The Cosmos is everything which is, everything which has been, and everything which will ever be. The least contemplation about it will stir us – causing a shiver in the spine, a trembling in the voice, and a light shudder, as if it were a far-off memory about falling from a great height. No-one will ever understand what is the meaning of life in such a place, but this is not a problem at all. Almost everything is very interesting, magical even, if you look deeply enough. We have only to investigate the World, our land, our back-yard, not to mention the All-World, to find wonders. And that’s because through our eyes, the Cosmos perceives itself. Through our ears, the Universe listens to its harmonies. We are the witnesses, and through us the Cosmos becomes conscious of its glory and its splendour.

 

Now it’s true that only occasionally did Daud long for cold, hard knowledge, he was too much of a dreamer. But, in my opinion, according to what I’ve seen, and heard, he always desired to be in constant communion with the Spirit of the Universe (excuse the poetic language), becoming intoxicated with the fumes of the heavenly nectar (worse still!), with his head swimming in an atmosphere unknown to his feet which always dragged in the Eyrth’s dust and mud. And he had feet of clay, there’s no denying the fact. But by now I can imagine that his life-force is flying amongst the stars, as he battles non-existent monsters, spreading joy and causing chaos (Oh, dear, I must stop now, I’ve got a terrible lump in my throat).

 

— Mrs Blodeuwedd Grossmann,

‘Memoir of a Useful Life

(as related to her friend, Helen Grossmann, sitting by the hearth).’ 

 

 

Now, amongst the flaming pines, in the dead centre of the Field of Mourning, directly above the magical cottage, a void appears, or opens, a gap in the space-time continuum, protected by a terrible scarlet sign painted in some blood-red substance, like living flame. And it turns into a sickening, polychrome spiral vortex. And in the middle of the vortex an inverted twisted tower appears, to pierce the Two Worlds, a tower as smooth and as polished as the inflexible back-bone of a long-dead skeleton. Only litanies full of doubt, hesitation, and loss, blow through it. Without knowing it, the lad called Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth has just begun to tell his own story, and as the magic of the words flows through him, he creates Worlds and Biographies from the raw clay of existence, simultaneously kneading the dough of reality, folding the substance of the imagination, and moulding the jelly of time.

 

Daud is immediately transported to his favourite place in the whole World, the Hall of the Images in Aberdydd Town, which is so similar to the Blue House of old renown in the Neutral Southern Commonwealth, apparently. And as if in a reverie, he watches himself wandering through the place, his heart full of sadness and joy at the same time, talking to himself. And Ooh, how much he loves it, this building that's extremely ancient, which has light grey walls that aren’t too tall and frightening, and a magical tower with large, barred windows like the keep of a citadel, containing – who knows what – at its top. He loves the way the enormous bronze gates, and the torches, and the dark vaults awake memories about stories in the Old Books. About things like the Red Feast, when all the nobles in the Bloody Kingdom were killed, about the Man-bull, torn and stabbed, and more than anything, about the dismembering of Lushfé by his faithful lieutenant Swtakh. And Oh, how eager is he right now to bring revenge on those who’ve wronged him. But he hurts terribly too, remembering how he’d wanted to create, and share, and love, and, from time to time, had tried to do all that – inappropriately, and without success, for the most part, more’s the pity. 

 

The Hall really does capture the essence of the seaside. The fresh salt-smelling air that always steeps everything in Aberdydd, almost melts the metalwork, staining the stones with turquoise veins, that special colour that only copper can create. The lad loves staring at the tower through the windows of his bedroom, crying about who-knows-what, as he looks at the clocks that tell lies about the time from each one of the facades apart from the one exactly opposite him, thank goodness. He smiles in thanks too as he acknowledges that you can stop time, or turn it back for a bit at least. It’s possible that Dá·hwyth Baldrog Prok·ethra, the proud but ineffectual Chief Magus from the Rosy Citadel could learn a few things about the ebb and flow of time from it. 

 

After all, it’s he who failed to stop the waves from carrying the Shaman Ohl·weled away when he’d pinched the magic back from Keth·kela Hethehela. And it’s him who didn’t manage to stop Ithru and Thethalu falling through the Cleft between the Worlds when they tried escape on their fake wings. But now he’s working with the languid Morulku to oppress the bestial Elohi in their kingdom addicted to magical technology in the far future. As he muses on all this, Daud is dying to go the park. And then, after he plays tag there, he can get to Aberdydd Hall and rush, all excited, through the winding wooden corridors, made slippery and smelly with floor-polish.

 

He thinks of the place like it’s some kind but clever Uncle – and one who’s too indulgent by half, too – who plays the part of the savage giant until the parents go away, and then showers his favourite Nephew with sumptuous presents. There, it appears that all over the place there are polished brass door-knobs, and notice-boards of green baize, and ingenious stained-glass windows. Despite all the panels of dark brown wood, and the old-fashioned, over-the-top signage, the Hall feels young and lively, and this is a powerful and friendly place. 

 

Inside this mental landscape, full of images he’s formed from his dreams, where it’s so easy to communicate with hidden parts of himself, imagining, daydreaming, and losing himself in his thoughts, he came of age, or, at least, he got older. Deep in contemplation, Daud remembers that when he was in his teens, he’d gone there to listen to the first ever gig by the seyko-punk band Man·toru’s Wounds which took place in the Hall’s comforting womb. And he regrets terribly that he won’t be able to take part in the concerts, in the prize-givings, in the initiation ceremonies anymore, from here on. 

 

This is the home to the spirit of the old Jarl Aber-Dygdhar, sleeping in the marble statue with its glass-bead eyes, pretending to be fierce as he looks down from his niche on the wall, as if he’s an extra-terrestrial monster from ‘Out of the Shadows’ on the telly. But he’s not dead, only waiting for the proper hour to come, when the lights are put out. And then he’ll explode into life to patrol the empty halls, looking terrifyingly dignified. The lad remembers how he was stunned staring intently at the strange and awesome pictures that decorate the walls of the holy of holies. And there, from within the paint-brush’s extravagant strokes, amidst the extremely grassy pastures, rainbow-skinned natives burst out, as well as terribly striking plants, and all kinds of fantastic creature. He’s bewitched by the music and the art alike. And he remembers how he used to desire to find real magic, how he used to dream, how he needed to escape. And he shivers, looking at himself spinning hypnotically into unfamiliar worlds, to different kingdoms of existence…

 

Heavy shadows, like strips of wet velvet flayed from an enormous stuffed toy are slapping the children’s flesh, attacking the back of one of them in particular, and trying to enswathe him. By the look of him you’d say that he’s excited but full of terror at the same time. And he wonders without being able to understand or explain: Is this the sunny place of the reborn, or the pitch-black pre-birth prison? The tree-folk guard the door, open the lock, protect the way. They’re enormous, ebony-coloured, and very knotted, full of mossy holes, with a crust of lichen over them in places. And there they lounge, joking quietly, their big, tufted branches spread out, as the warm, tickly wind dances and prays waywardly about them in the moonlight. Their scarred faces, which are like cartoonish caricatures of ancient and half-human grandparents, come and go, as they nod, and laugh, and whistle, and fidget, their movements as slow as a seagull sozzled on super-marrow, that’s wandering low in the Jealous Ocean’s salty spray. 

 

All the primal natural powers revolve around them, flowing through them even as they drowse, their eyelids drooping. From within their deep slumber, they focus and channel green power, swigging the Planet’s juices, before digesting them, distilling them, thickening them, transforming them. Everything pure exists in them, those who foster everyone and everything and especially the neediest, the lost kids. They love exciting play, the smell of newly-cut grass, unruly screaming, the shiny yellow of hidden treasure. It’s they who heal purple bruises and growing pains, feeding on the children’s dazzling love. Because they are the best parents in the All-World, without a doubt. Without any compunction, they embrace and snuggle, as they push their seed onward, allowing them to grow naturally, before letting them go free. 

 

It’s not on a magic carpet that the lad arrives, and he’s not travelling alone, either. Instead, he’s flying on a bed made of cast iron, together with the other kids, packed on the rickety frame like a litter of newly-born puppies. They grab onto the lumpy, crochet-covered quilt for dear life, but at the same time scrabbling, almost vying to fall, to get the wind under their wings. The lad smiles from ear to ear, feeling prickles of excitement in his guts, and then laughing out loud until he begins to hiccup wildly. And he shoves his head up high on purpose, just so the hundred-mile-an-hour wind can tousle his dishevelled hair, stopping his breathing for a minute, and almost exploding his eyeballs, and bursting his heart, too.

 

And the lad feels as if this closeness, this shared experience, the intimacy, flicks switches, presses buttons, closes circuits of excitement – Ooh – makes some internal feelings get – so much more intense again. The bed loops the loop and plummets, turning and spinning in the bracing air, clipping the tops of trees, falling from cloud-level to fly through the furious flow of an enormous waterfall. They, one united people, shout in unison as if the All-World’s at an and. Here’s the souls of the dead singing a victorious song at the top of their lungs on being released from their boring, dreamless sleep. The Fickle Moon, illegitimate daughter to the Heavenly Bear, winks drunkenly at the friendly fools, as her father, the Master of Madness himself, guzzles the grog greedily from his bottomless gourd, before staggering off to beget other stars elsewhere in the heavens. 

 

Soon, after crossing a measureless void teeming with colours, and sounds, and odours, and feelings, the kids sail through the kingdom of the Guardians who give them a nonchalant welcome in the moist twilight, their inhuman limbs beckoning wisely as they call the clueless adventurers to the underground realm. In the distance, there’s a wide, flat mound rising from the ground, covered with a green, woolly sheet, and on top of this hillock there’s a crown of stone fingers which are trying to charm down the stars from a meaning-loaded firmament. The hill’s slowly waking itself up, extending, and swelling, and purring, as if it’s a big, drowsy cat, that’s stirring itself after the ninth nap of the day to rummage about for the latest meal. 

 

One side of the hill slants down under the Moon’s sparkling light, whilst the other. the impossible-to-see one, is hidden in thick shadow. The electrical tension mounts, giving the kids goose-bumps, as all their muscles get tighter and tighter. They’re on tenterhooks, with pins-and-needles all over their bodies. And now the kids who’ve been travelling on the bed for ages, grip onto each other’s pyjamas, as their carriage begins to nose-dive, hurling itself in the direction of the mountain growing beneath them out of the rich, red, soil smelling of rain after a long dry spell. And so they go down, further and further, falling faster and faster. Without a word of a lie, everyone’s vision gets blurry as the biting wind whips past their skulls, nipping, and mocking, and roaring like a winged serpent at death’s door.

 

Some cheeky monkey has set the rudder for the dark side of the Glass Mountain, where everything is as black as sunset, and which no living soul knows anything about. And so, they continue to fall like greased lightning, as the darkness comes closer and closer, carrying the burning stink of ozone and the steam from a thousand vapotractor-stations. Good Heavens, it looks like the place is going to be an appropriate grave for the waking sleepers from the Other World! And then – their lungs get squashed like concertinas, making their noses go peep-peep like childish musical instruments. Indeed, they’re rather like Swtakh’s pigs, pink and squeaky, on the verge of rushing over the edge into eternity in the Bottomless Pit, their voices creating a painfully loud cacophony. But at least the foreign sacrifices won’t need to await the priest’s keen blade, as Adauvam had to do at the hand of his Father Ishakí. 

 

And then, without warning, the kids on the magical, flying bed break through some unseen barrier, shattering some forcefield, and then everything really goes haywire. On every side, there’s bells ringing and voices praising and singing a jubilant song to enchant them so they forget all the Eyrth’s troubles entirely. As those with pure hearts, they’ve succeeded in the ultimate test. They’ve been weighed, and not found wanting, although they’re so lacking on many accounts, and now their hearts are on fire. Here they are, being allowed to join the ranks of the blessed, and go into glory. The light of a flaming torch, warm and rosy, licks about them, yearning to run its voracious tongues over their flesh. And suddenly the short-of-breath children relax. 

 

At that moment, they are destroyed, like chocolate biscuits in the form of children getting dipped into cups of hot tshay, so that they melt, and fall in a heap on the bed. And then mouths full of fear garble words and immediately try to re-learn language, shouting, screaming, exclaiming, and speaking in tongues. But they quickly recover, managing to sit up once again, and slapping each other on their backs, before falling into each other’s arms. And they almost die laughing, as the heavy, silver rain weeps happily. And so a host of kids like starved rodents with spiky hair, roll about cheekily in the middle of the fluffy, worry-stained pillows, and the itchy, feathery quilts.

 

Now the magical bed is cruising smoothly above a landscape to be wondered at in the Eternal Dream Factory. It’s an enormous hall with extremely tall columns holding games of all kinds, the floor strewn with toys. Here, it’s as warm and sunny as a Summertide day in Shmayla in the north of the Southern Continent, the awfully bright colours reflecting all the commotion going on all over the place. There are children everywhere, and like salmon they’re swimming against the flow, twirling, somersaulting, and flying. In this place a sigh of unprompted friendliness ripples through the air as if it were one of Lushfé’s red-hot tears dropped into the pitch-black ambrosia in the Cauldron that’s always Full. The roaring, and the lowing, and the squawking from the thousands of unknown beasts invites the kids to explore, whilst machines driven by dazzling vapour and dragon’s breath, tempt the technological wizards and the magical scientists, to experiment, to learn, to discover, to create – without fear of failure. 

 

For one of the kids, called Dai, David, Daud, Dá·hwyth, who has dark shadows under his eyes because of too many sleepless nights, this is his back-yard, his realm, his joy. He struggles so hard to release himself from the grasp of the other children on the flying contraption, whilst fighting also against the embrace of the bed, which is like an over-protective Mother with dimpled breasts, who’s not willing to let him fly the nest. But at last, the oppressive sheets give up fighting and let him go free. 

 

And then – Oh! He comes across miles and miles of passageways with polished floors, that extend like fungus under the ground, growing, changing, sprouting. There are dens in the form of libraries, their walls of oak planks bristling with skull-shaped lamps, their shelves heavy with books of magic, and their cupboards full of hidden doors, which lead to spiral staircases and sweeping slides. And the whole place is tunnelled through with narrow shafts designed to be crawled down. Here, the inhabitants play for serious, professionally, hiding and seeking for days on end, in this location unconnected with the World of Living and Dying, where iron suits of armour march about, as the living portraits’ painted eyes watch. Here, every familiar door can open onto chambers no-one would have thought existed at all.

 

So, the lad adventures through the endless, ever-changing paths, and he can feel the teasing breath of playful creativity blowing through him. And there he is going through the Phantom Toll-Booth and crossing the Wailing Bridge over the Tearful River, and reaching the shore where the Dazzling Sun always shines. This is the lad who’s repaid bad with good every time, almost, apart from those occasions when he was a very bad little boy. This is the man who’s sacrificed himself to save other souls from falling (well, he was ready to do that anyway, probably). And he’s been washed, and cleaned too, with blood, and fire, and tears – and the victorious Idolaters are on the verge of crowning his head with laurel at last. 

 

The lad’s fallen through a Scrying Glass to Another World, the Realm of Make-Believe, where statues, and images, and ideas of all kinds awoken by his imagination, come alive in flesh and blood. This is the stupendous kingdom of the Yellow King and the Sand Palace of Etneksha. Here, beyond the expectations of other people, simplicity, quiet, being friends, creating without needing an audience, and loving without too much excitement are some of the luxuries. Here, there’s no need to be exceptional to live and thrive. In truth, it’s a privilege being normal, and it’s only the condemned who need to try and be special. And here you can fly with the mocking-birds amongst the pine-forests. Indeed, the Eyrthlets and the Yrthians prance, and fight, and laugh without fear, in the form of constantly transmogrifying chimeras, having understood that everyone and everything is connected together, and there’s no such thing as us and them separate from each other. But as David grins, imagining this weirdness that he can’t understand or believe at all, shaking his head and exhaling slowly, everything jiggles and changes once again, throwing him sideways in a mad dash until he’s spat out – somewhere utterly different.

 

It is a desert, but one which is more like a fiery furnace from the Red Book of Rust and Blood, than to an immense expanse of dead sand. The whole place is flame-red, and teeming with hellish flesh-eating beetles going ‘chep – er — chep – er — chep – er’ on all sides, all the time. But it is so cold, as cold as the Frozen Fields of the South Pole in the middle of a hard, unforgiving Wintertide. Everywhere the living dead wander about weeping and gnashing their teeth as mad, starving, jealous nihilālēs with impenetrable scales, tear them to pieces with their thousands of bloody fangs, and stab them with their tails as sharp as Sorakados’ Magic Sword, before they immediately come back to life to suffer again. They’re within staggering distance of an ark full of black doves and white ravens flying amongst dirty rainbows that could sweep them off and save them from their torture if they could just help each other. But they’re too busy rejoicing whilst watching Swtach’s baleful hand inscribing the details of everyone else’s myriad sins in foreign words on the parched but slippery sands to help themselves, let alone their selfish fellows. 

 

Here’s his extremely cruel, rash, atrocious father, re-created in the aspect of an ever-burning, blasted tree, wrapped in a filthy, white shroud, which is forced to declare its myriad sins from dust to dawn, while a troupe of wild monkeys whips it with lashes of steel thread. And there’s his villainous and violent Uncle, with a cowl on his head, but now he’s become a cow which is getting terribly frightened running about in a gateless field containing thousands of bulls. And over there is the selfish, tyrannical School-master, become a shrivelled, downcast servant to a young lad in the scarlet garb of the Wizard, who’s lively, powerful, and extremely good-looking. Then, as Dai stares open-mouthed at all this, although he’s not sure what’s happening before his eyes, it appears that these scenes are melting and re-forming very slowly, as all the figures change place to suffer a different punishment. 

 

And then one is dipped in tastiest lard to attract a swarm of prickly fire-bugs which will consume him until only a living skeleton is left, while another is forced to gulp down gallons of unwholesome potions so that he blows up into an enormous sphere of bubbling flesh, which boils, and belches, and wails without stop. And so, the dance of the unrepentant and self-righteous men goes on eternally, it would appear. There’s nowhere exactly like this place, and here, no-one listens to them screeching, or at least, if they do, they don’t give a fig about them.

 

Beyond this place, full of suffering and tears, only the terrible shadows of the Other World come into view. Dai, David, Daud, Dá·hwyth feels that they’re not phantoms but physical entities, as black as coal, which are tempting the lad with their long, grasping fingers. But he gets pulled away from this scene which is so satisfyingly hateful. Somewhere over there, very far off, there’s his worst Enemy, his best Friend, in sack-cloth and ashes, hesitating on the edge of a precipice like some old fool. He intends to jump, and as David watches, that’s what he does. The lad struggles in the toxic water, drowning, and Dai dives in after him without thinking, and pulls him out, before carrying him to the top of the highest mountain in the All-World, from where the Numerologist Manqué flies into the sunset dressed as a glorious pirate. 

 

Next, David’s off again – and he turns and turns – going down – descending – lost – and into a cloud that’s glittering, sweet-smelling, tempting. He greets the past as it rushes by him in a blur towards the future, trying to grab onto it, but to his complete terror and great dread, he drops it, because, well, after all, what other choice does he have? He’d been dreaming, and hoping, but no-one can stop the flow of time in truth, even if it were a river rather than a boundless piece of jelly. But always, there’s the smells – seaweed, salt, sunshine, iron and blood, sweat and hot sand blown by gusts of wind, soaking wet soil drying. And even then, at that instant, everything is tinged with the dejection of childhood, with loss, with a feeling of unreality. He’s never been able to understand the nature or aetiology of this pain. But despite that, these are the memories he feels in his heart even stronger now. 

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

In another place, having fallen for ages and broken through from one reality to an alternate one, Rwm bel-Shaftí has been woken from his deep sleep as a big stack of golden hay, so deep below the Planet’s crust, by an accidental tremor caused by a powerful but inexperienced Wizard. As he rises from his hidey-hole, he releases great quantities of sweet-smelling oil containing loads of bits of pure gold. And the slimy imp rejoices exuberantly, hopping and bouncing about, flying through the air, and singing majestic threnodies in the Old Yrthian Language, so great is his pleasure in getting his pompous, insistent voice back. And as usual, the wily gnome still can’t stop asking one question after the other, although by now he knows full well that the good, the bad, and the ugly mourn as loudly as each other in the Bottomless Pit, tortured by his ex-Master, Swtach, Lord of Misrule.

 

He tempts each and every one within earshot, day and night, day after day, as he shoots around the World, promising impossible-to-get prizes, always sowing the seeds of strife and causing contention. The cantankerous devil’s hateful words echo through the excited air, asking, “Is there nothing you can go without? How would you make your life perfect? What do you want above all else?” And they’re full of unruly power that urges all who hear them to riot, rob, and harm, whilst Rwm bel-Shaftí, who’s now using the name Lonelihahi, guffaws madly. 

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

David still has faint memories of other places and people who were once all-important to his life – of a Mam, and a Sister, and a Lover – although they’re quickly paling, as all these characters shout, and cry, and call on him, and beg, and try to stop him disappearing. His Mam, on her deathbed in a House of Rebirth formed like a great ziggurat, groans and writhes as she’s transformed into an immortal doe which will prance amongst the stars from then on. And behold the strong, and hard, and almost military Sister, who reminds him about a Girl-friend, enchanting everyone and everything about her with her histrionic poetry from the top of a Green Tower in the middle of a Rosy Fortress. They insist he look back so that he will go either to Heaven or to Hell, to the Eyrth or to the Nw Yrth, to be blessed or punished, they have no third option available – but which is which? 

 

But fighting against them is his Brother who’s reappeared on a flying bed in his fancy dress, looking like the Skilled Leader of the Superheroes’ Union, to encourage Dai to go forward, to follow his own path, to write his own story, and create new Worlds. And the lad sees that they are all nothing but insubstantial shadows, friend and enemy alike, including his own shadow, which would disappear if he interfered with them. Much better would be to bid them farewell now, and let them live and die in peace as he ventures into unknown territory. And it’s a shock to him when he realises there and then that he can be his own Dad, and Mam, too.

 

He feels he’s learned an extremely hard but very important lesson being forced to look back over his shoulder at the Old World, imagining throwing himself through the Cleft before it closes for ever. He understands now too that there’s only one way for a boy to grow up and begin to live independently as a true Wizard. He must overcome his own fears, like a master guides a faithful servant. And he needs to steer his soul like a captain sails a ship. And then, by forcing himself to act, despite all the dangers of the future, and his many doubts, he’ll be truly brave at last. What a load of old nonsense, he says to himself, but he lets himself fall deeper and deeper into Worlds within Worlds, as time slows down once again. 

 

For the last time, then, very slowly it appears, the greedy knife swerves as it descends, leaping so that the lad cuts his own arm and draws blood. And against the purple background to the ziggurats sparkling on the Nw Yrth, the whole Universe resounds as his blood flows in a joyously wild river from his battered body forming a black pool in front of him. Blood and iron – water and metal – the essential elements for breaking through the veil. And he cuts himself free of his fetters, and labours upwards, and upwards, his shattered imagination running wild. 

 

On the Harsh Planet, the Last Days are arriving, when all the water has evaporated from the seas, and the rivers, and the brooks, so that every living thing is scraping the earth like a dying dog to try to drink and eat. Having travelled for three days, as the Distant Eye in the Sky destroys the clouds, the Father and the Son reach the enormous plain called the Field of Mourning appointed by the Seven Sorcerers, which is surrounded by seven quartz mountains. And there, in the middle of the field, Ishakí the Father must bind Adauvam the Son, before shouting out the appropriate prayer over the body of the sacrifice to satisfy the Old Strange Divinities. But this time, contrary to the usual version of the story which is reported in the Old Book, as soon as the Vexatious Voice gives the command to plunge the sharp dagger into the Son’s chest, orating as if talking to itself in parables, the Father obeys immediately, despite his awful fear, allowing the terrible powers to run without restraint from World to World.

 

And Adauvam – Thoahatha, now – explodes into a swarm of red butterflies which swiftly turn into tiny birds. And as this happens, Ishakí – Ihahi – becomes a ram caught in a thicket by its horns, being devoured by tongues of fire while the loquacious little cardinals taunt him, and peck him to death. Immediately, there’s Lotké – Lothihi – in the form of a living pillar of chalk in Swtach’s Steel Hive absorbing a tiny bit of Lushfé’s tears from the hopeless atmosphere, so that he fragments into bits that get blown through the Cosmic Cleft opening wider and wider, to pollinate the expectant Creation with billions of new concepts. 

 

And then, Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth jumps in complete terror into the darkness and uncertainty beyond the flaming waves. But jump he does. And he’s breaking into the cottage, running, flying, fighting his way through the burning building. And he reaches the cellar, shouting, and gets terribly burned, as he grabs one unconscious body, and them another, and labours to drag the two – one young, the other old – up, up – although he’s not sure at all where he is nor what he’s doing. And he’s choking, and stumbling, and crying, and coughing, and falling, and spluttering, and struggling, and swearing, and carrying on, and blabbering, and retching. And he begins to die, somehow, although he doesn’t realise the fact nor understand what’s happening. Seven lives he had, and now the last one’s being carried off by the crackling wind. 

 

Here’s Sorakados of the Red Book of Rust and Blood, a young and extremely handsome young man of twenty-one, who’s just hit upon the truth about his secret history. He’s laboured across the void to the Nw Yrth to seize glory, information, and power, whilst striking a blow for freedom against the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers, getting revenge on his Father, and rescuing his Mother. And there, exhausted by all the trials, he feasts his eyes on multi-coloured moving images of everything that’s been, everything that is, and everything that will be, learning numberless secrets. (Although he doesn’t realise the fact, Swtach himself is the source of the visions, which are absolutely correct despite their strangeness). And at this time, his most heart-breaking supposition is confirmed beyond all doubt. He won’t be able to return to the Eyrth with all the new information, and if he does succeed to go back at all, he’ll be a broken child, who’ll never think, nor love, nor create ever again. 

 

And he sits silently for hours on end, staring at the kaleidoscope of dizzying spirals forming in the layer of blood on the surface of the flat stone which is playing the part of a scrying-glass for him. But, whilst doing this, in the middle of his chanting amidst the provocative living pictures, he understands how, perhaps, to succeed in his aims, to some extend at least, but not in the way he’d intended. Not without terrible loss, either.

 

He pretends, therefore, that be believes the tissue of lies recounted by two-faced Tefnuth, dressed up like a dog’s dinner, about his pitiful Mother, during their mad tarantella in the Cloudy Castle. How polite is the reincarnated Astrologer whilst conversing with Hebé about his Haughty Love, although she is as vulgar as a butcher from the Hinterland selling baby-flesh during the First Great Tribulation. And he remains gracious and charming even while she hands him over to Swtach in the Sand Palace of Etneksha, so that he can escort him towards the Yellow King’s Fort. And all the time, the merciless Messenger of Misinformation chatters about the importance of blind justice, suitable prejudice, and ceaseless reparation for unknown sins. 

 

It’s no great surprise then when the Prince discovers that Dendrah the Assassin is lurking there in the catacombs of the obsidian spiders to hunt him. And there everything is on fire and burning with an inextinguishable, blue flame. Having enchanted him, she hurls him into the jagged branches of the hellish bushes that surround the place. And he strikes out wildly through the gardens of the deadly Palace, as the roots of the weeds that are as sharp as barbed wire penetrate through the frozen soil to cut him like war-mongering octopuses. In the end, after fighting against unimaginable other-worldly chimeras, he’s dropped, almost naked, and covered in sweat and wounds, amongst an enormous pine-forest. And there, he’s pushed closer and closer to the edge of the Well of Souls, that leads to the Bottomless Pit. 

 

As the predatory flames rise up to consume him, voluntarily he offers his life-force to the Terrible Old Masters using the two-edged sword carrying the charm in the language of the old Sang'gi. But now, the glyphs have rearranged themselves so that they say: “The feast is over, and now the lamps expire: All fled, all done; therefore lift me on the pyre!” And although he has the four appropriate tokens to help him on the journey, he chooses bravely and wisely to throw them to one side, breaking the magic staff inscribed with red rwnen into smithereens at the same time. And the symbols fly off in the form of scarlet dragonflies. Of course, as a result, he shall never be able to return. But by doing this he succeeds in sending a signal to the Eyrth to begin releasing some kind of exceptional power pent up there, whilst providing a way for his successors, willing and unwilling alike, to escape from the Nw Yrth. And the signals, similar to electric serpents, containing much powerful magic and directions on how to establish a Secret Society to oppose the agents of the Seven, do indeed reach the Blue-green Planet, the very instant he dies. And at this time, Thoahatha is his new name.

 

Here is Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth. The seven lives are spent. The hateful ceremony is finished. The last candle is extinguished. The shadows descend. Is this a reassuring womb, or the dusky place of the dead? In the unreal upside-down tower, the eyes of the Son Foretold – who’s been trying to get a glimpse of everything happening to his Father, like an old scarred crab that scrabbles, watches, attacks, whilst hunting its prey totally alone – close, as if he’s died. But he’s waiting, listening, expecting. And on the unborn babe’s left chest, there appears their seal, those incomprehensible, frivolous shadows who are always tempting mortals with their black fingers. 

 

It looks just like a tag belonging to the Hwíhésán from the Impenetrable Dominions of the Uttermost East, or perhaps graffiti sprayed in red paint by a disgruntled ex-student in the cloisters of the Unitechnic in Emerald Town. But then again, it could be similar to a secret sign painted in blood by a drug-smuggler on the wall of some innovative Clinic in Aberdydd. It shows how exceptionally mighty he already is, having absorbed his Father’s magic, the Old Soldier’s mind, and his Uncle’s strength, and also how much more powerful he will be in the days to come. And then, at the climax of the rite begun this time by the unkempt fake-Wizard, who’s weeping bitter tears by now – when dying mixes with living – the eyes of the Time-Child, who’s Son to the Unfortunate Hero and the Daughter of the Dawn, that is the Lout and the Princess, open once again – in perpetuity. 

 

Lungs boil. The lad’s repressed memories hover on the threshold of frustrated desires. His muscles wail like rusty springs begging to break. His heart drums out its last beats, echoing with some unknown rhythm. And the pain worsens, as his consciousness ebbs away. These are the final seconds of being regretful. Although he can’t explain it, he’s witnessing his own demise – his departure – from a third-person perspective, as he disappears for ever from normal existence – falling down a bottomless whirlpool to utter destruction. But then again – here’s the voice of the Useless Friend mumbling as usual – what’s death, anyway, but the beginning of the greatest adventure?

 

Here's the lad’s existence – enchanted and hideous at the same time – going to rack and ruin – once and for all. Here’s the Bumpkin who’d united so many conflicting characteristics, being rough but loving, and ugly but charming, for example. And now, maybe, although he feels so fearful, he'll be able to behave bravely enough in the end. All the time, silly words from the Good-for-nothing Brother try to drag him back from the brink of oblivion, but fail. And so now, yes, David’s becoming sure somehow without thinking too hard about the fact, that he’s not wasted his life at all, despite whatever everyone else says. Yes, he had to look after himself, and live in his own way, there was no choice about that. Yes, he’s done his level best, and without a doubt, how much pain, and fear, and bother – and fun – there’s been! Yes, fair to say that he’s lived life to the utmost. And now, shut ya gob, for the Sake of the Two Worlds, y’old smelly mongrel! 

 

On every side, there's voices talking, and whispering, and shouting in languages from every corner of the Northern Continent that’s been ravaged by hatred and war since time before memory – 'ffatri, riža, muzika, football, pfad, père, porkkanat, psomí' – until the words overlap, and melt, and blend, as if an enormous swarm of bees is buzzing indifferently but reassuringly around him. It’s a polyphonic madrigal from deep-space, performed by a choir in tiger-moth tunics, spangling sunshine, cerise, amethyst, gold and jungle-green to repulse time’s evil eye. 

 

Now, a loud, deep groaning, dammed up for a very long time, escapes from within the heroic boy’s chest. And there’s Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth readying himself, but different from Ithru, Thethalu’s son, who was so sure about his fake feathers, this lad doesn’t know at all what will happen. And so, he spreads his wings – and he shouts his secret magic word, formed from the first letters of the names of the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers, as the sound clamours in the explosive air – “HWNTLIN.” 

 

He half thinks that in the beginning was the word, but the beginning of what exactly, he knows not. And then, without a pause, there’s seven voices become one chanting the old enchantment repeatedly, and correctly, to begin incarnation and manifest them on the Eyrth – “Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre. Kheperi kheperentw khekheperi kheprikhepera khepereni Khepri khepre. Khepereni kheperen kheprereni.” For so long they’ve intended, and planned, and yearned to control, and govern, and conserve, but in their jubilation, little do they know that of necessity they will cause change and begin evolution also. And the lad changes once again, being transformed – from Dá·hwyth Oh·fé to Thoahatha Ihahi – the Fatherly Son, or the Filial Father – leaving his old physical form behind like a lump of scorched clay, as he jumps, and —

 

Y Cosmos yw popeth sydd, popeth fu, a phopeth fydd erioed. Ein hysgogi ni a wnaiff y cynhemlad lleiaf amdano — gan achosi goglais yn yr asgwrn cefn, crynu yn y llais, ac ias ysgafn, fel petai’n gof pell am gwympo o uchder mawr. Ni fydd neb byth yn deall beth yw ystyr bywyd yn y fath le, ond dyw hyn ddim yn broblem o gwbl. Mae bron popeth yn ddiddorol iawn, yn swynol hyd yn oed, os ydych chi’n edrych yn ddigon dwfn. ‘Does ond rhaid i ni archwilio’r Byd, ein gwlad, ein milltir sgwâr ni, heb sôn am yr Holl Fyd, i ddod o hyd i ryfeddodau. A dyna achos taw trwy’n llygaid ni, mae’r Cosmos yn ganfod ei hun. Trwy’n clustiau ni, mae’r Bydysawd yn gwrando ar ei harmonïau. Ni yw’r tystion, a thrwom ni mae’r Cosmos yn dod yn ymwybodol o’i ogoniant a’i odidowgrwydd.

 

Nawr, mae’n wir taw dim ond yn ysbeidiol roedd Daud wedi dyheu am wybodaeth galed, oer, gormod o freuddwydiwr oedd e. Ond, yn fy nhyb i, yn ôl yr hyn dw i wedi’i weld, a’i glywed, roedd e wastad yn dymuno bod mewn cysylltiad parhaol ag Ysbryd y Bydysawd (esgusodwch yr iaith farddonol), gan feddwi ar fygdarth y neithdar nefol (gwaeth byth!), a’i ben yn nofio mewn awyrgylch anhysbys i’w draed oedd yn dal i lusgo yn lluwch a llaid y Ddaear. Ac roedd ganddo draed o bridd, ‘does dim gwadu’r ffaith. Ond erbyn hyn dw i’n gallu dychmygu bod ei rym bywiol yn hedfan ymhlith y sêr, wrth iddo frwydro yn erbyn angenfilod nad ydyn nhw’n bod, gan daenu llawenydd ac achosi helynt (O diar, rhaid i fi stopio nawr, dyma fi â lwmp ofnadw’ yn fy ngwddf).

 

— Mrs Blodeuwedd Grossmann,

‘Cofiant am Fywyd Defnyddiol

(fel a draethwyd i’w chyfeilles, Helen Grossmann, wrth eistedd wrth yr aelwyd).’

 

 

Nawr, ymhlith y pinwydd fflamllyd, yng nghanol union Cae Galar, yn union uwchben y bwthyn hudol, mae yna wagle’n ymddangos, neu’n agor, bwlch yn y continwwm gofod-amser, a ddiogelir gan arwydd ysgarlad arswydus wedi’i baentio mewn rhyw sylwedd gwaetgoch, fel fflam fyw. A dyna fe’n troi’n fortecs sbiral, amryliw, cyfoglyd. Ac yng nghanol y fortecs dyna ymrithio tŵr troellog â’i ben i lawr, i drywanu’r Ddau Fyd, tŵr mor llyfn ac mor gaboledig ag asgwrn cefn anhyblyg ‘sgerbwd hen farw. Dim ond llafarganeuon llawn amheuaeth, petruster, a cholled sy’n chwythu trwyddo. Heb yn wybod iddo, mae’r llanc o’r enw Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth newydd ddechrau dweud ei stori’i hunan, ac wrth i hud y geiriau lifo trwyddo, mae’n creu Bydoedd a Bucheddau o glai crai bodolaeth, gan dylino toes realiti, plygu sylwedd y dychymyg, a mowldio jeli amser, ar yr un pryd.

 

A dyma Daud wedi'i gludo ar ei union i'w hoff le yn y Ddaear gron, Neuadd y Delweddau yn Nhref Aberdydd, sydd mor debyg i'r Tŷ Glas o hen fri yn y Weriniaeth Ddeheuol Niwtral, yn ôl pob sôn. A dyna fe fel petai mewn llesmair yn gwylio'i hunan wrth iddo grwydro drwy'r lle a'i galon yn llawn tristwch a llonder yn gydamserol, gan siarad â fe'i hunan. Ac Ww, cymaint mae'n ei garu fe, yr adeilad hwn sy'n hynafol tu hwnt, sydd â waliau llwyd golau, dydyn nhw'm yn rhy dal ac arswydus, a thŵr swynol ac ynddo ffenestri mawr wedi'u bario fel gorthwr uchelgaer, yn cynnwys – pwy a ŵyr beth – ar ei ben. Mae'n caru’r ffordd y mae'r pyrth efydd, enfawr, a'r ffaglau, a’r daeargelloedd tywyll yn deffro atgofion am straeon yn yr Hen Lyfrau. Am bethau fel y Wledd Goch, pan gaeth yr uchelwyr oll yn y Deyrnas Waedlyd eu lladd, am y Dyn-darw wedi'i rwygo a'i drywanu, ac uwchlaw popeth, am ddarnio Lushfé gan ei raglaw ffyddlon Swtach. Ac O, mor awyddus ydy ar hyn o bryd i ddwyn dial ar y rhai oll sy wedi 'neud cam â fe. Ond mae’n brifo’n ddirfawr ‘fyd o gofio sut roedd e ‘di eisiau creu, a rhannu, a charu, ac, o bryd i’w gilydd, wedi trio ‘neud ‘ny oll – yn amhriodol ac yn seithug, gan amla’, gwaetha’r modd.

 

Mae'r Neuadd yn dal hanfod glan y môr yn wir. Mae’r awel iach ac arni oglau halen, sy wastad yn trwytho popeth yn Aberdydd, bron â thoddi’r gwaith metel gan staenio’r meini â gwythiennau gwyrddlas, y lliw arbennig 'na all dim ond copr ei greu. Mae'r llanc yn dwlu ar syllu ar y tŵr trwy ffenestr ei 'stafell wely gan grio am ddyn-a-ŵyr-be', wrth iddo edrych ar yr awrleisiau sy’n dweud celwyddau am yr amser o bob un o’r ffasadau ac eithrio’r un sy’n union gyferbyn â fe, diolch i’r drefn. Mae'n gwenu gyda diolch hefyd wrth iddo gydnabod fe allai dyn atal amser, neu'i droi yn ei ôl am ychydig o leia'. Mae'n bosib gallai Dá·hwyth Baldrog Prok·ethra, y Prif Ddewin balch ond aneffeithiol o’r Ysgor Rosliw ddysgu ambell beth yma ynglŷn â llanw a thrai amser ganddo fe.

 

Wedi'r cwbl, fe a fethodd atal y tonnau rhag dwyn y Siaman Ohl·weled ymaith wedi iddo gipio'i swyn yn ôl oddi ar Keth·kela Hethehela. A fe 'naeth ffaelu rhwystro Ithru a Thethalu rhag syrthio trwy'r Hollt rhwng y Bydoedd pan drion nhw ddianc ar eu hadenydd ffug. Ond bellach mae e'n gweithio gyda'r Morulku llesg i ormesu’r Elohi bwystfilaidd yn eu teyrnas yn gaeth i wyddoniaeth hudol yn y dyfodol pell. Wrth iddo synfyfyrio uwchben hyn oll, mae Daud bron â marw eisiau mynd i’r parc. Ac wedyn, ar ôl iddo chwarae mig yno, fe all gyrraedd Neuadd Aberydd a rhuthro’n gyffro i gyd trwy'r coridorau troellog o bren, wedi’u gwneud yn llithrig a llawn sawr â chwyr lloriau.

 

Mae'n meddwl am y lle fel petai'n rhyw Wncwl caredig ond clyfar – ac un rhy faldodus o’r hanner ‘fyd – sy’n chwarae rhan cawr anwaraidd nes i’r rhieni fynd bant, ac wedyn yn llwytho’i hoff Nai ag anrhegion helaethwych. Yno, mae’n ymddangos taw dros y lle i gyd mae byliau o bres caboledig, a hysbysfyrddau o ffelt gwyrdd wedi’i bilio, a ffenestri cywrain o wydr lliw. Er gwaetha'r holl baneli o bren brown tywyll, a’r arwyddion hen ffasiwn a thros ben llestri, mae'r Neuadd yn teimlo’n ifanc a bywiog, a dyma le grymus a chyfeillgar.

 

Tu mewn i’r dirwedd feddyliol hon, yn llawn delweddau mae e wedi'u llunio o’i freuddwydion, ble taw mor hawdd yw cyfathrebu â rhannau cêl ei hunan, gan ddychmygu, pensynnu, ac ymgolli yn ei feddyliau, fe ddaeth e i oed, neu, o leiaf, fe aeth e'n hŷn. Yn ddwfn mewn myfyrdod, dyna Daud yn cofio taw pan oedd e yn ei arddegau, roedd e wedi mynd yno i wrando ar y gig cynta' 'rioed gan y band seiko-pynk Briwiau Man·toru oedd yn digwydd yng nghroth gysurus y Neuadd. Ac mae'n difaru'n enbyd fydd e'm yn gallu cymryd rhan yn y cyngherddau, yn y cyfarfodydd gwobrwyo, yn y seremonïau derbyniad mwyach o hyn ‘mlaen.

 

Dyma'r cartre' i ysbryd yr hen Jarl Aber-Dygdhar yn cysgu yn y cerflun o farmor â’i lygaid o farblys, yn ffugio ei fod yn ffyrnig wrth iddo edrych i lawr o’i gilfach ar y wal, fel petai'n anghenfil arallfydol o ‘Oddi mewn i'r Cysgodion’ ar y teledu. Ond nage marw ydy ond yn disgwyl i’r awr benodol ddod, pan fydd y goleuadau wedi'u diffodd. Ac wedyn fe all ffrwydro’n fyw i batrolio'r neuaddau gwag, â golwg ddychrynllyd urddasol arno. Mae'r llanc yn cofio sut synnodd e wrth syllu’n graff ar y lluniau rhyfeddol a rhagorol sy’n addurno waliau’r cysegr sancteiddiaf. Ac yno, oddi mewn i strociau afradlon y brwsh paent, ymhlith y porfeydd tra gwelltog, mae yna frodorion â chroen seithliw yn byrstio mas, yn ogystal â phlanhigion trawiadol ofnadw’, a phob math o greaduriaid ffansïol. Mae'n cael ei gyfareddu gan y gerddoriaeth a’r gelfyddyd fel ei gilydd. A dyna fe'n cofio sut y dymunai fe gael hyd i hud a lledrith go iawn, sut yr oedd e’n arfer breuddwydio, sut yr oedd e angen dianc. Ac mae'n rhynnu o edrych arno’i hunan yn troelli’n llesmeiriol i mewn i fydoedd anghyfarwydd, i wahanol deyrnasoedd o fodolaeth…

 

Cysgodion trwm, fel stribedi o felfed gwlyb wedi’u blingo o degan enfawr, stwffiedig sy’n slapio cnawd y plant, gan ymosod ar gefn un ohonyn nhw’n enwedig, a thrio’i lapio fe. Ar ei olwg, fe ddwedech fod e’n cyffroi ond llawn dychryn ar yr un pryd. Ac mae’n tybio heb allu deall nac esbonio: Ife lle heulog yr ailanedigion yw hwn, neu’r carchar purddu cyn geni? Gwerin y coed sy’n gwarchod y drws, agor y clo, gofalu am yr hynt. Enfawr, lliw mahogani, a cheinciog iawn ydyn nhw, yn llawn tyllau mwsoglyd, a chramen o gennau drostyn nhw mewn mannau. Ac yno maen nhw’n lolian gan jocan yn dawel, a’u canghennau mawr, cudynnog ar led, wrth i’r gwynt gogleisiol, twym ddawnsio a gweddïo’n anwadal o’u hamgylch yn y lloergan. Mynd a dod y mae’u hwynebau creithiog nhw, sy’n debyg i wawdluniau cartwnaidd o deidiau a neiniau hynafol a lled ddynol, wrth iddyn nhw amneidio, a chwerthin, a siffrwd, a gwingo, a’u symudiadau mor araf â gwylan yn orlawn o oruwch-fêr, sy’n crwydro’n isel yn nistrych hallt y Cefnfor Cenfigennus.

 

Mae’r holl rymoedd naturiol, cysefin yn troelli o’u cwmpas nhw, yn llifo trwyddyn nhw hyd yn oed wrth iddyn nhw bendwmpian, a’u hamrannau’n gostwng. Oddi mewn i’w trwmgwsg, maen nhw’n ffocysu a sianelu pŵer gwyrdd, gan ddrachtio suddion y Blaned, cyn eu treulio, eu distyllu, eu tewychu, eu trawsffurfio. Popeth glân sy’n bodoli ynddyn nhw, y rhai sydd yn meithrin pawb a phopeth ac yn enwedig y rhai mwya’ anghenog, y cryts colledig. Maen nhw’n dwlu ar chwarae cyffrous, ar wynt glaswellt newydd ei dorri, ar sgrechian afreolus, ar felyn llachar trysor wedi’i guddio. Nhw sy’n gwella cleisiau porffor a phoenau tyfu, wrth fwydo ar gariad disglair y plant. Gan taw’r rhieni gorau yn yr Holl Fyd ydyn nhw, heb os nac oni bai. Yn hollol ddigymell maen nhw’n cofleidio ac anwesu, wrth iddyn nhw wthio eu hadau yn eu blaen, gan ganiatáu iddyn nhw dyfu’n naturiol, cyn gadael iddyn nhw fynd yn rhydd.

 

Ddim ar garped swyn mae’r llanc yn cyrraedd, a dyw e’m yn teithio ar ei ben ei hunan, ‘chwaith. Yn lle ‘ny, mae’n hedfan ar wely wedi’i ‘neud o haearn bwrw, ynghyd â’r cryts eraill, wedi’u pacio ar y ffrâm simsan fel torllwyth o gŵn bach newydd eu geni. Maen nhw’n cydio am eu bywydau yn y cwilt llawn lympiau, yn fyw o waith brodio, ond ar yr un pryd yn ‘sgarmesu, bron ag ymgiprys i gwympo, i gael gwynt dan eu hadain nhw. Mae’r llanc yn gwenu o glust i glust, gan deimlo pigiadau o gyffro yn ei berfeddion, ac wedyn chwerthin dros bob man nes iddo ddechrau igian yn wyllt. A dyna fe’n hwpo’i ben i lan yn uchel o bwrpas, yn union nes bod y gwyntoedd cant o filltiroedd yr awr yn gallu drysu’i wallt aflêr, gan roi stop ar ei anadlu am funud, a ffrwydro pelenni'i lygaid, bron, a byrstio’i galon, ‘fyd.

 

Ac mae’r llanc yn teimlo fel petai’r agosrwydd hwn, y profiad hwn wedi’i rannu, yr agosatrwydd, yn rhoi cleciadau ar switshys, gwasgu botymau, cau cylchedau cyffro – Www – yn gwneud i rai teimladau mewnol ddod – cymaint yn fwy dwys eto. Dyna’r gwely yn ‘neud dolen a phlymio, gan droi a throelli yn yr awyr ffres, gan gyflymu ac arafu, tocio brigau coed, cwympo oddi lefel y cymylau i hedfan trwy lifeiriant ffyrnig rhaeadr enfawr. Nhw, un bobl unedig sy’n gweiddi’n unllais fel ‘sai’r Holl Fyd ar ben. Dyma eneidiau’r meirwon yn canu nerth eu ‘sgyfaint gân fuddugoliaethus o gael eu rhyddhau o’u cwsg diflas heb freuddwydion. Mae’r Lleuad Oriog, plentyn siawns i Arth y Wybren, yn wincian yn feddw ar y twpsod cyfeillgar, wrth i’w thad, Meistr Hurtrwydd ei hunan, lyncu’r grog yn awchus o’i gostrel ddiwaelod, cyn baglu bant i genhedlu sêr eraill yn rhywle arall yn y nefoedd.

 

Yn fuan, ar ôl croesi lle gwag difesur yn heigio o liwiau, a seiniau, a sawrau, a theimladau, dyma’r cryts yn hwylio trwy deyrnas y Gwarchodwyr sy’n rhoi croeso didaro iddyn nhw yn y cyfnos llaith, a’u haelodau annynol yn amneidio’n ddoeth wrth iddyn nhw alw’r anturiaethwyr di-glem i mewn i’r fro dan ddaear. Yn y pellter, dyna dwmpath gwastad, llydan yn codi oddi ar y ddaear, wedi’i orchuddio â lliain gwlanog, gwyrdd, ac ar ben y bryncyn hwn mae coron o fysedd cerrig sy’n ceisio swyno’r sêr i lawr o ffurfafen lawn ystyr. Mae’r tyle’n ara’ ddeffro’i hunan, gan ymestyn, a chwyddo, a chanu grwndi, fel petai’n gath fawr, swrth sy’n ymysgwyd ar ôl nawfed hoe’r dydd i chwilota am y pryd diwetha’.

 

Mae un ochr y bryn yn gogwyddo o dan olau pefriol y Lleuad, tra mae’r llall, yr un amhosib ei gweld, wedi’i chwato mewn cysgod trwchus. Mae’r tyndra trydanol yn cynyddu, gan godi croen gŵydd ar y cryts, wrth i’w cyhyrau oll fynd yn dynnach dynnach. Maen nhw ar bigau’r drain, a phinnau bach arnyn nhw dros eu cyrff i gyd. A bellach mae’r cryts sy wedi bod yn teithio ar y gwely ers achau, yn gafael ym mhyjamas ei gilydd, wrth i’w cerbyd nhw ddechrau trwynblymio, gan hyrddio’i hun i gyfeiriad y mynydd yn tyfu oddi tanyn nhw o’r pridd coch bras ac arno arogl glaw ar ôl cyfnod hir, sych. A dyna nhw’n mynd i lawr, yn bellach bellach, gan syrthio’n gyflymach gyflymach. Heb air o gelwydd, mae golwg pob un ohonyn nhw’n mynd yn aneglur wrth i’r gwynt main chwipio heibio i’w penglogau gan frathu, a gwawdio, a rhuo fel sarff asgellog ar fin marw.

 

Mae rhyw fwnci ewn wedi gosod y llyw am ochr dywyll y Mynydd Gwydr, ble mae popeth mor ddu â’r muchudd, a ‘does neb byw’n gwybod dim byd amdano. A dyna nhw’n dal i ddisgyn fel mellten wib wrth i’r düwch ddod yn nes nes, gan gario drewdod llosg osôn a’r stêm o fil o orsafoedd agerdynnwr. ‘Neno’r Mawredd, mae’n edrych fel petai’r lle ‘ma’n mynd i fod yn fedd priodol i’r cysgwyr effro o’r Byd Arall! Ac wedyn – dyna’u hysgyfaint yn cael eu gwasgu fel consertinas, gan ‘neud i’w trwynau ganu bib-bib fel offerynnau cerdd plentynnaidd. Yn wir maen nhw’n eitha’ tebyg i foch Swtach, yn binc a gwichlyd ar fin rhuthro dros y dibyn i dragwyddoldeb yn y Pwll Diwaelod, a’u lleisiau’n creu anghytgord poenus o uchel. Ond o leia’ fydd yr aberthau dieithr ‘ma ddim angen disgwyl llafn lym yr offeiriad, fel roedd yn rhaid i Adauvam ‘neud ar law’i Dad Ishakí.

 

Ac wedyn, heb rybudd, mae’r cryts ar y gwely hedegog, hudol, yn torri trwy ryw rwystr anweledig, gan ddryllio rhyw faes grym, a dyna bopeth yn mynd dros ben llestri’n wir. Ar bob ochr mae clychau’n canu a lleisiau’n moli wrth ganu cân orfoleddus i’w swyno nhw nes iddyn nhw anghofio holl flinderau'r Ddaear yn lân. Fel y rhai sydd â chalonnau pur, maen nhw wedi llwyddo yn y prawf terfynol. Maen nhw wedi’u pwyso, a chafwyd nhw’m yn brin, er eu bod nhw mor ddiffygiol ar lawer cyfri’, a bellach mae’u calonnau ar dân. Dyma nhw felly’n cael ymuno â rhengoedd y bendigedigion, ac yn mynd i mewn i ogoniant. Mae golau ffagl fflamllyd, yn dwym a rhosliw, yn llyfu o’u hamgylch nhw, gan ddyheu am redeg ei thafodau rheibus dros eu cnawd. Ac yn sydyn dyma’r plant byr eu gwynt yn ymlacio.

 

Ar y gair, maen nhw’n cael eu difetha, fel bisgedi siocled ar ffurf plant yn cael eu dipio i ddysglaid o de poeth, nes iddyn nhw doddi, a syrthio mewn swp ar y gwely. A dyna gegau llawn ofn yn llurgunio’u geiriau, ac ar unwaith yn ceisio ailddysgu iaith, gan weiddi, sgrechian, ebychu, a llefaru â thafodau. Ond maen nhw’n cyflym adfywio, gan lwyddo i godi ar eu heistedd unwaith ‘to, a churo’i gilydd ar eu cefnau, cyn cwympo i freichiau’i gilydd. Ac maen nhw bron â lladd eu hunain yn chwerthin, wrth i’r glaw arian, trwm lefain yn llawen. A dyna lu o gryts yn debyg i gnofilod llwglyd â gwallt pigog yn rholio o gwmpas yn ddireidus yng nghanol y gobenyddiau fflwffog wedi’u staenio â phryder, a’r cwiltiau pluog, coslyd.

 

Erbyn hyn mae’r gwely hudol yn hedfan yn esmwyth uwchben tirwedd i synnu ati yn Ffatri Breuddwydion Tragwyddol. Mae’n neuadd aruthrol ac ynddi golofnau tal dros ben yn dal gemau o bob math, a’i llawr wedi’i daenu â theganau. Yma, mae hi mor dwym a heulog â diwrnod o haf yn Shmayla yng ngogledd y Cyfandir Deheuol, a’r lliwiau llachar ofnadw’n adlewyrchu’r cynnwrf i gyd yn digwydd trwy gydol y lle. Mae yna blant ym mhob man; ac fel eogiaid maen nhw’n nofio’n groes i’r llif, gan chwyrlïo, bwrw tin-dros-ben, a hedfan. Yn y lle ‘ma, mae si cyfeillgarwch digymell yn crychdonni trwy’r awyrgylch fel petai’n un o ddagrau chwilboeth Lushfé wedi’i ddiferu i’r ambrosia purddu yn y Crochan sy wastad yn Llawn. Mae’r rhuo, a’r brefu, a’r crawcian gan y miloedd o fwystfilod anhysbys yn gwahodd y cryts i fforio, wrth i beiriannau a yrrir gan ager disglair a gwynt draig, ddenu’r dewiniaid technolegol a’r gwyddonwyr hudol, i arbrofi, i ddysgu, i ddarganfod, i greu – heb arswyd methu.

 

O ran un o’r cryts, o’r enw Dai, David, Daud, Dá·hwyth, sydd â chysgodion tywyll dan ei lygaid o ganlyniad i ormod o nosau heb gwsg, dyma’i filltir sgwâr, ei fro, ei lawenydd. Mae’n ymlafnio mor galed i ryddhau’i hunan o afael y plant eraill ar y ddyfais hedegog, wrth frwydro hefyd yn erbyn cofleidiad y gwely, sy fel Mam or-warchodol â bronnau panylog, nad yw’n fodlon gadael iddo ffoi’r nyth. Ond o’r diwedd, dyna’r cynfasau gormesol yn rhoi’r gorau i frwydro, a’i ollwng yn rhydd.

 

Ac wedyn – O! Mae’n dod o hyd i’r milltiroedd ar filltiroedd o dramwyfeydd a’u lloriau wedi’u sgleinio, sy’n estyn fel ffwng o dan y tir, gan dyfu, newid, egino. Mae yna ffeuau ar ffurf llyfrgelloedd, a’u hwaliau o ‘styllod derwen yn frith o lampau ar lun penglogau, a’u silffoedd yn drwm gan lawlyfrau hud, a’u cypyrddau’n llawn drysau cudd, sy’n arwain at risiau troellog a llithrennau ysgubol. Ac mae’r lle i gyd wedi’i dwnelu drwyddo â siafftau cul i’w cropian trwyddyn nhw. Yma, mae’r trigolion yn chwarae o ddifri, yn broffesiynol, gan guddio a chwilio am ddyddiau bwy gilydd, yn y fangre hon heb ei chysylltu â Byd Byw a Marw, ble mae arfwisgoedd haearn yn gorymdeithio o gwmpas, wrth i lygaid paentiedig y portreadau byw wylio. Yma fe all pob drws cyfarwydd agor ar siambrau na feddyliai neb y bydden nhw wedi bodoli o gwbl.

 

Felly, dyma’r llanc yn anturio drwy’r llwybrau cyfnewidiol, di-ben-draw, ac mae’n gallu teimlo anadl bryfoclyd creugarwch chwareus yn chwythu trwyddo fe. A dyna fe’n mynd trwy’r Dollfa Rithiol a chroesi’r Bont Ddolurus dros yr Afon Wylofus a chyrraedd y lan ble mae’r Haul Disglair wastad yn tywynnu. Dyma’r llanc sy wedi rhoi da am ddrwg bob tro, bron, ar wahân i’r adegau ‘na pan oedd e’n fachgen bach drwg iawn. Dyma’r dyn sy wedi aberthu’i hunan i arbed eneidiau eraill rhag cael codwm (wel roedd e’n barod i ‘neud ‘ny ta be’, siŵr o fod). Ac mae wedi’i olchi, ac wedi’i lanhau hefyd â gwaed, a thân, a dagrau – a’r Delw-addolwyr gorchfygol ar fedr coroni’i ben â llawryf o’r diwedd.

 

Mae’r llanc wedi syrthio drwy Ddrych Sgrio i Fyd Arall, Bro Smalio, ble mae cerfluniau, a delweddau, a syniadau o bob math wedi’u dihuno gan ei ddychymyg, yn dod yn fyw mewn cig a gwaed. Dyma fro syfrdanol y Brenin Melyn a Phalas Tywod Etneksha. Yma, tu hwnt i ddisgwyliadau pobl eraill, rhai o’r moethau yw symledd, tawelwch, bod yn ffrindiau, creu heb fod angen cynulleidfa, a charu heb ormod o gyffro. Yma, 'sdim rhaid bod yn eithriadol i fyw a ffynnu. Mewn gwirionedd, mae'n fraint bod yn gyffredin, a dim ond y condemniedig sydd angen trio bod yn sbesial. Ac yma dych chi’n gallu hedfan gyda’r adain gwatwar ymhlith y fforestydd o bin. Yn wir, mae’r Daearolion a’r Yrthiaid yn prancio, a brwydro, a chwerthin heb ofn, ar ffurf cimerâu cyfnewidiol, wedi deall bod pawb a phopeth wedi’u cysylltu â’i gilydd, a ‘does y fath beth â ni a nhw ar wahân i’w gilydd. Ond wrth i David wenu o ddychmygu’r fath ddieithrwch na all e’i ddeall na’i gredu o gwbl, gan ysgwyd ei ben ac allyrru‘n araf, mae popeth yn siglo a symud unwaith ‘to, gan ei daflu wysg ei ochr ar ras wyllt nes iddo gael ei boeri mas – yn rhywle’n gyfan gwbl wahanol.

 

Anialdir ydy, ond un sy’n fwy tebyg i ffwrnais danllyd o Lyfr Coch Rhwd a Gwaed, nac i ehangder dirfawr o dywod marw. Mae’r lle i gyd yn fflamgoch ac yn frith o chwilod croenysol uffernol yn mynd ‘chep – er — chep – er — chep – er,’ o boptu, byth a hefyd. Ond mor oer ydy, cyn oered â Meysydd Rhewllyd Pegwn y De yng nghanol gaea’ anfaddeugar, caled. Ym mhob man mae’r meirw sy’n byw yn crwydro o gwmpas gan wylo a’u dannedd yn rhincian wrth i ddifodfilod cenfigennus, llwglyd, gorffwyll sydd â chennau anhreiddiadwy, eu llarpio nhw â’u miloedd o ddannedd gwaedlyd, a’u trywanu â’u cynffonnau mor finiog â Chleddyf Hud Sorakados, cyn iddyn nhw ddod yn fyw’n syth i ddiodde’ eto. Maen nhw o fewn pellter gwegian i arch aruthrol yn llawn colomennod du a chigfrain gwyn yn hedfan ymhlith enfysau budr a allai’u hysgubo nhw bant a’u hachub rhag eu hartaith ‘sen nhw ond yn gallu helpu’i gilydd. Ond maen nhw’n rhy brysur yn ymhyfrydu wrth edrych ar law annaearol Swtach yn arysgrifio’r manylion am bechodau fyrdd pawb arall mewn geiriau estron ar y tywod crasboeth ond llithrig i’w cynorthwyo’i hunain, heb sôn am eu cymrodyr hunanol.

 

Dyma’i Dad dybryd, byrbwyll, creulon tu hwnt, wedi’i ail-greu ar lun a gwedd coeden grin, bythol-fflamllyd, wedi’i hamrwymo gydag amdo gwyn, aflan, fydd yn cael ei orfodi i ddatgan ei phechodau fyrdd rhwng gwyll a gwawl, wrth i drŵp o fwncïod gwyllt ei chwipio â llachiau o edau dur. A dyna’i Ewythr ysgeler a threisiol, â chwfl am ei ben, ond erbyn hyn mae wedi dod yn fuwch sy’n arswydo’n enbyd wrth redeg o gwmpas mewn cau heb glwyd yn cynnwys miloedd o deirw. A dacw’r hen Ysgolfeistr gormesol, hunanol wedi mynd yn was penisel, crebachlyd i lanc ifanc yng ngwisg ‘sgarlad y Dewin, sy’n hoenus, grymus, ac eithriadol olygus. Wedyn, wrth i Dai sythu’n gegrwth ar hyn oll, er dyw e’m yn siŵr be’ sy’n digwydd, o flaen ei lygaid mae i’w weld bod y golygfeydd ‘ma’n toddi ac ail-ffurfio’n araf iawn, wrth i’r ffigurau i gyd newid lle i ddiodde’ cosb wahanol.

 

Ac wedyn dyma’r naill yn cael ei drochi mewn bloneg blasusa’ i ddenu haid o lau tân, pigog fydd yn ei ddifa nes taw dim ond sgerbwd byw fydd ar ôl, tra mae’r llall yn cael ei orfodi i lowcio galwyni o ddognau afiach o bob math nes iddo chwyddo’n sffêr enfawr o gnawd byrlymus, sy’n berwi, a bytheirio, a beichio’n ddi-ball. Ac felly bydd dawns y dynion diedifar a hunangyfiawn yn mynd yn ei flaen yn dragwyddol, yn ôl pob tebyg. ‘Does dim lle yn unman yn union fel y lle ‘ma, ac yma, ‘does neb yn gwrando ar eu sgrechian, neu o leia’ os ydyn nhw, dyn nhw’m yn hidio’r un ffeuen amdanyn nhw.

 

Tu hwnt i’r fangre hon yn llawn o ddigofaint a dagrau, dim ond cysgodion erchyll y Byd Arall sy'n dod i’r golwg. Mae Dai, David, Daud, Dá·hwyth yn teimlo nad drychiolaethau mohonyn nhw, ond endidau corfforol, yn ddu fel glo, sy'n denu'r llanc â'u bysedd hirion, gafaelgar. Ond dyna fe’n cael ei dynnu bant o’r olygfa ‘ma sy mor foddhaol o ffiaidd. Yn rhywle draw fan’na, yn bell iawn i ffwrdd, dyna’i Elyn gwaethaf, ei Ffrind gorau, mewn sachlïain a lludw, yn petruso ar ymyl dibyn fel rhyw hen ffŵl. Mae’n bwriadu neidio, ac wrth i David wylio, dyna beth ‘na e. A’r llanc yn strancio yn y dŵr gwenwynllyd gan foddi, dyna Dai yn deifio i mewn ar ei ôl e heb feddwl, a’i dynnu e mas, cyn ei gario i ben mynydd ucha’r Holl Fyd, o ble mae’r Rhifolegwr Colledig yn hedfan tuag at y machlud wedi’i wisgo fel môr-leidr gogoneddus.

 

Nesa’, bant â David drachefn – ac mae’n troi a throi – gan fynd i lawr – disgyn – ar goll – ac i mewn i gwmwl sy’n llachar, pêr, dengar. Mae'n cyfarch y gorffennol wrth iddo ruthro heibio’n aneglur i’r dyfodol, gan geisio gafael ynddo, ond er ei arswyd llwyr a'i fawr ddychryn, dyma fe'n ei ollwng, achos, wel, wedi’r cyfan, pa ddewis arall sydd ganddo? Roedd e wedi bod yn breuddwydio, a gobeithio, ond ‘does neb a fedrai atal llif amser mewn gwirionedd, hyd yn oed ‘sai fe’n afon yn hytrach na darn diderfyn o jeli. Ond drwy'r amser dyna’r arogleuon – gwymon, halen, heulwen, haearn a gwaed, chwys a thywod poeth wedi’i chwythu gan chwaon o wynt, pridd gwlyb domen yn sythu. A hyd yn oed yna, y pryd hwnnw, arlliwir popeth gan ddigalondid plentyndod, gan golled, gan deimlad afrealiti. Dyw ‘rioed wedi gallu deall na natur nac achoseg y boen hon. Ond serch ‘ny, y rheiny yw cofion mae'n eu teimlo yn ei galon hyd yn oed yn gryfach erbyn hyn.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Mewn man arall, wedi cwympo am hydoedd a thorri drwodd o un realiti i un amgen, mae Rwm bel-Shaftí wedi’i ddihuno o'i drwmgwsg hir ar ffurf tas fawr o wair euraidd, mor ddwfn islaw cramen y Blaned, gan ddaeargryn damweiniol wedi'i achosi gan Ddewin nerthol ond amhrofiadol. Wrth iddo godi o'i guddfan, mae'n rhyddhau meintiau enfawr o olew aroglus yn cynnwys gronynnau fyrdd o aur pur. A dyna'r pwca llysnafeddog yn ymlawenhau'n afieithus, gan hopian a sboncian o gwmpas, hedfan drwy'r awyr, a chanu galarganau mawreddog yn yr Hen Iaith Yrtheg, cymaint ei bleser o gael ei lais taer, rhwysgfawr yn ôl. Ac fel arfer all y dynan castiog ddim peidio gofyn y naill gwestiwn ar ôl y llall eto, er mai erbyn hyn mae'n gwybod i’r dim mai'r da, y drwg a'r diolwg sy'n galaru mor uchel â'i gilydd yn y Pwll Diwaelod, wedi'u harteithio gan ei gyn-Feistr, Swtach, Arglwydd Anwiredd.

 

Mae'n temtio pawb a phob un o fewn glyw, ddydd a nos, ddiwrnod ar ôl diwrnod, wrth iddo wibio o amgylch y Byd, gan addo gwobrau amhosib eu cael, gan bob amser hau hadau anghytgord a chodi cynnen. Mae geiriau ffiaidd y cythraul cecrus yn adleisio drwy'r awyr lawn cyffro, gan ofyn, "Oes 'na ddim byd na allwch chi fyw hebddo? Sut fyddech chi'n 'neud eich bywyd yn berffaith? Be' dych chi eisiau uwchlaw pob dim?" Ac maen nhw'n llawn pŵer annisgybledig sy'n cymell pawb yn eu clywed nhw i derfysgu, lladrata, a niweidio, a Rwm bel-Shaftí, sy'n defnyddio'r enw Lonelihahi bellach, yn gwallgo' grechwenu.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Mae 'da Daud o hyd frithgofion am lefydd a phobl eraill fu gynt yn hollbwysig i'w fywyd – am Fam, a Chwaer, a Chariad – er eu bod yn cyflym bylu wrth i’r cymeriadau ‘ma i gyd weiddi, a llefain, a galw arno, a begian, a thrio’i rwystro rhag diflannu. Dyna’i Fam ar ei gwely angau mewn Tŷ Aileni ar ffurf sigwrat enfawr yn griddfan a gwingo wrth iddi gael ei thrawsffurfio’n ewig anfarwol fydd yn prancio ymhlith y sêr o hynny ‘mlaen. Ac wele’r Chwaer gref, a chaled, a milwrol bron, sy’n ei atgoffa am Gariad, yn rheibio pawb a phopeth o’i chwmpas â’i barddoniaeth histrionig o dop Tŵr Gwyrdd yng nghanol Ysgor Rosliw. Maen nhw’n mynnu’i fod e’n edrych yn ôl fel yr â un ai i’r Nefoedd neu i’r Uffern, i’r Ddaear, neu i’r Nw Yrth, i gael ei fendithio neu’i gosbi, ‘does ‘na ddim trydydd opsiwn ar gael ganddyn nhw – ond p’un yw p’un?

 

Ond yn brwydro yn eu herbyn nhw mae’i Ffrind, ei Frawd sy wedi ail-ymddangos ar wely hedegog yn ei wisg ffansi, yn edrych fel Tywysydd Medrus Undeb yr Archarwyr i annog Dai i fynd yn ei flaen, i ddilyn ei lwybr ei hunan, i ‘sgrifennu’i stori’i hun a chreu Bydoedd newydd. A dyna’r llanc yn sylweddoli taw dim ond cysgodion ansylweddol ydyn nhw oll, yn ffrind ac yn elyn fel ei gilydd, yn cynnwys ei gysgod ei hunan, a fyddai'n diflannu 'sai fe'n ymyrryd â nhw. Gwell o lawer fyddai canu’n iach iddyn nhw nawr, a gadael iddyn nhw fyw a marw mewn hedd wrth iddo fentro i mewn i wledydd anhysbys. Ac mae’n syn ganddo sylweddoli yn y fan a’r lle taw fe sy’n gallu bod yn Dad iddo’i hun, a Mam hefyd.

 

Mae'n teimlo'i fod wedi dysgu gwers eithriadol galed ond tra phwysig o gael ei orfodi i edrych yn ôl dros ei ysgwyd ar y Hen Fyd, wrth ddychmygu daflu'i hunan trwy'r Hollt cyn iddo gau am byth. Mae'n deall bellach hefyd taw dim ond un ffordd sydd i fachgen dyfu i lan a dechrau byw'n annibynnol fel gwir Ddewin. Fe fydd yn rhaid iddo drechu ei ofnau yntau, fel y bydd meistr yn tywys gwas ffyddlon. Ac fe fydd angen iddo gyfeirio ei enaid fel bydd capten yn hwylio llong. Ac wedyn, trwy orfodi'i hunan i weithredu, er gwaetha' holl beryglon y dyfodol, a'i aml amheuaeth, fe fydd e'n wir wrol o'r diwedd. Am lwyth o hen rwtsh, mae’n dweud wrtho’i hun, ond dyna fe’n gadael iddo’i hun gwympo’n ddyfnach ddyfnach i Fydoedd tu mewn i Fydoedd, wrth i amser arafu unwaith ‘to.

 

Am y tro ola’, felly, yn araf iawn mae’n ymddangos, dyna’r gyllell farus yn gwyro wrth iddi ddisgyn, gan sboncio fel bod y llanc yn torri ei fraich ei hunan a thynnu gwaed. Ac yn erbyn y cefndir porffor i’r sigwratau yn llewyrchu ar y Nw Yrth dyma’r Bydysawd oll yn diasbedain wrth i’w waed e lifo mewn afon wyllt o lawen o’i gorff drylliedig gan ffurfio pwll du o’i flaen. Gwaed a haearn – dŵr a metel – yr elfennau hanfodol ar gyfer torri drwy’r llen. A dyna fe’n dorri’i hun yn rhydd o’i gloffrwymau, ac ymlafnio i lan ac i lan, a’i ddychymyg chwilfriw’n rhedeg yn wyllt.

 

Ar y Blaned Yrth, dyma'r Dyddiau Olaf yn cyrraedd, a’r holl ddŵr wedi anweddu o'r moroedd, a'r afonydd, a'r nentydd, fel bod pob bod byw yn crafu'r pridd fel ci ar farw i drio yfed a bwyta. Wedi teithio am dridiau, a'r Llygad Pell yn y Nefoedd yn difetha'r cymylau, mae'r Tad a'r Mab yn cyrraedd y maestir enfawr o'r enw Cae Galar wedi'i benodi gan y Saith Swynwr a amgylchynir gan saith mynydd o gwarts. Ac yno, yng nghanol y maes, mae'n rhaid i Ishakí Dad rwymo Adauvam Fab, cyn bloeddio'r weddi briodol dros gorff yr aberth i fodloni'r Hen Dduwdodau Rhyfedd. Ond y tro 'ma, yn groes i fersiwn arferol y stori a adroddir yn yr Hen Lyfr, gyda bod y Llais Trallodus yn rhoi'r gorchymyn i blannu'r dagr miniog ym mrest y Mab, gan areithio fel petai’n siarad â’i hun mewn damhegion, dyna'r Tad yn ufuddhau ar unwaith, er ei ddychryn ofnadwy, gan adael i'r grymoedd erchyll redeg heb lestair o Fyd i Fyd.

 

A dyma Adauvam – Thoahatha, bellach – yn ffrwydro'n haid o bili-palod cochion sy'n chwim droi'n adar bychain. Ac wrth i hyn ddigwydd, dyna Ishakí – Ihahi – yn dod yn hwrdd wedi'i ddal mewn dryslwyn gan ei gyrn, gan gael ei ysu gan dafodau o dân wrth i'r cardinaliaid bach, siaradus ei ddannod, a'i bigo i farwolaeth. Ar y gair, dyna Lotké – Lothihi – ar ffurf piler byw o sialc yng Nghwch Dur Swtach yn amsugno'r mymryn lleia' o ddagrau Lushfé o'r awyrgylch anobeithiol, nes ei fod yn ymddarnio'n ddrylliau sy'n cael eu chwythu trwy'r Hollt Gosmig yn agor letach letach, i beillio'r Greadigaeth ddisgwylgar â biliynau o gysyniadau newydd.

 

Ac wedyn dyna Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth yn neidio mewn arswyd llwyr i mewn i’r tywyllwch ac ansicrwydd tu hwnt i’r tonnau fflamllyd. Ond neidio mae e. A dyna fe’n torri i mewn i’r bwthyn, gan redeg, hedfan, ymladd ei ffordd trwy’r adeilad ar dân. A dyna fe’n cyrraedd y seler, gan weiddi, a chael ei losgi’n echryslon, wrth iddo gipio un corff anymwybodol, ac wedyn un arall, ac ymdrechu i lusgo’r ddau – y naill yn ifanc, y llall yn hen – i lan, i fyny – er dyw e’m yn siŵr o gwbl ble mae e, na be’ mae’n ‘neud. A dyna fe’n tagu, a baglu, a llefain, a phesychu, a syrthio, a bwldagu, a stryffaglio, a rhegi, a pharhau, a ffrwtian, a gwag-gyfogi. A dyna fe’n dechrau marw, rywsut, er nad yw’n sylwi ar y ffaith na deall beth sy’n digwydd. Saith bywyd oedd ganddo, ac erbyn hyn yr un olaf sy’n mynd i’r gwynt yn clindarddach.

 

Dyma Sorakados o Lyfr Coch Rhwd a Gwaed, dyn ifanc a thra golygus yn un ar hugain oed, sy newydd daro ar y gwir am ei hanes cêl. Mae wedi ymlafnio dros y gwagle i’r Nw Yrth i gipio gogoniant, gwybodaeth, a grym, wrth daro dros ryddid yn erbyn y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd, dial ar ei Dad, ac achub ei Fam. Ac yno, wedi'i flino gan y trafferthion oll, mae'n gwledda’i lygaid ar ddelweddau symudol, amryliw o bopeth a fu, popeth sydd, a phopeth a fydd, gan ddysgu cyfrinachau aneirif. (Er dyw e'm yn sylweddoli'r ffaith, Swtach ei hun yw ffynhonnell y gweledigaethau, sydd yn fanwl gywir er gwaetha'u rhyfeddod). A'r pryd hwn, fe gadarnheir ei ddyfaliad mwya' torcalonnus y tu hwnt i amheuaeth. Fydd e'm yn gallu dychwelyd i'r Ddaear gyda'r hysbysrwydd newydd oll, ac os bydd e'n llwyddo i fynd yn ôl o gwbl, fe fydd yn blentyn drylliedig, na fydd yn meddwl, na charu, na chreu byth eto.

 

A dyna fe'n eistedd yn fud am oriau bwy gilydd, gan rythu ar y caleidosgop o sbiralau pensyfrdanol yn ffurfio yn yr haen o waed ar wyneb y maen gwastad sy'n chwarae rhan drych sgrio iddo. Ond, wrth 'neud hyn, yng nghanol ei siantio ymhlith y lluniau byw, pryfoclyd, dyna fe'n deall sut, falle, i lwyddo yn ei amcanion, i ryw raddau o leia', ond ddim yn y ffordd roedd e wedi bwriadu. Nage heb golled enbyd, 'chwaith.

 

Mae'n esgus felly ei fod yn credu'r llwyth o gelwyddau adroddir gan Tefnuth ddauwynebog wedi'i gwisgo fel cangen Mathu-fis am ei Fam druenus, yn ystod eu tarantela orffwyll yn y Castell Cymylog. Mor foesgar yw'r Sêr-ddewin eilwaith yn y cnawd wrth ymgomio â Hebé am ei Gariad Drahaus, er ei bod hithau mor aflednais â bwtsier o'r Gefnwlad yn gwerthu cnawd baban gyfnod y Cythrwfl Mawr Cynta'. Ac mae'n dal yn raslon a swynol hyd yn oed wrth iddi'i roi fe yn nwylo Swtach ym Mhalas Tywod Etneksha fel fod yntau'n gallu'i hebrwng tuag at Gaer y Brenin Melyn. A thrwy'r amser, mae Cennad Camhysbysrwydd didostur yn parablu am bwysigrwydd cyfiawnder dall, a rhagfarn addas, ac atgyweiriad diatal am bechodau anhysbys.

 

'Does fawr o ryfeddod felly i'r Tywysog ddarganfod mai Dendrah Leiddiad sy'n llechu yno yng nghatacwmau'r corrod obsidian er mwyn ei hela fe. Ac yno mae popeth ar dân ac yn llosgi â fflam las, oer, anniffodd. Wedi'i reibio fe, mae hi'n ei hyrddio i ganghennau danheddog y llwyni uffernol sy’n amgylchynu'r fan. A dyna fe'n chwalu'n wyllt trwy erddi'r Palas angheuol, wrth i wreiddiau'r chwyn mor finiog â weiren bigog dreiddio trwy'r tir rhewllyd i'w dorri fel octopysau rhyfelgar. Yn y pen draw, ar ôl brwydro yn erbyn cimerâu arallfydol, annychmygadwy, mae'n cael ei ollwng, bron yn noeth, ac yn chwys a briwiau i gyd, ymhlith coedwig enfawr o bin. Ac yno, mae'n cael ei wthio'n nes nes tuag at ymyl Ffynnon Eneidiau, sy'n arwain at y Pwll Diwaelod.

 

Wrth i'r fflamau rheibus godi i'w ysu, o'i wirfodd mae'n offrymu'i rym bywiol i'r Hen Feistri Dychrynllyd gan ddefnyddio'r cleddyf deufin yn dwyn y swyn yn iaith yr hen Sang'gi. Ond bellach mae'r glyffiau wedi'u hail-ddrefnu'u hunain nes iddyn nhw ddweud: "Mae'r wledd wedi gorffen, mae'r lampau wedi diffodd: Mae pawb wedi ffoi, mae popeth bellach drosodd; Nawr rhowch fi yn y tân, gyneuwch oddi danodd." Ac er mai'r pedwar tocyn priodol sydd ganddo i’w gynorthwyo ar y daith, mae'n dewis yn ddewr ac yn ddoeth eu taflu nhw o'r neilltu, wrth dorri'i hudlath wedi’i harysgrifio â rwnau coch yn yfflon ar yr un pryd. Ac mae'r symbolau'n hedfan bant ar ffurf gweision y neidr rhuddgoch. Wrth gwrs o ganlyniad, ni fydd yntau byth yn gallu dychwelyd. Ond trwy 'neud hyn mae'n llwyddo i anfon arwydd i'r Ddaear i ddechrau rhyddhau rhyw fath o bŵer eithriadol wedi'i gronni yno, wrth ddarparu modd i'w olynyddion, yn fodlon ac anfodlon fel ei gilydd, ddianc o'r Nw Yrth. A chyrraedd y Blaned Wyrddlas mae'i signalau'n debyg i seirff trydanol, yn cynnwys llawer o hud nerthol a chyfarwyddiadau ar sut i sefydlu Cymdeithas Gudd i wrthwynebu asiantau’r Saith, yr eiliad mae'n marw. Ac erbyn hyn, Thoahatha yw'i enw newydd.

 

Dyma Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth. Fe ddihysbyddir y saith bywyd. Fe ddiweddir y seremoni atgas. Fe ddiffoddir y gannwyll olaf. Fe ddisgynna’r cysgodion. Ai croth gysurus yw hon, neu fan bygddu’r meirwon? Yn y tŵr wyneb i waered afreal, mae llygaid y Mab Darogan – sy wedi bod yn ceisio taflu golwg ar bopeth yn digwydd i’w Dad, fel hen granc creithiog sy’n sgrialu, gwylio, ymosod, wrth hela’i brae’n hollol ar ei ben ei hun – yn cau, fel petasai wedi marw. Ond aros, gwrando, disgwyl mae e. Ac ar frest chwith y baban heb ei eni, dyna ymddangos eu sêl nhw, y cysgodion penchwiban, annirnadwy ‘na sy wastad yn denu bodau meidrol â’u bysedd duon.

 

Mae’n edrych yn union fel tàg yn perthyn i’r Hwíhésán o Ddominiynau Anhreiddiadwy’r Dwyrain Pellaf, neu falle graffiti wedi’u chwistrellu mewn paent coch gan gyn-fyfyriwr crac yng nghlawstrau’r Prifdechnig yn Nhref Emrallt. Ond eto i gyd, gallai fod yn debyg i arwydd cyfrinachol wedi’i beintio mewn gwaed gan smyglwr cyffuriau ar wal rhyw Glinig arloesol yn Aberdydd. Mae’n dangos pa mor eithriadol rymus ydy eisoes, wedi amsugno hud ei Dad, a meddwl yr Hen Filwr, a nerth ei Wncwl, a hefyd cymaint yn fwy pwerus fydd e yn y dyddiau a ddaw. Ac wedyn, ar anterth y ddefod wedi’i chychwyn y tro ‘ma gan ffug-Ddewin aflêr sy’n wylo dagrau chwerw erbyn hyn – pan gymysgir marw â byw – dyna agor unwaith eto lygad Plentyn Amser sy’n Fab i’r Arwr Anffodus a Merch y Wawr, hynny yw, y Llabwst a’r Dywysoges – yn dragwyddol.

 

Dyna ferwi ysgyfaint. Mae cofion ataliedig y llanc yn oedi ar drothwy dymuniadau rhwystredig. Mae’i gyhyrau’n wylofain fel sbringiau rhydlyd yn crefu i dorri. Dyna’i galon yn drymio ei churiadau terfynol, wrth atseinio â rhyw rythm anhysbys. Ac mae’r boen yn dwysáu, wrth i’w ymwybyddiaeth dreio ymaith. Dyma’r eiliadau ola’ o fod yn edifar. Er dyw e’m yn gallu esbonio fe, mae’n tystio i’w dranc ei hun – ei ymadawiad – o safbwynt trydydd berson, wrth iddo ddiflannu am byth o fodolaeth arferol – gan syrthio i lawr trobwll diwaelod i ddifancoll. Ond eto i gyd – dyma lais y Ffrind Dilesâd yn myngial fel arfer – be’ yw marw, be’ bynnag, ond dechrau’r antur fwya’?

 

Dyma fodolaeth y llanc – yn swyn ac yn erchyll ar yr un pryd – yn mynd rhwng y cŵn a’r brain. Dyma’r Llabwst oedd wedi uno cymaint o nodweddion anghyson, gan fod yn arw ond yn gariadus, yn hyll ond yn swynol. Ac yn awr, falle, er ei fod yn teimlo mor ofnus, fe all fihafio’n ddigon dewr yn y pen draw. Drwy’r amser, geiriau ynfyd gan y Brawd Da i Ddim yn trio’i lusgo fe ‘nôl o ffin ebargofiant, ond yn methu. A’r pryd hyn ‘lly, ydy, mae David yn dod yn siŵr rywfodd heb feddwl yn rhy galed am y ffaith, dyw e’m wedi gwastraffu’i fywyd o gwbl er gwaetha’ be’ bynnag mae pawb arall yn ddweud. Oedd, roedd yn rhaid iddo fe garco’i hunan, a byw yn ei ffordd ei hunan, doedd dim dewis amdani. Do, mae e ‘di ‘neud ei orau glas, a heb os, cymaint o boen, ac ofn, a helynt – a hwyl – sy wedi bod! Ie, teg fyddai gweud iddo fe fyw bywyd i’r eitha'. A nawr, gad dy lap, Bendith y Ddau Fyd, yr hen frithgi di!

 

Ar bob llaw, mae yna leisiau'n siarad, a sisial, a gweiddi mewn ieithoedd o bob cwr o'r Cyfandir Gogleddol a anrheithiwyd gan gasineb a rhyfel ers cyn cof  – 'factory, riža, muzika, football, pfad, père, porkkanat, psomí' – nes bod y geiriau'n gorgyffwrdd, a thoddi, a chymysgu, fel petai haid enfawr o wenyn yn suo'n ddifater ond yn gysurus o'i gwmpas. Mae’n fadrigal bolyffonig o’r gofod dwfn, wedi’i pherfformio gan gôr yn gwisgo tiwnigau o deigrod yr ardd, yn serennu heulwen, lliw ceirios, amethyst, aur, a gwyrdd y jyngl i wrthyrru llygad mall amser.

 

Nawr, mae griddfan dwfn, uchel, wedi’i gronni am amser maith iawn, yn dianc oddi mewn i frest y bachgen arwrol. A dyna Daud, David, Dai, Dá·hwyth yn ei hwylio’i hunan, ond yn wahanol i Ithru, mab Thethalu, oedd mor sicr am ei blu ffug, dyw’r llanc hwn ddim yn gwybod o gwbl be’ fydd yn digwydd. A dyna fe’n lledu’i adenydd – ac mae’n gweiddi ei air hud cêl, wedi’i ffurfio o lythrennau cynta’ enwau’r Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd wrth i’r sain grochlefain yn yr awyr ffrwydrol — “HWNTLIN.”

 

Mae’n rhyw hanner meddwl taw yn y dechreuad yr oedd y gair, ond dechreuad be’n enwedig, ‘dŵyr e’m. Ac wedyn, heb saib, dyna saith llais wedi dod yn un yn siantio’r hen gyfaredd droeon ac yn gywir, i ddechrau ymgnawdoli a’u datguddio nhw ar y Ddaear – “Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre. Kheperi kheperentw khekheperi kheprikhepera khepereni Khepri khepre. Khepereni kheperen kheprereni.” Ers cyhyd maen nhw’n bwriadu, ac arfaethu, a gwyniasu am reoli, a llywodraethu, ac amddiffyn, ond yn eu gorfoledd, ychydig a wyddan nhw taw peri newid, a chychwyn esblygu wnân nhw o reidrwydd, ‘fyd. A dyna’r llanc yn newid unwaith eto, gan gael ei drawsffurfio – o Dá·hwyth Oh·fé i Thoahatha Ihahi – y Mab Tadol, neu’r Tad Mabol – gan adael ei hen ffurf gorfforol ar ôl fel lwmp o glai deifiedig, wrth iddo neidio, a —