In folk-lore, and in mythology, ‘spirit’ is the name given to the soul or disembodied personality of a dead being, which can appear to those who are still alive. The word also refers more generally to any incorporeal entity, good or evil, often with extraordinary abilities, or magical powers, which is not bound by the normal laws of nature. Belief in these spectres, which are similar to animated shadows to some degree, arose from animism and ancestor-worship in pre-literate societies. These days it is people who believe in the supernatural and the paranormal, individuals who use (or misuse) particular drugs, or those who are exhausted or under intense emotional pressure, who, often enough, come to consider that shadows are living creatures, spirits, or non-human entities. Even today, there exist various kinds of religious rite, as well as magical ceremonies, which are used to cast out restless and troublesome spirits in the form of shadow. 

 

[Daud] That time again, Oh dear! Six years old, Daud boy. And once again, you’re fighting to push them back, the ones who would exile you to the horrible bed, like you’ve done over and over. Through the night this bed’ll be imprisoning you, a bed that’s become a gate, always leading to the same stinking bog, boiling with fat, slimy terrors. Ten o’clock: too late by a long chalk. Finally, your frustrated parents, who are exhausted and full of worries, overcome you. Thank goodness, they say under their breath, whilst crossing their fingers. The damp quilt’s feathers prick your skin, as if a cold, heavy corpse full of insects eager to gnaw, had been spread across you. The lights are put out, and they leave you alone, saying the last ‘Gods bless you’ as if it were a curse, and there’s your heart-beat thundering in the darkness.

 

[Stjepan] Yes, there you are, good boy, O apple of my eye, my Stjepan, my big little man – says Mam. Oooh, she casts a long shadow over my whole life! I can’t go out. I have to stay in the house, study, learn. I’ve always been pulling things apart since I was a baby, says Mum. Always asking questions. It’s no surprise they don’t know what to do with me, and I’m growing up so quick, fighting with the other kids all the time. And I make such a mess everywhere. O I do cause them real worry. Mum only drinks alcoholic beverages once in a blue moon, but I drive her mad. And I’m so tired as a result of all these problems. 

 

[Daud] Perhaps it’s be more safe if you burrowed down, mate, under layer upon layer of sheets on the wobbly bed, into the peat bog at the bottom, ‘cos you’re a blind, weak, pale creature – a defenceless, naked louse – the runt who’s coughing and skulking. You can’t breathe – your sinuses are as full as the sewers of the Big, Bad City – don’t try to use your nose – you’re suffocating – have a go at opening your mouth – it’s so warm now, down ‘ere. Sandman be damned! Here you are on the way to Hell. And you’re waiting for the unavoidable hand in its leather glove, that’ll appear from nowhere and then knock you unconscious without you being able to avoid it. 

 

[Stjepan] I don’t like the other little children at all, I’m not like them, they say, not at all, an odd one, that’s the word. Dad doesn’t say a lot, does he, anyway, just stares at me, although he’s not here most of the time. He’s always off working, that’s what Mum says. I’ve got to be a good boy, use my talents, avoid wasting time and having fun. I don’t want to be babied so much, but I go wrong so often, straying off the straight and narrow, and letting my thoughts wander. I don’t want to be overshadowed by some other stinky child, do I? No, no indeed! If I were out, getting into bad company, playing with the naughty kids who live across the road – then I’d become a cheeky little devil, exactly like them, and I’d get into trouble, in the end. I could be tempted, then I’d do wrong, I could sin grievously, even! 

 

[Daud] So – how much later? It appears that time has slowed down and stopped. You’re lying on the smooth slab made of black metal, or from polished slate, maybe? It’s jet-black, here in the depths – always so cold – freezing darkness – you can’t move your head to see who’s there – what they’re doing. It’s foggy here, and you’re half-blind – your eyes are red, sore, and sticky. Hnnnnnn – you’re fighting fiercely – you’re getting stuck in a pit of fear, and there there’s some sweaty hand choking you, while a knife stabs you at the same time. You can’t see at all, and in this place, blindness is eternal night, where Hthohla lives, ready to lead you straight to the Other World.

 

[Stjepan] I don’t want to be an unruly child, who’ll be taken away from Mam. I feel so wrecked, I know I sin, I can’t not do. I need to work hard, keep on at it to achieve the future I deserve – Mam’s voice speaking now – especially ‘cos my Dad has to go off travelling all the time, leaving us on our own. What do I want to be, then? Oooooh – policeman, nurse, fireman, ambulance driver? I don’t know for sure whether I could depend on myself to do things right if the situation was a matter of life and death. I don’t have a lot of self-confidence, say the teachers, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Teacher perhaps, then? 

 

[Daud] All the time, every night, a thousand times one after the other – the same location – a surgical ward where everything’s made of metal – or perhaps you’re on an altar of black stone, that’s wet and cold – Oh Sleeping Gods – why have you turned your backs on me? And you’re blind – but you can sense yourself, there, in the bowels of the Eyrth – eyeless and weak – and you know that it’s going to happen – you’re waiting – drowning in waves of panic – you’ve got stuck, there’s little pins through your entire body – come on then, mate – lift yourself up – raise your head – only a tiny little bit – you plead – just one eyelid – if only you could see – perhaps you could do something – please – no – but it’s happening – keep at it, mun – hnnn-nnnnn – mute and blind and deaf – you can’t breathe – you’re trying to screech and cry but no sound’s coming out. 

 

[Stjepan] You should be a dentist – Mum’s voice again, although she always says dental surgeon. It’s a good job, a good career, I understand that, lots of money, status, a pension, all the good stuff, everything. But I’d hate having to look into people’s mouths all day, every day! What about you? I dunno, really, mun! I can’t imagine growing up, earning money anyway. I don’t believe that I’m clever enough, but I’m never sure about it. I’m working very hard, s’pose, hope so anyway, I should succeed, that’s the way to achieve. Then they’ll see, all those bullies! 

 

[Daud] You can’t shout – sound won’t come – but you know what’s happening – and there’s the stone that’s hanging between Eyrth and Heaven, beginning to come down from above – so awfully slowly – even slower than the slowest little creatures that slither down there on their bellies – and you’re praying – Oh, Fathers – if you see fit – Gods help me – let me go – I’ll be really good, I promise – I swear – no – no! You’re blind – you can’t make a single sound – you aren’t able to move one sinew – hnnnnn-nnnnnn – you’re fighting – can’t move – and there’s the enormous, perfectly flat, jet-black stone, descending – crushing you to dust – and so you perish.

 

[Stjepan] Sometime in the future I’ll have to get married and raise a family. I wish I wasn’t so shy, I want to join in with the other kids, and play with them. I feel so stupid, so lonely, totally separate. Well, I could be a priest in the World-Wide Church, but it wouldn’t be possible for me to look after just a country parish far from anywhere. I’d hate to get stuck, to stop thinking, not be able to improve in my work. 

 

[Daud] But – Aaaah – now – the spiral staircase – further down – you’re going to the Bottomless Pit – you’re a bad boy – a sinner – who’s done the worst things – you’re trying to turn away from the journey’s inevitable end – trying to go back – upwards – but the stairs’re becoming a slippery slope. You grab the hand-rail, which pulls itself away, and you’re falling, sliding down, down, always closer to the place don’t want to go to. And you’re rushing towards – towards him. 

 

[Stjepan] I’d need to work and work – and Ooooh, think about the Generals of the Martial Church, glorious in scarlet, as they consult and debate Gods and Demons, good and evil. If the Invisible Spirit wished it, I could get elected as the Chief Priest himself in the end, although I don’t believe I’m holy enough; so how could I tell all the other sinners what to believe, or how to behave, or what they should do all the time. 

 

[Daud] You’re on your own now, then, mun, with him – and he’s so close, so slow – and he’s wearing a gown with a cowl – a cowl of stiff, heavy, grey cloth, that hurts him every time he moves – and he’s waiting there, expecting you – a crippled, lame, hunch-backed figure – and he smells your fear – snuffling despite his blindness – and he – knows – understands – everything about you – he’s feeding on your misdeeds – all the time – before he reveals himself – although he won’t come to fetch you himself – he’ll just wait – and it’s you who always gets forced to go down to him – always – and there you are counting now to try and slow down time, to try and postpone the thing that’s going to happen, that’ll be unavoidable in the end. 

 

[Stjepan] What about politics? Dad’s voice this time, and it’s quiet, but strong and deep – and threatening. Beloved Leader (or Chief Minister and Father of the Nation, depending where you are) would be a smashing job, I guess. Giving support to people, to communities, doing good things. An honourable life, full of goodness, serving the people and the land, that’s it, right? I don’t give a damn about fame, but on the other hand, your good name’s an important thing. But I’m very shy, too shy to be honest. I only want to use the talents the Cosmic Power has given me. Anyway, I should have an established career in due course, I should get married, have my own kids. But to be honest, the real question is, not will I ever get to the top, but rather, will I still be on the face of this Eyrth in a few years’ time, not to mention being alive and well? [*]

 

[Daud] A million steps – nine-hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine-hundred and ninety-nine steps – No – no – you don’t want to do it – you can’t do it – you refuse to do it – you have to do it – no – you need to. And, at long last, you have to look – to look up – and his cowl’s falling from – from – his head – time after time – and the cowl’s falling – Oh, so slowly – bit by bit – and you see him – no, no, no – three times no, you’re braying – no, again – and his head’s a pulsing ball full of maggots – and they’re writhing – whilst gobbling themselves and each other up – and they plop onto the dirty gown – they’re sickening, it’s enough to make you heave – the whole putrid stench, and that terrible head, without a nose, or mouth, or ears, or eyes. And you kick, and screech, threshing your arms and legs about. 

 

[Stjepan] And I, well – bless me, My Fathers, as I have sinned – here are all the bad things I still do, I can’t stop, O the Nameless Martyrs help me! I’m terrified, I want to be someone else, not myself anymore. What should I do? I’m sinking deeper into sin. Oooh – I can smell the lakes of brimstone, taste the barbecued flesh of the damned. The man who’s already received something will get more; but as for him who’s received nothing, even what he possesses shall be taken away from him. And here I am on my way to the Otherworld, then. 

 

Then, back to Daud’s world – and there’s another death – followed by another wakening. Once more your scream has summoned the parents and the light in the corridor springs to life. The rhythmic pulsing of fear that had been galloping through your whole body gives way to sobbing. You’re very sorry – you recognise their bleary eyes only too well – you heartily regret that you’re buggering up their lives. 

 

This fear, this brutal, unhealthy pressure, when will it be going to come to an end? At least your hero died, Sorakados from the Old Books, who’d travelled to the Nw Yrth to fight against the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers; they killed him when he was twenty-one. There’s a lot of time left for me before then, isn’t there? 

 

Your Mam, your pure angel – who’s ill, on the point of death – is prattling on. And you’ve almost killed her once already, on the day of your birth! It’s all your fault. Your Dad, ragged king of the castle, well – what’s the word? – he’s resented you since then. He’s always going off, working, travelling, selling, getting drunk, fighting, getting injured, shouting. And now he’s waving his arms totally ineffectually as usual when Mam gets terribly upset. Sometimes, you hope he would die, or get killed, or whatever. But there’s something about him that’s wild, unpredictable, fierce, and in a way you think you should be like that, following in his footsteps. Without all the violence, of course.

 

Your sister, who’s slunk round the door, is staring at you pityingly but with love {Love}. And then harsh words are choked back, anger reigned in. Their futility, their unfulfilled dreams, create a micro-climate with its own chaotic dynamics; the family situation is like some kind of pressure cooker – you’ll never know how to satisfy them. 

 

You taste your Dad’s dislike, your Mum’s pain, and your sister’s love. Blame – love – guilt – hatred – shame – all these exist together in this place. You’ll be settling down in your own Hell by night, where you’ll be crushed by the stone in the nightmare every time, and you can be sure that the waking hours will be terrible also. But at least you can escape into the world of comics. You know how to count, how to spell, and now you’ll learn to love patterns, creating safety through ordering, through rituals. You’ll begin to cast spells. Will this be strong enough to save you? But never mind about what the future holds; sometimes, perhaps as a result of the incantations and the gestures, repeated over and over before falling to sleep, something totally different will happen at night. And you feel as if it’s you who’ve taken charge, to some extent at least, and here’s how you describe the experience to yourself when you remember later — 

 

Without warning, the whole world crinkles and melts. I’m squashed and stretched at the same time as if I was falling into one of those black holes the Director of Scientific Mysteries is always on about. Am I going to die, again, leaving the whole dirty mess that’s life behind? And there’s some force lifting me up by the scuff of my neck, causing me to fly upwards, quicker and quicker as my arms and legs, my whole body, twirls round randomly. I’d screech like a starving raven on the roof of the Temple of the Hidden Glory if there was any wind in my lungs at all. 

 

And so there you are, at last, in blinding sunlight bright, on top of an enormous, tower of pearl that scratches the naked blue heavens like the nail of the original giant picking the Ancient of Days’ hairy nose. The muscular storm blows where it wishes (of course) – who can stop the forces of nature from playing their tricks? – and its lisping tongues tickle everywhere. Oh, Dad – I say to myself over and over – I forgive you, you didn’t know what you were doing {Healing}.

 

And then – totally unexpectedly, there rises from nowhere behind me, something, what exactly it is I don’t know. Oh, I feel as sick as a second-hand regurgitated kipper, but also all excited from realising that I’ll be joining the ancestors at last. What sweet release shall be becoming a shadow whose voice howls quieter and quieter until it disappears for ever. But under the circumstances, how can I even think such flowery things, I wonder? But instead of being poetically destroyed, a four-poster bed rises into my sight like a helicopter powered by some kind of dense, flammable fluid that’s fizzling all over the place, and on it are a bunch of lost kids just like me. 

 

They’re all pirates, wearing red waist-coats and cocked hats with the skull-and-crossbones on them. An older boy’s the captain of the flying bed, covered by the pirate flag, and around the Wýkinger-lad’s waist there’s a golden belt with a magical sword in to (more than likely). He’s like Kép̄á Péhusón in all those stories – the best friend I’ve never yet met.

 

And it appears that he’s the life-singer, the one who calls on everyone to play without holding back, soothing the pain of angry, violet wounds, and mending deep scabs caused by falling off your bike, before you scratch them off. I’m happy I’m not in my own on top of that skeletal tower in the middle of the cloudless sky, but I wouldn’t know him from Dvaldí. I don’t know who on Eyrth or on the Nw Yrth those other Herberts are either, and I’m frightened of what’s going to happen.

 

Hurry up, mate, jump, he shouts at me. Come one, trust me, or it’ll be too late! Give up worrying about yourself, come to join this band of brothers! He who hesitates is lost, is the only thing that fills my mind then, and after a thrilling instant of hesitation I’m throwing myself towards the bed, which hovers impatiently on the spiteful air, energetically beating its substantial wings. And it takes ages to arrive, as far as I know at least, and I think I’ll fall, getting killed in the end – splat, like a pumpkin dropped from a jet-plane – on the verdant land a mile below. 

 

But, after intense scrabbling by my new comrades on the bed, who drag me with all the strength in their arms, I flop onto the enormous iron structure just in time, and then flail about – and the incredible tower there’s exploding into bits, in a flash of ultraviolet light, leaving the air stinking of ozone, as the whole bountiful landscape below us, which is full of strange, brightly-coloured plants, resounds wildly. And only then, I relax, letting myself go completely. 

 

And so, straight away this time, off we go, up and down, back and forth, round and round. We sing seas-shanties whilst trying to keep the bed level, and we cleave the sky’s waves which are heavy with joy. And in the distance, that exceptional tower is re-building itself, somehow or other, although I didn’t notice the fact at the time.

 

The bed jiggles awfully whilst speeding up and rising higher and higher, as if one of the crew of cheeky monkeys’d set the controls to reach the heart of the Sun so that everyone could share the experience of death and purification together, sacrificing themselves for the sake of the others, and as a result re-growing their tattered wings. It’s as if the Resplendent One’s whole power had collected in my guts, and the faces of every one of the boys is shining like a full moon at perigee. I couldn’t express such ideas in sensible or wise words then, but I sure that I was feeling happier than ever before. And then, in the wink of an eye, I’d woken up. I can’t remember now how nor when I went to school that day, or even whether I went at all. 

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Sometime in the future, and somewhere else entirely, names and situations have changed, but despite that, fate still operates as usual [**]. And there’s a pure, E-flat chord, all creation’s purring, pressing the wind from the lungs of three men, whilst causing their eyes to weep tears of blood. And then the sound hovers, pouting, over the fire that’s drying the thousand candles that fill the sacred space. And there’s a lad on the point of proving he’s a man, named Dai Baxter, his spirit being thrown through the gates of perception into an eternal nightmare, while his body lies as if he were sleeping under a blanket of unknowing amidst the flames.

 

And in the kingdom of the imagination, where images often come to life, he’s a handsome prince, his shining skin as white as pure snow under the tempest’s lash, and his kissable lips as red as the blood of a crucified thief who’s pleading for mercy, and his presumptuous hair as black as the heart of the crow that’s pulling eyes out of shattered bodies, as if he were the hero in a fairy-tale, or the star in a lurid comic-book. Despite that, or because of it perhaps, his peerless character will survive, along with his shadow, even when he dies. And unbeknownst to him, at the moment, his girlfriend’s womb is nurturing the body of a magical baby, his son, namely the powerful one to come.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] Perhaps we should recall here the following Lamentacious Litany from the EGO’s “Handbook of Orthodox Lore (Manifest Mythohistory)” which was widely believed (or at least, repeated parrot-fashion in the Conventions of Collective Chastening) at the time. Ideas of this sort coloured Stjepan's thoughts (and steered his behaviour and choices) for a considerable time, without a doubt. — P.M. “This is the Most Spiritual Secret: The Cosmic Power is the abstract, immaterial object that is omnipresent without space or extent, without time or duration, the thing-in-itself and the essence of being. Despite that, it is a volitional agent, which established the initial conditions of the All-World and which has created and sustains its regular laws. It is the permanent, timeless cause of everything existent. Even though the Thorlin’s mind can discern but a confused conception of it, we, worthless fools, must avow its undoubted existence and its ultimate sovereignty over everything. And then we shall be forced to yield our whole life to the Only Church’s rigorous care, to be educated, punished and rectified.”

 

[**] I am tempted, enticed, dragged back to the side of the hateful old cauldron of green brass more and more often these days. I get to intuit all manner of things at random, uninvited and unexpected, to my great cost, at every hour of the day and night. I do not know what to do to control the spectres, nor protect myself from them. Anyway, here I want to share one of the multitudinous stories recited by Nyàuhtl Khayinỳm, Grand Raconteur of the Cloud Court, Senior Knight of the Society of Shadows. — P.M.

 

Once, there was a man. Wild was his hair, white his skin, black his long flaming robe, enchanting his writing-tool, silver his tongue, and strange his ways. He lived in the Reflectory in the middle of the Kingdom of Nowhere. This man was the Vkawlka Vkawvkw – if it be lawful to call him a man – Keeper of the Dreamy Tabernacle. One day, he was overtaken by an irresistible urge to leave home. First, he stopped playing the Game of Night and Time, the most complex and frustrating diversion in any world, which uses an indeterminate number of glass beads. Then, he came down from the Tower of Gloom to wander around seeking enlightenment or demise. Through his own magics, he set off down the Path of the Dawn and fought his way through the Withered Wood.

 

He managed to overcome the folly of the mob and escape from the freezing beauty of the spirit that devours the best half of everything leaving only stinking remnants behind. With the help of his lover who brought him light in the eternal darkness, he crossed the River of Repugnance and arrived at Mutant Mountain. Due to his multiple virtues, he won the key of the Kingdom of the Heart allowing him to bind and release secrets, to lock and unlock, to materialize and disappear, to strike down and heal, to cast down and raise up. As a result, he found out the information quoted below (and so much more) by consulting with the Vrokhla Nraydbloy, a legendary chimera or crafty bogey most hard to rule, which he trapped in a malachite chest.

 

“We, the Dhrohlni, labour under an unmentionable curse. We possess the ability, in principle, to devise methods to improve our situation unimaginably in due course, to solve every problem regarding our wellbeing, and to decide how to plough our own furrow in terms of our development. We will be able to see tomorrow before it arrives if we wish, understand the events of decades to come, and correctly guess what will happen in the far future. But even then, there will be no way whatsoever to avoid fate. And the ultimate fate is the sleep from which no-one shall ever awake. In our frustration, our ire and our fear we waste all our energy on futile pursuits whilst deceiving ourselves about the true nature of our existence and our end. We first pretend to ignore our utmost restriction, and then disregard it in earnest. Next, we forget to neglect the fact completely and soon, feign forgetting. And at last, we even give up neglecting, and bluffing, and thinking about it at all.

 

“We consider ourselves like all-knowing and all-powerful divinities whilst behaving worse that the least schooled savage. But there is no escaping destiny, despite that, no matter how wise nor how foolish we are; how strong nor how weak. Not even the Mnwdjoy, the Master of Reconciling Contradictions in the Foresight Bureau of the Central Ministry in the Impenetrable Dominions of the Uttermost East. Not even me, either, the Vkawlka Vkawvkw himself, more’s the pity, because since I snatched the secrets of the Love Tower, there’s Nkownkw, the servant of the grave, hovering at my elbow all the time to yank me away to oblivion in the Comfortless Chasm. Maybe my superior comprehension is the very reason he pursues me so unrelentingly. That is why I am completely certain that it is better to be fortunate than wise, and why I struggle like a fool to create good luck for myself without being able to explain to anyone else how to do that. And now, my duty will be to go about the Eyrth, working wonders and teaching those willing to hear my beseechment.”

 

So, having wandered the Whimsical World for centuries, playing all kinds of games and spreading foolish wisdom and wise folly, rejoicing and suffering, fighting and loving (always virtuously). he returned to the Gloomy Tower and the arms of his faithful sweetheart who had realized his longing and who knew how mortally racked he was. There, he revealed his discoveries to her, declared his imperishable love, and advised her of his unflinching intent. Then, with the assistance of his grieving partner, Vkawlka Vkawvkw divested himself of his magic mantle; destroyed his set of the oldest game, the Game of Time and Night; and broke his staff of office. Finally, with her presiding over the discorporation ceremony, he began the journey beyond the Gates of Vendl Hwedenel the Watcher, leaving his substance and his essence to fertilize the Nowhere Kingdom. When he had disappeared utterly, there was his former companion, broken-hearted but proud, Vmlizi Vlvya, taking her rightful place in the Reflectory and starting afresh as Keeper of the Dreamy Tabernacle in order to continue the Great Work of imagination. And, for what seemed like aeons numberless in the Land of Make-believe, everything was as silent, as still, and as grey as oblivion.

 

Mewn llên gwerin, ac mewn mytholeg, ‘ysbryd’ yw enw a roddir i enaid neu bersonoliaeth ddigorff bod marw, a all ymddangos i’r rhai sy’n byw eto. Yn fwy cyffredinol, mae’r gair yn cyfeirio hefyd at unrhyw endid anghorfforol, da neu ddrwg, yn aml sydd â galluoedd eithriadol, neu bwerau hudol, na reolir gan ddeddfau natur arferol. Cododd cred yn y rhithiau hyn, sydd yn debyg i gysgodion bywiog i ryw raddau, o animistiaeth ac addoli hynafiaid mewn diwylliannau cyn-lythrennog. Y dyddiau hyn, pobl sy’n credu yn y goruwchnaturiol a’r paranormal, unigolion sy’n defnyddio (neu’n camddefnyddio) cyffuriau neilltuol, neu’r rhai sy’n lluddedig neu dan bwysau emosiynol dwys, sydd, yn ddigon aml, yn dod i ystyried mai creaduriaid byw, ysbrydion, neu endidau annynol, yw cysgodion. Hyd yn oed heddiw, mae amryw fathau o ddefod grefyddol yn bodoli, yn ogystal â seremonïau hudol, a ddefnyddir i fwrw allan ysbrydion aflonydd a chythryblus ar ffurf cysgodion.

 

[Daud] Yr amser ‘na, ‘to, O diar! Chwe blwydd oed, Daud bach. Ac unwaith ‘to, rwyt ti’n ymladd i’w hyrddio nhw yn ôl, y rhai fyddai’n d’alltudio di i’r gwely dychrynllyd, fel rwyt ti ‘di ‘neud drosodd a throsodd. Dwy’r nos bydd y gwely ‘ma’n dy garcharu di, gwely sy 'di mynd yn borth yn arwain bob tro i’r un gors ddrycsawrus, yn berwi o arswydau tewion, llysnafeddog. Deg o’r gloch: rhy hwyr o bell ffordd. O’r diwedd mae dy rieni rhwystredig, sy’n lluddedig a llawn gofidiau, yn dy orchfygu di. Diolch byth, maen nhw’n dweud dan eu dannedd, wrth groesi’u bysedd. Mae plu’r cwilt llaith yn pigo dy groen, fel ‘sai celain drwm, oer, llawn pryfed chwannog am gnoi, wedi’i thaenu drosot ti. Dyna ddiffodd y golau, ac maen nhw’n dy adael ar dy ben dy hunan gan ddweud y ‘Duwiau a’th fendithio’ ola’ fel ‘sai’n felltith, a dyna daranu dy guriad calon yn y tywyllwch.

 

[Stjepan] Ie, dyna ti, fachgen da, O gannwyll fy llygad, ‘yn Stjepan i, ‘y nyn bach mawr – medd Mam. Ww, mae hi’n taflu cysgod maith ar fy mywyd oll! Sa i’n gallu mynd mas. Rhaid i fi aros yn y tŷ, astudio, dysgu. Dw i 'di bod yn tynnu pethau oddi wrth ei gilydd bob amser ers i fi fod yn faban, medd Mam. Wastad yn gofyn cwestiynau. ‘Sdim syndod dyn nhw ddim yn gwybod be’ i ‘neud â fi, a fi’n tyfu lan mor glou, yn brwydro yn erbyn y cryts eraill drwy’r amser. A dyma fi’n ‘neud y fath lanast ym mhobman. O, peri cryn bryder iddyn nhw dw i. Dyw Mam ddim yn yfed diodydd meddwl ond unwaith yn y pedwar amser, ond fi sy’n hala hi’n wallgo'. A dw i mor flinedig o ganlyniad i’r trafferthion ‘ma i gyd!

 

[Daud] Siawns na fyddai’n fwy saff ‘set ti’n turio i lawr, ‘achan, o dan haen ar haen o lenni ar y gwely simsan, i’r siglen fawn ar ei waelod, achos taw chreadur gwelw, gwan, dall wyt ti – lleuen noeth, ddiamddiffyn – y bili benji sy’n pesychu a chwato. Ti’n methu anadlu – dy sinysau mor orlawn â charthffosydd y Ddinas Fawr, Ddrwg – paid trio defnyddio dy drwyn di – ti’n mogi – rho gynnig ar agor dy geg di – mor dwym ydy nawr i lawr fan ‘yn. Fe gaiff Huwcyn Lonydd fynd i Swtach! Dyma ti ar y ffordd i’r Uffern. A ti’n disgwyl y llaw anochel yn ei maneg ledr, fydd yn ymddangos o unman ac wedyn dy daro di’n anymwybodol heb i ti allu ei osgoi.

 

[Stjepan] Sa i’n lico’r plantos bach eraill, sa i’n debyg iddyn nhw, maen nhw’n weud, dim o gwbl, un od, dyna’r gair. So Dad yn dweud lot, ydy e, ta be’, dim ond syllu arna i, er fod e ddim yma ran fwya’r amser. Mae wastad bant yn gweithio, dyna beth Mam yn ddweud. Rhaid i fi fod yn fachgen da, defnyddio’n noniau, osgoi gwastraffu amser, a chael hwyl. Dw i angen peidio cael ‘y mabanu cymaint, ond dw i’n mynd ar gyfeiliorn mor aml, gan grwydro oddi ar y llwybr union, a gadael i’n meddyliau i grwydro. Sa i eisiau cael ‘y nhaflu i gysgod rhyw blentyn drewllyd arall, dw i? Nagw, nagw’n wir! ‘Swn i mas, yn mynd i gwmni drwg, chwarae â’r plant direidus sy’n byw dros y ffordd – wedyn fe fyddwn i’n mynd yn ddiawl bach ewn, yn gymwys fel nhw, ac elwn i i helynt, yn y diwedd. Gallwn i gael ‘y nhemtio; wedyn ‘nelwn i ddrwg, fe allwn i hyd yn oed bechu’n ddifrifol!

 

[Daud] Felly – faint yn hwyrach? Mae’n ymddangos bod amser wedi arafu a stopio. Rwyt ti’n gorwedd ar y slab llyfn wedi’i ‘neud o fetel du, neu o lechfaen llachar, falle? Purddu ydy, yma yn y dyfnderoedd – wastad mor oer – tywyllwch rhewllyd – so ti’n gallu symud dy ben di i weld pwy sy ‘na – be’ maen nhw’n ‘neud. Mae’n niwlog ‘ma, a ti’n hanner dall – mae dy lygaid di’n goch, llidus, a gludiog. Hnnnnnn – ti’n brwydro’n ffyrnig – ti’n mynd yn sownd mewn pwll o ofn, ac yno mae rhyw law chwyslyd yn dy dagu di, wrth i gyllell dy drywanu di ar yr un pryd. Ti’m yn gallu gweld o gwbl, ac yn y lle ‘ma dallineb yw gwyll tragwyddol, ble mae Hthohla yn byw, yn barod i dy arwain di’n syth i’r Byd Arall!

 

[Stjepan] Sa i eisiau bod yn blentyn amhosib ei reoli, fydd yn cael ‘yn ymwahanu â Mam. Wi’n teimlo mor ddrylliedig, wi’n gw’bod mod i’n pechu, alla’ i’m peidio. Dw i angen gweithio’n galed, bwrw ati i ennill y dyfodol wi’n haeddu – llais Mam yn siarad nawr – yn enwedig achos bod rhaid i ‘Nhad fynd bant i deithio drwy’r amser, gan adael i ni ar ein pennau’n hunain. Be’ dw i eisiau bod, ‘te? Wwww – plismon, nyrs, dyn tân, gyrrwr ambiwlans? Wn i’m yn sicr a allwn i ddibynnu arna ‘yn hunan i ‘neud pethau’n iawn ‘sai’r sefyllfa’n fater o fywyd a marwolaeth. ‘Sdim lot o hunanhyder sy ‘da fi, medd yr athrawon, dyna’r peth, on’d ife? Athro falle, te?

 

[Daud] Bob tro, bob nos, fil o weithiau, yr un ar ôl ei gilydd – yr un lleoliad – ward lawfeddygol ble mae popeth wedi’i ‘neud o fetel – neu falle fod di ar allor o faen, ddu, sy’n wlyb ac oer – O Dduwiau Cwsg – pam ti ‘di troi’ch cefnau arna i? Ac rwyt ti’n ddall – ond ti’n gallu synhwyro dy hunan, yno, yng nghrombil y Ddaear – heb lygaid a gwan – a ti’n gwybod fod e’n mynd i ddigwydd – ti’n aros – yn boddi mewn tonnau o banig – ti ‘di mynd yn sownd, mae pinnau bach trwy dy gorff i gyd – dere ‘mlaen ‘te ‘achan – tynna dy hunan lan – coda dy ben di – dim ond tamaid bach, bach – ti’n crefu – dim ond un amrant – ‘set ti ond gallu gweld, falle byddet ti’n gallu ‘neud rhywbeth – plis – na – ond mae’n digwydd – bwria di ati, w – hnnn-nnnnn – dim stŵr – mud a dall a byddar – ti’m yn gallu anadlu – ti’n trio sgrechian a llefain, ond dim sŵn sy’n dod mas.

 

[Stjepan] Dylet ti fod yn ddeintydd – llais Mam eto, er bod hi’n dweud llawfeddyg y geg bob amser. Swydd dda, gyrfa dda yw hi, wi’n deall hynny, llawer o arian, statws, pensiwn, popeth sy’n dda, yr holl beth. Ond byddai’n gas ‘da fi orfod edrych i mewn i gegau pobl, drwy’r dydd, bob dydd! Beth amdanoch chi? Wn i ddim, wir, w! Alla i ddim dychmygu tyfu lan, ennill arian ta be’. Sa i’n credu mod i’n ddigon deallus, ond dw i byth yn siŵr amdani. Wi'n astudio’n galed iawn, sbo, gobeithio ta be, fe ddylwn i lwyddo, dyna’r ffordd i lwyddo. Wedyn, fe gân nhw weld, y bwlis ‘na i gyd!

 

[Daud] So ti’n gallu gweiddi – fydd sŵn ddim yn dod ond ti’n gw’bod be sy’n digwydd – a dyma’r maen, sy’n hongian rhwng daear a nef, yn dechrau dod i lawr oddi uchod – mor ofnadw' o araf – hyd yn oed yn arafach na’r creaduriaid bychain arafaf sy’n llusgo ar lawr ar eu boliau – a dyna ti’n gweddïo – O, Dadau – os gwelwch chi’n dda – Duwiau a’m cartho fi – gadewch i fi fynd – bydda i’n wir dda, wi’n addo – wi’n tyngu – na – na! Dall wyt ti – ti’n ffaelu ‘neud yr un sŵn – ti’n methu symud un gewyn – hnnnnn-nnnnnn – ti’n brwydro – ddim yn medru symud – a dyna ddisgyn y maen aruthrol, gwastad i’r dim, duloyw – gan d’wasgu di yn llwch – ac felly yr ei di.

 

[Stjepan] Rywbryd yn y dyfodol fe fydd yn rhaid i fi briodi a magu teulu. Wi’n dymuno mod i ddim mor swil, wi eisiau ymuno â’r cryts eraill, a chwarae da nhw. Wi’n teimlo mor dwp, mor unig, yn hollol ar wahân. Wel, gallwn i fod yn ‘ffeiriad i’r Eglwys Fyd-Eang, ond fyddai ddim yn bosib i fi ofalu am ddim ond plwyf gwledig ymhell o bobman. Byddwn i’n casáu mynd yn sownd, ffaelu meddwl, methu gwella yn ‘y ngwaith.

 

[Daud] Ond – Aaaaa – erbyn hyn – y staer droellog – ymhellach i lawr – ti’n mynd i’r Pwll Diwaelod – bachgen drwg – pechadur wyt ti – sy ‘di ‘neud y pethau gwaethaf – ti’n trio troi oddi wrth ben anochel y daith – trio mynd yn ôl – tuag at i lan – ond dyna’r staer yn mynd yn llwybr llithrig. Ti’n cydio yn y canllaw, sy’n tynnu’i hunan ymaith, a dyna ti’n cwympo, yn llithro i lawr, i lawr, wastad yn nes at y lle so ti eisiau mynd yno. A dyna ti’n rhuthro tuag – tuag ato fe.

 

[Stjepan] Fe fyddwn i eisiau gweithio a gweithio – ac www, meddyliwch am Gadfridogion yr Eglwys Filwrol, gogoneddus mewn ysgarlad, wrth iddyn nhw ymgynghori a dadlau Duwiau a Chythreuliaid, da a drwg. ‘Sai’r Ysbryd Anweledig yn dymuno, gallwn i gael ‘yn etholi fel y Prif Offeiriad ei hunan yn y pendraw, er mod i ddim yn credu mod i’n ddigon glân; felly sut allwn i ddweud wrth yr holl bechaduriaid eraill beth i’w gredu, neu sut i fihafio, neu beth ddylen nhw ‘neud bob tro.

 

[Daud] Ti ar dy ben dy hunan nawr, felly, w, gyda fe – ac mae e mor agos, mor araf – ac mae’n gwisgo gŵn â chwcwll – cwfl o frethyn llwyd, trwchus, stiff, sy’n frifo fe bob tro mae’n symud – ac mae’n aros yno, yn disgwyl amdanat ti – ffurf gripledig, a chloff, a chefngrwm – a dyna fe’n clywed oglau dy ofn di – yn snwffian er gwaetha’i ddallineb – ac fe’n – gwybod – deall – popeth yn dy gylch di – mae’n bwydo ar dy gamweddau di – drwy’r amser – cyn iddo fe ddatgelu’i hunan – er fydd e ddim yn dod i nôl di ei hunan – dim ond disgwyl a 'naiff – a ti sy wastad yn cael dy orfodi i fynd i lawr ato fe – bob amser – a dyna ti’n cyfri erbyn hyn i drio arafu amser, i geisio gohirio'r peth sy’n mynd i ddigwydd, fydd yn anorfod yn y pendraw.

 

[Stjepan] Be’ am wleidyddiaeth? Llais Dad y tro hwn, ac mae’n isel, ond cryf a dwfn – a bygythiol. Annwyl Arweinydd (neu Brif weinidog a Thad y Genedl, yn dibynnu ar ble dych chi) fyddai swydd heb ei hail, dw i'n tybio. Estyn cymorth i bobl, i gymdeithas, ‘neud pethau da. Bywyd anrhydeddus a llawn daioni, yn gwasanaethu’r werin a’r wlad, dyna fe, reit? Dw i’m yn malio’r un ffeuen am fri, ond ar y llaw arall, peth pwysig yw’ch enw da. Ond swil iawn dw i, rhy swil a bod yn onest. Dim ond defnyddio’r talentau roddodd y Pŵer Cosmig i fi dw i’n moyn. Be bynnag, fe ddylwn i gael gyrfa sefydlog maes o law, fe ddylwn i briodi, cael ‘y nghryts ‘yn hunan. Ond mewn gwirionedd, y gwir gwestiwn yw, ddim fydda i’n cyrraedd y brig erioed, ond yn hytrach, fydda i’n dal i fod ar wyneb y Ddaear hon ymhen ychydig o flynyddoedd, heb sôn am fod yn fyw ac yn iach? [*]

 

[Daud] Miliwn o gamau – naw cant naw deg naw mil naw cant naw deg naw o gamau – Na – na – dwy ti’m yn moyn 'neud e – so ti’n gallu 'neud e – ti’n pallu 'neud e – rhaid i ti 'neud e – na – mae arnat ti angen. A dyna ti, ym mhen yr hir a'r hwyr, yn gorfod edrych – edrych lan – a dyna gwympo’i gwcwll oddi ar – oddi ar – ei ben e – dro ar ôl tro – a dyna syrthio’r cwfl – O, mor araf – bod yn dipyn – a ti’n weld e – na, na, na – teirgwaith na, ti’n nadu – na, eto – a’i ben e’n belen ddychlamol lawn cynrhon – ac maen nhw’n gwingo – wrth haffio’u hunain a’i gilydd – a dyna nhw’n plopian at y fantell front – cyfoglyd ydyn nhw, mae’n ddigon i godi pwys arnat ti – yr holl ddrewdod braen, a’r pen erchyll ‘na, heb drwyn, na cheg, na chlustiau, na llygaid. A dyna ti’n cicio, a sgrechian, gan gorddi â'th freichiau a'th goesau.

 

[Stjepan] A fi, wel – rho fendith arna i, ‘Nhadau, achos mod i wedi pechu – dyma’r holl bethau drwg wi’n dal i’w ‘neud, sa i’n gallu stopio, O, y Merthyron Anhysbys a’m helpont! Mae arswyd arna i, wi’n moyn bod yn berson arall, nage fi fy hunan rhagor. Be ddylwn i ‘neud? Wi’n suddo’n ddyfnach i bechu. Www – wi’n gallu gwyntio'r llynnoedd o frwmstan, blasu cnawd y damnedigion wedi’i farbeciwio. Fe fydd y dyn sy eisoes wedi derbyn rhywfaint yn derbyn mwy; ond amdano fe sy heb dderbyn dim, bydd hyd yn oed beth mae’n ei feddu’n cael ei gymryd oddi arno fe. A dyma fi ar ‘yn ffordd i’r Isfyd, felly.

 

Wedyn, yn ôl at fyd Daud – a dyma ddigwydd tranc arall – wedi’i ddilyn gan ddeffro arall. Unwaith yn rhagor mae dy sgrech di wedi galw’r rhieni ac mae’r golau yn y coridor yn llamu’n fyw. Mae’r curiad rhythmig o ofn oedd wedi bod yn carlamu drwy dy gorff di i gyd yn ildio i feichio wylo. Mae’n flin iawn da ti – ti’n nabod eu llygaid molog yn rhy dda – mae’n ddrwg calon gen ti fod di’n bygro’u bywydau.

 

Yr ofn ‘ma, y pwysau afiach, ciaidd ‘ma, pryd fydd e’n mynd i ddod i ben? O leia’ fe fu farw dy arwr di, Sorakados o’r Hen Lyfrau, a oedd wedi teithio i’r Nw Yrth i frwydro yn erbyn y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd; fe’i lladdon nhw fe pan oedd e’n un ar hugain oed. Mae llawr o amser ar ôl i ti cyn hynny, on’d oes?

 

Mae dy Mam, dy angyles lân – sy’n afiach, ar fin marw – yn clebran. A bu bron i ti’i lladd hi unwaith eisoes, ddydd gest di d’eni! Arnat ti mae’r holl fai. Mae dy Dad, brenin rhacsog y castell, wel – be yw’r gair – rhywbeth sy 'di bod 'da fe yn dy erbyn byth er hynny. Mae e wastad yn mynd bant, gweithio, teithio, gwerthu, meddwi’n chwil, brwydro, cael ei anafu, gweiddi. A nawr dyma fe’n chwifio’i freichiau’n hollol ddi-rym fel arfer pan fydd Mam wedi cynhyrfu'n lân. Rywbryd, fe fyddi di’n gobeithio byddai’n marw, neu cael ei ladd, neu be’ bynnag. Ond mae rhywbeth yn ei gylch sy’n wyllt, anrhagweladwy, ffyrnig, ac mewn ffordd rwyt ti’n meddwl dylet ti fod fel ‘na, gan gerdded yn ei ôl troed. Heb yr holl drais, wrth gwrs.

 

Mae dy chwaer, sy wedi sleifio rownd y drws, yn syllu arnat ti’n dosturiol ond gyda chariad. A dyna eiriau llym wedi’u tagu, dicter wedi’i ffrwyno. Mae’u seithuctod, eu breuddwydion heb eu cyflawni’n creu hinsawdd fechan gyda dynameg gaotig ei hun; mae’r sefyllfa deuluol fel rhyw fath o sosban bwysedd – fyddi di byth yn gwybod sut i’w bodloni nhw.

 

Ti’n blasu anhoffter dy Dad, poen dy Mam, a serch dy chwaer. Bai – cariad – euogrwydd – atgasedd – cywilydd – y rhain i gyd sy’n bodoli gyda’i gilydd yn y lle ‘ma. Fe fyddi di’n ymgartrefi yn dy Annwfn dy hunan liw nos, ble fyddi di’n cael dy wasgu gan y maen yn yr hunllef bob tro, a bid siŵr fe fydd yr oriau effro’n wael hefyd. Ond o leia’ fe elli di ddianc i fyd comics. Fe wyddost ti sut mae cyfrifo, sut mae sillafu, a bellach fe fyddi di’n dysgu dwlu ar batrymau, gan greu diogelwch drwy drefnu, drwy ddefodau. Fe fyddi di’n dechrau bwrw hud. A fydd hyn yn ddigon cryf i’th achub di? Ond waeth befo am yr hyn sy yng nghôl y dyfodol; weithiau, efallai o ganlyniad i’r swyn-ganeuon a’r ystumiau wedi’u hail-wneud drosodd a throsodd cyn syrthio i gysgu, fe fydd rhywbeth hollol wahanol yn digwydd gyda’r nos. Ac fe fyddi di’n teimlo fel ‘sai tithau fydd wedi cymryd y llyw, i ryw raddau o leia’, a dyma sut fyddi di’n disgrifio’r profiad wrthot ti dy hunan pan fyddi di’n ei gofio’n hwyrach —

 

Heb rybudd, mae’r byd i gyd yn crebachu a thoddi. Dw i’n cael ‘y ngwasgu a ‘nhynnu ar yr un pryd fel ‘swn i’n cwympo i mewn i un o’r tyllau duon ‘na, mae Cyfarwyddwr Dirgelion Gwyddonol wastad yn sôn amdanyn nhw. Ydw i’n mynd i farw, unwaith eto, gan adael yr holl lanastr budr sydd byw ar ôl? A dyma ryw rym yn ‘nghodi i gerfydd ‘y ngwar, gan beri i fi hedfan i lan, yn arafach ac yn arafach wrth i ‘nghoesau a ‘mreichiau, ‘yn holl gorff, chwyrlïo ar hap. Byddwn i’n sgrechian fel cigfran lwglyd ar do Teml y Gogoniant Cuddiedig ‘sai ‘na wynt yn ‘yn ysgyfaint o gwbl.

 

A dyna fi felly, o’r diwedd, o dan heulwen ddigon llachar i ddallu rhywun, ar ben tŵr enfawr o berl sy’n crafu’r nefoedd glas noeth fel ewin y cawr cysefin yn pigo trwyn blewog yr Hen Ddihenydd. Mae’r dymestl gyhyrog yn chwythu lle y mynno (wrth reswm) – pwy sy’n gallu atal grymoedd natur rhag chwarae eu castiau? – ac mae’i thafodau bloesg yn cosi ymhobman. O Dad – dw i’n dweud wrtha ‘yn hunan drosodd a throsodd – dw i’n maddau i ti, dwyt ti’m yn gwybod be o’t ti’n ‘neud.

 

Ac wedyn, yn hollol ddisymwth, fe godiff o unman tu ôl i fi, rywbeth, be’n union ydy dw i’m yn gwybod. O, dw i’n teimlo mor sâl â chiper ail-law wedi’i gyfodi, ond hefyd yn gyffro i gyd o gredu bydda i’n ymuno â’r cyndeidiau o’r diwedd. Am ollyngdod melys fydd dod yn gysgod a’i lais yn ubain leilai nes iddo ddiflannu am byth. Ond dan yr amgylchiadau, sut alla i feddwl y fath bethau blodeuog, hyd yn oed, tybed? Ond yn lle cael ‘y ninistrio’n farddonol, gwely pedwar postyn sy’n codi i ‘ngolwg fel hofrennydd a yrrir gan ryw fath o hylif hyfflam, trwchus sy’n ffrwtian mor beryglus ar hyd y lle, ac arno griw o gryts colledig jyst fel fi.

 

Maen nhw i gyd yn fôr-ladron, yn gwisgo gwasgodau coch, a hetiau gwalciog ac arnynt y benglog a’r esgyrn croes. Bachgen hŷn yw capten y gwely hedegog wedi’i orchuddio â’r fflag ddu, ac am ganol y llanc o Ficing mae gwregys aur ac ynddo gleddyf hudol (mwy na thebyg). Mae e fel Kéfá Péhusón yn yr  holl storïau ‘na – y ffrind gorau dw i’m wedi cwrdd â fe 'to.

 

Ac mae’n ymddangos taw canwr bywyd yw e, yr un sy’n galw ar bawb i chwarae’n benrhydd, gan leddfu poen briwiau glasgoch, llidiog, a gwella crachod dwfn wedi’u hachosi trwy gwympo oddi ar eich beic, cyn i chi crafu nhw ymaith. Mae’n dda gen i mod i ddim ar ‘mhen ‘yn hunan ar ben y tŵr esgyrnog ‘na ynghanol yr awyr ddigwmwl, ond fyddwn i’m yn nabod e ‘swn i’n taro fy nhrwyn ynddo fe. Dw i’m yn nabod ar y Ddaear na’r Nw Yrth pwy yw’r Rodnis eraill ‘chwaith, a dw i’n ofni beth sy’n mynd i ddigwydd.

 

Brysia di, ‘achan, neidia, mae’n gweiddi arna i. Dere ‘mlaen, ymddirieda yno i, neu fe fydd hi’n rhy hwyr! Rho’r gorau i fecso amdanat ti dy hunan, tyrd i ymuno â’r grŵp o frodyr ‘ma! Gwan ei galon a gyll, yw’r unig beth sy’n llenwi’n meddwl wedyn, ac ar ôl eiliad iasol o oedi dyma fi’n taflu ‘yn hunan tuag at y gwely, sy’n hofran yn ddiamynedd ar yr awel sbeitlyd, gan ymdrechgar guro’i adenydd sylweddol. Ac mae’n cymryd oesoedd i gyrraedd, am wn i o leia’, a dw i’n credu fe fydda i’n cwympo, gan gael ‘yn lladd yn y pen draw – fflatsh, fel pwmpen wedi’i gollwng o awyren jet – ar y tir glas filltir islaw.

 

Ond gyda sgrialu dwys gan ‘y nghymrodyr newydd ar y gwely, sy’n ‘yn llusgo nerth eu breichiau, dyma fi’n cwympo'n ffradach ar y strwythur enfawr, haearn mewn union bryd, ac wedyn yn troi a throsi – a’r tŵr anhygoel ‘na’n ffrwydro’n deilchion, mewn fflach o olau uwchfioled, gan adael yr awyr yn sawru o osôn, wrth i’r holl dirwedd doreithiog oddi tanon ni, sy’n llawn planhigion lliwgar, rhyfedd, ddiasbedain yn wyllt. A dim ond wedyn, ymlacio, a wna i, gan ‘y ngadael ‘yn hun i fynd yn llwyr.

 

Ac felly, ar unwaith y tro ‘ma, bant â ni, i lan ac i lawr, ymlaen ac yn ôl, rownd a rownd. Rydyn ni’n canu siantis môr wrth geisio cadw’r gwely’n wastad, a dyna ni’n hollti tonnau’r awyr sy’n drwm o lawenydd. Ac yn y pellter, mae’r tŵr eithriadol ‘na’n ail-adeiladu ei hunan, rywsut neu’i gilydd, er do’n ni’m yn sylwi ar y ffaith pryd ‘ny.

 

Mae’r gwely’n siglo’n ofnadwy wrth gyflymu a chodi'n uwch uwch ‘sai un o’r criw o fwncïod ewn wedi gosod y llyw i gyrraedd calon yr Haul, fel gallai pawb rannu’r profiad o dranc a phuro ac aileni gyda’i gilydd gan aberthu’u hunain er mwyn y lleill ac o ganlyniad aildyfu’u hadenydd llarpiog. Mae fel ‘sai egni oll yr Un Llachar wedi cronni yn ‘y mherfeddion, ac mae gwepau pob un o’r bechgyn yn disgleirio fel lleuad lawn am ddaearnesafiant. Allwn i’m mynegi’r fath syniadau mewn geiriau synhwyrol na chall bryd ‘ny, ond dw i’n siŵr mod i’n teimlo mwy hapus nag erioed o’r blaen. Ac wedyn, mewn chwinciad, dyna fi wedi dihuno. Sa i’n cofio bellach sut neu pryd es i i’r ysgol y dydd ‘na, neu hyd oed a es i o gwbl.

 

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Rywbryd yn y dyfodol, ac yn rhywle arall yn llwyr, mae enwau a sefyllfaoedd wedi newid, ond er hynny, mae ffawd yn dal i weithredu fel arfer [**]. A dyna gord E-fflat pur, canu grwndi cread oll, yn gwasgu’r gwynt o ysgyfaint tri dyn, wth beri i’w llygaid wylo dagrau o waed. Ac wedyn mae’r sain yn hofran dan wgu uwchben y tân yn ffrio’r fil o ganhwyllau gwaedrudd sy’n llenwi’r lle sanctaidd. A dyna lanc ar fin dangos ei fod yn ŵr, o’r enw Dai Baxter; a’i enaid yn cael ei fwrw trwy byrth canfyddiad i hunllef fythol, wrth ei gorff yn gorffwys fel petai’n cysgu dan garthen diwybod ymhlith y fflamiau.

 

Ac yn nheyrnas y dychymyg, lle bydd delweddau’n dod i fywyd yn aml, tywysog golygus ydy, a’i groen llachar cyn wynned ag eira pur dan lach y ymestl, a’i wefusau cusanadwy cyn goched â gwaed lleidr croeshoeliedig sy’n erfyn am drugaredd, a’i wallt haerllug cyn ddued â chalon y frân sy’n tynnu llygad o gyrff drylliedig, petasai arwr mewn chwedl dylwyth teg, ynteu seren mewn llyfr comic erch. Serch hynny, neu o’i achos efallai, fe oroesa ei gymeriad digymar a’i gysgod hefyd, hyd yn oed pan fydd wedi marw. A heb yn wybod iddo, ar hyn o bryd, mae croth ei gariad yn meithrin corff baban hudol, ei fab e, sef yr un nerthol a ddaw.

 

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[*] Falle dylen ni gofio yma’r Weddi Resynus ganlynol a geir yn “Llawlyfr Llên Uniongred (Mythohanes Amlwg)” yr EFE y credid ynddo’n eang (neu o leiaf a ailadroddid fel poli-parot yng Nghyfarfodydd Cerydd Cyffredinol) ar y pryd. Bu’r fath syniadau’n lliwio meddyliau Stjepan (a llywio ei ymddygiad a’i ddewisiadau) i raddau mawr am cryn amser heb os. — P.M. “Dyma’r Gyfrinach Gyfrinaf: Y Pŵer Cosmig ydy gwrthrych anfaterol, haniaethol sy’n hollbresennol heb ofod na maint, heb amser na pharhad, y peth ei hun a hanfod bod. Serch hynny, gweithredwr ewyllysiol ydy, a sefydlodd amodau cychwynnol yr Holl Fyd ac sydd wedi creu ac yn cynnal ei ddeddfau rheolaidd. Efe ydy achos diamser parhaol popeth sydd yn bodoli. Hyd yn oed na fedr meddwl y Thorlin ei amgyffred ond yn gysyniad dryslyd ohono, rhaid i ni ffyliaid ffrit arddel ei fodolaeth amhetrus a’i eithaf sofraniaeth dros bopeth. Ac wedyn fe’n gorfodir i ildio’n holl fywyd i ofal llym yr Unig Eglwys i gael ein haddysgu, ein cosbi a’n hadnewyddu.”

 

[**] Dw i’n cael fy nhemtio, fy nenu, fy llusgo yn ôl at ochr yr hen grochan ffiaidd o bres gwyrdd fwyfwy aml y dyddiau ‘ma. Dw i’n cael sythweled pethau o bob math ar hap er cost fawr i fi, heb ddeall llawer ar y pryd. A nawr mae’r gweledigaethau’n dod i lenwi fy ymwybod yn aml ac yn fynych, heb eu gwahodd na’u disgwyl, am bob awr o’r dydd a’r nos. Dw i ddim yn gwybod beth i neud i reoli'r drychiolaethau, na ‘ngwarchod fy hunan rhagddyn nhw. Beth bynnag, yma dw i’n moyn rhannu un o’r hanesion fyrdd a adroddwyd gan Nyàuhtl Khayinỳm, Prif-storïwr i Lys y Cymylau, Uwch Farchog Cymdeithas y Cysgodion. — P.M.

 

Unwaith roedd gŵr gwyllt ei wallt, gwyn ei groen, du ei fantell hir fflamllyd, swynol ei ysgrifbin, arian ei dafod, a rhyfedd ei ffyrdd yn byw yn yr Adluchiadur yng nghanol Teyrnas Unlle. Vkawlka Vkawvkw oedd y dyn hwn – os cyfreithlon ydy ei alw'n ddyn –Ceidwad y Tabernacl Breuddwydiol. Un dydd, daeth awydd anwrthwynebol mynd oddi cartref drosto. Yn gyntaf, naeth e stopio chwarae Gêm Nos ac Amser, yr un fwyaf cymhleth a mwyaf rhwystredigaethus mewn unrhyw byd sy’n defnyddio nifer amhendant o leiniau gwydr. Wedyn, naeth e ddisgyn o Dŵr Caddug i grwydro o gwmpas wrth geisio goleuedigaeth neu diffoddiad. Trwy gyfrwng ei hud ei hun, naeth e gychwyn ar Lwybr y Wawr a brwydro ei ffwrdd trwy Goedwig Wywedig.

 

Naeth e lwyddo i oresgyn annoethineb y dyrfa a dianc rhag harddwch rhewedig yr ysbryd a lynca hanner da popeth gan adael dim ond gweddillion budr ar ôl. Gyda chynhorthwy ei gariad a ddaeth â golau iddo yn y tywyllwch dragwyddol, naeth e groesi Afon Atgasedd a chyrraedd Meysydd y Mwtanau. Oherwydd ei rinweddau lluosog, naeth e ennill allwedd Teyrnas y Galon yn caniatáu iddo rwymo cyfrinachau a’u rhyddhau, cloi a datgloi, ymrithio a diflannu, taro a gwella, iselhau a dyrchafu. O ganlyniad, cafodd hyd i’r wybodaeth a ddyfynnir isod (a chymaint mwy!) trwy gysylltu â’r Vrokhla Nraydbloy, cimera chwedlonol neu gythraul cyfrwys sy’n anodd iawn ei reoli, a ddaliodd mewn cist o falaceit.

 

“Nyni’r Dhrohlni sy’n llafurio dan felltith anghrybwylladwy. Rydym yn meddu ar y gallu, mewn egwyddor, i ddyfeisio dulliau i wella ein sefyllfa’n annychmygadwy maes o law, i ddatrys pob problem ynghylch ein lles, ac i benderfynu sut i dorri’n cwys ein hun o ran gyrru’n datblygiad. Gallwn ni weld yfory cyn iddo gyrraedd os dymunwn, deall digwyddiadau degawdau i ddod, a dyfalu’n gywir yr hyn a ddigwydd yn y dyfodol pell. Ond hyd yn oed yna ni fydd ffordd yn y byd i osgoi ffawd. A’r ffawd derfynol ydy’r cwsg o’r hwn na ddihuna’r un dyn fyth. Yn ein rhwystredigaeth, ein llid a’n braw rydym yn gwastraffu’n holl egni ar weithgareddau ofer wrth ein twyllo’n hun am natur wir ein bodolaeth a’n diwedd. Rydym yn gyntaf yn esgus anwybyddu’n cyfyngiad eithaf, ac wedyn yn ei esgeuluso mewn difrif. Nesaf rydym yn anghofio anwybyddu’r ffaith yn llwyr ac yn fuan yn esgus anghofio. Ac o’r diwedd hyd yn oed rhoi’r gorau i anghofio, ac esgus a meddwl amdani o gwbl a wnawn ni. 

 

“Rydym yn ein hystyried ein hun fel duwdodau hollwybodus a hollalluog wrth ymddwyn yn waeth na’r anwariaid lleiaf addysgedig. Ond nid oes dianc rhag tynged serch hynny ni waeth pa mor ddoeth na mor annoeth ydym; pa mor gryf na mor wan. Nid y Mnwdjoy hyd yn oed, Meistr Cytgord Gwrthwynebau Biwro Rhagwelediad yng Ngweinyddiaeth Ganolog Dominiynau Anhreiddiadwy’r Dwyrain Pellaf. Na finnau chwaith, Vkawlka Vkawvkw ei hun, gwaetha’r modd, oblegid er i fi gipio cyfrinachau Tŵr Serch, dyna Nkownkw, gwas y bedd, yn hofran wrth fy mhen-elin bob amser i’m llusgo ymaith i ebargofiant yn yr Agendor Anobeithiol. Neu hwyrach mai fy nirnadaeth ragorol ydy’r union reswm ei fod yn fy erlid mor ddiarbed. Dyna pam rwy’n hollol sicr mai gwell ydy bod yn ffortunus nag yn ddoeth, heb os nac oni bai, a pham rwy’n ymlafnio fel ffŵl i greu lwc da i fi fy hun heb fedru esbonio i neb arall sut i wneud hynny. Ac yn awr fy nyletswydd fydd troedio'r Ddaear, gan wneud gwyrthiau a dysgu'r rhai'n fodlon clywed fy neisyf.”

 

Felly, wedi crwydro'r Byd Mympwyol am ganrifoedd, wrth chwarae gemau o bob math a lledaenu doethineb ffôl a ffolineb call,  wrth lawenhau a dioddef, brwydro a charu (bob amser yn  rhinweddol), ddaru iddo ddychwelyd i Dŵr Caddug a breichiau ei gariad ffyddlon a sylweddolasai ei hiraeth a gwybod mor farwol o ddirdynedig ydoedd. Yno, ddatgelodd ef yr hyn a ddysgasai iddi, datganu'i serch anfarwol, a'i hysbysu ynghylch ei fwriad di-droi'n-ôl. Wedyn, gyda chymorth ei gymhares alaethus, naeth Vkawlka Vkawvkw ddiosg ei fantell hud; distrywio'i set o'r gêm hynaf, Gêm Amser a Nos; a thorri'i wialen swyddogol. Yn olaf, a hithau'n goruchwylio'r ddefod ddatgorffori, ddaru ef ddechrau ar y daith tu hwnt i Byrth Vendl Hwedenel y Gwyliwr gan adael ei sylwedd a'i hanfod i wrteithio Teyrnas Unlle. Pan diflannu'n llwyr a naethai, dyna lle'r oedd y gyn-gydymeithes briwedig o galon ond balch, Vmlizi Vlvya, yn cymryd ei gwir le yn yr yr Adluchiadur a dechrau o'r newydd fel Ceidwad y Tabernacl Breuddwydiol er mwyn parhau Gwaith Mawr dychmygu. Ac am allan o bob hydoedd yng Ngwlad Hud a Lledrith, roedd popeth mor fud, mor llonydd, ac mor llwyd ag ebargofiant.