser is the winner, and dying is but another change!

 

FIREDAY (The Day of Judgement): Oooh, I’m almost frightened now about what’ll be happening tonight. I feel like I’m about to explode. I’d better not, of course. Remember what happened the last time I lost control of myself! But I can’t keep my mind on things, as Barry’s been chatting about taking me to the ceremony on his steam-cycle {A Plea}. He’s older than me, and he can drive (or course), and he likes pottering around with engines, things like that, but he’s a bit of a “boy-racer” to be honest. Imagine that! So we’ll have to be careful, we’re all very accident-prone in this family!

 

(2 pm): At breakfast, Uncle was talking about practising reciting the Sevenfold Charm, well, that was his name for it, anyway. It feels to me that the old devil knows a great deal about it, but that he’s not saying, ‘cos he was smiling oddly while he was speaking to me. That’s characteristic of the Wizard, of course – suggesting things without explaining them fully. But then he told me to go in detail through all the lessons about “The Nature and Functioning of the Unstoppable Force.” Well, of course I understand that in fact the whole Eyrth is one gigantic creature, that’s the thing, and every living thing’s like a cell in it. And despite all the killing and disasters, the population’s still growing, and we, humanity in particular, have been feeding this super-organism with our hopes, and our fears, and our desires, like we were pouring them into a bottomless, living reservoir. It’s been sleeping soundly for ever, like Hu·thulu in Relyé, content, up to now, to suck up our thoughts and feelings, moulding us in our turn through its dreams and its nightmares, which are totally beyond our ken. 

 

The wealthy, and educated, and strong, and unprincipled, are the ones who interfere with the Unstoppable Force most often, to try to satisfy their greedy desires, whilst stealing the opportunity from the common folk, who get swept away in the process – Oh, the hearts of men are prone to folly and evil! But now, we’ve reached the critical mass, and all the terrible things we’re doing to destroy the Planet and ourselves are waking the Kraken who’ll want to fight back. The thing is that we’re all parts of it, we’re like a cancer, y’know. So it’ll have to attack itself, and it could get rid of everyone in the end. That’s why the special ones like us are needed. We’re training so energetically so that we can channel the Hafgufa’s stupendous power without disturbing or hurting it, to do positive things, to reach out and connect with the Cosmos, rather than using it and trying to force it to conform to our will. Ooh, I could tell you a thing or two about the training here – but I’m not going to, not now! 

 

(Half an hour to go!): Ooh, I want to be sure that I’m looking my best, as it sounds like I’ll have to perform tonight. The Good Doctor’s talking about finding your true voice whilst weaving a story from magical language or something. And all of a sudden, I realized that those words are also in fact a list of creatures’ names after all, if you read them differently. Like something from some old tale from the Nw Yrth – I’d swear I could hear the voice of Rwm bel-Shaftí whispering questions to me on the warm breeze. Anyway, that’s quite enough of that! Well, I’ve decided then, and I’ll be wearing that kilt made of rainbow-coloured artificial leather Mum bought for me before she disappeared, the frilly shirt, the long black gown, and the red Docs boots. I’ve got a bottle of non-alcoholic Fermented Honeydew, too. They’re bound to like it (the kilt I mean, it’s really colourful) – Oh, and the Honeydew too (it’s awfully tasty).

 

One last thing – I need to say – I dunno for definite but i believe that my Dad had never experienced an initiation ceremony successfully – I’m wonderin’ whether he invented one for himself because of that, where a baptism of fire was the unexpected and deadly consequence. And then again, there’s that voice explaining that “gift of song as powerful as water” is the meaning of Pafunethu, and by inverting it, I can see, or hear, having studied all those old books in such detail, that Ruzasoha is the corresponding name, which means “to determine the best meaning.” Hey, here we are, my knight in shining armour’s just arrived on his enormous mecha-horse. I wonder whether we’ll have pizza and watch funny or horror films? Now then, let me say bye-bye to the Old Blodeuwedd who’s baking her special cakes in the kitchen as usual, before going off on my great adventure. Yes, yes, I’ll be sane and sensible. There’s Barry outside the reception now, I’ve gotta go. Oh, the old Masters, that Harriet Potiwr, my fave Z-Girl’s there too. Do I look OK? Right, bye for now! The Blogosphere can wait, I’ll give you all the gory details later on! Once more into the fray! Grrrrr!

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] Of course, Elfan would never have displayed the contents of the original document on his “public e-site” – don’t be so silly – the Unknown Charm is exceptionally powerful! (I know, I know; but even though the young man’s so frighteningly mighty and as unruly as a ginger alpaca with sunstroke, he’s not completely insane – yet.) And so, in this case, I have left the symbols as he chose to present them. But, after rummaging around for ages – psychically as well as bodily – I have managed to get hold of a – version – of the parchment itself (that is, I’ve grabbed a memory or an image as good as, or better than, the true source). It would appear (I am quite pleased to say) that my premonition regarding the form and development of the magical glyphs was not completely stupid. I can add that Elfan’s numerological  analysis is perfectly correct as well. In terms of the linguistic interpretation, however, I can’t judge. For myself, I wouldn’t be able to make head nor tail (nor anything else) of them, and I’m amazed how he chose one meaning from among the myriad of possibilities stemming from all the unique words to be found here. But one must admit that this text became the key to open (through a long, winding and extremely painful series of tragic events), doors that could never again be closed, for better or for worse. — P.M.

 

Heia! Croeso i ‘myd gwallgo’, ac i ‘mywyd hudol, lanciau a llancesau ! Fi sy ‘ma, “Y Balrog”. Nage’n enw go iawn yw hwnna, wrth gwrs, cyfrinach yw hwnna, ond, ma’ “Balrog” yn swnio’n reit Gimbreg on’d ydy? Ma’n dod o’r geiriau “bal” (“marc gwyn, seren wen, neu streipen wen ar dalcen rhwun”), a “rog” (“person anonest neu ddiegwyddor, cnaf, gwalch, dihiryn”). ‘Lly ma’ “Balrog” yn golygu “dihiryn a seren uwchben yr aeliau” yn debyg i Lushfé yn y straeon am y Nw Yrth gan yr hen foi rhyfeddol ‘na, Mamrick. ‘Yn arwr yw hwnnw – ddim Petey, wrth gwrs – yr hen Lushfé ofnadw’, sy hefyd Azazel a By·elzebub, greda i. Ond w i’n dwlu ar yr hen gono, a’i bwcaod, a’i draedflewogiaid, a’i bigmiaid, a’i ddinosoriaid siaradus, a’i ddewiniaid da a drwg, a’r lleill, on’d ych chi? “Blog y Balrog” – ardderchog! Ond ma’ “Ffau’r Balrog” yn swnio’n well, siŵr o fod, fel “ffau Man·toru” yn ddwfn yn Llwybrau Drygioni yn Hanes y Dywysoges a’r Llabwst. “Ffau’r Balrog” amdani te!

 

ERCHYLL-DDYDD (ar ôl yr ysgol / y carchar): Wel, tipyn bach amdana i nawr. Llanc annwyl dwy ar bymtheg dwi, bron (un deg saith a siarad yn gall, a nifer hudol yw hynny, ‘fyd), wel, w i ar fin dathlu ‘mhen-blwydd, ac ôn i lordio hi yng nghroth ‘yn Mam am naw mis, cyn ymddangos yn y Byd Gwaedlyd ‘ma wrth gwrs, ha, ha! Wel, mwnci bach ewn dw i, yn ôl ‘yn Wncwl sy’n llaw dde i fi, ac Ellyllyn Cry’, yn ôl yr Hen Ddoethur Da! Peidiwch edrych mor syn, ym mlodau ‘nyddiau dwi, oni bai am yr arholiadau w i’n gorfod sefyll yn fuan yn y carchar atgas 'na o ysgol bondigrybwyll. Wel, , yn y Seilam Seicig (ddim ‘i enw go iawn, dyna’n enwi i arni hi) – ma’n nhw wedi dweud wrthon ni am ‘neud Blog i ymarfer yn sgiliau trosglwyddadwy yn y Gimbreg ne’ rwbeth. Wrth fynd heibio – fe ddâth y syniad twp ‘ma o’r e-safle gan KILT [“Kymdeithas Ieithgar dros Lafar Technolegol” — P.M.] (sy’n swnio dipyn bach fel rhwbeth arall) ond ma’n nhw wedi câl gwared ohoni hi erbyn hyn (yr e-safle, ddim y syniad!), pam ‘dwn i’m. Ôn nhw’n gweud (yr athrawon ffiaidd, ddim y dynion mewn ciltiau o’r Parth Glas gyda’r barfau melyngoch ardderchog!) fod ‘na raid i ni ‘sgrifennu am deithio, chwaraeon, teulu, gwleidyddiaeth, ac ati, ac yn y blaen, hyd at gyfogi.

 

Wel nawr te, w i’n casáu popeth fel ‘na, a mor aml w i'n siŵr taw creadur allfydol w i, o rw Fyd rhyfedd, neu geffalopod anhysbys o ddyfnderoedd y cefnfor inciog. Rhwbeth annisgrifiadwy, wedi'i greu o ewyn hallt, rhyw siwgraidd, pridd gwaedlyd, hud chwyslyd, a cariad fel tsilis chwilboeth ag arlliw casineb fferllyd. Ond ta be, dyna ôn i’n eistedd yn ddiflas tu flân i derfynell yr ymennydd artiffisial, ond yn sydyn ges i syniad ardderchog. Fi fydd yn rhoi cipolwg ar grŵp eitha sbesial, Cymuned Ieuenctid Amgen Kimbria. Fe fydda i’n taro dros ryddid wrth lefaru heb flewyn ar ‘nhafod i ar ran bawb gyda galluoedd arbennig, sy’n hoff iawn o fiwsig seiko-pynk, yn tueddu i wisgo dillad aml-liwiog, ac yn câl ‘u bwlian ledled y wlad ‘ma ddydd ar ôl dydd ar hyn o bryd. Dyna fydd ‘nhasg neilltuol fi ar y RhERh fel llefarydd dros bob plentyn yn ‘i arddegau ag wyneb fel y galchen, a minlliw ac ewinedd du. Yr Adar Dieithr. Y Bobl Ryfedd. Y Lliprynnod. Y Misffitiaid. Y Bobol Sed. Fe fydd hynna'n wers i’r twpsod i gyd yn y Madws Mileinig ‘ma.

 

‘Lly w i’n mynd i sgwrsio am elfen o fywyd cyfoes w i’n gyfarwydd iawn gyda hi, w i’n golygu bod yn llanc Kimbreg ‘i iaith yn ‘i arddegau gyda doniau sbesial iawn (nage fi sy’n gweud ‘ny, ond y Doethur Da). Ond nage rhw fath o hen “Drain-vole” drewllyd ‘mo fi, ‘ chwaith, cofiwch! Babi swci mami gwirion ôdd e, ta be’, yn‘sgrifennu dyddiadur cyfrinachol yn rhwbeth a thri chwarter oed dim ond i fod ar y teledu! Wel yn ‘marn i, bydd pobl sbesial, a phobl yn ‘u harddegau, a phobl o Gimbria sy'n medru'r Gimbreg (edrychwch ar y treigladau ‘na!) i gyd yn câl ‘u gormesu fel ‘i gilydd! Ma’ angen i bawb wedi’u gorthrymu dan sawdl y drefn lethol godi yn erbyn grymoedd yr hen foch paternalistig! Fe fydda i’n dechrau gyda’r Blog ‘ma. O gyda llaw, ddarlledwyr, gymrodyr, gyd-siamaniaid, achos mod i’n câl ‘ngorfodi i ‘neud hyn, fe fydda i’n gadael i fi’n hunan fynd, gan ‘sgrifennu fel w i’n siarad. Llif yr ymwybod, te, a defnyddio’r term llenyddol priodol! Ond cyn ‘ny, w i ishe câl disgled o lâth pôth cyn mynd i’r gwely. ‘Lly nos da, bawb!

 

EUOG-DDYDD: W i’n ddewin gyda geiriau, yn ôl pob sôn, yn enwedig fel y Gwilym Chwifiwr-gwaywffon ‘na. W i’n dwlu ar ‘i ddrama “MaC Beth?” yn y cyfieithiad Kimbreg gan yr athrylith Daud Pekar (‘Nhad druan wrth gwrs). Ma’ cerddi Tomos Aildon yn wych ‘fyd. Www, w i'n dwlu ar y Gimbreg, a bod yn onest, falle taw achos i Nhad ‘i dysgu hi mor dda pan ddâth e yma. On’d yw’r iaith yn hudol? Dyna beth ôdd yr hen Aildon yn clebran amdani, ond w i ‘di câl lond bol o farddoniaeth erbyn ‘yn o achos Mam a’i holl gerddi meddyliaethol. Ma’n well da fi fiwsig gan fandiau seiko-pynk o'r mileniwm newydd, fel ‘yn hoff un, “Cythreuliaid mewn Croen.” W i’n dwlu ar ‘u halbymau cysyniadol, ma’n nhw’n eithriadol o hir, a chymhleth, ac mor wych! Ma’n nhw bron â ‘neud i’ch pen ffrwydro, wrth ych cludo chi i Fydoedd Eraill, yn enwedig os chi ‘di llowcio cwpl o bowleidiau o gyri ffa sbeislyd wedi’u deifio. W i’n lico mwya’r un o’r enw "Nadau Estron o Seren Bell” – saith awr o dwrw uffernol, melys, yn cynnwys traciau fel “Ing Ari·adní”, "Mynyddoedd Gwallgofrwydd,” ac “Yng Nghwch Dirboenus Swtach.”

 

Nawr te, fe fyddwch chi’n bown’ o ofyn – sut ddâth bachgen neis fel fi i gâl ‘i garcharu'n y fath le? Wel, tua thri deg saith o flynyddoedd yn ôl, fe gâth bachgen bach 'i eni ymhlith bomiau fyrdd, a rhaeadrau o waed, mewn rhw wlad ddistadl yng Nghalon y Cyfandir. Yno, ble ma'r Lleuad Oriog yn effeithio ar bobol mwy nag arfer, ôdd 'na ddau lwyth yn trio lladd 'i gilydd, gan ddefnyddio hunllefau seicedelig a dewiniaeth ddu (rhyfel seicolegol, ch'mod) yn ogystal â'r dulliau arferol. 'Nhad i ôdd y babi, a ddâth yn filwr yn ifanc iawn, wrth drio carco'i deulu. Fe âi'i Dad yntau bant drwy'r amser i deithio o gwmpas a 'neud 'i fusnes bondigrybwyll. Ôdd 'i Fam yn sâl, ac ôdd y Chwaer hŷn yn hyfforddi i fod yn farddes. Fe enillodd y llanc glod a bri trwy lwyddo i achub bywydau heb ladd neb. Gyda help Sefydlwr y Clinig 'ma, ôdd wedi bod yn chwilota am gryts gyda galluoedd sbesial, fe drion nhw ddianc.

 

A bod yn onest, ôdd 'Nhad-cu a'n Mam-gu'n bobl reit sbesial 'fyd, ac yntau'n ysbïwr bob ochr, a hithau'n barafeddyg anymladdol ar flaen y gad. Rhaid bod y cyfanswm genynnol yn neilltuol gry' yno. Ond ôdd y naill yn rhy annisgybledig, tra ôdd y llall yn rhy gariadus i gyflawni fawr ddim er y lles mwya'. Fe geisiai’r hen ddyn ddefnyddio'i bwerau er 'i elw'i hunan, ond ôdd e wastad yn un am y merched, 'fyd. Tra ôdd 'i wraig yn diodde' o glefyd nychu, fe ddechreuodd ddal perthynas â llances o'r ochr arall, a’i bradychodd e, gan achosi'i farwolaeth mewn ffrwydrad. Yn anffodus, ôdd y plant wedyn dan ofal Wncwl a'u cam-driniai nhw, cyn iddo gael strôc a marw, pan redodd y Chwaer bant i fod yn gerddor pen stryd. Ar ôl llawer o anturiaethau, fe gyrhaeddodd 'Nhad y Clinig ble ôdd e i fod i hyfforddi, ond ôdd e'n ddiog ac anhrefnus. Ar ben 'ny ôdd gelynion 'i Dad o'r Famwlad Aflwyddiannus yn ymosod arno fe wrth ishe'i lusgo fe yn ôl i'w bwylltreisio fe, a'i ddarbwyllo i ddefnyddio'i bwerau eithriadol i wîtho iddyn nhw. Dim ond sgiliau'n Mam i a ataliai'r fath ganlyniad.

 

Ryfedd gweud, ôdd hi 'di dod o'r Cyfandir 'fyd. A hithau'n hynod ymroddedig i'w gwaith hi, ôdd hi ‘riôd wedi caru neb, ond, wrth ddysgu ‘Nhad sut i'w amddiffyn 'i hunan rhag y grymoedd duon, fe doddodd 'i chalon gre'. Wel, fe lwyddodd 'Nhad i rw raddau i ledu neges am osgoi rhwymau cymdeithas gonfensiynol, ehangu gorwelion y meddwl, a nofio'n ddilyffethair ym môr creadigaeth frawychus. Fe wrthsafai fe'r awdurdodau gorthrymus 'fyd, ôdd yn geisio fe i'w gosbi a'i wyrdroi, ond nage fawr o arwr ôdd e. Ar ôl carwriaeth fer, stormus rhwng y ddau, ddylem ni weud, fe âth 'yn Mam yn feichiog. Wedyn, er i 'nheulu 'neud 'u gorau glas i guddio a chadw'n saff, ôdd 'Nhad ddim yn gallu reoli’i hunan. Yn ogystal â’r Hen Ysgolfeistr ac Wncwl – y Drindod Ansanctaidd ‘na – ôdd e’n trio galw ar bum grym natur, sef awyr, tân a metel, dŵr a phridd, i’w huno nhw mewn un ffurf, cythraul o’r Lleuad o’r enw Pafunethu gyda chyrff menyw a phen gafr, ac ar ei dalcen seren.

 

Fe fydde’r endid ‘ma wedi cynnwys cyfanswm y Bydysawd, a chyfuno pob gwrthwyneb, ac fe alle fod wedi’u helpu nhw i greu Trefn Fydol Berffaith, ond ôdd yn rhy glyfar a chry’ iddyn nhw, mwy na thebyg. Hyd y gwn i, fe ryddhawyd y Golau Serol, a ‘nâth 'Nhad ddiflannu oddi ar wyneb y Ddaear, yn arwr o'r diwedd, wrth achub bywyd yr un dyn ôdd e ‘di ymddiried ynddo’n llwyr, a bywyd ei gyfaill cu, fyd. A hynny oll ddigwyddodd cyn i fi ddod ar y llwyfan – Etholedig yr Hen Feistri, ha, ha, ha! Ond w i’n siŵr fe alla i glywed llais llanc yn gweud wrtha i – “adnebydd dy hunan” – o bryd i’w gilydd yn ystod y nosweithiau hir ac unig, os w i’n gadael i’n meddwl grwydro.

 

GWENDID-DDYDD: Falle taw ychydig yn ormod sy ‘di bod yn pwyso ar ‘yn meddwl i’n ddiweddar. Smo fi’n gallu cysgu dros ‘nghrogi. Ma’ Wncwl wedi dweud bydd rhw fath ar seremoni dderbyn yn digwydd nos Wendid-ddydd, wthnos i heddi’, yn y tyddyn glas newydd sbon ar lan Dyfroedd y Gynnen, dan y pinwydd. Fydd e’m yn gweud llawer amdani o gwbl, ond bydd yr holl Bobol Sed yno, ac fe fydda i angen gwisgo’r holl ddilladau ffurfiol, ‘llyrhaid bod hi’n achlysur arbennig iawn. Fe fyddan nhw, y Madfallod Gwenwynig, yn gadael i ni gael parti wedyn yn y tŵr dur, troellog ar bwys ffreutur y Ganolfan Hyfforddi ble ma’r gweddill o’r Criw Misffit yn byw.

 

W i ‘di bod yn trio datrys pos bach ma’r Doethur Da wedi’i osod i fi wthnos ne’ ddwy’n ôl. “Adlais o’r Dyfodol” ôdd ‘i enw arno. Ôdd ‘da fe rw chwilen yn ‘i ben ynglŷn â’r peth. Mewn un o’n “sesiynau sbesial” ni fe wedodd e wrtha i am adael i’r holl leisiau yn ‘y mhen i sibrwd, a sgwrsio, a canu am sbel a dylwn i ganolbwyntio ar symbolau, geiriau, a lliwiau ar yr un pryd. Ôdd e’n berwi am greu hologram acwstig o is-haen drosiadol realiti a rhoi iddo fodolaeth gorfforol ne’ rwbeth. Fe wedodd e taw pan fydden i wedi dod o hyd i’r ateb a pasio’r sialens, fe fydden i’n barod i symud ‘mlaen i’r lefel nesa’ (ma’n swnio fel gêm gonsol wych, on’d yw e?). Wel, fel arfer, fe nes i’n union be naeth yr hen freblwr hurt bost orchymyn (dim gobaith caneri o ‘ny, wrth gwrs, ha, ha!).

 

Ond wedyn, pan es i’n ôl i’n stafell i un nos, dyna fi’n ffeindio rhw ... arteffact ... ôdd wedi ymddangos o ddim ar y gwely (er ‘does neb yn gallu mynd i fewn yno, ma wedi’i hamddiffyn â’r swynion cryfa’). Ma’n hen, hen femrwn o rw fath, ac ôn i ‘di bod yn breuddwydio am rwbeth yn union fel ‘ny drwy’r amser bryd ‘ny. Ma’n ‘yn atgoffa i o groen – ych a fi! Ma’na lawer o sgwiglau, fel ideogramau, ne’ logogramau, ne’ rwbeth. Ma’r rhan fwya’ ohonyn nhw’n goch, a ma’na liwiau eraill ‘fyd. W i ‘di bod yn trio fel ffŵl i wîtho mas be’ yw’r ystyr ond smo fi ‘di llwyddo o gwbl, ma’n eithriadol anodd. W i’n siŵr taw rwbeth a nelo â ‘Nhad colledig, druan, yr Arwr Anffodus, yw e. Ta be, smo fi’n mynd i roi’r gorau iddo fe. Dyma lun o’r peth i chi – dratia fe!

 

Wrth gwrs, nage arwyddluniau go iawn o’r Anialdir Coch ydyn nhw, na symbolau sacredig o Peithiau’r De-ddwyrain – w i’n deall ‘ny –na gwir lythrennau rwnig ‘chwaith. Wedi’r cwbl, fi ôdd wedi meistroli ‘r hen swyn ‘na’n perthyn i Khepri sy’n swnio fel y chwilod yn gweud y sŵn “chep – chep – chep,” drosodd a throsodd, hyd yn oed yn grwt! Ac w i’n gwbod llawer am seidhr y Ficingiaid, er taw menywod ôdd yn arfer canu’r swynion gan amla’. W i wedi ‘nrysu’n llwyr a bod yn onest. ‘Lly gadewch i fi feddwl dros y peth dros nos, falle bydda i’n câl ‘yn ysbrydoli gan y dyfyn-ysbrydion. Ta ta tan toc, te!

 

SOBR-DDYDD (rhy gynnar o lawer): Ma’ hi’n tresio bwrw, fel arfer. Ôn i ishe gweud rwbeth arall, ond w i’n trio osgoi gormod o iaith fras – wedi’r cwbl, ma’ iaith mor rymus, on’d ydy? Dim ond sothach sy ar y teledu ar hyn o bryd. Chwaraeon, coginio, ailadeiladu tai. Wel fi sy ar fai, ‘nes i ddihuno cyn 11 o’r gloch. Ma’n lwcus mod i’m yn gwylio llawer o deledu, w i’n rhy brysur, wel, yn ‘niddanu ‘yn hunan y naill ffordd neu'r llall. Fydd gwaith y siaman dan hyfforddiant byth yn gorffen! Ma’ popeth mor ddiflas ar y teledu fel arfer ‘fyd a bod yn onest. O leia’ ma’ rhai pethau ychydig yn fwy diddorol i’w gweld yn y gyfres arswyd “Oddi mewn i’r Cysgodion” ar yr ADAG. Ma’r Man·toru ‘na’n ‘achan cŵl ‘sdim dwywaith amdani. Ficing yw e, siŵr o fod, o’r Meysydd Iâ Undonog. Ma’ fe ‘di câl cymaint o broblemau, y pŵer dab, achos fod e’n ddarpar uwch-arwyr sy’m yn gallu meistroli’i bwerau enfawr – yr un peth yn union â fi, wel, mwy ne’ lai. Dwlu ar ‘i holl gastiau dw i, yr hen frithgi drewllyd ‘na!

 

Www, a be’ am y gweledigaethau, a siantio, a thelepathi, a throi’n anifeiliaid, ac allanoli serol, a thelekinesis, a chanfyddiad allsynhwyraidd? Ond fi sy’n gallu rheoli ‘mhwerau, bron yn berffaith, erbyn ‘yn. Dyna be’ ma’ Wncwl Staffy yn weud ta be’, ac ma’ fe ‘di’n helpu fi gymaint, ers pan âth Mum bant ar wyliau am sbel hir yn y gwesty drud ‘na ar lan y môr. Fe fydden i ‘di ishe iddi aros, ond ymyrryd â ‘natblygiad i a ‘nâi hi, ym marn y Dyn Hysbys a’r Wraig Fawr sy’n rhedeg y lle ‘ma (y Doethur Da, a Blodeuwedd), ‘lly ôdd yn rhaid iddi fynd. Ma’ mor drist, mewn ffordd, ôdd hi ‘di bod yn gwîtho’n rhy galed o lawer, ac ôdd hi’m yn gallu ymdopi gyda fi a’n holl ystrywiau bach, a hithau ar ‘i phen ‘i hunan achos ‘'dôs dim Dad ‘da fi, ond dewch ‘mlaen, nage fi sy ar fai am ‘ny. Ma’n wir, ta be’, taw ffordd unigryw o ‘neud pethau sy ‘da fi. Ond smo fi’n defnyddio’n sgiliau ychwanegol i gâl be’ bynnag dw i ishe mwya’, wel ddim drwy’r amser. A nawr smo fi’n rhoi pethau ar dân ar ddamwain, ‘chwaith, achos dyna ôdd problem go iawn i ddechrau.

 

Hei! W i’n dwlu ar ‘neud y Blog ‘ma. Chi’n gallu gweud unrhw be’ chi’n lico ar e-safle a bydd y rhai sy ishe’n dewis ddarllen e, ond fydd neb arall yn malu’r un ffeuen amdano! A hei, ddim cywirdeb gwleidyddol yma, yr hen hurtyn chi! Pan ma’ cryts eraill yn galw enwau arnat ti, dyna’n rong, on’d yw e? W i’n gallu defnyddio geiriau fel “misffit” achos fi yw un ohonyn nhw. Llanciau a Llancesau “Z” ydyn ni achos taw genyn ychwanegol sy ‘da ni ne’ rwbeth fel ‘ny, yn ogystal â’r rhai “X” a “Y” arferol. Ma’n nhw’n tarddu o Galon y Cyfandir, w i’n credu, o gwmpas Afon Sed, a’n gadael i ni ‘neud pethau rhyfedd. Dyna pam fyddwn ni angen ‘neud yr holl hyfforddiant yma (smo fi’n gallu gweud ble, wrth gwrs). A fi yw’r gorau ohonyn nhw. “Y blaenaf ymhlith cydraddolion,” dyna be’ ma’r Doethur Da yn weud, ond ma’ Wncwl yn gweud “Pennaeth Undeb yr Archarwyr.” Gyda llaw, w i’n mynd i fod yn hollol onest yma ar ‘Mlog (sylwch ar y treiglad!), ond, smo fi’n medru defnyddio ‘yn enw iawn, reit? O, ma’n flin iawn ‘da fi, rhaid i fi’i baglu hi am fod yr hen hen Flodeuwedd ‘na (Mrs G, unwaith ‘to, smo fi’n gallu defnyddio’i henw iawn) angen i fi helpu hi i ‘neud y siopa, ne’ rw neges hollbwysig arall, falle!

 

SÂL-DDYDD (diwrnod gorffwys – hwrê!): Www, Tommo sy ar y teledu nawr yn ôl y sôn, yn chwarae pêl rwyd yn y Wlad-wen ‘da’r amddifaid yno, ac wedyn casglu llau tân, pigog yn y Diriogaeth Werdd Newydd, ac anturio drwy Jyngloedd Anweledig y Gorllewin ‘da milwyr wedi’u brifo mewn brwydr, ‘fyd. Arwr llwyr yw e, on’ ti’n meddwl? Grŵp-gapten Tomos Tesbyro-Llwynlesg w i’n olygu. Dyn go iawn yw e, a be bynnag sy’n bod, fe yw'r dyn ar gyfer y swydd. Dyn o Gimbria ‘fyd. Posh iawn. Gwallt golau. Cyhyrau enfawr ar y cyhyrau. Prifdechnig yn Nhref Emrallt. Tystysgrif mewn Rhyfela Ymarferol gydag anrhydedd. Uwchben ‘i ddigon pan fydd yn brwydro a lladd. Wedi lladd cannoedd o elynion ‘da dim ond picfforch ddur. Ma’n lwcus fod e’m i’w weld yn debyg i’w dad o gwbl, yr hen ynfytyn penfoel, tew ‘na. Wel, eto i gyd, miliwnydd sawl gwaith drosodd yw’r teicŵn, yr Anrhydeddus Piers, ac ma’n sefydlu archfarchnadoedd ffiaidd ym mhob man nawr, o’r enw Uwch-siopau, i ddwyn cwsmeriaid y masnachwyr lleol oll, a gyrru hwch trwy eu siop nhw. Fe fydde ‘Nhad i’n enwedig yr un oedran a Tommo nawr. Wel, ‘tase fe’n fyw. Ond wrth gwrs, smo fe’n.

 

Smo fi’n gallu peidio meddwl am y seremoni a’r parti. Fe fydd y r holl griw’n mynd i gadw ar ddihun tan oriau mân y bore’n gwylio ffilmiau ac yfed peintiau o frag a chaniau o lagyr lemonwellt – dan lygaid barcut y Doctor Da, wrth gwrs! Wel, fe fydd e’n defnyddio’r sgrin sgrio i edrych arnon ni o bell, os bydd e’n clywed unrhyw beth anffawd yn digwydd. Smo fi ‘di câl mynd i lot o bartïon hyd yn ‘yn, rhag ofn i fi achosi – wel, pan fydde pethau’n mynd o chwith, fydden i’m ‘di gwbod be’ i ‘neud o’r blaen, ond nawr ma’ pethau’n lot gwell, sbo – a dyma’r tro cynta’ fe fydda i’n ymuno â nhw. W i’n credu byddan nhw’n chwarae gyda’r Bwrdd Ysbryd ‘fyd, ‘lly fe fydda i’n gallu’u rhoi nhw ar ben ffordd ynglŷn â galw a rhwymo grymoedd arallfydol. Www, w i’n teimlo mor gyffrous drwy’r amser nawr!

 

O gyda llaw, pan ôdd y Tommo ‘na’n brwydro fel un o Ryfelwyr y Gwrthsafiad (dan y fflag goch), yn erbyn y Grymoedd Gormesol (yn chwifio’r faner las) yn rhwle yn yr anialwch, ‘nes i glywed e’n sgwrsio am yr agwedd o “ddwyn bywyd i achub bywyd.” Fe ddywedodd e bydde’n gwneud hyn er ‘i fawr lawenydd, am ‘i fod e’n hoff iawn o chwarae gemau consol, ac yn gwbod sut i ddefnyddio ‘i fodiau’n dda iawn. Pan fydde rhwun o’r tîm arall yn ceisio gwneud drwg i un o’r bois da, galle Tommo ddileu fe o’r êm (dyna dreiglad i chi, w!). Am wrol ryfelwr! W i’n dwlu ar emau fideo ‘fyd. Ma’ Wncwl yn gweud bod ‘u chwarae nhw’n ffordd dda o ddefnyddio rhith-wirionedd i hogi’n sgiliau meddyliaethol. Gobeithio fe alla i achub bywydau rw ddydd, gan ysgubo rhwrai oddi ar ‘u traed nhw. Fydda i'm yn lladd neb, cofiwch! Nawr well i chi adael llonydd i fi, w i ishe ymarfer ‘nhechnegau cyfrifiadurol!

 

AFLUN-DDYDD (dydd gwaetha’r wythnos): ‘Sdim byd i adrodd heddi’, ‘y nghymrodyr yn y frwydr i oroesi. Cadw ‘nhrwyn ar y maen yn y ffatri addysg dywyll a dieflig ôn i drwy’r dydd, gan bydru ymlaen â'r Gwaith Mawr a chadw ‘mhen i i lawr. W i’n siŵr bod Barry (ddim ‘i enw go iawn, pwy sy’n câl ‘i alw Barry ddyddiau ‘ma ta be?) yn dal i drio dangos i fi taw rhw bwerau ychwanegol sy ’da fe yn y wers “Trawsffurfio’r Ddaear” y bore ‘ma. Pan ôdd y Meistr Llygadrwth ddim yn edrych (ddim ‘i enw go iawn, bla, bla, smo fe’n talu sylw i be’ sy’n mynd ‘mlaen ran fwya’r amser ‘chwaith), ôedd e (Barry) yn parhau i adael ‘i daclau fe ollwng i’r llawr dan y tabl ar ochr arall y ‘stafell ddosbarth, ac wedyn ôdd e’n plygu drosodd gan dynnu gwep a chrynu, a myngial. Chwarae teg iddo, ‘nâth e lwyddo i ‘neud i’r pethau saethu ata i heb gyffwrdd â nhw, ond er ‘i fod e’n ‘u hanelu nhw at ‘mhen i, nâth e methu'r nod bob tro, a ‘nâth pob un ohonyn nhw yn hedfan trwy’r ffenest tu ôl i fi. Hmm, wel, o’i gymharu gyda fi, ma’r boi ‘na’n amatur llwyr.

 

‘Sdim rhaid i fi symud o gwbl i ‘neud i bethau ddigwydd. A bod yn onest y broblem fwya’ i fi yw taw pethau fydd yn digwydd dwi’n ’u hishe, heb i fi hyd yn oed feddwl amdanyn nhw, mewn ffordd. Www, dyna ôdd yn achosi penbleth ofnadw’ cyn i fi ddysgu sut i – wel, sut i fynd gyda’r “llif.” Y peth gwaetha’ allwch chi ‘neud yw trio gorfodi ‘r pŵer pan fydd yn mynnu ffrydio fel tân gwyllt trwoch chi. Ar y llaw arall, os dych chi’m deall be’ sy’n ‘mynd ‘mlaen, dyna all arwain at ganlyniadau gresynus ‘fyd, i chi’ch hunan, ac i bobol ddiniwed eraill yn ych cyfyl chi. Ond dyna hen ddigon ar y malu awyr am un diwrnod. Bant â fi i’r stafell wely. Gwaith cartre’. Rhaid i fi ‘sgrifennu adroddiad am “Bwystfilod Cêl y Saith Mor.” Dyna lawenydd i chi! Ta ta tan toc!

 

MAWROED-DDYDD (fe fydd gwaeth i ddod): Ma’r arteithwyr yn y carthbwll ‘na’n gorfodi i ni ‘neud ymarfer corff bob bore Mawroed-ddydd, ch’mod. Ofnadw’ ydy, pob eiliad. W i’n siŵr bod nhw’n sadwyr, yr athrawon YC i gyd ledled y Byd crwn, ac yn enwedig yr un yn y Gwallgofdy Gresynus ‘ma sy’n llechu yn y gampfa dan wenu'n goeglyd ar yn poen bob amser. Pam fydde fe’n gorfodi ni i wisgo tracwisgoedd gwyrdd leim llachar fel arall? Ac wedyn dyna’r holl ddringo, a neidio, a rhedeg, a llofneidio, a thaflu a dal. Heb sôn am orfod chwarae’r gemau ‘na i gyd hyd yn oed pan fydd hi’n ddigon oer i sythu brain. ‘Neno’r Mawredd! Smo fi’n Hufanoru yn Llwybrau Drygioni, ydw i? Wedi gweud ‘ny, ma’r actor ‘na (o Wlad y Mil Ynysoedd ac Un, greda i) yn y ffilm “Galanas ar y Blaned Yrth” yn was handi o’i oed (tri deg o leia', siŵr o fod), ac ma’ pac chwech gwych ‘da fe ‘fyd.

 

Ôn i’n darllen cyfweliad gyda’r Tommo ‘na, ac ôdd e’n gweud taw “dyn cysefin” ydy, sy’n “anifeilaidd” yn ôl pob tebyg. Mor glyfar ag angel ydy e’n wir, ond tipyn o rog, ‘fyd, chi’n gallu gweld, ma’i lygaid e’n disgleirio fel ‘na. Fe fetien i fod e’n boblogaidd iawn gyda’r marched! Yr hen filwr lwcus! W i’n casáu ‘nghorff i, ‘sdim digon o gyhyrau ‘da fi. Ww, w i’n teimlo mor genfigennus o bryd i’w gilydd, fel gŵr ifanc dicllon sy ishe llosgi’r Byd i gyd yn ulw. Ond weithiau arall, fe fydda i fel y gog. Ma’n rhaid taw’n hormonau sy’n chwarae lan. Ma’na rai sbesial ‘da fi, o achos y cromosom ychwanegol ne’ be’ bynnag, ac ma’n oedran anodd ‘fyd. Dyna be’ ma’r Doethur Da’n weud pan ma’n trafod canlyniadau’r profion gwaed a rhoi’r moddion sbesial i fi bob wythnos.

 

Ma’n gwîtho, o leia', yr hen stwff cyfoglyd ‘na, wedi’i ‘neud o gingroen, w i’n credu (dyna lysieuyn drewllyd yn debyg i gaws llyffant sy’n tyfu mewn fforestydd ac yn enwedig ble ma’na lystyfiant yn pydru). Www, ma’na flas hollol ofnadw’ arno, ch’mod! Ta be’ – yr holl redeg lan a lawr, nôl a ‘mlaen, a dringo lan rhaffau, a neidio dros bethau, dyna’r peth gwaetha’n y Ddaear gron! Ac eto ma’r ‘stafell newid yn drewi o draed chwyslyd. Ach a fi! Ac yno, bydd y bois sborti i gyd yn chwarae bili-ffŵl a rhedeg o gwmpas, a rhegi fel tincer bob yn ail air. Ond w i’n llawer smartach na nhw, fe fydden i’n gallu ‘u prynu nhw a’u gwerthu nhw o dan ‘u drwyn ‘u hunain. Ta be’, dw i’m angen chwysu’n stêcs fel ‘na, w i’n gallu symud o’r naill le i’r llall heb symud cyhyr, ch’mod? Dim ond rhaid i fi ffocysu’n meddwl – canolbwyntio – delweddu ma’n nhw’n weud – ac wedyn rhoi rhw fath ar hwb i’n hunan, a dyna fi bant! Wel, fe wn i dych chi’m yn deall, ond dyna’r gwir! Ma’r un peth gyda ‘neud y triciau eraill ‘fyd. Ma’r geiriau cyfrinachol yn yr hen ieithoedd, a’r ‘stumiau fel mewn rhw grefft ymladd, i fod i’ch helpu chi i gael yr union ganlyniad chi ishe, dyna i gyd.

 

ERCHYLL-DDYDD (4 o’r gloch y bore): Www, ma’n meddwl i’n rhedeg yn wyllt ar ôl y dosbarth ddoe ar “Rheoli’r Byd.” Ma’na bethau ar grwydr yn y Byd heddi’, ac ma’ popeth wedi newid gymaint dros y blynyddoedd diweddar – yn ystod ‘yn einioes mewn gwirionedd. A sôn am wres gwynias technoleg! Rhwng yr holl beirianneg genetig, a’r nanobotau, a’r sawl deallusrwydd amgen, a’r peiriannau rhannu ymwybyddiaeth, ma’n anodd gwbod be’ sy’n digwydd o ddydd i ddydd. Ac ma’n nhw’n trawsblannu ymenyddiau, a thyfu organau a chyrff, a throi’r anialwch yn wyrdd, a chreu rhwogaethau hybrid, newydd. Yr Ail Chwildro Gwyddonol, ma’n nhw’n weud, a ‘dôs neb yn deall o ble ma’r gallu i sylweddoli’r holl syniadau daeargrynol ‘ma wedi dod mor sydyn. Ma’ popeth yn edrych yn wych o un safbwynt, ond yn anffodus, ma’na lawer o ganlyniadau annisgwyl – “Cyfnewid mae'r hen drefn, a'r newydd ddaw, Dwg gwŷr eu gwaith i ben mewn llawer ffordd.” Wel, smo’r bobol gyffredin yn gwbod be’ sy’n mynd ‘mlân, ond dyn ni’r Bobol Sed yn gwbod taw’r Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd sy’n torsythu o gwmpas y Byd gan geisio distrywio pawb a phopeth.

 

(Hanner awr yn hwyrach): Wel, yn ôl i ‘mhroblem ieithyddol. Darn o saith llinell yw’r peth. Ma’ cyfanswm o 49 o eiriau, ac ma’na 36 o eiriau gwahanol, ac ma’r rhan fwya' o’r “geiriau” yn fyr. Ar gyfartaledd, ma’ saith gair ym mhob llinell. Eto i gyd, mae’ cyfanswm o 86 o symbolau gwahanol. Ma’r Ffred ‘na ‘di bod yn rhoi help llaw i fi, ac ma’n ymddangos fod e’n gwbod ‘i bethau. Ma’ wedi ‘neud llawer o gyfieithu o’r blaen. Ma’r gair mwya’ cyffredin (“tha”) yn ymddangos chwe gwaith, ma’r un mwya’ cyffredin ond un (“la”) yno bum gwaith, ma’r trydydd mwyaf cyffredin (“thi”) i’w weld bedair gwaith, ac ma’r geiriau mwya’ cyffredin ond tri (“ha” a “ra”) yno ddwywaith. Ma Ffred yn gweud bod y geiriau ‘ma’n golygu “bod,” “llawer,” “ddim,” “gwneud,” a “cael” – "rywsut ne’i gilydd” – ond smo pethau mor syml â ‘ny oll, nage o bell ffordd, gadewch i fi weud wrthoch chi! Smo fi’n siŵr am y gramadeg o gwbl. A’r broblem fwya’ yw fod y "geiriau" eraill i gyd yn wahanol i’w gilydd.

 

(Awr yn hwyrach eto): Wel dyma fi’n syrffio’r RhERh, yn oriau mân y bore ‘ma, ac w i di cael hyd i lawer o stwff ar e-safle o’r enw “Yr Ysgor Rosliw.” Ma’n nhw’n sôn am bopeth i’w ‘neud â chodau a seiffrau yno, ac ôn nhw’n gallu hala llawer iawn o stwff ata i, yn cynnwys ffeiliau ac ynddyn nhw "Lyfr Coch Rhwd a Gwaed," a "Zleba Hava·róth." Fel ma’n digwydd, sillwyddor ydy ym mhroblem y Doethur Da, ble “S = sa, Y = ze, O = ni, Q = na, C = ra,” ac yn y blaen, ac ma’na lawer o symbolau diddorol eraill ‘fyd. Rhwng pawb ohonon ni, dyn ni ‘di medru troi’r symbolau’n llythrennau Kimbrig (ne’ rai Pretanig, ne’ rai Etrwsgaidd, ne’ be’ bynnag). Diolch yn fawr iawn, meddaf fi, i’r bois ‘na, sydd â gormod o amser hamdden yn bendant. Dyma’n canlyniadau hyd yn hyn, y geiriau. Ond, wn i’m be’ yw’r ystyr eto – ‘sdim clem ‘da fi, a smo’r bobol ddefnyddiol (ond eithriadol o ddiflas) yn gwbod dim byd ‘chwaith amdano. Ond O, 'neno’r Mawredd, rhaid i fi frysio!

 

Tha la safe fahe tha furulu;

Sizeni la ra nara la sifi;

Thuri the thi ropupaha hapi lisapa;

E thi tha a thi sali la lenithe;

Poru punu ele tha ua la thi aha;

Afi ra seho uro uhufi life sesiha;

Filisi tha hui hafa tha leri thehe lo.

 

Wrth i noson y seremoni nesáu, w i ‘di bod yn meddwl lot am bethau o bob math. Ac w i ‘di dod i’r casgliad taw wrth i bobol ymrwymo’n llwyr i’r dechnoleg newydd, a’u hasio’u hunain wrth y dyfeisiadau, a thrawsffurfio’u cyrff a’u meddylia gyda’r cyffuriau, dyna nhw’n newid o fod yn fodau dynol, i fod yn – wel, smo fi’n gwbod, ond rwbeth sy’n gymysgedd o’r organig a’r artiffisial, yn rhannol ddynol, a rhannol fecanyddol, ac yn dra arswydus. Cêl-swoleg medd yr e-safleoedd newyddion, ond 'dôs neb yn hollol weld be’ sy’n digwydd ledled y Byd. A dyna pam ma’r Cyngor Technocratig Rhyngwladol yn cryfhau gymaint, a dod yn fwyfwy pwysig – a chyfoethocach byth ‘fyd.

 

EUOG-DDYDD: Edrychwch nawr, fel ôn i’n weud, ‘sdim syniad ‘da fi be’ yw ystyr y geiriau. Ar yr olwg gynta’, ma’n ymddangos bod hi’n rhestr o anifeiliaid o bob math, ond dyn ni'n dau, Ffred a fi, mewn penbleth a bod yn hollol onest. Fe fydda i’n hala cryn amser ar fynd trwy destunau hynafol fel “Llawysgrif Voynich,” “Dē Khan·ōkh Invocātiōnibus” (“Parthed Arddeisyfiadau Khan·ōkh”), ac “Unaussprechliche Kulte” (“Cyltiau Anhraethadwy”). O, beth na rown i am gael gafael ar gopi o “Felltithion Fyrdd y Cenhedloedd Cableddus.” Unwaith, fe ‘nes i sleifio i mewn yn feddyliol i’r Gladdgell Amhosib yn ddwfn ddwfn o dan Athrofa’r Disgyblwyr Llymaf a llwyddo i gael cip ar glawr y llyfr, yn groen dynol i gyd, er allen i’m treiddio i mewn i weld ‘i gynnwys. Ond wrth gwrs, ma’r Dad-Eglwys Oruchaf wedi chwalu’n yfflon bellach, fel petai, dim ond i greu dwsinau o enwadau, a phob un yn brwydro’n fyw ffyrnig nag o’r blaen i ddisgyblu’n meddyliau ystyfnig, rheoli’n cyrff cythryblus, ac achub yn heneidiau duon. ‘Lly ma’r rhyfela’n parhau ym mhedwar ban y Byd fel arfer. ond 'dôs neb yn gallu gwîtho mas pam yn enwedig, ne’ dros be’, a’r ochrau’n dal i newid drwy’r amser. Ma’r hil ddynol (ne’ be’ bynnag ydyn nhw erbyn ‘yn) mor ddifrodol, fe allen nhw ddileu bywyd oll oddi ar wyneb y Blaned. A dyna pam dw i, a’r Bobol Sed eraill, yma!

 

(Hanner dydd): Wel, dyna ni, w i ‘di câl y maen i'r wal o’r diwedd. W i ‘di bod yn mitsio a bod yn onest, w i ‘di cael llond bol ar yr holl artaith addysgol. Ôdd yn rhaid i fi gael hyd i ryw stwff gyfieithodd ‘Nhad yma yn Aberdydd, ac w i ‘di gwîtho’r cod mas i’r dim, siŵr o fod. Diolch byth am y RhERh a’r holl fisffitiaid ar yr e-safleoedd od yno – “Kryts Kochrudd y Wawr Wag” y tro ‘ma! Nage dim ond y system ysgrifennu w i’n ddeall nawr, ond yr iaith ‘i hunan ‘fyd, mwy ne’ lai. Ma’n diddorol sbo, ond yn rhyfedd iawn, os w i’n darllen popeth yn reit yn y darn bach sy ‘da fi. Ma’ rhw fath o swyn ne’ weddi. Tybed o ble ddâth e?

 

(Amser cinio): Un peth sy’n siŵr a dyna fod yr iaith 'ma'n llithrig iawn a dweud y lleia'! Bob tro w i'n edrych ar y symbolau, meddwl am y testun, ne’ drio ynganu’r seiniau, ma' fel 'sen nhw'n hedfan o 'nghwmpas i fel haid o adar mân yn trydar, wrth newid 'u hystyr fesul eiliad. Ond ma'n rwbeth a 'nelo â hud a lledrith yn bendant – dyna'r "gwaith mawr" heb os. Dyw e ddim byd yn debyg i unrw be' dyn ni 'di dysgu amdano yn yr Ysgol Ysgeler, cofiwch. Ma'r dewin, ne' well fydde gweud y siaman – y "llestr" – yn paratoi am rwbeth, rhw seremoni, gan alw ar y grymoedd priodol i'w helpu fe trwy ddod â'r "nerth dyladwy." Hud caos, siŵr o fod, achos taw dyna fe'n sôn am "afon anhrefn." Diddorol, 'lly, fod e'n canolbwyntio gymaint ar iaith – be' yw'r cysylltiad rhwng y "llais" a'r "geiriau ar dân" tybed?

 

(Cyn mynd i’r gwely): Ma' fe'n mynnu creu synthesis newydd drwy uno elfennau gwrthwynebol – "golau a gwyll" – "gloes a rhyddhad" – "colli ac ennill" – "bywyd a thranc." Ma'n rhaid iddo fe drin y taclau priodol yn y lle cysegredig, er smo’r darn yn pennu be' ydyn nhw. Eto i gyd, dim ond sianeli'r pŵer 'naiff y siaman. Ac fe fydd e angen bod yn ddewr i gyflawni'r dasg o "lunio byd," be' bynnag ma'ny'n olygu. Smo fi'n gallu peidio meddwl am gwpled ola'r gerdd 'na 'sgrifennodd 'Nhad i cyn iddo huno am byth – "Os un fydd farw, pawb fydd fyw; A achub e'r holl ddynol ryw?" am rw reswm. Pwy fydd yn mynd i farw, tybed? Wel o leia’ w i’n dechrau ymddiried yn ‘y ngreddfau’n hunan. Wrth gwrs ma’ arfaeth yr un sy’n bwrw’r hun mor bwysig wrth sianeli pŵer allanol. Rhaid i chi’ch uniaethu’ch hunan gyda’r ffynhonnell, ymrwymo’n llwyr i’r canlyniad, ac ymagor heb ofn i li’r egni. Ta be’, smo fi’n sicr o gwbl, ond, wel, w i ‘di dod i’r casgliad, ne’ ddyfalu, ne’ benderfynu taw dyma ystyr go iawn y swyn [*]:

 

O, clywch chwi'r geiriau hyn ar dân, dyma fy llais –

Fel mai 'ngwaith mawr gaiff yr holl nerth dyladwy nawr,

Nes bydd afon anhrefn yn gymysgu a golau a gwyll!

Nac absenoled yr un erfyn hanfodol o’r fangre benodedig!

Ac fe ddaw bywyd llawn gloes lem yn wir fythol ryddhad,

Pan fydd gan y llestr y plwc i’w dorri’i hun wrth lunio byd,

Lle mai'r collwr yw'r enillwr, a dim ond newid arall yw tranc!

 

GWENDID-DDYDD (Dydd y Farn!): Www, bron yn ofnus dw i nawr am beth fydd yn digwydd heno. W i’n teimlo fel ‘sen i ar fin ffrwydro! Gwell i fi beidio, wrth gwrs. Cofiwch be’ ddigwyddodd y tro ola’ ‘nes i golli arna i’n hunan! Ond alla i’m cadw ‘yn meddwl ar bethau, achos bod Barry wedi bod yn sgwrsio am fynd â fi i’r seremoni ar ‘i fotor-beic. Henach na fi yw e, ac ma’n gallu gyrru (wrth gwrs), ac ma’n lico pilcota ag injans, pethau fel ‘na, ond tipyn bach o “lanc-rasiwr” ydy a gweud y gwir. Dychmygwch ‘ny! ‘Lly fe fydd yn rhaid i ni fod yn ofalus, ni i gyd yn ddrwg iawn am gael damweiniau yn y teulu ‘ma!

 

(Dau o’r gloch): Am frecwast, ôdd Wncwl yn sôn am ymarfer adrodd y Swyn Seithblyg, wel, dyna ôdd ‘i enw e arno fe. ta be’. Ma’n teimlo i fi fod yr hen gythraul yn gwbod lot iawn amdano, ond fod e’m yn weud, achos fod e’n gwenu’n od wrth siarad â fi. Nodweddiadol o’r Dewin yw ‘ny, wrth reswm – awgrymu pethau heb esbonio’n llawn. Ond wedyn gweud wrtha i ‘nâth e am fynd yn fanwl drwy’r gwersi oll am “Natur a Gweithrediadau’r Grym Diatal.” Wel, wrth gwrs w i’n deall taw mewn gwirionedd yr holl Ddaear yw un creadur dirfawr, dyna’r peth, a phob peth byw fel cell ynddo fe. Ac er gwaetha’r holl ladd a thrychinebau, ma’r boblogaeth yn dal i dyfu, a dyn ni ddynolryw yn enwedig‘di bod yn bwydo’r oruwchorganeb ‘ma gyda’n gobeithion, a’n ofnau, a’n chwantau, fel ‘sen ni’n ‘u harllwys nhw i gronfa fyw, ddiwaelod. Ma’di bod yn cysgu’n dawel ers cyn co’, fel Hu·thulu yn Relyé, ac yn fodlon amsugno’n meddyliau a’n teimladau ni hyd yn hyn, wrth yn mowldio ni yn yn tro drwy’i breuddwydion a’i hunllefau sydd yn hollol tu hwnt i'n dirnad ni.

 

Y rhai cyfoethog, ac addysgedig, a chry’, a diegwyddor, sy’n ymyrryd a’r Grym Diatal gan amla’, i drio diwallu’u chwantau gwancus, wrth ddwyn y cyfle oddi wrth y werin bobl, sy’n cael ‘u hysgubo ymaith yn y broses – O, ma’ calonnau dynion yn tueddu at ynfydrwydd a drygioni! Ond bellach, ni ‘di cyrraedd y màs critigol, a dyna’r holl bethau ofnadw’ dyn ni’n ‘eu ‘neud i ddinistrio’r Blaned a ni’n hunain yn dihuno’r Graken fydd ishe ymladd yn ôl. Y peth yw’n bod ni i gyd yn rhannau ohono fe, dyn ni fel canser, ch’mod. ‘Lly fe fydd yn rhaid iddo ymosod arno’i hunan, ac fe alle gael gwared ar bawb yn y pen draw. Dyna pam ma’ angen y rhai sbesial fel ni. Dyn ni’n hyfforddi mor egnïol fel gallwn ni sianeli pŵer aruthrol yr Hafgufa, heb ‘i gythryblu na’i frifo, i ‘neud pethau positif, i estyn a chysylltu â’r Cosmos, yn hytrach na’i ddefnyddio fe, a cheisio’i orfodi i gydymffurfio i’n hewyllys ni. Ww, fe allen i ddweud mwy nag un stori wrthoch chi am yr hyfforddiant yma – ond smo fi’n mynd i ‘neud ‘ny, ddim nawr.

 

(Hanner awr i fynd!): Ww, W i ishe bod yn siŵr mod i’n edrych ar ‘ngorau, achos fod e’n swnio fel bydd yn rhaid i fi berfformio heno. Ma’r Doethur Da’n sôn am ddod o hyd i’ch gwir lais wrth wau stori o iaith hudol ne’ rwbeth. A, chwap – fe ‘nes i sylweddoli taw mewn gwirionedd, rhestr o enwau creaduriaid yw’r geiriau ‘na i gyd wedi’r cyfan, os byddwch chi’n ‘u darllen nhw’n wahanol. Fel rhwbeth o rw hen chwedl o’r Nw Yrth – fe awn i ar fy llw fe allen i glywed llais Rwm bel-Shaftí’n sibrwd cwestiynau wrtha i ar yr awel dwym. Ta be’, dyna hen ddigon ar ‘ny! Wel, w i ‘di penderfynu ‘lly, ac fe fydda i’n gwisgo’r cilt ‘na o ledr artiffisial seithliw a brynodd Mam i fi cyn iddi ddiflannu, y crys yn ffrils i gyd, y gŵn hir, du, a’r ‘sgidiau Docs, coch. Ma’na botel o Fêl-gawod Eplesedig ddialcohol ‘da fi, ‘fyd. Ma’n nhw’n bown’ o lico fe (y cilt w i’n olygu, ma’n lliwgar iawn) – O, a’r Melwlith ‘fyd (ofnadw’ o flasus ydy).

 

Un peth ola’ – w i angen gweud – smo fi’n gwbod yn bendant ond w i’n credu ôdd ‘Nhad ddim wedi profi seremoni urddo'n llwyddiannus ‘riôd – tybed ife dyfeisio un ar ei gyfer ei hunan ‘nâth e o achos ‘ny – un ble taw bedydd tân ôdd y canlyniad annisgwyl ac angheuol. Ac eto i gyd, dyna’r llais ‘na’n esbonio taw “rhodd cân mor nerthol â dŵr" yw ystyr Pafunethu, ac o’i droi o chwith, w i’n gallu gweld, ne’ glywed, wedi astudio’r holl hen lyfrau ‘na mor fanwl, taw Ruzasoha yw’r enw cyfatebol, sy’n golygu "pennu'r ystyr gorau." Hei, dyma ni, ma’n marchog ar farch gwyn newydd gyrraedd ar ‘i fotor-beic enfawr. Tybed fyddwn ni’n câl pitsa ac edrych ar ffilmiau doniol ne’ arswyd? Nawr te, gadewch i fi weud hwyl fawr i ‘r hen Flodeuwedd sy’n pobi ‘i theisennau sbesial yn y gegin fel arfer, cyn mynd bant ar ‘yn antur fawr. Ie, fe fydda i’n synhwyrol a gofalus. Dyna Barry tu fas i’r dderbynfa nawr, rhaid i fi fynd. O ‘neno’r Hen Feistri, ma’r Harriet Potiwr ‘na, ‘yn hoff Ferch Sed, yna ‘fyd! Ydw i’n edrych yn iawn? Iawn, hwyl am y tro! Fe all y Blogosffer aros, fe roia i’r holl fanylion gwaedlyd i chi’n nes ymlaen!! I’r gad â fi ‘to! Grrrrr!

 

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[*] Wrth gwrs, fyddai Elfan byth bythoedd wedi arddangos cynnwys y ddogfen wreiddiol ar ei “e-safle cyhoeddus” – peidiwch chi bod mor wirion – mae’r Swyn Anhysbys yn eithriadol o nerthol! (Ww, dw i’n gwybod: ond er bod y dyn ifanc mor ddychrynllyd o rymus ac mor afreolus ag alpaca cringoch yn dioddef o drawiad haul, dyw e ddim yn hollol o’i gof -- eto). Ac felly, yn yr achos hwn, dw i wedi gadael y symbolau fel y dewisodd e’u cyflwyno nhw. Ond, ar ôl chwilota am oesoedd – yn feddyliol ac yn gorfforol – dw i wedi llwyddo i gael gafael ar – fersiwn – o’r memrwn ei hun (hynny yw, dw i wedi cipio cof neu ddelwedd cystal â, neu well na’r ffynhonnell wir). Fe fyddai’n ymddangos (dw i’n eitha balch o ddweud) nad hollol dwp oedd fy rhagargoel i ynghylch ffurf a datblygiad y glyffiau hudol. Dw i’n gallu ychwanegu taw hollol gywir yw dadansoddiad rhifolegol Elfan, hefyd. Gyda golwg ar y dehongli ieithyddol, fodd bynnag, dw i ddim yn gallu beirniadu. O’m rhan i, allwn i ddim gwneud na rhych na gwellt, na phen na chwt ohonyn nhw, a dw i’n synnu sut y dewisodd e un ystyr o blith y myrdd o rai bosibl yn deilio o’r holl eiriau unigryw i’w cael yma. Ond rhaid i ddyn gyfaddef i’r testun hwn ddod yn allwedd i agor (drwy gyfres hir, droellog a thra phoenus o ddigwyddiadau alaethus), ddrysau fyddai fyth eto’n cael eu cau, er gwell neu er gwaeth. — P.M.