The Valley of the Shadow of Death is a popular place amongst people of all kinds, including pilgrims on journeys, war photographers, and tale-telling slaves. Often, they venture through it in order to partake of its perils and win the rewards they will find there, and then report on their adventures and their experiences. This concept has caught the attention of musicians in particular, such as punk bands, heavy metal groups, and ensembles of avant-garde performers. Their artistic works bring exceptional images to mind. Perhaps they represent tribulations to be experienced in the midst of the vale itself, or wonders hidden at journey’s end. Imagine on the one hand an exceptional garden where every human pleasure is available to the chosen ones, and on the other hand, consider a dungeon full of torture-instruments where the victims’ gristle throbs in agony. However, having said all that, we always need to remember that such artistic outpourings do not claim that they are the last word which foretells an inevitable fate. So, despite all the complexity and confusion, we are forced to ask, would it be possible that this mysterious valley, full of living shadows, their black fingers beckoning, is a safe place, in truth, for those who love without a trace of desire? And could those pure of heart penetrate into the gloomiest depths without being harmed, without fearing evil, even, because of their innocence?

 

Some hidden cellar, that’s cold and dark but alive with spectres, with shattered dreams – or, maybe, some warm, sunny tower, that’s wide open – the scenery is being rearranged all the time as the fabric of reality sparkles and dances. But despite everything, it’s a place without equal, in a manner of speaking, illuminated with blood-red candles. Then an ancient brass instrument blasts, and it sounds like the roar of a beast tearing flesh from bone. And then, a declaration, from where it is not clear – ‘Cometh the time, come the men!’ – more like a volcano erupting than the voice of a living being. Did a man say that, once? Well, what does it matter? One can be totally sure of the fact, however, that it is the witching hour of night – and that there are three men waiting their salvation although they don’t realise all the details at this time. But they are not a holy trinity, not by a long way. Nor are the three Old Goddesses, Tefnuth, Hebé, a Nebesh – the maiden, the mother, and the hag – the Deathly Malaise, the Intractable Storm, and the Tearful River – there either, yet. But a Voice from the Other Side of the Veil that belongs to the legate of the sinister trio, called up to whisper lying secrets, is blowing through the void between the Worlds— 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “My dear boy! If you are receiving this message from beyond, then I shall have disappeared completely off the face of our fair Eyrth without leaving a trace, to begin an otherworldly journey to save the World. You can trust this fact just as surely as one must confess that dark clouds will always cross and hide the shining face of the full moon, the deceitful Mother of us all, in the dead of a starless night.” 

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Punctually, at six o’clock – ‘ch-eeep, ch-eeep, ch-eeep,’ according to the inevitable enumeration by the blaring clock in his bedroom, ‘ch-eeep, ch-eeep, ch-eeep’ – Dai awakes from his slumber. He gets no answer from his lovely Elen having called her on the MoSoTra straight after falling out of the messy bed, although she’d been so keen to ‘chat seriously about things’ just a month or so before. And then she went so cold and stuck-up. But he doesn’t care, of course, as there’s important work to be done tonight instead of whispering sweet nothings in her perfect ears, so like oysters. He doesn’t want to ‘talk,’ either, not even with a considerable stretch of the imagination. After all, he has other irons in the fire regarding finding very precious goods stashed in the cottage.

 

So, ignoring Lady Meykbed’s advice on how to complete the cunning plan (or maybe he didn't hear, didn't understand, or has forgotten, in the heat of the moment), he goes over to annoy Stezza, who’ll be like a dog with its tail between its legs at the moment after all the carry-on in the latest event. And Dai’s looking forward to winding up the other man by pretending he can’t think straight, because of his troubles. Indeed, there’s no two ways about it, because he has fun at the expense of the ridiculous beast every time. But before the Urban Commando leaves, he gets ready, donning military gear and shoving a serrated dagger in a red leather sheath down the waistband of his trousers. He runs over to the small but tidy barn on the other side of the estate, where his friend – well, that great big muscly lump of a man who dotes on him – always goes to meditate after a long period of raving like someone off his head in a free dance party where death-slumber music enchants everyone’s mind, body, and soul for hours on end. 

 

He arrives there about quarter past six, all out of breath. Stevo’s company’s not the same thing at all as having a good time with a girl, that’s obvious, not by a long chalk, although the idiot’s always ready to do something for a laugh, anyway – and Dai considers his dumb buddy could be valuable because of his strength, if not his practical mind, and despite the lack of sparkling wit. Having said that, it’s Stevie-boy – Pétros Páōn – who usually communicates with the seven-headed, green-skinned goblins living under the really tasty speckled mushrooms at the bottom of the vegetable garden, and the pirates on their flying bed who’ve escaped from Wonderland. But tonight, it’s Dai himself who can’t get rid of the words running through his mind, that sound like a script in one of the comics made by the man who’ll be a reluctant co-conspirator, probably, in the activities that’ll be taking place taker on. 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “But then again, no-one except a madman would deny that the moon exists when it goes out of sight now and then. But there are some who would try to maintain that the darkness itself does not exist, or rather, the malignant beings lurking in it, which begin to move independently like whirlpools of shadow in the utter darkness when the Wizard has called on them to appear on the Eyrth, having crossed the void from the Nw Yrth, either knowingly or unknowingly. For I am totally sure about such esoteric facts, having seen with my own eyes things that a living man should never witness. And so, I implore you to postpone your disbelief whilst paying heed to my incorporeal voice!” 

 

“Hey, how’s it goin’, Dai mate, what’s on the cards this ev’nin’, then? You’re here on short notice, aren’t you? What about Elen? You looking for extra-terrestrials again? The truth’s out there, probably, s’pose!”

 

“Hey y’old mongrel you! You should know – you’re one of the fairies who’s wandered off up the beanstalk to visit the giant and his seven dwarfs! Been playing on your own the whole day long, have you, Stezz, looks like that, anyway?”

 

“That’s enough now – give over, mun, and grow up! But I'd really love to know as much as you about El. How'd she manage to turn up 'ere and just start running the place like that, mun? And why do the 'Procter Bros' like her so much?"

 

“Well, look here, matie. I know nothin'! Anyway, I've been thinkin’. I’ve been really dropped in it by that old Procter time after time, so often, right – he’s about as useful as a fart in a pop bottle. So, I’ve decided, I’ll be going over to pay him back, messing up his hidey-hole when the time comes, later on,” says Dai, “right, would you like to go for a spin in the famous van? I’ve borrowed it from the vile powers-that-be again, but they don’t know yet, I’m a sly little devil who’s dead good when it comes to finding keys, things like that. I’ve hidden it round the back of the old stables. And I’ll be needing your help, my friend. 

 

“Oh, man, remember, Procter’s my uncle, and now he’s lying dying, poor thing. I’m hangin’ loose, nothin’ different for me to do anyway, come on then, why not? P’rhaps there’ll be something interesting there – he’s got lots of ancient books from all over the world anyway.” And Steff smiles weakly, whilst walking with the other lad, for troubled hours full of meaningless banter, it seems, to collect the van for its hiding-place. 

 

"Come on, jump in! Right, he’s a fool of a man – thinks so much of himself, he does, what with his alchemical genius, and his odd theories about languages and the magical alphabets of ancient peoples, and the rest – well, he’s definitely a madman – you know where he used to live, don’t you? I’m getting confused, I’m not sure where’s where right now.” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “I bring you a terrible warning, from beyond the place we call the natural horizon of the Bottomless Pit. And, if everything I believe concerning the current situation is correct, then Death shall be a horror less to be feared than would be Existence that persists in the face of such overwhelming abomination.” 

 

“Well, of course I recognise his home, the cottage, that’s where he used to live some years ago – but he’s all alone now, and they’re looking after him in the mansion ‘cos he’s so ill.” Steff stares pensively into the distance through the van’s dirty windscreen. “Its’s been a while – well – since his wife and his little girl, the poor creature, died – there was a terrible accident there – poison gas – carbon monoxide more than likely. So now the old place’s only full of spirits, memories, shadows. We’d better be careful, I’d prefer not to be joinin' 'em – not today, anyway!”

 

“Makes no difference to me, man! It’s you who needs to take responsibility for things now. You’ve got to explain to me in detail – where did he used to live – the back end of beyond, right enough. For some reason, I feel in my heart that the place was quite like where I used to live with my Dad, overseas, when I was a kid, y’know.” 

 

“Hey, man, why’re you playing with me all the time? You’re really cruel, y’know. You know only too well about the places round ‘ere – you and El, ha, right – and what’s happened in ‘em.” Steff hesitates before going on, “It was in the cottage he used to live, not the posh mansion like right now, it’s number seventeen, probably, these days, the old Blue House.” 

 

“Well, I can’t stop imagining being a smelly kid, long, long ago, s’pose. P’rhaps the therapy’s working. I remember a land to the east, across the Hallowed Gulf, and there there’s a house not too far from the town, on the Pines Estate, I think, at the foot of the Steep Hill, on the bank of the old Mucky River. I believe we were poor, and proud, and living in hope {Hope}. To tell the truth, I’d like it if we were going somewhere different tonight without all the horrid memories, but, well, that’s your fault, like I was saying, but don’t worry ‘bout me – there’s work to be done!” 

 

“Hmpphh, that’s not fair at all, matie. This is all your idea, and no mistake. But if you think it’ll be worthwhile—“ 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Together with this message, broadcast across time and space, I am leaving documents of all sorts amongst my other possessions, including Old Books of Lore, so that you can substantiate these allegations with them, although they appear excessive.” 

 

"Right, take your turn at the wheel, Stezza, man, as usual. Shut the door and drive, cowboy! But I’m not ready to go through the Gate between the Two Worlds this minute, ha, ha! We gotta kill time for a while, so we’ll wander about for a bit. Watch out for the louts there on the left, and push the button for me, right, to lock the door. So, there we are, boys, off we go!” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “My research over many a long year, on matters mysterious and despicable which are to do with psychedelic drugs, otherworldly powers, and forbidden rites, have lead me to – various kinds of conclusion. But I must insist from the very beginning that I was only every trying to act for the greater good of all humankind throughout my most exacting voyage to reveal the secrets of the Nw Yrth.”

 

The van starts and then crawls by the horde of lads who are wallowing in the squalor behind the tatty corner shop near the old stables where Dai’d parked it. The members of the spotty tribe are quaffing cans of cider more rashly than Nó'ohl in his humungous ark stuffed with white ravens and black doves, and swearing poetically, spitting competitively on the pavement, and heckling and rolling around on the floor, pretending to fight as ferociously as demons. While Steff slinks through the washed-out back lanes on the estate, the houses deathly sick with concrete disease, he can’t stop staring at all the merciless faces that are eyeballing him reproachfully from bus-stops and decayed residences. So lacking in power are the dispirited street-lights that they can’t cut through the foul-smelling mist that’s so quickly thickening into an acidic soup. And Stevo’s sweating buckets while his hands grab on tight to the wheel. 

 

The van goes round and round for hours, encircling the estate many times without reaching its final destination. And the minds of the lads are turning over like crazy too, as they share smokes, and special snuff, and a flagon of the awfully pricey spirit called ‘Bad Karma,’ stolen from the old Lost Sheep. But in the end, it’s high time for their childish chat to come to an end – but the two naked baboons (well, one of them, at least, is a hairy creature), can’t give up talking nonsense. And then, amidst the pines, under creeping shadows, the Scarlet Seal materializes from nowhere on one of the trees, whilst the Vexatious Voice of the inflammatory preacher on the sound-transceiver, the Red Painter, stirs the lads’ bile. And the leaves whisper, challengingly, ‘cheper – cheper – cheper.’ It’s mid-Summertide, but there’s a storm brewing. After all, there’s a ritual to complete. In the pregnant present, the impatient future awaits the tardy past. And our heroic boy, Dai Baxter, begins to chatter loud and quick — 

 

“OK, almost there are we mun? At least we’re not in Brookhollow anymore, that damn backwards village, thank Swtakh! What a hole of a place! There’s not too much happening round ‘ere, right, so we should be able to park somewhere out of the way within clear view of the cottage, then we can keep an eye open for trouble, y’know?” 

 

“I’m not sure about this at all, Dai. We should go home. It doesn’t feel right.” 

 

“Oh, shut your gob, mun! It’s eleven, and the old stinkin’ idiot can’t move from his bed in your old oh-so-posh mansion, by all accounts. We’re just paying our last respects, like. Right, this place’ll do for parkin’. Jump out! Where’re we aiming for, matie? You’ll be taking the reins from here on.” 

 

“Oooh, why be so stupid, man? What's up with you? You know only too well. Straight on. That door, number seventeen, just by ‘ere – The Blue House, in the Glittering Glade on the Slippery Slope."

 

“Great, mate. Oooh, now I’m starting to remember right. It’s just like where we used to live ages ago, when I was a snotty kid. Without all these scars, of course – damn ‘em! I can see the place, almost – a vision coming to me through the mists of time, like – uncanny exclamations assaulting my enlightened awareness – from the other side of this Stinkin’ Planet, maybe – or some Other World, I dunno – anyways, it was an old house on its last legs – number seven, I think – just like one of them down the street – over there somewhere ... But, ooh, shit, bro! ... It’s startin’ to feel like me skin’s on fire as we get closer. Must be in the right place!”

 

“Oh, Hmmm, I see – maybe – but I’m not really sure what you’re on about ... And, hey, look, ya shouldn’t joke about your ... problem ... either ... it’s not nice – And what about number seven, and the house, and the misty past ... and all that old nonsense? I don’t get it. And then there’s the hearing voices. You’re such a bloody liar – you crazy llama!”

 

“Oi-oi – Petrus Faunus – best mate o’ mine ... maybe summat’s ‘appened after all ... it’s coming to me now ... Dark Davo ... that’s it ... pirate from Ir-ánú-vávú on the Secretest Southern Continent ... and in my scarred chest the heart of an angel ... yeah ... I know who I am! ~~ Davo ~ Daud ~ Dai ~ Dvaldí ~ Davuth ~ Thavoh ~ Thoahatha ~ Dá·hwyth ~~ TWN HLIN! In our fathers' old tongue – Ankariseseí!  – I understand!”

 

Somewhere, far away (but still in some troubled spot on our Big Blue Marble at least), and at a different time, a winsome but wistful tinkling of tiny bells wafts through the begrimed, blood-spattered sky as David truly remembers, and tells his troubling truth (or pretends to remember and unveils through untruth an accidental actuality). What is the cause, one might wonder, and what the effect, in this imaginary interaction that's now starting to reconnect two realms which have been out of joint and suffering, but yearning for union for so long? But forgetting about the sophophilic issues for a moment, the practical outcome is that these unintentional magic words in turn resonate with a much greater enchantment taking place nearby, to interfere with the All-World’s purr.

 

“Ooh, shut ya gob, mun, and sober up for once!”

 

And talking of two worlds in a different context: although the pair of scallywags are standing under the same stars and breathing the same mixture of gases, they are in very different places regarding their present lives, the past, and the future (a large part of these existing only in their minds). Maybe that’s why David’s overflowing with misplaced confidence although he can’t say why, whilst Steffan feels as if someone’s stabbed a flaming stake through his heart. Time ripples and space flexes, albeit to the tiniest extent for the time being, under the unseen influence of the Scarlet Sign. The Terrible Sigil shouldn’t be there in the waking world at all, of course, but there it surely is, and it’s beginning to burrow any number of random paths between the Two Worlds. And in response, a shiver runs down the spines of the two lads as the air quivers around them like a sea full of malcontent medusae.

 

“Never mind, I was just  thinkin’ out loud. And of course, I’m wrong as usual – there's far too many combinations of letters [*] – and it was seventeen, not seven – That ugly devil Procter’s always sayin’ how much he likes it – ‘two-on-fifteen’ it was in the ol’ days, when he was a young skunk – in Kimbric at least – I don’t know what they’re goin’ on about half the time in the old fool of a hobgoblin’s numerology classes!” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Some of my discoveries disturb the mind to such a degree, that I can scarcely mention them. Despite that, I have tried to make a note of them, in order to defend you, and the whole Eyrth as well, from those who possess the most iniquitous intelligence in the Two Worlds.” 

 

“Oh, Procter’s not as bad at that. And, well, seventeen’s a very interesting number, y’know – it’s the least random number, according to the Hackers’ Technical Language File; also, seventeen is an Eisenstein prime number without imaginary part…”

 

“By the Old Molten Divinities, mun! What’s happened to the door? And what about the number – it’s not ‘seventeen’ – there's only a ‘seven’ there i'n't there? That’s a ... hmmm ... strange coincidence ... right?”

 

“... And there are only seventeen two-dimensional plane symmetry groups, so there are only seventeen unique patterns for wallpaper, too. And seventeen elements are required in a sūdoku puzzle, if you want to have a unique solution – stuff like that, ha!” 

 

“Hey, shut it, bro and listen! ... Not sure what's goin' on at all here, mun. Maybe the ‘one’ has fallen down somewhere. The place is a total tip, after all ... I dunno.” 

 

 

“... What about ... criminal gangs, cartels, clans, crews, families, firms, mobs, posses, syndicates ... Hwíhésán, Gokwdow Tekjija Bakwfto, Sá-hoy-'dbeng ... Intoxicating substances, angels' delight, freaky fungus, medicinal mushrooms, mesmeric mould, mortal mead, sacred snuff, stupefying spice, devils' despair, black gold ... turf warfare ... blood-feuds ... Or could be ... the Mwafdyasu from New Ladinia ... And worst of all ... could be ... the Alpha Path, the Death-Avalanche, the League of Deceit, the Masters of Silken Evolution, the Shadow Network, Ūtopiae Agoráa ... or even the Kowled Kult of the Konsecrated Kleansers!”

 

“Only us here, Stezz boyo ... umm ... 'The Right-hand of Unrequited Revenge'!”

 

But on hearing all this, Dai has started to worry for real, and is sweating despite his cool look. After muttering “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings” peevishly to himself under his breath, he only just about manages to stammer, whilst swigging deeply from his expensive silver hip-flask:

 

“C'mon, now, Stevie-boy ... can ya be quiet for a mo? ... It's just your imagination runnin' wild ... stop! Remember anything useful about this shithole, mate?”

 

[Voice from Beyond] “There is a terror so fearful and so incomprehensible, that my mind retreats from the very ideas, as my quill wavers before making marks on this paper to commemorate it. However, with the heaviest of hearts, I am pushing myself to compose this message which I shall be broadcasting to you through the vacuum of space in the form of symbols and images, which will stimulate your thoughts abruptly when the appropriate time comes.” 

 

But no sensible answer is forthcoming from Steffan, as he’s frozen, and too busy meditating once again about coincidences regarding the enchantment of numbers —

 

“Seven – a lucky number for so many people – seven fundamental types of catastrophe – a prime number that’s factorial, lucky, happy, safe – the most common total with two dice – the Seven Penitential Psalms – the Seven Martyrs of the Etruscan Empire – the Seven Warlike Sages of the city of Thebe – the Seven Sleepers – the Seven Deadly Sins – the Seventh Heaven – Seven Seraphic Sorcerers…” But Dai cuts across his numerological musing — 

 

“Come on, dozy boy! Let’s get in there, look if we can cause a bit of malicious damage – give the ol’ devil a lesson before he bids farewell to his woeful life once and for all – well at least just go wild and have a bit of naughty fun – then get out as quick as quick can be. Don’t be so stupid, mun! I’m only jokin’ about everythin’ And that's nothin' but some idiotic graffiti ... local kids must've done it ... No need to stress at all! C'mon, down the old monkey juice in the flask here in one ... that's it!”

 

“Hey, cheers, that's dead nice! Always like a little tipple, me ... feelin' better already. Oh, well ... 'spose you're right ... I do get a bit het up 'bout stuff all the time ... can't stop thinkin', that's me! Gotta learn to chill, 'aven't I? At any rate, who'd come here by choice if they didn't 'ave to? 'Snothin'ere worth anythin'. So, if you insist, I'm not going to refuse – just to have a bit of a nose around, right ... make sure the old place's OK and everythin'! ...”

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Infrequently has evil of this kind exhibited itself on the innocent face of your beautiful Planet up to now. I believe it originates from the starless voids on the boundary of the familiar universe. Furthermore, its true name cannot be pronounced my means of any language which exists and is used at the present time, nor which has been heard by human ears on the Eyrth since when our earliest ancestors began to speak.” 

 

“... But ... really ... I don’t understand what you’re saying half the time, and the other half, you just talk complete tosh. You're like two different lads, y'know, from day to day, and it scares me, sometimes. Anyways, how’re we supposed to get in? It’s like Swtakh’s Steel Hive here, 'though it's so mucky!”

 

“Ah, now then, Stezza! I nicked the spare key off the nail in the wall in that old tower by the mansion’s kitchens where we have to pretend we’re learning all that old nonsense, Ooh, about a month or three back, and no-one's noticed yet, more than likely – or they just don't give a monkey's, anyway ... It happened when the Old Soldier went out to have a coughing fit. There were only the two of us there at the time, when I’d been given detention after the lessons for some reason. The things jumped into my hand – ‘as if by magic’ y’see. There was just two house-keys of the same kind there, and I grabbed one. So, no need for you to bash the door down, p’rhaps, mun!”

 

“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound! Give it 'ere! Hey – wait a minute, Davo! The key’s not workin'. The door's stuck dead tight. Really. Try it, then – hang on mate – don’t beak the thing. This’ll be hard going, right?”

 

“To the Old Gods with it, then, man! Go on, Stezz! Stick at it, use your shoulder – shove – or something! That’s it – good on ya – Fortress Procter, we’re coming in in a jiffy! You go on first, then, matie!” 

 

“O–K, who’s the yellow-bellied wuss now, then, eh, Dai-boy? There ya go – I’ll lead the way – only a fool runs from his shadow, ha ha! You follow on my tail ... Come on – that's it – one last shove!” 

 

And the thick, oak door tricks the two vandals simultaneously, by opening on its own. In unexpected proximity to each other, they stumble into the dusty house, which has sightless, scowling, windows, and horrific ivy on its gables. Here, there is oceanic darkness. It would be incorrect to say that the illumination in this place has lessened until it disappeared. Rather, light has been prevented completely from entering. And from somewhere, there’s the Vexatious Voice chanting, and it sounds like some sacrificial beast whining long and loud in pain —

 

Listen. O Watchers!

In the deep forest,

A woodsman spits on his blade,

Swiftly sings the axe —

O Watchers, come! 

 

“Steady on, Dai, you brave warrior! What on the Nw Yrth’s going on by ‘ere?” 

 

“Don’t be so scared, ya cowardly dogshit, mun! Let’s look what’s up, collect the spoils, light the fire to hide our tracks, then get the hell out of this place. OK? By Lushfé, the east wind’s blowin’ ‘ere, even if it is the middle of Summertide – it’s cold enough to freeze brass monkeys!” 

 

In this place, the Blackness is teeming with physical gloom, which creates a slimy flow everywhere. Here, ancient coldness like living tundra, with poisoned teeth and talons with green blood on them, hovers on the point of tearing the structure of the place to ribbons. And also – something – what is it? Sound? Mumbling? Singing? A tune, perhaps? There it is, once again – clearer now – a vibration, almost organic, that’s beating rhythmically, and its peaks and troughs lament and howl in the depths of the darkness. Steff yelps, as if he were a puppy who’s been trodden on accidentally, and then runs off to hide. But the Voice continues — 

 

Dally, O Wezir!

O Dark, revolving in roiling activity, 

Unseen from within your torturous passions, 

Come then, O self-regarding Shadow, 

Which constantly satisfies labours abysmal, 

Bringing unknown enchantment terrible!

O Wezir, obey!

 

“Wha’? Hey, wait, mate! What spoils? What’s goin’ on, Dai? There’s nothin’ here, only tat that’s of no value to anyone.” 

 

“No worries, mate, I was just thinkin’ that maybe there’s be something nice here, some kind of little souvenir to remind me of my kindly old schoolmaster once he’s died. He was always going on about the size and dimensions of the pyramids, and I’m sure he brought a model to the class a few times. He would say I should go off for ever to the Eastern Desert, and I’d be at home there because I’m as clever as the mummies!” 

  

The defilers penetrate further, through the vestibule, into the passageway. And now, things have changed completely, once again. But the Voice, lost in its tribulation, continues still — 

 

So good-looking is Tefnuth!

O Tefnuth, leader of the spirits, 

I bring you dry gin with herbs in! 

Tefnuth, Oh, who loves riches,

Open the doors, let me speak to them!

Fine Tefnuth, she who cares for all the dead, 

Oh, will you heal me?

Tefnuth owns all joy!

 

“Right, OK – but, no burning the place down, you twisted fire-starter, that’d be awful, and there’s already enough graffiti here, too. Look at that scrawl on all the walls – luminous paint or somethin'. And anyhow, them mummies are all better lookin’ than you!”

 

[Voice from Beyond] “It is not death that follows in its steps, this nameless thing, no, my boy. Nor the shadow of the grave, either. For this entity is the essence of suffering, with its thousands of blind eyes which are completely sky-blue like those of an unborn babe in the womb, and its stony claws as black as the sin of the Two Worlds. This furtive gloom is insubstantial but has dozens of wings as green as the lifegiving slime in the Miraculous Pool, tails like repugnant snakes, and feathers as white as the wind. It can taste pride and vainglory from afar. Indeed, it prefers prey with a heart beating strongly in its breast, as it feeds on the uncertainty, fear, and hatred of the living…”

 

“Ha, very funny. You're the one with a face like a bull, son. Look, no problem, buddy. I was just jokin’ on, 'member. But I can hardly see – and those pulsing symbols are sickenin' – it’s really givin’ me the jitters – straight up, now!”  

 

[Voice from Beyond] “…And when it has caught a suitable man, one who has desired to command the Terrible Old Masters, then it will punish the pitiful creature within its Hive of Iron, wrapping the sinner’s body in freezing coils, whilst possessing and penetrating his mind. I should know, although I was tempted and misled by the Old Solider in the guise of the Old Holy Warrior, and fell from grace by accident. Only a few pure of heart can escape from its all-embracing limbs, and so you will have to put the greatest importance on learning to sacrifice the worthless other in order to save yourself, in the end, lest you perish entirely, or worse!”

 

The smell, thick and heavy, of stifling incense, like burning pines, threatens to overcome the two. In this sultry atmosphere, numberless tongues of fire and myriad drops of living blood float wildly about – sensate fragments separated from one nameless, baneful demon – and they are all awaiting the moment when they shall descend on the unprepared flesh like a swarm of rapacious beetles to scorch, and rend, and destroy. But so far they are in another dimension, as it were, cloaked from the senses of the lads which are working too hard to analyse what is happening around them. And so, in the grasping gloom, two unprepared fools press on where angels (and any devil worth its salt) would fear to tread.

 

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[*] There are 2,520 permutations of the 7 symbols, although many of them will not form pronounceable “magic words” in my opinion, even considering “w” as a vowel (as in Kimbric). — P.M.

 

[**] I don’t think that this is the Scarlet Seal itself. D.B.P wouldn’t be as stupid as that, surely? Maybe he “borrowed” the sign intuited by Ffred and twisted it. I wouldn’t put it past him. — P.M.

 

Lle poblogaidd yw Glyn Cysgod Angau, ymhlith pobl o bob math, yn cynnwys pererinion ar deithiau, ffotograffwyr rhyfel, a chaethweision yn chwedleua. Yn aml y byddant yn mentro trwyddo er mwyn cyfranogi o’i beryglon ac ennill y gwobrau y dônt o hyd iddynt yno, ac wedyn adrodd am eu hanturiaethau a’u profiadau. Mae’r cysyniad hwn wedi hoelio sylw cerddorion yn enwedig, megis bandiau pwnc, grwpiau metel trwm, ac ensembles o berfformwyr arloesol. Dwg eu gweithiau celfyddydol ddelwau eithriadol ar gof. Efallai eu bod yn cynrychioli trafferthion i’w profi ymhlith y dyffryn ei hun, ynteu ryfeddodau wedi’u cuddio ar ben yr hynt. Dychmyger ar y naill law ardd ragorol lle y bydd pob pleser daearol ar gael i’r dewis rai, ac ar y llaw arall, ystyrier poenydfa’n llawn offer arteithio lle y bydd madruddyn y dioddefwyr yn dychlamu mewn loes. Fodd bynnag, wedi dweud hynny oll, bydd wastad arnom angen cofio nad honni mai’r gair olaf fydd yn darogan ffawd anochel ydynt, y mae’r fath dywalltiadau celfyddydol. Felly, serch yr holl gymhlethdod a dryswch, rydym yn gorfod i holi: a fyddai’n bosibl mai man ddiogel yw’r cwm dirgel hwn yn llawn cysgodion byw, a’u bysedd duon yn denu, mewn gwirionedd, i’r rhai a gâr heb dinc o fariaeth? Ac a allai’r rhai pur o galon dreiddio i’w ddyfnderoedd mwyaf pruddaidd heb eu niweidio, ac efallai, hyd yn oed heb ofni drwg, oblegid eu diniweidrwydd?

 

Rhyw seler guddiedig, sy’n oer a thywyll ond yn fyw o rithiau, o freuddwydion chwilfriw – neu, ‘falle, rhyw dŵr heulog, twym, sy’n agored led y pen – mae’r olygfa’n cael ei haildrefnu bob amser wrth i ddeunydd realiti dywynnu a dawnsio. Ond er gwaetha popeth, mangre heb ei thebyg ydy, mewn ffordd o siarad, wedi’i goleuo â chanhwyllau rhuddion. Dyna utganu offeryn pres, hynafol, ac mae’n swnio fel rhu bwystfil yn tynnu cnawd oddi wrth asgwrn. Ac wedyn, datganiad, o ble nad yw’n glir – ‘Pan ddaw’r amser, y delo’r gwŷr!’ – yn debycach i losgfynydd yn echdorri na llais bod byw. A ddywedodd dyn hynny, unwaith? Wel, pa wahaniaeth? Fe all dyn fod yn hollol siŵr o’r ffaith, sut bynnag, mai dewiniol dymp y nos ydy yn awr –– ac mai tri gŵr sy’n disgwyl eu hachubiaeth er nad ydynt yn sylweddoli’r manylion i gyd ar hyn o bryd. Ond nid trindod sanctaidd mohonynt, nid o bell ffordd. Nid yw’r tair Hen Dduwies, Tefnuth, Hebé, a Nebesh – y forwyn, y fam, a’r wrach – y Syrthni Angheuol, y Ddrycin Anhydrin, a'r Afon Wylofus – yno ychwaith, eto. Ond mae Llais o’r Tu Draw i'r Llen sydd yn perthyn i gennad y triawd anfad, wedi’i alw i sibrwd cyfrinachu celwyddog, yn chwythu trwy’r gofod rhwng y Bydoedd — 

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “F’annwyl fachgen! Os byddi di’n derbyn y neges hon, o’r tu hwnt, ynteu mi fyddaf wedi diflannu’n llwyr oddi ar wyneb ein Daear deg ni heb adael ôl, i gychwyn ar daith arallfydol i achub y Byd. Mi elli di ymddiried yn y ffaith hon yr un mor sicr ag y bydd rhaid i ddyn gyfaddef mai cymylau tywyll fydd wastad yn croesi a gorchuddio wyneb llachar y lleuad lawn, Mam dwyllodrus inni i gyd, gefn trymedd noson heb sêr.”

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Am chwech o’r gloch yn brydlon – ‘ch-eeep, ch-eeep, ch-eeep,’ yn ôl y rhifo anorfod gan y cloc aflafar yn ei ‘stafell wely, ‘ch-eeep, ch-eeep, ch-eeep’ – dyna ddihuno Dai o’i drwmgwsg. Dyw e ddim yn cael ateb gan ei Elen hyfryd wedi’i galw hi ar yr SDDdS yn syth ar ôl cwympo o’r gwely blêr, er iddi fod mor awyddus i ‘sgwrsio o ddifri am bethau’ dim ond ryw fis o’r blaen. Ac wedyn aeth hi mor oerllyd a ffroenuchel. Ond ‘sdim ots ‘da fe, wrth gwrs, achos bod gwaith pwysig i’w 'neud heno yn lle sisial cariad yn ei chlustiau perffaith, mor debyg i gregyn wystrys. Dyw e ddim eisiau ‘siarad,’ ‘chwaith, hyd yn oed gyda chryn ymdrech ar ran y dychymyg. Wedi’r cwbl, mae ganddo fe heyrn eraill yn y tân o ran cael hyd i nwyddau gwerthfawr iawn wedi’u cuddio yn y bwthyn.

 

Felly gan anwybyddu cyngor yr Arglwyddes MacBeth ar sut i gyflawni’r cynllun cyfrwys (neu falle'i fod wedi methu clywed, neu ddeall, neu wedi anghofio, yng ngwres y funud), mae’n mynd draw i wylltio Stezza, fydd fel ci â’i gynffon yn ei ben ôl ar hyn o bryd ar ôl yr holl gastiau yn y digwyddiad diweddara’. Ac mae Dai’n edrych ‘mlaen at gythruddo’r dyn arall drwy gymryd arno dyw e’m yn gallu meddwl yn glir, o achos ei drafferthion. Yn wir, ‘sdim dwywaith amdani, achos fe fydd e’n cael hwyl ar draul y bwystfil chwerthinllyd bob tro. Ond cyn i’r Comando Trefol adael, dyna fe’n paratoi, gan wisgo lifrai milwrol, a hwpio dagr danheddog mewn gwain o ledr coch i lawr band gwasg ei drwser. Mae’n rhedeg draw i’r ysgubor fach ond taclus ar yr ochr arall i’r stad, lle bydd ei ffrind – wel, yr hen horwth ‘na o ddyn mawr, cyhyrog, sy’n dwlu arno fe – wastad yn mynd i synfyfyrio ar ôl cyfnod hir o rafio fel rhywun o’i go’ mewn parti dawns, rhydd lle bydd miwsig marwhun yn swyno meddwl, corff, ac enaid pawb am oriau bwy gilydd.

 

Mae’n cyrraedd yno tua chwarter awr wedi chwech, a’i wynt yn ei ddwrn. Ddim yr un peth o gwbl â chael amser da gyda merch yw cwmni Stevo, dyna’n amlwg, ddim o bell ffordd, er bod y twpsyn wastad yn barod i ‘neud rhywbeth o ran hwyl, ta be’ – ac mae Dai’n credu gallai’i ‘achan dwl fod o werth o achos ei nerth, os nad ei ymennydd ymarferol, ac er gwaetha’ diffyg ffraethineb pefriol. Wedi dweud ‘ny, Stevie-boi – Pétros Páōn – fydd yn cyfathrebu fel arfer gyda’r pwcaod seithben, a’u croen yn wyrdd, yn byw dan y madarch brithion, blasus iawn ar waelod yr ardd lysiau, a’r môr-ladron ar eu gwely hedegog sy wedi dianc o Wlad Hud. Ond heno, Dai ei hun sy’m yn medru cael gwared ar y geiriau’n rhedeg trwy’i ymennydd, sy’n swnio fel sgript mewn un o’r comics wedi’i ‘neud gan y dyn fydd yn gyd-gynllwynwr anfodlon, siŵr o fod, yn y gweithgareddau fydd yn digwydd yn nes ‘malen.

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Ond, eto i gyd, ni fyddai neb ac eithrio lloerig yn gwadu bod y lleuad yn bodoli pan â hi o’r golwg yn awr ac yn y man. Ond mae rhai a fyddai’n ceisio maentumio nad bodoli y mae’r gwyll ei hun, ynteu yn hytrach y bodau adwythig yn llechu ynddo, a fydd yn cychwyn symud yn annibynnol fel trobyllau o gysgod yn y tywyllwch llwyr pan fydd y Dewin wedi galw ar iddynt ymddangos ar y Ddaear wedi croesi’r gofod o’r Nw Yrth, naill ai’n wybodus neu ynteu’n anwybodus. Gan fy mod yn hollol sicr am y fath ffeithiau cyfrin, wedi gweld â’m llygaid fy hunan bethau na ddylai gŵr byw byth eu tystio. Ac felly yr wyf yn deisyf ar iti ohirio d’angoel wrth ddal sylw i’m llais digorff!”

 

“Hei, shw mai, Dai, mêt, be’ sy ar y gweill heno, ‘te? Ti sy ‘ma ar fyr rybudd, ond wyt? Be’ am Elen? Ti’n chwilio am fodau allfydol, ‘to? Ma’r gwir mas fan ‘na, siŵr o fod, sbo!”

 

“Hei, yr hen frithgi, w! Ti ddylai w’bod – un o’r tylwyth teg sy ‘di crwydro bant i lan y goeden ffa i ymweld gyda’r cawr a’i saith corrach wyt ti! Ti ‘di bod yn chwarae ar dy ben dy hunan drwy’r dydd gwyn wyt ti, Stezz, ma’n edrych ‘lly, ta be’?”

 

“Dyna hen ddigon, nawr – rho’r gorau iddi, w, a tyfa lan! Ond fe fyddwn i wrth fy modd o gael gw'bod cymaint â ti am El. Sut naeth hi lwyddo i droi lan fan 'yn a dechrau rhedeg y lle fel 'ny, w? A pam mae'r 'Brodyr Procter' yn lico hi gymaint?" 

 

"Wel, clyw di, 'achan, sai'n gw'bod dim byd! Ta be', wi ‘di bod yn meddwl. Wi ‘di cael ‘y ngollwng yn y cawl yn wir gan ‘rhen Procter ‘na dro ar ôl tro, laweroedd o weithiau, reit – mor ddefnyddiol â rhech mewn potel bop yw e. ‘Lly, wi ‘di penderfynu, fe fydda i’n mynd draw i dalu’r pwyth yn ôl iddo fe, gan ‘neud llanast ar ei guddfan yntau, mas o law’n hwyrach,” medd Dai, “reit, licet ti fynd am dro yn y fan enwog? Wi ‘di cael ei benthyg gan yr awdurdodau ffiaidd unwaith ‘to, ond so nhw’n gw’bod ‘to, wi’n ellyll bach, slei sy’n dda iawn o ran dod o hyd i allweddi, pethau fel ‘na. Wedi’i chuddio mae hi rownd cefn yr hen stablau. Ac fe fydda i angen dy help di, ‘yn ffrind.”

 

“O, w, cofia, ‘yn wncwl yw Procter, a nawr mae’n gorwedd ar farw, druan â fe. Dw i’n hongian yn llac, ‘sdim byd yn wahanol ‘da fi i’w wneud shwd bynnag, dere ‘mlaen ‘te, pam lai? Falle bydd rhywbeth diddorol yno – mae ‘da fe lawer o lyfrau hynafol, hyfryd o bob cwr o’r byd ta be’.” A dyna gilwenu Steff, wrth gerdded gyda’r llanc arall, am oriau cythryblus llawn smaldod diystyr, mae’n ymddangos, i gasglu’r fan o’i chuddfan.

 

“Dere ‘mlaen, neidia i mewn! Iawn. ffŵl o ddyn yw e – meddwl gormod ohono’i hun ma’ e, rhwng ei athrylith alcemegol a’i ddamcaniaethau od am ieithoedd, a gwyddorau hudol pobl yr henfyd, a’r gweddill – wel – gwallgofddyn yw e’n bendant – ti’n gw’bod ble o’dd e’n arfer byw, on’d wyt? Wi’n mynd i benbleth, sa i’n siŵr ble yw ble ar hyn o bryd.”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Mi ddof â rhybudd enbyd iti, o’r tu hwnt i’r lle yr ydym yn ei alw’n orwel naturiol i’r Pwll Diwaelod. Ac, os bydd popeth yr wyf fi’n ei gredu ynghylch y sefyllfa gyfredol yn gywir, wedyn bydd yr Angau’n arswyd sy’n llai i’w ofni nag y byddai Bodolaeth sy’n parhau yn wyneb ffieiddbeth mor llethol.”

 

“Wel, wrth gwrs ‘mod i’n nabod ei gartre’ e, y bwthyn, dyna ble oedd e’n arfer byw rai blynyddoedd yn ôl – ond ar ei ben ei hunan ma’ e nawr, ac maen nhw’n ei garco fe yn y plasty achos fod e mor sâl.” Dyna syllu Steff yn feddylgar i’r pellter drwy sgrin wynt frwnt y fan, “Bu’n sbel go lew ers – wel – ers bu farw’r wraig a’r ferch fach, y greadures ifanc – roedd ‘na ddamwain enbyd yno – nwy gwenwynig – carbon monocsid, yn fwy na thebyg. ‘Lly nawr dim ond llawn ysbrydion, cofion, cysgodion yw’r hen le. Well i ni fod yn garcus! Fe fydde'n well ‘da fi beidio ymuno â nhw – ddim heddi’, ta be’!”

 

“Sdim ots ‘da fi, w! Ti sy angen cymryd cyfrifoldeb am bethau nawr. Rhaid i ti esbonio wrtha i’n fanwl –ble oedd e’n arfer byw – yn nhwll tin byd, siŵr iawn? Am ryw reswm wi’n teimlo yn ‘y ‘nghalon fod y lle’n eitha’ tebyg i ble ro’n i’n arfer byw ‘da ‘Nhad, dramor, pan o’n i’n grwt, t’mod?”

 

“Hei, w, pam ti’n chwarae ‘da fi bob tro? Ti’n greulon wir iawn, t’mod. Ti’n gw’bod yn rhy dda am y llefydd i gyd rown’ fan ‘yn – ti ac El, ha, reit – a beth sy ‘di digwydd ynddyn nhw.” Dyma oedi Steff, cyn mynd ymlaen, “Yn y bwthyn oedd e’n arfer byw, nage’r plasty posh fel ar hyn o bryd, rhif un deg saith ydy, siŵr o fod, y dyddiau ‘ma, ‘rhen Dŷ Glas.”

 

“Wel, sa i’n gallu peidio dychmygu bod yn grwt drewllyd, amser maith yn ôl, sbo. Falle bod y therapi’n gweithio. Wi’n cofio gwlad i’r dwyrain, dros y Llŷr Glân, ac yno ma’ tŷ heb fod ymhell oddi wrth y dre’, ar Ystâd y Pinwydd, wi’n credu, ar droed y Bryn Serth, ar lan yr hen Afon Domlyd. Wi’n tybio bod ni’n dlawd, a balch, a byw mewn gobaith. A dweud y gwir, licwn i ‘sen ni’n mynd i rywle gwahanol heno, heb yr holl atgofion gwael, ond, wel, ti sy ar fai am 'ny fel o’n i’n gweud, ond paid becso amdana i – ma’ gwaith i’w ‘neud!”

 

“Hmpphh, so ‘ny’n deg o gwbl, ‘achan. Dy syniad di yw hyn i gyd a dyna’r gwir. Ond, os ti’n meddwl bydd yn werth chweil —”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Ynghyd â’r neges hon, wedi’i darlledu tros amser a gofod, yr wyf fi’n gadael dogfennau o bob math ymhlith fy meddiannau eraill, yn gynnwys Hen Lyfrau Llên, fel y byddi’n gallu gwirio’r honiadau hyn â hwy, er iddynt ymddangos yn rhemp.”

 

“Reit, cymera dy dro wrth y llyw, Stezza, w, fel arfer. Caea’r drws a gyrra di, gwboi! Ond sa i’n barod i fynd drwy’r Porth rhwng y Ddau Fyd y munud ‘ma, ha, ha! Rhaid i ni ladd amser am dipyn, ‘lly ‘nawn ni grwydro am dro. Gwylia rhag y llabystiau ‘na ar y chwith, a gwthia’r botwm i fi, iawn, i gloi’r drws. A dyna ni, bois bach, bant â ni!”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Y mae f’ymchwil dros flynyddoedd maith, ar faterion dirgel a dirmygadwy sydd yn ymwneud â chyffuriau seicedelig, galluoedd annaearol, a defodau gwaharddedig, wedi f’arwain i at – amryw fathau o ganlyniad. Ond mae’n rhaid imi fynnu o’r cychwyn cyntaf mai dim ond ceisio gweithio er lles mwyaf y ddynolryw oll oeddwn i, trwy gydol fy nhaith mor ormesol i ddatgelu cyfrinachau’r Nw Yrth.”

 

Dyna’r fan yn tanio ac wedyn yn ymlusgo heibio’r haid o lanciau sy’n ymdrybaeddu yn y budreddi tu ôl i’r siop gornel dreuliedig ar bwys yr hen stablau lle'r oedd Dai wedi'i pharcio. Mae aelodau'r llwyth plorynnog yn llowcio caniau o seidr yn fwy byrbwyll na Nó'ohl yn arch aruthrol yn llawn cigfrain gwyn a colomennod du, a rhegi’n farddol, poeri’n gystadleuol ar y pafin, a heclo a rolio ar lawr wrth ffugio ymladd mor ffyrnig â chythreuliaid. Wrth i Steff sleifio drwy’r lonydd cefn, llwyd ar y ‘stad, a’r tai’n wael hyd at farw â chlefyd y concrit, dyw e ddim yn gallu peidio sylwi ar yr holl wepau didostur sy’n lygadu fe’n edliwgar o safleoedd bysiau a phreswylfeydd wedi dadfeilied. Mor ddiffygiol mewn pŵer ydy’r goleuadau stryd gwangalon fel na allan nhw dorri trwy’r tawch drycsawrus sy’n tewychu’n gawl asidig mor glou. A chwysu’n stecs mae Stevo wrth i’w ddwylo ddal yr olwyn yn dynn.

 

Mynd rownd a rownd mae’r fan am oriau, gan gylchu’r ‘stad lawer gwaith heb gyrraedd ei chyrchfan ola’. A mynd fel y coblyn mae meddyliau’r llanciau hefyd, wrth iddynt rannu smôcs, a snisin sbesial, a chostrel o’r gwirod drud ofnadw’ o’r enw ‘Carma Gwael’ wedi’i thwgu oddi ar yr hen Ddafad Golledig. Ond yn y pen draw, mae’n hen bryd i’w sgwrs blentynnaidd ddod i ben – ond dyw’r ddau fabŵn noeth (wel, un ohonyn nhw o leiaf sy’n greadur blewog), ddim yn medru rhoi’r gorau i falu awyr. Ac yna, ymhlith y pinwydd, dan gysgodion ymlusgol, dyna ymrithio’r Sêl Ysgarlad o unman ar un o’r coed, wrth i Lais Trallodus y pregethwr ymfflamychol ar y sain-drosdderbynnydd, y Peintiwr Coch, godi beil y llanciau. A dyna siffrwd y dail yn herllyd, ‘cheper – cheper – cheper.’ Canol haf ydy, ond mae ‘na ddrycin yn crynhoi. Wedi’r cyfan, mae defod i’w chyflawni. Yn y presennol beichiog, mae’r dyfodol diamynedd yn disgwyl y gorffennol hwyrfrydig. A dyma ein bachgen gwrol, Dai Baxter, yn dechrau parablu’n uchel ac yn gyflym —

 

“O’r gorau, bron yno, dyn ni, w? O leia’ so ni ym Mhant y Nant mwyach, y pentre’ melltigedig ‘na, diolch i Swtach. Am dwll o le! ‘Sdim gormod yn digwydd rown’ ffordd ‘yn, reit, ‘lly fe ddylwn ni allu parcio rywle mas o’r ffordd ond o fewn golwg clir i’r bwthyn, wedyn dyn ni’n gallu cadw llygaid ar agor am ddrwg, t’mod?”

 

“Sa i’n siŵr am ‘yn o gwbl, Dai. Fe ddylwn ni fynd adre’. So’n teimlo’n reit.”

 

“O, cau dy geg, w! Mae hi’n un ar ddeg, a so’r hen dwpsyn drewllyd yn gallu symud o’i wely yn dy hen blasty mor posh, yn ôl pob sôn. Dim ond talu’r deyrnged ola’ dyn ni, fel ‘sai. Iawn, lanc, ‘naiff y lle ‘ma’r tro i barcio. Neidia mas! Ble ni’n anelu amdano fe ‘achan? Ti fydd yn cymryd yr awenau o hyn ‘mla’n.”

 

“Ww, pam bod mor dwp, w? Be' sy'n bod arnat ti? Ti sy'n gw'bod yn rhy dda. Yn syth ‘mlaen. Y drws ‘na, rhif un deg saith, jyst fan ‘yn – y Tŷ Glas yn y Llwyn Llathrog ar y Llethr Llithrog."

 

“Grêt, mêt. Www, nawr wi’n dechre cofio’n reit. Mae jyst fel ble o’n ni’n arfer byw ‘slawer dydd, pan o’n i’n grwt snoblyd. Heb yr holl greithiau ‘ma wrth gwrs – damo nhw! Wi’n gallu gweld y lle, bron – gweledigaeth yn dod ata i drwy niwl y gorffennol, leic – ebychiadau goruwchnaturiol yn ymosod ar ‘yn ymwybyddiaeth oleuedig i – o ochr arall y Blaned Ddrewllyd ‘ma – neu rw Fyd Arall, wni’m – ta be, o’dd yn hen dŷ wedi mynd â’i ben iddo – rhif saith, dw i’n credu – yn debyg iawn i un ohonyn nhw lawr y stryd – draw fanna’n rh’wle ... Ond, ww, cachu, ‘achan! ... Ma’n dechre teimlo fel ‘se ‘nghroen i ar dân wrth i ni ddod yn nes. Rhaid ein bod ni’n y lle cywir!”

 

“O, Hmmm, dw i’n gweld – falle – ond wi’m’n siŵr be’ ti’n feddwl a bod yn onest ... A hei, ‘drycha, ddylet ti’m jocan am dy ... broblem di ... chwaith ... dyw hi’m yn neis – A be’ am rif saith, a’r tŷ, a’r gorffennol niwlog ... a’r holl hen lol ‘na? Dw i’m yn deall. Wedyn ti’n gweud fod ti’n clywed lleisiau. Dyna blydi celwyddgi wyt ti – y lama gwallgo’!”

 

“Hei – Petrus Faunus – ‘myti gore i ... falle fod rh’wbeth wedi digwydd wedi’r cwbl ... ma’n dod ata i nawr ... Davo Dywyll ... dyna fe ... môr-leidr o Ir-ánú-vávú ar y Cyfandir Deheuol Dirgelaf ... ac yn ‘mrest greithiog i galon angel ... hwrê ... wi’n nabod pwy dw i! ~~ Davo ~ Daud ~ Dai ~ Dvaldí ~ Davuth ~ Thavoh ~ Thoahatha ~ Dá·hwyth ~~ TWN HLIN! Yn hen iaith 'nhadau ni – Ankariseseí! – Deallaf fi!”

 

Yn rhywle’n bell i ffwrdd (ond eto mewn rhyw lecyn cythryblus ar ein Marblen Fawr Las ni o leiaf), ac ar adeg wahanol, mae yna donc hardd ond hiraethus o glych bychain yn chwythu drwy’r awyr liw gwaed, fyglyd wrth i David wir gofio a datgan ei wirionedd anesmwythol (neu ffuantu’i fod yn cofio a datgelu trwy gelwydd ddirwedd ddamweiniol). Beth ydy’r achos, tybed, a beth ydy’r effaith yn y rhyngweithiad dychmygol hwn sy bellach yn dechrau ail-gysylltu dwy fro a fu ar wahân ac yn dioddef, ond yn ysu am undod ers tro byd? Ond ac anghofio am y cwestiynau athronyddol am funud, mae’r canlyniad ymarferol ydy fod y geiriau hud anfwriadol hyn yn cyseinio yn eu tro â swyngyfaredd fwyaf o lawer yn digwydd gerllaw, i ymyrryd â grwnan yr Holl Fyd.

 

“Ww, gad dy lap, w, a sobra di am unwaith!”

 

A sôn am ddau fyd mewn cyd-destun arall: er bod y pâr o rabsgaliwns yn sefyll dan yr un sêr ac yn anadlu’r un cymysgedd o nwyon, maen nhw mewn sefyllfa hollol wahanol o ran eu bywydau presennol, y gorffennol, a’r dyfodol (a rhan fawr o'r rhain yn bodoli yn eu meddyliau yn unig). Efallai mai dyna pam bod David yn gorlifo o hunanhyder cyfeiliornus er na all e ddweud pam, a Steffan yn teimlo fel petai rhywun wedi gwthio stanc fflamllyd trwy’i galon. Mae amser yn ymdonni a’r gofod yn plygu, er i’r graddau lleiaf am hyn o bryd, dan ddylanwad anweledig yr Arwydd Ysgarlad. Ni ddylai’r Sigil Erchyll fod yno yn y byd di-hun o gwbl, wrth gwrs, ond yno y mae heb os, ac yn dechrau turio llu o lwybrau ar hap rhwng y Ddau Fyd. Ac mewn ymateb, mae ias yn rhedeg i lawr cefn y ddau lanc wrth i’r aer grynu o’u cwmpas fel môr yn llawn mediwsau anniddig.

 

“’Sdim ots, dim ond meddwl yn uchel o'n i. Wel, wrth gwrs, wi'n rong fel arfer – ma' llawer gormod o gyfuniadau o lythyrau [*] –  ac un deg saith oedd e – ma'r ‘ffernol hyll ‘na, Procter, wastad yn gweud gymaint fod e’n lico fe – ‘dau ar bymtheg’ o’dd e yn yr hen ddyddiau, pan o’dd e’n ddrewgi ifanc – yn y Gimbreg o leia' – sa i’n gw’bod be’ ma'n nhw’n siarad am hanner yr amser yng ngwersi rhifoleg yr hen fwgan ffôl!”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Y mae rhai o’m darganfyddiadau’n cythryblu’r meddwl i’r fath raddau, o’r braidd y gallaf sôn amdanynt hwy. Serch hynny, yr wyf wedi ceisio gwneud nodyn ohonynt, er mwyn d’amddiffyn di, a’r Ddaear gron ar ben hynny, rhag y rhai sydd yn meddu ar y deallusrwydd mwyaf anfad yn y Ddau Fyd.”

 

“O, dyw Procter ddim mor ddwg â ‘ny. A, wel, nifer diddorol iawn yw un deg saith, t’mod – y nifer lleia’ hap, yw e, yn ôl Ffeil Iaith Dechnegol yr Hacwyr; hefyd, rhif cysefin Eisenstein heb ran ddychmygol yw dau ar bymtheg...”

 

 

“Myn ‘Rhen Dduwdodau Tawdd, w! Be’ sy’ di’ digwydd i’r drws? A beth am y nifer – dyw e ddim yn ‘un deg saith’ – 'mond ‘saith’ sy 'na on'd o's? Dyna ... hmmm ... gyd-ddigwyddiad od ... reit?”

 

“... A dim ond un deg saith o grwpiau cymesuredd gwastad dau ddimensiwn sydd, felly dim ond un deg saith o batrymau unigryw i bapur wal sydd hefyd. A bydd rhaid wrth un deg saith o elfennau mewn pos sūdoku, os byddwch chi eisiau cael datrysiad unigryw – stwff fel ‘ny, ha!”

 

“Hei, taw di frawd a gwrando! Wi'm yn siŵr be sy'n mynd 'mlaen 'ma o gwbl, w. Falle bo’r ‘un’ wedi cw’mpo lawr yn rh'wle. Ma'r lle'n dwll i gyd, wedi'r cwbl ... Sai’n gw’bod.”

 

 

“... Be am ... gangiau troseddol, cartelau, ciweidiau, claniau, criwiau, ffyrmiau, minteioedd, syndicatau, teuluoedd ... Hwíhésán, Gokwdow Tekjija Bakwfto, Sá-hoy-'dbeng ... Sylweddau meddwol, mwynhad angylion, ffwng ffrîci, madarch meddyginiaethol, llwydni llesmeiriol, medd marwol, snisin sanctaidd, sbeis syfrdanol, digalondid diawliaid, aur du ... brwydro dros diriogaeth ... galanasau gwaed? ... Neu fe alle fod ... y Mwafdyasu o Ladinia Newydd ... A gwaetha' oll ...  galle fod ... Afalans Angau, Ffordd Alffa, Lleng Hoced, Marchnadfa Iwtopia, Meistri Esblygiad Sidanaidd, neu Rwydwaith Cysgodion ... neu Gwlt Kykyllog y Karthwyr Kysegredig, hyd yn oed!”

 

“Dim ond ni sy 'ma, Stezz, boi bach ... umm ... 'Llaw Dde Dial An-ad-daledig'!”

 

Ond o glywed hyn oll, mae Dai wedi dechrau poeni o ddifrif, ac yn chwysu er gwaetha’r olwg cŵl arno. Ar ôl myngial “O enau plant bychain y daw gwirionedd” yn biwis wrtho'i hun dan ei wynt, cael a chael iddo lwyddo i gecian, wrth ddrachtio'n ddwfn o'i fflasg boced arian ddrud:

 

“Dere, nawr, Stevie-boi .. alli di dawelu funud? ... Dyna jyst dy ddychymig di'n mynd dros ben llestri ... stopia! ... Ti'n cofio unrh'w beth defnyddiol am y twll o le 'ma, w?”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Dyna ddychryn mor frawychus ac mor annealladwy, nes bod fy meddwl yn cilio rhag yr union syniad, wrth i’m hysgrifbin betruso cyn gwneud marciau ar y papur hwn er cof amdano. Fodd bynnag, â’r galon drymaf, yr wyf fi’n fy ngwthio fy hun i gyfansoddi’r neges hon y byddaf yn ei darlledu atat trwy wactod y gofod ar ffurf symbolau a delweddau, a fydd yn symbylu dy feddyliau’n ddisymwth pan ddaw’r amser priodol.”

 

Ond ni ddaw dim ateb synhwyrol gan Steffan, gan ei fod wedi’i rewi, ac yn rhy brysur yn synfyfyrio unwaith eto am gyd-ddigwyddiadau ynghylch swyngyfaredd niferoedd —

 

“Saith – rhif ffodus i gymaint o bobl – saith math sylfaenol o gatastroffe – rhif cysefin, sy’n ffactorol, lwcus, hapus, saff – y cyfanswm mwya’ tebygol gyda dau ddis – y Saith Salm Benyd – Saith Merthyr yr Ymerodraeth Etrwsgaidd  – Saith Doethion Rhyfelgar dinas Thebe – y Saith Cysgadur – y Saith Bechod Marwol – y Seithfed Nef – Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd…” Ond dyna Dai’n torri ar draws ei fyfyrio rhifolegol —

 

“Dere ‘mlaen, ‘achan gwirion! Gad i ni fynd i fewn yna, edrych os byddwn ni’n gallu achosi peth o ddifrod maleisus – rhoi gwers i’r hen gythraul cyn iddo ddweud ffarwél wrth ei fywyd galarus unwaith ac am byth – wel, rhedeg yn wyllt o leia' a chael tipyn o hwyl ddrwg – wedyn dod mas mewn chwinciad chwannen. Paid bod mor hurt, w! Dim ond jocan am bopeth dw i. A dim byd ond rh'w graffiti twp yw 'ny ... rhaid bod cryts lleol wedi 'neud e! ... 'Sdim angen poeni o gwbl! Dere’ma ... llowchia’r hen laeth mwnci yn y fflasg ‘ma yn un joch ... dyna fe ... cwpla fe nawr!””

 

“Hei, diolch, dyna neis iawn! Wastad lico codi'r bys bach, fi ... teimlo'n well yn barod! O, wel ... ti'n reit, 'sbo ... dwi fel gafr ar daranau drwy'r amser ... ddim yn gallu beidio meddwl, dyna fi! Rhaid i fi ddysgu ymlaco, on'd o's? Ta be, pwy fyddai'n dod yma o ddewis os doedd dim rhaid? 'Sdim byd yma o werth. 'Lly os mynni di, dwi'm yn mynd i wrthod – dim ond i gael tipyn o cip ar y lle, meindia di ... 'neud yn siŵr bod yr hen le'n iawn, popeth fel 'ny! ..."

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Wedi’i arddangos ei hun yn anfynych y mae drygioni fel hyn ar wyneb diniwed eich Planed hardd hyd yn hyn. Yr wyf fi’n credu’i fod e’n tarddu o’r gwagleoedd di-sêr ar ffin y bydysawd cyfarwydd. Ymhellach, na ellir ynganu’i wir enw trwy gyfrwng yr un iaith sydd yn bodoli a chael ei defnyddio ar hyn o bryd, nag sydd wedi cael ei chlywed gan glustiau dynol ar y Ddaear er pan ddechreuodd ein hynafiaid cynharaf lefaru.”

 

“... Ond ... wir i ti ... dwi’m yn deall be’ ti’n weud hanner yr amser, a’r hanner arall, dim ond siarad dwli pur wnei di. Ti fel dau lanc gwahanol. t'mod, o un dydd i'r llall, ac mae'n hela ofn arna i, rywbryd. Ta be, sut dyn ni i fod i fynd i mewn? Ma’ fel Cwch Dur Swtach yma, er ei bod mor frwnt!”

 

“A, nawr ‘te, Stezza! ‘Nes i gipio’r allwedd sbâr oddi ar yr hoel ar y wal yn yr hen dŵr ‘na ar bwys cegin y plasty ble ma’n rhaid i ni gymryd arnon ni’n bod ni’n dysgu’r holl hen rwtsh ‘na, Ww, ryw fis ne' dri yn ôl, a neb wedi sylwi hyd yn hyn, debyg iawn – ne' dyn nhw'm yn hidio dim dam, ta be ... ‘Naeth e ddigwydd pan aeth yr Hen Filwr mas i gael pwl o besychu. Dim ond y ddau ohonon ni o’dd yno ar y pryd, pan o’n i ‘di cael ‘nghadw i mewn ar ôl y gwersi am ryw reswm. ‘Naeth y pethau lamu i‘n llaw – ‘megis trwy hudoliaeth’ t’wel’. Dim ond dwy allwedd dŷ o’r un fath oedd yno, a ‘nes i ddwyn un. ‘Lly, ‘sdim raid i ti fwrw’r drws i lawr, falle, w!”

 

“Wel, cystal gwario punt â gwario ceiniog! Rho hi 'ma! Hei – aros funud, Davo! Dyw’r allwedd ddim yn gweithio. Ma’r drws wedi mynd yn reit sownd. Yn wir. Tria di, 'te – gan bwyll mêt – paid torri’r peth. Fydd ‘yn yn dalcen caled, reit?”

 

“I’r Hen Dduwiau â fe, ‘te, w! Cer ‘mlaen, Stezz! Dal ati, iwsia d’ysgwydd – hwpia – neu rywbeth! Dyna ti – da iawn ti – Caer Procter, dyma ni’n mynd i mewn mewn cachad! Cer di yn dy flaen di, ‘te, ‘achan!”

  

“O, pwy yw’r hen gachgi nawr, te, Dai-boi? Dyna ti – fi fydd yn ledio’r ffordd – dim ond ffôl a red rhag ei gysgod, ha, ha! Dilyna di wrth fy nghwt i ... Dere 'mlaen, dyna fe, un hwb ola! ...”

 

Ac yna mae’r drws derw, trwchus yn twyllo’r ddau fandal yn gydamserol, trwy agor ohono’i hun. Mewn agosrwydd annisgwyl at ei gilydd, maen nhw’n baglu i mewn i’r tŷ llychlyd, sydd â ffenestri cuchiog, heb olwg, ac iorwg arswydus ar ei dalcennau. Yma, mae tywyllwch cefnforol. Fe fyddai’n anghywir dweud bod y goleuni yn y fangre hon wedi lleihau nes iddo ddiflannu. Yn hytrach, mae golau wedi cael ei rwystro’n gyfan gwbl rhag dod i mewn. Ac o rywle, dyna’r Llais Trallodus yn siantio, ac mae’n swnio fel ryw fwystfil aberthol yn nadu’n hir ac yn uchel mewn poen —

 

Gwrandewch, O Wylwyr!

Yn y fforest ddofn,

Poer coedwigwr ar ei lafn,

Chwap cân y fwyell --

O Wylwyr, dewch!

 

“Gan bwyll, Dai, y gwrol ryfelwr! Be’ ar y Nw Yrth sy’n digwydd yn fan’ma?”

 

“Paid bod mor ofnus, y cachgi, w! Gad i ni edrych be’ sy’n bod, casglu’r ysbail, cynnau’r tân i guddio’n holau, wedyn dos i’r diawl o’r lle ‘ma. Iawn? Myn Lushfé, ma’ gwynt traed y meirw’n chwythu ‘ma, er taw canol yr haf yw hi – ma’n ddigon oer i sythu brain!”

 

Fan hyn, mae’r Fagddu’n heigio â gwyll corfforol, sy’n creu llif seimllyd ym mhob man. Yma, oerfel hynafol fel twndra byw, gyda dannedd gwenwynllyd ac ewinedd â gwaed gwyrdd arnynt, sy’n hofran ar fin tynnu adeiladwaith y lle yn gareiau. A hefyd – rhywbeth – pa beth ydy? Sŵn? Mwmian? Canu? Alaw, efallai? Dyna fe, unwaith eto – yn gliriach erbyn hyn – dirgryniad, bron yn organig, sy’n curo’n rhythmig, ac mae’i frigau a’i bantiau’n galarnadu ac yn udo ym mherfeddion y düwch. Dyma gyfarth Steff, fel petai’n gi bach sy wedi’i ddamsgel yn anfwriadol, ac wedyn yn rhedeg i ffwrdd i guddio. Ond mae’r Llais yn parhau —

 

Arhoswch, O Wezir!

O’r Fagddu sy’n cylchdroi gan weithio’n fathol, 

Nas gwelir oddi mewn i’ch angerdd arteithiol, 

Dewch chi, O Gysgod hunan-fyfyriol,

Sy’n cyson gyflawni gorchwylion affwysol, 

Gan ddod â lledrith anhysbys, echryslon! 

O Wezir, ufuddhewch!

 

“Be’? Hei, aros di, mêt! Pa ysbail? Be’ sy’n mynd 'mla’n, Dai? ‘Sdim byd ‘ma, dim ond hen sothach dyw’m o werth i neb.”

 

“‘Sdim ots, ‘achan, dim ond rhyw feddwl o’n i, taw falle byddai ‘ma rywbeth neis, rhyw fath o swfenîr bach i ‘nghofio fi am ‘yn hen ysgolfeistr caredig unwaith ei fod wedi marw. O’dd e wastad yn clebran am faint a dimensiynau’r pyramidiau, a wi’n siŵr iddo fe ddod â model i’r dosbarth sawl gwaith. Fe fyddai’n gweud fe ddylwn i fynd bant am byth i Anialdir y Dwyrain, ac fe fyddwn i gartre yno achos mod i mor glyfar â’r mwmis!”

 

Mae’r halogwyr yn treiddio’n bellach, trwy’r cyntedd ac i mewn i’r dramwyfa. A nawr, mae pethau wedi newid yn llwyr unwaith eto. Ond mae’r Llais, wedi ymgolli yn ei drallod, yn dal ati o hyd —

 

Mor landeg Tefnuth!

O Tefnuth, sy’n arwain yr ysbrydion,

Fe ddof â jin sych ac ynddo lysiau pêr! 

Tefnuth, O, sy’n caru golud,

Agor y drysau, gad i fi gael sgwrs â nhw!

Braf Tefnuth, hyhi sy’n edrych ar ôl y meirwon oll, 

O gei di ‘ngwella i?

Tefnuth biau pob hoen!

 

“Reit, iawn – ond, dim llosgi'r lle'n ulw, y taniwr gwyrgam, fe fyddai hynny’n ofnadw', ac ma’ eisoes ddigon o graffiti yma, ‘fyd. 'Drycha ar y traed brain 'na ar yr holl waliau –  paent llewychol neu r'wbeth. A gyda llaw, mae’r mwmis 'na'n fwy golygus na ti, ta be’!”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Nid marwolaeth sy’n dilyn yn ei gamau, y peth hwn heb enw, nage, fy machgen. Na chysgod y bedd ychwaith. Gan mai hanfod dioddefaint yw’r endid hwn a’i filoedd o lygaid dall yn hollol las yr awyr fel eiddo baban heb ei eni yn y bru, a’i grafangau o garreg cyn ddued â phechod y Ddau Fyd. Mae’r gwyll llechwrus hwn yn ansylweddol ond mae ganddo ddwsinau o adenydd o ledr cyn wyrdded â’r llys bywiocaol yn y Pwll Gwyrthiol, cynffonau fel seirff gwrthun, a phluen cyn wynned â’r gwynt. Mae’n gallu blasu balchder ac ymffrost o bell i ffwrdd. Yn wir, y mae’n well ganddo ysglyfaeth ac yn ei brest galon yn curo’n gryf, gan ei fod yntau’n ymborthi ar ansicrwydd, braw, ac atgasedd y rhai byw…”

 

“Ha, doniol iawn. Ti sy â gwep fel tarw, was. Dim problem, bydi, reit. Dim ond jocan o’n i, cofia. Ond o’r braidd wi’n gallu gweld – ac mae'r symbolau 'na'n pylsadu'n codi cyfog arna i – ma’n hala ofn ofnadw' arna i – a bod yn hollol onest nawr!”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “…A phan fydd ef wedi dal dyn addas, un a fydd wedi dymuno gorchymyn yr Hen Feistri Enbyd, yna bydd ef yn cosbi’r creadur truenus y tu mewn i’w Gwch o Ddur, gan lapio corff y pechadur â thorchau rhewllyd, wrth feddiannau a threiddio i’w feddwl. Myfi a ddylai wybod, er imi gael fy nhemtio a’m camarwain gan yr Hen Filwr ar ffurf yr Hen Ryfelwr Llwyd, a chwympo oddi wrth ras ar hap a damwain. Dim ond ychydig rai pur eu calon a all ddianc rhag ei aelodau hollgofleidiol, ac felly bydd rhaid iti roi'r pwys mwyaf ar ddysgu aberthu’r arall anfuddiol er mwyn achub dy hunan yn y pen draw rhag iti drengi’n llwyr, ynteu waeth!”

 

Dyma'r wynt, trwchus a thrwm, o thus myglyd, fel pinwydd yn llosgi, yn bygwth trechu’r ddau. Yn yr awyrgylch mwll hwn, dyma dafodau di-rif o dân yn arnofio’n wyllt, a dafnau fyrdd o waed byw – cyrbibion teimladol wedi’u wahanu o un cythraul adwythig, heb enw – ac maent i gyd yn disgwyl yr eiliad pan ddisgynnant ar y cnawd amharod fel haid o chwilod ysglyfaethus er mwyn deifio, a rhwygo, a difetha. Ond hyd yma maen nhw mewn dimensiwn arall, fel petai, wedi'u cuddio rhag synhwyrau'r llanciau sy'n gweithio'n rhy galed i ddadansoddi'r hyn sy'n digwydd o'u cwmpas. Ac felly, yn y caddug gwancus, dyna ddau lolyn amharod yn bwrw ymlaen mor ehud i diriogaeth ble byddai angylion (ac unrhyw ddiafol gwerth ei halen) yn ofni mynd.

 

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[*] Mae 2,520 o drynewidion o’r 7 symbol, er na fydd llawer ohonynt yn ffurfio “geiriau hud” ynganadwy yn fy marn, hyd yn oed wrth ystyried mai llafariad ydy “w” (fel yn y Gimbreg). — P.M.

 

[**] Sa i’n meddwl taw’r Sêl Ysgarlad erch ei hunan yw hon. Fyddai D.B.P. ddim mor dwp â hynny, does bosib! Falle iddo “fenthyg” yr arwydd a sythwelwyd gan Ffred a’i wyrdroi e. Synnwn i’m sai fe’n gwneud hynny. —P.M.