An ancient method of telling tales is the shadow show. In such performances, flat, jointed puppets, cut out of card, are moved behind a translucent screen by talented puppeteers. By doing this it appears that the figures, which represent a host of characters, are walking, dancing, fighting, laughing, loving, crying, and dying. And thus, they are forced to act out all of life’s dramas for the sake of art, entertainment, instruction, and warning. What fun is had by the audience from watching the silly puppets prancing in front of them on the screen, from the safety of their seats. Needless to say, whilst looking at the surrogate people failing and succeeding, there will be no need for the watchers to suffer the same blows of fate. Would it be fair to say, then, that the people behind the curtains pulling the strings to move the helpless creatures, are similar to divinities? Perhaps so. However, the situation is more complex, remembering the proverb, ‘he who pays the piper calls the tune.’ Could we ask, therefore – or, are we forced to enquire – what is the status of those who commission, and pay to stare at, splendid spectacles like these?

 

By now, in the Blue House, the clear and unambiguous outlines of the real world are softening, transforming to the kind of colourful and flexible shapes to be found in cartoon strips. At the top of the stairs to the cellar in the cottage that’s falling down in the grounds of the posh mansion – number seventeen, or seven, depending on the vagaries of numerology – the vibration of the air intensifies. The feeling has by now become a physical reverberation, enough to make the hair on the heads of the brave but guileless trespassers – David and Steffan, Daud and Stjepan, Dai and Stezza – stand on end, causing their teeth to chatter too. Even the fat shadows, which would usually feast on despair and rashness, are trembling with expectation, sneering. At the same time there appears so craftily an enormous number of undeveloped sounds, like tiny squeals, wicked laughter, and deep rumbling. And then they blend to fashion a chant, or something similar, which is earnest, repetitive, rhythmic, hypnotic – ‘Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre.’

 

[Voice from Beyond] “My son – In unnatural angles it resides, the one without name, hiding itself in the shadows that dance and run wild through the empty spaces. It will be discovered now and then in the corner of your eye, before it slips down some dark path, as if it had been blown away by a keen wind gusting, giving you goose-pimples.” 

 

And from the cottage’s cellar, as if from the guts of the Eyrth itself, the Vexatious Voice proceeds to call on the Sorcerer called Lushfé, the one who is three — 

 

Great thanks be to Lushfé!

By·elzebub, come! Your heart is black!

Come, Azazel! Your wounds are red! 

O, Lord of Flies with fiery flame,

Burn not your slave in this Blue House!

To the Morning Star, all praise! 

 

Here’s two lads tempted to transgress. The shadows’ wild whispering fumbles for meaning. Hearts beat fearfully. Bodies stink of sweat full of adrenaline. Then, every movement is suddenly hindered. About them the blue aura shows their fear. One at least wants to fight. Both of them should flee. But the Voice persists —

 

Look, Nebesh!

Oh, water of the Great River, in that land

Where a mother knows not her child, 

Awaken Nebesh!

Oh, water of the Swift River, underwater,

Where a brother remembers not his sister, Oh,

Summon Nebesh!

Under the water,

Even a wife loves not her husband, Oh, so

Bring Nebesh!

Oh, water of the Weeping River,

Beneath the Eyrth, in the cave of the River of Tears,

Come, Nebesh, to visit me!

Nebesh, appear! 

 

“Oh, Nebesh of the South, Stezza! What in the Two Worlds is all this? I can hear voices. It’s like a man’s chanting. And someone else whispering in m’ears. Loads of old rubbish flowing through my mind, about ‘things not seen’ and ‘secrets of the universe.’ I don’t understand a word of it. There must be someone there – because of those voices. Come on, you can hear it too, can’t you? 

 

“Hmm, well, no, mate, I can’t. But I do feel a bit weird, somehow. It's your fault, maybe. But, Dai man – there’s no-one there at all.”

 

“Right – right – but – I’m definitely hearing voices – in my head – and feeling – it’s like electricity or something in here. And so cold, but then so bloody hot. I’ve never understood right what’s going on this estate, why I’m here, but well do I know that this is a place full of really odd people, all kinds of losers and layabouts. After all, this old family’s minted. But never mind about all the wealth, every one of them’s mental and useless. I’m not talkin’ about you, now, mate – nor me, of course – no, ha, ha! 

 

“Name of the Seven, what a time to discuss politics, mun! Well, you’re right about the bourgeoisie – in general, right – the rich get richer, s’pose – and of course the snobs’ll always lose touch with reality completely in the end. And then they’ll get displaced by the workers in their turn so that the cycle continues. That’s the nature of disenfranchisement and political dialectic, right? But they’re not wealthy here, mate. Come on now. And we pretty much live in poverty. You’ve seen the place, haven’t you?” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “It is always waiting, and expecting – for ages it has been preparing, for aeons. The foolishness of its prey is its tool, and the effects of overconfidence provide the hunting-ground where it stalks. And by lurking silently and stealthily, it shall collect new sacrifices. Be sure of this – human minds shall always fail completely to understand it. But it is most important to remember one thing. It can cross over the void only when the Gate has been opened.”

 

“No clue about all that, Stevie-boi, nor ‘bout what’s up with this place. But I’m feelin’ real odd now too, to be honest I just wanna puke me guts up. And that's your fault y'ugly old bogey! But we’re going to find out the truth, somehow or other. We got to, right?"

 

“Look ‘ere now, Dai – here’s an idea for you – it sounds like a telly – like someone’s left the box on – to scare idiots like us – Fred more than likely, the old fox! He’s been comin’ and goin’ ‘ere all the time, no doubt. Old black-and-white film, ‘Dancing with the Living Dead' – by Llwynlesg, y’know – somethin’ like —” 

 

Nuthkí, bestir!

Father of all,

Your servant calls!

Queen of the corn

Who treads the world,

Giver of life,

Notice my voice!

Bringer of death,

Come to me now!

Nuthkí, set to! 

 

“Step on it, then, Stezz, mun. We’ll give ‘im what for, right, well, see what’s there, anyway. Then, leg it sharpish. Down the stairs we go, then – out of the fryin’ pan into the fire. Get ready with the shoulder again, mate. Open Susama, ha, ha! 

 

So it is. Easier said than done, says the old idiom. But under the circumstances, it’s almost perfectly incorrect. The cellar door opens. As easy as anything, as it happens. As easy as could be. At that moment, as David roughly pulls Steffan forward, his fingers grasp the other man’s wrist. And a bracelet on Steffan’s wrist, that old hippy, breaks, scattering blue beads all over the floor. So, then the end begins in an instant of eternity. Two puny human forms fall into the cloud of unknowing, through the freezing entry-way between dimensions, through the Doleful Gate between the Two Worlds. And the Voice chants still— 

 

Isheth who rent the veil before!

You who turn the void before sowing seeds of chaos, 

You are the Most Ancient, Lord of the Old Ones;

You who are composed of myriad glowing spheres, 

You are time's uniter under the Scarlet Seal;

You who lurk on the threshold, knowing the gate, 

You are the keeper, the gate, the silver key;

You who gobble souls with your slimy tentacles, 

You are the place where reality melts.

Pierce, Isheth, the veil once more!

 

Here is the Summoning Chamber. In it, there’s silver paper everywhere, over every surface. On all the walls, there are old-fashioned and very noisy time-pieces. Every one of these has been set in such a way that rather than keeping strict time, there will be uninterrupted ticking more like static hissing filling the place. And it sounds as if the insistent scraping of insectile carapaces, ‘chep-chep-chep-er, chep-er, er-chep-er, chep’ is accompanying the Voice — 

 

Oh, Hebé the Grey! 

Well here I stand, 

Oh, skeletal mare, 

Spirit so guileful, 

Betrayer of the living, 

And of the dead too! 

To demand my right,

The Eyrth's old Mistress,

My right to command you! 

Grey Hebé, hush! 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “I have uncovered all these matters, but despite that, or perhaps because of it, I know that I am lost, even whilst recording these ancient secrets. Where I am at present, I am not able to guess. Although I believe, whilst being in complete fear of being pursued by the nameless one, that I have not gone from corporeal existence of some sort, and that I shall not be leaving such an existence behind either – not completely.” 

 

The ritual space is full of strong and luxurious aromas such as camphor, sandalwood, and myrrh. But overpowering these is a fresh, sour, and sharp smell, like turpentine, which comes from pine resin burning. In the middle of the cellar, it’s like being in a spherical mirror of silver which reflects itself internally. This is the eye of the storm. And even as the world outside still turns, this microcosm is a pocket of complete stillness. And the Voice reaches the peak of the litany — 

 

Shudder, O Powers!

Pure is a man’s soul,

Life nought but a trembling flame,

Which dies as it rises,

O Powers, qu — ! 

 

And then, once the two daring adventurers have rushed into the sacred spot like stupid fools, the Vexatious Voice squeals, using language that’s not the most refined minstrelsy you’d hope to hear {Language} — 

 

“Who? You? – You! – Oooh! In the name of the Nameless One! Baxter – Baker – Pekar – you stupid little urchin! – Wha’—?”

 

In fits and starts, the self-taught Wizard wearing a flame-red gown claws at the stifling air. His crazed face is the same colour as his clothes. In vain the dying man waves his bony arms, motioning in the empty space all around him as if he were trying to collect fleeting fragments of the broken magic mirror that used to belong to Tefnuth the Fair. 

 

“By Nuthkí! – Procter – wha’? Grief! You’re dyin’! – How —?” The Urban Commando is frightened for his life, although he’s trying to do his very best to appear as cool as a cucumber. And the Old Solider keeps on talking, as he quickly loses every iota of strength remaining to him — 

 

“Sweet Lushfé! You could’ve killed me! – Killed yourself! – Killed him! – Killed us all – or, or worse!” 

 

“Sir – Mr Procter – Man! What in the name of the Old Gods’re you doin’ ‘ere? What on Eyrth’s happenin’? You should be in bed, Sir, apparently, you’re about to croak it. I’m sorry, Sir – that’s just what everyone was sayin’ when we got back from our holidays.” 

 

“The Old Masters! Be quiet, you chattering monkey! Shut your gob, you idiot, in the name of the Seven who should never be named except in an appropriate ceremony! ... ... Well, you understand correctly. I am on the verge of dying, look at me, but I’m trying not to! And anyway, it’s me who should ask you – why, for Swtakh’s sake, are you in this cottage? And, by Wezir, how did you reach this holy place? You churlish lout – breaking and entering – and in the company of that enormous ape to top it all!” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “And thus, I implore you – Beware of venturing out in the Moon’s teasing light! You should refuse her tempting blandishments! Avoid, without a hint of a doubt, those unclean angles such as are found in the old Blue House, where space itself is warped in such a way that it forms flexible shapes that do not belong to our four normal dimensions!” 

 

“Look, Sir – all the therapy’s workin’, p’rhaps, right? I’m startin’ to remember things. It’s like my childhood place here, ‘seven’ was the number of our house in the old days, but I’ve not been back there for years. You’re Stezza’s grand-dad, right, well, uncle or whatever – and you’re so ill – we just wanted to see you. Tidy up a bit, maybe. Well, everything was reminding me of the old house where I lived before. I only wanted to poke about a bit – we decided to come over – to visit, like – and I realise now – this is number ‘seventeen’ – the number ‘one’ must’ve fallen off that door – that’s it – we were totally confused – something like that – so it’s your fault, Sir – not us – no!” But the devilish teacher has no interest in David’s explanations, as he wants to rant and rave himself —

 

“Did not you two notice the ‘sigillum silentiī’ outside the vestibule – my ‘sign of silence’? The Doleful Gate had been closed to all who are incompetent and unprepared. The ‘Scarlet Seal’ should have prohibited everything uninvited and unneeded from entering this holy sanctuary! Only the elements appropriate to the rite are permitted in here – only the symbolic oppositions, and the corresponding images fitting to the magic…” 

 

— He indicates with his finger the white cat and the black cockerel (or, perhaps, the other way around; they’re stuffed toys in any case) in cages made of cardboard boxes, in front of the temporary altar, on which there’s a collection of rusty knives. On the pile of bricks which is serving as sacrificial stone, there’s two rag-dolls. They’re dirty and battered, and there’s some red stuff on them. Behind him, there’s an enormous hessian sack, like a quilt cover, writhing stubbornly. It contains something, the lads know not what, although Steffan guesses that it’s a boa constrictor, maybe. He has a fertile imagination, that’s obvious. And then the frustrated Wizard continues prattling weakly — 

 

“… should’ve been able to penetrate the pure and holy circle – the strong and the weak – the learned and the idiotic – the wealthy and the poor – the prudent and the impetuous – the immaculate and the defiled. No-one could have come in without my express permission! And I have gone to considerable trouble not to garble the language, as that would be the greatest sin imaginable.” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Furthermore, when the sound of insectile carapaces ceaselessly clicking shall attack your ears, pay no attention to it! Take yourself off, away from the hateful creatures which exhale fear and sweat despair! Protect yourself lest the Indolent Idolaters reach out their sticky, multi-coloured tentacles, and throw you down in the Bottomless Well for ever! But if you must to close the Gate, use the words of the Spell, first discovered by Amasus of the Red Zone in the fifteenth century, which I shall teach to you now.” 

 

“Anyway, Sir, Stevo’s got an old spare key, y’know, I dunno where he found it – it’s an odd shape – really rusty – red like blood – hot like it’s on fire. Then the door was so stiff, mun! And, Oh, it was as nobblin’ cold as the Ice Forests in Wintertide out there, but bakin' hot like an oven in the middle of the Red Desert in 'ere – and there’s that chanting from some film – and a man's voice ranting on in me 'ead – and in a sec’ there we were stumblin' in ‘ere by accident —”

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Run, I say! Flee, fly! Gird your loins with the defensive talismans which I shall provide along with this letter, and use them in order to create strong enchantment. Keep these rag-dolls safe. Perhaps they appear to be worthless effigies. But they are full of power. And they shall be defenders of life, too. In addition, in the name of all that is sacred and profane – avoid the pines always – and especially at festival time in the middle of Summertide. And here begins the lesson — ‘Oriel Serafim.’” 

 

“Oh, by Mwshsangash, the Green, Seven-headed Goblin! May he always be watchful on my behalf, and defend me from the uninitiated! You fool, Baxter, in the name of the Other World, you don’t comprehend what you’ve done, do you? And now – Oh, Swtakh who laughed from winning the battle – there’s a cloven-hoofed, ectoplasmic entity, half-materialized outside, with its hideous tentacles free…” 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “You should know this. A brother cannot protect his brother. That not the order of the Nw Yrth. One will have to sacrifice the other on the altar of the self, when the time comes, in order to save oneself. Furthermore, remember that it is the proctor who thinks he understands the magic. It is he who will claim that he is the Old Masters' Anointed One. It is he who will pretend that he guards the Starry Way, and that he will open the Doleful Gate. Without a doubt, he will say that it is he who is the lock, and the key, also. Do not trust, therefore, in numerology, nor either in the charm and wonder of numbers, believing that there shall be safety! Especially, do not put faith in the seventh prime number, which represents that complement of elementary particles in the Standard Model of Physics – ‘Eo Potesta.’"

 

“…It’s Zuvnirathé, The Black Goat of the Woods with Thousands of Young – wicked daughter to Hebé herself – a demon of fire! She is the Lady of the Laws of Nature – she’s on the threshold, and has almost finished solidifying – she’s desperate to cross over, more than all else – she’ll do almost anything to take flesh. She’s scented the both of you – she can taste you, you know…?"

 

In the eccentric room, fear writhes like a snake, drunk on the Old Soldier’s ranting. It wraps itself tight about his throat, and stifles his squawking. But it’s too late, as the Gate between the Two Worlds has already been opened a chink. And the united trinity called the Lord of Flies, namely Lushfé, By·elzebub, and Azazel has just come through. Curly is his long tail, and turquoise are his shrewd eyes, and terribly burnt is his red skin. The Morning-star wields his flaming sword as if he were a military shepherd caring for his wayward flock. He intends to collect the soul of each one of the three men waiting for him in the magical capsule, who have wandered off the path of righteousness so egregiously. 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “I myself was a soldier once, who was accustomed to fight against the forces of disorder, injustice, and uncertainty which were threatening to vanquish the World. But I was led astray by an Old Soldier who was pretending that he was a faithful servant of some otherworldly powers. By obeying his exhortation, I succeeded in accomplishing very many good deeds for our land, our folk, our future. But I was sinning so grievously at the same time, without knowing it. And believe you me, I suffered terribly due to all the hardship. But I needed to pay with my life for my folly at last, and I was exiled from our Planet to somewhere else. And here I am a soldier again, who is fighting against unseen forces, trying to balance superstition and reason, the arts and the sciences, numerology and music. But you shall not inherit this burden – my little Dai – you do not have to become a soldier! – ‘Zati, Zata.’” 

 

The rough door of the desecrated chamber closes itself so reluctantly but terribly tight – without human help, it must be said, but with a gentle sigh. The Old Soldier, the Old Holy Warrior, the fake-Wizard slumps down on the three-legged stool of repentance, exhausted after hours of conjuring. He is loitering at the portal of extinction, and the disease that’s eating him is causing such intense pain that he splutters, retches, chokes, and coughs. As the decrepit man claws at his face with fingers covered in blisters, he seems like a tiny, deflated zeppelin. An indistinct growl escapes his bloody and sore lips. A tear beseeches him for release, although the appeal is refused.

 

“… Well, boys, I’d never have predicted this, maybe my mental powers are waning along with the physical strength. Hmm. Don’t cry over spilt milk, they say, ha. So, look – si’down! You won’t – we won’t – be going anywhere for a considerable time to come. All hell’ll be breaking lose outside this room, beyond the protective charms. That’s a terrible pity, perhaps, isn’t it? It’ll be like the World’s ending. Who knows what’ll happen. The scrying mirror’ll show something of interest to us, probably. although it tends to lie. But I don’t care, anyway, my moment’s come and gone again, and it’ll be too late for me now because of you two. I’ve already overstayed my time, and I'll be off in due course, Swtakh willing. Hmm. Well, as we’re snuggling up here together so friendly, I can tell you stories, before whatever’s going to happen, happens. I think I should begin at the beginning. So, Dai, Daud, David, listen up. And you, Steffan, you’d better stay quiet. There’s a message here for your half-brother from —"

 

However, it is not this that will be allowed to happen. Procter had interpreted the ancient texts more precisely than he could have imagined, more successfully that he’ll ever understand. As a result, from now on, things will develop according to a pattern organised thousands of years before, which was incised into the very structure of the Wizard’s House of Rebirth, in the first-times. And once the series of events is initiated – by an unclean rite rather than a pure ceremony – it shall be completed, come what may. And this time, in clear contrast with the time before, the words of the scarabs’ chant are totally correct. 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Oh, my dearest son – for the sake of the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers – cost what it may – do not cross the threshold between living and dying, which is bloody with the Scarlet Seal! And, I beseech you – never, ever, look back, towards the terrible form of Swtakh in the flames, who is uncanny and should not be seen! – ‘Galatim, Galatah.’” 

 

In the cellar, there’s some new sound to be heard, as if it was arriving from a long way away. A herd of sacrificial goats laments its fate from the top of the Main Ziggurat on the Nw Yrth’s southern continent. And immaculate, innocent, and terrified are they indeed. These are the spectres of every offering and sabbat, rite and ceremony that there has ever been. Their pitiful bleating causes the nebulous entreaties of civilizations that died ages ago to coagulate suddenly, so that they slash like iron whips through the boiling air. The walls, which are already wobbling and smoking, begin to bubble, while the blood-red candles explode in flaming balls of molten fat.

 

The pressure outside the building is terrifically great; it squeezes life-times of emptiness, despair, hatred, and distress inwards on themselves. So great is the electrical field in the cellar that the air itself ionizes into a plasma, spurting sparks of lightning all over the place. And, Oh, here comes the fire! Magnificent and lively flames – so exquisitely violent – that shoot their greedy fingers out through the screaming material of the place. 

 

[Voice from Beyond] “Farewell, my son! I always love you, I have never intended to harm you, I promise. Wherever I shall go in the unknown future – I shall carry you in my heart. I keenly desire that you shall not follow me into the shadows of the Nw Yrth! But if you are in dire straits on any occasion – and I pray that you shall not be – you shall be compelled to kill your enemy to survive. Thus, if the time comes, do this without compunction, despite your better instincts. And always remember the words of the Spell, so that you will be able to close the Gate between the Two Worlds if needs be. And now I must hide myself from those who are pursuing me. May you go well – Your ever-loving Father.” 

 

And then, all together, the three men disappear in a bonfire, whose flames smell of pines. They pretend to die – perhaps in order to come into existence once again somewhere else. But never mind about that, every one of the men crosses the void separately to reach the Nw Yrth in his own place, and time, and way. 

 

From its rotting roots to its barren branches, the cottage burns like dry gorse – getting reduced to ash – as the flames noisily devour everything inside. Outside the place, according to their custom, the pines give a cheery welcome to the life-giving torch, well, as well as they can of course. Everywhere, they drop thousands of green cones, the same colour as the plankton in the Cerulean Vastness. 

 

And then a trumpet-blast, loud enough to wake the dead, let alone the living, and those not yet born, resounds across the estate. In a warm and dark womb, a couple of miles from the flaming cottage, where shadows meet to discuss sophophilia, fashion nightmares, sow the seeds of destruction, and rend the future, a black heart beats strongly, ‘chep – er — chep – er — chep – er.’ And a proud baby wins his own name at the expense of the three men who are busy being sent to oblivion. He shall be known by this name when he emerges into the World, and this is the name he shall use to conquer the Eyrth, by means of magical tricks of the same kind as have been awoken in the cellar. Well, that’s the intention, anyway. But on whose part?

 

Dull hynafol o adrodd hanesion yw’r sioe gysgodion. Yn y fath berfformiadau, symudir pypedau cymalog, gwastad, wedi’u torri allan o gerdyn, y tu ôl i sgrin dryleu gan bypedwyr dawnus. Trwy wneud hyn yr ymddengys bod y ffigyrau, sydd yn cynrychioli lliaws o gymeriadau, yn cerdded, dawnsio, ymladd, chwerthin, caru, llefain, a marw. Ac felly, fe’u gorfodir i actio holl ddramâu bywyd er mwyn celf, adloniant, cyfarwyddyd, a rhybudd. Y fath hwyl a geir gan y gynulleidfa o wylio’r pypedau gwirion yn crychlamu o’u blaenau ar yr ysgrîn, o ddiogelwch eu seddi. Afraid dweud, wrth edrych ar y ddirprwy bobl yn methu a llwyddo, ni fydd rhaid i’r gwylwyr eu hunain ddioddef yr un ergydion ffawd. A fyddai’n deg dweud, felly, mai tebyg i dduwdodau yw’r bobl y tu hwnt i’r llenni’n tynnu’r llinynnau er mwyn symud y creaduriaid diymadferth? Efallai’n wir. Fodd bynnag, mae’r sefyllfa’n fwy cymhleth, o gofio’r ddihareb, ‘a dalo i’r pibydd a ddewis y dôn.’ A allem ni ofyn, felly – neu, a ydym yn cael ein gorfodi i holi – beth yw statws y rhai sy’n comisiynu, a thalu i rythu ar, olygfeydd ysblennydd fel y rheiny?

 

Erbyn hyn, yn y Tŷ Glas, mae amlinellau eglur a diamwys y byd go iawn yn meddalu, gan weddnewid yn siapiau lliwgar ac ystwyth fel y rhai i’w cael mewn stribedi cartŵn. Ar ben y staer i’r seler yn y bwthyn sy’n cwympo i lawr yn nhiroedd y plasty posh – rhif dau ar bymtheg, neu saith, yn dibynnu ar fympwy rhifoleg – dyna ddwysáu dirgrynu’r awyr. Mae’r synnwyr bellach wedi mynd yn atsain gorfforol, yn ddigon i godi gwallt pennau’r tresbaswyr glewion ond gwirion – David a Steffan, Daud a Stjepan, Dai a Stezza – gan achosi rhincian eu dannedd hefyd.

 

Hyd yn oed y cysgodion tewion, a wleddai fel arfer ar anobaith a gwylltineb, sy’n crynu gan ddisgwyliad, dan gilwenu. Ar yr un pryd yr ymddengys mor gyfrwys nifer enfawr o synau annatblygedig, fel gwichiadau bychain, chwerthin ysgeler, a murmur dwfn. Ac wedyn dyna nhw’n ymdoddi i lunio côr-gan, neu rywbeth tebyg, sy’n daer, ailadroddus, rhythmig, llesmeiriol – ‘Khepereni khepekhere kheperenet khepra. Kheperentw khepw khe khepereni khipre.’

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Fy mab – Mewn onglau croes i natur y mae’n trigo, yr un heb enw, gan ei guddio’i hun yn y cysgodion sy’n dawnsio a rhedeg yn wyllt trwy’r lleoedd gwag. Fe’i darganfyddir ef yn awr ac yn y man yng nghornel dy lygaid, cyn iddo lithro i lawr rhyw lwybr tywyll, fel pe buasai’n cael ei chwythu ymaith gan wynt main yn hyrddio, gan godi croen gŵydd arnat ti.”

 

Ac o seler y bwthyn, fel petai o grombil y Ddaear ei hun, dyna’r Llais Trallodus yn mynd yn ei flaen i alw ar y Swynwr o’r enw Lushfé, yr un sydd yn dri —

 

Boed diolch mawr i Lushfé!

By·elzebub, dere! Du dy galon!

Tyrd di, Azazel! Coch dy friwiau!

O, Dduw Cylion sydd â thanbaid fflam, 

Na llosg dy was yn y Tŷ Glas hwn!

I’r Seren Fore, rhoer pob clod!

 

Dyma ddau lanc wedi’u llithio i droseddu. Sisial gwyllt y cysgodion yn ymbalfalu am ystyr. Calonnau’n curo’n ofnus. Cyrff yn drewi o chwys llawn adrenalin. Dyna bob symudiad wedi’i rwystro’n sydyn. O’u cwmpas mae’r gwawl glas yn dangos eu dychryn. Mae un o leia’n dymuno ymladd. Fe ddylai’r ddau ohonyn nhw ffoi. Ond mae’r Llais yn parhau —

 

Edrycha, Nebesh!

O ddŵr yr Afon Fawr, yn y wlad honno

Lle nad edwyn mam ei baban,

Deffro Nebesh!

O ddŵr yr Afon Chwim, danddwr,

Lle na chofia brawd ei chwaer ef, O,

Gwysia Nebesh!

Dan y dŵr,

Ni châr gwraig hyd yn oed ei gŵr hi, O, felly

Tyrd â Nebesh!

O ddŵr yr Afon Wylofus,

Dan y Ddaear, yn ogof Afon Dagrau,

Gorfoda Nebesh i ymweld â fi!

Nebesh, ymrithia di!

 

“O, Nebesh o’r Sowth, Stezza! Be’ yn y Ddau Fyd yw hyn oll? Wi’n gallu clywed lleisiau. Fel ‘sai dyn yn siantio. A rhywun arall yn sisial yn ‘yn nghlustiau. Llawer o hen rwtsh yn llifo drwy’n meddwl i, am ‘pethau nas gwelir’ a ‘cyfrinachau’r bydysawd.’ Sa i’n deall gair ohono. Rhaid bod rhywun yno – o achos y lleisiau ‘na. Dere ‘malen, ti’n gallu glywed e ‘fyd, on’d wyt?”

 

“Hmm, wel, nagw, ‘achan, dw i’m yn gallu. Ond wi'n teimlo'n eitha od, rywsut. Ti sy ar fai, falle. Ond – Dai bach – ‘sneb ‘na o gwbl.”

 

“Reit – reit – ond – wi’n clywed lleisiau’n bendant – yn ‘mhen i – a teimlo – mae fel trydan neu rywbeth yn fan’ma. Ac mor oer, ond wedyn mor blydi poeth. Sa i erio’d wedi deall yn iawn be’ sy’n mynd ‘mlaen ar y stad ‘ma, pam wi ‘ma, ond da gwn i taw dyma le’n llawn o bobl od iawn, pob math o gollwyr a segurwyr. Wedi’r cwbl, craig o arian yw’r hen deulu ‘ma. Ond paid di becso am yr holl gyfoeth, ma’ pob un ohonyn nhw o’i go’ a da-i-ddim. Sa i’n sôn am ti, nawr, ‘achan – na fi, wrth gwrs – nagw, ha, ha!”

 

“'Neno'r Saith, dyna amser i drafod gwleidyddiaeth, w! Wel, ti’n iawn am y dosbarth canol – yn gyffredinol, reit – i’r pant y rhed y dŵr, sbo – ac wrth gwrs, fe fydd y crachach yn colli gafael ar y byd go iawn yn gyfan gwbl bob tro yn y pen draw. Ac wedyn byddan nhw’n cael eu disodli gan y gweithwyr yn eu tro fel bydd y cylchred yn parhau. Dyna natur dadryddfreinio a dialecteg wleidyddol, reit? Ond dyn nhw’m yn gyfoethog ‘ma, mêt. Dere nawr. A dyn ni’n byw mewn tlodi, bron, a bod yn onest. Ti ‘di gweld y lle, on’d wyt ti?”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Mae ef wastad yn aros, ac yn disgwyl – am allan o hydion y mae wedi bod yn paratoi, am oesoedd. Gwiriondeb ei ysglyfaeth yw ei offeryn, ac effeithiau gorhyder sydd yn darparu’r heldir lle mae’n ystelcian. A thrwy lechu’n ddistaw ac yn lladradaidd, mi fydd ef yn cynnull ebyrth newydd ynghyd. Bydd yn sicr o hyn – mi fydd meddyliau dynol yn methu’n lân â’i ddeall ef bob tro. Ond pwysig iawn cofio un peth. Ni fedr ef groesi dros y gwagle ond pan fydd y Porth wedi’i agor.”

 

“‘Sdim clem ‘da fi am ‘ny oll, Stevie-boi, nag am be’ sy’n bod ar y lle ‘ma. Ond wi’n teimlo’n od ofnadw’ nawr, a bod yn onest, dw i eisiau chwydu yn y fan. A ti sy ar fai am 'ny, yr hen fwgan hyll! Ond ni’n mynd i gael gw’bod y gwir, rywsut neu’i gilydd. Rhaid i ni, iawn?”

 

“Edrych ‘ma nawr, Dai – dyma syniad i ti – ma’n swnio fel teledu – fel ‘sai rhywun wedi gadael y bocs ‘mlaen – i godi ofn ar dwpsod fel ni – Ffred yn fyw na thebyg, ‘rhen gadno! Ma’ e ‘di dod a mynd yma drwy’r amser, heb os. Hen ffilm ddu a gwyn, ‘Dawnsio gyda’r Meirwon Byw’ – gan Llwynlesg, t’mod – rhywbeth fel —”

 

Nuthkí, ymysgwyd!

O Dad i ni oll,

Fe eilw dy was!

Frenhines yr ŷd

Sy’n camu trwy’r byd,

Gan roi i bawb hoedl,

Rho sylw i’m llef!

O Ddygwr ein tranc,

Nawr ataf fi tyrd!

Nuthkí, dos ati!

 

“Siapia hi ‘te, Stezz, w. Rhoi hi iddo fe ‘nawn ni, reit, wel, gweld be’ sy ‘na ta be’. Wedyn, baglu hi’n syth. Lawr y staer ‘da ni, te – o’r badell ffrio i’r tân. Bydd yn barod gyda’r ysgwyd ‘to, ‘achan. Agor, Susama, ha, ha!”

 

Felly y mae. Haws dweud na ‘neud, medd yr hen briod-ddull. Ond dan yr amgylchiadau, mae bron yn berffaith anghywir. Dyna agor drws y seler. Mor hawdd â dim, fel mae’n digwydd. Cyn hawsed ag y gallai fod. Gyda hynny, wrth i David dynnu Steffan yn arw yn ei flaen, mae’i bysedd yn cydio yn nwrn y dyn arall. A dyna freichled ar ddwrn Steffan, yr hen hipi ‘na, yn torri, gan sarnu gleiniau gleision ar hyd y llawr. Felly, mae’r diwedd yn dechrau mewn ennyd o dragwyddoldeb. Dyna syrthio dwy ffurf ddynol, bitw, i gwmwl y diwybod, drwy’r cyntedd fferllyd rhwng dimensiynau, drwy’r Porth Galarus rhwng y Ddau Fyd. Ac mae’r Llais yn siantio eto —

 

Isheth a rwygodd y llen o’r blaen!

Chi sy’n tro’r gofod cyn hau holl hadau caos, 

Chi yw’r Hen Ddihenydd, Arglwydd yr Hynafiaid; 

Chi sy’n cynnwys sfferau llachar fyrdd,

Chi yw unwr amser o dan y Sêl Ysgarlad.

Chi sy’n llechu ar y trothwy gan adnabod y porth, 

Chi yw’r ceidwad, y porth, yr allwedd o arian;

Chi sy’n sleifio’r enaid gyda’ch tentaclau seimllyd,

Chi yw’r fangre lle mae sylwedd yn toddi.

Treiddiwch Isheth y llen drachefn!

 

Dyma’r Siambr Wysio. Ynddi, mae papur gloyw ymhobman, dros bob wyneb. Ar y waliau i gyd, mae awrleisiau hen ffasiwn a swnllyd iawn. Mae pob un o’r rhain wedi’i osod yn y fath fodd fel taw yn hytrach na chadw amser caeth, y bydd yna dician di-dor yn fwy tebyg i hisian statig yn llenwi’r lle. Ac mae’n swnio fel petai sgrafellu taer argregyn trychfilaidd, ‘chep-chep-chep-er, chep-er, er-chep-er, chep’ yn cyfeilio i’r Llais —

 

O Hebé Lwyd!

Wel dyma fi’n sefyll, 

O gaseg esgyrnog, 

Ysbryd mor gyfrwys, 

Fradychwraig y byw, 

A’r meirwon hefyd!

I fynnu fy hawl i,

Hen Feistres y Ddaear, 

Yr hawl i’th orchymyn! 

Hebé Lwyd, taw!

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Yr wyf wedi datgelu'r materion hyn i gyd, ond serch hynny, ynteu efallai o’i herwydd, mi wn i mai colledig ydwyf, hyd yn oed wrth gofnodi’r cyfrinachau hynafol hyn. Lle rwyf fi ar hyn o bryd, ni fedraf fi ddyfalu. Er fy mod yn credu, wrth fod mewn ofn llwyr o gael f’erlid gan yr un heb enw, nad wyf wedi mynd o fodolaeth gorfforol o ryw fath, ac na fyddaf fi’n gadael y fath fodolaeth ar ôl ychwaith – nid yn gyfan gwbl.”

 

Mae’r fangre ddefodol yn llawn o arogleuon cryf a moethus fel camffor, coed sandal, a myrr. Ond trechu’r rhain mae gwynt ffres, sur, a siarp, fel tyrpant, sy’n dod o resin pin yn llosgi. Yng nghanol y seler, mae’n debyg i fod mewn drych sfferaidd o arian sy’n adlewyrchu’i hun oddi mewn. Dyma lygad y ddrycin. A hyd yn oed wrth i’r byd tu allan droi eto, poced o lonyddwch llwyr yw’r microcosm hwn. A dyma’r Llais yn cyrraedd anterth y litani —

 

Crynwch, O Rymoedd!

Glân yw enaid dyn,

Nid bywyd ond fflam hygryn, 

Drenga wrth godi

O Rymoedd, cryn — !

 

Ac wedyn, unwaith bod y ddau anturiaethwr beiddgar wedi rhuthro i mewn i’r llecyn sanctaidd fel ffyliaid gwirion, dyna’r Llais Trallodus yn gwichian, gan ddefnyddio iaith nad yw gyda’r glerwriaeth goetha’ obeithiech chi’i chlywed —

 

“Pwy? Ti? – Ti! – Wwww! ‘Neno’r Un Dienw! Baxter – Baker – Pekar – y cenau bach gwirion! – Be’—?”

 

Ar hyrddiau, crafangu yn yr awyr fyglyd mae’r Dewin hunanddysgedig yn gwisgo gŵn fflamgoch. Yr un lliw â’i ddillad yw’i wyneb gorffwyll. Yn ofer mae’r dyn ar farw yn chwifio’i freichiau esgyrnog, gan ystumio yn y gofod gwag o’i boptu fel petai’n ceisio casglu dernynnau diflanedig o’r drych hudol, toredig oedd yn arfer perthyn i Tefnuth Landeg.

 

“Myn Nuthkí! – Procter – be’? Nefi bliw! Chi’n marw! – Shwd —?” Mae’r Comando Trefol yn dychryn am ei fywyd, er ei fod yn ‘neud ei orau glas i ymddangos mor ddidaro â dim. A dyna’r Hen Filwr yn dal i siarad, wrth iddo gyflym golli pob gronyn o nerth yn aros ynddo —

 

“Lushfé Cu! – Gallet ti fod wedi ‘yn lladd i! – Dy ladd dy hun! – Ei ladd e! – Ein lladd ni i gyd – neu, neu waeth!”

 

“Syr – Mr Procter – W! Be’n enw’r Hen Dduwiau chi’n ‘neud ‘ma? Be’ ar y Ddaear sy’n digwydd? Fe ddylech chi fod yn y gwely, Syr, yn ôl y sôn, chi ar fin marw. Ma’n flin ‘da fi, Syr – dyna jyst beth oedd pawb yn weud pan ‘nethon ni ddod ‘nôl o’n gwyliau.”

 

“’Rhen Feistri! Taw di, y mwnci baldorddus! Gad dy lap, y pwdryn, ‘neno’r Saith na ddylai ‘u henwi heb fod mewn seremoni briodol! Wel, rwyt ti’n deall yn iawn. Ar fin marw dw i, edrych arna i, ond rwy’n ceisio peidio! A be’ bynnag, fi a ddylai ofyn i ti – pam, er mwyn Swtach, rwyt ti yn y bwthyn hwn? A, myn Wezir, sut gyrhaeddaist ti’r lle cysegredig hwn? Y llabwst dreng – yn torri a mynd i mewn – ac yng nghwmni’r epa anferth ‘na ar ben hynny!”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Ac felly, yr wyf fi’n erfyn arnat – Gochela di rhag mentro allan yng ngolau profoclyd y Lleuad! Mi ddylet ti wrthod ei gweniaith ddengar! Osgoa, heb rithyn o amheuaeth, yr onglau aflan hynny fel y rhain a geir yn yr hen Dŷ Glas, lle mae’r gofod ei hun wedi’i ystumio, yn y fath fodd fel mae'n ffurfio siapau hyblyg nad ydynt yn perthyn i’n pedwar dimensiwn arferol ni!”

 

“‘Drychwch, Syr – ma’r holl therapi’n gweithio, falle, reit? Wi’n dechrau cofio pethau. Ma’ fel bro ‘mebyd ‘ma, ‘saith’ oedd rhif ein tŷ ni, yn ‘rhen ddyddiau, ond sa i ‘di mynd ‘nôl ‘na ers blynyddoedd. Tad-cu Stezza dych chi, hefyd, reit, wel, wncwl neu be’ bynnag – a chi mor sâl – dim ond eisiau’ch gweld chi o’n ni. Twtian dipyn, falle. Wel, oedd popeth yn atgofio fi am yr hen dŷ ble o’n i’n byw o’r blaen. Dim ond eisiau chwilota o’n i – ‘naethon ni benderfynu dod draw – i ymweld, ch’wel – a wi’n sylweddoli nawr – dyma rif ‘un deg saith’ – rhaid bod y nifer ‘un’ wedi syrthio oddi ar y drws ‘na – dyna’r peth – o’n ni’n drysu’n lân, rhywbeth fel ‘ny – chi sy ar fai, felly, Syr – nage ni – na!” Ond ‘does gan yr athro cythreulig ddim diddordeb yn esboniadau David, achos ei fod e’i hun eisiau rhegi a thaeru —

 

“Sylwasoch chi'ch dau ddim ar y ‘sigillum silentiī’ tu allan i’r cyntedd – fy ‘arwydd tawelwch’? Roedd y Porth Galarus wedi’i gau ar bawb sy’n anghymwys ac amharod. Fe ddylai’r ‘Sêl Ysgarlad’ fod wedi gwahardd popeth diwahoddiad a diangen rhag cyrraedd y seintwar lân hon! Dim ond yr elfennau’n briodol i’r ddefod a ganiateir fan hyn – dim ond y gwrthwynebau arwyddluniol, a’r delwau cyfatebol yn gweddu i’r hud…”

 

— Mae’n dangos â’i fys y gath wen a’r ceiliog du (neu, efallai, o chwith; maen nhw’n deganau wedi'u stwffio beth bynnag) mewn caetsys wedi’u ‘neud o focsys cardbord, o flaen yr allor dros dro, ac arni gasgliad o gyllyll rhydlyd. Ar y pentwr o frics sy’n ‘neud y tro fel maen aberthol, dyna ddwy ddoli glwt. Brwnt a rhacsog ydyn nhw, ac mae rhyw stwff coch arnyn nhw. Tu ôl iddo, mae sach hesian, enfawr, fel gorchudd cwilt, yn gwingo’n ystyfnig. Mae’n cynnwys rhywbeth, ŵyr y llanciau ddim beth, er bod Steffan yn dyfalu mai neidr wasgu ydy, falle. Mae ganddo ddychymig ffrwythlon, dyna amlwg. Ac wedyn mae’r Dewin rhwystredig yn parhau bregliach yn wan —

 

“… a ddylai fod wedi gallu treiddio’r cylch cysegr-lân – y cryf a’r gwan – y doeth a’r ynfyd – y cyfoethog a’r tlawd – y pwyllog a’r bywiog – y dihalog a’r halogedig. Ni allai neb fod wedi dod i mewn heb ‘y nghaniatâd pendant! Ac rwy wedi mynd i gryn drafferth i beidio â llurgunio’r iaith, gan mai’r pechod mwyaf a ellir ei ddychmygu fyddai hynny.”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Ymhellach, pan fydd sain argregyn trychfilaidd yn di-baid glicio’n ymosod ar dy glustiau di, na thâl di sylw iddi hi! Dos â thithau ymaith, oddi wrth y creaduriaid atgas sy’n allyrru ofn a chwysu anobaith! Diogela dy hunan rhag i’r Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd estyn eu tentaclau aml-liwiog, gludiog, a’th daflu i lawr i’r Pydew Diwaelod hyd byth! Ond os bydd yn rhaid i ti gau’r Porth, defnyddia di eiriau’r Rhaib, a ddarganfuwyd gyntaf gan Amasus o’r Parth Coch yn y bymthegfed ganrif, y byddaf y ei dysgu i ti yn awr.”

 

“Ta be’, Syr, ma’ da’ Stevo hen allwedd sbâr, ch’mod, sa i’n gw’bod ble ddaeth e o hyd iddi hi – siâp od yw hi – rydlyd iawn – goch fel gwaed – boeth fel ‘sai ar dân. Wedyn mor stiff o’dd y drws, w! Ac, O, o’dd hi mor rhynllyd o oer â’r Coedwigoedd Iâ yn y gaea draw fan'na, ond chwilboeth fel ffwrn yng nghanol yr Anialwch Coch yn fan'ma – a dyna’r siantio ‘na o rw ffilm – a llais dyn yn rhefru yn 'mhen i – ac mewn fflach, dyna o’n ni’n baglu i mewn ‘ma ar hap —“

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Rhed di, meddaf fi, dianc! Ffoi di, ehed! Gwregysa dy lwynau â’r talismonau amddiffynnol a ddarparaf gyda’r llythyr hwn, a defnyddia di hwy er mwyn creu hudoliaeth gref. Cadw di’r dolis clwt hyn yn ddiogel. Efallai eu bod hwy’n ymddangos yn ddelwau diwerth. Ond llawn grym ydynt hwy. A gwaredwyr bywyd fyddant hwy hefyd. At hynny, er y byd a’r betws – osgoa’r pinwydd bob tro – ac yn enwedig ar amser gŵyl yng nghanol haf. A dyma ddechrau’r wers – ‘Oriel Serafim.’”

 

“O, myn Mwshsangash, y Pwca Seithben Gwyrdd! Boed iddo fod wastad yn wyliadwrus ar fy rhan i, a’m hamddiffyn rhag y rhai heb eu hynydu! Y ffŵl iti, Baxter, ‘neno’r Byd Arall, dwyt ti’m yn amgyffred be’ ti ‘di ‘neud, wyt ti? Ac yn awr – O, Swtach a chwarddai o ennill y frwydr – mae ‘na endid ectoplasmig, fforchog ei ewin, wedi hanner ymrithio tu allanfuodd yn filwr unwaith, a’i dentaclau hyll yn rhydd…”

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Mi ddylet wybod hyn. Nid brawd a all ddiogelu’i frawd. Nid dyna yw trefn y Nw Yrth. Mi fydd yn rhaid i ddyn aberthu’r arall ar allor yr hunan, pan ddaw’r amser, er mwyn ei achub ei hun. Ymhellach, cofia di mai’r proctor sy’n meddwl ei fod yn deall yr hud. Efe a honna mai Eneiniog yr Hen Feistri ydy. Efe a fydd yn coegio ei fod yn gwarchod y Llwybr Serennog, ac y bydd ef yn agor y Porth Galarus. Heb os, mi fydd ef yn dywedyd mai’r clo ydy, a’r allwedd, hefyd. Nac ymddirieda di, felly, mewn rhifoleg, nac ychwaith yng nghyfaredd a rhyfeddod niferoedd, gan goelio mai yno y bydd dirgelwch! Yn enwedig, paid di â rhoi dy ffydd yn y seithfed rhif cysefin, sy’n cynrychioli nifer gronynnau elfennol ym Model Safonol Ffiseg – ‘Eo Potesta.’”

 

“…Zuvnirathé ydy, Gafr Ddu'r Goedwig sydd â Miloedd o Epil – merch ddiffaith i Hebé ei hun – cythraul o dân! Arglwyddes Deddfau Natur ydy – mae hi ar y trothwy, a bu bron iddi orffen ymsolido – taer am groesi drosodd ydy hi, o flaen dim – fe wnaiff unrhyw beth bron i gymryd cnawd. Wedi clywed eich gwynt chi'ch dau mae hi – fe all hi’ch blasu chi, ch’mod…?”

 

Yn y ‘stafell hynod, dyna ymdorchi ofn fel neidr wedi’i meddwi ar refru’r Hen Filwr. Mae’n ei lapio’i hun yn dynn am ei wddf, a llethu’i grawcian. Ond mae’n rhy hwyr, gan fod y Porth rhwng y Ddau Fyd eisoes wedi’i gilagor. Ac mae’r drindod unedig o’r enw Duw Culion, sef Lushfé, By·elzebub, ac Azazel, newydd ddod drwyddo. Cyrliog yw'i gynffon hir, a gwyrddlas yw’i lygaid craff, ac wedi’i losgi’n enbyd yw’i groen coch. Dyna’r Seren Fore’n trin ei gleddyf fflamllyd fel petai’n fugail milwrol yn gofalu am ei braidd gwamal. Mae’n bwriadu casglu enaid pob un o’r tri dyn yn aros amdano yn y capsiwl hudol, sydd wedi crwydro oddi ar lwybr cyfiawnder mor ddybryd.

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Myfi fy hun fu'n filwr unwaith, a arferai frwydro yn erbyn grymoedd anhrefn, anghyfiawnder, ac ansicrwydd a oedd yn bygwth goresgyn y Ddaear. Ond, mi gefais f’arwain ar gyfeiliorn gan Hen Filwr a oedd yn cymryd arno ei fod yn was ffyddlon i rai grymoedd arallfydol. Trwy ufuddhau i’w annog, mi lwyddais i gyflawni llawer iawn o weithredoedd da dros ein gwlad, ein gwerin, ein dyfodol. Ond pechu mor ddifrifol yr oeddwn i ar yr un pryd, heb yn wybod imi. A chred di mi, yr oeddwn i’n dioddef yn enbyd oblegid y caledi oll. Ond yr oedd arnaf fi angen talu â'm bywyd am fy ffolineb o’r diwedd, a fe’m halltudiwyd o’n Planed ni i rywle arall. Ac yma, yr wyf fi’n filwr eto, sy’n ymladd yn erbyn grymoedd nas gwelir, gan geisio cyfantoli ofergoel a rhesymoledd, y celfyddydau a’r gwyddorau, rhifoleg a cherddoriaeth. Ond nid tydi a fydd yn etifeddu’r baich hwn – Dai bach – ‘does dim rhaid i ti ddod yn sowldiwr! – ‘Zati, Zata.’”

 

Dyma ddrws garw’r siambr wedi’i halogi yn cau ei hun mor hwyrfrydig ond yn dynn aruthrol – heb gymorth dynol, raid dweud, ond â si mwyn. Dyma’r Hen Filwr, yr Hen Ryfelwr Lwyd, y ffug-Ddewin, yn syrthio i lawr yn swp ar stôl deircoes edifeirwch, wedi ymlâdd ar ôl oriau o hudo. Mae ar ddarfod, ac mae’r haint yn ei fwyta’n peri gwewyr mor ddwys nes iddo ffrwtian, gwag-gyfogi, tagu, a phesychu. Wrth i’r gŵr musgrell grafangu’i wyneb â bysedd yn bothelli i gyd, mae i'w weld yn debyg i sepelin fychain, ddrylliedig. Dyma ddianc arthio aneglur rhag ei wefusau gwaedlyd a dolurus. Dyma grefu deigryn arno am ryddhad, er bod yr apêl yn cael ei gwrthod.

 

“… Wel, bois bach, fyddwn i 'rioed wedi darogan hyn, falle bod fy mhwerau meddyliol yn cilio gyda’r nerth corfforol. Hmm. Peidiwch â chodi pais ar ôl piso, meddan nhw, ha. ‘Lly ‘drychwch – ‘steddwch! Fyddwch chi – fyddwn ni – ddim yn mynd i unman am gryn dipyn o amser i ddod. Fe fydd hi’n mynd yn helynt tu allan i’r ‘stafell ‘ma, tu hwnt i’r cyfareddau gwarcheidiol. Dyna resyn o beth, falle, ond ife? Fe fydd fel ‘sai’r Byd ar ben. Dyn a ŵyr be’ fydd yn digwydd. Fe fydd y drych sgrio’n dangos rhywbeth o ddiddordeb i ni, siŵr o fod, er fod e’n tueddu i ddweud celwyddau. Ond ‘sdim ots ‘da fi, be’ bynnag, mae fy moment i wedi dod a mynd ‘to, ac fe fydd yn rhy hwyr i fi nawr o’ch achos chi'ch dau. Rwy eisoes wedi aros dros f’amser, ac fe fydda i bant maes o law, os Swtach a'i myn. Hmm. Wel, wrth i ni gwtsio ‘ma gyda’n gilydd mor gyfeillgar, fe alla i chwedleua wrthoch chi, cyn i be’ bynnag fydd yn mynd i ddigwydd, ddigwydd. Rwy’n meddwl fe ddylwn i ddechrau o’r dechrau. ‘Lly, Dai, Daud, David, gwranda di’n astud. A ti, Steffan, well i ti aros yn llonydd. Mae ‘na neges yma ar gyfer dy hanner frawd oddi wrth —”

 

Fodd bynnag, nid hyn a fydd yn cael digwydd. Roedd Procter wedi dehongli’r testunau hynafol yn fwy manwl gywir nag y gallai fod wedi dychmygu, yn fwy llwyddiannus nag y bydd yn deall byth. O ganlyniad, o hyn ymlaen, bydd pethau’n datblygu yn unol ôl â phatrwm wedi’i drefnu miloedd o flynyddoedd o’r blaen, a ysgythrwyd i union adeiledd Tŷ Aileni’r Dewin, ar y cychwyn cyntaf. Ac unwaith y cychwynnir y gyfres o ddigwyddiadau – gan ddefod amhur yn hytrach na seremoni lân – fe fyddir ei chyflawni, doed a ddelo. Ac y tro hwn, mewn cyferbyniad eglur â’r amser o’r blaen, mae geiriau llafar-gân y sgarabiaid yn hollol gywir.

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “O, f’annwylaf mab – er mwyn y Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd – gostied a gostio – paid â chroesi’r trothwy rhwng einioes a thranc, sy’n waedlyd â’r Sêl Ysgarlad! Ac yr wyf yn erfyn arnat ti – paid, byth erioed, ag edrych yn ôl, tuag at ffurf ddychrynllyd Swtach yn y fflamau, sydd yn annaearol ac na ddylai ei weld! – ‘Galatim, Galatah.’”

 

Yn y seler, mae rhyw sain newydd i’w chlywed fel petai’n cyrraedd o bell iawn i ffwrdd. Dyma yrr o eifr aberthol yn galarnadu’u ffawd o ben y Prif Sigwrat ar gyfandir deheuol y Nw Yrth. A dilychwin, diniwed, dychrynedig ydyn nhw’n wir. Dyma rithiau pob offrwm a sabbat, defod a seremoni a fu erioed. Mae’u brefu truenus yn achosi i ddeisyfiadau niwlog gwareiddiadau fu farw amser maith yn ôl dolchennu’n ddisyfyd, nes eu bod yn slaesio fel chwipiau dur trwy’r awyr ferw. Mae’r waliau, sy eisoes yn simsanu a mygu, yn dechrau byrlymu, wrth i’r canhwyllau gwaedrudd ffrwydro mewn pelenni tanbaid o fraster tawdd.

 

Mae’r pwysedd tu allan i’r adeilad yn aruthrol fawr; mae’n gwasgu oesau o wacter, anobaith, casineb a gofid tuag i mewn arnyn nhw’u hunain. Cymaint yw'r maes trydanol yn y seler fel bod yr awyr ei hun yn ïoneiddio’n blasma, gan dasgu gwreichion o fellten ar hyd ac ar draws. Ac, O, dyna gyrraedd y tân! Fflamau godidog a hoenus – mor rhagorol o dreisiol – sy’n saethu eu bysedd barus allan trwy ddefnydd sgrechlyd y lle.

 

[Llais o’r Tu Hwnt] “Ffarwél, ‘machgen i! Rwyf wastad yn dy garu di, ‘dwi ddim wedi bwriadu d’anafu di erioed, rwy’n addo. Ble bynnag yr af fi yn y dyfodol anhysbys – fe’th ddygaf di yn fy nghalon. Mi ddymunaf yn awyddus na fyddi di’n fy nilyn i gysgodion y Nw Yrth! Ond os byddi di mewn cyfyngder mawr ar unrhyw achlysur – ac mi weddïaf na fyddi – mi fyddi di’n gorfod lladd d’elyn i oroesi. Felly os daw’r amser, gwna di hyn yn ddiegwyddor, er dy reddfau gorau. A chofia di bob tro eiriau’r Rhaib, fel y gelli di gau’r Porth rhwng y Ddau Fyd os bydd angen. Ac yn awr bydd yn rhaid imi fy nghelu fy hun eto rhag y rhai sy’n f’ymlid. Da bych di – Dy Dad bythol-gariadus.”

 

Ac wedyn, gyda’i gilydd, dyna ddiflannu’r tri dyn mewn coelcerth ac ar y fflamau sawr pinwydd. Maen nhw’n smalio marw – falle er mwyn dod i fodolaeth unwaith yn rhagor yn rhywle arall. Ond ni waeth beth a fo am hynny, mae pob un o’r dynion yn croesi’r gwacter ar wahân i gyrraedd y Nw Yrth yn ei le, a’i amser, a’i ffordd ei hun. 

 

O’i wreiddiau pwdr i’w ganghennau diffaith, dyna’r bwthyn yn llosgi fel eithin sych – gan gael ei ysu’n ulw – wrth i’r fflamau ddifa’n swnllyd bopeth y tu mewn. Tu mas i’r lle, yn unol â’u harfer, mae’r pinwydd yn rhoi croeso siriol i’r ffagl fywhaol, wel, cystal ag y medran nhw wrth reswm. Ym mhob man, maen nhw’n gollwng miloedd o gonau gwyrddion, yr un lliw â’r plancton yn y Meithfor Glas.

 

A dyna ganiad corn, cyfuwch ag y dihuno’r meirw, heb sôn am y byw, a’r rhai heb eu geni eto, yn atseinio dros yr ystâd. Mewn croth, gynnes a thywyll, ryw gwpl o filltiroedd o’r bwthyn gwenfflam, lle bydd cysgodion yn cwrdd i drafod athroniaeth, llunio hunllefau, hau hadau dinistr, a rhwygo’r dyfodol, mae calon ddu’n curo’n gryf, ‘chep – er — chep – er — chep – er.’ A dyna faban balch yn ennill ei enw ei hun ar draul y tri dyn sydd wrthi’n cael eu hanfon i ebargofiant. Fe’i hadwaenir dan yr enw hwn pan ddaw e allan i’r Byd, a dyma’r enw fydd e’n ddefnyddio i drechu’r Ddaear, trwy gyfrwng castiau hudol o’r un fath a enynnwyd yn y seler. Wel, dyna’r bwriad, ta be’. Ond o ran pwy?