Light and objects cast shadows, and Magicians cast spells. Could we say, therefore, that shadows are spectral essences, and that an excellent tool for magical transformation would be dealing with symbols and images created, as it were, from shadows, containing the cyclical energy of the moon, and the ever-changing substance of the sea? After all, from a scientific viewpoint it is quite possible that the ancestors of every life-from that exists on the Eyrth today came from the sea originally. In addition, it cannot be denied that there is a connection between the moon and the tides. Considering folk-lore, mythology, and superstitions, people have believed for millennia that the moon can elicit mental confusion, and cause susceptible human beings to become werewolves. And, moreover, many ceremonies from all over the world take place under the light of the moon in order to capture and utilize its mystical power, whether we label them as religious, or as magical. Perhaps, therefore, it is but sufficient to be in the presence of the moon as it shines over the surface of the ocean, if you are in a particular mental state, or a heightened state of awareness, to begin a series of events that will develop like a chain reaction. And who knows where such a chaotic journey will lead? 

 

Night – cunning, cruel, clawed – rears up above you, Davy-boy, threatening to devour, destroy, bury. Up in the deformed, purple sky – that torn silk shawl – the moon’s hoarse voice is chattering in a dead dialect that can’t be translated [*]. Moon-beams, shattered and sharp, which are being born, and will die, too, on the ocean’s rough surface, are beckoning you {Nightfall}. The tattered banners on the promenade are making a noise like a wistful siren, whilst trying to escape from the beaks of the long-exhausted wind, warning you against drowning in an imaginary lagoon of fear. Only a fool would chase his shadow and then fear it, but sometimes things are totally different, somehow, and tonight, you are covered by a blanket of shame and despair. “See you later on, my son, don’t you worry. We’ll spend a bit of time together when I come back,” that’s what he’d mockingly said, the fat, sweaty, hateful Brother, while you stood stock-still at the top of the stairs. And as usual, you’re feeling totally empty, and you don’t know what in the Two Worlds to do.

 

You’ve been squatting in front of the big window ever since then, and by now your knees are complaining, whilst beseeching the deep, starless sky, for mercy. But the moon is still laughing at the bleak landscape, from where the Old Gods have legged it long ago. Your chin’s resting on your crossed arms, which are jiggling on the edge of the messy sill – and as your mind wanders, you stare out into the storm – but, at what? There’s something there, outside, waiting, full of pent-up wrath, and it’s scratching and braying long and loud in frustration. One other voice, impassive but heartening, shares your loneliness, having crawled into your mind from afar, from a beautiful foreign land, somewhere overseas, through the sound-transceiver’s static hissing. 

 

[SoTra] “Proudly I stand, my bare white stone facing the great sea on the southern side, with the town arrayed behind. I have firm foundations in the unadorned, tidy parkland which extends around me, and here I am guarded by pine-trees which are always watching. From day to day, I inhale an intoxicating mixture of elements – salty spray smelling of seaweed, petrol, ozone; dry humus just watered by the rain; and a city-soup of smog full of carbon monoxide, soot, and compounds of nitrogen, sulfur, and lead. Often, my skin turns dark grey as it is always pouring with rain on this coast, bringing heavy but warm precipitation from the south-west down on every corner of the place. And then I become white again for a short while, before the cycle continues. And also, there are blue-green veins to be seen, zig-zagging like scalded snakes from the copper lightning-rods set into my walls.” 

 

Your knees hurt, exactly like they do when you’re in the Gathering Place. You’re waiting, aching, expecting. Your heart races inside your tight chest, which is being squashed by a wild terror. It’s one o’clock, an eleven-year-old kid shouldn’t be awake still, this time of night. You keel, hurt, wait. Your guardian, or perhaps the jail-keeper (should we say?), who’s so kind, and fierce, and enchanting, that otherworldly princess who’ll never leave you, is sleeping soundly in the bed next door, thank goodness. And you await, listen, pray. 

 

[SoTra] “On one side, enormous gates of bronze, with multi-coloured windows above them, and aluminium torch-holders flanking them, guard the entrance to winding corridors, modern offices, and traditional chambers, their walls adorned with pine panels, and floors tiled with mosaics. In this place, the odour of wax overpowers your nose from the polished corridors all the time you tread the magical pathways, while your fingertips touch green baize, and rust-red leather, everywhere.”

 

Now, it’s only the waves whispering – but then again, they aren’t saying anything of worth, anything definite, anything to calm your mind. Outside the drafty house, a host of famished pines encroaches on the majestic view to be seen through the blind window, but not one of them extends a branch to grab onto you, to bear you away to strange lands. And all the time, the voice on the sound-transceiver presses on with its description – 

 

[SoTra] “And in this place I have lived for ages, and I am majestic, especially my highly visible blue tower, which portrays the prow of a long-boat, that is, the kind of ship which would have belonged to the old pirates of the Black Horde, namely, the Northishfolk. This points proudly through time and space towards the town’s ancient past. And with the wings of the flying boat, which forms my body, spread out, I will remind you of a pterodactyl, or some kind of dragon, hippogriff, sphinx, or other legendary creature. Further, I safeguard civic activities, provide a location for cultural events, and offer entertainments. Most often my internal spaces resound with singing, from sublime pieces, such as ‘Mystic Chorus’ by Mamrick, to incomparable gothic rock, like ‘Under a Lake of Tears’ by Deathly Horizons.” 

 

You’re under enormous pressure, numb. Your muscles are calling out, but you can’t answer your own body. The strain’s almost too much for you. You feel like sand-grains that’ve escaped from the beach are assaulting your eyes. Cry – you want to do it, but you can’t; you don’t want to, but you think you will. And the voice is still speaking – 

 

[SoTra] “Like a mirror which is held up to reflect the town itself, I unobtrusively mix traditional characteristics with modern ones, and my stately tower provides an obvious landmark which also proclaims the time to the four corners of the conurbation from the time-pieces which are set into each one of its four faces. From the interior walls, the stern but fair visage of the pirate Stefan, the Yarl Aber-Dygdhar, stares down on you from the much larger than life-sized image, bestowing a Northish seal of blessing on the very many special occasions which happen ceaselessly under his wandering glassy eyes – my rocky eyes – the living eyes of the town of Aberdydd.”

 

Where is he? Again? And why so late? Is he smuggling drugs, coshing kids, quaffing freaky fungus like your Dad? Not that you give a hoot about him, you wish he’d die, but it would be better if the whole nasty horse-play was over and done with. It makes you sick every time – the tearful prayers, the agonized breast-beating, the fake remorse, the chanting of the penances inspired by the tongues of the unclean whilst rocking back and forth, and the rest of the unspeakable nightly performance. What’s churning more – your insides or your mind – as you worry about what your sister’ll do when Uncle gets home? The greedy fog the other side of the glass is trying to beguile your itchy eyes, without a care in the world, whilst feeble waves fling themselves to their death, languidly, on the beach, which sniffs as if it didn’t care a sand-grain about them. 

 

[SoTra] “And at my centre, in my heart, deep within my robust structure, I hide an exceptionally fair pearl, namely the enormous murals created originally for Freddie Procter, the 1st Baron Tesbyro, which, strange to say, glow and give off the smell of ozone when they are illuminated with ultra-violet light. The hypnotic, squirling colours magically attract your thoughts to the alien scenes from the Nw Yrth, creating, through the indescribable dexterity of the artist, an internal world of images so beautiful, and realistic, and stunning, within my world built of bricks and mortar, of stone, and glass, and steel, which exists in its turn, in the outer world of the town of Aberdydd.” 

 

You’re on tenterhooks, and the lack of meaningful sounds apart from the ones flowing from the SoTra is playing havoc with your imagination. You’re straining your ears to discern the least motion downstairs. Time after time, some stupid verse that recalls the tag-line from the horror-film called ‘Internal Aliens’ which was released the year after you were born, stings your imagination, and it’s enough to make your hair stand on end, while sending a shiver through you: “There’s no place anywhere as deadly as the empty space inside, where no-one can hear your screams!”

 

And then – Oh, in the names of the Old Strange Gods – there’s the start of the thing that’s going to tear your guts out. There’s the pitiful fumbling concealed so badly, for keys and lock, while he himself stands, or totters, in the doorway that a royal castle in a fairy-tale would be proud of – there’s the man off his head – bewildered by liquor, and worry, and religious zeal, and fury. And the abominable Uncle in his filthy habit is lurching up the stairs, out of puff, swearing incomprehensibly in a language not heard on the Eyrth up to now. He’s sweating buckets, and grunting like an obese, puce pig, his face as red as a fire-hydrant about to explode [**]. 

 

Then a flash-back. You were terribly frightened when you slunk downstairs at age six, one time when you were home alone (more or less) about 11pm, with the ‘rents out and your sis sleeping like a log, to look at the terrifying creature – the ‘nihilālis’ from the film – on the telly. 

 

And back in the present, in the boy’s terrified mind, the muttering of this Red Priest sounds similar to some prayer to Nuthkí, the Old Lost Mistress who gives life only to bring destruction in her wake – fífí, fofow, fwrkhtha, agla, dzhíshí, pawra, wrdiminí. He joins in with the meaningless sounds, moving rhythmically on the threshold of the room to create magic from the stinking breath of the monk who’s pushing his arms towards him, with his spindly fingers like bloody, rapacious claws. And the boy’s still remembering – 

 

It was a sickening horror for you to see the blood, and the guts, and the merciless beast, and the darkness, the awful darkness, and the vicious, headless artificial person, and the dying, all the dying – from behind the comfy-chair, worn but so comfortable and reassuring in the farthest corner of the lounge – 

 

And then the springs of the weary bed in the princess’s room begin to respond – but she’s no holy maiden any more – it’s the sleeper in outer darkness, the lurker in the shadows, who’s coming to – and so now there’ll be hell to pay! And then Nuthkí herself is awake. And as she bounds from her boudoir at the top of the stairs in the form of a thin, sleek, deadly panther, some blood-vessel deep in the wicked man’s brain bursts under the pressure of his hatred and his greed. And he stands stock-still for an absolute instant, as if he was giving the blessing to his worthless flock, before toppling to the bottom of the stairs, head-over-heels, as dead as the nail in the proverb. And just then two things were decided: for Jelena, that she would have to leave as soon as possible, and for Daud, that he would never, ever, be Dad to a child.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

One of the two is correct in her forecast, whilst the other will find that he is incorrect. Behind the scenes, the Old Soldier and the Youngest Magus are pulling strings to do miracles, and cause wonders. And between the two of them (not forgetting about the Lady), they know all the tricks in the book. The two men think they’re working against each other (the old family rivalry), but, to the contrary, the one is helping the other. Despite that, because of all the magical tricks, a baby shall be created (in the usual way, you know!), containing all the appropriate elements, namely body and shadow, name, personality, and life-force. Everything, you see, that you need to fashion an effective spirit. What the Magician wants with a baby, well, he’s not saying. But the Old Soldier dreams as follows –

 

This is the powerful one, who has existed eternally, who was before everything came into existence, and who shall come back to life to reign over the Two Worlds forever. By means of exceptionally complex magic, which will drain him almost to death, the Old Soldier intends to dispossess him and seize his power. And thus the Old Soldier shall be the lord of the extremities of the void beyond time in the end, in the form of a benevolent despot. Well, that’s the intention, anyway, but will he succeed? That will depend on all kinds of factors, including several human beings. And you know what they’re like, don’t you?

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] From "Love, Loss, Coleoptera." — P.M.

 

[**] Lest you fall to thinking that David had some prejudice based on sophophilic ideas regarding the essential nature of big-boned people, I would like to note the following. On other occasions, he would describe his Uncle in alternative terms (although they were just as colourful), using phrases such as: “an enormous, muscled, hairy gorilla,” “a rabid, stinking, ginger llama,” and “a hypocritical, gaunt, predatory praying mantis.” One could have thought he was talking about a totally different person each time, and although he had an incredible imagination, the lad's memory had been deranged to some degree by time and pain by then, more than likely. — D.B.P.

Fe fwria golau a gwrthrychau gysgodion, ac fe fwria Dewiniaid hudion. A allem ddweud, felly, mai hanfodion lledrithiol yw cysgodion, ac mai teclyn ardderchog ar gyfer trawsffurfio hudol fyddai trafod symbolau a delweddau wedi’u creu, fel petai, â chysgodion, yn cynnwys egni cylchol y lleuad a sylwedd cyfnewidiol y môr? Wedi’r cwbl, o safbwynt gwyddonol mae’n ddigon posibl mai o’r môr yn wreiddiol y daeth hynafiad pob ffurf ar fywyd sydd yn bodoli ar y ddaear heddiw. Yn ogystal, nid oes gwadu bod cysylltiad cryf rhwng y lleuad a’r llanwau. O ystyried llên gwerin, mytholeg, ac ofergoelion, mae pobl yn credu ers milenia y gall y lleuad ennyn amhwylledd, a pheri i fodau dynol chwannog fynd yn fleidd-ddynion. Ac at hynny, bydd llawer o seremonïau o bedwar ban byd yn digwydd dan oleuni’r lleuad i ddal a defnyddio ei bŵer cyfriniol, a fyddwn ni’n eu labeli ai’n rhai crefyddol, ai’n rhai hudol. Ac at hynny, bydd llawer o seremonïau o bedwar ban byd yn digwydd dan oleuni’r lleuad i ddal a defnyddio ei bŵer cyfriniol, a fyddwn ni’n eu labeli ai’n rhai crefyddol, ai’n rhai hudol. Efallai, felly, mai dim ond bod yng ngŵydd y lleuad wrth iddi lewyrchu dros wyneb y môr, os byddwch mewn cyflwr meddwl neilltuol, neu stad ddwysach o ymwybod, fydd yn ddigon i gychwyn cyfres o ddigwyddiadau fydd yn datblygu megis adwaith cadwynol. A phwy a ŵyr i ble y bydd y cyfryw daith gaotig yn arwain?

 

Nos – gyfrwys, greulon, grafangog – sy’n ymgodi uwch dy ben di, David bach, gan fygwth llyncu, dileu, claddu. Lan yn yr awyr borffor, afluniaidd – y siôl sidan, rwygedig honno – mae llais cryg y lleuad yn clebran, mewn tafodiaith farw, na ellir ei chyfieithu [*]. Mae pelydrau lleuad, candryll a miniog, sy’n cael eu geni, a fydd yn marw hefyd, ar wyneb garw’r môr, yn amneidio arnat ti. Mae’r baneri bratiog ar y promenâd yn cadw sŵn fel seiren hiraethus, wrth geisio dianc rhag pigau’r gwynt wedi hen alaru, gan dy rybuddio rhag boddi mewn lagŵn dychmygol o fraw. Dim ond ffôl fyddai’n ymlid ei gysgod, ac wedyn ei ofni, ond rywbryd, heno, mae pethau’n hollol wahanol, rywsut, ac rwyt ti wedi dy orchuddio gan flanced o gywilydd ac anobaith. “Wela i di’n nes ‘mlaen, ‘yn mab, paid di â phoeni. Fe fyddwn ni’n hala tipyn o amser gyda’n gilydd pan ddo’ i’n ôl,” dyna beth oedd e wedi’i ddweud yn watwarus, y Brawd tew, chwyslyd, atgas, wrth i ti sefyll yn stond ar ben y staer. Ac fel arfer, rwyt ti’n teimlo’n hollol wag, a dwyt ti ddim yn gwybod beth ar y Ddau Fyd i’w ‘ neud.

 

Rwyt ti wedi bod yn cyrcydu o flaen y ffenest fawr byth oddi ar hynny, ac erbyn hyn mae dy ben-gliniau’n cwyno, wrth erfyn ar y wybren ddofn, ddi-sêr, am drugaredd. Ond mae’r lleuad yn dal i chwerthin am ben y dirwedd lom, o ble mae’r Hen Dduwiau wedi’i heglu hi amser maith yn ôl. Mae dy ên di’n pwyso ar dy freichiau wedi’u croesi, sy’n siglo ar fin y silff aflêr – ac wrth i’th feddwl grwydro, rwyt ti’n rhythu allan i’r storm – ond, ar beth? Mae rhywbeth yno, tu allan, yn aros, yn llawn digofaint cronedig, ac mae’n crafu a nadu’n hir ac yn uchel mewn rhwystredigaeth. Un llais arall, digyffro ond calonogol, sy’n rhannu dy unigrwydd, wedi cripian i’th ymennydd o hirbell, o wlad ddieithr, hardd, yn rhywle dros y môr, drwy hisian statig y sain-drosdderbynnydd.

 

[SDDd] “Ryw’n sefyll yn falch, fy maen gwyn noeth yn wynebu’r môr mawr ar yr ochr dde, a’r dref wedi’i threfnu’r tu ôl. Mae gennyf rwndwalau cedyrn yn y parcdir trwsiadus, diaddurn, sydd yn estyn o’m hamgylch, ac yma gwarchodir mi gan binwydd sydd yn gwylio bob amser. O ddydd i ddydd, byddaf yn clywed aroglau cymysgedd meddwol o elfennau – ewyn hallt ac arno sawr gwymon, petrol, osôn; deilbridd sych newydd ei ddyfrhau gan y glaw; a chawl dinas o fwrllwch llawn o garbon monocsid, huddygl, a chyfansoddion o nitrogen, sylffwr, a phlwm. Yn aml bydd fy nghroen yn troi’n llwyd tywyll am ei bod hi wastad yn pistyllio ar yr arfordir hwn, gan fwrw glaw trwm ond twym o’r de-orllewin ar bob cwr o’r lle. Ac wedyn yr af fi’n wyn eto am gyfnod byr, cyn i’r gylchred barhau. A hefyd mae ‘na wythiennau gwyrddlas i’w gweld yn igam-ogamu fel nadredd a 'sgaldanwyd, o’r rhodenni mellt o gopr a osodir yn fy muriau.”

 

Dyma dy ben-gliniau di’n brifo, yn enwedig fel byddan nhw’n ‘neud pan fyddi di yn y Lle Cwrdd. Rwyt ti’n aros, gwynio, disgwyl. Dyma dy galon yn rasio tu mewn i’th frest dynn, a wasgir gan ofn gwyllt. Un o’r gloch yw hi, ni ddylai crwt sy’n un ar ddeg oed ddim bod ar ddihun eto, yr adeg hon o’r nos. Penlinio, dolurio, aros yr wyt. Mae dy warchodwraig, neu efallai ceidwad y carchar (ddylem ni ddweud?), sydd mor garedig, a ffyrnig, a chyfareddol, y dywysoges arallfydol honno fydd byth yn dy adael di, yn cysgu’n dawel yn ei gwely'r drws nesa’, diolch byth. A dyma ti’n disgwyl, gwrando, gweddïo.

 

[SDDd] “Ar un ochr, pyrth enfawr o efydd, a ffenestri amryliw uwch eu pennau, a dalwyr ffagl o alwminiwm o’u deutu, sydd yn gwarchod y fynedfa i dwnelau troellog, swyddfeydd modern, a siambrau traddodiadol ac ynddynt waliau wedi’u haddurno â phaneli pinwydd, a lloriau a deilir â mosaigau. Yn y lle hwn, bydd oglau cwyr yn trechu’ch trwyn o’r coridorau caboledig drwy gydol yr amser byddwch yn rhodio’r llwybrau hudol, tra bydd blaenau’ch bysedd yn cyffwrdd â lliain gwlanog, gwyrdd, a lledr rhytgoch ym mhob man.”

 

Bellach, dim ond y tonnau sy’n sisial – ond eto i gyd, dydyn nhw ddim yn dweud dim byd o werth, dim byd penodol, dim byd i dawelu'r meddwl. Tu allan i’r tŷ drafftiog, mae llu o binwydd llwglyd yn tresmasu ar yr olygfa fawreddog i’w weld trwy’r ffenestr ddall, ond dyw’r un ohonyn nhw ddim yn estyn cangen i afael ynot ti, dy ddwyn di ymaith i wledydd rhyfeddol. A thrwy’r amser, mae’r llais ar y SDDd yn bwrw ymlaen â’i ddisgrifiad –

 

[SDDd] “Ac yn y fan hon yr wyf yn byw ers achau, a mawreddog wyf fi, yn enwedig fy nhŵr glas tra gweladwy, sy’n portreadu pen blaen cwch hir, hynny yw, llong o'r fath fyddai wedi perthyn i’r hen fôr-ladron o’r Llu Du, sef, y Llychlynwyr. Mae hwn yn pwyntio’n falch trwy amser a gofod tuag at orffennol hynafol y dref. A chyda adenydd y bad hedegog sydd yn ffurfio fy nghorff ar led, byddaf yn eich atgoffa o bterodactyl, ynteu ryw fath o ddraig, marchriffwn, sffincs, neu greadur chwedlonol arall. Ymhellach, rwy’n diogelu gweithgareddau dinesig, darparu safle i ddigwyddiadau diwylliannol, a chynnig adloniannau. Gan amlaf yr atseinia fy mannau mewnol â chanu, o ddarnau aruchel, megis ‘Corws Cyfriniol’ gan Mamrick, i roc gothig heb ei ail, fel ‘O Dan Lyn Dagrau’ gan Gorwelion Marwol.”

 

Ti dan bwysau enfawr, yn fferllyd. Mae dy gyhyrau’n galw mas, ond elli di ddim ateb dy gorff dy hunan. Mae’r straen bron yn ormod i ti. Mae’n teimlo fel ‘sai gronynnau tywod sy ‘di dianc o’r traeth yn ymosod ar dy lygaid di. Llefain – ti’n dymuno ‘neud hyn, ond ti’n pallu; so ti eisiau, ond ti’n credu ‘nei di. A’r llais yn dal i siarad –

 

[SDDd] “Megis drych a ddelir i fyny i adlewyrchu’r dref ei hun, rwy’n cymysgu’n anymwthiol nodweddion traddodiadol â rhai modern, ac mae fy nhŵr urddasol yn darparu tirnod amlwg sydd hefyd yn cyhoeddi’r amser i bedwar cwr y glymdref o’r awrleisiau a osodir ar bob un o’i bedwar wyneb. Oddi ar waliau’r tu mewn, mae wynepryd llym ond teg y môr-leidr Stefan, yr Jarl Aber-Dygdhar, yn rhythu i lawr arnoch o ddelw’n fwy o lawer na’r gwreiddiol, gan roi sêl bendith Nordig ar y llawer iawn o achlysuron arbennig fydd yn digwydd yn ddi-baid o dan ei lygaid caregog gwydrog – fy llygaid caregog – llygaid byw tref Aberdydd.”

 

Ble ma’ e? Unwaith ‘to? A pam mor hwyr? Ydy e’n smyglo cyffuriau, colbio cryts, llowcio ffwng ffrîci fel dy Dad? Nage fod di’n hidio’r un daten amdano fe, ti’n gobeithio byddai’n marw, ond gwell fyddai gwneud yr holl chwarae gwirion gwrthun a darfod. Fe fydd yn codi pwys arnat ti bob tro – y gweddïau wylofus, y curo bron ingol, yr atgno ffug, siantio’r penydiau wedi’u hysbrydoli gan dafodau’r aflan wrth siglo ymlaen ac yn ôl, a gweddill y perfformiad nosol tu hwnt i eiriau. Be’ sy’n corddi’n fwy – dy du mewn neu dy feddwl di – wrth i ti boeni am be’ ‘naiff dy chwaer pan fydd Wncwl yn cyrraedd adre’? Mae’r niwl barus yr ochr arall i’r gwydr yn trio dewino dy lygaid coslyd di, heb ofal yn y byd, wrth i’r tonnau eiddil yn taflu eu hunain i’w marwolaeth yn llesg yn erbyn y traeth, sy’n ffroeni fel ‘sai fe ddim yn malio’r un tywodyn ynddyn nhw.

 

[SDDd] “Ac yn fy nghanol, fy nghalon, yn ddwfn tu mewn i’m strwythur cadarn, rwy’n celu perl eithriadol o deg, sef y murluniau enfawr a chrëwyd yn wreiddiol ar gyfer Freddie Procter, y Barwn 1af Tesbyro, fydd, ryfedd dweud, yn tywynnu ac allyrru sawr osôn pan y'u goleuir â golau uwch-fioled. Bydd y lliwiau chwyrlïol, llesmeiriol yn denu’ch meddyliau’n hudol i’r golygfeydd dieithr o’r Nw Yrth, gan greu, drwy ddeheurwydd yr arlunydd, nas dywedir, fyd mewnol o ddelweddau mor hardd, a realaidd, a syfrdanol, o fewn fy myd wedi’i adeiladu o friciau a morter, o garreg, a gwydr, a dur, sydd yn bodoli yn ei dro, ym myd allanol tref Aberdydd.”

 

Ti ar bigau drain, ac mae diffyg synau ystyrlon heblaw am y rhai’n llifo o’r SDDd yn gwneud llanast o’th ddychymyg. Ti’n clustfeinio i ganfod y symud lleia’ lawr staer. Dro ar ôl tro, pigo dy ddychymyg mae rhyw bennill twp sy’n dwyn i gof linell glo’r ffilm arswyd o’r enw ‘Aliwns Mewnol’ a ryddhawyd flwyddyn ar ôl dy eni, ac mae’n ddigon i godi gwallt dy ben, wrth hala ysgryd trwot ti: “Does dim lle yn unman mor farwol â lle gwag y tu mewn, ble ‘does neb yn gallu clywed dy sgrechiadau!”

 

Ac wedyn – O, ‘neno’r Hen Dduwiau Rhyfedd – dyma ddechrau’r peth fydd yn mynd i dynnu dy berfedd di. Dyna’r palfalu truenus wedi’i gelu mor wael, am allweddi a chlo, wrth iddo yntau’i hunan sefyll, neu simsanu, ar ben y drws fyddai castell brenhinol mewn stori hud a lledrith yn falch ohono – dyna ryw ddyn o’i go’ – wedi’i ddrysu gan ddiod gref, a gofid, a sêl grefyddol, a llid. Ac mae’r Wncwl ffiaidd yn ei abid aflan yn rhoncian i lan y staer a’i wynt yn ei ddwrn, gan regi’n annealladwy mewn iaith nas clywyd ar y Ddaear hyd yn hyn. Mae’n chwysu’n stêcs, a rhochian fel mochyn piwis, gordew, a’i wyneb mor goch â hydrant tân ar fin ffrwydro [**].

 

Dyna ôl-fflach. Ro’t ti ofn ofnadw’ pan ‘nest ti ymlusgo lawr staer yn chwech oed, un tro pan o’t ti yn y tŷ ar dy ben dy hunan (mwy neu lai) tua un ar ddeg o’r gloch, gyda’r rhieni bant a’r chwaer yn cysgu fel twrch, i edrych ar y greadures ddychrynllyd – y ‘difodfil’ o’r ffilm – ar y sgrin deledol.

 

Ac yn ôl yn y presennol, ym meddwl ofnus y bachgen mae mwmial yr Offeiriad Coch hwn yn swnio’n debyg i ryw weddi i Nuthkí, yr Hen Feistres Golledig sy’n rhoi bywyd dim ond i dwyn tranc yn ei sgil – fífí, fofow, fwrkhtha, agla, dzhíshí, pawra, wrdiminí. Mae e’n ymuno â’r seiniau diystyr, gan symud yn rhythmig ar drothwy’r stafell i greu hud o anadl ddrewllyd y mynach sy’n gwthio ei breichiau tuag ato fe, a’i fysedd tenau’n grafangau barus, gwaedlyd, A dyma’r bachgen yn dal i gofio –

 

Roedd yn fraw cyfoglyd i ti weld y gwaed, a’r perfeddion, a’r anghenfil didostur, a’r tywyllwch, y gwyll ofnadw’, a’r person artiffisial milain, heb ben – a’r marw, y marw i gyd – oddi ar ôl i’r hen gadair esmwyth, dreuliedig ond mor gyfforddus a chysurol yng nghornel bella’r lolfa —

 

A dyna sbringiau’r gwely lluddedig yn ‘stafell y dywysoges yn dechrau ymateb – ond ddim morwyn lân ‘mo hi bellach – y gysgadures yn y fagddu, y llechwraig yn y cysgodion, sy’n dod ati ei hun – ac felly nawr fe fydd yn chwarae’r diawl! A dyna Nuthkí ar ddihun. Ac wrth iddi lamu o’i siambr sorri at ben y staer ar ffurf panther angheuol, llyfn, cul, dyna fyrstio rhyw bibell waed yn ddwfn yn ymennydd y dyn anfad dan bwysau’i gasineb a’i wanc. A dyna fe’n sefyll yn stond am yr eiliad leia’, fel ‘sai’n dweud y fendith wrth ei braidd ddiwerth, cyn moelyd i waelod y staer, ddibyn-dobyn, cyn farwed â’r hoelen yn y ddihareb. A’r pryd ‘ny gaeth dau beth eu pennu: o ran Jelena, y bydda'n rhaid iddi hi adael cyn gynted ag y byddai’n bosib, ac o ran Daud, na ddeuai ddim yn Dad i blentyn byth erioed.

 

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Mae un o’r ddau’n gywir yn ei rhagolygon hi, tra bydd y llall yn cael mai anghywir yw e. Y tu hwnt i’r llenni mae’r Hen Filwr a’r Dewin Ieuengaf yn tynnu llinynnau i ‘neud gwyrthiau, ac achosi rhyfeddodau. A rhwng y ddau ohonyn nhw (heb anghofio am y Foneddiges), maen nhw’n deall eu crefft i'r dim. Mae’r ddau ddyn yn credu’u bod yn gweithio yn erbyn ei gilydd (yr hen ymryson teuluol), ond, i’r gwrthwyneb, bydd y naill yn helpu’r llall. Serch hynny, o achos y castiau hudol oll, fe fydd baban yn cael ei greu (yn y ffordd arferol, ch’mod!), yn cynnwys yr holl elfennau priodol, sef corff a chysgod, enw, personoliaeth, a grym bywiol. Popeth, welwch chi, byddwch chi angen i lunio enaid effeithiol. Beth fydd y Dewin yn ei eisiau gyda baban, wel, dyw e ddim yn ddweud. Ond mae’r Hen Filwr yn breuddwydio fel a ganlyn –

 

Dyma’r un nerthol, sy wedi bodoli’n dragwyddol, a oedd cyn i bopeth ddod i fodolaeth, ac a ddaw yn ôl yn fyw i deyrnasu dros y Ddau Fyd am byth. Trwy gyfrwng hud cymhleth dros ben, fydd yn ei ddihysbyddu hyd angau, mae’r Hen Filwr yn bwriadu’i ddifeddiannu a chipio’i bŵer. Ac felly, arglwydd pellafoedd y gwagle y tu hwnt i amser fydd yr Hen Filwr yn y pen draw, ar ffurf unben tadol. Wel, dyna’r amcan, ta beth, ond fydd e’n llwyddo? Fe fydd hynny yn dibynnu ar ffactorau o bob math, yn cynnwys sawl bod dynol. Ac fe wyddoch chi sut maen nhw, oni ‘newch?

 

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[*] O "Cariad, Colled, Chwilod." — P.M.

 

[**] Rhag ofn i chi syrthio i feddwl bod gan David ragfarn yn seiliedig ar syniadau athronyddol ynghylch natur hanfodol pobl ag esgyrn mawrion, fe hoffwn i nodi'r canlynol. Ar adegau eraill, fe fyddai'n disgrifio'i Ewythr mewn termau amgen (er eu bod yr un mor lliwgar), gan ddefnyddio ymadroddion megis: "gorila dirfawr, blewog, cyhyrog," "lama cringoch, drewllyd, cynddeiriog," a "mantis gweddïol,  curiedig, ysglyfaethus, ffuantus." Gallai dyn fod wedi meddwl ei bod yn sôn am berson hollol wahanol bob tro, ac er bod ganddo ddychymyg anhygoel, yr oedd cof y llanc wedi'i ddrysu i ryw raddau gan amser a phoen erbyn hynny, mwy na thebyg. — D.B.P.