All forms are unstable. Although it is solid on the surface, reality is as immaterial as a shadow when one looks deeper. When we investigate more and more into the structure of physical objects, we discover that they do not exist in the same way that we sense them in the everyday world. Everything consists of empty space filled with fields, and forces, and oscillating particles, described by probabilistic wave-functions. What, therefore, is the nature of human life; is there any meaning to thinking, possessing, feeling, loving; how should one consider embodied existence when it appears that we are no more than the constant interplay of light and darkness? We cannot be ourselves, even, without other people, who create a complex multi-coloured, multi-textured web of differences of which we grow to be a part, developing our personalities. It happens that between being born and dying, we are filled with strange voices that become an inseparable part of us. We are this mélange of babbling tongues which is broadcast silently to the cosmos in the form of waves of scarcely detectable electromagnetic radiation whilst we live. But what is the fate of this haphazard stream of information which has already been sent out, when our fleshy bodies dissolve in the end? 

 

On his throne, an Old Soldier, who would be a Wizard, sits dying. Or rather, awaiting the appointed time when life transforms from one form to another in that land where water dances whilst talkative birds help the hero on his quest for singing apples. He is attended by three irreconcilable and irascible ministers whom we might dub Doubt, Despair, and Spitefulness. All triads are perfect, apparently, but this shower’s more like three stooges than the three Fates, and they are certainly more concerned about blood, and sweat, and tears, than with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Meanwhile, the Old Soldier’s two unwitting acolytes, Faithless and Foolish, are coming home after gallivanting about at a free party, but, unbeknownst to them, they are merely postponing the fate which has been appointed for them. Their pre-ordained date with destiny is unavoidable. After all, "When one man dies, then all survive; Through him will human-kind all thrive?" says the tantalising couplet by Mamrick. 

 

The expiring Old Soldier has matters of great import to attend to – for himself and all of humanity – if only he were to be left in peace with the bottle of priceless gin, and the stupendous collection of pills, and powders, and potions, together with the other appropriate tools. And if only he could remember, or imagine, what would be required. Especially think of the correct words. But only the lines, "That is not dead which can eternal lie; And with strange aeons even death may die," run mocking through his troubled mind. Doom and unspoken hostility befoul the foetid air, as fragments of malicious conversation are fired convulsively like poisoned darts between the three loveless and frustrated persons. The barbed comments imprint themselves on the psyche of the place like some ugly Kirlian photograph. And what words of wisdom are accompanying the whole sorry scene? Well, nothing but garbled dialogue from “The Curse of the Zombie’s Tomb” or “I Walked with a Mummy," or suchlike film by the little-known director Siôn Llwynlesg, which appears to be streaming on an infinite loop from the clapped-out google-box that squats in the corner of the invalid’s chamber. And indeed, for quite some time he's arranged to listen to that kind of rubbish wherever he goes [*].

 

“Well, that’s it then, the old man’s said I can take the van when your favourite inmate, or should that be your one-and-only real patient, gets back this afternoon. What’s his name, David? The one that thinks he’s a war hero from foreign parts, anyway. Nutter, despite all his scribbling, and translating, and DJ-ing, and saving the world, and what-not. Makes sense as I’ll be getting it when he goes anyway. For what it’s worth, the old, dilapidated heap of junk. He said it quite plainly to me right now. Right in my ear as I was leaning over him, mopping his clammy brow. You heard him, didn’t you?” 

 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s right, the silly old devil said he could take it, I can’t be bothered with it, I don’t drive, thank you very much. I can do, but I choose not to, to be honest. Driving’s a man’s job. Dirty, noisy, and dangerous. I abhor all those exhaust gases, and the smell of diesel. Not something that a prospective mentalist like me who’s undertaking on-the-job training should be doing. And a white van, how vulgar is that? I have a Master of Science degree in Technical Studies. From Aberdydd Poly-varsity. Anyway, I’m getting the shares he invested in a few years ago. The ones for the pig-farm on the Southern Continent. Wtsang Kwnlw Province, somewhere like that. Promised me them when he bought me the llama reserve up in the north. When I get my money, I might go over there to have a look at the little blighters. Cute as hell them little squealers. The place is vast and they’re doing exceptionally well now, the farmers I mean, churning out pork for use in chop-suey all over the world. And I’ll be needing a long holiday once all this mess is over.” 

 

“Oh, good for you, love, the pigs, well, I wouldn’t have been able to guess that! Now look, I know you’ve only been able to get down here a few times in the period he’s been lying dying. Of course, it’s not your fault, what with your work, your charities, your prospective little baby, the – what should I say – new suitor, of course, and all the other crucial activities that pop up naturally in the every-day life of a trainee mentalist, or poetess, or whatever, like the unexpected holidays to the Land of the Thousand and One Islands. But I really don’t think you should be talking like that about him with him languishing there, on the point of expiring. It’s just not the right thing to do. He’s not departed yet you know. Anyway, I’m the one who’s been caring for him all this time. We hardly ever see either of you. And on top of that, what about the will?” 

 

“Oh, my dear, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m certain he’s sorted everything out, how can we say – ‘appropriately’? You just wait and see. I imagine everyone’ll get their ‘just deserts’ in due course. Oh, what’s that awful, smelly, old mongrel doing in here. It’s stinking the whole place out and slobbering everywhere. It’s so unhygienic.”

 

“Hmph! That’s quite enough of all that ‘my-dearing,’ from you, ‘Dearest Girl,’ thanks very much. And don’t you talk about old Swt like that. He’s my big baby, well, the other one anyway. He’s like a god about this place. Patrolling the perimeter, keeping the beetles and riff-raff out. No wonder he hates Dai, what with all that loud music, and howling at the moon. Well, he’s let himself down today letting you two in, hasn’t he? In Hebé’s name, there’s the MoSoTra. When will it stop around here? My favourite simpleton Dai no doubt. Thinks he’s the prophet of the new age of death-slumber music to crown it all. He’s gone off on very important business to see the members of the Committee you know. I hope there won’t be trouble with the Patriotic People's Militia this time. Well, I see you’ve both made yourselves comfortable enough already. Don’t move a muscle. There’ll be more to say about these matters shortly.” 

 

“Hello! Ah, right. Lady Meykbeds to Boy Soldier. Yes, I know it’s the crack of dawn. I said to call really early. No, no, keep your voice down, will you? Helen of Troy and the Minotaur are here right now. Hush! No I don’t want to hear about the Wýkinger’s problems with the plumbing. Cystitis you say? He’s wetting himself all the time, is he? Yuck! He’ll have to go to the Clinic and get himself seen to. What on the Nw Yrth’s he been up to? Shush now, he’ll be fine in the end, and there’s a situation developing here! Great Nebesh, what, the Wýkinger fell off his motorbike. Again? Hit his head against a rock, is it? Your fault? Eaten mushrooms? Tried to attack you? Blood everywhere? You too? Concussion? Nightmares? Visions? Talking to aliens? Can’t remember? Wants to drown himself? Why in the Two Worlds? Problems with the lover? Well, no change there. You saved him? Right as rain now? Well, hooray, hoorah, and thank goodness for that! Anyway, you shouldn’t be on the MoSoTra while you’re driving. Think of the fine, and the points on your licence. And you’re a bad enough driver at the best of times. What, you’re pulled in a lay-by? And the Wýkinger’s diving as you’re off your face on … what … synthetic nectar? Oh, may the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers seize you both and carry you away!... 

 

“...Look, now, I’ve got to keep my voice down, those two, Cruella and the Grinch, are hovering about in the dining room. Insult, mistreat, and exploit, those’re the only things they can do well. Listen, I’ll need your help. The Child-Catcher and Trunchbull are claiming he’s said they’ll get everything. Everything! Imagine, that lout, with those rubbery ears and that nose like Dumbo’s trunk! And he wants that van. Today. Shameful! Yes, just drive off with it. How else is he going to take it?...

 

“…And they’re saying he’s leaving it all to them. Everything! Yes, the stinking pigs. No, I don’t mean them, the Deadly Assassin and the Wandering Whelp, it’s the pig-farm across the Isolating Ocean I mean. Shares. But everything else too. Our lovely, crumbling, cold mansion, where we live! And that vile pyramid-like thing that he’s always kept in the cellar of the cottage with those horrible rag-dolls that look like you two, and the hessian sack full of rusty knives. I’ve always detested it, the ziggurat or whatever, but it’s full of you-know-what, mesmeric mould, mother’s ruin. Don’t tell me you didn’t know. It’s incredible stuff, almost out-of-this-world. Priceless. I know your poison is something different but never mind about that. Each to his own. I’m going to have to get it out of the way, somehow, before they get their thieving hands on it and start messing about and sticking their noses in everywhere. You’ll have to help me… 

 

“…What? The Wýkinger’s got stuck on barbed wire? Swtakh! That lad needs a firm hand. I’m regretting bringing him up alone now you know. He was quite a nice man, his father, on the surface, he was calm and quiet, and good for nothing. The baldness made him look quite mature, I think. Not unattractive really, for some who works as, what was it, an oral surgeon who travels around the world? If I’d been twenty years younger... What? How dare you speak to your elders like that! And me a frail old lady, too. Anyway, if I was there I’d give you both barbed wire, around your heads! You’ve addled your brains with all that raving, and the drugs, and the rest. Talk about mental cases, you’ve lost it. Your lives’ll be nasty, brutish, and short, for sure. And you two claim to be some kind of social justice warriors! You’re not the Old Masters’ Anointed One, y’know, my lad! Hang on, hang on, I’m being summoned.” 

 

“Oh hello, there you are, at last. Hmm, well, we’d both like another cup of tshay if you’d be so kind. It’s so damned hot in here what with all this equipment pumping and sucking. Worse that the Eastern Desert. And there’s the repulsive insects everywhere. Can’t see ‘em, but there’s that sickening chep-er, chep-er, chep-er all the time. Dirty, that’s what it is here. Those awful, dangerous pine-trees encourage them, I’m sure. This whole place should be closed down. I’d burn it down if I had half a chance. No real patients either, apart from moonstruck David and this sad old reprobate of a soldier turned teacher…

 

“…And he keeps gabbling on about the same old nonsense over and over, too. Pyramids, curses, ziggurats, sacrifices, magic words. Or magic mushrooms, most likely ... monkey-milk, banana-peel spice, pomegranate seeds, blue beads, mandrake root. One wonders! I think he’s asking for a bottle of the drugs. Something like that. Surely you’re not authorised to store that stuff or give it out, just like that, are you? Where are they, by the way, the drugs? It's like he's had a damned good dose of that intergalactic energy juice they all take while raving. Oh, and we fancy currant loaf, too, if you would be so kind. And only asking, but did I hear you going on about some particular antique just now?” 

 

“Oh, if you want anything else you can go to the kitchen and find it yourselves! You’re treating this place as if it’s your own already. Anyway, that was Dai. And, of course, his shadow, Stevie, playing the fool as usual. They’ve broken down out in the countryside somewhere coming back from some ‘event’. I’ll ask the caretaker Fred from next door to take the other car and drive over to rescue them. It’ll take hours for the tow-truck to get there, so I’ve absolutely no choice. Stevie’s, Oh dear, well, he’s not very well shall we say. He’ll probably need to be seen in the hospital, so you’d better stay here in the mansion-house overnight, until tomorrow morning, it’s a lot more comfortable. Now, back to the call on the MoSoTra, they’re in a complete panic, the poor dabs. Don’t touch anything while I’m gone.” 

 

“Right, Urban Commando ... are you there? Blodeuwedd here. Yes, I'm whispering, they're earwigging! Listen! Yes, OK, have you got him off the wire? Right. I’ll be taking the Wicked Witch of the West and Vol-de-mort around the mansion, pretending to look for the will. I can’t leave them alone for long. And I’m sure they know about our wise old man’s ‘folk medicine.’ I wouldn’t put it past them to go and give him an injection of something on the sly and send him to Kingdom Come before his time. And there’s so much old electrical stuff here, and the gas cylinders. I can just imagine them prowling about flicking switches and pulling tubes out. It could all go up like a blast furnace if something went wrong. And he won’t sit still. Insists on squirming about. And he's even escaped to the cottage a couple of times now, wearing nothing but an old sheet, but we've caught 'im every time! No, I’m not imagining voices from beyond! Yes, of course I’m sure! I’ve heard them, you silly boy. With my own ears. While I’ve been talking to you. What? What kind of ceremony? You’ve been communing with the air? Talking to the departed, the forsaken ones? With your Dad? For the sake of the Indolent Idolaters, will you shut up!...

 

“…So, you’ll have to set off now, as soon as you possibly can, and you should be able to get home within ten minutes, get your head down, come to your senses, and sober up. You’ve got to hide the van round the back of the old stables. It has – great sentimental value – to me. Then tonight, go back to the old place, the cottage, under cover of darkness as it were, to grab the ‘Ark of the Covenant’ and take it away so Fungus the Bogeyman and Lady Tremaine can’t steal it. On your own now, mind, the Wýkinger's a real liability! I'll be able to lead them a merry dance and keep them out of mischief here till then. Troughs of food and a lake of booze should do the trick. All part of one big happy family here, aren't we – ha? You’ve got a key, haven’t you, hmm? I’ve got eyes everywhere my lad, and I realise you sneak off on the sly, and where, and with who, although you’ve not been in on your lonesome yet! And watch it, Fred says the door’s really stiff – he's been going back and forth there from time to time… 

 

“... Be careful with the van, mind, that Wýkinger’s a bit of a boy-racer not to mention the head injury and the lack of brains in the first place. And no stopping to ‘help’ people who don’t want your help. All that pretending you can enchant them causes so much trouble! Especially when it works. What, he’s fallen over in a huge pile of steaming cow-dung, and you think he’s bruised the bone of contention? Oh, the coccyx you mean. Lushfé’s Wings ... worse than one of the Boisterous Red Monkeys from Sanjibaar in the old tale! And of course, 'If you don’t pay a monkey his appropriate wage, all you’ll get is cracked nuts.' I know it’s not a real Kimbric saying. Fred was telling me it was written in Asa which is a dead language from Northern Ganzibia! How on Eyrth he qualified, I’ve no idea. Fred and the Wýkinger. The boy should stick to drawing the cartoons and writing the sci-fi. He’ll kill himself someday, I’m sure of it, the poor thing! So don’t take him, in the name of Nuthkí, Lord of Living and Dying. Steady on, now, no road rage!"

 

In the eye of the storm, the Old Soldier mutters to himself through a fog of drugs, confusion, and pain —

 

“Where’s my magic wand? The ceremony’s about to start. Am I wearing my scarlet gown? I have to remember the right words, and paint the secret signs. I want to go out for a ride on the flying bed again. To take me to … to the other place … full of appropriate justice, complete order, punishment for sins, and revenge for evil … while my candle’s still alight. And there, I’ll receive the prize I deserve after a life of hardship and loneliness. It will be an explosive finale, I’ve seen to that. Oh, who were all those people? What were they doing here? The lunatics have taken over the asylum. It’s like a nightmare. And there’s the scaly, flaming creatures lurking in the corners, where all the angles have been distorted, and all the hot, slimy ectoplasm, too, dripping down the walls all around. They’re expecting me! And I can smell the ozone, and feel the ultraviolet light. I’m so tired, but have to get to the cottage to complete what’s needed before it’s too late!”

 

He is desperate to get down the business of the Great Work, and in particular the ineptitude and small-mindedness of the nitwits constantly milling about all around him frustrates him infernally. Left alone at last, for a blessed while at least, as the squabbling moves elsewhere, he hauls himself up from his throne to try and escape. He stumbles from his chamber, through the kitchen, towards the tradesman’s entrance to the mansion. The adrenaline rush electrifies him – if only he could manage to slip away once and for all!

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] It was me, Fred, eavesdropping on these conversations, between Miss Blodeuwedd Procter, Helen Grossmann, and some fussy, craven, whinging man I didn't recognise because of his ridiculously ugly carnival costume and protective alpaca-mask [strangely enough, this turns out to have been none other that the Honourable John Grossmann — P.M.], ready to do whatever was necessary (at the drop of a hat, as usual, although I was knackered what with trying to look after the Old Solider, and keep the beetles at bay, and everything else at that time). And then Dai Baxter called on the MoSoTra, although I couldn't hear what he was saying of course. I think Miss Procter was using code of some sort (smugglers' argot, maybe?) to communicate with the Urban Commando. I'd never thought she had such a strong imagination, but there you are, and I've managed to guess the meaning of the secret names. 'Lady Meykbeds' is 'Kasanthra Mek·veztha' who was Mother to Sorakados the Prince who founded the Guild of Secrets from beyond the grave, so they say. (If only people could spell these words correctly, using the 'raised dot' to show where the emphasis occurs, I'd be delighted!). 'Helen of Troy' is 'Helénē Théybē,' that is, the Bloody Princess, and the 'Minotaur' is 'Man·toru,' the Man-bull in 'The Tale of the Princess and the Lout.' Then again, 'Cruella' is 'Queen Krondí' and the 'Grinch' is 'King Hronu' in the story 'The Fall of the Land of Truth and Beauty.' The 'Child-catcher' is 'Avatha,' the Young Fisherman, and 'Trunchbull' is 'Drumbulé (or Mamothí, or Lilitha), the Triple Goddess. 'Dumbo' must be the trickster 'Xlotlringku' (that makes me chortle for some reason, come to think of it!). The 'Wicked Witch of the West' is 'Volva,' the Warlike Foster-mother, and 'Vol-de-mort' is her protégé, 'Valdemarth' or 'Atrocious Ivan' in the tale named after the main female character. 'Lady Tremaine' is 'Dendrah the Bogey-slayer' (what a heroine!), and 'Fungus the Bogeyman' is 'Hwkwbwkw,' namely the fearsome Walker in Darkness. — F.Ll.

 

Simsan pob ffurf. Er mai solet ydy ar yr wyneb, mor anfaterol â chysgod yw realiti erbyn edrych yn ddyfnach. Pan archwiliwn ni fwyfwy i wir strwythur gwrthrychau corfforol, fe ddarganfyddwn nad ydynt yn bodoli yn yr un modd y’u clywn yn y byd beunyddiol. Mae popeth yn cynnwys lle gwag wedi’i lenwi â meysydd, a grymoedd, a gronynnau dirgrynol wedi’u disgrifio gan tonffwythiannau tebygoliaethol. Beth, felly, yw natur bywyd dynol; oes ystyr i feddwl, meddu, teimlo, caru; sut y dylai dyn ystyried bodolaeth wedi’i chorffori, pan ymddengys nad ydym yn fwy na chydadwaith cyson golau a thywyllwch? Ni allwn ni fod yn ni’n hunain, hyd yn oed, heb bobl eraill, sy’n creu gwe amryliw, aml-weadol, a chymhleth o wahaniaethau, y tyfwn ni i fod yn rhan ohoni gan adeiladu ein personoliaethau. Mae’n digwydd mai rhwng cael ein geni a marw, llenwir ni â lleisiau dieithr sydd yn dod yn rhan anwahanadwy ohonom. Nyni yw’r cymysgedd hwn o dafodau baldorddus a ddarlledir yn ddi-stŵr i’r cyfanfyd ar ffurf tonnau pelydriad electromagnetig braidd na ellir eu canfod wrth inni fyw. Ond beth yw ffawd y llif damweiniol hwn o wybodaeth a anfonwyd allan eisoes, pan dawdd ein cyrff cnawdol o’r diwedd?

 

Ar ei orsedd, eistedd Hen Filwr, a fynnai fod yn Ddewin, yn marw. Neu yn hytrach, yn disgwyl yr amser penodedig pan fydd bywyd yn trawsnewid o’r naill ffurf i’r llall yn y wlad honno lle mae dŵr yn dawnsio wrth i adar siaradus gynorthwyo’r arwr a â ar drywydd afalau sy’n canu. Fe’i gwasanaethir gan dri gweinydd anghymodlon a gwyllt eu tymer, ac o bosibl y gallem eu galw’n Amheuaeth, Anobaith, a Mileindra. Perffaith pob triawd, yn ôl y sôn, ond mae’r criw hwn yn debycach i dri chyff gwawd nag i’r tair Tynged, ac yn ddiamau, maent yn poeni’n fwy am waed, a chwys, a dagrau, nag am fywyd, rhyddid, a’r ymchwil am ddedwyddwch. Yn y cyfamser, mae dau acolit diarwybod yr Hen Filwr, Anffyddlon ac Ynfyd, yn dod adref, wedi mynd ar y sbri mewn parti rhydd, ond, heb yn wybod iddynt, dim ond gohirio’r ffawd a bennwyd iddynt a wnânt. Fe fydd eu cyfarfod rhagordeiniedig gyda thynged yn anochel. Wedi’r cwbl, “Os un fydd farw, pawb fydd fyw; A achub e'r holl ddynolryw?” medd y cwpled profoclyd gan Mamrick.

 

Y mae gan yr Hen Filwr ar ei derfyn faterion tra phwysig i’w trin – ar ei ran ef ei hun ac ar gyfer dynoliaeth oll – oni iddo gael llonydd gyda’r botel o jin amhrisiadwy, a’r casgliad anferthol o bils, a phowdrau, a diodydd, ynghyd â’r teclynnau priodol eraill. Ac am y gallai gofio neu ddychmygu’r hyn a olygid. Yn enwedig meddwl am y geiriau cywir. Eithr dim ond y llinellau, "Nid marw’r fath beth a all huno am hydoedd; A’r Angau Glas drengo ar ben dirgel oesoedd" sydd yn gwatwarus redeg trwy’i feddwl dryslyd. Dyma ddinistr a gelyniaeth ddilafar yn baeddu’r awyr ddrewllyd, wrth i gyrbibion o sgwrs sbeitlyd gael eu saethu’n benrhydd fel dartiau gwenwynllyd rhwng y tri pherson digariad a rhwystredig. Mae’r sylwadau pigog yn argraffu’u hunain ar enaid y lle fel rhyw fath o ffotograff Kirlianaidd, hagr. A pa eiriau doethineb sydd yn cyfeilio i’r holl olygfa alaethus? Wel, dim byd ond deialog dryslyd o ‘Melltith Beddrod y Sombi’ neu ‘Fe Gerddwn i gyda Mwmi’, neu ryw ffilm debyg gan y cyfarwyddwr anadnabyddus o’r enw Siôn Llwynlesg, yr ymddengys ei fod yn llifo ar ddolen ddiddiwedd o’r lantar wedi mynd a’i phen iddi sy’n llechu yng nghornel siambr y claf. Ac yn wir, am gryn amser mae wedi trefnu gwrando ar rwtsh o'r fath ble bynnag yr elo.

 

“Wel, dyna fe te, mae’r hen ddyn wedi dweud bydda i’n gallu dod â’r fan pan fydd dy hoff garcharor, neu dylai hynny fod dy unig glaf go iawn wedi dod ‘nôl y pnawn ma. Be yw’i enw e, David? Yr un sy’n meddwl fod e’n arwr rhyfel o wledydd pell, ta be. Llanc o’i gof, er gwaetha’i sgriblan i gyd, a chyfieithu, a bod yn droellwr disgiau, ac achub y byd, ac ati. Neud synnwyr, achos bydda i’n chael hi pan aiff e ta p’un i. Dyw fawr o werth, yr hen gruglwyth o sgrap, wael ei gyflwr. Fe wedodd e’n reit blaen wrtha i gynnau fach. Yn syth yn y nghlust i wrth i fi blygio drosto fo, gan sychu’i dalcen oer a thamp. Ti naeth glywed e, on’d ife?”

 

“Ie, ie, mae o’n iawn, mi ddwedodd yr hen ddiawl gwirion gallai fo ddod â hi, waeth gen i amdani, dw i’m yn gyrru, diolch yn fawr i chi. Mi rwy’n medru, ond yn dewis peidio, a bod yn onest. Tasg i ddyn ydy gyrru. Brwnt, swnllyd, a danjerus. Mi rwyf fi’n ffieiddio’r holl nwyon gwacáu, ac oglau diesel. Nid rhywbeth y dylai darpar feddyliaethydd megis mi sydd yn ymgymryd â hyfforddiant mewn swydd fod yn ei wneud. A fan wen, pa mor ddi-chwaeth ydy honno? Mi rwyf wedi ennill y radd o Feistr yn y Gwyddorau mewn Astudiaethau Technegol o Boly-ysgol Aberdydd. Beth bynnag, mi a fydd yn derbyn y siârs naeth o fuddsoddi ynddyn nhw rai blynyddoedd yn ôl. Y rhai ar gyfer y fferm foch ar y Cyfandir Deheuol. Talaith Wtsang Kwnlw, rhywle fel hynny. Addo nhw i mi naeth o pan naeth o brynu’r warchodfa lamaod i mi, i fyny yn y gogledd. Pan ga i’n arian falla af fi draw fan’co i gael cip ar y cenawon bach. Pert ar y diawl y gwichwyr bychain na. Mae’r lle’n enfawr, ac maen nhw’n neud yn eithriadol o dda bellach, y ffermwyr dw i’n meddwl, gan droi cig mochyn allan i’w ddefnyddio mewn chop-suey ledled y byd. Ac mi fydd yn rhaid i mi fynd ar wyliau hir pan fydd yr holl lanast ma wedi dod i ben.”

 

“O, da iawn ti, cariad, y moch, wel, fyddwn i ddim wedi gallu dyfalu ny! Nawr edrycha, dw i’n gwybod taw dim ond sawl gwaith ti di medru dod i lawr ma yn ystod y cyfnod mae e di bod yn gorwedd ar farw. Wrth gwrs nad dy broblem di ydy, rhwng y gwaith, d’elusennau di, dy ddarpar faban bach, y – beth ddylwn i ddweud – cariadfab newydd wrth gwrs, a’r gweithgareddau hanfodol eraill sy’n codi’n naturiol mewn bywyd bob dydd meddyliaethydd dan hyfforddiant, neu farddes, neu be bynnag, fel y gwyliau dirybudd i Wlad y Mil Ynysoedd ac Un. Ond mewn gwirionedd dw i ddim yn meddwl dylet ti fod yn sôn amdano fe fel ny wrth iddo fe eistedd yna’n nychu. Nage’r peth iawn i’w wneud ydy o gwbl. Dyw e ddim wedi ymadael eto, t’mod. Ta be, fi sy di bod yn gofalu amdano fe ers achau. Prin ein bod ni’n gweld yr un ohonoch chi. Ac ar ben ny, be am yr ewyllys?”

 

“O, ddynes annwyl, faswn i ddim yn pryderu ynghylch hynny. Mi rydw i’n sicr fod o wedi trefnu popeth, sut allwn ni ddweud – ‘yn briodol’? Mi gewch chi weld. Mi rwy’n dychmygu bydd pawb yn cael eu ‘haeddiant teilwng’ maes o law. O, beth mae’r hen fwngrel, drewllyd, ofnadw na’n neud yn fan’ma. Mae o’n neud i’r holl le arogli’n ddrwg a slobran dros bob man. Mor fudr ydy.”

 

“Hym! Dyna hen ddigon ar yr holl ‘gwraig annwyl’ gen ti, ‘Flodyn Tatws’, diolch yn fawr iawn i ti. A beidiwch â sôn am yr hen Swt fel ny. Y mabi mawr i ydy, wel, yr un arall be bynnag. Mae e fel duw o gwmpas y lle ma. Patrolio’r wal derfyn, cadw’r chwilod a’r rodnis mas. Sdim syndod fod e’n casáu Dai, rhwng yr holl gerddoriaeth uchel, a’r udo ar y lleuad. Wel mae e wedi gadael ei hun i lawr heddi, gan adael i chi'ch dau ddod i mewn, on’d ydy? Myn Hebé, dyna’r SDDdS. Pryd fydd hi’n stopio rownd fan’yn? Yn hoff wirion Dai heb os. Meddwl taw proffwyd oes newydd cerddoriaeth farwhun ydy i goroni’r cwbl. Wedi mynd bant ar berwyl pwysig pwysig i weld aelodau’r Pwyllgor ch’mod. Gobeithio na fydd trafferth gyda Milisia’r Bobl Wlatgar y tro hwn. Wel, dw i’n gweld bod y ddau ohonoch chi eisoes wedi neud eich hunain yn ddigon cysurus. Peidiwch symud gewyn. Fe fydd mwy i’w ddweud ar y materion ma ar fyr o amser.”

 

“Helo! A, reit, yr Arglwyddes MacBeth at Sowldiwr Bach. Ydw, dw i’n gwybod taw toriad gwawr ydy. Fe wedes i wrthot ti am alw’n gynnar iawn. Na, na, cadw dy lais i lawr, nei di? Mae Elen Fannog a’r Minotor yma ar hyn o bryd. Ust! Nagw, dw i’m eisiau clywed am broblemau’r Ficing gyda’r plymwaith. Llid y bledren ti’n weud? Mae e’n wlychu’i hun drwy’r amser, ydy? Ach a fi! Bydd yn rhaid iddo fe fynd i’r Clinig i gael ei drin. Be ar y Nw Yrth mae e di bod yn neud? Taw te, fe fydd e’n iawn yn y pendraw, ac mae na sefyllfa’n datblygu ma! Nebesh mawr, cwympodd y Ficing oddi ar ei fotor-beic? Unwaith to? Bwrw ei ben yn erbyn carreg, ife? Ti oedd ar fai? Ar ôl bwyta madarch? Trio ymosod arnat ti? Gwaed ym mhob man? Tithau hefyd? Cyfergyd? Hunllefau? Gweledigaethau? Siarad â bodau arallfydol? Ddim yn gallu cofio? Eisiau boddi ei hun? Pam yn y Ddau Fyd? Problemau gyda’r gariad? Wel dim newid yno. Ti oedd yn achub e? Mor iach â chricsyn bellach? Wel, hwrê, husâ, a diolch byth am ny! Ta be, ddylet ti ddim bod ar yr SDDdS wrth yrru. Cofia di’r ddirwy a’r pwyntiau ar dy drywydd di. Ac wyt ti’n yrrwr digon gwael ar y gorau. Be, ti di troi i mewn i gilfach barcio? A’r Ficing sy’n dreifio achos fod di’n chwil gaib racs ar ... be ... neithdar synthetig? O, gadwo i’r Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd eich cipio chi'ch dau, a’ch dwyn chi ymaith!...

 

“…Edrycha nawr, rhaid i fi siarad yn dawel bach, mae’r ddau ny, Creulonwraig a’r Cribiniwr Crebachlyd yn hofran yn y stafell ginio. Sarhau, cam-drin, ac ymelwa, dyna’r unig bethau maen nhw’n gallu neud yn dda. Gwranda di, fe fydda i angen dy help. Mae Daliwr Plant a Trwnshbwl yn honni fod e wedi gweud taw nhw fydd yn cael popeth. Popeth! Dychmyga di, y lleban na gyda’r clustiau rwberaidd na a’r trwyn na fel trwnc Dwmbo. Ac mae e eisiau’r fan na. Heddi. Cywilydd o beth! Ydy, wrth gwrs fod e’n mynd i yrru bant ynddi hi. Sut arall fydd e’n mynd i fynd â hi?...

 

“…Ac maen nhw’n gweud bydd e’n gadael popeth iddyn nhw. Popeth! Ie, y moch drewllyd. Dw i’m yn golygu nhw, y Lleiddiad Marwol a'r Cnyw Crwydrol, y fferm foch dros y Weilgi Wahanol dw i’n meddwl. Siârs. Ond popeth arall hefyd. Ein plasty oer, adfeiliog, hyfryd ni, ble dyn ni’n byw! A’r peth ffiaidd na, fel pyramid, mae wedi gadw bob tro yn seler y bwthyn gyda’r dolis clwt ofnadw ‘na sy’n edrych fel chi'ch dau, a’r sach hesian lawn cyllyll rhydlyd. Dw i wastad wedi gasáu fe, y sigwrat neu beth bynnag, ond mae’n llawn dop o wst-ti-be, llwydni llesmeiriol, llaeth mwnci. Paid gweud wrtha i do’t ti’m yn gwybod. Mae’n stwff anhygoel, agos yn arallfydol. Amhrisiadwy. Dw i’n gwybod bod dy wenwyn di’n rhywbeth arall ond sdim ots am ny. Pawb at y beth y bo. Fe fydd yn rhaid i fi gael gwared arno fe, rywsut neu’i gilydd, cyn iddyn nhw gael eu dwylo blewog arno fe a dechrau chwarae gyda fe, a ffureta ym mhob man. Ti fydd yn gorfod i’n helpu fii…

 

“…Be, mae’r Ficing wedi mynd yn sownd ar weiren bigog? Swtach! Mae angen llaw gadarn ar y llanc na. Dw i’n difaru fagu fe ar y mhen yn hunan nawr. Rôdd e’n ddyn eitha neis, ei dad e, ar yr wyneb, rôdd e’n ddigyffro a thawel, a da i ddim. Rôdd y moelni’n neud iddo fe edrych yn eitha aeddfed, dw i’n credu. Ddim yn anneniadol, a bod yn onest, o rywun sy’n gweithio fel, beth ôdd e, llawfeddyg y geg sy'n teithio o gwmpas y byd? Swn i wedi bod yn ugain mlynedd yn ieuengach … Be? Sut feiddi di siarad gyda dy hynafiaid di fel na! A finnau’n hen wraig lesg, fyd. Ta be, swn i yno fe fyddwn i’n rhoi weiren bigog i’r ddau ohonoch chi, rownd y pennau! Chi di mynd yn glwc drwy’r holl rafio, a’r cyffuriau, a’r gweddill. Sôn am ddynion gwallgof, dych chi di colli arni. Fe fydd eich bywydau’n annymunol, anwar, a byr, i sicrwydd. A chi'ch dau’n honni taw rhyw fath o ryfelwyr dros gyfiawnder cymdeithasol dych chi. Nage Eneiniog yr Hen Feistri mo ti, t’mod, f’achan! Aros di funud, dw i’n cael y ngalw…”

 

“O, helô, dyna chi, o’r diwedd. Hỳm, wel, hoffwn ni'n dau baned arall o de, os gwelwch chi’n dda. Mae mor uffernol o boeth yn fan’ma rhwng yr holl offer meddygol yn pwmpio a sugno. Gwaeth nag Anialdir y Dwyrain. A dyna’r trychfilod gwrthun ym mhobman. Ddim yn medru’u gweld nhw ond dyna’r chep-er, chep-er, chep-er cyfoglyd na drwy’r amser. Brwnt, dyna sut mae hi yma. Mae’r pinwydd peryglus, ofnadwy yn hanogi nhw, mi rwy’n sicr. Mi ddylai’r holl le gael ei gau. Mi fyddwn i’n losgi fo i lawr petaswn i’n cael hanner cyfle. Sdim cleifion go iawn ychwaith, ond David lloerig a’r hen ddihiryn trist ma o filwr wedi troi’n athro…

 

“…Ac mae o’n dal i baldaruo am yr un hen sothach dro ar ôl tro, hefyd. Pyramidiau, melltithion, sigwratau, aberthau, geiriau hudol. Neu fadarch hudol, mwy na thebyg ... llaeth mwnci, sbeis pil banana, hadau pomgranad, gleiniau gleision, gwraidd mandrag. Pwy a ŵyr! Mi rwyf yn coelio fod o’n gofyn am botel o’r cyffuriau. Rhywbeth fel na. Siawns dydych chi ddim yn medru cadw’r stwff na, na roi fo allan jyst fel ny, ydych chi? Ble maen nhw, gyda llaw, y cyffuriau? Mae fel petai fo wedi cael dogn enfawr o’r sudd egni rhyngalaethol 'na fyddan nhw i gyd yn gymryd pan fyddan nhw’n rafio. O, ac mi rydyn ni’n ffansïo bara brith, hefyd, os byddech chi mor garedig. A dim ond gofyn dw i, ond oeddwn i’n dy glywed di’n berwi am ryw hen beth neilltuol rŵan jest?”

 

“O, os chi eisiau unrhyw beth arall, chi’n gallu mynd i’r gegin a ffeindio fe ar eich liwt eich hunain! Chi’n trin y lle fel sai fe eisoes eich un chi. Ta be, dyna oedd Dai. Ac wrth gwrs ei gysgod, Stevie, yn chwarae bili-ffŵl fel arfer. Maen nhw wedi torri i lawr yng nghefn gwlad yn rhywle wrth ddod yn ôl o ryw ‘ddigwyddiad’. Fe fydda i’n gofyn i’r gofalwr Ffred o ddrws nesa fynd â’r car arall a gyrru draw i’w hachub nhw. Fe fydd yn cymryd oriau i’r lori ddamweiniau gyrraedd yno, felly sgen i ddim dewis o gwbl. Mae Stevie, O diar, wel, dyw e ddim yn rhy dda, wedwn ni. Bydd yn rhaid iddo fe gael ei weld yn yr ysbyty, siŵr o fod, ‘lly well i chi aros ma yn y plasty dros nos, tan fore fory, mae’n llawer mwy cyfforddus. Nawr te, yn ôl at yr alwad ar yr SDDdS, maen nhw di mynd i banics llwyr, y pŵr dabs. Peidiwch cyffwrdd â dim byd tra bydda i bant.”

 

“Reit, Comando Trefol … wyt ti yno? Blodeuwedd sy ma. Ydw, dwi'n sibrwd, maen nhw'n clustfeinio! Gwranda di! Ie, iawn, wyt ti di gael e oddi ar y weiren? O’r gorau. Fe fydda i’n mynd â Gwrach Ddrwg y Gorllewin a Ffoi-rhag-tranc o gwmpas y plasty gas gan esgus mod i’n chwlio am yr ewyllys. Sa i’n gallu gadael nhw ar eu pennau eu hunain am amser hir. A dwi’n siŵr bod nhw’n gw'bod am ‘feddyginiaeth werin’ ein hen ŵr hysbys ni. Synnwn i ddim sen nhw’n rhoi pigiad o rywbeth iddo ar y slei bach i’w yrru fe i’r Nw Yrth cyn pryd. Ac mae cymaint o hen stwff trydanol ma, a’r poteli o nwy. Dwi wir yn gallu'u dychmygu nhw'n prowlan o gwmpas gan fflicio botymau a thynnu tiwbiau mas. Fe allai fynd lan fel ffwrnais chwyth os âi unrhyw beth o’i le. A fydd e’m yn aros yn llonydd. Mynnu gwingo. Ac mae hyd yn oed wedi dianc i’r bwthyn gwpl o dro erbyn hyn, gan wisgo dim byd ond hen gynfas, ond dyn ni 'di'i ddal e bob tro! Nagw, sa i’n dychmygu lleisiau o’r tu hwnt! Ydw, wrth gwrs mod i’n siŵr! Dw i wedi clywed nhw, y twpsyn hurt. Gyda ‘nghlustiau’n hunan. Wrth siarad gyda ti. Be? Pa fath o seremoni? Ti di bod yn llefaru wrth yr awyr? Siarad gyda’r ymadawedig, y rhai gwrthodedig? Gyda dy Dad di? Neno’r Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd, gei di gau dy geg!…

 

“…Felly bydd yn rhaid i ti hel hi nawr, cyn gynted ag y gelli di, ac fe ddylet ti allu cyrraedd adre o fewn deg munud, rhoi dy ben i lawr, dod at dy goed di, a sobri dy hunan. Fe fyddi'n gorfod cuddio’r fan rownd cefn yr hen stablau, mae hi o – werth personol enfawr – i fi. Wedyn, heno, cer yn ôl i’r hen le, y bwthyn, dan lenni’r gwyll fel petai, i fachu ‘Arch y Cyfamod’ a mynd â hi bant fel na fydd Fwngws y Bwci-bw na’r Arglwyddes Tremaine yn gallu dwgu hi. Ar dy ben dy hunan, cofia di, mae'r Ficing yn fwrn, heb air o gelwydd! Fe alla i'u tynnu nhw drwy'r ddawns a'u cadw nhw rhag 'neud drygau o gwmpas y lle hyd hynny. Fe ddylai llond cafnau o fwyd a llyn o ddiod 'neud y tro. Aelodau'r un teulu mawr, hapus fan'yn, ond dyn ni – ha? Mae allwedd ‘da ti, on’d oes, hmm? Mae da fi lygaid ym mhob man y machgen, a dw i’n sylweddoli fod di’n snecio bant ar y slei bach, ac i ble, a gyda pwy, er dwyt ti’m wedi bod yno heb gwmni 'to!! A watsia di, mae Ffred yn dweud bod y drws yn stiff ar y diawl – mae wedi bod yn mynd a dod yno o bryd i’w gilydd…

 

“…Bydd yn ofalus gyda’r fan, cofia, tipyn o lanc-rasiwr yw’r Ficing na, heb sôn am yr anaf i’r pen a’r diffyg ymennydd yn y lle cynta. A dim stopio i ‘helpu’ pobl sy ddim eisiau dy help di! Mae’r holl gellwair fod di’n gallu witsio nhw’n achosi cymaint o drafferth! Yn enwedig pan fydd e’n gweithio. Be nawr, mae e di cwympo i lawr mewn tomen enfawr o dom da stemllyd, a ti’n credu fod e di cleisio asgwrn y gynnen? O, asgwrn cynffon ti’n feddwl. Esgyll Lushfé … gwaeth nag un o’r Mwncïod Cochion Hwyliog o Sanjibaar yn yr hen chwedl! Ac wrth gwrs, 'Oni thelwch i fwnci ei gyflog cymwys, dim ond cnau wedi’u torri a gewch.' Dw i’n gw'bod dyw’m yn ddywediad Kimbreg go iawn. Rôdd Ffred yn gweud wrtha i gaeth ei sgrifennu yn Asa sy’n iaith farw o ogledd Ganzibia! Sut ar y Ddaear gaeth e’i gymwysterau sgen i’r un syniad. Ffred a’r Ficing. Fe ddylai’r gwas ddal ati gyda tynnu’r cartwnau a sgrifennu’r ffug-wydd. Fe fydd e’n ladd ei hun ryw ddydd, bid siŵr, druan â fe! Felly paid â mynd â fe, neno Nuthkí Arglwydd Byw a Marw. Gan bwyll nawr, ddim cythraul gyrru!”

 

Yn llygad y ddrycin, mae'r Hen Filwr yn brewlan wrtho’i hun yn anghysylltus drwy niwl o gyffuriau, dryswch, a phoen — 

 

“Ble mae fy hudlath? Mae’r ddefod ar fin dechrau. Ydw i’n gwisgo ‘ngwn sgarlad? Rhaid i fi gofio’r geiriau priodol, a phaentio’r arwyddion cêl. Rwy eisiau mynd mas am dro ar y gwely hedegog unwaith eto. I fynd â fi i … i’r lle arall … llawn cyfiawnder priodol, trefn lwyr, cosb am bechodau, a dial am ddrygioni … tra bydd y nghannwyll ynghynn eto. Ac yno fe fyddaf yn derbyn y wobr rwy’n ei haeddu ar ôl bywyd o galedi ac unigrwydd. Fe fydd yn ddiweddglo ffrwydrol, fy nianc terfynol, rwy wedi gofalu am hynny. O, pwy oedd y bobl hynny i gyd? Beth oedden nhw’n neud yma? Mae’r gwallgofiaid wedi cymryd y seilam drosodd. Mae fel hunllef. A dyna’r creaduriaid, tanbaid, cennog, erchyll yn llechu yn y corneli, lle mae’r onglau oll wedi’u hystumio, a’r holl ectoplasm seimllyd, poeth hefyd, yn diferu lawr y waliau o boptu. Maen nhw’n fy nisgwyl i! Ac rwy’n gallu gwynto’r osôn, a chlywed y golau uwchfioled. Rwy mor flinedig, ond yn gorfod cyrraedd y bwthyn i gyflawni’r hyn sydd ei angen cyn iddi fynd yn rhy hwyr!”

Fe wnai fe nhw unrhyw beth bron i ddechrau o ddifrif ar y Gwaith Mawr, ac yn teimlo rhwystredigaeth uffernol o achos bychander meddwl ac anfedrusrwydd y twpsod yn heidio'n ddi-ball o'i gwmpas. Wedi'i adael ar ei ben ei hun o'r diwedd, am ryw gyfnod bendigedig o leiaf, wrth i'r ffraeo symud i rywle arall, mae'n ei halio'i hun oddi ar ei orsedd i drio dianc. Dyna fe'n hercian mynd o'i siambr, drwy’r gegin, tuag at ddrws cefn y plasty, a llif adrenalin yn ei wefreiddio – o na bai fe'n gallu llwyddo i  sleifio ymaith unwaith ac am byth!

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

[*] Fi, Ffred, oedd yn clustfeinio ar y sgyrsiau 'ma, rhwng Miss Blodeuwedd Procter, Helen Grossmann, a rhyw ddyn achwyngar, cachgïaidd, ffwdanus, do’n i’m yn nabod o achos ei wisg gárnifal hurt o hyll a’i fasg alpaca [yn rhyfedd iawn, neb llai na’r Anrhydeddus Siôn Grossmann fuodd hwn, fel mae’n digwydd — P.M.], yn barod i neud be bynnag fyddai raid (mewn cachad, fel arfer, er mod i wedi blino'n lân rhwng trio gofalu am yr Hen Filwr, a chadw'r holl chwilod draw, a phopeth arall ar hynny o bryd). Ac wedyn fe alwodd Dai Baxter ar yr SDDdS, er do'n i'm yn gallu clywed be o'dd e'n weud wrth gwrs. Dw i'n credu bod Miss Procter yn defnyddio cod o ryw fath (slang smyglwyr, falle?) i gyfathrebu gyda'r Comando Trefol. Do'n i 'rioed wedi meddwl bod dychymyg mor gry gyda hi, ond dyna chi, a dw i wedi llwyddo i ddyfalu ystyr yr enwau cyfrin. 'Yr Arglwyddes MacBeth' yw 'Kasanthra Mek·veztha' oedd yn Fam i Sorakados Dywysog a sefydlodd Urdd Cyfrinachau o'r tu hwnt i'r llen, yn ôl pob sôn. (Petai pobl ond yn gallu sillafu'r geiriau 'ma'n gywir, gan ddefnyddio'r 'dot canolog' i ddangos ble mae'r pwyslais yn digwydd, fe fyddwn i wrth fy modd!). 'Elen Fannog' yw 'Helénē Théybē,' hynny yw, y Dywysoges Waedlyd, a'r 'Minotor' yw 'Man·toru,' y Dyn-darw yn 'Hanes y Dywysoges a’r Llabwst.' Eto i gyd, 'Creulonwraig' yw'r 'Frenhines Krondí' a'r 'Grinch' yw'r 'Brenin Hronu' yn y stori 'Cwymp Gwlad Gwir a Glendid'. Y 'Daliwr Plant' yw 'Avatha,' y Pysgotwr Ifanc, a 'Trwntshbwl' yw 'Drumbulé (neu Mamothí, neu Lilitha),' y Dduwies Driphlyg. Rhaid mai 'Dwmbo' yw'r castiwr 'Xlotlringku' (dyna sy'n neud i fi chwerthin dros bob man am ryw reswm, erbyn meddwl!).'Gwrach Ddrwg y Gorllewin' yw 'Volva,' y Famfaeth Ryfelgar, a 'Ffoi-rhag-tranc' yw'i noddedig hi, 'Valdemarth' neu 'Ifan Ddybryd' yn yr hanes a enwir ar ôl y prif gymeriad benywaidd. 'Yr Arglwyddes Tremaine' yw 'Dendrah Leiddiad Bwcïod' (am arwres!), a 'Fwngws y Bwci-bo' yw 'Hwkwbwkw,' sef y Rhodiwr mewn Tywyllwch ffyrnig. — F.Ll.