[Language, Lies, Magic] The Wizard can pick up slices of time from the future and move them around, splicing them in the past and the present. His charms don’t use arguments or promise direct progress, but open the doors of perception to alternative and contrapuntal Worlds that have existed for ages, granting the gift of belief to the selected few. His words, his dances, and his songs are able to control children playing in the Ice Forests, frighten the hunters in the Eastern Desert, and interfere with the sleep of the elders in the Sand Palace of Etneksha.

 

[Comedic Chronicles] Every one of the top-dogs was a newcomer: the Arch-guardian of Public Behaviour, the Most Respectful Secretary to the Council, the Director of Embassies in Foreign Lands, the Manager of National Revenue and Lord of the Sacred Seal, and the Head of the Office of the Special Representative of the Spokesperson-General for Miscellaneous Matters. They (or their families at least) had all  got a very warm welcome when they reached the shores of these cold, barren islands, as persecuted refugees without a single penny for the most part.

 

The true Wizard doesn’t try to compete with the conventional wiseacres who mock difference of every kind, and delight in seeing others disappointed as their plans fail and their productions wither. From the time of his adolescence, he hears the voices from within calling on him to find his own wisdom and pass it on, by developing the Three Gifts of the Fire-demon, namely aptitude, perseverance, and luck. He must be wary, however, of being tempted to look inside all the time, losing himself in the internal landscape. Instead, he must learn to pay particular attention to everything beyond himself, and concentrate on it, and unite with it.

 

Even Leskov had travelled spiritually whilst climbing to the top of the slippery pole in the Big, Bad City, as it were, escaping from Kinespan's poisoned groves where his forebear landed on the twentieth of Saltaway-moon 1793 to establish the College of the Fallen She-angels, after fleeing from unmentionable bother in some mountainous principality teeming with wolves. And of course, by the eighteenth of Saltaway 1867, this had become the National Centre for the Promulgation of Rectitude and the Enforcement of Dogma. Isn’t it strange how the people who’ve profited most from beneficial circumstances at the expense of less fortunate individuals, often work so hard to deny the same advantage to others in their turn? I’m anything but an old gossip, but I disliked the man from the very outset. And imagine the scandal when some wag managed to read Leskov’s lips in the old Yarl’s Memorial Meeting, and saw him mouthing the words “The man was a blackguard, and his wife’s a troll, and all this is a complete waste of time” instead of singing the Illustrious Islands’ Astounding Anthem. To think that Leskov himself had penned the words (so we are told) in the old Etruscan language to give a patina of patriotic dignity to the jingoistic ditty. Well, after all, you can put a lipstick on a weasel, but it’ll always look the same, won’t it?

 

The Wizard must know himself extremely well so that he goes with the grain when performing the Great Work, and that’s hard-won knowledge indeed. Through practice and training, he will follow the desires of the imagination rather than external stimuli, being able to move beyond himself, and possess a legion of personalities, each one with different abilities and talents – whether they are women or men, young or old, scientists or artists, credulous or sceptical, sentimental or cynical, hopeful or fearful. He will thus succeed in opening the gateway leading to the right path, and then in travelling all the way to fabled Vana-zala.

 

Having seen which way the wind was blowing, the two-faced and treacherous politicos immediately went to work on getting one of their own appointed to the Silver Chamber, running with the fox and hunting with the hounds, and voting for measures, or against them, only for their own benefit. (It used to be the White Office, of course, but Leskov was not one to stint on spending other people’s money, or finance from the public purse, so they said) [1]. This they did with the help of the Wardens of all the Instructional Foundries, who were, to the last person by then, Regulated Rectors, or Faithful Friars, or Severe Sisters.

 

And there, in the land of dream and inspiration, the true Wizard will be willing to stop searching for causes and explanations, accepting the mysteries, so that logic becomes a toy in his hands, as he plays with reality, and builds castles in the air. And then, believing from the bottom of his heart that the two viewpoints in every argument are true in their own way, without judging between them, his open mind, and his impartiality regarding specific details, will create a cauldron where the magic can happen. Eventually he will find gleeful relief, mocking his worries whilst being terrified by the spectres he summons at the same time. And then he will attain mystical bliss.

 

And of course the academies, agencies, cartels, colleges, corporations, establishments, houses, outposts and institutions of the Poly-varsities and Unitechnics (the clones, competitors, humble imitators, and would-be successors of the Venerable Institutes of Higher Education), were by then only providing the latest new-fangled qualifications such as “Certificates in Practical Studies” and “Diplomas in Theoretical Considerations.” These were available in fascinating topics such as “Pragmatic Cultural Methods of Influencing the Proletariat”, “Managing and Exploiting Pandemic Diseases”, “Indubitable Knowledge regarding Scientific Faith”, and “Sight-Testing by Long-Distance Driving.“ Isn’t it interesting how many politicians will respond unwillingly but surely to the insistent call of religion in order to change lives and win votes; how many of our priests force themselves to turn to the dirty game of politics to kill sin and spread the faith; and how many of the brightest academicians sell their name to save minds and win praise, when the time is right? {Temptation}

 

The worldly-wise mock-Sorcerer ignores the network of invisible attitudes and forgotten experiences that make up the accidental structure of his personality. On the contrary, he becomes captivated by the theories, and systems, and principles of others. Whilst researching into them, and studying them, and comparing them, in order to weigh them up, he gets caught, and becomes addicted to them. And so, he is certain he depends on a foundation of truth that corresponds perfectly to reality, and trusts without question the unchanging words of the Old Books explaining logically and pragmatically how to use the techniques of the magical technology mechanically.

 

Here’s the circumstances pertaining then: the demise of the old Yarl, the disgrace and deposition of the National Father, a very enthusiastic vote for self-determination in the Highlands and Lowlands, and civil war in almost all the states in the Heart of the Continent. And so it was that the folk in the Green Zone on the Island of Eyrw over the sea to the west, in the Red Zone here in the beloved land of Kimbria, in the oppressive Pink Zone to the east, and in the half-independent Blue Zone on the other side of the Imperial Wall in the north, grieved for the harshness of existence for the most part, but celebrated exuberantly without any particular reason every now and then, too. Are all the disasters that exist throughout the All-World the work of the Cosmic Power? It’s the Immutable Quiddity that’s in everything, in the heavens, and all around us. And in us, too, in our innermost essence, but we fight so hard to ignore it for the most part. We, the bad people, deserve to suffer tribulation and strong temptations, being burned and tortured, because we bring so much misfortune upon ourselves (according to the EGO’s Religious Education Proctors anyway). Well, part of that is right at least, but the other bit's completely stupid!

 

The fake-Sorcerer swears so he will follow the instructions slavishly, and obey the laws to the letter. In this brand-new fundamentalist system, unauthorized readings are not permitted. There’s no room for creative ambiguity, for interpretation, for subtlety, for uniqueness. There’s no choice regarding black or white, true or false, good or bad, right or wrong. So, he believes he’s acting keen-sightedly, and at the beginning of each effort this will be a source of unlimited confidence, and inhuman strength.

 

But then again, what about those infrequent intervals of wonderful joy? Someone has to take responsibility, right? Well, that’s a question that people have been trying to answer for millennia now, without a snowball’s chance of success, of course, in my opinion. But it has allowed a considerable number to earn their keep as thinkers, and lingwizds, and rhetoricians, labouring to explain such things. It’s no surprise that EGO started declaring louder and louder that all sensible and wise (and loyal) persons, whether adults or children, whatever their sex or social status, should close their minds against wild imaginings like this, or indeed against independent thoughts of any kind.

 

The fake-Sorcerer doesn’t win inspiration, therefore, but gets sacrificed on the anvil of repetition. He uses the will to drive the imagination, scorning the body and working against the grain, and contrary to the flow of creative energy. And so, he tries to change the All-World to conform to his concepts, rather than letting the All-World express aspects of itself through him. He’s  always falling into old patterns, and re-using stereotypes, whilst labouring in vain to command day and night, sun and moon, stream and desert, city and family, law and song.

 

This is the fate of mortals on the Cruel Eyrth according to the EGO of at least. They have a deep mistrust of the impure nature of the Human Race, and a hatred of its fear, its ignorance, its laziness, and his inability to resist the pangs of existence on Vith-sathí, and to beat instinctively with the rhythm of the Great Being. We are born as orphans in the middle of the open ground of the battlefield where invisible forces are fighting. Our senses fool us; our minds mislead us; our emotions are empty and futile; and even the tears of frustration and fear dry up far too soon. Although we include a smidgeon of the Invisible Spirit, we carry evil in the nucleus of each cell. Here is the Lamentable Lineage of the Thorlin —

 

Za-vía stole the Cosmic Power to create Vana-zala, ruled by the Ví-azalim; and then, Nevlas and Salkas created Yoth-nunu as a home for Salvas and Neklas; the love-making and fighting of Thiamath and Amzu produced the rebellious Thialas; the Thialas killed Amzu, and made Mithe-rethí, the Blue World; Nilroth of the Thialas formed Heli-hrelí, the Underworld, and Vith-sathí, the Cruel Eyrth; Nilroth, too, fashioned Dvaldí from blood, and soil, and iron and put him in Ethna-zala, the Garden of Eyrthly Delight; Dvaldí split himself to create the Dvaldimil; the Dvaldimil rebelled before Nilroth gave them Hlevné made of trees, and water, and air; Hlevné also split himself to create the Hlevnilim; and Hlevné and Dvaldí brought forth their son Davuth in Ethna-sathí, the Moor of Pain and Suffering; Davuth and Elena were tempted by Xlotlringku Vlaltanlu-tnalzse, and ate the fruit of the pomegranate, and killed their whole family, sending everyone to Heli-hrelí, before leaving Ethna-zala to spawn the bestial race of the Thorlin. King Uzil brought civilization to the Thorlin; Uruza Son of Uzil transformed the Cruel Eyrth by killing his evil uncle, Zuthas, and becoming Uthil Zuzas, the first High Priest; from Uthil Zuzas sprang the tribe of the Nava-thalí, consisting of the Seven Castes, namely An-hazu, Az-alé, El-etho, Na-nana, Ne-hethu, Si-leva, and Ul-heru; the Nava-thalí desecrated themselves, and were carried off to Aliz-íya; Tho-vítha of the Nava-thalí alone kept the law of Uthil Zuzas, and he in his turn became the founder of Ek-lesya Vith-yahní, that is, the World-Wide Church.

 

In this way the fake-Sorcerer will succeed only in eliminating the pleasures of the senses, and conjuring up a vicious and lethal torpor, which leads to depression and melancholia amidst of a mental wasteland. He creates but roughly, calling things into being in awkward groups, so that his unreal spectres exist in some place halfway between the uncanny and the ridiculous. He expects reality to obey his commands merely because he spoke authoritatively, trying to herd shadows instead of interacting with real objects. And while he imagines he’s conjured up evil shapes and terrifying figures with his pronouncements, he’s really just blowing hot air.

 

We, the Thorlin, were created illegally. We exist in a World ruled by space and time. We are born through sexual intercourse. We have weak, fleshy bodies. We are subject to the Seven Human Failings: craving, striving, obtaining, consuming, suffering, surviving, dying. That is the reason why we are all too easily persuaded by voices internal and external to give in to temptations of all kinds. And then we act terribly, indulging frivolous whims, nurturing false hopes, and indulging in truly unseemly habits in body and in mind {Painting the Town}. We await our fate, defenceless, until we are cut down without being able to strike back. And we deserve that, as we are rotten to the core, without hope of deliverance, or salvation, or absolution, in this futile life. But, thanks to the Cosmic Power, the members of the World-Wide Church swore that they will never give up the good fight to save the World and its worthless inhabitants, even unto the dissolution of the Cruel Eyrth. Each weak-spirited sinner needs the help of the Church to discipline himself, lest he be consumed by evil prompted by the bald fiend called Error, which comes from its den with his featherless ankles to feast on the pitiful reprobates. This entity is immortal, and predatory, and it knows nothing of compassion. And then, at the Final Instant, when the doors open with a terrifying, violet flash, there will be a terrible thundering within. And he shall be condemned, bound with ropes of white smoke from the Malodorous Main, to go to oblivion in the Seventh Hell, after suffering from the Seven Year Itch, without being able to join the Cosmic Power ever again. We can but try to emulate the inescapable pulse of the All-World, and sing hymns in the language of light and truth, in order to be released when the last gates open, pouring out the black water of perdition [2]. And only the EGO can teach us how to do that.

 

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[1] Hiya you all – you stoopid old farty llamas! This is just E.B.P. (Everyone’s Belovedest Prodigy, hahaha!), Chieftain of the Indigo Kids (Ooh, I love that hue, it’s the colour of strong magic, y’know, and it’s me who’s been deciding stuff like that for quite a bit now). Well, I’m not the one to comment on political affairs like this (I’ve not the least interest in them and can get things done much better usin’ my own special methods anyway). But talking of disgraceful rotters: you heard about the ol’ scumbag called Jumbo “Le’s-Ge’-Befu’l’d” Stetson? He used to go around the Wacky World in his snakeskin suit and pig-hide loafers, selling lizard-fat oil as a cure-all and causing untold harm and pain wherever he’d hang up ‘is ‘at.

 

In the jungles of Panamà (in the tail of Meryk-land), which used to teem with countless species of unique and exceptionally interesting (to experts at least) animals and were once chock-full of exotic plants with wondrous abilities to harm and heal, he released by accident a germ-plague that eradicated them all. He perverted the citizens of the utopian island of Lávàna (off the North-east coast of Meryk-Land), turning the Commonality of Comradely Co-operation into a hotbed of base Paternalism and profuse populism. Under his patronage, Baghdâd (in the middle of el-Rābí’s Fertile Crescent), the ancient Refuge of Religious Peace and Tolerance, was radicalized, becoming a breeding-ground for members of a terrorist death-cult. As a result of his financial advice, the City of Kazavràgka (in Northern Faraqand), the World Financial Capital, went bust, causing tens of thousands of people to fling themselves from the rooftops in despair.

 

In North Meryk-land, with the help of the man-child’s insistent whispers, Mannahàttan, capital of the Eastern Media-tainment Megalopolis joined forces with Hávuhd, the hub of overpowering educogoguery, and Arkuhnsóh, HQ of the armed forces. These three giants conspired to create a brand-new gambling game called “al-kanàsta” (“the joy-jar”) which promised that the people could achieve unlimited satisfaction through playing it night and day. It took the Pickled Planet over so quickly, and, in truth, it addicted millions of the plebs, bankrupting them and causing them to do themselves in. I gotta note that Jumbo himself made an exceptional profit from all these tragedies. Malice, idiocy, carelessness, mischief, or all of the above? Inveterate liar, shameless thief, vulgar womanizer, unprincipled traitor, or every one of them? Who’d dare say? But even as his name was dragged through the mud, the numbskull’s popularity, notoriety and influence grew, and Stetson became rich and powerful beyond measure as a result (until his own gullible groupies turned on 'im and kipper-up-stitched ‘im, wolf-threw ‘im, and then strung ‘im up, of course!). — Elfan Baldrog Bacster.

 

[2] I am reminded here of the words of Sesiline Arian (in “Waking the Slumbering Giant”): “It would be fair to say there that even the skeleton of an ancient city, laid waste by disaster and desolate, crawls with meaning and the spectres of language, culture, and meaning.” I feel compelled to share the following piece, “Lost Last Words,” which came to me after a particularly painful session beside the Cauldron of Damnation .— P.M.

 

“The world shall survive, though so weak and so wan,” they used to say, “whilst one single soul still speaks Kwmrik on the crimson soil of Kwmrí.” Well, that’s stupid, isn’t it, ‘cos no-one can talk to themselves with a lot of sense unless they’re crazy. And if they’re truly riding the steam-powered rocking-chair to the funny-farm then they’ll just be talking shit anyway, in any dialect of your choice. Well, never mind about all that. Here I am, Flimzí Foyl (I think), who was once Maid of the Back-stairs and General Factotum to the Vazlaw Klvkrukí Kreylon of Kol-kodha, the Most Delectable and Dreadful Potentate. I’ve been wandering the empty, silent streets of some town in the red land of my Mother, searching out food (and maybe human life as well) as always. And now I’ve got to a place called Kwi-folya Kanyon at the foot of Kraktakws’s Krag, more than likely, and I’m feeling dead odd. It’s like something’s watching me, staring at me, not from anywhere in particular but from everywhere, and listening to me thinking, always on the verge of responding or snatching the words away, squeezing outwards from somewhere inside me. Am I a blood-filled flesh-sack, I wonder, or a childish fever-dream that’ll scatter on the wind like a million pollen-grains to fertilize, well, who knows what kind of deadly flower?

 

I had come to Vre-tanya in the cortège of the Vazlaw to translate, speak on his behalf, mingle with the malodorous plebs, and act as his intermediary when dealing with the recalcitrant rebel chieftains. The very thought of the Land of the Basest Blackguards did very unhealthy things to his digestive juices and excretory fluids. He was intent on humiliating and cowing the natives because the land had once had an empire that spanned the globe, and his envy was as gratuitous as his cruelty. So, before his triumphal arrival, he commanded that the skin of the inhabitants in each of the glorious autonomous regions be dyed indelibly in the historic colours of their nation on pain of death – completely contradicting the prohibitions of the Doctrinaire Disquisitions. He also decreed that the eldest child of each household be shipped off to serve as an elect eunuch or consecrated courtesan in his Vazlik Temples around this dirt-ball of a planet or be slaughtered and eaten raw on the spot by the poleaxed parents and siblings.

 

The first act of the most Exquisite and Excruciating Panjandrum on the soil of his new, blood-stained territory was to dismiss the Parliament of the Proletarian Proxies, seizing the sacred sword and melting it down into a gargantuan wine-goblet. He also set a scarecrow bearing a harrowing image of the late, beheaded monarch (if not his head itself) wearing a thorn-crown on the Convener’s Hallowed Stool, and made all the elders, marshals and hierarchs bow down before it and swear allegiance to it in his name. He forced the recently-widowed Regina Consort to marry and cavort in the most iniquitous manner with his prize stallion. With great pomp, he inaugurated his reprobate of a father as Commander of the Order of Cosmopolitan Knights, violating the immemorial rules relating to the rendering of the appropriate fees before the bestowal unearned honours. (He had had his mother burned as a wise-woman – or she had died of shame – after he led the most barbaric coup in his homeland’s ensanguined history at the age of thirteen.)

 

He didn’t stop there, though. He insisted that every single one of his wives, concubines, and all the multitudinous offspring of his most fecund loins be addressed as your excellency, your worship, your reverence or your grace. Next, he forced the worship-venues to be renamed a “Kol-kodhas,” and, horror of horrors, made them display a brazen statue of his most Delightful and Dismaying Personage on the sacred stage. His final act of cultural vandalism was to decree that all the Academic Asylums be known as “Klvkrukí Kolleges” from then on, having installed a wild boar in robe and bonnet in the Deans’ Dwellings which were already so much filthier – intellectually, socially and morally – than any public cesspool.

 

Anyway, I can understand Kwmrik, and write it, and read to some degree at least (if such strange and ancient things as paper and books, ink and styli were still to be had, anyway), although that makes not the slightest difference in this world now. (I learned secretly as a little kiddie on my Mother’s knee as she fed me wonderfully nutritious and really tasty seeds from a purse close to her heart. But, of course, I’ll never be able to speak it perfectly since I’ve not been blessed by being born on the shores of this desolate land amongst my native people.) And once again, as so often before – as has been happening for years now – there they are, setting upon me – the bloody living gloves – one pink, one green, one red, and one blue this time (the colours of the long-gone illustrious sovereign areas of Vre-tanya, ha, ha!), trying to violate me whilst driving me – slowly, mercilessly, chaotically – towards the coal-tar lake.

I’m the last whole-bodied woman still alive (in Kwmrí at least, as far as I can see, there’s no knowing what’s happening elsewhere in this wrecked world), wandering amongst the ruins of civilization. I’ve been all on me own since that day when the last native speaker of Kwmrik died. To start with, there were three of ‘em left who could prattle in the celestial tongue, of course, the Masters of the Krimson Konklave: the High Dragon of Konsummate Korrektness, the Only Eyewitness to Kwmrí’s Konundrua, and the Holy Komposer of Kaptivating Koncepts. But each one of them in turn would meet with the Gloomy Gatherer, that lover with no shadow, jilted for so long (as we all will do, eventually, I hope!). There’s another thing that’s plaguing me more diabolically than my bloody screeching teeth as well. I was a lutist and cantores once, as well as a ling-witch. And when they went, the Transcendent Trio, and everything broke down, it was like all the sound was sucked out of the world. There’s no music anymore to charm worries away and soothe the pangs of existence. I can’t whistle or hum a tune. Not even for an instant. Nowhere. Somehow the sluggish air won’t allow it. I dunno whether I can speak, even. There’s only the mumbling, the squealing, the groaning, and the profanities hissing out like acid geysers in every direction, day and night, sun or rain, by fair means or foul.

 

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Now, while they were alive, the revered Mistresses and the sublime Master had nothing else on their minds than the veiled, antediluvian majesty of Kwmrí; the purity, correctness and eternal virtue of Kwmrik; and the superiority of the langue to every other one which had ever existed, or which would ever exist on the face of the planet. They believed, thought, and knew, from the bottom of their spotless hearts and without a grain of uncertainty, that no single one from amidst the Yerthish race would ever be able to understand, or learn, or speak this most magnificent language perfectly – nor comprehend the secrets of the Krimson Konklave – if she had not been blessed with this greatest and most indescribable gift by the Impossible Awareness; if she had not been born on the shores of Kwmrí; and if she had not trained long and hard. Of course, all the leaders from every far-flung corner of the world – the bigwigs, captains, chieftains, drug barons, esteemed guides, gaffers, marshals, and warlords – just wanted to possess the argot of Kwmrí and the culture and magnificence of the aboriginal land because of this. Especially as there were still only three speakers still living, and not a lot of time left.

 

They yearned, more than anything, to be initiated into the Ensorcelled Circle which had originally been spiritual home to the warriors, the patriots and the luminaries (as well as the poets, the singers and the persons-of-letters) since when the secrets were revealed to the first High Dragon in a holy vision inspired by smoking from the hypnotic pipe in the Forgotten Enlightened Ages. Something to be marvelled at indeed were the Krimson Konklave’s ceremonies, what with the extremely colourful costumes, the alluring dances, the impassioned addresses, the canorous songs, the suggestive gestures, and the esoteric signs. All the performances were hugely beguiling, and much better than anything available in the allocutions of the one-time, deplorable Associations of Intellectual Ineptitude or the assemblies of the shattered Order of Ordained Orthodoxy.

 

In the beginning, members of the ruling tribes would most often be invited to join the blessed ranks of the Krimson Konklave to their great honour, probably. In due course, there would be fêted “ex officiīs” petty gentry, entertainers, ministers, politicos, merchants and sports-champions, amongst others of that ilk. And later, there would be accepted the suzerains of the superlative statutory sessions and then the rogues of the rotten royal retinue, who used the Superbest Society as a private club. Of course, over the course of time, so few of these individuals had been born in Kwmrí and even fewer could speak the vernacular. So, not without reason, the glamour faded, the enthusiasm waned, and the number of members dropped lower and lower. At last, there was no-one faithful to the venerable customs of the mothers and fathers left, apart from the Three Wilful Watchers.

 

Well, the Kaptains of the Krimson Konklave maintained their enchanting ideas, their whimsical behaviour, and their steadfast refusal to disseminate their mysteries, accept novices, and teach the speech to anyone else. As a result of this, all the rulers, from inaccessible Yasya, to brutish Mwskvisk, to inhumane Yw-rovya, were fighting more ferociously than ever to get the covert knowledge from them before they punted the proverbial fluid-carrying pail to oblivion, as it were. They’d convinced themselves that the Supremos of the KK (and to a lesser extent the lower orders of Corvids, Lovers, Soldiers, Beacons, Guardians, Messengers and Progenitors, although none of these still existed by then) had monstrous powers, considering the resplendent history of Kwmrí compared with the rest of the Home of the Vilest Villains.

 

First of all, the General Factotum to the Vazlaw, the Most Delicious Prince (that is, me myself) came before the Fulgent Trinity to implore them fervently from the bottom of her heart to share their heavenly gifts. When the three told her to wander off the map, sling her fishing equipment, and do almost impossible things to her posterior, the Holy Komposer of Kaptivating Koncepts was taken away on the order of the Vazlaw, amongst great commotion. She was torn to pieces by ravening wolves, and as the Library of the Krimson Konklave burned, she shouted: “The Ugliest Vazlaw has released monsters on the world. Because of him, all of the Afflicted Yerth shall be rent asunder, including him. There shall be no blame on the Maiden, however. The bondswoman should not suffer because of the master’s sins. Her pure skin shall save her to wander the dying orb and declare the truth to the mocking winds.”

 

Next, the Handmaid of the Backstairs to the Vazlaw, the Most Dreadful Pasha (I myself, in other words), went to meet the Lucent Pair, to debate and reason with them, and try to persuade them to reveal the structure, rules, and functioning of the Krimson Konklave, and, maybe, a little more about the syntax, semantics, pragmatics, stylistics and poetics of Kwmrik than she’d already gleaned. When both told her to go and remove her shadow from their portals and sally forth in a sexual manner to fling herself into the Fathomless Fissure, the Vazlaw pronounced the fateful words. This time the Only Eyewitness to Kwmrí’s Konundrua was taken away, kicking and screaming. She was boiled in scared oil until she dissolved, as the antique tools of the Kunning Kraft were destroyed before her eyes. While this happened, there she was, wailing in anguish: “The Weakest and Cowardliest Vazlaw has decided to burn the world. Due to him, every sea, every river, and every steam shall turn to stinking, black liquid, that will rise up to poison the planet. But the Drudge shall not be punished. Let her escape and live to proclaim her Master’s evil to the flaming air.”

 

Last of all, the Vazlaw Klvkrukí Kreylon of Kol-kodha himself, the Most Desirable and Distressing Patrician, strode into the Tent of the Krimson Konklave to greet the High Dragon. Tender, and correct, and respectable were his initial words, but swirling around so titillatingly in the back of his mind were ideas more vulgar and more tasteless than all the supposed age-old sins of Meridional Landmass taken together. When he received no answer but steely silence, he commanded the elderly wise-man to release every particle and element of information regarding his enigmas and then perform an Initiation Ceremony. And not polite were the phrases flowing from the mouth of the Most Dire and Dishy One this time.

 

Having considered long and hard (some would have said that he was play-acting or billy-fooling around, what with all the face-pulling, bush-beating, hurtling about, and hair-extracting), the sole, very last and ultimate true speaker of Kwmrik relented. He exclaimed, using the most hyperbolically high-flown verbalizations, that the Vazlaw should purify himself as carefully as one is his position could do, before cutting open his skull with a hacksaw and removing his brain with a teaspoon, and then have his body pickled in sweet ambrosia full of honey to be displayed to generations to come as an example of deadly stupidity. Then the Vazlaw showed what kind of man he was, by stopping himself from flying completely, immediately and irremediably off the door-opening device. He began to explain as nonchalantly as a cheeky wallaby about to sell the moon how he’d keep the decrepit grandfather alive whilst torturing him. It was not odious for him to relate how he would hurt him, by blinding, poisoning, throttling, burning, tearing out his tongue with pincers, trampling, drowning in “aqua rēgia,” stabbing, and castrating with blunt scissors. He was really getting into the swing of things, detailing how he’d agonize, torment, and afflict him – if not forever, then for the rest of his natural – or unnatural – life.

 

The High Dragon disregarded the crazed but very real threats and curses, stating quietly: “Better that Kwmrik perish than be corrupted by servants of Perdition. I shall speak no more, but I shall open the gate and show you the future. Behold!” He gestured for the Vazlaw to don a scarlet mantle with gold facing (to represent the strength of flesh and blood and the brilliance of the sun), and a hood, light blue inside and emerald outside with yellow facing (to represent the endless sky, unstoppable nature, and pity in defiance of life’s pain), and to wear on his head a white Phrygian cap (to represent the wisdom of all the long-dead ages). Then, when the Vazlaw had done this, the wise-man reached for a leather pouch from under his long grey gown and took a fistful of pollen from inside as well as a small glass pot containing a few drops of living, jet-black liquid. Having devoured the pollen, he let the pot fall to the floor where it shattered with an almost inaudible tinkle, before himself dropping down as dead as an enormous chunk of coal. And that was the end of the last native speaker of Kwmrik. No bang, and only a mild whimper.

 

Although no-one would have believed it, the second the time-worn sagacious saint expired, the world’s death warrant was written then and there. In that instant, the corpse shrivelled away to nothing and turned into a stupendous quantity of bespangled dust. This combined with the black liquid to form ribbons of beautiful light that went on to enwrap the Vazlaw Klvkrukí Kreylon of Kol-kodha and the entirety of his entourage – well, all the other servants except one, namely me – sucking the individual spirit out of them. And then, the all-coloured strips of sparkling light set off on their way to consume the Yerth, whirling, and chiming, and growing all the while, killing almost everything in their path. The deaths of those who were touched by the strands of illumination were as quick as they were sudden. Around me, Flimzí Foyl, succumbed every living, breathing, and speaking thing. Only I remained standing, thinking, fearing, and wondering.

 

But worst of all, although they were stony dead, the bodies continued to work and writhe, starting to warp and split into bits in no time. The limbs and the heads disconnected themselves from the frames. The heads were spouting nonsense like demonic pumpkins; the arms and legs planted themselves in gardens, fields, and streets to wave about in the breeze like abhorrent plants; and the torsos rolled about and grew fatty roots wherever they came to rest. In some of them, the guts had spurted out to wriggle like serpents whilst trying to catch and eat other things. Everywhere, constantly, lumps of flesh would explode from the mangled parts like boiling puss from an inflamed boil, plopping to the gound like putrid seeds, as everything seethed, and spluttered, and developed into new forms of living, moving terror.

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

The dead haven’t been released to rest in peace, then, they’re living still – or undead at least – immortal in a way, bound to the world with insubstantial but inescapable chains. It’s like some goddess with bloody eyes carrying a flail sharp as newly-minted remorse has refused to collect them and is taking great joy in watching the planet decay so fast and so completely. The creepiest, cruellest and most destructive things are the hands, which never give up sneaking hither and thither, creating chaos and committing the most heinous crimes, capering frantically, wounding the bodies hatefully, and doing abominable things to the heads. They’re always rushing around on their fingertips, trying to grab me, tickle me, and fiddle with me, as the heads screech riddles, scraps of songs, sickening swearwords, and verses from the Archaic Texts. (For some reason the feet are more sleepy and less awful, as if they were cold-blooded animals.) Everywhere, the bodies fart, and belch, and gurgle, shooting spores out on the stifling wind to spread the terror. And, Oh, by the Grim Aboriginal Deities, I’ve just seen a troop of hands that’ve cut themselves open and put eyes stolen from bodiless heads in the holes so they can see what’s occurin’ and do more damage!

 

So, here I am, the last whole person still living in Kwmrí, it appears, wandering, lost, amongst the wreckage of society. I’ve been alone since the last native speaker of Kwmrik pronounced his last words, years ago, more than likely, and am still just as lonely now. “Why me?”, I ask myself. No answer yet. Am I here for real, I wonder, or am I some sort of insane ghost? Never mind about that, there’s the living gloves attacking me over and over, and I can hardly fend them off now, even using the flaming firebrand. But they’re not gloves at all to be honest, but loathsome severed hands like small leather sacks, teeming with flesh, and sinews, and muscles, rotten, but very strong. And although they’re unthinking, in a way, they’re clever enough to be dreadfully violent. And all the time, there’s something watching me without eyes, pressuring me from inside, waiting to steal my thoughts, desperate to gobble me up.

 

It’s ‘specially bad at night and I’m pretty much dying for want of sleep, but it’s not possible for more than a minute at a time or I dunno what would happen. The greatest fear is that I wouldn’t be able to give up the ghost if I got killed but would transform into some kind of racked mutant that would never ever get away from the torture and the pain. Here, in the twilight, on the bank of the enormous lake of black sludge stinking of conifers and terpenes, I hunker down, wrapped in a net with shoes on me feet made from bits of an old cauldron and a piece of long-dead goatskin. In one hand there’s a pitch torch. In the other, a spear made over the past year in the seconds at midnight when the bells in the clock-towers would ring to welcome the new day, ages ago. But now, that’s the only time when the hands stop gallivanting for a tiny spell, it appears.

 

As I gag on the intoxicating fumes from the putrid pool, the magical mirror formed by the silky surface has shown me that about three quarters of the entire Yerth’s populace (including the majority of those living in Vre-tanya) bit the dust soon after the Vazlaw was taken [*]. Why did some survive while others died? Well, that’s the perennial question, isn’t it, and only the Unknown Order knows, so I shan’t venture to say. Maybe they escaped through blind chance. Despite that, I’m reminded about the time-honoured saying: “Blessed are the pure of heart, as they shall inherit the World.” This is true for some, more than likely (I don’t know about myself!). But in addition to the immaculate ones, there’ll be even more people who are unjust, merciless, proud, wealthy, jubilant, and belligerent clawing at life, no doubt. And the latter will go on to fight, conquer, and oppress the former in due course, even as the Yerth blazes, I’d bet me worthless life on it!

 

And here, even worse, I’m reminded so much of home (well, that sewage-bedrizzled place in the Boreal Heartland to where my Mother was carted off from Kwmrí as a damsel to be a thrall, and where I was born to be a slave-girl too). Here, at the end of the world, I speak to myself silently in perfect Kwmrik. I’m not sure anymore if I’m sleeping or have passed away – and not too peacefully at that. But, anyway, I see myself giving up on everything: fighting, thinking, hurting, living. Then – I imagine – or hope – that there I’ll be, wading so thankfully slowly into the treacly stew until it sloshes over me ‘ead. Maybe I’ve already done that. And then – now – with the mystic words “Án ágházo mi-shwd; Án támámo mi-shwd” [**] emanating from nowhere to mock me – one more world will come to an end.

 

[*] I just can’t disentangle the lies and half-truths emanating from the cauldron yet, nor cut through time’s knots, damn it, and am not sure what would happen were I to do so! Anyway, no matter about when – or if – all of this happens: it entails horrendous slaughter. I’ve seen the bodies piling up quicker and higher than during the ancient age of the construction of the first House of Rebirth, throughout the periods of extermination of the faithless by the EGO, and even when Leskov’s plague spread over the Eyrth. As far as I can see (although my uncanny insight isn’t working as well as all that at present), the Astral Light will complete the transformation of the Yerthish (of the Thorlin) left behind when Judgement Day arrives, creating an unknown race, the Elethise (or the Theluhonu), that is, the “theriomorphs,” a truly shocking admixture of human and monster which is completely different from both.

 

[**] A common saying in Vazli Novw from the far future, probably, meaning “As it ends; So it begins.”

 

[Iaith, Celwyddau, Hudoliaeth] Mae’r Dewin yn gallu codi sleisys o amser o’r dyfodol a’u symud o gwmpas, gan eu sbleisio yn y gorffennol a’r presennol. Dyw ei swynion ddim yn defnyddio dadleuon nac addo cynnydd uniongyrchol, ond yn agor drysau canfyddiad i Fydoedd amgen a gwrthbwyntiol a fodolai ‘slawer dydd, gan roi dawn cred i’r ychydig detholedig. Mae ei eiriau, ei ddawnsiau, a’i ganeuon yn gallu rheoli plant yn chwarae yn y Coedwigoedd Iâ, codi braw ar yr helwyr yn y Diffeithwch Dwyreiniol, ac ymyrryd â chwsg henuriad ym Mhalas Tywod Etneksha.

 

[Croniclau Cellweirus] Newydd-ddyfodiad oedd pob un o geiliogod pen y domen: Arch Warchodwr Ymddygiad Cyhoeddus, Parchedicaf Ysgrifennydd i’r Cyngor, Cyfarwyddwr Llysgenadaethau mewn Gwledydd Estron, Rheolwr Cyllid Cenedlaethol ac Arglwydd y Sêl Sanctaidd, a Phennaeth Swyddfa Cynrychiolydd Arbennig Llefarydd Cyffredinol dros Faterion Amrywiol. Ro’n nhw i gyd (neu’u teuluoedd o leia) wedi cael croeso cynnes iawn wrth gyrraedd glannau’r ynysoedd noethlwm, oer hyn, yn ffoaduriaid wedi’u herlid a heb yr un ddimai goch gan amla.

 

Dyw’r gwir Ddewin ddim yn ceisio cystadlu a’r doethion confensiynol sy’n gwawdio gwahaniaeth o bob math, ac yn ymhyfrydu yn gweld eraill yn cael eu siomi wrth i’w cynlluniau fethu a’u cynhyrchion wywo. O amser ei lencyndod mae’n clywed y lleisiau oddi mewn yn galw arno i gael hyd i’w ddoethineb yntau a’i basio ‘mlaen, trwy ddatblygu Tair Anrheg Cythraul Tân, sef dawn, dyfalbarhad, a lwc. Rhaid iddo ochel, fodd bynnag, rhag cael ei demtio i edrych y tu fewn drwy’r amser wrth ymgolli yn y dirwedd mewnol. Yn lle hynny, bydd e’n gorfod dysgu talu sylw arbennig i bopeth tu hwnt iddo, a chanolbwyntio arno, ac uno â fe.

 

Hyd yn oed Leskov oedd wedi teithio’n ysbrydol wrth ddringo i ben y polyn llithrig yn y Ddinas Fawr Ddrwg fel petai, gan ddianc o lwyni gwenwynig Pontychen ble glaniodd ei gyndad yr ugeinfed o Gywain-fis 1793 i sefydlu Coleg yr Angylesau Syrthiedig, ar ôl ffoi rhag helynt anghrybwylladwy mewn rhyw dywysogaeth fynyddig yn heigio o fleiddiaid. Ac wrth reswm, erbyn deunawfed Cywain 1867, yr oedd hwn wedi esblygu i fod Canolfan Genedlaethol dros Ledaenu Uniondeb a Gorfodi Dogma. On’d yw hi’n rhyfedd sut mae’r bobl sy wedi elwa hawsaf ar amgylchiadau buddiol ar draul unigolion llai ffodus, yn aml yn gweithio mor galed i wrthod yr un llesiant i eraill yn eu tro? Rwy’n bob dim ond yn hen geg, ond roedd yn gas gen i’r dyn o’r dechrau un. A dychmygwch y sgandal pan lwyddodd ryw dderyn clyfar i ddarllen gwefusau Leskov yng Nghyfarfod Coffadwriaeth yr hen Yarl, a’i gweld yn gwefuso’r geiriau, “Cnaf oedd y gŵr, ac ellylles yw ei wraig, ac mae hyn oll yn wastraff llwyr o amser” yn lle canu Anthem Ansbaradigaethus yr Ynysoedd Ysblennydd. A meddwl mai Leskov ei hun a ysgrifenasai’r geiriau (yn ôl yr hyn a ddywedir wrthym) yn yr hen iaith Etrwsgeg i roi patina o urddas gwlatgar i’r ganig jingoistaidd. Wel, wedi’r cwbl, fe allwch chi roi minlliw ar wenci ond bydd hi bob tro'n edrych yr un peth, on’ fydd hi?

 

Bydd yn rhaid i’r Dewin nabod ei hun yn eithriadol o dda fel mae'n mynd gyda’r graen o ran perfformio’r Gwaith Mawr, a dyna wybodaeth enillir drwy fawr ymdrech yn wir. Trwy ymarfer a hyfforddi, bydd e’n dilyn dymuniadau’r dychymyg yn hytrach nac ysgogyddion allanol, gan gael symud y tu hwnt iddo’i hun, a meddiannu ar bersonoliaethau fyrdd, ac i bob un alluoedd a thalentau gwahanol – boed nhw’n wragedd neu’n ddynion, yn hen neu’n ifanc, yn wyddonwyr neu’n artistiaid, yn hygoelus neu’n amheugar, yn deimladol neu’n sinigaidd, yn obeithiol neu’n ofnus. Bydd e’n llwyddo felly i agor y porth yn arwain at y llwybr cywir, ac wedyn i deithio’r holl ffordd i Vana-zala chwedlonol.

 

Wedi gweld sut roedd y gwynt yn chwythu, aeth y gwleidyddion dauwynebog a bradwrus ati’n syth i gael penodi un o’u tylwyth eu hunain i’r Siambr Arian, gan how da’r ci a hwi da’r cadno, a phleidleisio dros fesurau, neu yn eu herbyn, dim ond er eu lles eu hunain. (Roedd yn arfer bod y Swyddfa Wen, wrth gwrs, ond doedd Leskov ddim yn un i beidio â gwario arian pobl eraill, na chyllid o bwrs y wlad, ro’n nhw’n dweud) [1]. Gwnaethon nhw hyn gyda help Wardeniaid yr holl Ffowndrïau Hyfforddiadol, oedd, hyd y person ola erbyn hynny, yn Rheithorion Rheoledig, neu Ffeiriaid Ffyddlon, neu Chwiorydd Celyd.

 

Ac yno, yng ngwlad breuddwyd ac ysbrydoliaeth, bydd y gwir Ddewin yn fodlon rhoi gorau i chwilio am achosion ac esboniadau, wrth dderbyn y dirgeledigaethau, fel daw rhesymeg yn degan yn ei ddwylo, wrth iddo chwarae â dirwedd, ac adeiladu cestyll yn yr awyr. Ac wedyn, wrth gredu o galon fod y ddau safbwynt ym mhob dadl yn wir yn eu ffordd eu hunain, heb farnu rhyngddyn nhw, bydd ei feddwl agored, a’i amhleidgarwch o ran manylion penodol, yn creu crochan i’r hud ddigwydd ynddo. Yn y pen draw fe ddaw e o hyd i ryddhad hoenus, gan wawdio’i bryderon yr un pryd ei fod yn cael ei ddychryn gan y rhithiau mae’n eu gwysio. Ac wedyn bydd e’n cyrraedd dedwyddwch cyfriniol.

 

Ac wrth gwrs doedd yr academïau, addysgleoedd, asiantaethau, cartelau, colegau, corfforaethau, gwladfeydd, sefydliadau a thai’n perthyn i’r Poly-ysgolion a’r Prifdechnigau (y clonau, cystadleuwyr, efelychwyr gostyngedig, ac olynwyr honedig i Hybarch Sefydliadau Addysg Uwch) ond yn darparu erbyn hynny’r cymwysterau newydd sbon diweddaraf fel “Dulliau Diwylliannol Pragmatig o Ddylanwadu ar y Werin”, “Rheoli a Manteisio ar Glefydau Pandemig”, “Gwybodaeth Ddiamau ynghylch Ffydd Wyddonol”, a “Rhoi Prawf ar y Golwg trwy Yrru Gryn Bellter.” On’d yw hi’n ddiddorol cynifer o wleidyddion fydd yn ymateb yn anfodlon ond yn sicr i alwad daer crefydd er mwyn newid bywydau ac ennill pleidleisiau; cynifer o’n hoffeiriaid ni’n gorfodi’u hunain i droi at gêm fudr gwleidyddiaeth i ladd pechod a thaenu’r ffydd; a chynifer o’r academyddion mwyaf disglair yn gwerthu’u henaid i achub meddyliau ac ennill clod, pan fydd yr amser yn iawn?

 

Mae’r ffug-Swynwr bydol-ddoeth yn anwybyddu’r rhwydwaith o agweddau anweledig a phrofiadau anghofiedig sy’n ffurfio strwythur damweiniol ei bersonoliaeth. I’r gwrthwyneb, mae’n cael ei swyno gan ddamcaniaethau, a systemau, ac egwyddorion rhai eraill. Wrth ymchwilio iddyn nhw, a’u hastudio, a’u cymharu, er mwyn eu pwyso a’u mesur, fe gaiff ei ddal, a mynd yn gaeth iddyn nhw. Ac felly mae’n sicr ei fod yn dibynnu ar sylfaen o wirionedd sy’n cyfatebu’n berffaith i realiti, ac yn ymddiried yn ddigwestiwn yng ngeiriau digyfnewid yr Hen Lyfrau’n esbonio’n rhesymegol ac yn bragmatig sut i ddefnyddio technegau’r dechnoleg hudol yn beiriannol.

 

Felly’r oedd hi: tranc yr hen Yarl, gwarth a diorseddiad y Tad Cenedlaethol, pleidlais frwdfrydig iawn dros hunanbenderfyniad yn yr Ucheldir a’r Iseldir, a rhyfel cartref mewn bron pob un o’r gwladwriaethau yng Nghalon y Cyfandir. A dyna lle’r oedd gwerin yn y Parth Gwyrdd ar Ynys Eirw dros y môr i’r gorllewin, yn y Parth Coch yma yng ngwald annwyl Kimbria, yn y Parth Pinc gormesol i’r dwyrain, ac yn y Parth Glas hanner annibynnol yr ochr arall i’r Mur Ymerodrol yn y gogledd, yn galaru am arwder bodolaeth gan mwya, ond yn dathlu’n wyllt heb unrhyw reswm neilltuol bob hyn a hyn ‘fyd. Ife gwaith y Pŵer Cosmig yw’r trychinebau oll sy’n bodoli ledled yr Holl Fyd? Yr Hanfod Digyfnewid   sydd ym mhob peth, yn y nefoedd, ac o’n hamgylch. Ac ynom ni ‘fyd, yn ein hanfod mewnol, ond dyn ni’n brwydro mor galed i’w anwybyddu gan amla. Dyn ni’n haeddu, ninnau, y bobl ddrwg, ddioddef profedigaeth a themtasiynau cryf, gan gael ein llosgi a’n arteithio, am ein bod yn dod â chymaint o anffawd i ni’n hunain (yn ôl Proctoriaid Addysg Grefyddol yr EFE, be bynnag). Wel, mae’r naill ran o hynny’n gywir o leia, ond y llall yn hollol dwp!

 

Mae’r ffug-Swynwr tyngu felly bydd e’n dilyn y cyfarwyddiadau’n slafaidd, ac ufuddhau i’r cyfreithiau i’r llythyren. Yn y system ffwndamentalaidd newydd sbon danlli hon, ni chaniateir darlleniadau anawdurdodedig. Does dim lle i amwysedd creadigol, i ddehongliad, i gywreinrwydd, i unigrwydd. Does dim dewis o ran du neu wyn, gwir neu gau, da neu ddrwg, cywir neu anghywir. Felly mae’n credu’i fod yn gweithredu’n llygatgraff, ac ar ddechrau pob ymdrech bydd hyn yn ffynhonnell hyder diderfyn, a chryfder annynol.

 

Ond eto i gyd, beth am yr ysbeidiau anfynych ‘na o lawenydd bendigedig? Rhaid i rywun gymryd cyfrifoldeb, on’d oes? Wel, dyna gwestiwn mae pobl wedi bod yn trio’i ateb ers milenia bellach, heb obaith caneri o lwyddo, wrth gwrs, yn fy nhyb i. Ond mae wedi gadael i gryn nifer ennill eu tamaid fel meddyliaethwyr, ac anianyddwyr, a rhethregwyr, wrth lafurio i esbonio’r fath bethau. Does dim syndod bod yr EFE yn dechrau datgan yn uwch, uwch y dylai pob person synhwyrol a chall (a theyrngar), naill ai’n oedolyn neu’n blentyn, be bynnag oedd ei ryw neu’i statws cymdeithasol, gau’i feddwl rhag dychmygion gwylltion fel hyn, neu’n wir rhag meddyliau annibynnol o unrhyw fath.

 

Dyw’r ffug-Swynwr ddim yn ennill ysbrydoliaeth felly, ond yn cael ei aberthu ar eingion mynychder. Bydd e’n defnyddio’r ewyllys i yrru’r dychymyg, gan ddirmygu’r corff a gweithio yn erbyn y graen, ac yn groes i lif yr egni creadigol. Dyna fe’n trio newid yr Holl Fyd i gydymffurfio a’i gysyniadau, yn hytrach na gadael i’r Holl Fyd fynegi agweddau ar ei hun trwyddo yntau. Bydd e wastad yn syrthio i hen batrymau, ac ail-ddefnyddio ystrydebau, wrth lafurio’n ofer i orchymyn dydd a nos, haul a lleuad, nant ac anialdir, dinas a theulu, gyfraith a chân.

 

Dyma ffawd marwolion ar y Ddaear Greulon yn ôl yr EFE o leia. Mae ganddyn nhw ddrwgdybiaeth ddofn ynghylch natur amhur y Ddynol Ryw, a chasineb o’i hofn, ei hanwybodaeth, ei diogi, a’i hanallu i wrthsefyll gwewyr bodolaeth ar y Ddaear Greulon na churo’n reddfol â rhythm y Bod Mawr. Dyma ni’n cael ein geni wedi’n hamddifadu yng nghanol tir agored maes y gad ble mae grymoedd anweledig yn brwydro. Mae’n synhwyrau’n ein twyllo; ein meddyliau’n ein camarwain; ein hemosiynau’n wag ac yn ofer; a hyd yn oed dagrau rhwystredigaeth ac ofn yn sychu’n rhy fuan o lawer. Er ein bod yn cynnwys smotyn o’r Ysbryd Anweledig, rydym yn cario drygioni yng nghnewyllyn pob cell. Dyma Wehelyth Gresynus y Thorlin —

 

Za-vía a ddygodd y Pŵer Cosmig i greu Vana-zala, wedi’i reoli gan y Ví-azalim; ac yna, Nevlas a Salkas a greodd Yoth-nunu yn gartref i Salvas a Neklas; caru a ffraeo Thiamath ac Amzu a gynhyrchodd y Thialas gwrthryfelgar; y Thialas a laddodd Amzu, ac gwneud Mithe-rethí, y Byd Glas; Nilroth o’r Thialas a ffurfiodd Heli-hrelí, yr Isfyd, a Vith-sathí, y Ddaear Greulon; Nilroth hefyd a luniodd Dvaldí o waed, a phridd, a haearn a’i roi yn Ethna-zala, Gardd Pleserau Daearol; Dvaldí a holltodd ei hun i greu’r Dvaldimil; y Dvaldimil a wrthryfelodd cyn i Nilroth roi iddyn nhw Hlevné wedi’i gwneud o goed, a dŵr, ac awyr; Hlevné a holltodd ei hun hefyd i greu’r Hlevnilim; a Hlevné a Dvaldí a esgorodd ar eu mab Davuth yn Ethna-sathí, Rhos Poen a Dioddefaint; Davuth ac Elena a gafodd eu temtio gan Xlotlringku Vlaltanlu-tnalzse, a bwyta ffrwyth y pomgranad, a lladd eu teulu oll, gan anfon pawb i Heli-hrelí, cyn gadael Ethna-zala i epilio tras fwystfilaidd y Thorlin. Y Brenin Uzil a ddaeth â gwareiddiad i’r Thorlin; Uruza Fab Uzil a drawsffurfiodd y Ddaear Greulon trwy ladd ei ewythr drwg, Zuthas, a dod yn Uthil Zuzas, yr Archoffeiriad cyntaf; o Uthil Zuzas yr hanai llwyth y Nava-thalí, yn cynnwys y Saith Gast, sef An-hazu, Az-alé, El-etho, Na-nana, Ne-hethu, Si-leva, ac Ul-heru; y Nava-thalí a’u halogodd eu hunain, a’u cipiwyd i Aliz-íya; Tho-vítha o’r Nava-thalí yn unig a gadwai gyfraith Uthil Zuzas, a daeth ef yn ei dro yn sefydlwr ar Ek-lesya Vith-yahní, hynny yw, yr Eglwys Fyd-Eang.

 

Trwy hyn bydd y ffug-Swynwr yn llwyddo dim ond i ddileu pleserau’r synhwyrau, a chonsurio trymder milain a marwol, sy’n arwain at iselder ysbryd a’r felan ymhlith anialdir meddyliol. Mae e’n bras-greu, gan alw pethau i fod mewn grwpiau lletchwith, fel bod ei rithiau afreal yn bodoli mewn ryw le hanner ffordd rhwng yr annaearol a’r gwrthun. Mae’n disgwyl i realiti ufuddhau i’w orchymyn dim ond am iddo siarad yn awdurdodol, wrth geisio corlannu cysgodion yn lle rhyngweithio â gwrthrychau go iawn. A tra’i fod yn dychmygu iddo gonsurio siapiau drwg a ffigurau brawychus â’i ddatganiadau, dim ond malu awyr mae e.

 

Fe gawson ni, y Thorlin, ein creu’n anghyfreithlon. Yr ydym yn bodoli mewn Byd wedi’i reoli gan ofod ac amser. Yr ydym yn cael ein geni drwy gyfathrach rywiol. Mae inni gyrff cnawdol gweinion. Yr ydym dan reolaeth y Saith Fethiant Dynol: dyheu, ymlafnio, methu, ennill, llowcio, dioddef, goroesi, marw. Dyna’r rheswm pam byddwn ni’n cael ein perswadio’n rhy hawdd o lawer gan leisiau mewnol ac allanol i ildio i demtasiynau o bob math. Ac wedyn byddwn ni’n gweithredu’n wael, gan foddio mympwyon gwamal, mwytho gobeithion ffug, ac ymbleseru mewn arferiadau anweddus iawn o ran corff a meddwl. Dyn ni’n disgwyl ein ffawd yn ddiymgeledd cyn cael ein torri i lawr heb allu bwrw’n ôl. Ac rydym ni’n haeddu hynny, gan taw pwdr hyd at fêr ein hesgyrn ydym, heb obaith gwaredigaeth, na chadwedigaeth, na maddeuant yn y bywyd ofer hwn. Ond, diolch i’r Pŵer Cosmig, yr aelodau o’r Eglwys Fyd-Eang a dyngodd na fyddan nhw byth yn rhoi’r gorau i’r frwydr dda i achub y Byd a’i drigolion di-werth, hyd at ddiwedd olaf y Ddaear Greulon. Mae ar bob pechadur gwan ei ysbryd angen cymorth yr Eglwys i’w ddisgyblu’i hun, rhag iddo gael ei ysu gan abred wedi’i ysgogi gan yr ellyll moel o’r enw Gwall, sy’n dod o’i ffau â’i bigyrnau heb blu i wledda ar y gwrthodedigion truenus. Mae’r endid hwn yn anfeidrol, ac yn ysglyfaethus a dyw e’m yn gwbod dim byd am dosturi. Ac wedyn, ar yr Eiliad Derfynol pan egyr y drysau gyda fflachiad fiolet, arswydus, bydd trystio ofnadwy oddi mewn. Ac fe gaiff ei gondemnio, wedi’i glymu â rhaffau o fwg gwyn o’r Dyfnfor Drewllyd, i fynd i ebargofiant yn y Seithfed Uffern, ar ôl dioddef o’r Ysfa Saith Mlynedd, heb fedru ymuno â’r Pŵer Cosmig byth eto. Ni allwn ond ceisio efelychu curiad anochel yr Holl Fyd, a chanu emynau yn iaith golau a gwirionedd, er mwyn cael ein rhyddhau pan fydd y pyrth olaf yn agor gan arllwys allan ddŵr du difancoll [2]. A dim ond yr EFE yn medru dysgu inni sut i wneud hynny.

 

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[1] Heia chi oll, yr hen lamas rhechlyd, twp! Dim ond E.B.P. sy ‘ma (Ecolegydd Barnau Profedigaethus, hahaha!) Pen y Plant Indigo (Ww, dw’n dwlu ar y lliw ‘na, lliw hud cry yw e, ch’mod, a fi sy’n pennu stwff fel ‘na ers sbel nawr). Wel, nage fi sy’n gallu sylwi ar faterion gwleidyddol fel ‘yn (sdim diddordeb ‘da fi ynddyn nhw o gwbwl, a ma’n bosib i fi neud pethau lawer gwell gan ddefnyddio ‘nulliau sbesial ‘yn hunan, ta be). Ond a sôn am bwdrod gwarthus, chi wedi clywed am yr hen jawl o’r enw Jwmbo “Llusgwr Buffled” Stetson? Âi fe o gwmpas y Byd Bygyrd yn ei siwt o groen sarff a sgidiau ‘sgafn o ledr moch, gan werthu eli saim madfall fel moddion gwyrthiol ac achosi niwed a phoen difesur ble bynnag rhôi fe’i het ar yr hoel.

 

Yn jyngloedd Panamà (yng nghynffon Gwlad Meryk), a arferai heigio o rywogaethau diri o anifeiliaid trofannol unigryw a diddorol tu hwnt (i’r arbenigwyr o leia), a bod yn orlawn o blanhigion ecsotig gyda galluoedd rhyfedd i niweidio a gwella, fe ryddhaodd e ar hap a damwain bla o germau fuodd yn difa nhw i gyd. Fe wyrdrôdd ddinasyddion ynys iwtopaidd Lávàna (oddi ar arfordir Gogledd-ddwyrain Gwlad Meryk), gan droi Cymdeithas Cydweithrediad Cyfeillgar yn fagwrfa Baternalistig budrwleidydda a phoblyddiaeth ronc. Fa gâi Baghdâd (yng nghanol Cilgant Toreithiog el-Rābí), Noddfa Heddwch a Goddefgarwch Crefyddol hynafol ei radicaleiddio dan ei nawdd, gan fynd yn feithrinfa i aelodau cwlt marwol o frawychwyr. O ganlyniad i’w gyngor cyllidol, fe aeth yr hwch drwy’r siop yn ninas Kazavràgka (yng Ngogledd Faraqand), Canolfan Ariannol y Byd, gan beri i ddegau o filoedd o bobl eu taflu eu hunain oddi ar y toeon mewn anobaith.

 

Yng Ngogledd Gwlad Meryk, gyda help sibrwd taer y gŵr-grwt, fe ymunodd Mannahàttan, prifddinas Cytref Ddirfawr Ddwyreiniol Cyfryngau ac Adloniant, â Hávuhd, hwb addysgolyddiaeth orlethol, ac Arkuhnsóh, pencadlys y lluoedd arfog. Fe gydweithiai’r tri chawr ‘ma i greu gêm gamblo newydd sbon o’r enw “al-kanàsta” (“jar gwynfyd”) a  addawai’r enillai pobl fodlonrwydd tu hwnt i ddychymyg drwy ei chwarae ddydd a nos. Fe gymerai hi’r Blaned Benwan drosodd mor gyflym, ac mewn gwirionedd, fe gaethiwai filiynau o’r werinos, gan achosi iddyn nhw fethu a gwneud diwedd eu hunain. Rhaid i fi nodi taw Jwmbo ei hun a elwai’n ddirfawr o’r holl drychinebau ‘ma. Malais, hurtrwydd, diofalwch, direidi, neu bob un o’r rhain? Celwyddgi noeth, lleidr digywilydd, merchetwr aflednais, bradwr diegwyddor, neu bob un ohonyn nhw? Pwy feiddiai weud? Ond hyd yn oed wrth gael llusgo ei enw drwy’r baw, fe gynyddai poblogrwydd, drwg-enwogrwydd a dylanwad y lembo, ac fe aeth Stetson yn dra chyfoethog a phwerus o ganlyniad (cyn i’w grwpis gwirion droi yn ei erbyn, ei fradychu, ei daflu i’r bleiddiaid, ac wedyn ei roi i'w grogi, wrth gwrs). — Elfan Baldrog Bacster.

 

[2] Dw i’n cael fy atgoffa yma o eiriau Sesiline Arian (yn “Dihuno’r Cawr yn Cysgu”): “Fyddai’n deg dweud yma mai hyd yn oed ysgerbwd dinas hynafol, wedi’i difetha gan drychineb ac yn anghyfannedd, sy’n heigio o rithiau iaith, diwylliant, ac ystyr.” Teimlaf reidrwydd i rannu’r darn canlynol, “Geiriau Olaf Colledig,” a ddaeth i fi ar ôl sesiwn arbennig o boenus yn ymyl Pair Damnedigaeth. — P.M.

 

“Bydd y Byd yn parhau, waeth pa mor wan nac mor welw,” medden nhw, “tra deil yr un dyn i siarad Kwmrik yng ngwlad goch Kwmrí.” Wel, dyna dwp, on’d ife, am na all un dyn siarad â’i hunan gyda llawer o synnwyr o gwbl onibai’u bod nhw’n wallgo. Ac os o’u co ydyn nhw’n wir, wedi drysu’n llwyr a chael eu certio bant i’r gwallgofdy heb oedi, wedyn fyddan nhw’m ond yn malu cachu ta be, mewn unrhyw dafodiaith chi’n gallu chrybwyll. Wel, ‘sdim ots am ‘ny oll. Dyna fi, Flimzí Foyl (wi’n credu), a fu unwaith Forwyn y Grisiau Cefn a Siani Pob Swydd i’r Vazlaw, y Penadur Hyfrytaf a Mwyaf Echryslon. W i ‘di bod yn crwydro strydoedd mud, gwag rhyw dre yng ngwlad goch fy Mam, yn chwilio am fwyd (a falle am fywyd dynol ‘fyd) fel arfer. W i bellach wedi cyrraedd lle o’r enw Keunant Kwi-folya ar droed Klegyr Kraktakws, mwy na thebyg, ac yn teimlo’n od iawn. Mae fel ‘sai rhywbeth yn ‘y ngwylio i, yn rhythu arna i, ddim o unman yn neilltuol ond o bobman, ac yn gwrando arna i’n meddwl, bob amser ar fin ymateb neu gipio’r geiriau ymaith, wrth wasgu tuag allan o rywle oddi mewn i fi. Ife sach o gnawd lawn gwaed dw i, tybed, neu freuddwyd plentyn twymynol, yn mynd i wasgaru ar y gwynt fel miliynau o ronynnau o baill i ffrwythloni, wel, pwy a ŵyr pa fath o flodyn marwol?

 

Ôn i di dod i dod i Vre-tanya yng ngosgordd y Vaslaw i gyfieithu, siarad o’i ran e, ymgymysgu â’r bobl gyffredin ddrewllyd, a bod yn gyfryngwr iddo wrth ddelio gyda’r penaduriaid herfeiddiol y rebeliaid. Ôdd hyd yn oed meddwl am Wlad yr Adynod Bryntion yn achosi problemau ofnadw i’w suddion treulio a’i hylifau ysgarthol. Ôdd e’n awyddus iawn i iselhau a thorri crib y brodorion am fod y wlad wedi meddu ar ymerodraeth yn rhychwantu’r glôb cyfan ar un adeg, ac mor ddireswm â’i gieidd-dra ôdd ei genfigen. Felly, cyn iddo gyrraedd mewn gogoniant, fe orchmynnodd i groen y trigolion ym mhob un o’r parthau annibynnol gael ei lifo’n annileadwy gyda lliwiau hanesyddol y genedl dan gosb marwolaeth – gan gwrth-ddweud yn llwyr waharddiadau’r Ymdriniaethau Athrawiaethus. Fe ddeddfodd hefyd i blentyn hena pob teulu gael ei gludo ymaith i wasanaethu fel eunuch etholedig neu butain fendigedig yn Nhemlau’r Vazlaw ledled y belen fawlyd ‘ma o blaned neu gael ei ladd yn y fan a’i fwyta heb ei goginio gan y rhieni, y brodyr a’r chwiorydd syfrdan.

 

Gweithred gynta’r Pen-dyn Odiaeth ac Arteithiol ar dir ei diriogaeth waedlyd, newydd ôdd gollwng Senedd y Dirprwyon Proletaraidd, gan gipio’r cleddyf glân a’i doddi’n gobled win gawraidd. Ar ben ‘ny, fe osododd e fwgan brain yn dwyn delwedd drallodus y diweddar frenin di-ben (os nad y pen ei hunan) wedi’i goroni â choron o ddrain ar Stôl Gysegredig y Cynullydd, a neud i’r holl henuriaid, stiwardiaid a hierarchiaid blygu’n isel ger ei fron a thalu llw gwrogaeth iddo yn ei enw e. Fe orfododd y Frenhines Gydweddog newydd golli’i gŵr i briodi a prancio yn y ffordd fwya anfoesol gyda’i farch arobryn. Gyda rhodres mawr, fe sefydlodd e’i ddihiryn o dad fel Pennaeth Urdd y Marchogion Cosmopolitaidd, gan dorri’r rheolau hynafol yn ymwneud â thalu’r ffi briodol cyn derbyn gwobrwyon anhaeddiannol. (Ôdd e di tefnu i’w fam gael ei llosgi wrth y stanc fel gwraig hysbys – neu fe fuodd hi farw gan gywilydd – wedi iddo arwain y chwildro mwya milain yn hanes gwaedlyd ei famwlad yn dair ar ddeg oed.)

 

Nage dyna ôdd diwedd y gwaith, fodd bynnag. Ôdd e’n mynnu bod pawb yn gweud eich ardderchowgrwydd, eich teilyngdod, eich parchedigaeth neu’ch gras wrth gyfeirio at bob un copa walltog o’i wragedd a’i ordderchadon, a phob un o epil niferus ei lwynau mwya ffrwythlon. Nesa, fe orfododd y lleoedd addoliad i gael eu hailenwi fel “Kolkodhau,” ac – yr arswyd – gwneud iddyn nhw arddangos cerflun pres o’i Hunan Mwyaf Dymunol a Digalon ar y llwyfan sanctaidd. Ei weithred ola o fandaliaeth ddiwylliannol ôdd cyhoeddi yr adwaenid yr holl Wallgofdai Academaidd fel Kollegau Klvkrukí o hynny ‘mlaen, wedi rhoi baedd o’r coed yn gwisgo gŵn a boned i fyw yn Anhedd-dai’r Deoniaid ôdd eisoes gymaint yn fryntach – o ran deall, cymdeithas, a moeseg – nag unrhyw garthbwll cyhoeddus.

 

Ta be, fi sy’n gallu deall Kwmrik, a’i sgrifennu, a’i ddarllen i ryw raddau o leia (pe bai’r fath bethau rhyfedd a hynafol â phapur a llyfrau, inc a phwyntilau ar gael eto), er dyw ‘ny o ddim pwys ar y ddaear ‘ma bellach. (Dysgais i’n ddirgel yn grotes fach ar lin fy Mam wrth iddi fwydo i fi hadau rhyfedd a blasus iawn o pwrs yn agos at ei chalon. Ond, wrth gwrs, alla i fyth llwyddo i’w siarad hi’n berffaith am dw i ddim wedi ‘mendithio drwy gael ‘ngeni ar lannau’r wlad anial ‘ma ymhlith ‘mhobol gyndadol i). Ac unwaith ‘to, fel mor aml o’r blaen – fel sy’n digwydd ers blynyddoedd bellach – dyna nhw’n ymosod arna i – y blydi menig byw – un binc, un werdd, un goch, ac un las y tro ‘ma (lliwiau parthau annibynnol hyglod hen ddiflanedig Vre-tanya, ha, ha!), yn trio ‘nhreisio i wrth ‘ngyrru i – yn ara, yn anhrugarog, yn anhrefnus – tuag at y llyn o gol-tar.

 

A finnau’r fenyw gyfangorff ola’n dal i fyw (yn Kwmrí o leia, hyd gwela i; ‘sdim wybod be sy’n digwydd fan arall yn y byd maluriedig ‘ma), yn crwydro ymhlith adfeilion gwaredigaeth. Wi di bod ar ‘mhen fy hunan bach ers y dydd ‘na pan fu farw siaradwr brodorol olaf Kwmrik. I ddechau, rôdd ‘na dri ohonyn nhw ar ôl allai breblan yn yr iaith nefolaidd, wrth gwrs, Meistri’r Gymanfa Goch: Uchel Ddraig Kywirdeb Kyflawn, Unig Lygad-dyst Kyfrinachau Kwmrí, a Chyfansoddwr Glân Kysyniadau Kyfareddol. Ond fe gwrddai pob un ohonyn nhw yn ei dro â’r casglwr caddugol, y cariad ‘na heb gysgod wedi’i siomi ers cyhyd (fel nawn ni bawb o’r diwedd, gobeithio!). A dyma beth arall yn ‘mhoenydio i’n fwy dieflig na’r blydi dannedd yn sgrechian gan boen yn ‘y mhen i ‘fyd. Liwtydd a chantores ôn i ar un adeg, yn ogystal â dewines-iaith. Pan aethon nhw, y Triawd Tra-rhagorol, a thorrodd popeth i lawr, ôdd fel ‘sai’r holl sain wedi’i sugno ma’s o’r byd. ‘Sdim miwsig mwyach i swyno gofidiau ymaith a lleddfu cnofeydd bodolaeth. Sa i’n gallu chwibanu na mwmian tiwn. Nage hyd yn oed am un ennyd. Yn unman. Rywsut so’r aer mwrn yn ganiatáu fe. Sa i’n gwybod ydw i’n gallu siarad hyd yn oed. ‘Sdim ond y myngial, y gwichian, y griddfan a’r rhegfeydd yn codi a gostegu fel geiserau o asid yn hisian i bob cyfeiriad, ddydd a nos, haul neu law, drwy deg neu dwyll.

 

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Nawr ‘te, tra ôn nhw’n fyw, dôdd gan y Meistresi parchus a’r Meistr aruchel ddim byd arall ar eu meddwl na gogoniant cuddiedig hynafol Kwmrí; glander, cywirdeb a rhinwedd dragwyddol Kwmrik; a huwchraddoldeb y “langue” dros bob un arall sy ‘rioed wedi bodoli, neu a fodolai fyth ar wyneb y blaned. Rôn nhw’n credu, yn meddwl, ac yn gwybod, o waelod eu calonnau dilychwin a heb ronyn o ansicrwydd, na allai’r un ymhlith y tras Yerthish fyth ddeall, na dysgu, na siarad yr iaith odidoca ‘ma’n berffaith – na dirnad cyfrinachau’r Gymanfa Goch – os na fendithiwyd hi â’r anrheg fwya a mwya annisgrifiadwy hon gan yr Ymwybyddiaeth Amhosibl; os na chafodd hi’i geni ar lannau Kwmrí; ac os na hyfforddodd hi’n hir ac yn galed. Wrth gwrs, dim ond dymuno meddu ar ffiloreg Kwmrí, a diwylliant a mawredd y wlad gyntefig o achos hyn a wnâi’r arweinyddion oll o bob cwr pellennig y byd – y tywyswyr parchus, y penaduriaid, y marsialiaid, y gafferiaid, y crachach, y capteiniaid, y barwniaid cyffuriau, a’r arglwyddi rhyfel. Yn enwedig achos taw dim ond tri siaradwr ôdd yn dal i fyw, a dôdd lawer o amser ar ôl.

 

Rôn nhw’n ysu’n anad dim am gael eu hynydu i Gylch Cyfaredd a fu’n wreiddiol yn gartref ysbrydol i’r rhyfelwyr, y gwladgarwyr a’r enwogion (yn ogystal â’r beirdd, y cantorion a’r llenorion) er pan ddatgelwyd y cyfrinachau i’r Uchel Ddraig cyntaf mewn gweledigaeth lân wedi’i hysbrydoli gan smocio’r cetyn llesmeiriol yn yr Oesoedd Goleuedig Anghofiedig. Rhywbeth i synnu arno yn wir ôdd seremonïau’r Gymanfa Goch, rhwng y gwisgoedd tra lliwgar, y dawnsiau deniadol, yr areithiau angerddol, y caneuon cyweirber, yr ystumiau awgrymiadol, a’r symbolau cyfrin. Rôdd yr holl berfformiadau’n dra hudol, ac yn well o lawer nag unrhyw beth ar gael yn areithiau’r hen Undebau Anfedrusrwydd Uchel-ael alaethus neu Urdd Uniongrededd Apwyntiedig faluriedig).

 

Ar y dechrau, aelodau o’r lwythi llywodraethol gâi’u gwahodd gan amlaf i ymuno â rhengoedd bendigedig y Gymanfa Goch er eu mawr anrhydedd, mae’n debyg. Maes o law, urddid “yn rhinwedd eu swyddi,” grachfonedd, diddanwyr, gweinidogion, gwleidyddion, masnachwyr, a phencampwyr, ymhlith eraill o’r unrhyw. Ac yn hwyrach, derbynnid penarglwyddi’r sesiynau statudol aruthrol ac wedyn cneciau’r criw brenhinol pwdr, a ddefnyddia’r Gymdeithas Ardderchocaf fel clwb preifat. Wrth gwrs, gydag amser, cyn lleied o’r unigolion ‘ma gawsai’u geni yn Kwmrí a hyd yn oed llai a fedrai iaith y werin. Felly, nage heb reswm, pylai’r hud, diflannai’r brwdfrydedd, a gostyngai niferodd yr aelodau fwyfwy. O’r diwedd. dôdd neb yn ffyddlon i hen ffyrdd y mamau a thadau ar ôl ar wahân i’r Tri Gwyliwr Gwrthnysig.

 

Wel, maentumiai Penllywyddion y Gymanfa Goch eu syniadau cyfareddol, eu hymddygiad mympwyol, a’u gwrthodiad diysgog i ddosbarthu’u dirgelion, derbyn newyddianod, na dysgu’r llafar i neb arall. O ganlyniad i hyn, rôdd y rheolwyr oll o Yasya anhygyrch, i Mwskvisk anwar, i Yw-rovya annynol yn brwydro’n fwy ffyrnig fyth i gael hyd i’r wybodaeth gêl ganddynt cyn iddynt gicio’r bwced (yn y synnwyr trosiadol wrth gwrs) fel petai. Rôn nhw wedi’u hargyhoeddi’u hunain fod gan Penllywyddion y GG (ac i raddau llai, gan rengoedd is y Cigfrain, y Cariadon, y Cedwyr, y Coelcerthi, y Coleddwyr, y Cenhadon, a’r Cenhedlwyr, er nad ôdd yr un o’r rhain yn bodoli erbyn hynny) bwerau aruthrol, o ystyried hanes nodedig Kwmrí o’i chymharu â gweddill Gwlad y Gwrtharwyr Gwaethaf.

 

Yn gyntaf, daeth Siani Pob Swydd i’r Vazlaw, y Tywysog Melysaf (hynny yw fi fy hunan) gerbron y Drindod Lachar i ymbil arnynt yn daer o waelod ei chalon i rannu’r anrhegion nefol. Pan ddwedodd y tri wrthi am fynd i grafu, mynd i’r diawl, ei bachu hi, a mynd o’u golwg i weld ei nain, aethpwyd â Chyfansoddwr Glân Kysyniadau Kyfareddol ymaith ar orchymyn y Vazlaw, ymhlith trybestod mawr. Fe gaeth hi’i larpio gan fleiddiau newynog, ac wrth i Lyfrgell y Gymanfa Goch losgi, rôdd hi’n gweiddi: “Mae’r Vazlaw Hyllaf wedi rhyddhau angenfilod ar y byd. O’i herwydd ef, caiff y Yerth Adfydus oll ei rhwygo, gan ei gynnwys ef. Ni fydd dim bai ar y Forwyn fodd bynnag. Ni ddylai’r gaethwraig ddioddef o achos pechodau’r meistr. Bydd ei chroen pur yn ei hachub i grwydro’r bêl ar ddarfod a datgan y gwir i’r gwyntoedd gwatwarus.”

 

Nesaf, aeth Morwyn y Grisiau Cefn i’r Vazlaw, y Pasia Mwyaf Dybryd (fi fy hunan, mewn geiriau eraill) i gwrdd â’r Pâr Llathr i ddadlau a rhesymu â nhw, a cheisio eu darbwyllo i ddatgelu strwythur, rheolau, a gweithrediad y Gymanfa Goch, a falle, tipyn mwy am gystrawen, semanteg, pragmateg, arddulleg a barddoneg Kwmrik nag a ddarganfod hithau eisoes. Pan ddwedodd y ddau wrthi’n anghwrtais iawn i fynd i’r diawl ac wedyn ei thaflu’i hun i’r Agen Amhlymiadwy, ynganodd y Vazlaw’r geiriau tyngedfennol, ac aethpwyd â’r Unig Lygad-dyst Kyfrinachau Kwmrí ymaith dan strancio. Fe gaeth hi’i berwi mewn olew sanctaidd nes iddi doddi, wrth i daclau hynafol y Grefft gael eu dinistrio o flaen ei llygaid. Tra digwyddai hyn, rôdd hi’n nadu mewn loes: “Mae’r Vazlaw Gwannaf a Llwfraf wedi penderfynu llosgi’r byd. O’i herwydd ef, try pob môr, ac afon, a nant yn hylif du drewllyd a gwyd i wenwyno’r blaned. Ond ni chaiff y Gaethes ei chosbi. Bid iddi ddianc a byw i gyhoeddi drygioni’i Meistr i’r awyr ar dân.”

 

Yn olaf oll, y Vazlaw Klvkrukí Kreylon o Kol-kodha ei hunan, y Pendefig Mwyaf Dymunol a Dieflig a frasgamodd i mewn i Babell y Gymanfa Goch i gyfarch yr Uchel Ddraig. Mwyn, a chywir, a pharchus ôdd ei eiriau cychwynnol, ond corddi mor ogleisiol yng nghefn ei feddwl ôdd syniadau mwy aflednais a mwy anchwaethus na holl hen bechodau tybiedig yr Ehangdir Deheubarthol at ei gilydd. Pan dderbyniodd e ddim ateb ond mudandod duraidd, gorchmynnodd i’r hen ddyn hysbys ryddhau pob gronyn ac elfen o wybodaeth ynghylch ei ddirgeledigaethau ac wedyn cyflenwi Seremoni Urddo. Ac nid poléit ôdd yr ymadroddion yn arllwys o geg yr Un Mwyaf Arswydus a Swynol y tro hwn.

 

Wedi ystyried yn hir ac yn ddwys (fe ddwedai rhai ei fod yn smalio neu chwarae bili-ffŵl, o ystyried yr holl dynnu gwep, yr oeri cawl, y sboncian o gwmpas, a’r tynnu gwallt), ildiodd unig siaradwr Kwmrik – yr un olaf oll yn dal i fyw ac anadlu yn unrhyw le ar y blaned. Fe ebychodd e, gan ddefnyddio’r ormodiaith fwya rhemp a lliwgar y dylai’r Vazlaw ei buro’i hun mor ofalus â gallai dyn yn ei sefyllfa’i neud, cyn agor ei benglog â haclif a thynnu’i ymennydd â llyw dde, ac wedyn cael piclo’i gorff mewn ambrosia pêr llawn mêl i’w arddangos i genedlaethau’r dyfodol fel esiampl o’r twpdra marwol. Wedyn dangosodd y Vazlaw sut ŵr ôdd e, trwy stopio’i hun rhag gwylltu’n deg fel stabl o geffylau cynddeiriog. Fe ddechreuodd esbonio mor ddidaro ag walabi ewn ar fin gwerthu’r lleuad sut y byddai’n cynnal bywyd y tad-cu musgrell wrth ei arteithio. Dôdd hi’m yn gas ganddo adrodd sut byddai’n ei andwyo, trwy ddallu, gwenwyno, llindagu, llosgi, rhwygo’r tafod â phinsiwrn, sathru, boddi mewn “aqua rēgia,” trywanu, ac ysbaddu â siswrn pŵl. Rôdd e’n mynd i’r hwyl yn wir wrth fanylu ar sut byddai fe’n ei ddirboeni, ei ddirdynnu, a’i boenydio – os nad am byth, am weddill ei fywyd naturiol – neu annaturiol.

 

Dyna lle’r ôdd yr Uchel Ddraig yn diystyru’r bygythiadau a melltithion gwallgof ond difrifol iawn, wrth ddweud yn isel: “Gwell i Kwmrik farw na chael ei llurgunio gan weision y Fall. Ni siaradaf rhagor, ond agoraf y porth a dangos y dyfodol i chi. Gwelwch!” Amneidiodd ar y Vazlaw i wisgo amdano fantell ysgarlad â ffeisin aur (i gynrychioli nerth cnawd a gwaed a gogoniant yr haul), a chwcwll yn las golau tu mewn ac emrallt tu allan â ffesin melyn (i gynrychioli’r awyr ddiderfyn, natur anataliadwy, a thosturi er gwaetha poen bywyd), a rhoi am ei ben gap Phrygiaidd gwyn (i gynrychioli doethineb yr oesoedd hen farw oll). Wedyn, pan ôdd y Vazlaw wedi neud hyn, ymestynnodd y dyn hysbys gwdyn lledr oddi dan ei ŵn hir llwyd, a thynnu dyrnaid o baill oddi mewn yn ogystal â phot bach gwydr ac ynddo ychydig ddafnau o hylif purddu, byw. Wedi llyncu’r paill, gadawodd i’r pot syrthio i’r llawr ble chwalodd gyda thincial bron yn anghlywadwy, cyn cwympo i lawr ei hun mor farw â chwlff enfawr o lo. A dyna ôdd y diwedd ar siaradwr brodorol olaf Kwmrik. Dim ffrwydrad, a dim ond griddfan gwan.

 

Er na fyddai neb wedi’i gredu, ar ennyd marw’r hen sant ffel, ysgrifennwyd gwarant ddienyddio’r ddaear yn y fan a’r lle. Yn y funud honno, naeth y gelain grebachu i ddim a throi’n faint dirfawr o lwch gloyw. Cyfunodd hwn a’r hylif du i ffurfio rhubanau o olau hardd a aeth ‘mlaen i lapio’r Vazlaw Klvkrukí Kreylon o Kol-kodha a phob un o’i ddilynwyr – wel, pawb ymhlith ei weision ar wahân i un, hynny yw, fi – gan sugno’r enaid unigol ohonynt. Ac wedyn, cychwynnodd y stribedi pobliw o oleuni pefriol ar eu ffordd i ddifa’r Yerth, gan chwyrlïo, a thoncio, a thyfu drwy’r amser wrth ladd bron popeth o’u blaen. Rôdd marwolaeth y rhai a gyffyrddwyd gan edefynnau golau mor gyflym ag rôdd yn sydyn. O ‘nghwmpas i, Flimzí Foyl, fe fuodd farw pob peth yn byw, anadlu, a siarad. Dim ond fi a ddaliai i sefyll, meddwl, ofni, a rhyfeddu.

 

Ond yn waethaf oll, er bod nhw’n farw gelain, parhâi’u cyrff i weithio a gwingo, gan ddechrau warpio a rhwygo’n ddarnau cyn pen dim. Naeth yr aelodau a’r pennau ddatgysylltu’u hunain o’r fframiau. Rôdd y pennau’n parablu lol fel pwmpenni dieflig; y breichiau a’r coesau yn plannu eu hunain mewn gerddi, caeau, a strydoedd i chwifio yn yr awel fel planhigion ffiaidd; a’r torsoau’n rolio o gwmpas a thyfu gwreiddiau brasterog ble bynnag arhosen nhw. Ar rai ohonynt, rôdd y coluddion wedi dod yn rhydd i ddolennu fel seirff a cheisio dal a bwyta pethau eraill. Ymhobman ac yn gyson, byddai talpiau o gnawd yn ffrwydro o’r rhannau chwaledig fel crawn berwedig o gornwydydd llidus, a phlopio i’r ddaear fel hadau pydredig, wrth i bopeth gorddi, a ffrwtian, a datblygu’n ffurfiau newydd ar arswyd byw a symudol.

 

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So’r meirw wedi’u rhyddhau i orwedd mewn hedd felly, maen nhw’n byw o hyd – neu heb farw o leia – yn anfeidrol mewn ffordd, wedi’u rhwymo i’r byd â chadwyni ansylweddol ond annihangol. Mae fel ‘sai rhyw dduwies â llygaid gwaedlyd yn cario fflangell yn finiog fel edifeirwch newydd fathedig wedi gwrthod eu casglu nhw ac yn ymhyfrydu mewn gwylio’r blaned yn dadfeilio mor gyflym ac mor llwyr. Y pethau mwya hunllefus, creulon a dinistriol yw’r dwylo, sy fyth yn rhoi’r gorau i snecian yma a thraw, gan greu terfysg. a chyflawno’r troseddau mwya erchyll, wrth foelystota, clwyfo’r cyrff yn ffiaidd, a gwneud pethau cywilyddus i’r pennau. Maen nhw bob tro’n rhuthro o gwmpas o flaenau eu bysedd, gan drio gafael yno i, ‘nghosi, a ffidlan â fi, wrth i’r pennau sgrechian posau, pytiau o ganeuon, rhegfeydd cyfoglyd, ac adnodau o’r Testunau Hynafol. (Am ryw reswm mae’r traed yn fwy cysglyd a llai ofnadwy, fel petaen nhw’n anifeiliaid gwaed-oer.) Ymhobman, mae’r cyrff yn bremian, a phecial, a byrlymu, gan saethu sborau ma’s ar y gwyntoedd mwll i ledaenu’r dychryn. Ac, O, ‘nenw’r Duwdodau Annymunol Hynaf, wi newydd weld mintai o ddwylo sy di torri’u hunain a rhoi llygaid ddygwyd o bennau di-gorff yn y tyllau fel gallan nhw weld be sy’n digwydd a neud mwy o ddifrod maleisus!

 

Dyma fi ‘lly, y person cyfangorff olaf sy’n dal i fyw yn Kwmrí mae’n ymddangos, yn crwydro ar goll ymhlith adfeilion cymdeithas. Wi di bod ar ‘mhen fy hunan er pan fu farw siaradwr brodorol olaf Kwmrik flynyddoedd yn ôl, mae’n debyg, ac yn dal yr un mor unig bellach. “Pam fi?”, wi’n gofyn i’n hunan. Dim ateb ‘to. Ydw i ‘ma o hyd mewn gwirionedd, tybed, neu ryw gysgod gwallgo? ‘Sdim ots am ‘ny, dyna’r menig byw’n ymosod arna i o bob tu drosodd a thro, ac o’r braidd galla i wthio nhw yn ôl nawr hyd yn oed drwy ddefnyddio’r ffagl fflamllyd. Ond nage menig mo nhw o gwbl a bod yn onest, ond dwylo ffiaidd wedi’u torri o’r breichiau, yn debyg i sachau bach lledr yn heigio o gnawd, a gewynnau, a chyhyr, yn fraen ond yn gry iawn. Ac er eu bod nhw’n ddifeddwl, mewn ffordd, maen nhw’n ddigon clyfar i fod yn aruthrol o dreisgar. A drwy’r amser mae rhywbeth yn ‘ngwylio heb lygaid, yn pwyso arna i o’r tu mewn, yn aros i ddwyn ‘yn meddyliau i, yn wancus i’n llyncu i.

 

Mae’n arbennig o ddrwg gyda’r nos ac wi bron marw ishe cysgu, ond so hi’n bosib neud am fwy na munud ar y tro neu ‘dwn i’m be ddigwyddai. Yr ofn gwaethaf yw na fyddwn i’n gallu marw os cawn i’n lladd, ond nawn i drawsffurfio’n rhyw fath ar fwtant dirdynedig na fyddai fyth yn dianc o’r boen na’r artaith o gwbl. Yma, yn y gwyll, ar lan y llyn dirfawr o slwtch du’n drewi o gonwydd a therpenau, wi’n cwato, wedi’n lapio mewn rhwyd ac am ‘nhraed sgidiau wedi’u neud o rannau o hen bair a darn o groen o gafr hen farw. Yn un llaw mae tortsh o bitsh. Yn y llall, mae picell wi di neud dros y flwyddyn ddiwetha yn yr eiliadau ar ganol nos pan fyddai’r clychau yn y tyrau clociau wedi canu i groesawu’r dydd newydd amser maith yn ôl. Ond bellach, dyna’r unig amser pan fydd y dwylo’n stopio prancio am sbelen fach, mae’n ymddangos.

 

Wrth dagu o achos y tarthau meddwol yn codi o’r pwll mall, wi di gweld yn y drych hudol ffurfiwyd gan yr wyneb sidanaidd bu farw tua thri chwarter poblogaeth yr Yerth gyfan (yn cynnwys y rhan fwya o’r rhain yn byw yn Vre-tanya) yn fuan ar ôl i’r Vazlaw ddiflannu [*] Pam goroesai rhai tra naeth eraill ddarfod? Wel, dyna’r cwestiwn hirhoedlog, ond ife, a dim ond y Drefn Anhysbys a ŵyr, felly fentraf innau’m dweud. Falle iddyn nhw ddianc drwy ddamwain ddall. Serch ‘ny, dw i’n cael ‘yn atgoffa am yr hen ddywediad: “Gwyn eu byd y rhai pur o galon; oherwydd cânt hwy etifeddu’r ddaear.” Mae hyn yn wir o ran ychydig rai, debyg iawn (sa i’n gwybod amdana i’n hunan!). Ond yn ogystal â’r rhai dihalog, bydd hyd yn oed mwy o bobl anghyfiawn, anhrugarog, falch, greulon, gyfoethog, orawenus, a rhyfelgar yn crafangu am fywyd, heb os. A bydd yr olaf yn mynd yn eu blaen i frwydro, concro, a gormesu’r cyntaf maes o law, hyd yn oed wrth i’r Yerth fynd yn wenfflam. Fe fyddwn i’n betio ‘mywyd ffrit arno!

 

Ac yma, yn waeth, hyd yn oed, wi’n cael ‘yn atgoffa gymaint am gartre (wel, y lle ‘na yn boddi dan garthion yn y Canoldir Boreal i ble gaeth Mam ei chipio o Kwmrí yn grotes i fod yn gaethes, a ble ges i ‘ngeni i fod yn gaethferch ‘fyd). Yma ar diwedd y byd, wi’n siarad â’n hunan yn fud mewn Kwmrik berffaith. Sa i’n siŵr mwyach ife cysgu dwi neu wedi marw – a ddim yn rhy ddigynnwrf or ran ‘ny. Ond ta be, wi’n ‘ngweld ‘yn hunan yn rhoi’r gorau i bopeth: i frwydro, i feddwl, i frifo, i fyw. Wedyn – dw i’n dychmygu – neu’n gobeithio – dyna fydda i’n bracsan mor ddiolchgar o ara i’r cawl trioglyd nes fod e’n sglochian dros ‘mhen i. Falle mod i eisoes wedi neud ‘ny. Ac wedyn – nawr – gyda’r geiriau cyfrin “Án ágházo mi-shwd; Án támámo mi-shwd” [**] – yn dod o unman i ‘ngwawdio i – byd arall a ddaw i ben.

 

[*] Dw i ddim yn gallu datglymu’r celwyddau a’r hanner gwirioneddau’n tarddu o’r pair eto, na thorri cymylau amser, damo, a ddim yn siŵr beth fyddai’n digwydd swn i’n gwneud hynny! Ta be, ‘sdim ots am pryd – neu os – naiff hyn oll ddigwydd, mae’n golygu lladdedigaeth aruthrol. Dw i wedi gweld y cyrff yn pentyrru gyflymach ac uwch nag yn oes hynafol adeiladu Tŷ Aileni cyntaf, drwy gyfnodau difodi’r anffyddlon gan yr EFE, a hyd yn oed pan oedd pla Leskov yn lledaenu dros y Ddaear. Hyd y gwelaf fi (er nad yw fy mewnddirnadaeth rhyfedd ddim yn gweithio cystal â hynny bellach), y Golau Serol fydd yn cwblhau trawsffurfio’r Yerthish (neu’r Thorlin) yn weddill pan ddaw Dydd y Farn, gan greu rhywogaeth anhysbys, yr Elethise (neu’r Theluhonu), hynny yw, y “therianthropiaid,” yn gymysgedd pur ddychrynllyd o ddyn ac anghenfil sy’n hollol wahanol i’r ddau.

 

[**] Dywediad cyffredin mewn Vazli Novw o’r dyfodol pell, siŵr o fod, yn golygu “Gorffen ef; Cychwyn ef.”