Shadows are areas of darkness, created perfectly naturally by lights, the one going hand-in-hand with the other. This type of phenomenon occurs when light produced by some shining object is blocked by an opaque object. The shadow fills the whole volume beyond the second object, and its cross-section is called a silhouette. Wide light-sources create unclear shadows, and several different sources close together can create complex shadows with colours in them. Light and shadow, good and bad, father and son, judgement and salvation, life and death – we, humanity, have invented the words to express all these binary differences. These concepts are excellent tools for theoretical debates, but which ones are fundamental, and authentic, and, one must ask, important, when push comes to shove?
The influence of the youngest member of the Guild of Secrets has spread further than he could have imagined. Although he didn’t remember perfectly what had happened on his otherworldly trip, the shock-wave went like the sneeze of an angry giant through the Two Worlds. Something within the Old Soldier made him walk the World, and in this, he was similar to the despicable members of the Cowled Brotherhood. The wily man, that obstreperous trickster, wandered therefore over the face of the Eyrth, whilst the Youngest Magician worked his fingers to the bone at home (through non-stop reading, and tortured meditating, and very many other indescribable acts), and although his heart was full of peace, in theory at least, war followed him. And an entity called Swtakh, lord of the desert, who hates learning, and who had grown weary with all the studying, went with him always and everywhere, unseen but powerful, like an inky shadow of evil, sowing winds in order to reap whirlwinds, with a cruel smile. But every now and then he would have to come back to his own Planet to pop into the onyx ziggurats to have a chat with the Old Masters.
In the Chief Ziggurat on the landlocked island of Atha-lanthé on the Southern Continent of the Nw Yrth, tribulation spreads itself across them, the Seven Sorcerers, as if it were some slack, velvet glove, which is trying to complete the act which will be necessary in order to seize sullen victory from the jaws of defeat. Over a void which cannot usually be bridged, the clamour of a committee of high-pitched voices cuts through the ceaseless sound of insectile carapaces, which are scraping threateningly – “chep-er, chep-er, chep-er” —
“So, is the terror coming upon them, at long last?”
“Is the time of tribulation arriving?”
On the Eyrth, Swtakh has been working very hard. If his plans succeed, a war shall begin in Angra in the middle of the Northern Continent which has been brewing for a long time. It will be a terrible conflict, and families and communities will be divided on the basis of language, faith, skin-colour, and ethnic background, with sons attacking fathers, mothers spitting in daughters, neighbours setting fire to each others’ houses, and life-long friends killing old comrades. Soldiers will be fighting too, as traitors or freedom-fighters, with the word depending on which side you support. Neither the one side nor the other will win, and perhaps it won’t be possible for anyone to prevail anyway in the end, with the two of them (if there are only two) rushing quickly towards complete destruction, taking the rest of the World with them.
Here's one of the would-be soldiers who’s a constant criminal and run-of-the-mill drug-dealer right now. In the future, he’ll be killed by an explosion of his own making, but now he’s suffering from concussion after being beaten almost to death by members of an opposing gang. The man’s eyes are as black as lumps of coal, and he keeps sniffing some white, spicy stuff from the tiny, battered tin he takes everywhere. Despite his confusion, he sure that he has to act steadfastly, following the fearsome commands he’s received from the otherworldly authorities [1].
In order to complete the appointed task, he’s brought the usual tools. But he’s not on his own: there’s a father and son here, Ishakí and Adauvam from the Old Book, but lacking the company of the white dove or the black raven, which talk with tongues of fire, this time. By doing what’s needed, he shall bring the age-old war against the forces of the resistance on the Eyrth to an end once and for all before the latest battle begins in his back-yard, seizing the land back for the future. He’ll purify the ground. Get rid of the idolaters. Save the folk. Leave his mark on history. And here are his thoughts, running wild {Sacrifice} —
“Here’s me lurking alone in the shadows. There’s a hole in my head, dark in my heart. Emptiness through me from head to toe. Always so lonely. No. They never leave me alone. Not here, not now. The voices inside my head. Mocking. Torturing. Mouths with blood on. My personality poured into a bucket.”
The whole desolate landscape lies under a purple shadow. It appears that there is some small half-conscious creature in the hessian sack at the feet of the lost man, whose mind is fogged due to the blow that almost split his skull. Perhaps it’s just his fertile imagination that’s the source of this whole scene. But the pitiful thing’s trying to squirm, pulling against its rough bonds, whilst waves of pain wash over it. It’s agitated through lack of fresh air, and its muscles are incapacitated by acid. A little squeal escapes its lips through the dirty rag stuffed into his mouth. The ardent acolyte of the extra-terrestrial devils, who are insubstantial but very real, kicks the sack unthinkingly, and the incipient movement dampens with a shrill screech.
On the Nw Yrth, the sound, as sharp as a crystal dagger, hangs suspended by a silver thread of grief in the toxic air. At the same time, shreds of existence as numberless as sand-grains stuff the spectral landscape, and they are unseen and mute, but present, nevertheless. They have been immured so long that their dammed-up frenzy is like a hydrothermal vent about to explode. Abruptly, a trio of voices congeals from the sebaceous atmosphere. Each member of the trinity is insistent, authoritative, intense. Their questions demand a response:
“A sacrifice is necessary.”
“Who shall be the lamb to be offered up?”
“What thing shall be the scape-goat?”
And then, without a pause, there’s seven voices beginning to chant the old forbidden prayer of transformation and incarnation, over and over: “Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre” [2].
On the Eyrth, an electrical shudder runs down the back of the man as soon as the chanting begins: “I know what I’m doing, now and always. Am I ready? No, I’m not. I’m not ready at all. I can’t. I must. I am the door and the key. The keeper and the way. I’ve learned everything from the Old Books. From my Masters, with the help of the Cowled Monks. This is my fate. They’ve told me things. They speak. Show. Reveal. And, Oh, they can cut, and bite, and rend, and slash, and rip. I must succeed.”
A weak ripple goes through the expectant multitude, that uninvited audience; perhaps it’s only the breath of the raw rocks, or rather a stinking sigh from the leprous ground. And then one grizzling voice emerges from the tumult, and, for once, succeeds in eliciting a coherent reaction:
“The Eyrthly enchantment starts the ceremony!”
“We cannot act without consent!”
“We demand an answer!”
And the servant vacillates: “The unique one am I, the one chosen and the one who choses; it is I who’ll loose the pestilence and the hosts of ravenous scarabs; I shall scatter the incredible forces of Perdition. I shall become a Sorcerer, disintegrating the Two Worlds. In me shall every prophecy be fulfilled! Me – I – shall begin, through bitter-sweet anguish, a deluge that cannot be dammed. And thus shall we win the war – forever and ever – eternally – for evermore!”
As this refrain – “We demand an answer,” repeated seven-fold – finishes, thick chunks of doleful absence gather in the empty ectoplasmic womb on the sacrificial stone in the middle of the desolate invocation-place. The rapturous pressure, more powerful than lightning, increases, which would give the Sorcerers goose-bumps if they possessed skin that could be so affected. And then boiling shadows from another dimension come together, like a tusked herd of vampiric horses, their eyes flaming, together with a vengeful pack of rabid white dogs, whose ears are red.
Pupils dilate with the ultrasonic vibration that bursts blood-cells (since some of the Sorcerers have eyes, and fluid of some kind circulates through all their bodies), and then begins the zenith of a symphony performed to welcome the jubilant arrival of terrible Divinities, which has not been heard up till now in our universe. And after millennia of exile, their revenge shall be palpable.
“It is we who call upon you!”
“We who call you!”
“We who call on –“
“We wo call –“
“We who –“
“We –“
“Us –“
He’s put to lie down, the as yet blameless child (apart from the fact that he almost caused his Mum’s death in childbirth), frozen with fear. And there he is on a ledge in the same posture as described in the terrifying Grimoire, ‘Zleba Hava·róth,’ which has been lost for ages but which has recently been discovered, as if by magic. But it’s not on the Eyrth that the chosen child exists at present, of course, nor on the Nw Yrth either, but in the void between the Two Worlds, in that instant between the past and the future, in the pregnant gap between starting and finishing. And there, he is every abused child, every man who of necessity has given up behaving according to the usual social rules. The hand of fate hovers, waiting the release of the final words. The World’s most inexperienced priest stares at the location: some bottomless cellar, or tower without a top, perhaps.
The man’s face is lit up by the weakest smile to flash across it since he escaped from his enemies, pretending he’d died. But unfortunately for him, his face, and his body too, are soaked with blood, and spittle, and sweat, and snot. And then the filthy man mutters his abstruse mantras, which have not been revived by the breath of life since time immemorial in the eternal fog at the dawn of time. And his body distorts as a spasm of excitement flows through him. A pause, and then a hum, rather indistinct, echoes through the Two Worlds – the Eyrth and the Nw Yrth – as history wavers between two paths. Now he knows. Yes. Yes. Yes. Thrice yes. The taste of freedom’s almost on his lips, for himself and all his people – the special ones, the chosen – and authority, order, purity, peace, are in front of them –
Now it will happen. Here. Outside the cottage, the unforgiving, bruised sky, teeming with unknown griefs, is darkening, while the stars, one-by-one, go out, immediately, and irreversibly. The feared Day of Judgement arrives. And ravenous spectres are the seven living shadows, which are almost dying from want of souls. And there everything would have finished, were it not for a couple of essential facts. The rash man who believes he’s the Old Masters’ Anointed One has broken the commandment regarding ritual purity which it’s essential to obey, “lest the whole dread power turn against the seeker,” and of course the ascension of this self-chosen saviour cannot take place, due to his filthiness. And on top of that, The words of the rite he’s bawling –
“Kheperi kheperentw khekheperi kheprikhepera khepereni Khepri khepre.
Khepereni kheperen kheprereni [3]”
– are incorrect. Well, that’s all a terrible pity – for some, perhaps – isn’t it? And so, the famished knife wings its way towards its quarry as the cruel Gods lurking in the extra dimensions beyond mortal existence press forwards, cackling and cavorting. But, suddenly, the rusty dagger twitches as if it were alive separate from its wielder, and the scoundrel’s arm jerks so that he cuts himself time after time, rather than sending the intended offering to oblivion. Blood flows in a wild river against a background as black as the Nw Yrth’s merciless sunset as the flagitious fanatic howls in frustration, his face ecstatic and devilish in turns. Unbeknown to him, the ceremony has succeeded, in a manner of speaking at least, because the spilled sanguinary fluid, together with his cries have opened an unknown path to the Other World which is usually prohibited. And although the Sorcerers themselves cannot cross at the present time, their malignant tentacles will encroach much further and more mercilessly from now on.
At that moment, the tusked darkness is slashed by a peal of thunder sufficient to split your head open. Everywhere there’s a violet glow and the stink of ozone, and the bellowed laughter of some inhuman entities stirs up the entire fabric of the hateful place. And then, time and space dissolve.
Personalities are rent in shreds. Causation is confounded as easily as a door being yanked off its hinges by a particularly angsty teen superhero in a blue funk. One person becomes another. As the universe resounds, a man takes the part of a child, a woman appears like a man, the young change places with the old, and every image built in the imagination with familiar symbols is swept away by a fearsome reality beyond description. Everyone becomes one, as the individual shatters like fragments of some magic mirror. The landscape is transformed entirely. On the Nw Yrth, where time goes by a lot quicker than on the Eyrth, everything is out of sync. And there a child has been sent to do a man’s work.
At last, the repugnant rite is completed – or finished, at least. The beguiled babe in the sack – if he's still a human infant by now, and if he exists on the Eyrth at this time – is shrieking as if the world were ending, as his former captor falls on top of his bound body, wearied beyond endurance. And there, according to the normal rules of the cosmos, someone should have perished – but – but – the indolent Idolaters desire different. Despite that, however, a gate to the Other World has been opened, one which will not be closed during the charmed childling’s lifetime.
Having survived on the whim of the Uncanny Opposition Forces (who else would have broadcast the wrong words and enforced the purity rules under such circumstances?), there are seven magical lives that remain yet to be spent by the enchanted boy – and perhaps he might have had a blessed life indeed – under an alternate sun, or in a different story at least. But this is not to be, despite the intent of his creator, that Youngest Magus, who has planned the whole ruse behind the scenes. Although the lad won’t remember anything about these events, he’ll be plagued by nightmares from now on. Having said that, it’s not the past that’ll be the biggest problem, since it's the future that sneaks up to overwhelm everyone in the fullness of time, as sure as tippling on "Crumpled Horn" will send you blind. The latest episode in the genocidal conflict between the bellicose blocs had not been avoided, only postponed, and this newly-born Trey, the prince of a man with the two skilled hands, will use up his chances to live, one by one.
* * * * * * * *
[1] There are echoes here of that depraved denomination, Drouggi’s Diehard non-Dogmatic Dissenters, founded as a hoax by one J G Andrea, a highly charismatic bounder of unknown stock. Its abstract gnosological principles attracted a significant number of crazed esotericists and rank anti-salvificists to the Rosy Fort at el-Gkwerkha. They were like wretched spirits of the past caught between the present and the future and flickering like a candle-flame in a gust of wind. They sought to attain long-lived experience of the sublimation of the physical in the then-and-there promised by their firebrand prophets. “I am thee and you are me: what’s our new name going to be?” was their watchword. It is said that they would perform human sacrifices to the sinister divinities, the Ndelkvnu, at el Khadjar Gkým standing-stones, although these have never been located. (Well, no-one’s sure about that, but despite all the negative hype, they regularly indulged in sexual fun-and-games that were undoubtedly both very kinky and exquisitely pleasurable).
The commune came to an abrupt end when it emerged that Andrea (the “Lubricious Lizard”), had been hard at it, embezzling the sect’s funds and having relations with the ministering maids, one by one and all together. An orgy of copulation, violence, cannibalism and suicide ensued. In the end, the secluded walled township was nothing but a smouldering wreck, swimming knee-deep in foul green-black muck. No human remains at all were left behind and only a local carpenter called Tshízí Kraka and her husband the cook Ardaz Neylz survived to tell the tale. They said, however, that Andrea himself managed to flee too, magically transformed into a bull. (These two were not members of the Cult, and they would go on to bring forth Klaymaktèrik Sír, dam to a long line of women which in the far future would include Fidẁkyal Fywg. mother of Flimzí Foyl, who witnessed the demise of the last speaker of Kimbric and the start of the end of the World. Maybe the last of these was deified as the goddess of dreams as a result, I can't see clearly). — P.M.
[2] This is written using the language and 'sacroscript' of [the Hawkish Hegemon of] the South-eastern Steppes (“Ispet Tiw Bakhw-resw”).
It means: “As soon as I came to be, existence came to be. Every being came to be after I came into existence.” — P.M.
[3] “It is I who am the creator of all that has come into existence. I came to be in the form of the god Khepri. I formed myself in the primal age using the most ancient substance.” — P.M.
Lleoedd o dywyllwch yw cysgodion, wedi’u creu’n berffaith naturiol gan oleuadau, y naill yn mynd law yn llaw â’r llall. Bydd y fath ffenomen yn digwydd pan atelir golau wedi’i gynhyrchu gan ryw wrthrych llachar, gan wrthrych afloyw. Lleinw’r cysgod yr holl gyfaint y tu hwnt i’r ail wrthrych, ac amlinell yw’r enw ar ei drawslun. Crea ffynonellau llydan o olau gysgodion aneglur; a sawl tarddle gwahanol yn agos at ei gilydd a all greu cysgodion cymhleth ac ynddynt liwiau. Golau a chysgod, da a drwg, tad a mab, dyfarniad ac achubiaeth, byw a marw – yr ydym ni ddynolryw wedi dyfeisio’r geiriau i fynegi’r gwahaniaethau deuaidd hyn oll. Bydd y cysyniadau hyn yn declynnau ardderchog ar gyfer dadleuon damcaniaethol, ond pa rai ohonynt fydd yn sylfaenol, ac yn ddilys, a, rhaid gofyn, o bwys, pan ddaw hi i’r pen?
Mae dylanwad aelod ieuengaf Urdd Cyfrinachau wedi ymledu’n bellach nag y gallai dyn fod wedi dychmygu. Er na chofiai’n berffaith yr hyn a oedd wedi digwydd ar ei daith arallfydol, aeth y siocdon fel tisian cawr dig trwy’r Ddau Fyd. Roedd rhywbeth oddi mewn i’r Hen Filwr yn ei orfodi i rodio’r Byd, ac yn hyn o beth, roedd yn debyg i aelodau diystyrllyd y Gydfrawdoliaeth Gwflog. Fe grwydrai’r gŵr castiog, y twyllwr afreolus hwnnw, tros wyneb y Ddaear, wrth i’r Dewin Ieuengaf weithio'i fysedd at yr asgwrn gartref (trwy ddi-stop ddarllen, ac arteithiedig fyfyrio, a llawer iawn o weithgareddau annisgrifiadwy eraill), ac er mai llawn heddwch oedd ei galon, mewn theori o leiaf, rhyfel a’i dilynai. Ac endid o’r enw Swtach, arglwydd yr anialwch, sydd yn casáu dysg, ac oedd wedi blino’n llwyr ar yr holl astudio, âi gyda fe wastad ac ym mhob man, heb ei weld ond yn nerthol, fel cysgod inciog drygioni, gan hau gwyntoedd er mwyn medi corwyntoedd â gwên greulon. Ond bob hyn a hyn byddai'n rhaid iddo fynd yn ôl i’w Blanet ei hun i daro i mewn i’r sigwratau o onics i gael sgwrs gyda’r Hen Feistri.
Yn y Prif Sigwrat ar ynys dirgaeedig Atha-lanthé ar Gyfandir Deheuol y Nw Yrth, ymdaena trallod drostynt, y Saith Swynwr, fel petai’n rhyw faneg felfed, lac, a gais gyflawni’r weithred fydd yn angenrheidiol er mwyn cipio buddugoliaeth sarrug o enau trechiad. Ar draws gwagle na ellir ei bontio fel arfer, tyr dwndwr pwyllgor o leisiau meinion trwy sain ddi-dor argregyn trychfilaidd, a grafa’n fygythiol: “chep-er, chep-er, chep-er” —
“Felly, a ydy’r dychryn yn dod ar eu gwarthaf, ymhen yr hir a’r hwyr?”
“A ydy amser cystudd yn cyrraedd?”
Ac ar y Ddaear, mae Swtach wedi bod yn gweithio’n galed iawn. Os bydd ei gynlluniau’n llwyddo, fe ddechreua rhyfel yn Angra yng nghanol y Cyfandir Gogleddol sydd yn ffromi ers amser maith. Bydd yn wrthdrawiad erchyll, ac fe fydd teuluoedd a chymunedau’n cael eu gwahaniaethu ar sail iaith, crefydd, lliw croen, a chefndir ethnig, gyda meibion yn ymosod ar dadau, mamau’n poeri ar eu merched, cymdogion yn tanio tai’i gilydd, a ffrindiau bore oes yn lladd hen gymrodyr. Milwyr fydd yn brwydro hefyd, fel brawychwyr neu ymladdwyr dros ryddid, a’r gair yn dibynnu ar ba ochr fyddwch yn ei chefnogi. Ni fydd y naill garfan na’r llall yn ennill, ac efallai na fydd yn bosibl i neb drechu beth bynnag yn y pendraw, gyda’r ddwy ohonynt (os bydd dim ond dwy) yn cyflym ruthro i ddinistr llwyr, gan fynd â gweddill y Byd ganddynt.
Dyma un o’r soldiwrs honedig sy’n droseddwr cyson a deliwr cyffuriau ceiniog a dimai erbyn hyn. Yn y dyfodol, fe gaiff e ei lladd gan ffrwydrad o'i wneuthuriad ei hun, ond ar hyn o bryd mae’n dioddef o gyfergyd ar ôl cael ei guro bron hyd farw gan aelodau criw gwrthwynebol. Mae llygaid y dyn mor ddu â lympiau o lo, ac mae’n dal i ffroeni rhyw stwff sbeislyd, gwyn o’r tun bychan, tolciog mae’n mynd â fe o bant i dalar. Er gwaetha’i ddryswch, mae e’n sicr bod rhaid iddo weithredu’n gadarn, gan ddilyn y gorchmynion brawychus mae wedi’u derbyn gan yr awdurdodau arallfydol [1].
Er mwyn cyflawni’r dasg benodedig mae wedi dod â’r arfau arferol. Ond dyw e ddim ar ei ben ei hun: tad a mab sydd yma, Ishakí ac Adauvam o’r Hen Lyfr, ond heb gwmni colomen wen na chigfran ddu, sy’n llefaru â thafodau o dân, y tro hwn. Trwy wneud beth sydd ei angen, fe fydd yn dwyn y rhyfel oesol yn erbyn grymoedd y gwrthsafiad ar y Ddaear i ben unwaith ac am byth cyn i’r frwydr ddiweddara’ gychwyn yn ei filltir sgwâr, gan gipio’r wlad yn ôl i’r dyfodol. Puro’r tir a wnaiff. Cael gwared ar yr eilunaddolwyr. Achub y werin. Gadael ei farc ar hanes. A dyma’i feddyliau’n rhedeg yn wyllt —
“Dyma fi’n llechu ar ‘mhen ‘yn hunan yn y cysgodion. Mae twll yn ‘y mhen i, gwyll yn ‘y nghalon. Gwacter drwydda i o’r corun i’r sawdl. Wastad mor unig. Nage. Fyddan nhw byth yn gadael llonydd i fi. Ddim yma, ddim nawr. Y lleisiau tu mewn i ‘mhen. Gwawdio. Arteithio. Cegau â gwaed arnyn nhw. ‘Mhersonoliaeth wedi’i harllwys i mewn i fwced.”
Mae’r holl dirwedd anial yn gorwedd dan gysgod porffor. Mae’n ymddangos mai rhyw greadur bach, lled ymwybodol, sydd yn y sach hesian wrth draed y dyn colledig, a’i ymennydd wedi’i ddrysu o ganlyniad i’r ergyd a fu bron â thorri ei benglog. Efallai mai dim ond ei ddychymyg ffrwythlon yw tarddle’r holl olygfa hon. Ond mae’r peth pitw’n ceisio gwingo, gan dynnu rhag ei rwymau garw, wrth i donnau o boen olchi drosto. Mae’n dychryn oherwydd prinder awyr iach, a’i gyhyrau wedi’u hanalluogi ag asid. Mae rhyw wichian yn dianc o’i wefusau trwy’r clwt brwnt wedi’i wthio i’w geg. Mae’r acolit eiddgar i’r cythreuliaid sy’n ansylweddol ond gwirioneddol iawn, yn cicio’r sach yn ddifeddwl, ac mae’r symud cychwynnol yn lleihau â sgrech fain.
Ar y Nw Yrth, hongia’r sŵn, mor finiog â dagr o grisial, wedi’i grogi ag edefyn arian o alar yn yr awyr wenwynllyd. Ar yr un pryd, gorleinw cynhinion o fodolaeth rif y tywod mân y safle rhithiol, ac y maent yn anweledig ac yn fud, ond yn bresennol serch hynny. Maent wedi'u carcharu cyhyd nes bod eu cynddaredd cronedig fel agorfa hydrothermol ar fin ffrwydro. Yn ffwr-bwt, dyma driawd o leisiau'n ceulo o'r awyrgylch seimllyd. Pob aelod o'r drindod sydd yn daer, awdurdodol, dwys. Mae eu cwestiynau'n hawlio ymateb:
“Bydd rhaid aberth.”
“Pwy fydd yr oen i’w offrymu?”
“Pa beth fydd y bwch dihangol?”
Ac wedyn, heb saib, dyna saith llais yn cychwyn llafarganu’r hen weddi waharddedig o drawsffurfio ac ymgorffori, drosodd a throsodd: “Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre” [2].
Ar y Ddaear, mae ias drydanol yn rhedeg ar hyd asgwrn cefn y dyn gyda dechrau’r siantio: “Dw i’n gw’bod beth dw i i ‘neud, nawr a wastad. Ydw i’n barod? Nagw, dw i’m. Sa i’n barod o gwbl. Sa i’n gallu. Rhaid i fi. Y drws a’r allwedd dw i. Y ceidwad a’r ffordd. Dw i ‘di dysgu popeth o’r Hen Lyfrau. Gan ‘yn Meistri, gyda help y Mynachod Cwflog. Dyma ‘nhynged i. Maen nhw ‘di dweud pethau wrtho i. Siarad maen nhw. Dangos. Datgelu. Ac O, maen nhw’n gallu torri, a chnoi, a llarpio, a slaesio, a rhwygo. Rhaid i fi lwyddo.”
 crych gwan trwy’r lluosogrwydd disgwylgar, y gynulleidfa ddiwahoddiad honno; efallai mai dim ond anadl y creigiau cignoeth ydy, ynteu yn hytrach ochenaid ddrewllyd o’r tir gwahanglwyfus. Ac wedyn, dyna un llais cwynfanllyd yn ymddangos o blith y twrw, ac am unwaith, yn llwyddo i ysgogi adwaith ystyrlon:
“Y ddewiniaeth ddaearol ddechreua’r ddefod!”
“Ni allwn ni weithredu heb gydsyniad!”
“Nyni a eilw am ateb!”
A dyma’r gwas yn anwadalu. “Yr un unigryw dw i, yr un ddewiswyd ac yr un fydd yn dewis; fi fydd yn gollwng yr haint a’r lluoedd o sgarabiaid rheibus; fi fydd yn gwasgaru grymoedd anhygoel y Fall. Fi a ddaw’n Swynwr, gan chwalu’r Ddau Fyd. Yno i fe gaiff pob darogan ei wireddu! Myfi – fi – fydd yn cychwyn, trwy loes chwerwfelys, ddilyw na ellir ei argáu. Ac fel hyn fe fyddwn ni’n ennill y rhyfel – yn oes oesoedd – yn dragywydd – byth bythoedd!”
Wrth i’r byrdwn hwn – “Nyni a eilw am ateb,” a adroddir saith gwaith – orffen, dyma dalpiau tewion o absenoldeb wylofus yn hel at ei gilydd yn y groth wag o ectoplasm ar y maen aberthu yng nghanol lle diffaith deisyf. Cynydda’r gwasgedd afieithus, mwy nerthol na mellt, fyddai’n codi croen gŵydd ar y Swynwyr pe bai ganddynt groen i’w effeithio. A dyna gysgodion berwedig o ddimensiwn arall yn dod ynghyd, fel praidd esgyrnog o geffylau fampiraidd, ffyrnig, fflamllyd eu llygaid, ynghyd â haid ddialgar o gŵn gwynion cynddeiriog, cringoch eu clustiau.
Amleda canhwyllau llygaid â’r dirgryniad uwchsonig sy’n rhwygo gwaetgelloedd (am fod gan rai o’r Swynwyr lygaid, a bod hylif o ryw fath yn cylchredeg trwy eu cyrff i gyd), a dyna ddechrau anterth symffoni wedi’i pherfformio i groesawu cyrraedd gorfoleddus Duwdodau enbyd, nas clywyd hyd yn hyn yn ein cyfanfyd. Ac ar ôl milenia o alltudiaeth, amlwg fydd eu dial.
“Nyni a eilw arnoch chi!”
“Y ni a eilw arnoch!”
“Nyni a eilw ar –”
“Y ni a eilw –”
“Nyni a –”
“Nyni –”
“Ni –
Fe’i rhoddir yn ei orwedd, y plentyn sydd eto’n ddi-nam (ar wahân i’r ffaith bu bron iddo beri i’w Mam farw wrth esgor arno), wedi’i rewi ag ofn. A dyna fe ar silff yn yr un ystum fel a ddisgrifir yn y Llawlyfr Hud a Lledrith dychrynllyd, ‘Zleba Hava·róth,’ a gollwyd ers hydoedd maith ond sy wedi’i ddarganfod yn ddiweddar, megis trwy hudoliaeth. Ond nid ar y Ddaear y mae'r dewis blentyn yn bodoli ar hyn o bryd, wrth gwrs, nac ar y Nw Yrth ychwaith, ond yn y gofod rhwng y Ddau Fyd, yn yr amrantiad hwnnw rhwng y gorffennol a’r dyfodol, yn y bwlch beichiog rhwng dechrau a gorffen. Ac yno, pob plentyn wedi’i gam-drin ydy, pob gŵr sydd o reidrwydd wedi rhoi’r gorau i ymddwyn yn ôl y moesau cymdeithasol arferol. Mae llaw ffawd yn hofran, gan ddisgwyl rhyddhau’r geiriau terfynol. Syllu mae offeiriad mwyaf amhrofiadol y Byd ar y lleoliad: rhyw seler ddiwaelod, neu dŵr heb dop iddo, efallai.
Goleuir gwep y dyn gan y wên wannaf i wibio trosto ers iddo ddianc o’i elynion gan esgus ei fod wedi marw. Ond yn anffodus iddo, mae’i wep, a’i gorff hefyd, yn wlyb domen gan waed, poer, chwys, a llysnafedd trwyn. A dyma’r dyn aflan yn mwmial ei fantrâu astrus, nas hailfywiogwyd gan anadl einioes ers cyn cof yn y niwl tragwyddol ar wawr amser. A dyma’i gorff yn ystumio wrth i hwrdd o gyffro lifo trwyddo. Saib, ac wedyn si, braidd yn anamlwg, sy’n atseinio trwy’r Ddau Fyd – y Ddaear a’r Nw Yrth – wrth i hanes gloffi rhwng dau lwybr. Yn awr y gŵyr ef. Ie. Ie. Ie. Deirgwaith ie. Mae blas rhyddid bron ar ei wefusau, o’i ran ef ac o ran ei werin oll – y rhai arbennig. yr etholedig – ac awdurdod, trefn, purdeb, heddwch, sydd o’u blaenau –
Yn awr bydd yn digwydd. Yma. Y tu allan i’r bwthyn, mae’r awyr gleisiog, anfaddeugar, gyforiog o alaethau anhysbys, yn tywyllu, wrth i’r sêr, fesul un, diffodd, ar eu hunion, ac yn ddiwrthdro. Dyma gyrraedd Dydd y Farn a ofnwyd. A rhithiau gwancus yw’r saith cysgod byw, sydd bron â marw o chwant eneidiau. Ac yno fe fyddai popeth wedi gorffen, oni bai am gwpl o ffeithiau hanfodol. Mae’r dyn byrbwyll, sy’n credu mai Eneiniog yr Hen Feistri ydy, wedi torri’r gorchymyn ynghylch purdeb defodol y bydd yn angenrheidiol ufuddhau iddo, “rhag i’r holl nerth erch droi yn erbyn y chwiliwr,” ac wrth gwrs, ni all yr arwr hunan-benodedig esgyn, ac yntau mor halogedig. Ac ar ben hynny, geiriau’r ddefod mae’n eu bloeddio –
“Kheperi kheperentw khekheperi kheprikhepera khepereni Khepri khepre.
Khepereni kheperen kheprereni [3]”
– sy’n anghywir. Gresyn o beth ydy hynny oll – i rai, efallai – on’d ife? Felly, dyma’r gyllell farus yn hedfan disgyn wrth at ei hysglyfaeth wrth i’r Duwiau creulon sy’n llechu yn y dimensiynau ychwanegol y tu hwnt i fodolaeth farwol bwyso ymlaen gan gogor a chrychlamu. Ond, yn sydyn, dyna’r dagr rhydlyd yn gwingo fel pe bai’n byw ar wahân i’w driniwr, a dyna fraich y dihiryn yn ysgegio nes ei fod yn ei dorri ei hun, yn hytrach na hala’r offrwm arfaethedig i ebargofiant. Dyna waed yn llifo mewn afon wyllt yn erbyn cefndir cyn ddued â machlud didostur y Nw Yrth wrth i’r penboethyn dybryd rwystredig ubain a’i wyneb yn ecstatig a dieflig, bob yn eilwers. Heb yn wybod iddo, mae’r seremoni wedi llwyddo, mewn ffordd o siarad o leiaf, am fod yr hylif gwaedlyd wedi’i dywallt, ynghyd â’i floeddiau, wedi agor llwybr anhysbys i’r Byd Arall, sy’n waharddedig fel rheol. Ac er na all y Swynwyr eu hunain groesi ar hyn o bryd, fe fydd eu tentaclau adwythig yn tresmasu’n bellach o lawer ac yn fwy didostur o hyn ymlaen.
Y munud yna, holltir y tywyllwch ysgithrog gan drwst o daran digon i hollti’ch pen. Ym mhob man mae llewyrch fiolet a drycsawr osôn, ac mae beichio chwerthin rhai endidau annynol yn cythryblu holl ddeunydd y lle ffiaidd. Ac wedyn, dyma doddi amser a gofod.
Rhwygir personoliaethau’n ddarnau. Drysir achosiaeth cyn hawsed ag y tynnir drws oddi ar ei golfachau gan uwcharwr yn ei arddegau yn berwi o ing a hwyl ddrwg ofnadwy arno fe. Mae un person yn dod yn un arall. Wrth i’r cyfanfyd atseinio, dyn sy’n cymryd rhan plentyn, menyw a ymddengys fel gŵr, yr ifainc sy’n cyfnewid â’r henoed, ac fe ysgubir pob delwedd a adeiladwyd yn y dychymig â symbolau cyfarwydd gan realiti dychrynllyd y tu hwnt i ddisgrifiad. Mae pawb yn dod yn un, wrth i’r unigolyn ymddryllio fel teilchion o ryw ddrych hudol. Trawsffurfir y dirwedd yn llwyr. Ar y Nw Yrth, lle mae amser yn mynd heibio lawer cynt nag ar y Ddaear, mae pob peth o chwith. Ac yno plentyn a ddanfonwyd i wneud gwaith dyn.
O’r diwedd, fe gwblheir y ddefod wrthun – neu terfynir hi, o leiaf. Mae’r crwt wedi'i gyfareddu yn y sach – os yw'n dal i fod yn blentyn dynol erbyn hyn, ac os yw'n bodoli ar y Ddaear y pryd hwn – yn gweiddi fel petai’r byd ar ben, wrth i’w gyn-ddaliwr syrthio ar ben ei gorff rhwymedig mewn lludded llwyr. Ac yno, yn ôl rheolau arferol y cosmos, fe ddylai rhywun fod wedi trengi – ond – ond – fe ddymuna’r Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd yn amgen. Serch hynny, y mae porth i’r Byd Arall wedi’i agor, un na chaiff ei gau yn ystod oes y baban swynedig.
Wedi goroesi ar fympwy Galluoedd y Gwrthsafiad Annaearol (pwy arall a ddarlledasai’r geiriau anghywir a gorfodi’r rheolau purdeb dan y fath amgylchiadau?), saith bywyd hudol fydd yn aros i’w treulio eto gan y bachgen dan gyfaredd – a dichon mai gwyn fyddai ei fyd yn wir – dan haul arall, neu mewn stori wahanol o leiaf. Ond nid hynny a fydd, er amcan ei grëwr, y Dewin Ieuengaf hwnnw, sydd wedi cynllunio’r holl ystryw y tu ôl i’r llenni. Er na fydd y llanc yn cofio dim byd am y digwyddiadau hyn, fe fydd yn cael ei blagio gan hunllefau o hyn ymlaen. Wedi dweud hynny, nid y gorffennol fydd y broblem fwyaf, gan mai’r dyfodol a sleifia i fyny i orlethu pawb yng nghyflawnder amser, mor sicr â bod bara mewn torth. Nid yw'r bennod ddiweddaraf yn yr ymladdfa hil-leiddiol ymhlith y blociau gelyniaethus wedi’i hosgoi, dim ond ei gohirio, ac fe fydd y Trey newydd-anedig hwn, y tywysog o ddyn gyda’r ddwy law ddethau, yn defnyddio ei gyfleoedd i fyw, fesul un.
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[1] Mae ‘na adlais yma o’r sect lygredig ‘na, Didolwyr Di-ddogmatig Digymrodedd Drouggi, wedi’i sefyldu’n gast yn el-Gkwerkha gan un J G Andrea, dihiryn tra charismatig o dras anhysbys. Fe denai’i egwyddorion gnosolegol haniaethol nifer helaeth o esoteryddion gwallgof a gwrth-iachawdwriaethwyr rhemp i’r Caer Rosliw yn el-Gkwerkha. Ysbrydion diymgeledd y gorffennol oedden nhw, fel petai, wedi’u dal rhwng y presennol a’r dyfodol ac yn neidio fel fflam cannwyl mewn chwa o awel. Ceisien nhw gaffael profiad hirhoedlog o ddyrchafu’r corfforol yn yr oes oedd ohoni wedi’i addo gan eu proffwyd o benboethiad. “Ti yw fi a fi yw ti: be fydd ein henw newydd ni?” oedd eu harwyddair. Meddir yr offrymen nhw aberthau dynol i’r duwdodau ffiaidd, y Ndelkvnu, ar feini hirion el Khadjar Gkým er nad yw neb erioed wedi cael hyd iddyn nhw. (Wel, does neb yn siŵr am ‘ny, ond er gwaetha’r holl heip negyddol, fe fydden nhw’n ymbleseru’n rheolaidd mewn sbort a sbri rywiol oedd yn ginci iawn ac yn dra dymunol, heb os).
Daeth y comiwn i ben yn sydyn pan ddaeth i’r fei fod Andrea, (y “Fadfall Flysig”), wedi bod wrthi’n dwyn o gronfa’r sect a charu â’r morynion gwasanaethgar, fesul un a bawb gyda’i gilydd. Dilynodd gloddest o ymgydio, trais, canibaliaeth a hunanlofrudd. Yn y pen draw, doedd y dreflan gaerog neilltuedig fawr mwy nag adfail yn mudlosgi, wedi’i foddi hyd at y gliniau mewn llaid gwyrdd-ddu drewllyd. Doedd dim olion dynol o gwbl ar ôl a dim ond saer lleol o’r enw Tshízí Kraka a’i gŵr y cogydd Ardaz Neylz oroesodd i adrodd yr hanes, gan ddweud taw Andrea ei hunan lwyddodd i ffoi ‘fyd, wedi’i drawsffurfio’n hudol yn darw. (Doedd y ddau ‘ma ddim yn aelodau o’r Cwlt, ac elen nhw yn eu blaen i esgor ar Klaymaktèrik Sír, mam i linell hir o fenywod fyddai, yn y dyfodol pell, yn cynnwys Fidẁkyal Fywg, mam Flimzí Foyl oedd yn dyst i farwolaeth siaradwr olaf Kimbreg a dechrau diwedd y Byd. Falle i'r un ola o'r rhain gaeth ei dwyfoli fel duwies breuddwydion o ganlyniad, dw i ddim yn gallu gweld yn glir). — P.M.
[2] Mae hyn wedi’i ysgrifennu gan ddefnyddio iaith a 'sgript sacredig' [Penarglwyddiaeth Walchlid] Peithiau’r De-ddwyrain (“Ispet Tiw Bakhw-resw”).
Mae’n golygu: “Cyn gynted ag y deuthum i fod, daeth bodolaeth i fod. Daeth pob bod i fod ar ôl imi ddod i fodolaeth.” — P.M.
[3] “Myfi ydy creawdwr popeth sydd wedi dod i fodolaeth. Deuthum i fod ar ffurf duw Khepri. Ymffurfiais yn yr oes gysefin gan ddefnyddio’r sylwedd hynafol.” — P.M.