In the same way as everything else, shadows grow and the die too, but they can never escape from the numerological principles which always control them. The sun casts shadows that change throughout the day. The length of a definite object cast on the ground is directly proportional to the cotangent of the sun’s angle of elevation from the horizon. Towards sunrise and sunset, shadows can be exceptionally long. If the sun goes directly above an object, then the shadow is cast directly below. It is variations similar to these which have long helped travellers to follow the correct path, especially in desert regions. The sun and the shadow go hand in hand with each other, therefore, and who can say which one is the more important of the two when the adventurer’s life is in the balance, in uncharted territories?

 

OOOOOH SWTAKH! The Trivial Kwadrivial! The unholy corpse wearing a grey shroud of hessian similar to an old sack was rambling on like some cowled monk at the front of the classroom stinking of teenage boys, whilst a stream of mysterious nonsense flowed from his vicious lips {Life's Best Days}. The Old Soldier was the lads’ name for him, Jack Procter, and he was coughing terribly, and had been doing so for a long time. Dai Baxter (well, that's the name he was insisting on using) had some nagging feeling that he knew the old man – head of the Nekrademy and captain of hoy-kunokéfaloy – in some unspeakable way, as if he had been a dodgy friend of the Father he couldn’t remember either. But then again, the lad believed he himself shouldn’t still be alive, somehow, and that he was only a tenacious shadow from another world, and that would explain a lot.

 

By the Terrible Old Gods! He tried to be good (usually), but this repugnant educational charade stretched his patience to the limit. On top of that the powerful binding charms were chafing horribly and driving him crazy, distracting him rather than forcing him to pay attention. Maybe it was this endless torture that had split him in half, mentally at least. And now the best part of him, the handsome, well-behaved little boy who always said please and thank-you, and who did the right thing, and cared, and tried to help people, had fled, screaming. And in his place was a slavering werewolf with blood-red eyes, howling vile curses in the bog of stinking black fluid that had started to seep through his brain more and more recently causing all kinds of chaos. But whatever the tale was, Dai wasn’t listening, nor would he have understood anything either, even if he’d been earwigging carefully. 

 

The captain of the misfits’ club, the king of those who would never be at home anywhere, was squatting uncomfortably on a tiny chair behind a desk in the furthest corner of the room, trying to hide his head with a text-book. He was a bit older that the other worthless weaklings in the class, because of his, well, his "situation" was the word they used there, and he belonged to some subhuman species whose members were huge, hairy, and uneducable. He was a front-runner in the race to get a girlfriend or die trying, because he was a real man, a hero of some sort, in his homeland, and the scars over his whole body testified to that, well that was the yarn anyway. But he’d be really careful, as he was so virile, he’d not want to get her up the duff, with a bun in the oven. When he’d persuaded the girl to give in to his charms, that is.

 

Whatever esoteric calculus was, and how in the Two Worlds it was connected to the numerology of the signs of the zodiac and the history of the Son Foretold, he did not understand at all. But even thinking about the thing was enough to drive you out of your mind, especially late on Fireday, not to mention the torturer, that spiteful, irritable old Procter. The hateful man had a piercing, shrill voice that would never fail to cut through the stifling air. And he was always shoving his left hand between the buttons of his stained shirt to caress his chest. As Dai’s leg beat against the bottom of the wobbly desk which had strange, red signs everywhere over it, his body concentrated on the pain in his backside, condemned to sit for eternity on a seat of red-hot iron as a result of all his boyhood transgressions.

 

Only his view of the rusty gate at the farthest end of the sullen fields, hanging forlornly on its broken hinges as it if were a gallows, offered the slightest bit of hope in terms of a way out. Dai considered the path in detail, wondering whether it would lead his mind to blessed oblivion sooner if he were to stare at it so hard that his eyes exploded. But despite that, Dai couldn’t stop himself imagining that it was the golden path to freedom, even though it had been tarred over for ages, but was full of cruel holes by then. He arched his back in frustration against the unforgivingly hard chair, and let out the sigh of a condemned man. 

 

‘Chep – chep – chep – chep,’ the hands of the clock were moving very slowly, as if they were bloated scarabs crawling in the direct light of the Sun through the fruitful soil of the Field of Rushes on the bank of the River of Tears. And there they busily hiss their fickle chant, whilst their distant cousins, the wanton beetles called dermestids, multiply within the bitter corpses, shattering their bones and swiftly gobbling their flesh.

 

O, Elen, Elen, Elen, the Princess from the fine mansion, it is always so long to wait! You’re the spitting image of Mam who’s gone but who will never be forgotten, they say, and you’re a lonely, unhappy girl, but so brave. Some Evil Queen stole your foolish father, the old witch, and ran off with him. You should marry me, Sorakados the Prince, and live in bliss, and peace, and harmony. But don’t chatter on so beautifully and non-stop about growing up, taking responsibility, getting a career, and especially about having babies and raising a family. Just yield to my charms or I’ll need to cast a spell on you to make you love me, but we’ll fall in love anyway –

 

Unexpectedly, the world ends in a shower of dazzling stars and chalk dust, as a dirty black-board duster explodes on the side of Dai’s head. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, exactly, you idiot? Nothing, that’s obvious. There’s a bad apple in every barrel, and what a worthless, lazy creep you are to be sure! {Just an Apple?} I know you’re under your Father’s shadow still and so on, but, my word!” The terrible, nasal tones reverberate through the stunned lad’s skull, as well as the sarcastic laughter of the younger boys.

 

Procter had got up on his feet, spitting something nasty out into a pocket handkerchief that had red paint on it by all accounts. Needless to say, he was not in the least like an antelope, but, rather, like a lame stick insect. He stumbled to the back of the classroom, before lowering his face until Dai could see the pitted yellow enamel of his teeth and smell the scent of the old khawví, and the fags, and the gin or some unpleasant medicine on his breath. There was something almost rotten about his wizened body. Dai squirmed on his chair and pulled back as his eyes wandered over the terrible scene to look hopelessly for an escape. It was as if Procter was an odd mixture of skeleton and scarecrow, pretending that he was a Wizard. He was wearing a long gown which had been scarlet at one time, but was grey and full of holes by now. He looked like an evil mummy from an old film or horror comic that had come alive to screech curses in an incomprehensible language at its chosen prey, or to bewitch him. And Dai already knew much too much about that from his own experience. 

 

“Now then, I’ve had a gut-full of this nonsense. You’re a moron with his head in the clouds – as fickle as a weather-cock. I’ll be damned if you’re here under my care for another year and then yet another. I’ll have to stay in this hellish place over night, more or less, to mark the scholarship exam papers for those stuck-up toffs from Elen the Valiant School the other side of the Glass Mountain, Fireday, of all days, and I’m as tired as a dead monkey. Well, mate, you’ll be staying behind too. One can master any task with practice. You’ll need to copy the long table of fundamental forms you’ll find on the formula sheet, and the whole list of alchemical correspondences, until you learn them by heart. And then you’ll have to put in order my notes on words of power from the Nw Yrth, do you understand, you stupid boy?” But Dai’s mind's wandering worse than usual...

 

Oh Elen, my dear Elen! You who’ve been helping me to remember things after the accident, to rebuild a sense of who I am. You read my mind as you read reports to me about those terrible things that were happening over the Hallowed Gulf when I was a kid. And then, also, you show me pictures that remind me of the places and the people, and about my dead family. And that's how I understand why I have so many problems right now. It’s terrible not knowing who you are, but everything’s coming back bit by bit. You realise that and encourage me to find myself by organising the events in the countryside to get up the nose of the Local Public Committee. Oh, and by doing all the translating for Fred What’s-his-name, to show off my artistic side, as well. I’m not sure about saving the Planet, though, y’know, nor about opening my internal eye, nor going on a quest for Flamel’s Stone. But never mind that, how much I appreciate all your support, and need to be your husband, ‘cos you never get angry with me.

 

Well, only if I do something daft like talk about casting spells or flying beds, sneaking off to visit the Hall of the Images where I love the pictures, or saying that I want to read comic-books for a while. But despite that, everything is much easier as a result, when I need to go and see that strange Wizard every afternoon to talk for hours about my life while he listens keenly and scribbles notes, saying only ‘hmm’ every now and then. One thing, having said that, I’m very fond of the special cakes he gives me every time, ‘cos they make me feel as happy as a pig in clover. Hmm, it’s a lot better, anyway, than these lessons with him, the old devil, although I don’t think a lot of the so-called Hall there in the mansion, where there’s nothin’ but pictures of old villains, although one of them’s a lot younger than the rest for some reason. It’s hardly worth paying attention to them (except the one that’s similar to the Wizard). But I think that the red robes, and the soft four-corner caps, and the magic staves with bloody rwnen on them that they all carry, are so great, to be honest. One day I could be wearing clothes like that when we get married, my lovely! 

 

Then, the kids in the front seats sneered once again. What a tribe of complete simpletons they were, and virgins too, every one of them! Dai lurched to one side because of the blow, and he almost fell on the floor. After steadying himself, he shrugged his shoulders, whilst his hackles rose at the same time. By Wezir! And talk about taking the wind out of his sails. It would make a mess of his plan to go out with Elen, he couldn’t contact her to let her know, not now, anyway. She’d got very upset when he’d met her near the cottage the last time to enjoy her company (and the rest). Taking nonsense about sweeping changes she was, or about making plans for the future, something like that, he didn’t care, he wasn’t listening either, ‘cos his all-consuming desire was just to spend considerable time with her when they could be on their own. 

 

Valiant Elen, Meum athamanticum, Helen the Soldier, that’s who she is, my Elen, her hair so glossy, exactly like the plant of the same name, that grows best amongst limestone and grassland, under the pines. I’ve discovered it’s sacred to Baldrog, the spirt of chaotic beauty on the Nw Yrth, who was killed by an arrow made of its stems hardened through Swtakh’s magic, called the Amasus Ritual. I'll never be able to understand the maiden fully, so different to me is she, ‘cos she’s more similar to a tasty fruit, or healthy vegetable, or wonderful flower than to a brutish creature. And I’ll never find the appropriate words to describe her, either. She’s unique, she’s a species unto herself, a member of a race that’s not common in this land, although she‘s wandered over all the Eyrth during her life up to now, from the West-lands to the Eastern Territory. Maybe that’s where the foreign but enchanting words she whispers in my ear from time to time come from.

 

Oh, she sings such songs, full of incomprehensible poetry, about living and loving, and dying, something like, “Only the one who loves without desire, shall be given strength in his darkest hour.” But in this place, she’s now planted her roots deep in the fruitful, red soil, to grow into an enormous, strong tree which shall nourish those who have the greatest need, including me. Ah, her scent is as aromatic as newly-cut grass, so that when her long fingers like feathery foliage touch my skin, they heal all my wounds. And the words that flow constantly from her holy lips are so lovely and pure, because they name every creature that exists on the face of the Eyrth today and explain its purpose and its fate. And they can release or bind according to the purity of the heart of the one who declares them, like the holy drink that belongs to the lost Baldrog. 

 

But back in the torture-chamber, the Old Soldier was orating fluently. Dai had heard all the nonsense before – laziness is the root of all evil – blah, blah – you should pull your sleeves up – more balderdash – it doesn’t pay to stand there scratching your backside all the time – it sent him crazy. He slumped across his scarred desk, cursing Procter in the name of Wezir, that bogey who rules over all the arts and sciences that are deep, despondent, dreadful, like aetiology, illogicality, algebra, alchemy, astrology, allegory, and exile. And indeed, the lad was invoking the Terrible Master to punish the teacher without knowing it. In his lightless and dusty cell, the one who ceaselessly grumbles to no-one in particular about worthless and meaningless details, is listening. And he gets more and more agitated, his voice howling like a vapotractor’s whistle, until the shadows about him ignite in freezing blue flames of unsought-for knowledge. 

 

So, the lad, long tired with all the nonsense, dozes, whilst his mind is filled with images of Procter – the infernal educalizor prostrate, legs and arms akimbo, in an ever-widening pool of sticky, purple liquid that spurts out from his multitudinous wounds, more or less crushed to death under a pile of textbooks, with stiletto-pencils sticking out of his eyeballs (and several other vital organs). And the whole vista is burning like in one of the awesome pictures in the Hall of the Images in Aberdydd Town showing the deepest pools of Thebe's Killing Fields, full of boiling blood and bodies writhing in pangs of agony. Red-hot fire this time, he was seeing in his mind’s eye, though, rather than Wezir’s weak tongues of spiteful and caustic flame. And whap! There’s the inquisitive, flesh-eating beetles coming together playfully to digest every little morsel of flesh and meat, blood and sinew. And the scarabs’ chirruping accompanies them without stop, ‘chep – chep – chep – chep,’ like some clock whose hands are painfully distorted.

 

When Dai finished meditating, there was another thought wandering into his confused head. The whole thing was wishful thinking, perhaps, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet, and he was in the mood to see to Procter and sort him out, to say the least. If not now, straight after doing his penance, then sometime before too long, he’d turn the tables and teach him a lesson. Well, now then, Dai knew the place quite well. He was sure that the Old Soldier spent most of his time in the old mansion by now because of his illness. But a small, dirty cottage on the estate in the grounds that had belonged to the old place, was where he would go still on occasions to have a bit of peace, prancing about by moonlight. It wasn’t too far from the stinking river, and Dai decided that perhaps he could call by if he made sure first that the hateful teacher wasn’t at home. 

 

The idea of revenge to come sometime in the future perked him up, and Dai began to look forward to being a naughty little imp, and causing real damage to the property (if not the person) of his persecutor. In truth, the pupil would become the teacher, and indeed the Old Soldier would cough, and squeal, and splutter, and shout until he almost died, when he saw what the lad had done. With considerable pleasure Dai carved the sign of the rebel forces over and over on the desk in red ink. 

 

Stezza, Dai’s sparring-partner for a couple of years, should be ready to help – if he’d not been killed by then. He was a bulky bull, what with his enormous muscles. And although he was very intelligent with abstruse theories and unbelievable concepts, the idealistic lout possessed not the least inkling of common sense. He could have been an awfully good inquisitor, without a doubt, as he was stupid, and strong, and zealous enough. But instead of that he dreamt of taking holy orders in the World-Wide Church and then ridding the Eyrth of the stain of evil, encouraged by the hateful teacher, his Uncle John. Hmm, thinking about things for a while, Stezza always used to use the nickname Old Holy Warrior for the scabby devil, too. Right, that’s the most important thing, thought Dai, considering everything that was in the pipe-line. Stevo could be a human sacrifice if anything went wrong with the cunning plan. But he had to admit: he couldn’t half draw great cartoons!

 

Little did Dai know what would happen later on, only a few weeks in the future, because of his day-dreaming, or, perhaps, despite it. But before all that, the long holidays were calling on Dai, and Stevo, and Elen, Elen, Elen, Oh! There would be more free dance parties to be arranged, and discs to be spun, and canoodling to be done, and love to be spread – and special substances to be sold, and imbibed! And, possibly, Stevo himself might become a valuable asset in the fight for freedom of expression, like a defector who knew the other side’s secrets. Where did all these ideas come from, and the energy to carry them out? The lad wasn't sure. It was as if there were different parts to Dai’s personality, voices calling to him, as if there were totally different people lurking inside his body, or his mind. But no worries about that now, the terrifying blackness had receded for a while, as he'd been musing over the enticing wheezes, and freedom and a Summertide full of love awaited. After an evening of misery, of course, in the company of the skeletal, coughing man. And there was Dai, conjuring phantasms, whilst piercing the tip of his thumb repeatedly with a sharp and dangerous pair of compasses.  

Yn yr un modd â phopeth arall, mae cysgodion yn tyfu, ac maent yn marw hefyd, ond ni allant byth ddianc rhag yr egwyddorion rhifolegol sydd yn eu rheoli bob amser. Bydd yr haul yn bwrw cysgodion a newidia’n llwyr trwy gydol y dydd. Bydd hyd cysgod gwrthrych penodol a deflir ar lawr mewn cyfrannedd union âchotangiad ongl godi’r haul o’i chymharu â’r gorwel. Tua chodiad yr haul a machlud haul, gall cysgodion fod yn eithriadol o hir. Os â’r haul yn union uwchben gwrthrych, wedyn y teflir y cysgod yn union oddi tano. Amrywiadau tebyg i’r rhain sydd yn helpu teithwyr i ddilyn y trywydd cywir ers amser maith, yn enwedig mewn rhanbarthau anial. Mae’r haul a’r cysgod yn mynd law yn llaw gyda’n gilydd felly, a phwy all ddweud p’un yw’r pwysicaf o’r ddau pan fydd bywyd yr anturiaethwr yn y fantol mewn gwledydd nas mapiwyd?

 

SWTACH CUUUUU! Y pedwariad pitw! Roedd y corff dieflig yn gwisgo amdo llwyd o hesian yn debyg i hen sach yn rhyngu arni ar flaen y ‘stafell yn sawru o fechgyn yn eu harddegau, fel rhyw fynach cycyllog, wrth i ffrwd o rwtsh dirgel lifo o’i wefusau mileinig. Yr Hen Filwr oedd enw’r llanciau arno, Jack Procter, ac roedd yn pesychu’n ofnadwy, ac wedi bod yn gwneud hyn ers cryn amser. Roedd gan Dai Baxter (wel, dyna'r enw roedd e'n mynnu ar ei ddefnyddio) ryw deimlad plagus ei fod yn nabod yr hen ddyn – pennaeth y Necrademi a chapten y cynbyn – mewn rhyw ffordd tu hwnt i eiriau, fel ‘sai yntau wedi bod yn gyfaill amheus i’r Dad dyw’m yn gallu cofio ‘chwaith. Ond eto i gyd, roedd y llanc yn credu na ddylai fe’i hun ddim dal ar dir y rhai byw, rywsut, a taw dim ond cysgod gafaelgar o fyd arall oedd e, a dyna fyddai’n esbonio llawer.

 

Myn yr Hen Dduwdodau Erch! Fe fyddai'n trio bod yn dda (fel rheol), ond roedd y gemau addysgol gwrthun 'ma'n trethu'i amynedd i'r eithaf. Ar ben hynny, roedd y swynganeuon rhwymo nerthol yn rhathu'n ofnadwy a'i yrru fe'n wallgo yn lle'i orfodi i dalu sylw. Efallai mai'r artaith ddi-ball hon oedd wedi'i hollti yn ddau hanner, o ran ei feddwl o leiaf. A nawr roedd y rhan orau ohono, y bachgen bach oedd yn olygus ac yn ufudd, a fyddai  bob amser yn dweud 'os gwelwch chi'n dda' a 'diolch yn fawr iawn,' ac a wnâi'r peth cywir, a gofalu am bobl, a cheisio'u helpu, wedi ffoi, dan sgrechian. Ac yn ei le roedd bleidd-ddyn yn driflan, a'i lygaid yn goch fel gwaed, yn udo melltithion ffiaidd yn y gors o hylif du, drewllyd oedd wedi dechrau tryddiferu drwy ei ymennydd fwyfwy yn ddiweddar gan beri helbul o bob math. Ond be’ bynnag oedd yr hanes, doedd Dai ddim yn gwrando, na byddai wedi deall dim byd ‘chwaith, petai fe wedi bod yn clustfeinio’n astud.

 

Roedd capten clwb y misffitiaid, brenin y rhai fyddai byth yn gartrefol yn unman, yn sgwatio’n anghyfforddus ar gadair fechan tu ôl i ddesg yng nghornel bella’r ‘stafell gan geisio cuddio’i ben gyda llawlyfr. Ychydig yn hŷn na’r lliprynnod da-i-ddim eraill yn y dosbarth oedd e, o achos ei, wel ei "sefyllfa" oedd y gair roeddwn nhw’n ddefnyddio yno, ac roedd e’n perthyn i ryw rywogaeth led ddynol yr oedd aelodau ohoni’n enfawr, blewog, ac anaddysgadwy. Ceffyl blaen yn y ras oedd e i ddod o hyd i wejen neu farw wrth geisio, achos taw dyn go iawn oedd e, arwr o ryw fath, yn ei famwlad, a bod y creithiau dros ei gorff i gyd yn tystio i ‘ny, wel dyna oedd y stori ta be’. Ond fe fyddai’n ofalus iawn, gan fod e mor wrol, fyddai fe’m eisiau chael hi yn y clwb ac yn magu esgyrn bach. Pan fyddai wedi perswadio’r ferch i ildio i’w swynion, hynny yw.

 

Beth bynnag oedd calcwlws esoterig, a sut yn y Ddau Fyd roedd yn cysylltu â rhifoleg y deuddeg arwydd a hanes y Mab Darogan, ddeallodd e’m o gwbl. Ond hyd yn oed meddwl am y peth oedd digon i’ch gyrru chi o’ch iawn bwyll, yn enwedig yn hwyr Wendid-ddydd; heb sôn am yr arteithiwr, yr Hen Procter pigog, maleisus ‘na. Roedd gyda’r dyn cas lais main, treiddiol fethai byth dorri drwy’r awyr fyglyd. Ac roedd e wastad yn hwpo’i law chwith rhwng botymau’i grys llychwin i anwesu’i frest. Wrth i goes Dai fwrw yn erbyn gwaelod ei ddesg simsan oedd ag arwyddion coch, rhyfedd ymhobman drosti, roedd ei gorff yn canolbwyntio ar y poen yn ei ben ôl, wedi’i gondemnio i eistedd am dragwyddoldeb ar sedd o haearn gwynias o ganlyniad i droseddau oll ei fachgendod.

 

Dim ond ei olwg ar y glwyd rydlyd ar ben pella’r meysydd sarrug yn hongian yn ddi-gâr ar ei golfachau drylliedig fel ‘sai’n grocbren, oedd yn cynnig y mymryn lleia’ o obaith o ran ffordd mas. Roedd Dai yn ystyried y llwybr yn fanwl, gan dybio fyddai’n arwain ei ymennydd i ebargofiant bendigedig yn gynt ‘sai fe’n syllu arno fe mor galed nes i’w lygaid ffrwydro. Ond, serch ‘ny, allai Dai ddim peidio dychmygu taw’r llwybr o aur tuag at ryddid oedd e, er gwaetha’r ffaith ei fod wedi’i goltario ‘slawer dydd, ond yn llawn tyllau creulon erbyn ‘ny. ‘Naeth e grymu’i gefn mewn rhwystredigaeth yn erbyn y gadair anfaddeugar o galed, a gollwng ochenaid gŵr dan gollfarn.

 

‘Chep – chep – chep – chep,’ roedd bysedd y cloc yn symud yn ara’ deg, fel ‘sen nhw’n sgarabau chwyddedig yn cropian yn llygaid yr Haul trwy laid ffrwythlon Maes Brwyn ar lan Afon Dagrau. Ac yno byddan nhw’n brysur hisian eu llafargan chwit-chwat, wrth i’w cefndyr pell, y chwilod chwantus o’r enw croenysorion, luosogi tu mewn i’r celanedd chwerw, gan chwalu’u hesgyrn a llawcio’u cnawd yn chwim.

 

O, Elen, Elen, Elen, y Dywysoges o’r plasty coeth, hir yw pob aros yn wir! Yr un boeriad â Mam sy ‘di mynd ond nad anghofir byth wyt ti, maen nhw’n gweud; a ti’n ferch anhapus, unig ond mor eofn. Dygodd rhyw Foneddiges Ddrwg ei Thad hurt, yr hen wrach, a rhedeg bant gyda fe. Fe ddylet ti ‘mhriodi fi, Sorakados y Tywysog a byw mewn dedwyddwch, a heddwch, a harmoni. Ond paid di glebran mor hyfryd a di-stop am dyfu lan, cymryd cyfrifoldeb, cael gyrfa, ac yn enwedig am gael babis a magu teulu. Dim ond ildia i’n swynion neu bydda i angen bwrw hud arnat ti i ‘neud i ti ‘ngharu i, ond fe fyddwn ni’n cwympo mewn cariad ta be’ –

 

Yn ddisymwth, dyna ddod y byd i ben mewn cawod o sêr llachar a llwch calch, wrth i sychwr bwrdd du brwnt ffrwydro ar ochr pen Dai. “Beth ddiawl wyt ti’n feddwl ti’n ‘neud yn union, y pwdryn? Dim byd, dyna’n amlwg. Mae taten ddrwg ym mhob sach, ac am sinach diog, diffaith wyt ti’n wir! Rwy’n deall fod di dan gysgod dy Dad eto, ac yn y blaen, ond, ‘tawn i’n marw!” Atseiniodd y tonau trwynol, gwael trwy benglog y llanc syfrdan yn ogystal â chwerthin coeglyd y bechgyn ieuengach.

 

‘Naeth Procter godi ar ei draed, gan boeri rhywbeth cas allan i facyn poced ac arno baent coch yn ôl pob golwg. 'Sdim angen dweud, doedd e’m yn debyg i afrewig yn y lleia’, ond yn hytrach fel prif brigyn cloff. Baglu at gefn y ‘stafell ddosbarth ‘naeth e, cyn gostwng ei wyneb nes gallai Dai weld enamel melyn, creithiog ei ddannedd a chlywed gwynt yr hen goffi, a’r ffags, a’r jin neu ryw foddion annymunol ar ei anadl. Roedd rhywbeth bron â phydredig am ei gorff crebachlyd. ‘Naeth Dai wingo yn ei gadair a thynnu’n ôl wrth i’w lygaid grwydro dros yr olygfa enbyd i chwilio’n anobeithiol am ddihangfa. Yr oedd fel ‘sai Procter yn gymysgedd od o sgerbwd a bwgan brain, yn cymryd arno taw Dewin oedd e. Roedd e’n gwisgo gŵn hir oedd wedi bod yn ‘sgarlad ar un adeg, ond oedd yn llwyd ac yn dyllau i gyd erbyn hyn. Roedd e’n edrych fel mwmi drwg o hen ffilm neu lyfr comics arswyd oedd wedi dod yn fyw i sgrechian melltithion mewn iaith annealladwy ar ei ysglyfaeth ddethol, neu’i reibio fe. A ‘naeth Dai eisoes wybod gormod o lawer am hynny o’i brofiadau’i hun.

 

“Nawr ‘te, dw i ‘di cael llond bol ar y ffwlbri ‘ma. Ynfytyn â’i ben yn y gwynt wyt ti – mor ddi-ddal â cheiliog y gwynt. A dros ‘y nghrogi byddi di ‘ma dan ‘y ngofal am flwyddyn arall ac un arall ‘to. Fe fydda i’n gorfod aros yn y lle uffernol ‘ma dros nos, mwy neu lai, i gywiro papurau arholiad ysgoloriaeth y boneddigions ffroenuchel ‘na o Ysgol Elen Luyddog yr ochr arall i’r Mynydd Gwydr, Wendid-ddydd, o bob dydd, a fi mor flinedig â mwnci marw. Wel, ‘achan, byddi di yma hefyd. Meistr pob gwaith yw ymarfer. Fe fyddi di angen copïo’r tabl hir ffurfiau sylfaenol ddoi di o hyd iddo fe ar y daflen fformiwla, a holl restr cyfatebiaethau alcemegol, nes i ti dysgu nhw ar gof. Ac wedyn bydd rhaid i ti drefnu fy nodiadau ar eiriau nerthol o’r Nw Yrth, wyt ti’n deall, fachgen twp, w?” Ond mae meddwl Dai’n crwydro’n waeth nag fel arfer.

 

O Elen, yn annwyl Elen! Ti sy 'di bod yn helpu fi i gofio pethau ar ôl y ddamwain, i ail-adeiladu syniad o pwy dw i. Ti'n darllen ‘yn meddyliau wrth ddarllen adroddiadau i fi am y pethau erchyll 'na oedd yn digwydd dros y Llŷr Glân pan o'n i'n grwt. Ac wedyn hefyd dangos lluniau i fi sy'n atgoffa fi o'r llefydd a'r bobl; ac am 'y nheulu marw. A dyna sut dw i 'di deall pam mae cymaint o broblemau 'da fi ar hyn o bryd. Mae'n ofnadw' methu nabod pwy wyt ti, ond mae popeth yn dod yn ôl fesul tipyn. Ti'n sylweddoli 'ny ac yn annog i i gael hyd i'n hunan drwy drefnu'r digwyddiadau yng nghefn gwlad i roi ffon yn olwyn y Pwyllgor Cyhoeddus Lleol. O, a hefyd, 'neud yr holl gyfieithu i Ffred Be-di-enw i arddangos yn ochr artistig i. Sa i'n siŵr am achub y Blaned, 'chwaith, t’mod, nac agor yn llygad mewnol, na mynd i chwilio am Garreg Flamel. Ond dim ots am ‘ny, cymaint dw i'n gwerthfawrogi dy gymorth i gyd, ac angen bod yn ŵr i ti, achos fyddi di byth yn gwylltio wrtha i.

 

Wel, dim ond os bydda i'n 'neud rhywbeth twp fel siarad am fwrw hud neu welyau hedegog, snecian bant i ymweld â Neuadd y Delweddau ble dw i'n dwlu ar y lluniau, neu ddweud mod i eisiau darllen llyfr comics am sbel. Ond er 'ny, fe fydd popeth yn haws o lawer o ganlyniad, pan fydd rhaid i fi fynd i weld y Dewin rhyfedd 'na bob p'nhawn i sôn am oriau am 'y mywyd wrth iddo fe wrando'n astud a sgriblan nodiadau gan ddweud dim ond 'hmm' nawr ac yn y man. Un peth, wedi gweud 'ny, dw i'n hoff iawn o'r teisennau sbesial, fe fydd e'n rhoi i fi bob amser, achos bod nhw'n 'neud i fi deimlo mor llawen â'r gog. Hmm, llawer gwell ydy, ta be', na'r gwersi 'ma gydag yntau, yr hen gythraul, er mod i'm yn meddwl llawer o'r Neuadd bondigrybwyll yno yn y plasty, ble ‘sdim ond lluniau o hen ddihirod, er bod un ohonyn nhw'n llawer mwy ifanc na'r lleill am ryw reswm. Prin mae'n werth talu sylw arnyn nhw (ac eithrio'r un sy'n debyg i'r Dewin). Ond dw i'n credu taw mor wych yw'r gynau coch, y capiau pedair cornel meddal, a'r hudlathau ac arnyn nhw rwnau o waed maen nhw i gyd yn cario, a bod yn onest. Un dydd, fe allwn i fod yn gwisgo dillad o'r un fath pan briodwn ni, 'nghariad!

 

Wedyn, ‘naeth y cryts yn y seddau blaen gilwenu unwaith ‘to. Dyna lwyth o wirioniaid llwyr oedden nhw, a gwyryfon bob un ohonyn nhw hefyd! ‘Naeth Dai roncian o’r neilltu o achos yr ergyd, a bu bron iddo gwympo i’r llawr. Ar ôl sadio’i hunan, ‘naeth godi’i war, wrth i’w wrychyn godi ar yr un pryd. ‘Neno Wezir! A sôn am fynd â’r gwynt o’i hwyliau. Byddai’n gwneud llanast o’i gynllun i fynd mas gydag Elen; allai fe ddim cysylltu â hi i roi gwybod iddi hi, dim nawr, be’ bynnag. Roedd hi wedi cynhyrfu’n lân pan oedd e ‘di cwrdd â hi ar bwys y bwthyn y tro diwetha’ i fwynhau ei chwmni (a’r gweddill). Malu awyr am newidiadau ysgubol roedd hi, neu am ‘neud cynlluniau ar gyfer y dyfodol, rhywbeth fel ‘ny, doedd dim ots ‘da fe, doedd e’m yn gwrando ‘chwaith, achos taw dim ond chwant ysol hala cryn amser gyda hi pan allen nhw fod ar eu pennau’u hunain fel petai, oedd arno.

 

Elen Luyddog, Meum athamanticum, Helen y Milwr, dyna pwy ydy hi, ‘yn Elen i, a'i gwallt mor llathraidd, yn union fel dail y planhigyn o'r un enw, sy'n tyfu orau ymhlith calchfaen a glaswelltir, dan y pinwydd. Dw i 'di darganfod fod e wedi'i gysegru i Baldrog, ysbryd harddwch caotig ar y Nw Yrth, a gaeth ei ladd gan saeth wedi'i 'neud o'i goesynnau wedi'u caledu trwy hud Swtach, o’r enw Defod Amasus. Alla i byth ddeall y forwyn yn gyfan gwbl, mor wahanol i fi ydy hi, sy’n fwy tebyg i ffrwyth blasus, neu lysieuyn iachus, neu flodyn godidog, nag i greadur anifeilaidd. A fydda i byth yn cael hyd i'r geiriau priodol i'w disgrifio hi, 'chwaith, Unigryw ydy hi, mae hi'n rhywogaeth ynddi'i hunan, aelod o dras sy ddim yn gyffredin yn y wlad 'ma, er bod hi wedi crwydro dros y Ddaear i gyd yn ystod ei bywyd hyd yn hyn o Diroedd y Gorllewin i Diriogaeth y Dwyrain. Falle taw dyna o ble mae’r geiriau dieithr ond swynol fydd hi’n sisial yn ‘y nghlust o bryd i’w gilydd yn dod.

 

O, mae hi'n canu'r fath ganeuon, llawn barddoniaeth annealladwy, am fyw, a charu, a threngi, rhywbeth fel, “Dim ond yr un a gâr heb dinc o fariaeth, y rhoddir iddo nerth yn ei awr dduaf.” Ond yn y lle 'ma mae hi bellach wedi plannu'i gwreiddiau'n ddwfn yn y pridd coch, ffrwythlon, i dyfu'n goeden enfawr, gref, fydd yn meithrin y rhai y bydd arnyn nhw'r angen mwya', gan ‘y nghynnwys i. A, mae’i harogl mor berlysiog â gwair newydd ei dorri, fel pan fydd ei bysedd hir fel deiliant pluog yn cyffwrdd â 'nghroen, byddan nhw'n iacháu'n briwiau i gyd. Ac mae’r geiriau sy’n llifo'n gyson o'i gwefusau glân, mor hyfryd a phur achos bod nhw'n enwi pob creadur sy'n bodoli ar wyneb y Blaned heddi' ac esbonio'i bwrpas a'i ffawd. Ac fe allan nhw ryddhau neu rwymo yn unol â glendid calon yr un fydd yn eu datgan, fel y ddiod sanctaidd sy'n perthyn i'r Baldrog colledig.

 

Ond yn ôl yn y siambr artaith, roedd yr Hen Filwr yn arteithio’n rhugl. Yr oedd Dai wedi clywed yr holl rwtsh o’r blaen – hedyn pob drwg yw diogi – bla, bla – fe ddylet ti dorchi dy lewys – mwy o ffiloreg – ni thâl hi ddim i ti sefyll yma’n crafu dy ben ôl drwy’r amser – roedd yn hala fe’n grac. ‘Naeth e gwympo ar draws ei ddesg greithiog, gan felltithio Procter yn enw Wezir, y bwgan hwnnw sy’n rheoli dros yr holl gelfyddydau a gwyddorion dirgel, digalon, dychrynllyd, fel achoseg, afresymegolrwydd, alsoddeg, alcemeg, astroleg, alegori, ac alltudiaeth. Ac yn wir roedd y llanc yn galw ar i’r Meistr Erchyll gosbi’r athro, heb yn wybod iddo. Yn ei gell heb olau a llychlyd, dyna wrando’r un sy’n grwgnach heb stop wrth neb arbennig, am fanion diwerth a diystyr. A dyna fe’n mynd yn fwyfwy cynhyrflyd, a’i lais yn oernadu fel chwiban agerdynnwr, nes i’r cysgodion o’i gwmpas danio mewn fflamau gleision rhewllyd o wybodaeth nas ceisiwyd.

 

Felly dyna’r llanc wedi hen flino ar yr holl sothach yn pendwmpian, tra llenwir ei feddwl gan ddelwedd Procter – y coegddysgiad cythreulig yn gorwedd â’i goesau a’i freichiau ar led mewn pwll o hylif porffor, gludiog sy’n chwistrellu o’i anafiadau niferus, wedi’i wasgu i farwolaeth, bron, dan dwr o werslyfrau, a pheli’r llygaid (a sawl organ fywydol arall) wedi’u trywanu gan bensiliau fel stiletos. Ac mae’r holl olygfa yn llosgi fel mewn un o’r lluniau ardderchog yn Neuadd y Delweddau yn Nhref Aberdydd yn dangos pyllau dyfna Meysydd Lladd Thebe yn llawn o waed berwedig a chyrff yn ymdorchi mewn gwewyr o loes. Tân chwilboeth y tro hwn, roedd yn ei weld gyda llygad ei feddwl, sut bynnag, yn hytrach na thafodau gweinion Wezir o fflam sbeitlyd a brathog. A chwap! Dyna’r chwilod croenysol, chwilgar yn casglu ynghyd yn chwareus i dreulio pob gronyn bach o gnawd a chig, gwaed a gewyn. A grillian cythreulig y sgarabau sy’n cyfeilio iddyn nhw’n ddi-dor, ‘chep – chep – chep – chep,’ fel rhyw gloc, a’i bysedd wedi’u camu’n boenus.

 

Pan ‘naeth Dai gwpla synfyfyrio, meddwl arall oedd yn crwydro i’w ben dryslyd. Roedd y cwbl yn freuddwyd gwrach wrth ei hewyllys, falle, ond doedd e’m yn barod i roi’r ffidil yn y to eto, ac roedd e mewn hwyliau i roi hi i Procter a setlo fe, a dweud y leia’. Os nad nawr, yn syth ar ôl ‘neud ei benyd, wedyn rywbryd cyn rhy hir, fe fyddai’n troi'r byrddau a dysgu gwers iddo yntau. Wel, nawr ‘te, roedd Dai’n nabod y lle’n burion. Roedd e’n sicr bod yr Hen Filwr yn treulio rhan fwya’r amser yn yr hen blasty erbyn hyn o achos ei salwch. Ond bwthyn bach, budr ar y ‘stad yn y tir fu’n perthyn i’r hen le, oedd ble byddai’n mynd eto ar adegau i gael tipyn bach o lonydd, gan brancio o gwmpas wrth olau lleuad. Doedd e’m yn rhy bell o’r afon ddrewllyd, a ‘naeth Dai benderfynu taw falle gallai fe alw heibio ‘sai fe’n sicrhau’n gynta’ fyddai’r athro ffiaidd ddim gartre’.

 

‘Naeth y syniad o ddial i ddod rywbryd yn y dyfodol roi hwb i’w galon, a ‘naeth Dai ddechrau edrych ‘mlaen at fod yn ellyll bach drwg, ac at beri difrod go iawn i eiddo (os nad i berson) ei boenydiwr. Mewn gwirionedd, y disgybl fyddai’n dod yn athro; ac yn wir fe fyddai’r Hen Filwr yn pesychu, a gwichian, a bwldagu, a bloeddio nes iddo bron â marw pan welai beth fyddai’r llanc wedi ‘neud. Gyda chryn bleser cerfiodd Dai arwydd grymoedd y gwrthryfelwyr drosodd a throsodd ar y ddesg mewn inc coch.

 

Stezza, partner paffio Dai ers cwpl o flynyddoedd, ddylai fod yn barod i’w helpu – ‘sai fe’m wedi cael ei ladd erbyn hynny. Tarw swmpus oedd e, gyda’i gyhyrau enfawr. Ac er ei fod yn ddeallus iawn o ran theorïau astrus a chysyniadau anghredadwy, nage’r un blewyn o synnwyr cyffredin oedd gan yr hwlcyn delfrydol ‘na. Fe allai fod wedi bod yn chwilyswr da ofnadw’, heb os, achos fod e’n ddigon twp, a chryf, a selog. Ond yn lle ‘ny roedd e’n breuddwydio am gymryd urddau’r Eglwys Fyd-Eang ac wedyn gwaedu’r Ddaear rhag staen drygioni, wedi’i anogi gan yr athro atgas, ei Wncwl John. Hmm, erbyn meddwl am bethau am sbel, byddai Stezza’n defnyddio’r llysenw Hen Filwr Llwyd ar y diawl crachlyd bob tro ‘fyd. Reit, dyna’r peth mwya’ pwysig, meddyliai Dai gan ystyried popeth oedd ar y gweill. Fe allai Stevo fod yn aberth dynol ‘sai unrhyw beth yn mynd o'i le ar y cynllun cyfrwys. Ond, rhaid cyfadde’: on’d oedd e’n gallu tynnu cartwnau gwych!

 

Ychydig a wyddai Dai beth fyddai’n digwydd yn nes ymlaen, dim ond sawl wythnos yn y dyfodol, o ganlyniad i’w bensynnu, neu, efallai, er ei waetha’. Ond cyn hynny oll roedd y gwyliau hir yn galw ar Dai, a Stevo, ac Elen, Elen, Elen, O! Fe fyddai mwy o’r partïon dawns rhydd i’w trefnu, a disgiau i’w troelli, a charu i’w ‘neud, a chariad i’w ledu – a sylweddau sbesial i’w gwerthu, a’u llyncu! Ac o bosib byddai Stevo’n dod yn ased gwerthfawr yn y frwydr dros ryddid mynegiant, fel gwrthgiliwr a wyddai gyfrinachau’r ochr arall. O ble daeth yr holl syniadau ‘ma, a’r egni i’w cyflawni nhw? Doedd y llanc ddim yn siŵr. Roedd fel ‘sai rhannau amgen i bersonoliaeth Dai, lleisiau’n galwn arno fe, fel ‘sai pobl hollol wahanol yn llechu tu mewn i’w gorff, neu’i feddwl. Ond paid becso am ‘ny bellach, roedd y düwch brawychus wedi encilio am sbel, wrth iddo ystyried y castiau blasus, ac roedd rhyddid a haf llawn serch yn aros. Ar ôl noswaith o ddiflastod, wrth gwrs, yng nghwmni’r dyn pesychlyd, esgyrnog. A dyna oedd Dai'n consurio drychiolaethau, wrth wanu blaen ei fawd sawl gwaith drosodd gyda chwmpas miniog a danjerus.