Is it not true that language is the shadow of reality, which allows us to capture, describe, and use everything existing by means of words and concepts? Indeed, some would say that language creates the whole cosmos. After all – in the Beginning was the Sun’s Song – as we have heard in the tale. So, what would happen if the reality we inhabit were to be but a device formed from slippery symbols, and spectral images? Maybe, in such an insubstantial womb of possibility, those who are creative enough could re-write the past and compose the future, as if they were just whistling a happy tune. Under such circumstances, if we dare to imagine that they could exist at all, would we seize the opportunity to fashion and recite our own histories? Or, come to think about it, would we allow ourselves to continue to be swept away by the tide of events, hopes, and ideas, which belong to everyone else around us? 

 

Throughout that inevitable day, the Sun was trying to smile on my green but sleepy back-yard. But, as usual, he didn’t succeed, and it was bucketing down, on and off, in my childhood patch. I remember thinking I could understand why everyone says that the place is ugly as well as lovely, not without reason, in my humble opinion. So, I was walking about under a black and heavy cloud, and to be honest, I was soaked to the skin. I hadn’t slept for days, either. It felt, wherever I wandered, as if the whole landscape reflected my lifetime full of grief and pain. Oh, poor me! The Eyrth was waiting for something, holding its breath, although I didn’t know for what in particular. I felt lost, and so lonely. The same old story was being repeated by the mocking voice of my absent Father in my head. I had no job, nor friends, no partner, no hope, no future. And don’t you even mention the past, you clever devils! What a dog's dinner I’d made of everything. I’d reached the end of my tether, and was considering (it gives me the heebie-jeebies even now now) "felō-dē-sē."

 

But there again, perhaps things would look different to someone who wasn’t in the same situation. Dai Baxter was my life-long friend, if ‘friend’ was the correct word in truth of course. Hmm, come to think of it, friends should be ready to help each other out. But I was only ‘bulky bull’ or ‘great big lump of a muscle-man’ in my ‘friend’s’ opinion. And I knew that it was me who would get it if one of his clever plans went wrong. He could run much faster than me, which is why he always got away. Oh, what fun we had together, mun, we were always getting into scrapes. I was so shy, I was afraid of my own shadow, apparently, and he was so daring, although he was so stupid too. It was only my physical strength he used to admire, probably. 

 

After all, little did he know that I’d been a scholar in some Venerable Institute of Higher Learning, before I was dismissed due to all my personal problems. He only wanted to have fun all the time, well, it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks, they say. And maybe they were right. But despite all that, I loved the company of the uncouth lad who was childish but so energetic at the same time, more than anything else on the face of the entire stupid Planet. I would never want the leopard to change his spots, although I hated him on occasions, too. But he wasn’t enough. Not even he could save me. 

 

“Perhaps things’ll get better before long – they can’t get worse,” I kept on telling myself. but then, “Ooh – stop dreaming, mate – thoughts are powerful, sometimes – there’s no way out of this hole, mun. You’re done for!”

 

Taking everything into account, all I could do was long for a sunny childhood that’d disappeared many years ago. I wanted to die, truth be told, with all my heart. My left wrist was bleeding, where I’d cut it with the keys. I couldn’t decide what to do. it’s not possible to explain, it was like some huge weight was crushing me. That how I always felt. How could I get rid of the fear and the pain? Life's dead arms were like a millstone round my neck. I kept on thinking about all the World's horrors, it wasn't possible to do anything different. There were images of the stinking-rich brigands, the treacherous politicians, cutting the throats of the poor. And then there were the magnates and the captains of industry succeeding in poisoning the seas and polluting the atmosphere {Changes}. And talking of bile, what about the hypocritical priests preaching self-destruction in the name of otherworldly love, and the stupid teachers and the blinkered parents who also warp minds and mar the future {Life Lessons}. It was no surprise that the Pure Servants set themselves on fire to protest against the World's Shortcomings, what with the armies of guerrillas bashing kids and burning lads, and the unrepentant crooks selling drugs whilst pretending they're offering experiences that'll 'change your mind forever.' They're all just liars, and cheats, and losers, who use and scar other people, before casting them aside. 

 

Dear Lushfé! I desired with my whole heart to get rid of all the horrors I was sure I was responsible for. But I didn't at all know how to bring the mess to an end! The bitter emptiness inside me was rapidly expanding to encompass and destroy the World. Well, I thought, everything that lives comes out of the Great Grey Sea originally, even though the Solar System will die in a flaming holocaust in the very far future, according to the latest hypotheses, y’know. What with everything, then, water would be best. I went straight to the bank of the fickle, mouthy river. I was about to jump in, believe you me, to go back at last to the salty womb of our watery Mother once again, before I got knocked down by a speeding white van, or changed my mind, or fell through an invisible rent in the material of reality into some other dimension. And there on the steep bank of the Weeping River I sat down to consider how senseless is a man’s life, whilst kicking loads of pebbles as black as the sins of all the Eyrth into the grubby depths below.

 

That very second, when I was just about to launch myself into the waves of eternity, the Sun paused in the heavens. The sullen clouds opened. A voice like chocolate and very, very deep, more noisy than all the diamond hammers, and the screaming engines, and the boron-carbide cogs, in the Seven Sorcerers’ unstoppable machines, buried hundreds of miles under the crust of the Nw Yrth, exclaimed the one word – “Stop!” It had become so cold that all the horrid insects – the bristly pig grubs, and the pustular feather-trout – had fallen down out of the air, dropping listlessly onto the surface of the newly-formed ice at the bottom of the canyon. As reddy-blue as a fresh, inflamed scar was the dome of the heavens. 

 

“By Lushfé! What on Eyrth?” I managed to stammer in amazement. Nought but strange silence answered. Perhaps – maybe, mark you – that was the worst day ever. The day when the whole World broke. When every last man-jack died but me, poor thing! When the great darkness came. When I was kidnapped by the Bride of Chaos who rides the Seven-headed Beast in the Cleft between the Worlds. The film-strip showing Steffan Grossmann’s life – my own useless, wasted, shameful life – melted and split. Perhaps the command came too late. Maybe the shock pushed me over the edge. Down and down I went. And as I fell, time stood stock still. I was nowhere, but I was going everywhere. I lost myself.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Two men sit back-to-back to each other, in a small, windowless room, painted sky-blue. The place is hot, dry, stifling. One wall is filled by an enormous and exceptionally fine mirror. Perhaps it’s a scrying-screen since it’s white and matt, like the eye of Lotké servant to Nebesh after being turned into a pillar of chalk. There is no way in, nor way out, to be discerned. One man is middle-aged, and he has a shock of ginger hair, a tidily-trimmed beard, witty eyebrows, and goat-like, amber eyes. He is the image of charm, like a favourite uncle who’s serious, interesting, entertaining, intense, one thing after the other. He wears dungarees coloured the same shade as the room, and anyone would describe that his face was as dazzling as the four heads of each of the Veiled Messengers in the Old Book. He waits unconcernedly on a three-legged stool, stoically, even, staring at the strange mirror.

 

The other person’s a lad in his late twenties, more or less. He’s unkempt and wet, and wearing dirty jeans and a t-shirt stained with old sweat. He’s not slept for several days, apparently, or perhaps he’s slept much too soundly for an extremely long period, just like Rwm bel-Shaftí did. And then the cunning imp could answer any question put to him perfectly, but only with another question, so that in the end, he turned into a golden hay-stack that sank to the centre of the Nw Yrth, so great was his indignation. Now and then his blood-shot eyes dart back and forth over the empty wall opposite him. His legs twitch independent of his brain, as if they were living creatures. Suddenly, the following examination begins, not for the first time, with the lad whinnying through his nose — 

 

“Why’re we ‘ere? Well, why’m I ‘ere. anyway? I dunno where I am, or what this place is. What’s ‘appened? Where are we? What the Hell's up, for the sake of the Lazy Ones?” 

 

“Well, now then, matie. That is for me to know and for you to find out, it seems to me. You have to sing for your supper here, although there’s no need to eat or drink at all, in the usual sense, of course. But, well, one finds other means to satisfy one’s needs, let us say. By the way, one friendly little suggestion to start, lad. Don’t call on those Names, if you please. Such – discourtesy – won’t go down well with the – the Overseers.” 

 

“Ooh, stop saying things like that, it’s not fair! You don’t understand how frightening this is. It’s so warm down here, as hot as an oven. I’m burning up. I can hardly breathe. I don’t remember my name, who I am. Help me, come on, you should do something to help me!” 

 

“I would – if I were you – work harder to find the appropriate ideas, for your own sake. It would pay you to do that sooner or later. Remember, man! After all, it’s necessary to believe the things galloping through your mind before you can claim you know them. And on that front, I can’t help you further.” 

 

“What in Lushfé’s name’s that supposed to mean, then? Don’t set me puzzles. Just tell me. You must know. What exactly should I do? What can I do? What’s the answer? And who am I, too? I don’t know myself. Tell the truth, mun, please!”

 

“Oh, son, you should be careful using language like you’re doing, once again. If I were you, I mean – and I’m very pleased to say that I am not – well, not in the true sense of the words, as you are over there, and I am here, of course – if you forgive me my little witticism. Anyway, you will have to stay here. Well, you won’t have much choice, after careful consideration of the background to the current situation. And it’s a terribly sad one, without a doubt. You are to be a waiter, an assistant, as it were, someone who serves. And all the time in the Nw Yrth shall be yours, on several accounts, although that statement’s not especially relevant in this eternal locus. You shall have to, on your own account, decide how, and why, and when you want to implement plans, and rules, and systems, and laws, and punishments, and rewards, from now on. I can’t say that it’ll a matter of life or death, on your part, not anymore, but — “ 

 

“What you mean, mun? Lushfé help me! I’m beggin’ you, by Wezir!” 

 

“Shush, now, I’ve explained several times! Don’t fuss, my boy! There’s no-one of that description down here anymore. He hasn’t been here for long ages, he who answers to that Terrible Name. No matter that he came through this agonizing hive once, hearing confession from the legions of fiends incarcerated in this wretched place, an eternity ago, as it appears. Ah! How painful that day was, when some gained pity, and the others, sweet oblivion. Everyone excepting me. Why do you make me remember; for what inhuman reason? Stop it, stop it at once! It’ll not be possible to go back. Never. Oh, you’ll believe, and hope, and imagine and wonder, and this will displace all that you know about your memories. Time doesn’t flow here. Every second in every place exists right here at the same time, in this blue room, in these blue thoughts, on this blue day. But I’ll stop, I mustn’t. Such blathering is prohibited. You’ll need to learn the rules and anyway, you never know who’s eavesdropping… 

 

“…I myself, of course – I’m not in your place – although we’re both in the same room, ha. But then again, y’know, I wouldn’t like to rouse – the Authorities. The time of distress has gone. Definitively, finally, completely. Let me say one thing – I’ll lower my voice so that prying feelers won’t hear me, as I let the cat out of the bag. No, no, I’m sorry, even thinking about it was a mistake. Perhaps it’ll make the situation worse. Yes, of course. No.” 

 

“You have to help me, is there nothing you can do? How long’ve I been in this prison, I’ve no clue? Will you tell me, how long will I need to stay ‘ere? I give up. I want to scream. Need to get out of ‘ere – to be free – to go back to how things were before –to live – to be myself again. I’ll do anything you ask –”

 

“So! Oh, well, you will do, I understand. But that’s the thing, isn’t it – the crux, the essence in the heart of all that pain inside you. Listen. I’ll try to be, Oh dear, tender. By the Old Masters, it’s hard to deal with. Come on, man, tell the truth. He’s been asking so insistently for ages. I mean this, boy: look at yourself! Can you not see the sign seared into your soul, and smell the stench hanging over you? Oh, I’m sorry, this game of peek-a-boo’s torturing me, too, but I am forced to pretend. As I’ve already said, I believe, I’ve lost my reputation to no small extent. I’ve fallen from grace. I was cast down, and now I have admitted my fault, although there shall be no mercy. I am but obeying orders that come from above... 

 

“…Despite that, yes, sorry, to be brief, yes, there we are – my dear son, who has hurt me so badly, but who shall please me so greatly. Oh, why’re you dragging your heels like this? Hmm? I heard your words just now, but I don’t believe you. That was just fear and frustration. Deep down in the darkest depths, you know what you truly want. Embrace the cause. If you don’t wish to exist anymore on the face of the Eyrth, if you want to bring an end to living your human life, to go beyond the mortal coils – well, the ultimate solution to all your problems is in your hands now. Oh, I’m talking about – about ceasing to be – losing your life – expiring – perishing – that is, Oooh, dying… 

 

“…As it was in the past, so it is at the moment. The choice hasn’t changed. It never does. Don’t you understand? How could you fail to know? Not the mundane, boring, ridiculous things that’ve really happened – whatever has been done, cannot be undone. Despite that – the possibilities that can occur from here on? Men and trees – branches and roots – raising up and casting down – blood and water – loosing and binding – the Eyrth and the Nw Yrth? Every instant existing here together. Yes, that’s it, isn’t it as clear as a cold day in the Crystal Palace of Kish? All this has come about. Satharāfanu to be – Stharafan who is – Sedaravanthí who has been – Steffan – my young trainee – because I am your father, Oh Skilled Leader!”

 

That was when I was forced to feast on the truth’s bitter liver. The day when the World came to an end – my World, at least, as the great thinkers are fond of commenting – although demise is not an event in one’s life, as one is not alive at the time to experience it. Anyway, that was when I felt as if all creation would have perished if I had died – by drowning in the river’s foul soup – or being swept away in some van accident, who can say? I fell to my knees that second, in front of the strange creature, realising that he was the Lord of the Wilderness, and me myself too, at the same time. The only thing I could croak out was, “Aah! That's who I am, what I am! Swtakh! I want to live!” But then, the Vexatious Voice cut across me — 

 

“Look, my boy. All I want is for you to sit down and talk with me for a while. I’d like to explain a thing or two. Time for you to get some answers, ha, ha. And then you’ll be able to make the wisest choice, I’m sure.” His silky oration was sweeping over me like sickening waves of honey. “Open your eyes, son, and stare at that wall. I have to show you something.” 

 

And at once I begin to see images as bright as day on the scrying screen before me. The history of my whole life was there, every thought, and feeling, and event, from the cradle to the grave. But the pictures weren’t arranged in a line from start to finish. Rather, everything was on top of everything else, and churning around like in some living sea. Whilst peering at the middle of this tempest, I realised I could go into every one of the scenes by concentrating on it. To my great surprise, I saw that the story didn’t finish at the stinking river, and as I squatted there, the Vexatious Voice coaxed and chastised me to embrace my fate and see what would be waiting for me on the cruel Eyrth if I were to go back. And here I’ll describe in detail what I experienced — 

 

[Scrying Screen] There’s no place like home, they say. By Swtakh there isn’t! And I should know, as I truly am a sad old fart, who’s housebound, if you forgive the expression. But I’m very far from being happy, trapped here in this ancient cottage. I was an only child to start with, although I discovered my awful half-sister later on. And a lonely old man am I, even now. I always have been, and I always shall be, too, although I have wished so often, upon the stars, that the situation would be different some day. Perhaps that’s why I’ve never fallen in love, nor found a partner, either. Cursed is what I am. And here I shall see out my days, between four damp and crumbling walls, soiled with grease, and the fur of the stinky old dog, and fingerprints of those who died ages ago.

 

I couldn’t resist it, and my new-found sense of identity almost disappeared in the wake of the insistent words. I need to tell you, then, that from nowhere, there was another voice talking to me, too. Or perhaps there was a choir of voices, female this time – Grandma, and Mum, and Sister. I felt like an abomination, hearing their words welling up from inside me. But they were explaining things so sensibly and wisely, presenting a counterpoint to the man’s moaning, which was saccharine, and cheerfully nasty — 

 

[Female Voices] “The past is a mental store-house full of scarred instants depicting humiliation, neglect, pain, and shame. And these memories are always demanding to spread their tentacles to cast the inescapable shadow of the past, change the present, and steer the future, throughout our lives. We generally believe that our memories are true records of events. But this belief itself changes how we deal with what we think we know for certain. Of course, over time, all memories are distorted as we consciously mull on them over and over. Just imagine love, and war, and loss, and sex, and birth, and death.” 

 

And there were the two sets of voices going on to contend with each other. Although I have shown the one being followed by the other in this little piece, like two monologues, to be honest the two discourses were occurring at the same time, in my mind as it were. Having said that, I could hear the two perfectly clearly, like melody and harmony. The sounds created a complex and enchanting rhythm whilst competing and supporting one another. Heavy, and slow, and querulous was the one voice, whilst the other was sparkling and cheerful, but authoritative. Underwater, there, in the blue womb of an unbegun life, it was as if I was looking out from within an enormous eye on all existence. Three Fates were weaving the threads of potentiality, failure, and hope, whilst Fear tried to cut the web before it was firmly established. I could only fall freely with my mouth open, deeper and deeper into the cauldron of writhing images.

Onid yw’n wir mai iaith yw cysgod dirwedd, sydd yn gadael inni ddal, disgrifio, a defnyddio popeth yn bodoli trwy gyfrwng geiriau a chysyniadau? Yn wir, byddai rhai’n dweud mai iaith sydd yn creu’r cosmos oll. Wedi’r cwbl – yn y Dechreuad yr oedd Cân yr Haul – fel yr ydym wedi clywed yn y chwedl. Felly beth fyddai’n digwyddpe na bai’r realiti yr ydym yn trigo ynddi ond yn ddyfais wedi’i ffurfio o symbolau llithrig, a delweddau rhithiol? Efallai, yn y fath groth ddisylwedd o bosibilrwydd, gallai’r rhai sydd yn ddigon creadigol ailysgrifennu’r gorffennol a chyfansoddi’r dyfodol fel pe baent ond yn chwibanu alaw lawen. Dan y fath amgylchiadau, os meiddiwn ni ddychmygu y medrent fodoli o gwbl, a fyddem ni’n achub y cyfle i lunio a thraethu’n hanesion ein hunain? Ynteu, erbyn meddwl, a adawem inni’n hunain ddal i gael ein hysgubo ymaith gan y llanw o ddisgwyliadau, gobeithion, a syniadau, sydd yn perthyn i bawb arall o’n cwmpas?

 

Trwy’r diwrnod anochel hwnnw, roedd yr Haul yn ceisio gwenu ar fy milltir sgwâr werdd ond cysglyd. Ond, fel arfer, lwyddodd e’m, ac roedd yn ei thywallt hi, yn ysbeidiol, ym mro fy mebyd. Rwy’n cofio meddwl gallwn i ddeall pam mae pawb yn dweud bod y lle yn hyll yn ogystal â hyfryd, dim heb reswm yn fy marn ostyngedig. Dyna o’n i’n cerdded o gwmpas dan gwmwl du a drwm, a bod yn onest, ro’n i’n wlyb at y croen. Do’n i’m 'di cysgu ‘sdyddiau ‘chwaith. Roedd yn teimlo, ble bynnag y crwydrwn i, fel ‘sai’r holl dirwedd yn adlewyrchu fy hoedl lawn alaeth a phoen, O druan â fi! Roedd y Ddaear yn aros am rywbeth, gan ddal ei anadl, er wyddwn i’m am beth yn enwedig. Ro’n i’n teimlo ar goll, ac mor unig. Roedd yr un hen hanes yn cael ei ailadrodd gan lais gwatwarus fy Nhad yn fy mhen. Doedd gen i swydd, na chyfeillion, na phartner, na gobaith, na dyfodol. A pheidiwch chi hyd yn oed â sôn am y gorffennol, y diawliaid clyfar chi! Dyna gawlach dw i ‘di ‘neud o bopeth. Ro’n i ‘di dod i ben fy nhennyn, ac yn ac yn meddylu (mae'n codi braw arna i nawr, hyd yn oed) uwchben "felō-dē-sē."

 

Ond eto i gyd, falle byddai pethau’n edrych yn wahanol i rywun doedd e’m yn yr un sefyllfa. Dai Baxter oedd fy nghyfaill bore oes, os ‘cyfaill’ oedd y gair cywir mewn gwirionedd wrth gwrs. Hmm, erbyn meddwl amdano, cyfeillion ddylai fod yn barod i gynorthwyo’i gilydd. Ond dim ond ‘tarw swmpus’ neu ‘horwth o ddyn mawr, cyhyrog’ o’n i yn nhyb fy ‘ffrind.’ Ac fe wyddwn i taw fi fyddai’n ei chael hi ‘sai unrhyw beth yn mynd o’i le ar un o’i gynlluniau clyfar. Roedd e’n gallu rhedeg yn gyflymach o lawer na fi, dyna pam fyddai fe’n dianc bob tro. O, am hwyl gaethon ni gyda’n gilydd, w, ro’n ni wastad yn mynd i helynt. Ro’n i mor swil, ro’n i’n arfer ofn ‘nghysgod fy hun, yn ôl y sôn, ac roedd e mor fentrus er fod e mor dwp ‘fyd. Dim ond fy nerth corfforol roedd e’n arfer edmygu, siŵr o fod.

 

Wedi’r cyfan, ychydig a ŵyr yntau taw ‘sgolor i ryw Hybarch Sefydliad Addysg Uwch fues i, cyn i fi gael fy niswyddo o achos yr holl drafferthion personol. Dim ond eisiau cael hwyl drwy’r amser roedd e, wel, anodd tynnu dyn oddi ar ei dylwyth, meddan nhw. A falle bod nhw’n gywir. Ond er gwaetha’ hynny oll, ro’n i’n dwlu ar gwmni’r llanc anwar oedd yn blentynnaidd ond mor egnïol ar yr un pryd, yn fwy na dim byd arall ar wyneb y Blaned wirion, gron. Fyddwn i byth eisiau i’r llewpard newid ei frychni, er mod i’n gasáu fe ar adegau ‘fyd. Ond doedd e’m yn ddigon. Nage fe, hyd yn oed, allai fy achub i.

 

“Falle bydd pethau’n gwella cyn hir – allan nhw’m mynd yn waeth,” o’n i’n dal i weud wrtha’n hunan. Ond, wedyn, “Www – paid breuddwydio, ‘achan – nerthol yw meddyliau, weithiau – ‘sdim ffordd mas o’r twll ‘ma, w. Mae hi ‘di canu arnat ti!”

 

O ystyried popeth, dim ond hiraethu o’n i am blentyndod heulog sy ‘di diflannu flynyddoedd maith yn ôl. Ro’n i eisiau marw, a dweud y gwir, â’m holl galon. Roedd ‘mraich chwith yn gwaedu, ble o’n i wedi’i thorri gyda’r allweddi. Allwn i’m penderfynu beth i’w ‘neud. Dyw’m yn bosib esbonio, roedd fel ‘sai rhyw bwysau enfawr yn ‘ngwasgu i. Dyna sut o’n i wastad yn teimlo. Sut allwn i gael gwared ar yr ofn a’r boen? Roedd breichiau marw bywyd fel maen melin am 'ngwddf. Ro'n i'n dal i feddwl am erchyllterau oll y Byd, doedd e'm yn bosib 'neud yn wahanol. Roedd 'na ddelweddau o'r gwylliaid yn drewi o arian, y gwleidyddion anonest, yn torri gyddfau'r tlodion. A chwedyn dyna oedd y gwŷr mawrion a'r capteiniaid diwydiant yn llwyddo i wenwyno'r moroedd a llygru'r atmosffer. A sôn am fustl, be' am y ffeiradon rhagrithiol yn pregethu am hunanddinistr yn enwcariad arallfydol, a'r athrawon twp a'r rhieni unllygeidiog sy hefyd yn gwyro meddyliau ac andwyo'r dyfodol. 'Doedd dim syndod bod y Gweision Glân yn rhoi’u hunain ar dân i brotestio yn erbyn Diffygion y Byd, rhwng y byddinoedd o hurfilwyr yn cledro cryts a llosgi llanciau, a'r troseddwyr diedifar yn gwerthu cyffuriau wrth ffugio bod nhw'n cynnig profiadau fydd yn 'newid eich meddwl am byth.' Dim ond celwyddgi, a thwyllwyr, a chollwyr ydyn nhw oll, sy'n defnyddio a chreithio pobl arall cyn eu taflu nhw o'r neilltu.

 

Lushfé cu! Ro'n i'n dymuno â'm holl galon cael gwared ar yr arswydau i gyd, ro'n i'n siŵr mod i'n gyfrifol amdanyn nhw. Ond wyddwn i’m o gwbl sut i ddechrau dod â'r cawlach i ben! Roedd y gwacter chwerw tu fewni fi'n cyflym ehangu i gwmpasu a difetha'r Byd. Wel, ro’n i’n meddwl, mae popeth sy’n byw’n dod mas o’r Môr Mawr Llwyd yn wreiddiol, er bydd Cysawd yr Haul yn marw mewn poethoffrwm fflamboeth yn y dyfodol pell iawn, yn ôl y damcaniaethau diweddara’, ch’mod. Rhwng popeth, felly, dŵr fyddai orau. Es i’n syth i lan yr afon gegog, wacsaw. Ro’n i ar fin neidio i mewn, gredwch chi fi, i fynd yn ôl o’r diwedd i groth hallt ein Mam ddyfrllyd unwaith ‘to, cyn i fi gael ‘nharo i lawr gan fan wen yn sbidio, neu newid fy meddwl, neu gwympo drwy rwyg anweledig yn neunydd realiti i ryw ddimensiwn arall. Ac yno ar lan serth yr Afon Wylofus, eisteddais i i ystyried pa mor wag yw bywyd dyn, wrth gicio llawer o gerigos cyn ddued â phechod y Ddaear oll i’r dyfnderoedd brwnt islaw.

 

Yr eiliad honno, pan o’n i o fewn dim i’n lansio’n hunan i donnau tragwyddoldeb, oedodd yr Haul yn y nefoedd. Agorodd y cymylau sorllyd. Ebychodd llais fel siocled a dwfn dwfn, yn fwy swnllyd na’r holl forthwylion o ddiemwnt, a’r injans sgrechlyd, a’r cogiau o foron carbid, ym mheiriannau diatal y Saith Swynwr wedi’u claddu gannoedd o filltiroedd dan gramen y Nw Yrth, yr un gair – “Arhosa!” Roedd hi ‘di oeri i‘r fath raddau nes i’r pryfed ffiaidd i gyd – y cynrhon moch gwrychog, a’r brithyllod pluog llinorog – syrthio i lawr o’r awyr, gan ddisgyn yn ddi-ffrwt ar wyneb yr iâ newydd ei ffurfio ar waelod y ceunant. Mor gochlas â chraith lidiog, ffres oedd cromen yr wybren.

 

“Myn Lushfé! Be’ ar y Ddaear?” fe lwyddais i ddweud gan gecian yn syn. Dim ond distawrwydd dieithr atebodd. Falle – falle, nodwch chi – taw’r dydd gwaetha’ ‘rioed oedd hwnnw. Y dydd pan dorrodd y Byd i gyd. Pan fu farw pob copa walltog ond fi, druan bach! Pan ddaeth y tywyllwch mawr. Pan ges i’n herwgipio gan Briodferch Anhrefn sy'n marchogaeth ar y Bwystfil Seithben yn yr Hollt rhwng y Bydoedd. Dyna oedd y stribed ffilm yn dangos bywyd Steffan Grossmann – fy mywyd gwarthus, seithug, anfuddiol fy hunan – yn toddi a rhwygo. Falle i’r gorchymyn ddod yn rhy hwyr. Hwyrach i’r sioc ‘ngwthio i dros yr ymyl. I lawr ac i lawr es i. Ac wrth i fi syrthio, arhosodd amser yn ei unfan. Do’n i’m yn unman, ond ro’n i’n mynd i bobman. Fe gollais i’n hunan.

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Dyma eistedd dau ddyn gefn wrth gefn â’i gilydd, mewn ystafell fach heb ffenestri, wedi’i pheintio’n las yr awyr. Mae’r lle’n boeth, sych, myglyd. Llenwir un mur gan ddrych enfawr a chain eithriadol. Efallai ei fod yn ysgrîn sgrio gan ei fod yn wyn ac afloyw, fel llygaid Lotké was i Nebesh ar ôl cael ei droi’n biler o sialc. ‘Does ‘na ddim ffordd i mewn, na ffordd allan, i’w chanfod. Mae un dyn yn ganol oed, ac mae ganddo ffluwch o wallt cringoch, barf wedi’i thorri’n daclus, aeliau ffraeth, a llygaid ambr, gafraidd. Delwedd swyn yw e, fel hoff ewythr sy’n ddifrifol, diddorol, diddanol, dwys, un ar ôl y llall. Mae’n gwisgo dyngarîs wedi’u lliwio’r un arlliw â’r ‘stafell, ac fe fyddai unrhyw un yn disgrifio bod ei wyneb mor ddisglair â'r pedwar pen ar bob un o’r Gennad Gudd yn yr Hen Lyfr. Mae’n aros yn ddigyffro ar stôl deircoes, hyd yn oed yn stoicaidd, gan syllu ar y drych rhyfedd.

 

Llanc yn ei ddauddegau hwyr, mwy neu lai, yw’r person arall. Mae’n flêr a gwlyb, ac yn gwisgo jîns brwnt a chrys-t wedi’i staenio gan hen chwys. Dyw e ddim wedi cysgu am sawl diwrnod, yn ôl pob golwg; neu hwyrach ei fod wedi huno’n rhy dawel o lawer am gyfnod hir dros ben, yn union fel ‘naeth Rwm bel-Shaftí. Ac wedyn fe fedrai’r coblyn cyfrwys ateb i’r dim bob cwestiwn y gofynnid iddo amdano, ond dim ond ar ffurf cwestiwn arall, nes iddo droi’n das wair euraid yn y pen draw, a suddodd i ganol y Nw Yrth, cymaint oedd ei ddigofaint. Dyna wibio’i lygaid coch gan waed yn awr ac eilwaith ar hyd a lled y wal wag gyferbyn â fe. Mae’i goesau’n gwingo’n annibynnol ar ei ymennydd fel ‘sen nhw’n greaduriaid byw. Yn ddisymwth, dyna ddechrau’r arholiad canlynol, ddim am y tro cynta’, a’r llanc yn gweryru trwy ei drwyn —

 

“Pam dyn ni ‘ma? Wel, pam dw i ‘ma ta be’? Sa i’n gw’bod ble dw i, na sut le yw e. Be’ sy’ ‘di digwydd? Ble ydyn ni? Be’ ar y Ddaear sy’n bod, er mwyn y Rhai Dioglyd?”

 

“Wel, nawr ‘te, ‘achan. Mae hynny i fi wybod ac i ti ddarganfod, debyg ‘da fi. Rhaid canu am dy fwyd ‘ma, er na fydd dim angen bwyta nag yfed o gwbl, ddim yn y synnwyr arferol, wrth reswm. Ond, wel, fe fydd dyn yn cael moddion eraill i foddhau’i ddymuniadau, gad i ni ddweud. Gyda llaw, un awgrym bach, cyfeillgar i ddechrau, lanc. Paid galw ar yr Enwau ‘na, os gweli di’n dda. Fydd y fath – anfoesgarwch – ddim yn mynd i lawr yn dda gyda’r – y Goruchwylwyr.”

 

“Www, peidiwch dweud pethau fel ‘ny, so fe’n deg! So chi’n deall pa mor frawychus yw hyn. Mae mor dwym lawr fan ’yn, mor boeth â ffwrn. Dw i’n llosgi. Prin mod i'n gallu anadlu. Sa i’n cofio’n enw i, pwy dw i. Helpwch fi, dewch ‘mlaen, dylech chi ‘neud rhywbeth i helpu fi!”

 

“Byddwn i – ‘swn i yn dy le di – yn gweithio’n galetach i gael hyd i’r syniadau priodol, er dy fwyn di dy hunan. Fe dalai i ti ‘neud ‘ny’n hwyr neu’n hwyrach. Cofia di, was! Wedi’r cyfan, rhaid coelio’r pethau’n carlamu drwy dy feddwl cyn i ti allu honni fod di’n gwybod nhw. Ac o ran ‘ ny, fedra i’m dy gynorthwyo di’n bellach.”

 

“Be’ ‘neno Lushfé ma’ hynny'n olygu, ‘te? Peidiwch rhoi posau i fi. Jyst gwedwch wrtha i. Rhaid bod chi’n gw’bod. Be’ yn union ddylwn i ‘neud? Be’ alla i ‘neud? Be’ yw’r ateb? A pwy dw i, ‘fyd? Sa i’n nabod fy hunan. Gwedwch y gywir, w, os gwelwch chi’n dda!”

 

“O, fab, fe ddylet ti fod yn ofalus wrth ddefnyddio iaith fel rwyt ti’n ‘neud, unwaith ‘to. Pe tawn i yn dy le di, rwy’n feddwl – a bod yn falch iawn o ddweud nad ydw i – wel, ddim yng ngwir ystyr y geiriau, achos dy fod di draw fan’na, a dwi yma, wrth gwrs –os byddi di’n maddau i fi am fy ffraethineb bach. Ta be’, bydd rhaid i ti aros yma. Wel, ni fydd fawr o ddewis gen ti, o fanwl ystyried y cefndir i’r sefyllfa sydd ohoni. Ac mae un drist ofnadw’ heb os. Rwyt ti i fod yn weinydd, yn gynorthwyydd, rhywun sy’n gweini. A bydd yr holl amser yn y Nw Yrth yn perthyn i ti, ar sawl cyfri’, er dyw’r gosodiad ‘na’n arbennig o berthnasol yn y fangre dragwyddol hon. Bydd rhaid i ti, ar dy liwt dy hunan, benderfynu sut, a pam, a pryd wyt ti’n moyn gweithredu cynlluniau, a rheolau, a chyfundrefnau, a deddfau, a chosbau, a gwobrau, o hyn ‘mlaen. Ti'n unig. Alla i ddim dweud taw mater o fywyd a marwolaeth fydd y peth, o dyran di, ddim rhagor, ond —”

 

“Be’ chi’n olygu, w! Lushfé a’m helpo! Dwi’n crefu arnoch chi, ‘neno Wezir!”

 

“Taw di, nawr, dw i ‘di esbonio sawl gwaith! Paid â chynhyrfu, ‘machgen i! ‘Does Neb o’r disgrifiad ‘na lawr fan hyn mwyach. Ni fuodd e yma ers achau hir, fe sy’n ateb i’r Enw Erchyll ‘na. ‘Sdim ots iddo fe ddod trwy’r cwch dirboenus hwn unwaith, wrth dderbyn cyffes gan y llengoedd o ellyllon wedi’u carcharu yn y lle gresynus hwn, ryw dragwyddoldeb yn ôl, fel yr ymddengys. A! Dyna boenus oedd y diwrnod ‘na, pan enillodd y naill drueni, a’r lleill, farwolaeth felys. Pawb a’m heithrio fi. Pam rwyt ti’n ‘neud i fi gofio; am ba reswm annynol? Paid, paid ar unwaith! Fydd e ddim yn bosib mynd yn ôl. Byth. O, fe fyddi di’n credu, a gobeithio, a dychmygu, a rhyfeddu, ac fe fydd hyn yn disodli popeth rwyt ti’n wybod am dy gofion. Dyw amser ddim yn llifo ‘ma. Mae pob eiliad ym mhob lle’n bodoli fan hyn ar yr un pryd, yn y ‘stafell las hon, yn y meddyliau gleision hyn, y dydd glas hwn. Ond fe beidia i, mae rhaid i fi beidio. Gwaharddedig yw’r fath ffwdan. Byddi di angen dysgu’r rheolau, a be’ bynnag, fyddi di byth yn gwybod pwy fydd yn clustfeinio…

 

“…Fi fy hun, wrth gwrs – dwi ddim yn dy le di – er ein bod ni yn yr un ‘stafell, ha. Ond eto i gyd, t’mod, licwn i ddim cynhyrfu – yr Awdurdodau. Wedi mynd mae amser gofid. Yn bendant, yn derfynol, yn llwyr. Gad i fi ddweud ond un peth – bydda i’n isel fy llais fel na fydd teimlyddion buneslyd ddim yn ‘nghlywed i, a fi’n gollwng y gath o’r cwd. Na, na, mae’n flin ‘da fi, hyd yn oed meddwl am y peth oedd camgymeriad. Falle bydd e’n gwaethygu’r sefyllfa. Ie, wrth gwrs. Na.”

 

“Chi’n gorfod helpu fi, ‘sna ddim byd chi’n gallu ‘neud? Ers faint dw i ‘di bod yn y carchar ‘ma, ‘sdim clem ‘da fi? ‘Newch chi weud wrtha i, am faint fydda i angen aros fan hyn? Rhoi’r gorau iddi hi dw i. Dw i eisiau sgrechian! Rhaid i fi ddianc o ‘ma – cael bod yn rhydd – mynd ‘nôl i sut oedd pethau o’r blaen – byw – bod ‘yn hunan ‘to. ‘Na i unrhyw beth fyddwch chi’n ofyn –”

 

“Felly! O, wel, ‘nei, dw i’n deall. Ond dyna’r peth, on’d ife – y craidd, yr hanfod yng nghalon y loes hon oll sydd ynot ti. Gwranda. Fe fydda i’n ceisio bod, O diar, yn dyner. ‘Neno’r Hen Feistri, mae hyn yn anodd i’w drin. Dere ‘mlaen, was, dywed y gwir. Mae’n gofyn mor daer ers achau. Dyma be' dw i’n olygu, fachgen: edrycha arnat ti dy hunan! Dwyt ti ddim yn gallu gweld yr arwydd wedi’i serio ar dy enaid, a sawru’r drewdod yn hongian drosot ti? O, mae’n ddrwg gen i, mae’r gêm ‘ma o chwarae cwato’n f'arteithio fi ‘fyd, ond dw i’n cael ‘ngorfodi i smalio. Fel dw i eisoes ‘di gweud, greda i, dwi ‘di colli bri ddim ychydig. Dw i ‘di cwympo oddi wrth ras. Fe ges i ‘nhaflu i lawr, ac yn awr dw i ‘di syrthio ar fy mai, er na fydd tosturi. Dim ond ufuddhau i orchmynion a ddaw oddi uchod dw i…

 

“… Serch hynny, ie, sori, a bod yn fyr, ie, dyna ni – fy ‘mab annwyl i, sy ‘di ‘mrifo i cynddrwg, ond a fydd yn ‘mhlesio fi cymaint. O, pam wyt ti’n llusgo traed fel hyn? Hmm? Fe glywais i dy eiriau di, gynnau fach, ond dw i’m yn dy gredu di. Dim ond ofn a rhwystredigaeth oedd ‘ny. Yn ddwfn yn y dyfnderoedd dua’, rwyt ti’n gwybod be’ ti eisiau’n wir. Cofleidia’r achos. Os na fyddi di am fodoli rhagor ar wyneb y Ddaear, os byddi di eisiau dod i ben â byw dy fywyd dynol, mynd tu hwnt i’r rhwymyn marwol – wel, fe fydd yr ateb terfynol i’th broblemau i gyd yn dy ddwylo bellach. O, dw i’n sôn am – am beidio â bod – colli dy fywyd – darfod – trengi – hynny yw, Www – marw…

 

“…Fel yr oedd yn y gorffennol, felly y mae ar hyn o bryd. Dyw’r dewis ddim wedi newid. Fydd byth yn newid. Dwyt ti’m yn deall? Sut y gallet ti fethu gwybod? Ddim y pethau chwerthinllyd, diflas, cyffredin sy ‘di digwydd yn ddiau – pa beth bynnag a wnaethpwyd, ni all neb ei ddadwneud. Er gwaetha’ ‘ny – y posibiliadau a all ddigwydd o hyn ymlaen? Gwŷr a choed – breichiau a gwreiddiau – dyrchafu a chondemnio – gwaed a dŵr – gollwng a rhwymo – y Ddaear ar y Nw Yrth. Pob eiliad yn bodoli ‘ma gyda’i gilydd. Ie, dyna’r peth, on’d yw mor olau â dydd oer ym Mhalas Grisial Kish? — Fe ddarfu hyn oll, Satharāfanu a fydd – Stharafan sydd – Sedaravanthí a fu – Steffan – fy hyfforddai ifanc – gan mai fi yw dy Dad di, O Dywysydd Medrus!”

 

Dyna oedd pan orfu i fi wledda ar iau chwerw’r gwir. Y dydd pan ddaeth y Byd i ben – fy Myd i, o leia’, fel mae’r meddylwyr mawr yn hoff o sylwi – er nad digwyddiad mewn bywyd yw tranc, gan na fydd dyn yn fyw ar y pryd i gael profiad ohono. Ta be’, dyna o’n i’n teimlo fel ‘sai’r greadigaeth oll fyddai wedi trengi ‘swn i ‘di marw – trwy foddi yng nghawl aflan yr afon – neu gael fy mwrw ymaith mewn rhyw ddamwain fan, pwy all ddweud? ‘Nes i fynd ar ‘ngliniau’r eiliad ‘na o flaen y creadur rhyfedd, gan sylweddoli taw Arglwydd yr Anialwch oedd e, a fi’n hunan ‘fyd ar yr un pryd. Yr unig be’ fedrwn i grawcian dweud oedd, “Aaa! Dyna pwy dw i, be dw i! Swtach! Dw i am fyw!” Ond wedyn, fe dorrodd y Llais Trallodus ar ‘nhraws —

 

“Edrycha, ‘machgen. Dim ond eisiau i ti eistedd a sgwrsio gyda fi am sbel dw i. Licwn i esbonio peth neu ddau. Amser i ti gael yr atebion, ha, ha. Ac wedyn byddi di’n gallu ‘neud y dewis doetha’, dw i’n sicr.” Roedd ei araith lefn yn ysgubo droso i fel tonnau cyfoglyd o fêl. “Agor di dy lygaid, fab, a syllu ar y wal ‘na. Rhaid i fi ddangos rhywbeth i ti.”

 

Ac ar unwaith dyna fi’n dechrau gweld delweddau mor olau â’r dydd ar y sgrin sgrio o ‘mlaen i. Roedd hanes ‘mywyd i gyd yno, pob meddwl, a theimlad, a digwyddiad, o’r crud i’r bedd. Ond doedd y lluniau’m wedi’u trefnu mewn llinell o ddechrau i ddiwedd. Yn hytrach, roedd popeth ar ben ei gilydd, ac yn corddi o gwmpas fel ‘sai mewn rhyw fôr byw. Wrth graffu ar ganol y dymestl ‘ma, sylweddolais i fe allwn i fynd i fewn i bob un o’r golygfeydd drwy ganolbwyntio arni hi. Er mawr syndod i fi, fe welais i nad gorffen ar lan yr afon ddrewllyd ‘naeth y stori, ac wrth i fi gyrcydu yno, roedd y Llais Trallodus yn ‘nghocsio a ‘ngheryddu i gofleidio’n ffawd a gweld be’ fyddai’n aros amdana i ar y Ddaear greulon ‘swn i’n mynd ‘nol. Ac yma fe fydda i’n disgrifio’n fanwl be’ ‘nes i brofi —

 

[Sgrin Sgrio] ‘Does unman yn debyg i gartref, meddant. Myn Swtach nid oes! A myfi a ddylai wybod, gan mai hen gono trist sydd yn gaeth i’r tŷ wyf yn wir, os goddefir yr ymadrodd. Ond rwy’n bell iawn o fod yn llawen, wedi fy nal yn y bwthyn hynafol hwn Unig blentyn oeddwn i ddechrau, er i fi ddarganfod fy hanner chwaer ofnadwy’n nes ymlaen. A hen lanc unig wyf fi hyd yn oed yn awr. Wastad y bûm, a wastad y byddaf hefyd, er fy mod wedi dymuno mor aml, trwy nerth y sêr, y byddai’r sefyllfa’n wahanol ryw ddydd. Efallai mai dyna pam nad wyf erioed wedi cwympo mewn cariad, na dod o hyd i bartner, ychwaith. Dan felltith yr wyf fi. Ac yma arhosaf fi hyd ddiwedd fy oes, rhwng pedair wal laith a briwsionllyd, wedi’u difwyno â saim, a blew’r hen gi drewllyd, ac olion dwylo’r rhai a drengodd amser maith yn ôl.

 

Do’n i’m yn gallu wrthsefyll e, a bu bron i’n synnwyr newydd o hunaniaeth ddiflannu yn sgil y geiriau taer. Dw i angen dweud wrthoch chi. ‘lly, taw o unman, roedd ‘na lais arall ‘fyd yn siarad â fi. Neu falle fod ‘na gôr o leisiau, yn fenywaidd y tro ‘ma – Mam-gu, a Mam, a Chwaer. Ro’n i’n teimlo fel ffieiddbeth o glywed eu geiriau’n ffrydio oddi mewn i fi. Ond ro’n nhw’n esbonio pethau mor synhwyrol a chall, gan gyflwyno gwrthbwynt i gwynfan y dyn, oedd yn orfelys, a llon o frwnt —

 

[Lleisiau Benywaidd] “Mae'r gorffennol yn stordy meddyliol, yn llawn eiliadau creithiog sy'n dangos darostyngiad, esgeulustod, poen, a gwarth. Ac mae'r cofion 'ma wastad yn mynnu estyn eu tentaclau. i fwrw cysgod anochel y gorffennol, newid y presennol, a llywio'r dyfodol, drwy gydol ein bywydau. Dyn ni'n credu gan amla' taw gwir gofnodion o be' sy 'di digwydd yw'n cofion ni. Ond mae'r goel 'ma'i hunan yn newid sut fyddwn ni'n trin y pethau dyn ni'n meddwl ein bod ni'n gwybod i sicrwydd. Wrth gwrs, gydag amser, fe fydd pob co'n cael ei ystumio wrth i ni fyfyrio arno fe'n ymwybodol drosodd a throsodd. 'Does ond yn rhaid i ni ddychmygu caru, ac ymladd, a cholli, a chyplu, ac esgor, a marw.”

 

A dyna oedd y ddwy set o leisiau’n mynd yn eu blaen i ymryson â’i gilydd. Er mod i ‘di dangos y naill yn cael ei ddilyn gan y llall yn y darn bach ‘ma, fel dau ymson, roedd y ddwy araith yn digwydd ar yr un pryd a bod yn onest, yn ‘yn meddwl fel petai. Wedi dweud ‘ny, fe allwn i glywed y ddwy yn berffaith glir, fel alaw a harmoni. Roedd y seiniau’n creu rhythm cymhleth a swynol wrth gystadlu a chefnogi ei gilydd. Trwm, ac ara’, a cheintachlyd oedd yr un llais, tra oedd y llall yn befriol a siriol, ond awdurdodol. Danddwr, yno, yng nghroth las bywyd nas dechreuwyd, roedd fel ‘swn i’n edrych allan oddi mewn i lygaid enfawr ar fodolaeth oll. Tair Tynged oedd yn gwau edafedd dichonoldeb, methiant, a gobaith, wrth i Ofn geisio torri’r we cyn iddi gael ei sefydlu’n gadarn. Allwn i ddim ond disgyn yn rhydd â ‘ngheg ar agor, yn ddyfnach ddyfnach i’r pair o ddelweddau gwinglyd.