Perhaps it is the interaction between absorption and reflection that is the root and essence of everything in the world; every thing that is, which was created through a game of hide-and-seek between opposing forces, the one of which cannot exist without the other. After all, the existence of shadows presupposes light, in a similar way to how thoughts and ideas (not to mention objects) here and now suggest that there were other things in different places, a little while ago, and that various things will be coming into being sometime in the future. As well as that, stories call for story-tellers, who relate them whilst changing them, and we have to ask therefore – Do children create their parents? Do lies illuminate truth? Do sacrifices sanctify the impious? Does fear stimulate bravery? Is it events that make men? Thus it may be, to some extent, but perhaps the situation is much more difficult, in reality, where the opposite poles take part in a complex and chaotic process, being transformed, constantly, from one thing to the other, in a way we cannot envisage easily at all without following the path to see where it will lead at last.

 

Once upon a sometime, not as long ago as all that. Here’s two lads, David and Steffan, venturing out from the Inside-out Inhabitancy on some ill-appointed task organised by the Youngest Magus, under the direction of Lady Meykbeds, having escaped from the Old Soldier’s torture and the tender but sarcastic mercies of the Trainee Mentalist [*]. Or rather, perhaps, they are two charming princes from Neverwhen in the Heart of the Continent, Daud and Stjepan, in their pumpkin-carriage, with their footmen who are really mice, and they’re looking for princesses to save (or a swain to caress in the case of one of them) – as well as over-enthusiastic dragons to slay, and wars to fight. They’re in a borrowed white van full of things that could get them into considerable trouble, to tell the truth. So it would be better to use the alternative names Dai and Stevo, perhaps, which reflect their true cheeky characters more accurately, according to some in the know at least.

 

Stevo, Stjepan, Steffan is driving like an utterly deranged zombie, absent without leave from the ranks of Heli-hrelí, the mindless flesh-hunk pining for night’s farside. As a result, the van’s complaining terribly, but, well, things do what they do, there’s no changing that. On the sound-transceiver a vile preacher named the Red Priest is commanding every sinner on the Eyrth (everyone therefore) to pay attention to his fearful warnings. His muculent harangue squelches from the speakers as the words turn to sludge – ‘dalatha, bravlu, klendru, eshempa’ – like liver being squeezed through a mincer. But then the meaningless, hypnotic goulash cooked up from his roaring, hatred and fear manages to bewitch the two lads even worse, like a prayer intended to summon some cruel, long-dead gods to appear.

 

And here’s one of the other characters in our comic strip, the semi-simian, half-conscious Dai, Daud, David, cogitating, with considerable difficulty and angst, recalling, inventing, protending within a temporal froth enwrapping and blinding both future and past. He can sense the hot pulse of the virile beast buried within the semi-impervious shell of his own moribund external self. But he feels like he’s stuck in one of a gargantuan number of folds in a piece of cloth the size of the All-World. He can’t discern the direction of the weave or the weft, nor tell what the pattern or the texture’s like elsewhere. But he’s sure they exist, and that he’s well and truly trapped. Why (we can just about imagine him asking himself pitifully), does change always lead to death? —

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Considering the bucket-loads of nonsense pouring from the SoTra, thrashing my ear-drums, it’s no surprise that I’m feeling like spewing my guts up across the dirty carpet of Stevie’s uncle’s van. But it wouldn’t make much of a difference to the sticky layer of crap – The Seven Sorcerers know what – that’s lying between sleep and waking on the floor, licking my Vans trainers, which are exceptionally distressed by now, more’s the pity. I could cry, really, but I force myself to grow up, stop myself from making a fuss, and manage not to weep. In Lushfé’s name, I’m sorry that I guzzled those two bottles of ouzo – and all the other stuff – earlier on.

 

Hell’s teeth! It’d been a devil of a long night – which had wandered like a rainbow-coloured snake through the next day – before flowing out to tickle other dark shores. I should never’ve bought into all that nonsense about a mid-Summertide Party. I could feel that second the loathsome taste of aniseed refluxing up my scorched tubes. And at the same time, there’s the evangelist’s rhythmic chanting – ‘silpistí, madrolu, bamlaru, zileví’ – breaking through the heavy, grey rain, threatening to wash the road away, and these sinners in the van too. But, well, y’know, sometimes when you’re already on the verge of going dizzy from a cocktail of substances, in a muddy field with a crowd of old, bald hippies whose pony-tails are hangin’ down to their arse-holes, well, you’ll hoover up anything they give you without much of a thought, won’t you? And they they’ll fall asleep, leaving you to face the authorities on your own. Well, until you escape in the van, of course!

 

It seems that Stevie doesn’t notice how the words that’re flowing through the SoTra into our stinky and constrained space agree so well with the mood of the weather outside – ‘turikikihí, thirularop, bahuakah, veraza’. Summertide in Kimbria – Wintertide in Kimbria – it’s all the same. I’m trembling from hearing the devilish ranting, and bewail our lack of preparation – and I, Dai-boy, had such great plans for revenge and malicious damage too, y’see. But at least Stevie’s keeping things going, stopping them getting boring. Where in hell’s the driving rain come from – just as it’s getting dark? And there’s no sign of shelter to be had, either – it’s like a cyclone in Sawa-íkí here. Good for us for having fun in the middle of the Summertide in only a vest and pair of shorts – that’s one thing – but, well, really, may the Old Gods preserve us – my goose-pimples’re shivering with the cold!

 

Thank goodness he – Stevie – isn’t trying to be an entertainer, like he usually does. I don’t think I can stand his weak witticisms, especially as something – I’m not sure what – is sending shivers down my spine, and I’m dizzy too, and now the waves of loving brought on by my recent indulgence are making me feel distinctly sea-sick. I could’ve sworn in the names of all the Strange Gods that I can taste metal – the same kind of thing as the smell that comes from a newly-fired gun, and I scowl when I realise that I’ve bitten my tongue, somehow – when exactly – before? I can’t remember and the gruesome gobbets of sound – ‘endilda, andíshis, lilivalis, kestala’ – defiling the air, aren’t helping. I wish whatever's left of my brain would work, and I gulp down the mouthful of blood and spit while my mind reels, trying to begin to deal with everything that’s happening.

 

There I am, dozing and daydreaming, imagining penetrating the seven gates of the Blessed Isle, the ones made of amethyst, bay, beryl, cinnamon-stone, ivory, myrtle-wood and smaragd. I’m trying to reach the Snoozing Stunner lying on her dewy spider-web bed beneath the dawn of an eternal Springtide. And there the air is full of the balmy scent of daffodils, gillyflowers, lilies, roses, spikni, vine-blossom and violets, wafted by a westerly breeze that makes the boughs sing a tune like lonely wind-chimes.

 

But then the sky goes as brown as muddy khawví as the rooster-priest from the night-temple sends the most fearful, cruel and gory nightmares to plague me. The dog-faced baboons have escaped through the doors of iron and clay in the sloth-fields where countless wells spew out forgetfulness and confusion, and suck down truth and wakefulness. My nostrils are filled with an intolerable yucky stench mixing brimstone, pitch, and flesh broiling on live coals. And there’s the cacodemonic kunokéfaloy shooting me with leaden acorns, stabbing me with burning daggers, and force-feeding me enormous quantities of malignant lupin-seeds.

 

I mutter a prayer to hey-althaíā, the wymote (thanks, Fred, for once!), begging the mallows-root to heal me. How much I need the help of that plant, sacred to Vánas, with hairy stems, toothed leaves, and pink, purple or white flowers, overflowing with the distaff power of water. I want to burn the leaves and breathe in the smoke to raise my spirits, protect me from negative thoughts, and fill me with psychic strength. I so need to steep the leaves to make soothing mucilage, and use the gel topically and internally to ease the bronchitis, burning skin, diarrhoea, heartburn, inflamed urinary tract, irritated respiratory surfaces, sore throat, and ulcerated digestive system accosting me. But the futile wishes do me little good. Cursing myself, I swallow down some odious liquid trying to craw its way up my gullet, half choking on it. Sweet Hebé, I feel about as healthy as a crucified heathenish felon with ‘is guts hangin’ out!

 

As I stir myself from within the black pool of my thoughts, hauling myself back to the real world, it’s as if the motor’s bubbling, then there’s a loud whining, the sound of nails being scraped on a black-board, sliding itself through the wall of rain, while the chanting intensifies – ‘brubumbu, elentlova, kualuru, tithihenta’. And the van’s rushing forward too – faster and faster – through the putrid jelly about it – labouring and trembling enormously. And suddenly, what’s on the road in front of the van? Is it a kid wandering like a damned soul, some lost ectoplasmic entity, a pitiful creature with a cowl on its head under a death sentence? How in the Two Worlds did that happen? I don’t know, but despite the whole mixture of legal and illegal substances whirling about in my damaged body, here’s me snatching the wheel off the bewildered driver. Then, something snapping – and the wheels turning quicker and quicker, there’s no difference to me – and the pines not far off —

 

Then a sound, a voice, calling me to remember something else, somewhere else, some other time – ‘anvisashé, kouroakrí, ankelrerek, shezesista’ – the smell of wintergreen, cheap aftershave, smuggled fags. Am I wearing clean pants to meet the undertaker? I’m itching to brush my teeth for some reason – and itching, tickling, scratching, literally, too – in the name of the Lazy Ones, the grave-beetles’re gnawing on me – I’m being eaten alive. My chest’s being crushed by an enormous, unseen rock. I need – I have to – escape – I’m almost dying of fear – desperately wanting to jump out of the van and run. I’m a frightened kid – cold, sweaty, warm, locked up in the dark, who’s begging for his toys, and the only light is a trembling street-lamp in the distance. Is that the sound of a siren coming to arrest us? But by The Anointed of the Old Gods who went down into the fire-pits on the Nw Yrth, I’m having a panic attack – and all the time there’s that hateful ranting, calling on us to burn forevermore.

 

I can see the whole thing – the accident, should we say, maybe – now – very slowly – as slow as possible, to tell the truth – as slow as a lame tortoise limping without its shell at midday on some scorching day in the middle of Summertide – I think – but is it me – who is that ‘me’, over there, anyway? The me who’s screaming the final words of the incantation – ‘vilizda, huiklé, vildarsí, deklo’. 

 

Without warning – the thing, the spirit, the kid, the monster, comes into view once again – Stevie slams on the anchors, exactly the same moment that the van engine reaches the peak of its screeching – and then the brakes give way – squealing as if we were in a slaughter-house. Oh, Swtakh keep us, I swear under me breath, what an end to a free party amongst the pines after we’ve just escaped from the Patriotic People's Militia ‘cos those old devils on the Committee’ve tried to arrange that I get arrested.

 

I don’t understand what’s happening, mun. It’s like a phantasmagoria caused by medicinal mushrooms. Everything’s moving very slow and I’m seein’ double. That’s when I twig. Ha … funny ... it’s usually me who's the last to get it. I feel I’m several people at the same time, it’s like there’s a host of characters in me who want to come out and have their say. There are Two Worlds here at the same time, one on top of the other, separated by a shimmering film. And here, in this place where substance melts, here’s the Lord of the Old Ones who rent the veil before, cleaving the curtain again.

 

There’s this stuff everywhere, like sheets of glistening webbing, or the membranes of your intestines, stretched over every void and coiled in every gap. I can sense it rippling, in a way, out of the corner of my eyes, layers of sticky porridge gluing every bit of the world together. Next, I clock somethin’ like semi-transparent plastic between me fingers when I stretch them out. And now the stuff’s all round me. When I move at all, I touch it – whatever it is –  and it’s like it’s grabbing onto me all the time, dragging against me, making me feel clammy, and dizzy, and dead odd, like I'm turning inside out. Somethin' like churning speckled jam, somehow, or maybe more like puke-coloured living semolina or super-terrestrial spawn. Like nothing on Eyrth, anyway – ewww!

 

And here’s the pulsating body of the Old Master who’s always lurking on the threshold, consisting of thousands of shining globes, precipitating from the mist in front of us. And I remember Mum (my lost angel) and Dad (the old devil), and everyone else who’s come and gone, that I’ve tried to connect with, to some degree, without succeeding, mostly. And here’s the keeper who knows the gate, who possesses the silver key, who wanders across all time under the Scarlet Seal. I need to think about that lump of a best friend, the Wýkinger, sitting beside me, and the cold, difficult-to-understand girl I like so much (whilst hating her at the same time) before I die.

 

And I’m being forced to acknowledge all my weaknesses and inadequacies and failings. I was so full of enthusiasm before, so willing to harm those who deserved being punished, despite all the fine words and moralizing. I meant well, though. But right now everything’s changed completely. I’m totally confused. What a hypocrite I am, who had wanted to be so nasty before. There’s no choice then, I have to confess to myself that I can’t hurt anyone not to mention kill them, even those I hate most, and that it’d be better to do good instead of fighting back. How could I’ve considered sacrificing that other stupid lad? I don’t understand anything anymore. I wanted to succeed but I’ve failed. And this is the real prize, probably. I was lying to myself all along. I’m not who I think I am. What’s up with me? Remember the message of peace and love, mun. But now I’ve run off, once again. Is that failing?

 

And there’s the face of my Mum who’s lying in the hospital, poor thing, and she’s pleading with me to be released from her torture, and I can’t help her. As I scrunch my eyes so tight they hurt, to try and stop the fear, here’s the Ancient of Days manifesting, that which ploughs the void before sowing all the seeds of chaos. The entity with its thousands of eyes starts to jump at the van, and it’s slimy with iridescent oil that would cause any ordinary man to go on a once-in-a-lifetime acid trip if he came into contact with it. And here’s Isheth itself stretching out its myriad slimy, ectoplasmic tentacles towards us, to snatch our souls away.

 

And there’s the overpowering smell of rotten flowers filling the air – and the complete silence – the total darkness – like a morgue, but worse because it’s teeming with spectral, vampiric horses – that night that happens over and over – a savage, tusked night, its mouth full of poison bile – night become a ravenous wolf.

 

And I’m being shoved straight forward in the real world, well, the world I recognise, whilst being squashed in some dimension outside the usual four I’m familiar with only through reading all the sci-fi, and I’m getting stretched out and turned into spaghetti at the same time. In my left hand, a tiny blazing sculpture, like a horned wild animal, a wishbone, a candelabra, a magical rwn, that changes all the time. Squawkin’ barbecued martyrs before getting’ catapulted into returnless slumber. My head smashes against the dashboard – splitting me tongue, wreckin’ me nose, knockin’ a few teeth out – and filling me gob with the savour of crimson life-fluid – again (although how exactly I know that now, I don’t know). And there’s the stink of ozone, and an ultraviolet glow, and wild laughing. And then – nothin’.

 

*       *         *         *         *         *         *         *

THE FOLLOWING events which are connected with the celebrated Clinic called The Pines in Aberdydd deserved being chronicled in the local newspaper. I quote from the article word-for-word here. — D.B.P.

 

“The mysterious young man had disappeared from the innovative, experimental clinic, which is on the point of being shut down due to lack of funding, into the local community, many times before. Every time he would act very strangely – helping the aged to cross the road, preventing fights between children, painting over graffiti in the Poly-varsity, arranging free dance-parties for the unemployed, and collecting rubbish – in every case, without being asked or paid. On other occasions, he would translate works by unknown old masters such as Nukulu Vili-seketh into Kimbric. And an unconfirmed report alleges that he had discovered original work in Kimbric by a stripling Tomos Aildon, the peculiar “Unrhymed Odlist” {Un-Rhymed Od(e)-ity}. Whilst venturing beyond the clinic’s safe walls, he would usually carry a sack containing two rag-dolls, a rusty knife, a pot of red paint, and toys in the form of a cat and a cockerel, of all things under the sun. Furthermore, the foreigner was accustomed to chant mantras in strange languages.”

 

The report goes on — “This time, however, he was caught after an accident in a white van. It appears that a nurse was taking him away to get treatment in the clinic after he was seriously injured when he had run into the street to sweep a child from the path of a car that was speeding amongst the pines, saving her life. The details are unclear, however, as he the would-be hero is lying in a coma at this time [**]. It is not certain what his age is, nor whence he hails originally, whether very near or much further afield. However, it appears he had been abused terribly when he was a small boy before coming to this country (once again, perhaps for the umpteenth time?). He had been obsessed with ideas of the occult and the supernatural since he joined the army as a boy-soldier at thirteen years of age to fight all over the continent by all accounts. It is likely that he was suffering from shell-shock after the war in the Heart of the Continent.

 

The medics have stated that he was experiencing persistent auditory hallucinations – ‘voices from the world to come’ – which encouraged him to do strangely useful acts of all kinds. The trainee clinician to whom we spoke, H Grossmann, had believed that the latest change in his medication should have had a beneficial effect, but it is possible that she was ‘unfortunately incorrect’ (according to her own words). ‘Time is the best healer’, was her final comment.”

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] Who can say, then, whether there’s any real reality, or just illusions pretending to existence? Are we living or merely though-forms floating through the All-World’s energy-fields? After all, so important to the Thorlin is creating its semblance of life through language and memory, the words dancing on the tongue-tip and the pictures flashing for an instant before being extinguished. But since we generally prefer the idea of playing to working hard, we convince ourselves that living's a cosmic game and it’s easy to spin out such horseplay, even though it really involves exceptional unconscious instincts that are a defining characteristic of our species.

 

We love our histories as much as life itself, perhaps, because it’s them that form the weird salmagundi which creates a sense of self and entangles us with others. A tale's first sounds must fill us with curiosity acid-edged with fear, grab us, and tempt us towards the ending. It has to contain enough entertainment, and a huge dollop of untruth, and convey a certain vision enwrapping a tiny grain of truth. And at last, the conclusion will need to hide the seeds of new openings.

 

From this point of view, we live in an imaginary realm, fashioning dreams and dramas, acting them out, and sharing them with other people from time to time. In this sense, of course, all our stories are lies – the farces and the tragedies, the romances and the horror-tales – all the laughter and the shame, the distress and the love – the knowledge and the guesses, the hypotheses, the myths, and the faith. It’s possible for a talented Wizard to borrow thoughts and memories to learn from them and heal them. And the Malicious Mentalists steal them, pervert them, and turn them into nightmares.

 

As a result, the wisest claim that it’ll never possible to get an ultimate map of reality as we know it, a complete overview of life. So, there’s no point seeking out the All-World’s unique hidden secrets, they warn. But even they are willing to accept that there are numerous correct ideas lurking under perception’s phantasmal layers which they can adopt and utilize without it being necessary for them to swallow a particular belief-system. On the other hand, the promise of perfect knowledge is a parasite that will devour us from within if we try to nurture it. And the desire for perfection itself is a fatal barrier to growth.

 

The truth is (Ah, what bittersweet irony!) that only through failing do we improve, move on, and evolve. And as we do that, islands of beautiful order will pop up for a while from the teeming sea of disarray, far beyond the reach of laws made (or discovered) by people. For myself – as G.Ll. says elsewhere, quoting Suhmyzdàtuh Lowky’s “Tall Tale” – I’m a true-minded inveterate liar. And I can confidently tell you the following: that this is all necessarily a lie, to some extent, since it’s not the unadulterated truth, if it ever could be. But that’s no bad thing, I’m sure you’ll agree, having weighed up these – meditations – in due course. — P.M.

 

[**] I am a great supporter of the local (and often quite independent) press. But, the “Vale of Aber Weekly Record” (“VAWR”) isn’t always correct in terms of details to say the least. Maybe they did Daud (and the Clinic) a favour in reporting on this story like this, however. I don’t know. I am not a journalist, after all.  — P.M.

 

Efallai mai’r cyd-adweithio rhwng amsugno ac adlewyrchu yw gwraidd a chraidd popeth yn y byd; pob peth hynny yw, a grëwyd trwy gêm chwarae mig rhwng grymoedd gwrthwynebol, yr un ohonynt na all fodoli heb y llall. Wedi’r cwbl, bodolaeth cysgodion a ragdyb olau, mewn ffordd debyg i sut y bydd meddyliau a syniadau (heb sôn am wrthrychau) yn y fan hon, ar y funud yma, yn awgrymu bod pethau eraill mewn lleoedd gwahanol, ychydig amser yn ôl, ac y bydd amryw bethau’n dod i fod rywbryd yn y dyfodol. Ar ben hynny, geilw hanesion am storïwyr, a fydd yn eu hadrodd wrth eu newid, ac fe fydd rhaid inni ofyn, felly — A grea plant eu rhieni? A oleua celwyddau wirionedd? A yw ebyrth yn dwyfoli’r annuwiolion? A annog ofn ddewrder? Ai digwyddiadau a wna ddynion? Felly y bo, i ryw raddau, ond dichon fod y sefyllfa’n anos o lawer, mewn realiti, lle bydd y pegynau croes yn cymryd rhan mewn proses cymhleth a chaotig gan gael eu trawsffurfio’n gyson o’r un peth i’r llall mewn ffordd na allwn ni ei rhagweld yn hawdd o gwbl heb ddilyn y llwybr i weld i ble bydd yn arwain o’r diwedd.

 

Un waith, heb fod yn amser mor bell yn ôl a hynny. Dyma ddau lanc, David a Steffan, yn mentro o Gartref y Chwithig ar ryw berwyl drwg a drefnwyd gan y Dewin Ieuengaf, dan gyfeiriad yr Arglwyddes MacBeth, wedi dianc o artaith yr Hen Filwr a thrugareddau tyner ond sarcastig y Meddyliaethydd dan Hyfforddiant [*]. Neu yn hytrach, efallai, dau dywysog swynol o oes yr arth a’r blaidd yng Nghalon y Cyfandir ydyn nhw, Daud a Stjepan, yn eu cerbyd o bompiwn, gyda’u gweision lifrai sy’n llygod mewn gwirionedd, ac maen nhw’n chwilio am dywysogesau i’w hachub (neu gariadfab i’w garu o ran un ohonyn nhw) – yn ogystal â dreigiau gorselog i’w llofruddio, a rhyfeloedd i’w brwydro. Maen nhw mewn fan wen wedi’i benthyca sy’n llawn pethau a allai beri cryn helynt iddyn nhw, a dweud y gwir. Felly gwell fyddai defnyddio’r enwau amgen Dai a Stevo, falle, sy’n adlewyrchu’u gwir gymeriadau hyf yn fwy manwl, yn ôl rhai sydd ynddi hi, o leia’.

 

Byddan nhw’n gwneud cryn dda trwy ddioddef cryn ddrwg – ond pwy all feirniadu – dyna rhyngddyn nhw a’u cawl, on’d ife? ‘Does unrhyw arweinlyfr wedi’i lunio â geiriau, symbolau na delweddau fydd o fudd iddyn nhw yn y fangre hon (na llyfr hud a lledrith, chwaith, a bod yn onest). Yn y pellter, ar yr ystâd, ymhlith y pinwydd, mae’n ymddangos bod rhywbeth fel tŵr golau’n tyllu’r awyr fygythiol. Bychan a wyddant eu bod yn teithio dan gysgod datguddiad mawr ac ofnadw’. A dyna lygad y tŵr hanner-dall yn wincio a disgleirio fel seren ar farw – tri dot – tair strôc – tri dot.

 

Mae Stevo, Stjepan, Steffan yn gyrru fel sombi’n llwyr o’i gof yn absennol heb ganiatâd o rengoedd Heli-Hrelí, y clobyn o gnawd difeddwl yn hiraethu am ochr bellaf y nos. O ganlyniad, mae’r fan yn cwyno’n ofnadw, ond wel, mae pethau’n ‘neud beth maen nhw’n neud, ‘sneb yn gallu newid ‘ny. Ar y sain-drosdderbynnydd mae pregethwr ffiaidd o’r enw yr Offeiriad Coch yn orchymyn i bob pechadur ar y Ddaear (pawb felly) dalu sylw i’w rybuddion arswydus. Mae’i refru mwcysaidd yn slwtsian o’r seinyddion wrth i’r geiriau droi’n llwtra –’dalatha, bravlu, klendru, eshempa’ – fel afu’n cael ei wasgu drwy beiriant briwio. Ond wedyn, mae’r cawl llesmeiriol diystyr wedi’i gwcio o’i ruo, casáu ac ofni’n llwyddo i reibio’r ddau lanc yn waeth byth fel gweddi a fwriedir galw ar rai duwiau creulon hen farw i ymddangos.

 

A dyma un o’r cymeriadau arall yn ein stribed comig, y Dai, Daud, David hanner simiaidd a lled-ymwybodol, yn myfyrio gyda chrin anhawster ac ing wrth gofio, dyfeisio, rhagamcanu tu fewn i ewyn amser yn lapio a dallu’r dyfodol a’r gorffennol. Fe all e glywed curo poeth y bwystfil egnïol wedi’i gladdu tu mewn i gragen lled anhreiddiadwy ei hunan allanol ar drengi. Ond mae’n teimlo fel petai fe wedi’i ddal am byth tu mewn i un o nifer anferthol o blygiadau mewn darn o brethyn crychlyd o faint yr Holl Fyd. All e ddim dirnad cyfeiriad yr ystof a’r anwe, na dweud sut mae’r patrwm a’r gwead yn rhywle arall. Ond mae’n siŵr eu bod yn bodoli, a’i fod e wedi’i faglu o ddifri. Pam (dyn ni bron â gallu’i ddychmygu’n gofyn iddo’i hunan yn druenus, bron), mae newid bob tro’n arwain at farwolaeth? —

 

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O ystyried y bwcedeidiau o lol sy’n arllwys o’r SDDd, gan ddyrnu drymiau ‘y nghlustiau, ‘sdim syndod mod i’n clywed awydd chwydu cynnwys ‘nghrombil i dros garped budr fan wncwl Stevie. Ond, fyddai fe ddim yn ‘neud cymaint â hynny o wahaniaeth o ran yr haenen ludiog o faw lled-ymdeimladol – Y Saith Swynwr a ŵyr beth – sy’n gorwedd rhwng cwsg ac effro ar y llawr gan drio llyfu 'nhreinars ôl-ddyfodolaidd Doren drudfawr o ledr artiffisial coch gydag adain bach aur ar y sodlau (maen nhw’n eithriadol o dreuliedig erbyn hyn, gwaetha’r modd). Gallwn i lefain, yn wir, ond dw i’n 'y ngorfodi'n hun i dyfu lan, nadu i’m hun ‘neud ffwdan, a llwyddo i beidio crio. ‘Neno Lushfé, ma’n ddrwg ‘da fi i lowcio'r ddwy botel o owso 'na – a’r holl stwff arall – gynnau fach.

 

Uffern dân! Ro’dd hi ‘di bod yn ddiawl o noson hir – o’dd wedi crwydro fel neidr enfysaidd drwy’r dydd nesa’ – cyn llifo tuag allan i gosi glannau tywyll eraill. Ddylwn i erio’d fod wedi prynu i mewn i’r holl rwtsh ‘na am Barti Calon Haf. Gallwn i deimlo ‘reiliad ‘na flas yr anisid afiach yn adlifo lan ‘y nhiwbs llidus. Ac ar yr un pryd, dyna gorgan rythmig yr efengylwr – ‘silpistí, madrolu, bamlaru, zilevíí’ – yn torri drwy’r glaw llwyd, trwchus, gan fygwth golchi’r ffordd ymaith, a’r pechaduriaid ‘ma yn y fan hefyd. Ond, wel, ch’mod, rywbryd pan fyddwch chi eisoes ar fin mynd yn benysgafn gyda choctel o sylweddau, mewn cau mwdlyd gyda thorf o hen hipis moel a’u plethi cynffon merlen yn hongian i lawr i dyllau eu tinau, wel, byddwch chi’n hwfro lan unrhyw beth fyddan nhw’n roi i chi, heb ormod o feddwl, on’ byddwch? Ac wedyn fe fyddan nhw’n cwympo i gysgu. gan adael i chi wynebu’r awdurdodau ar eich pen eich hunan. Wel, nes i chi ddianc yn y fan wrth gwrs!

 

Ma’n ymddangos bod Stevie ddim yn sylwi ar shwd ma’r geiriau sy’n llifo drwy’r SDDd i mewn i’n lle cyfyngedig a drewllyd ni’n cytuno mor dda â naws y tywydd tu ôl – ‘turikikihí, thirularop, bahuakah, veraza’. Yr haf yng Nghimbria – y gaeaf yng Nghimbria – man a man yw hi. Dw i’n crynu o glywed y rhefru dieflig, a chwynfan dros ein diffyg paratoi ni – ac roedd cynlluniau cymaint ‘da fi, Dai-boi, o ran dial a difrod maleisus hefyd, ch’wel. Ond o leia’ ma’ Stevie’n cadw pethau ar fynd, gan stopio nhw rhag mynd yn ddiflas. O ble gythraul ma’r glaw gyrru wedi dod – gyda bod hi’n nosi? A ‘sdim arwydd o gysgod i’w gael, chwaith – ma’ fel seiclon yn Sawa-íkí ‘ma. Da iawn ni o ran cael hwyl yng nghanol yr haf mewn dim ond fest a phâr o siorts – dyna un peth – ond, wel yn wir, yr Hen Dduwiau’n catwo – dyma ‘nghroen gŵydd yn rhynnu gan yr oerfel!.

 

Diolch byth dyw e – Stevie – ddim yn trio bod yn ddigrifwr, fel bydd e’n ‘neud fel arfer. Dw i’m yn credu mod i’n gallu godde’ ei ffraethebion gwael, yn enwedig achos bod rhywbeth – dw i’m yn siŵr beth – yn gyrru iasau drwy ‘nghnawd i, ac ma’r bendro arna’ i hefyd, a bellach ma’r tonnau o garu wedi’u hachosi gan yr ymbleseru diweddar yn ‘neud i fi deimlo’n bendant sâl môr. Gallwn i fod wedi tyngu’n enwau’r Duwiau Rhyfedd oll mod i’n gallu blasu metel – yr un fath o beth a’r gwynt sy’n dod o wn newydd ei danio, a dw i’n gwgu pan dw i’n sylweddoli mod i wedi brathu fy nhafod rhywbryd – pryd yn union – o’r blaen? Sa i’n gallu cofio a dyw’r talpiau erch o sain – ‘endilda, andíshis, lilivalis, kestala’ – yn baeddu’r awyr, ddim yn helpu. Dw i’n dymuno byddai’ n ymennydd i’n gweithio, a dw i’n llowcio lawr y gegaid o waed a phoer wrth i’n meddwl i bendroi gan geisio dechrau delio â phopeth sy’n digwydd.

 

Dyna fi’n pendwmpian a gwlana, gan ddychmygu treiddio drwy saith porth yr Ynysoedd Dedwydd: y rhai wedi’u ‘neud o amethyst, beryl, carreg sinamon, ifori, llawrwydd, myrtwydd a smaragdus. Dw i’n trio cyrraedd y Rhiain Gwsg yn gorwedd ar wely gwlithog o we corryn dan wawr gwanwyn barhaol. Ac yno mae’r aer yn llawn arogl eli’n cynnwys blodau gwinwydd, daffodils, fioledau, jinifflywars, lilïau, rhosod a spikni, wedi’i chwythu gan awel y gorllewin sy’n peri i’r canghennau ganu alaw fel clychau gwynt unig.

 

Ond wedyn dyna’r awyr yn mynd mor frown â choffi mwdlyd wrth i’r ‘ffeiriad o geiliog o deml y nos hala’r hunllefau mwya brawychus, creulon a gwaedlyd i ‘mhoeni i. Mae’r babwnod cynben wedi dianc drwy’r drysau o haearn a chlai ym meysydd diogi ble mae ffynhonnau di-rif yn chwydu ebargofiant a dryswch ac amsugno anhunedd a gwirionedd. Mae’n ffroenau i’n cael eu llenwi â drewdod aflan annioddefol yn cymysgu brwmstan, pyg, a chnawd yn briwlio ar lo byw. A dyna’r cynbyn cythreulig yn saethu mes o blwm arna i, yn ‘nhrywanu i â dagrau llosg, a ‘ngorfodi i fwyta meintiau enfawr o hadau liwpin adwythig.

 

Dyna fi’n browlan gweddi i hey-althaíā, y meddalai (dioch, Ffred, am unwaith!), gan atolygu ar wraidd yr hocysen i’n iacháu i. Cymaint dw i angen help y planhigyn ‘na’n gysegredig i Vánas, ac iddo goesau blewog, dail danheddog, a blodau pinc, porffor, neu wyn, sy’n orlawn o bŵer benywaidd dŵr. Dw i’n moyn llosgi’r dail a gwynto’r mwg i godi ‘nghalon, ‘y ngwarchod rhag meddyliau negyddol, a’n llenwi i gyda nerth seicig. Rhaid i fi wir drwytho’r dail i ‘neud llysnafedd lleddfol, a defnyddio’r gel yn lleol ac yn fewnol i gael gwared ar yr arwyneb resbiradol poenus, y broncitis, y croen llosg, y dolur rhydd, y gwddw tost, y llosg cylla, y llwybr troethol llidiog, a’r system dreulio wlserog sy’n ymosod arna i. Ond dyw’r dymuniadau ofer o fawr les i fi. Wrth fwrw melltithion arna i’n hunan, dw i’n llyncu’n ôl ryw hylif cas yn trio cropian i lan y ffordd goch, gan hanner tagu. Hebé Gu, dw i’n teimlo fel angau eildwym!

 

Wrth i fi ymysgwyd oddi mewn i bwll du’n meddyliau, gan halio’n hunan ‘nôl i’r byd go iawn, ma’ fel ‘sai’r motor yn byrlymu, wedyn dyna nadu uchel, sŵn ewinedd wedi’u crafu ar hyd bwrdd du, yn sleifio’i hunan drwy’r wal o law wrth i’r siantio ddwysáu – ‘brubumbu, elentlova, kualuru, tithihenta’. Ac ma’r fan yn rhuthro yn ei blaen hefyd – yn glouach glouach – drwy’r jeli braen o’i chwmpas – gan lafurio a chrynu’n ddirfawr. Ac yn sydyn, beth sy ar y ffordd o flaen y fan? Ife crwt yn crwydro fel enaid wedi’i ddamnio, rhyw endid ectoplasmig colledig, creadur truenus a chwfl am ei ben dan ddedfryd marwolaeth? Sut yn y Ddau Fyd ddigwyddodd hynny? Sa i’n gw’bod, ond er gwaetha’r holl gymysgedd o sylweddau cyfreithlon ac anghyfreithlon yn chwyrlïo yn ‘y nghorff drylliedig, dyma fi’n cipio’r olwyn oddi wrth y gyrrwr ffwndrus. Wedyn rhywbeth yn torri’n glec – ac yr olwynion yn troi’n fwy buan a mwy clou, ‘sdim gwahaniaeth i fi – a’r pinwydd heb fod ymhell —

 

Dyna sain, llais, yn galw arna i i gofio rhywbeth arall, yn rhywle arall, rywbryd arall — ‘anvisashé, kouroakrí, ankelrerek, shezesista’ – gwynt coedwyrdd, afftyrsief rhad, ffags wedi’u smyglo. Ydw i’n gwisgo trôns glân i gyrraedd y trefnydd angladdau? Dw i’n ysu am gael brwsio’n nannedd am ryw reswm – ac yn ysu, yn cosi, yn crafu, yn llythrennol hefyd – ‘nenw’r Rhai Dioglyd, dyma chwilod y bedd yn ‘y nghnoi – dw i’n cael ‘yn lleibio’n fyw. Ma’ mrest i’n cael ei wasgu gan gerrig enfawr, anweledig. Dw i angen – rhaid i fi – ddianc – fi’n bron marw o ofn – yn daer am neidio mas o’r fan a rhedeg. Crwt ofnus – oer, chwyslyd, twym, dan glo yn y tywyllwch, sy’n erfyn am ei deganau – dw i, ac yr unig olau yw lamp stryd grynedig yn y pellter. Ife sŵn seiren yn dod i'n harestio ni yw ‘ny? Ond myn Eneiniog yr Hen Dduwiau a aeth i lawr i’r pyllau tân ar y Nw Yrth – dw i’n cael ymosodiad panig – a drwy’r amser dyna’r brygowthan atgas ‘na, yn galw arnon ni i losgi’n dragwyddol.

 

Dw i’n gallu gweld yr holl beth – y ddamwain, ddylen ni ddweud, falle – erbyn hyn – yn araf iawn – mor araf â bo phosib, a dweud y gwir – cyn arafed â chrwban cloff yn hercian heb ei gragen am hanner dydd ryw ddydd crasboeth yng nghanol yr haf – dw i’n credu – ond ife fi ydy – pwy yw’r ‘fi’ ‘na, draw fanna, ta ‘be? Y fi sy’n bloeddio geiriau ola’r swyngan – ‘vilizda, huiklé, vildarsí, deklo’.

 

Heb rybudd – mae’r peth, yr ysbryd, y crwt, yr anghenfil, yn dod i olwg unwaith ‘to – dyma Stevie’n brecio’n galed, yr union eiliad pan fydd injin y fan yn cyrraedd ei ‘sgrechian ucha’ – ac wedyn diffygio ma’r brêcs – gan wichian fel ‘sen ni mewn lladd-dy. O, Swtach a’n cadwo ni, dw i’n rhegi dan ‘y nannedd, am ddiwedd i barti rhydd ymhlith y pinwydd ar ôl i ni jyst ddianc rhag Milisia’r Bobl Wlatgar achos bod yr hen ‘ffernols ‘na ar y Pwyllgor wedi treio trefnu i fi gael ‘yn arestio.

 

Dw i’m yn gw’bod beth sy’n digwydd, w. Ma’ fel hunllef wedi’i hachosi gan fadarch meddyginiaethol. Mae popeth yn symud yn ara’ iawn a dw i’n gweld dwbl. Dyna pryd wi’n sylweddoli. Ha ... dyna ddigri ... fi yw’r ola i ddeall be sy’n mynd ‘mlaen fel rheol. Dw i’n teimlo mod i’n llawer o bobl ar yr un pryd, mae fel ‘se llwyth o gymeriadau gwahanol ynddo i sy eisiau dod mas a dweud eu dweud. Mae Dau Fyd yma ar yr un pryd, un ar ben y llall, wedi’u gwahanu oddi wrth ei gilydd gan gaenen leuerog. Ac yma, yn y fangre hon lle mae sylwedd yn toddi, dyma Arglwydd yr Hynafiaid a rwygodd y llen o’r blaen, yn treiddio’r llen drachefn.

 

Mae’r stwff ‘ma ym mhob man, fel dalennau o we’n llewyrchu, neu’r pilenni yn eich perfeddion, wedi’i dynnu dros bob gofod ac wedi’i dorchi mewn pob bwlch. Dw i’n gallu’i glywed e’n donni, mewn ffordd, o gil ‘yn llygaid, haenau o uwd sticlyd yn gludio holl bytiau’r byd wrth ei gilydd. Nesa, dw i’n sylwi ar rwbeth fel blastig lled dryloyw rhwng ‘y mysedd pan dw i’n eu hymestyn nhw ar led. A nawr, mae’r stwff o boptu i fi. Pan dw i’n symud o gwbl, dw i’n cyffwrdd â fe – be bynnag yw e – a mae fel ‘se fe’n cydio ynddo i bob amser, yn llusgo drosta i, gan ‘neud i fi deimlo’n llaith, yn sigledig, ac yn od iawn,  fel bo fi’n troi tu fewn tu fa’s. Rhwbeth fel jam brith yn corddi, rywsut, neu falle’n fwy tebyg i semolina byw lliw chwŷd, neu rifft goruwchddaearol. Mae’r drych rhyfedda’ arno fe, ta be – ych-a-fi!

 

A dyna gorff dirgrynol yr Hen Feistr sy wastad yn llechu ar y trothwy, yn cynnwys miloedd o lobau llachar, yn caledu o'r tarth o’n blaen ni. A dw i'n cofio Mam (‘yn angel colledig) a Dad (yr hen ddiawl), a phawb arall sy wedi mynd a dod, dw i 'di ceisio cysylltu â nhw i ryw raddau, heb lwyddo gan amla'. A dyma'r ceidwad sy'n nabod y porth, sy biau'r allwedd o arian, sy'n crwydro dros amser oll o dan y Sêl Ysgarlad. Dw i angen meddwl am y labwst ‘na o ffrind gorau, y Ficing, yn eistedd yn ‘yn ymyl i, a’r ferch oeraidd ac anodd ei deall, dw i'n lico cymaint (wrth ei chasáu ar yr un pryd), cyn i fi farw.

 

A dw i’n cael ‘y ngorfodi i wynebu’n holl wendidau, a diffygion, a beiau. Mor lawn sêl o’n i o’r blaen, mor fodlon ar frifo’r rhai sy’n haeddu cael eu cosbi, er gwaetha’r holl eiriau teg a’r moesoli. Ro’dd ‘y mwriad yn iawn, ta be’. Ond y funud hon mae popeth wedi newid yn llwyr. Dw i wedi drysu'n lân. Am ragrithiwr dw i, oedd wedi dymuno bod mor gas o’r blaen. ‘Sdim dewis wedyn, rhaid i fi gyfadde' wrth 'yn hunan dw i'm yn gallu 'nafu neb heb sôn am eu lladd nhw, hyd yn oed y rhai dw i'n casáu mwya', a taw gwell fyddai ‘neud da yn lle brwydro yn ôl. Sut allwn i fod wedi ystyried aberthu’r llanc twp arall ‘na? Sa i’n deall dim byd mwyach. Ro’n i eisiau llwyddo ond dw i ‘di methu. A dyma’r wobr go iawn, siŵr o fod. Ro’n i’n dweud celwyddau wrtha’n hunan drwy’r amser. Dw i ddim pwy dw i’n credu mod i. Be’ sy’n bod arna i? Cofia’r neges o heddwch a chariad, w. Ond nawr dw i ‘di rhedeg bant, unwaith ‘to. Ife ffaelu yw ‘ny?

 

A dyna wyneb ‘yn Mam sy’n gorwedd yn yr ysbyty, druan â hi, ac mae’n ymbil arna i am gael ei rhyddhau o’i hartaith a dw i’m yn medru helpu hi. Wrth i fi grychu'n llygaid mor dynn nes bod nhw’n brifo, i geisio atal y braw, dyma'r Hen Ddihenydd sy'n troi'r gofod cyn hau holl hadau caos yn ymrithio. Mae’r endid gyda’i filoedd o lygaid yn dechrau neidio at y fan, ac mae’n llysnafeddog gan olew symudliw fyddai’n achosi i unrhyw ddyn cyffredinol fynd ar drip asid unwaith-mewn-oes ‘sai fe’n dod i gysylltiad â fe. A dyma Isheth ei hun yn ymestyn ei dentaclau fyrdd o ectoplasm, seimllyd tuag aton ni i sleifio'n heneidiau ymaith.

 

Ac mae gwynt cyfoglyd blodau pydredig yn llenwi’r awyr – a’r distawrwydd hollol – y tywyllwch llwyr – fel mewn marwdy, ond gwaeth achos fod e’n heigio â cheffylau fampiraidd, rhithiol – y noson honno sy’n digwydd drosodd a thro – noson giaidd, ysgithrog, a’i cheg yn llawn bustl gwenwynig – nos wedi dod yn flaidd rheibus.

 

A dyma fi’n cael ‘y ngwthio’n syth yn ‘y mlaen yn y byd go iawn, wel, y byd dw i’n gydnabod, wrth gael ‘y ngwasgu mewn rhyw ddimensiwn tu fas i’r pedwar dimensiwn arferol dw i’n gyfarwydd â nhw dim ond drwy ddarllen yr holl ffug-wydd, a dw i’n cael ‘yn estyn a throi’n sbageti ar yr un pryd. Yn ‘yn llaw chwith, cerflun bychan eirias, fel anifail gwyllt corniog, asgwrn tynnu, canhwyllyr, neu rŵn hudol, sy’n newid drwy’r amser. Sgrechian sgrech y Fall cyn mynd i gysgu cwsg y meirw. Dyna ‘mhen i’n taro yn erbyn y forden flaen – gan hollti ‘nhafod i, malu ‘nhrwyn, curo sawl dannedd ma’s – a llenwi ‘ngheg gyda blas hylif rhudd bywyd – unwaith ‘to (ond sut yn union wn i ‘ny nawr, sa i’n gw’bod). A dyna sawr osôn, a thywyn uwchfioled, a chwerthin gwyllt. Ac wedyn – dim byd.

 

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HAEDDODD y digwyddiadau canlynol a gysylltir â’r Clinig hyglod o’r enw Y Pinwydd yn Aberdydd gael eu croniclo yn y papur newydd lleol, Rwy'n dyfynnu o'r erthygl air am air yma.  — D.B.P.

 

“Wedi diflannu yr oedd dyn ifanc, dirgel, o’r clinig arbrofol, arloesol, sydd ar fin cael ei gau o ddiffyg cyllid, i’r gymuned leol, lawer gwaith o’r blaen. Bob tro byddai’n gweithredu’n rhyfedd iawn – yn helpu’r henoed i groesi’r ffordd, atal ymladd rhwng plant, paentio dros graffiti yn y Boly-ysgol, trefnu partïon dawns rhydd ar gyfer y rhai di-waith, a chasglu ysbwriel – ym mhob achos, heb i neb ofyn iddo na’i dalu. Ar adegau eraill, byddai’n cyfieithu gweithiau gan hen feistri anadnabyddus fel Nukulu Vili-seketh i’r Gimbreg. Ac mae adrodd heb ei gadarnhau’n honni iddo ddarganfod gwaith gwreiddiol yn y Gimbreg gan Tomos Aildon (y “Prydydd Diodl” hynod) yn laslanc. Wrth fentro’r tu hwnt i furiau diogel y clinig, byddai’n dwyn fel arfer sach yn cynnwys dwy ddoli glwt, cyllell rydlyd, pot o baent coch, a theganau ar ffurf cath a cheiliog, o bob peth dan haul. Ymhellach, arferai’r dyn dieithr siantio mantras mewn ieithoedd estron.”

 

Â’r adrodd ymlaen — “Y tro hwn, fodd bynnag, daliwyd ef ar ôl damwain mewn fan wen. Ymddengys bod nyrs yn mynd â fe ymaith i gael triniaeth yn y clinig wedi iddo gael ei anafu’n ddifrifol pan oedd wedi rhedeg i’r stryd i blycio plentyn o ffordd car a yrrai’n rhy gyflym ymhlith y pinwydd, gan achub ei bywyd. Mae’r manylion yn aneglur, fodd bynnag, gan fod yr arwr tybiedig yn gorwedd mewn coma ar hyn o bryd [**]. Nid ydy’n sicr faint ydy’i oedran, nac o ba le y mae'n hanu'n wreiddiol, pa un ai'n agos iawn neu'n bellach i ffwrdd. Fodd bynnag, ymddengys y cam-driniasid ef yn enbyd pan oedd yn blentyn bach cyn dod i’r wlad hon (drachefn, efallai am y cant a milfed tro?). Gwirionai ar syniadau’r ocwlt a’r goruwchnaturiol er pan oedd wedi ymuno â’r fyddin fel sowldiwr bach yn dri ar ddeg i frwydo ar hyd a lled y cyfandir yn ôl pob sôn. Yr oedd yn dioddef o siel-syfrdandod, mae’n debyg, ar ôl y rhyfel yng Nghalon y Cyfandir.

 

Mae’r meddygon wedi datgan ei fod yn profi rhithweledigaethau clywedol parhaol – ‘lleisiau o’r byd a ddaw’ – a’i hanogai i wneud gweithredoedd rhyfeddol ddefnyddiol o bob math. Yr oedd y clinigwr dan hyfforddiant, H Grossmann, y siaradon ni â hi, wedi credu y dylai’r newid diweddaraf yn ei feddyginiaeth fod wedi cael effaith fuddiol, ond mae’n bosibl ei bod yn ‘anffodus o anghywir’ (yn ôl ei geiriau ei hun). ‘Amser yw’r meddyg gorau’, oedd ei sylw olaf.”

 

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[*] Pwy all ddweud ‘te a oes ‘na realiti go iawn, neu ddim ond rhithiau’n esgus bodoli? Ife ni sy’n byw neu’n ffurfiau meddwl yn arnofio drwy feysydd egni’r Holl Fyd? Wedi’r cwbl, mor bwysig i’r Thorlin yw creu rhyw lun ar fywyd drwy iaith a chof, y geiriau’n dawnsio ar flaen y tafod a’r lluniau’n fflachio am enaid cyn ddiffodd. Ond am ei bod hi'n well gennym y syniad o chwarae nag o weithio’n galed gan amla, dyn ni’n ein darbwyllo’n hunain taw gêm gosmig yw byw, a hawdd yw rhaffu’r fath ribidirês, er bod hwn yn golygu greddfau diymwybod aruthrol mewn gwirionedd, sy'n nodwedd ddiffiniol ein rhywogaeth. 

 

Dyn ni’n coleddu’n hanesion gymaint â bywyd ei hunan, falle, gan taw nhw sy’n ffurfio’r gybolfa ryfedd a greiff synnwyr hunan, a’n cordeddu ni ag eraill. Rhaid i seiniau cynta’r chwedl ein llenwi â chwilfrydedd ac arno flas asid o ofn, ein bachu ni, a’n denu tuag at y diwedd. Mae’n gorfod cynnwys digon o adloniant a llwyaid fawr o anwiredd a chyfleu rhyw weledigaeth yn lapio gronyn bychan o wirioned. Ac, o’r diwedd, bydd ar y diweddglo angen celu hadau agoriadau newydd.

 

O’r safbwynt ‘ma, dyn ni’n byw mewn bro ddychmygol, gan lunio breuddwydion a dramâu, eu hactio nhw, a’u rhannu nhw â phobl eraill o bryd i’w gilydd. Ar un ystyr, wrth gwrs, celwyddau yw’r storïau i gyd – y ffarsau a’r trasiedïau, y rhamantau a’r chwedlau arswyd – yr holl chwerthin a gwarth, y gofid a’r cariad – yr wybodaeth a’r dyfaliadau, y damcaniaethau, y mythau, a’r ffydd. Mae’n bosib i Ddewin medrus fenthyg meddyliau a chofion i ddysgu ganddynt a’u mendio nhw. Ac mae’r Meddyliaethyddion Maleisus yn eu dwyn, eu gwyrdroi, a’u troi nhw’n hunllefau.

 

O ganlyniad, mae'r rhai calla’n honni na fydd fyth yn bosib cael map terfynol realedd fel a wyddom, golwg cyflawn dros fywyd. ‘Sdim diben chwilio am gyfrinachau cêl unigryw’r Holl Fyd, felly, maen nhw’n rhybuddio. Ond hyd yn oed nhw sy’n fodlon ar dderbyn bod ‘na sawl syniad cywir yn llechu dan yr haenau lledrithiol canfyddiad, y gallan nhw eu mabwysiadu a’u defnyddio heb fod yn rhaid iddyn nhw lyncu system cred neilltuol. Ar y llaw arall, parasit yw addewid gwybodaeth berffaith fydd yn ein bwyta oddi mewn os ceisiwn ni’i choleddu fe. A rhwystr marwol i dyfu yw'r dyhead am berffeithrwydd ei hun.

 

Y gwir yw (A, am eironi chwerw-felys!) taw dim ond drwy ffaelu dyn ni’n gwella, symud ‘mlaen, ac esblygu. Ac wrth i ni neud ‘ny, fe fydd ynysoedd o drefn hardd yn codi am sbel o fôr heigiog anhrefn, ymhell y tu hwnt i gyrraedd deddfau wedi’u dyfeisio (neu’u darganfod) gan bobl. O’m rhan i – fel medd G.LL., gan ddyfynnu “Hanes Hynod” Suhmyzdàtuh Lowky – celwyddgi dw i â ‘mryd i ar y gwir. A dw i’n gallu dweud y canlynol yn hyderus wrthoch chi: taw celwydd yw hyn oll i ryw raddau o reidrwydd, am nad y gwir dilwgr ydy, os gallai fod fyth. Ond nage dyna beth drwg, fel dw i’n siŵr byddwch chi’n cytuno, wedi pwyso a mesur yr – adfyfyrdodau – ‘ma maes o law. — P.M.

 

[**] Cefnogwr mawr y wasg leol (ac yn aml eitha annibynnol) dw i. Ond, dyw “Papur Wythnosol Cwm Aber” (“PWCA”) ddim yn gywir drwy’r amser o ran manylion a dweud y lleiaf. Efallai iddyn nhw wneud cymwynas â Daud (a’r Clinig) wrth ohebu ar y stori ‘ma fel hyn, fodd bynnag. Dw i ddim yn gwybod. Nid newyddiadurwr mohona i, wedi’r cwbl. — P.M.