Are memories not similar to shadows? Because every shadow is a way to hide. We have only to consider the following examples. Rain-shadow creates an area of dryness where one can avoid getting wet. Acoustic shadow creates a silent zone, where we can escape from the world’s hubbub. By remembering, that is through living in the spectral and reassuring world of the imagination rather in the cruel, mundane world, we hope that we shall transcend the worries which await in the future, whilst re-experiencing the joy of the past. But many memories can converge and interact at the same time in the minds of these who consider them. And there they form distorted mirror-images of the original events. Perhaps it is only in the vacuum of space that there can be pure memories which are totally clear, and exist independently of the tide of other thoughts, and separate from the influence of transient ideas. But then, who would be thinking them? From another viewpoint, the further the light, the greater the shadow, so that the oldest memories will be exceptionally unclear. If the object moves, the shadow grows in its turn. Thus, by concentrating intensely on a memory, shaking it mentally as it were, we will be interfering with the act of recalling. And also, the memory’s myriad sides will tend to reflect each other, blinding us with rays of deceptive light. Shadows fill volumes, but are not solid objects, and on occasions, they will not be seen unless they are cast on clouds of fog or dust, and then they appear strange to viewers. Effects like these are frequently used on the stage to foster a terrifying and unsettling atmosphere. In the same way, it is memories that fill the mind, and the structures of the brain, but we are not able to trace their paths precisely at all, and often we will be led astray by them. Then again, shadows are bent all the time by being cast over different surfaces, as memories will be bent, sooner or later, exchanging clarity for confusion, and roses for thorns. Is it memories, therefore, that prevent us from thinking, from living, from flourishing? Nought but shadows are memories, but shadows most strong, indeed.

 

Beyond the Miraculous Pool on the Nw Yrth’s northern continent, near Averna, flocks of fleshy fancies dance jubilantly, or at least quite cheerfully, after their own fashion. They are celebrating their success amongst hordes of other things, since although they have not yet achieved the objective, nor reached the peak, when all the palaver is over, then it will become obvious that the battle has been lost, but that the war has been won despite that. The delirious squealing of the ever-changing creatures resounds from the Wobbly Hills over the creamy waters of the Sleepy Lake, which tastes of lemon and lime, whilst the prancing plastic figures cast starry shadows as big as enormous slimy molluscs with hundreds of grasping appendages on the green, fluffy clouds. They sing lullabies, the tunes full of energy, and longing, and praise, and all of that mixed with the day-dreaming of one of their best disciples on the Eyrth, although he does not realise the fact — 

 

*             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

 

Hey, you stinky old mongrel, mun! [*] Me here, Dai, David, Daud, Taavi, Dewi, Rāwiri, Deton, uDavide – Thingy – the one and only, whatever my name is! Hello there, matie! Shut your gob, right – he’s not seen me writing this bit – this final unscientific after-word, ha! Oh, don’t worry about all the racket in by ’ere, in my ‘ead. I can’t get rid of those voices still, they’re chattering on all the time. At the mo’ that annoying baby’s harping on about the same old nonsense. Well, he’s grown up by now, to be an insufferable lad, that’s the word, far as I know. He’s like some cheeky pup who’s swallowed more than enough of the old illegal condiments, you could say. I’m surprised I’m clever enough to come up with such ideas, even, but there we are —

 

“On that occasion, in the cellar, or the tower, one worthwhile life was saved, it would appear, and one World, too – or two, maybe – when a new strong soul became bond-servant to the Preternatural Powers. Indeed, I have just learned the truth under the tutelage of my uncle Satharāfan who creates worlds with his art, now that I myself am almost a grown-up man. He has taken great pains to answer all my questions, making me completely conscious of the circumstances and problems of those who were there at the time, poor things, because I have needed to analyse in detail and understand how human beings function in such situations. But even with this knowledge, one must still ask, I feel, whether all this, in the end, was a price worth paying. And furthermore, who, now, I fret, on the day of reckoning which is always-already upon us, will be called to be the purified sacrifice? For, in every gripping legend, there shall be an unexpected fate before the protagonist at the end of the heroic journey. But who’s who, and what’s what? When, and where, and how? Who can say, because they are inscrutable, the Old Masters and the Lazy Idol-worshippers alike, and their ways exceeding mysterious.”

 

But I’ve been listening too much to the stories by that odd lad, Tapani, Steff, Stjepan, Stezz, Ixtebe, Stevo, Kepano, whatever, the one who escaped from the Educational Abattoir in Emerald Town recently. And that mad Doctor has a lot to answer for, too. Steady on, you’ll get used to it in the end. Trust me, right, mate, I can’t remember or see almost anything at all clearly now because of the shadows. I’m not sure even who I am properly. But I know things I can’t recall. ‘Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than it recollects, longer than knowing truly wonders,’ or something. And so on. And I do know for sure that here, on the Eyrth, we have to resist the shadows who want to govern us, by enchanting us with bread and circuses so that we’ll be swept off to Somewhere Else by an irresistible tsunami without us realising.

 

I didn't seriously die, y'fool – nor Thingumy, Fat-man, or whatever ‘is name is – right? But it’s like everything’s under a quilt of slimy, freezing shadow, and that’s why I’m shaking and in a cold sweat all the time. I know that horrid things have happened but I’m guessing that everything will change in the end. Details, all the footling details, that’s what I’m failing to get to grips with, it’s causing me considerable frustration! But I’m coming to my senses bit by bit. But I’ve not seen ‘im, the Dumb Bull, since ... the accident ... probably, and I’m not sure about what’s going on or how much time’s gone by since then. But what strange dreams! Wonder whether the old perfumed dandy’s started gallivanting about on the land of the living again. Or p’rhaps he’s still loitering in the kingdom of the shadows ... permanently out for the count ... and good riddance to ‘im, say I. Hmm, well, it’s no odds to me, see, if he can't even bother to come and visit me as I lie dying. I'd love to get a couple of comics and a bunch of grapes, though, y'know.

 

Well, I’d prefer ‘is shadow to the lad ‘imself, although his sister’s a bit of alright, she’s called Aileen, maybe, such a beautiful lass who makes me swallow my words and forget who I am every time I see her, which is a good thing most of the time ... apart from now, of course, when I'm so damn keen to remember! Oh, she pursues me all over the place like a nosy sister. But then, when I open the depths of my soul to ‘er, she goes silent and cold, like, like Ariaid, Ariadau, Ariannau, Arianrhod – Ari·adní – pretending that she’s a jade statue to kill her bull of a brother with a ball of razor-string amidst the Paths of Wickedness deep under the Bloodthirsty Stepmother’s Citadel. But she loves cute little piglets, and she’s rich, and owns shares, and writes really long poems, and has a tumbling-down old castle in the Haunted Homeland across the Boiling Ocean. I’m going to enchant her and win her heart!

 

O, Elen, Helena, Eilidh, Jelena, Helen, Alyiona, or something like that! She’s a nurse here, anyway – I say ‘the Trainee Mentalist’ ‘cos she hates that, ha, ha! That’s the same thing as Mam, I think (before she ... got so poorly ... before ... that man who used to talk fifteen to the dozen – weather-man, or telly presenter, or politician? – dentist, maybe? ... came on the scene). Very often she – Heléney – recites really odd tales – my own whopping erotic barnacle – about war-making, overcoming obstacles, winning fame, love-making, and perishing, or something – full of blood and fire. Oh, she’s always doing sexy things too, my fallen demoness, like looking at me with her eyes half-closed, and wiggling her perfect ears. How much I look forward to meeting her in the blue cottage to lie beside her, as she tickles my fancy with her stupendous ideas. I never want to leave this Mad‘ouse – well, I’ll be taking over, that’s what’ll happen, mun! 

 

Hey, now then, buddy, I need to say I’m just jokin’ about my mate. That silly lad’s been a good friend to me forever – well, ever since I've known 'im. There’s some kind of blood-oath between us, well that’s how I feel anyway, after our night-long voyage to Never-land. Between you, me, and the gatepost, mun, I’m starting to remember the time we went mental during – and after – the best free party ever. We were out of our tree for a full week, ‘cos we’d been working so hard. The Wýkinger was more depressed than usual, and I, the Urban Commando, was dog-tired because of all the DJ-ing, and the dancing like a dervish. and encouraging the proletariat to overthrow the oppressors and overcome life’s burdens. I was chattin’ with the Veiled Messengers, whose four faces were shining like the Sun, about sophophilia, and love, and changing the World. But what stopped us from going off the rails completely – strangely enough – was that we almost knocked that extra-special girl down. Up till now I had no idea about the details. But I've been listening so keenly to everyone explaining everything since I woke up, or before that 'appened, maybe. I don't remember a thing. This is the received wisdom I've got off everyone, then. Oooh, it was an awful shock to discover the naked truth.

 

Oh, now I can understand – or see, at least. It’s as if the pictures are rushing into my ‘ead! How strange! We were coming back from the event, the Festival of Glory and Gladness, like I was sayin’. Middle of Summertide, supposedly, but a storm was rising, while the voice of some preacher on the sound-transceiver was threatening all kinds of terrible punishments for those who wouldn’t obey the Higher Authorities. Frightening figures materialised from nowhere, like the spirits of crazed bogeys appearing in the half-light. Recently, I’ve heard that one of ‘em was the Wýkinger’s sister. In fact – I’ve been told – she’d been fighting with some squaddie-geezer, really old, fifty, maybe. They’d been trudging over the fields from the direction of the old blue cottage, their arms full o’ loot of some kind. (We didn’t see all this, of course, but he was a bit of a brute and ugly as a stung proboscis monkey, wearing a hideous clown-suit and big fancy coat, all muddy. I dunno, but that’s what was going on, right?) The girl rushed straight into the middle of the road (trying to get away from the enraged devil, by all accounts). There was nothing we could do, mun, that’s what everyone says! Must've been somethin’ wrong with the brakes after that joke of an Old Solider tried to soup up the van a month or so ago, according to the daft Doctor, anyway.

 

And then – in a jiffy – the van swerves to avoid a head-on collision with me most beloved llama – and smashes into a tree with a glowing red sign on it (although I’m not certain about that last bit). It was like the entire world was turning upside down over and over (definitely!). Stars, pain. Nothing. Complete blackness. Well, that’s what I’d imagine from the descriptions I’ve heard, anyway. Oooh, the meteorologist, or talking-head, or candidate for the Paternalistic Party or whatever he was, attacked us ferociously as we languished unconscious in the van (Mrs G was really outraged describing this!). They say that my Warrior Princess responded like some chubby but rabid nihilālis, all covered in snot and blood, flinging him out of the way like he was one of the cannibalistic Torturing Ministers ready to descend rapaciously on his prey (it's a complete mystery to me how they know, but there y'go). But everything was OK, after a lot of shouting, and biting, and scramming, and eye-gouging. Sometime later, we were saved from the lovely old van (and thank goodness she was safe too), and transported to the Clinic, and here I woke up a week or two after the event (funny it took so long!) to hear the whole sorry story. That was when I decided we should be together forever, me and her, the enchanting El. Anyway, that’s more than enough of the Iip-flapping. I just gotta say, though, that before the situation developed, the Wýkinger was ranting on, and on, and on as usual, so he was to blame for not concentrating on the road. And that’s why I can’t stop taking the micky out of that windbag of an over-educated pratt, that’s all, but only because we’re like brothers, and that’s the truth. 

 

“On my part, when I was a child being battered inside that fleshy sac which was womb and prison to me for so long, I was similar to a rag doll in a hessian sack, a creature that was pitiful and ignorant, who could not but be frightened. Who would have done differently? Needless to say that I used to be completely weak compared with how strong I am now. After many long years of practice, I am coming to appreciate my own remarkable abilities, which are peerless, and I have placed determination in place of fear.” 

 

Well, now then, we, the two intrepid lads – me and the, the ... Mathemagical Monkey (as they say in Il'-Efranké, apparently) – are always chatting on, while we plan to conquer the World. And the other voices inside never stop their whispering either, but apart from that, I’m totally with-it, in my opinion at least. Right then, I’ve gotta go to see that annoying big-cheese, Ooh, Price, Pritchard, Probert, Probyn, p’rhaps, to talk about the same old story, about ‘all my problems.’ I can’t work out if he’s like a starving hound, or some wrinkly wizard, or a guerrilla who was terribly injured ages ago. But whatever he is, every time he’ll be lying down there on his couch, playing with that fancy snuff-box enough to drive you nuts. I’ll be sitting on an old, battered armchair, that’s still dead comfy, in the far corner of the office, like a prophet on his throne. The arms’re full of holes, and I imagine I'm a brave Knight, flying round Other Worlds to kill beasties and free the folk from the stern monarch's grasp, whilst I weave my magic tales. 

 

And he’ll do nothin’ but stare at the ceiling, and massage his big toe ‘cos of the gout, while he groans like a bear that’s sat on a wasps’-nest. Hmm, I fancy getting me hands on that box, it looks right expensive. And then I’ll be busting a blood-vessel pretending to spill me guts about a life full of tribulation. Oh, in a way I love him, the old voyeur, and I enjoy playing hide-and-seek with ‘im too. Where do I end, and where does he begin? To Swtan with it, say I (whatever that is, the word keeps on popping up in my mind, 'whiting-pout,' maybe) – Surly, Swta, Swtakh? Before all that nonsense, I’m going for a ride in the van. Deffo. There’s things to be done – a dash o'th'ol' therapy, like, ha-ha!

 

And talking of being busy. I’ve been chatting lots with that Lady Meykbeds who runs the whole place. Ooh, she’s a fine woman! She’ll never be my Mam, like that poor lady, my tortured angel, who almost died when I was born (and that’s why I’ve been cursed ever since), but she comes close. She’s been suggesting so many things for me to do, like collecting multi-coloured fungus in the pine forest in the wee hours, and practising being a fireman (although she has to light the fires first). She doesn’t care about all my quirks, and loves my inner child. Really, I fetch and carry for her, and enjoy doing all the chores, like finding special, and lovely, and, valuable things, and keeping them safe. And Oh, those cakes with all the exotic herbs in we share in the kitchen. They’re so tasty, the best things on the Planet. They make me feel like I can fly, and talk with the fidgety dead. Now, where’s my crazy bro? 

 

You'd never believe it, right, but the Wýkinger's the Lady's Son, and the Lady's the Doctor's Sister! And Doctor Prosser, Prothero, anyway, the man who works in that little windowless room – number 7, or 17 – a stifling, dry, hot place, crawling with beetles – ‘chep – chep – chep’ – painted sky-blue – takes notes, and records me, even. Then we watch awesome, banned horror films from the Southern Continent about the Nw Yrth and stuff on the enormous screen. By the Host ... the Squeegee ... grrr ... whatever – p’rhaps I’ll be in a book someday – well, wonders never cease. I’ll be teaching things to snobs like you. But despite all that talking nonsense with the Youngest Wizard (me who says that, not him), I’m terribly worried about joining the Real World, full of grown-up people, whatever that means. They have to conform with all the rules and be consistent, and serious, and sensible all the time, the adults. But the smallest things in the World confuse them from cradle to grave. So, they’re always testing and measuring and calibrating, and correcting. 

 

“I remember often my Father, the unsuccessful hero, whom I did not know, to my great disappointment. He persisted in undergoing the scarcely-mentionable drug-treatment which unsettled his mind; and talked and talked with the clueless counsellors. Then again, he had managed to carry on living even though he had been tortured spiritually and in the flesh by the shameful Chastising Mentor, full of the most heinous good intentions, whose delectation was mistreating both the child's body and his mind, before encouraging him to confess and forgive. And as a result, I have reached my own, secret conclusions regarding the Thorlin's capacity for doing evil and for transcendence, whilst meditating intently during the soul’s darkest night.”

 

To tell the truth, I’m frightened of everyday life. It’s as if everyone’s caught in a cruel trap called society, that mocks them whilst choking them. That’s the thing. ‘Cos they concentrate so hard on that unreal situation called reality, but without finding it, they get carried away on terrifying waves of imagination when the least little bit of fantasy raises its awkward head. They can’t separate the two things, and they suffer terribly as a result. Even as they fight desperately to try and escape from the troubles they’ll inevitably meet by daylight, what happens? – They just open a whole new can of worms (re-animated fifty-thousand-year-old nematodes, probably)!

 

So there they are then, the puddin’s, pullin’ up the mental portcullis – just a teeny bit – for a lovely dollop of immersive imaginative diversion (before they throw the worms out, s’pose) – and don’t they go and let a motley crew of uproarious, prowling shades storm into their lives and start to steer them, little by little, but for sure. And that’ll be even worse than before. Then, the poor blighters want to shine a spotlight into their seyko depths and get out the tool-kit to tinker and try to fix things. But (here’s the Wizard’s voice speaking, after he’s sat and picked his nose and drooled for hours), by attempting to tame the hidden parts of the mind, even the most civilized people generate strange, new monsters – "and in this way, the deleterious spiral persists." In the end, to avoid such undoubted terror, the crowd gives in to mind-control and brainwashing, giving up autonomy and being swallowed by the all-devouring societal engine, governed by mechanistic and inhuman laws. Things get ever murkier as history begins to change faster and faster because of technology, and mass-communication, and the media. Whilst our all-embracing view on the World develops unimpeded, all the familiar images become more and more unclear and unstable.

 

“And I shall have my revenge – by fair means or foul – on the Oppressive Forces – either in this world, or in some other! I have opened my heart to the voices of the shadows which call on me from within and without. There shall be no pardon for the transgressors – there is nothing worth forgiving – but there shall be utter destruction. There shall be no relief, there is nothing worth salvaging in the lives of the torturers, the unholy bigots. A slave must know his place; but I, the foremost servant, have made my own place.” {Consequences}

 

Well, I for one think that enough’s enough. I am the Grisly Jester, after all, like in the comics, in the guise of a charming prince, although I’ve been scarred so painfully that I look like a creature from the black lagoon under my clothes. I’ve dived into the Forgotten Gorge of Alathak, and crossed the roiling waters of the River Sed in the Heart of the Continent, avoiding all the psychic vampires led by Sonath Dieskrad. During my awfully long journey, I had to hide from view in the polluted landscape, by day and by night. There I’ve gathered so much from the lunatic fringe, and the inspired shamans, and the underprivileged living on the edges of society. I’ve read, and heard, and watched – and learned through experience, y’see – and life is such a hard master, for definite. And there’s been so much blood, and sweat, and tears, no two ways about it. It makes you think, doesn’t it – how can you live, with the violence and crime on the increase still? Not by being good all the time, that’s for sure, and there I’m completely right, in all likelihood. 

 

And so, I get free by accident from the grasp of mundane reality, with its shared signs and ancient images, by accepting unreality as does an innocent kid, who’s not been corrupted by the hateful laws yet. There, in the perpetual twilight, the sweet words of tales telling of living toys, talking animals, and flying beds are the most important things, together with the slippery logic that rules the spectral hinterland. And there, bodies are as flexible as plastic molluscs, and you can stretch ideas until they almost shatter. 

 

“I have been trained by those who understand the truth, and now I am under orders. No-one can stop me. I am one who is stronger than him, the one who became addicted to drugs. I am intelligent, having had a surfeit of education. I am fluent and inventive, while he was in the end a pitiful example of a human being, deceived and broken. For the moment, I bide my time, awaiting the appearance of the Scarlet Seal.” 

 

There, in the Alterverse, every exile creates new rules that allow anything to happen. Indeed, they say – the people who’ll never be at home anywhere – that in the world of the imagination, emotions can overcome, somehow, the ceaseless unfurling of space, and fill, even, the bottomless cauldron of time. One fact I’m sure of, anyway, is that lies, shadows, and memories, all three, share the same essence, called magic, created with language – magic that lives in some other dimension, where the self dissolves, as the other solidifies, and vice-versa, just through sharing words. So, we’re all nothing but illusory lingualistic shadows – of course.

 

I’ve been seeking my own magic word, then, and recently I’ve found it – although I’m not going to write it here, nor say it. But it’s a word created by using the first letters of the names of some Strange Divinities. And it’s full of wisdom and strength, this word, I’ve already discovered that. I’m going to use it to transform myself completely. Then I’ll search for the Eternal Rock where I’ll grab the thunder-bolt to change bigotry for acceptance, and hatred for love, once and for all. After that, I’ll disappear from the ordinary world, stopping myself, thanks to my magical powers, from becoming conventional, and normal, and boring. And so, in the Brave New World, which feeds like a symbiote on our hopes and fears, growing constantly, whilst maturing and getting more complex as a result, I shall live with my Beautiful Princess. And friendship, and hope, shall win out over loss, and mourning, and judgement, and terror, at last. 

 

“When the time comes, I shall set free forces that have not ever before been seen on the face of the round Eyrth, from the rainbow-coloured fields of the Nw Yrth. For I was the baby created through magical tricks, who shall fulfil the covenant made with the first Magus during the earliest era, in the House of Rebirth that was my grave and my womb also. And the sands of time fly irreversibly, chep – er – chep – er – chep – er,’ from the shattered hour-glass of modern existence, until the last shadow falls. So I have spoken. And so it shall be!” 

 

I want to run off and hide, until the shadows from beyond arrive, to grab me and drag me to the Next World, whenever that’ll happen, anyway. And I’ve got to keep away from that odd tutor called the fake-Wizard. Well that’s my name for him, anyway. He reminds me of my Dad, whoever he was. I don’t remember right at all, that’s what I mean. The old bungler’s got something to do with me old man, somehow or other, and that’s why I’m here, I think. My skin itches terribly every time I see ‘im, or think about ‘im, that clueless old teacher. Yuck! He tries to put a spoke in my wheel every day, and to stop me having fun, by keeping on rabbiting on about all his silly ideas. How often’ve I heard about how to perform the Black Arts, turning muck into snuff, and brass into electrum, and the rest of the nonsense? I dunno at all, and I don’t care either. I’m sure he wants to steal my powers, and stop me transforming. So, I need to disappear for a while, all his tricks’re getting too much and I’m planning revenge, anyway, and thinking about how to get my hands on his freaky fungus and that ziggurat made of precious metal.

 

In the meantime, I’ll keep on thinking about things like this. Are we strong, red trees, with our branches pointing upwards to the heavens; or insubstantial, rusty shadows, with our shaky roots burrowing down to the depths in terror? And what about the denizens of the News-Spurt, the Serpentine Supervisors, and the Hopeless Highbrows? Is that right? Can they exist without being members of one tribe or the other? Or perhaps they’re both at the same time, on the sly. Hmm, very interesting. Well, I gotta dash, my greatest adventure’s ahead, mate, they’re calling me on, the Vexatious Voices, They’re always beggin’, and threatenin’, and coaxin’, and promisin’ things. But don’t worry about me, I don’t believe half of what I read and almost nothin’ of what I hear. I’m not as dumb as that, after all, am I? And on top of that, I’m pullin’ his leg all the time, too, the Youngest Wizard, aren’t I, well, sometimes, faking lots of the stories he’s so fond of. Perhaps, according to him, I’ll come to see other people in the end not just as abstract mixtures of fundamental elements, but as integrated, four-dimensional objects. Oooh, I really, really like things like that, it sounds so complicated and magical, almost, like something from a sci-fi story. So, I'd better bash on with it to the bitter end and finish the tale, s'pose. Well, cheerio for now – how exciting life is, isn't it?

 

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[*] The main text comes from "Love, Loss, Coleoptera" by Dai Baxter, and the interpolations from the latest striking work by Elfan Baldrog Bacster, "Atha-lanthé's Indigo Child."  — P.M.

 

Onid tebyg i gysgodion yw cofion? Oblegid mai modd o guddio yw pob cysgod. Rhaid inni ond ystyried yr enghreifftiau canlynol. Mae cysgod glaw yn creu ardal sychder lle y gall dyn osgoi mynd yn wlyb. Mae cysgod acwstig yn creu parth tawelwch, lle y gallwn ni ddianc rhag stŵr y byd. Trwy gofio, hynny yw trwy fyw ym myd rhithiol a chysurol y dychymyg yn hytrach nag y byd cyffredin, creulon, rydym yn gobeithio yr awn ni y tu hwnt i’r gofidiau fydd yn aros yn y dyfodol, wrth ail-brofi llawenydd y gorffennol. Ond gall aml gof gydgyfeirio a chyd-adweithio ar yr un pryd ym meddyliau’r rhai sydd yn eu hystyried. Ac yno y byddant yn ffurfio drych-ddelweddau wedi’u haflunio o’r digwyddiadau gwreiddiol. Efallai mai dim ond yng ngwactod y gwagle y gallai fod cofion pur sydd yn hollol glir, ac yn bodoli yn annibynnol ar lanw meddyliau eraill, ac ar wahân i ddylanwad syniadau darfodedig. Ond wedyn, pwy a fyddai’n eu meddwl? O safbwynt arall, pellaf y golau, mwyaf y cysgod, nes y bydd y cofion hynaf yn eithriadol o aneglur. Os bydd y gwrthrych yn symud, bydd y cysgod yn tyfu yn ei dro. Felly trwy ganolbwyntio’n ddwys ar gof, gan ei ysgwyd yn feddyliol fel petai, byddwn ni’n ymyrryd ar y weithred o atgofio. A hefyd bydd ochrau fyrdd y cof yn tueddu i adlewyrchu’i gilydd gan ein dallu â phelydrau o olau twyllodrus. Mae cysgodion yn llenwi cyfeintiau, ond nad ydynt yn wrthrychau solet, ac ar adegau, nis gwelir nes y’u teflir ar gymylau o niwl neu lwch, ac wedyn byddant yn ymddangos yn ddieithr i wylwyr. Defnyddir effeithiau fel y rhain ar y llwyfan yn fynych er mwyn meithrin naws arswydus ac anesmwythol. Yn yr un modd, cofion sydd yn llenwi’r meddwl, a strwythurau’r ymennydd, ond na fedrwn ni olrhain eu llwybrau’n union o gwbl, ac yn aml y’n harweinir ar gyfeiliorn ganddynt. Eto i gyd, plygir cysgodion bob amser trwy gael eu taflu ar draws wahanol wynebau, fel y bydd cofion yn plygu yn hwyr neu’n hwyrach, gan gyfnewid eglurdeb am ddryswch, a rhosynnau am ddrain. Ai cofion, felly, sydd yn ein hatal rhag meddwl, rhag byw, rhag ffynnu? Dim ond cysgodion yw cofion, ond cysgodion tra chryf yn wir.

 

Y tu hwnt i’r Pwll Gwyrthiol ar gyfandir gogleddol y Nw Yrth, ger Averna, mae gyrroedd o grebwyllion cnawdol yn dawnsio’n orfoleddus, neu o leiaf yn eithaf siriol, yn ôl eu dull eu hunain. Maen nhw’n dathlu’u llwyddiant ymhlith lluoedd o bethau eraill, gan mai, er nad ydyn nhw eto wedi cyflawni’r nod, na chyrraedd y brig, pan fydd y stŵr wedi dod i ben, wedyn, y daw’n amlwg y collwyd y frwydr, ond fe enillwyd y rhyfel serch hynny. A dyna wichian gorffwyll y creaduriaid cyfnewidiol yn atseinio o’r Bryniau Sigledig dros ddyfroedd hufennog y Llyn Cysglyd ac arnyn nhw’r blas o lemwn a leim, wrth i’r ffigyrau plastig yn prancio daflu cysgodion serennog cymaint â molysgiaid enfawr, llysnafeddog â channoedd o aelodau gafaelgar, ar y cymylau gwlanog, gwyrddion. A dyna nhw’n canu Huw, a’r alawon yn llawn egni, a hiraeth, a chlod, a hynny oll wedi’i gymysgu â phensynnu un o’u disgyblion gorau ar y Ddaear, er nad yw e’n sylweddoli'r y ffaith —

 

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Hei, yr hen frithgi di, w! [*] Fi sy ‘ma, Dai, David, Daud, Taavi, Dewi, Rāwiri, Deton, uDavide – Pethma – yr un unig, be’ bynnag yw’n enw i! Helo ‘na, ‘achan! Gad dy lap, iawn – dyw e’m wedi ‘ngweld i’n ‘sgrifennu’r darn ‘ma – yr ôl-nodyn anwyddonol terfynol ‘ma, ha! O, paid becso am yr holl fwstwr yn fan’ma, yn ‘mhen i. Sa i’n gallu cael gwaed o’r lleisiau ‘na ‘to, ma’n nhw ‘na’n clebran bob tro. Ar hyn o bryd ma’r baban plagus ‘na’n rhygnu ‘mlaen am yr un hen lol. Wel, ma’ ‘di tyfu lan erbyn hyn, i fod yn rhocyn annioddefol, dyna’r gair, am wn i. Ma’ fe fel rhyw gi bach ewn sy ‘di llowcio hen ddigon o’r hen gonfennau anghyfreithlon, fedret ti weud. Wi’n synnu mod i’n ddigon clyfar i daro ar y fath syniadau, hyd yn oed, ond dyna ni —

 

“Y tro hwnnw, yn y seler, neu’r tŵr, achubwyd un bywyd gwerthfawr ymddengys, ac un Byd hefyd – neu ddau, efallai – pan ddaeth enaid cryf newydd yn gaethwas i’r Grymoedd Arallfydol. Yn wir, rwy newydd ddysgu’r gwir dan warchodaeth fy ewythr Satharāfanu sydd yn creu bydoedd gyda’i gelf, a myfi fy hunan bron yn ddyn yn ei oed a’i amser. Mae e wedi mynd i drafferth fawr i ofyn pob un o’m cwestiynau, gan fy ngwneud yn hollol ymwybodol o’r amgylchiadau a’r problemau ynghylch y rhai oedd yno ar y pryd, druan â hwy, am fod arnaf fi angen dadansoddi’n fanwl a deall sut mae bodau dynol yn gweithredu yn y fath sefyllfaoedd. Ond hyd yn oed gyda’r wybodaeth hon, rhaid i ddyn ofyn, deimlaf fi, a oedd hyn oll, yn y diwedd, yn bris gwerth ei dalu. Ac ymhellach, pwy, bellach, rwy’n pryderu, ar y dydd o brysur bwyso sydd eisoes bob amser arnom, y gelwir arno i fod yr aberth glân? Oblegid, megis mewn pob chwedl afaelgar, bydd tynged annisgwyl o flaen y prif gymeriad ar ben y daith arwrol. Ond pwy ydy pwy, a beth ydy beth? Pryd, ac ym mha le, a sut? Pwy all ddweud, oblegid eu bod yn anchwiliadwy, yr Hen Feistri a’r Addolwyr Diog fel ei gilydd, a’u harferion yn dra dirgel.”

 

Ond wi ‘di bod yn gwrando’n ormod ar y storiâu gan y llanc od ‘na, Tapani, Steff, Stjepan, Stezz, Ixtebe, Stevo, Kepano, ta be’, yr un ddihangodd o’r Lladd-dy Addysgol yn Ninas Emrallt yn ddiweddar. Ac mae llawer i ateb drosto fe ‘da’r Doethur gorffwyll ‘na, ‘fyd.Gan bwyll, fe fyddi di’n dod i arfer â fe yn y pen draw. Creda di fi, reit, mêt, alla i’m cofio na gweld bron dim byd o gwbl yn glir nawr o achos y cysgodion. Sa i’n siŵr hyd yn oed pwy dw i’n iawn. Ond wi’n gwybod pethau sa i’n gallu’u cofio. ‘Credu mae’r co’ cyn bod gwybod yn cofio. Coelio’n hwy nag mae'n atgofio, yn hwy nag mae gwybod yn synnu'n wir,’ neu rywbeth. Ac yn y blaen. Ac fe wn i heb os taw yma, ar y Ddaear, mae rhaid i ni wrthwynebu’r cysgodion sy eisiau bod yn deyrn arnon ni drwy’n rheibio ni gyda bara a chwaraeon nes byddwn ni’n cael ein hysgubo bant i Rywle Arall gan dswnami anorchfygol heb yn wybod i ni.

 

Nage marw 'nes i o ddifri, y twpsyn – na Bechingalw, Tew-ddyn, neu be’ bynnag yw’i enw – reit? Ond ma’ fel ‘sai popeth dan gwilt o gysgod iasoer, seimllyd, a dyna pam wi’n crynu ac mewn chwys oer drwy’r amser. Fe wn i fod pethau echrydus ‘di digwydd, ond wi’n dyfalu bydd popeth yn newid yn y pen draw. Manylion, y manylion pitw i gyd, dyna be’ wi’n ffaelu cael gafael arnyn nhw, ma’n achosi i fi gryn rwystredigaeth, w! Ond wi’n dod at ‘nghoed o dipyn i be’ Ond sa i ‘di weld e, y Tarw Hurt, ers ... y ddamwain ... siŵr o fod, ond sa i’n glir am be’ sy’n mynd ‘mlaen na faint o amser sy ‘di mynd heibio ers ‘ny. Ond dyna freuddwydion rhyfedd! Tybed ydy’r hen goegyn peraroglus wedi dechrau jolihoetio o gwmpas ar dir y rhai byw 'to. Neu falle fod e’n loetran yn nheyrnas y cysgodion o hyd ... wedi'i lorio dros byth ... a gwynt teg ar ei ôl e, medda i. Hmm, wel, ‘sdim ots ‘da fi, t'wel, os all e'm trafferthu dod i ymweld â fi hyd yn oed, a finnau'n gorwedd ar fin marw. Licwn i gael cwpl o gomics a grawnswp, er 'ny, t'mod. 

 

Wel, gwell ‘da fi fyddai’i gysgod e na’r llanc ei hunan, er taw pisyn yw’i chwaer e, o’r enw Aileen, falle, llances mor bert sy’n ‘neud i fi lyncu ‘ngeiriau ac anghofio pwy dw i bob tro bydda i’n gweld hi, sy’n beth da ran fwya’r amser ... ar wahân i nawr, wrth gwrs, a fi mor frwd i gofio, damo! O, fe fydd hi’n ‘nghanlyn i dros bob man fel chwaer fusneslyd. Ond wedyn, pan fydda i’n agor dyfnderoedd ‘yn enaid iddi hi, fe aiff hi’n dawel ac oer, fel, fel Ariaid, Ariadau, Ariannau, Arianrhod – Ari·adní – yn ymrryd arni hi’i bod hi'n gerflun jâd i ladd ei tharw o frawd gyda phelen o linyn rasel ymhlith Llwybrau Drygioni’n ddwfn dan Ysgor y Llysfam Waetgar. Ond ma’ hi’n dwlu ar berchyll ciwt, ac yn gyfoethog, a hi sy biau siârs, ac ma’n ‘sgrifennu cerddi hir iawn, ac ma’ ‘da hi hen gastell sy’n mynd â’i ben iddo yn y Famwlad Aflonydd dros y Cefnfor Berw. Wi’n mynd i hudo hi ac ennill ei chalon hi!

 

O, Elen, Helena, Eilidh, Jelena, Helen, Alyiona, neu rywbeth ‘lly! Nyrs yma yw hi, ta ‘be – wi’n gweud ‘y Meddyliaethydd dan Hyfforddiant,’ achos bod hi’n casáu ‘ny, ha, ha! Dyna ‘run peth â Mam, wi’n credu (cyn iddi hi ... fynd mor sâl ... cyn i'r ... dyn 'na oedd yn arfer siarad pymtheg yn y dwsin – dyn tywod, neu gyflwynydd teledol, neu wleidydd? – deintydd, falle? ... ddod i'r golwg). Yn aml iawn fe fydd hi – Heléney  – yn adrodd chwedlau mor rhyfedd – y 'ngwyran enfawr rywiol  i – am ryfela, goresgyn rhwystrau, ennill bri, caru, a threngi, neu rywbeth – yn llawn o waed a thân. O, ma’ hi wastad yn ‘neud pethau secsi ‘fyd,'nghythreules syrthiedig, fel edrych arna i â’i llygaid yn hanner cau, a siglo’i chlustiau perffaith. Cymaint wi’n edrych ‘mlaen at gwrdd â hi yn y bwthyn glas i orwedd ar ei hymyl hi, wrth iddi diclo’n ffansi gyda’i syniadau syfrdanol. Dwi byth eisiau gadael y Seilam ‘ma – wel, fe fydda i’n cymryd drosodd, dyna be’ fydd yn digwydd, w!

 

Hei, nawr te, ‘achan, wi angen gweud taw dim ond jocan dw i, am ‘yn mêt. Ma’r llanc twp ‘na ‘di bod yn ffrind da i fi erioed – wel, byth ers i fi ddod i nabod e. Ma’ rhyw fath o waedlw rhyngon ni, wel dyna sut wi'n teimlo ta be’, ar ôl ein mordaith gyda’r nos i’r Wlad Byth Bythoedd. Rhyngot ti, a fi, a’r wal, w, wi’n dechrau cofio pan aethon ni o’n co’ yn ystod – ac ar ôl – y parti rhydd gorau ‘rioed. O’n ni ‘di drysu am wythnos gron, achos bod ni ‘di bod yn gweithio mor galed. O’dd y Ficing yn fwy digalon nag fel arfer, ac o’n i, y Comando Trefol, yn cysgu ar ‘nhrwyn o ganlyniad i’r holl droelli disgiau, a’r dawnsio fel derfis, ac annog y werin i oresgyn y gorthrymwyr a goroesi beichiau bywyd. O’n i’n sgwrsio gyda’r Cenhadon Cudd a’u pedwar wyneb yn disgleirio fel yr Haul, am philosophi, a chariad, a newid y Byd. Ond be’ ‘naeth ein stopio ni rhag mynd oddi ar y cledrau’n llwyr – yn ddigon rhyfedd – oedd bu bron i ni fwrw’r ferch dra spesial ‘na i lawr. Hyd yn hyn 'doedd dim syniad 'da fi am y manylion. Ond wi 'di bod yn gwrando mor astud ar bawb yn esbonio popeth ers i fi ddihuno, neu cyn i 'ny ddigwydd, falle. Sa i'n cofio dim byd. Dyma'r doethineb derbyniedig, wi di gael gan bawb, 'lly. Www, o'dd yn sioc ofnadw’ darganfod y gwir noeth.

 

O, nawr, wi’n gallu deall – neu weld, o leia’. Ma’ fel ‘sai’r lluniau’n rhuthro i mewn i ‘mhen i! Dyna ryfedd! O’n ni’n dod ‘nôl o’r digwyddiad, Gŵyl Gogoniannt a Gorfoledd, fel o’n i’n gweud. Canol haf, yn ôl y dyb, ond o’dd storm yn codi, a llais rhyw bregethwr ar y sain-drosdderbynnydd yn bygwth cosbau erchyll o bob math i’r rhai fyddai’m yn ufuddhau i’r Awdurdodau Uwch. Ymrithiodd ffigyrau brawychus o unman, fel ysbrydion bwganod gwallgo’n ymddangos yn yr hanner golau. Bellach wi ‘di clywed taw chwaer y Ficing o’dd un ohonyn nhw. Mewn gwirionedd – ma’n nhw ‘di gweud wrtha i – buodd hithau’n ffraeo gyda rhyw sowldiwr o ŵr, hen iawn, yn hanner cant, falle. Buon nhw’n ymlwybro dros y caeau o gyfeiriad yr hen fwthyn glas, eu breichiau’n llawn ysbail o ryw fath. (‘Nethon ni ddim gweld hyn i gyd, wrth gwrs, ond ro’dd e’n dipyn o hwlcyn ac mor hyll â mwnci trwynog a bigwyd, yn gwisgo siwt glown ofnadw a chot  fawr ffansi, yn llaid i gyd. Sa i’n gw’bod, ond dyna be’ oedd yn mynd ‘mlaen, reit?). Fe ruthrodd y ferch yn syth i ganol y ffor’ (wrth drio ffoi rhag y cythraul cynddeiriog, yn ôl pob sôn). D’odd ‘na’m byd allen ni ‘neud, w, dyna be’ ma’ pawb yn weud! Rhaid bod ‘na r’wbeth o’i le ar y brêcs ar ôl i’r jôc o Hen Filwr 'na drio rhoi mwy o gic i’r fan fis neu ddau’n ôl, yn ôl y Doethur dwl, ta be’.

 

Ac wedyn – chwap – dyna o’dd y fan yn gwyro i osgoi gwrthdrawiad penben gyda fy lama anwyla i – ac yn cael ei dryllio yn erbyn coeden ac arni arwydd coch llachar (er dwi’m yn siŵr am y darn ola ‘na). O’dd fel ‘sai’r Byd i gyd yn troi ar ei dalcen drosodd a throsodd (yn bendant!). Sêr. Poen. Dim byd. Düwch llwyr. Wel, dyna be’ fyddwn i’n ddychmygu, o’r disgrifiadau wi ‘di clywed ta be’. Www, dyna o’dd y meteorolegydd, neu’r pen parablus, neu’r ymgeisydd i’r Blaid Baternalistig, neu be’ bynnag o’dd e, yn ymosod arnon ni’n ffyrnig wrth i ni farweiddio’n anymwybodol yn y fan. (Roedd Mrs G yn cynddeiriogi wrth ddisgrifio hyn, wir i ti!). Ma’n nhw’n gweud i ‘Nhywysoges Ryfelgar i ymateb yn debyg i ryw ddifodfil cnodiog ond ffyrnig, yn llysnafedd a gwaed i gyd, gan ei daflu yntau mas o’r ffor’ fel ‘sai fe’n un o’r Gweinidogion Arteithiol, canibalaidd, yn barod i ddisgyn yn rheibus ar ei ysglyfaeth (ma'n ddirgelwch llwyr i fi sut ma'n nhw'n gw'bod, ond dyna ti). Ond o’dd popeth yn iawn, ta be’, ar ôl llawer o sgrechian, a brathu, a chrafu, a thynnu llygaid. Rywbryd yn hwyrach, fe gaethon ni’n hachub o’r hen fan hyfryd (a diolch byth bod hithau’n saff ‘fyd), a’n cludo i’r Clinig, ac yma fe ddihunais i wythnos neu ddwy ar ôl y digwyddiad (od iddi gymryd cymaint o amser!) i glywed y stori drist oll. Fe benderfynais i bryd ‘ny ddylen ni fod gyda’n gilydd am byth, finnau a hithau, yr El swynol. Ta be ‘ dyna hen ddigon ar y malu awyr. Digon gweud taw cyn i’r sefyllfa ddatblygu, o’dd y Ficing ‘na’n brygowthan yn ddi-stop fel arfer, ‘lly fe o’dd ar fai am ffaelu canolbwyntio ar y ffor’. A dyna pam sa i’n gallu peidio gwawdio’r clebryn ‘na o lipryn gor-addysgedig, dyna oll, ond dim ond achos bod ni fel brodyr, a dyna’r gwir.

 

“O’m rhan i, pan oeddwn i’n blentyn yn cael fy ergydio y tu mewn i’r sach gnawdol honno oedd yn groth a charchar i mi cyn hired, o'n i'n debyg i ddoli clwt mewn sach hesian, yn greadur oedd yn resynus ac anneallus, na allai ond dychrynu. Pwy a wnaethai’n wahanol? Nid rhaid dweud yr arferwn i fod yn gyfan gwbl wan o’m cymharu â pha mor gryf wyf fi bellach. Ar ôl blynyddoedd maith o ymarfer, rwy’n dod i werthfawrogi fy ngalluoedd hynod fy hunan, sydd heb eu hail, ac rwy wedi dodi penderfyniad yn lle ofn.”

 

Wel, nawr te, dyna ni’r ddau lanc mentrus – fi a, a’r Rhifolegwr Colledig – yn clebran fel pwll y môr bob amser wrth gynllunio sut fyddwn ni’n concro’r Byd. A so’r lleisiau eraill oddi mewn byth yn rhoi pen ar y sibrwd ‘chwaith, ond ar wahân i ‘ny, wi’n hollol gall, yn ‘nhyb i, ta be’. Reit ‘te, rhaid i fi fynd i weld y pen-bandit pryfoclyd ‘na, Ww, Price, Pritchard, Probert, Probyn, falle, i sôn am yr un hen hanes, am ‘fy mhroblemau i gyd.’ Sa i’n gallu gweithio mas ydy e’n debyg i helgi llwglyd, neu ryw ddewin crebachlyd, neu hurfilwr wedi’i anafu’n wael amser maith yn ôl. Ond be’ bynnag yw e, fe fydd e’n gorwedd yno bob tro ar ei soffa’n chwarae gyda’r blwch snisin ffansi ‘na’n ddigon i’ch gwylltio. Ac fe fydda i’n eistedd ar hen gadair esmwyth, dreuliedig ond mor gyfforddus a chysurol, yng nghornel bella’r swyddfa, fel gweledydd ar ei orsedd. Ma’r breichiau’n llawn tyllau, ac fe fydda i’n dychmygu mod i'n Farchog dewr yn hedfan o gwmpas Bydoedd Eraill i ladd anghenfilod a rhyddhau'r werin o afael y terrn llym, wrth i fi wau’n straeon hudol.

 

A ‘naiff e’m byd ond syllu ar y nenfwd. a thylino bawd ei droed o achos y gowt, wrth riddfan fel arth sy ‘di ishte ar nyth cacwn. Hmm, wi’n ffansïo cael gafael ar y bocs ‘na, ma’n edrych yn reit ddrud. Ac yna fe fydda i’n hollti bogail wrth smalio bwrw ‘mola perfedd am fywyd llawn trallod. Ww, mewn ffor’ wi’n dwlu arno fe, ’rhen sbeciwr, a wi’n mwynhau chwarae mig gyda fe, ‘fyd. Ble dwi’n terfynu, a ble ma’n cychwyn? I'r Swtan â fe, medda i (be' bynnag yw 'ny, ma'r gair yn dal i godi i lan yn 'yn meddwl i) – Swta, Swtach? Cyn yr holl sothach ‘na, fe fydda i’n mynd am dro yn y fan. Yn bendant. Ma’ ‘na bethau i ‘neud – tamaid bach o'r hen therapi, leic, ha-ha!

 

A sôn am fod yn brysur. Wi ‘di bod yn sgwrsio lawer gyda’r Arglwyddes MacBeth ‘na, sy’n rhedeg yr holl le. Www, ma’ hi’n wraig ffein! Fydd hi byth yn Fam i fi, fel y wraig druan ‘na, fy angyles wedi'i dirdynnu, bu bron iddi farw pan ges i ‘ngeni (a dyna pam wi’n felltigedig byth oddi ar ‘ny), ond ma’ hi’n dod yn agos. Ma’ hi ‘di bod yn awgrymu cymaint o bethau i fi’u ‘neud, fel casglu ffwng aml-liwiog yn y fforest binwydd yn oriau mân y bore, ac ymarfer bod yn ddyn tân (er bydd rhaid iddi hi gynnau’r fflamau gynta’). ‘Sdim ots ‘da hi am ‘nghastiau oll, ac ma’ hi’n caru ‘nghrwt mewnol. Mewn gwirionedd, wi’n was bach iddi, ac yn mwynhau ‘neud yr holl negesi, fel dod o hyd i bethau sbesial, a hyfryd, a gwerthfawr, a’u cadw nhw yn saff. Ac O,y cacennau ‘na ac ynddyn nhw’r perlysiau egsotig i gyd fyddwn ni’n rhannu nhw yn y gegin. Ma’n nhw mor flasus, y pethau gorau ar y Blaned. Ma’n nhw’n ‘neud i fi deimlo mod i’n gallu hedfan, a siarad gydag ysbrydion y meirwon aflonydd. Nawr, ble ma’ ‘mrawd hanner call a dwl i?

 

Fyddet ti byth yn gredu fe, reit, ond ma'r Ficing yn Fab i'r Arglwyddes, ac ma'r Arglwyddes yn chwaer i'r Doethur! Ac ma'r Doethur Prosser, Prothero, be’ bynnag, y dyn sy’n gweithio yn y ‘stafell fach ‘na heb ffenestri – rhif 7, neu 17 – lle poeth, sych, myglyd, yn chwilod byw – ‘chep – chep – chep’ – wedi’i beintio’n las yr awyr – yn cymryd nodiadau, a recordio fi, hyd yn oed. Wedyn fe fyddwn ni’n gwylio’r ffilmiau arswyd gwaharddedig ansbaradigaethus o'r Cyfandir Deheuol am y Nw Yrth a ballu ar y sgrin enfawr. Myn y Gwesteiwr ... y Gwesgi ... grr ... be’ bynnag – falle bydda i mewn llyfr ryw ddydd – wel, dyna be’ newydd. Fi fydd yn dysgu pethau i grachach fel ti. Ond er gwaetha’r holl sgwrsio lol ‘na gyda’r Dewin Ifanca’ (fi sy’n gweud ‘ny, nage fe), wi'n poeni’n enbyd am ymuno â'r Byd Go-iawn, yn llawn pobl mewn oed, be' bynnag ma' 'ny'n olygu. Ma' rhaid iddyn nhw gydymffurfio â'r holl reolau a bod yn gyson, a difrifol, a synhwyrol bob amser, yr oedolion. Ond fe fydd y pethau lleia' yn y Byd yn eu drysu nhw o'r crud i'r bedd. 'Lly ma'n nhw wastad yn profi, a mesur, a chalibro, a gwirio.

 

“Rwy’n cofio’n aml fy Nhad, yr arwr aflwyddiannus, nad oeddwn i’n ei adnabod, er fy mawr siom. Roedd yn dyfalbarhau i ddioddef y driniaeth bondigrybwyll â chyffuriau oedd yn drysu’i feddwl, ac yn siarad a siarad â’r cynghorwyr diamgyffred. Eto i gyd, bu’n llwyddo i ddal i fyw er iddo gael ei arteithio’n ysbrydol ac yn y cnawd gan y Mentor Ceryddol cywilyddus, yn llawn bwriadau da o’r fath fwyaf ysgeler, a fyddai’n ymbleseru mewn cam-drin corff y plentyn yn ogystal a’i feddwl, cyn ei annog i gyffesu a maddau. Ac o’r herwydd, yr wyf wedi dod i’m casgliadau cyfrinachol fy hunan ynghylch gallu’r Thorlin i wneud drwg ac i dra-rhagoriaeth, wrth fyfyrio’n ddwys yn ystod nos dywyllaf yr enaid.”

 

A gweud y gwir, wi ofn bywyd bob dydd. Ma’ fel ‘sai pawb wedi’u dal mewn magl greulon o’r enw cymdeithas, fydd yn gwatwar nhw wrth iddi’u tagu. Dyma’r peth. Achos fe fyddan nhw’n canolbwyntio mor galed ar y sefyllfa afreal ‘na o’r enw realiti, ond heb ddod o hyd iddo, fe fyddan nhw’n cael eu hysgubo bant ar donnau brawychus o ddychymig pan fydd y mymryn lleia’ o ffantasi’n codi ei ben lletchwith. Dyn nhw’m yn gallu datglymu’r ddau beth, a byddan nhw’n diodde’n enbyd o ganlyniad. Hyd yn oed tra byddan nhw’n ymladd yn ffyrnig i drio dianc rhag y trafferthion fyddan nhw’n cwrdd â nhw’n anochel liw dydd, be’ fydd yn digwydd? – Dim ond agor tuniaid newydd sbon o gynrhon ‘nân nhw (nematodau’n bum deg mil oed wedi’u hadfywio, siŵr o fod)!

 

‘Lly dyna nhw, y hurtynnod, yn codi porthcwlis y meddwl – dim ond i’r raddau lleia – i blymio mewn talp hyfryd o ddifyrrwch dychmygol (cyn taflu’r cynrhon mas, sbo) – ac on’ fyddan nhw’n gadael i griw brith o gysgodion cythryblus yn prowlan ruthro i mewn i’w bywydau a dechrau’u llywio nhw, fesul tipyn, ond yn bendant. A dyna fydd yn waeth byth nag o’r blaen. Wedyn, fe fydd y trueiniaid bach moyn taflu sbotolau i’w dyfnderoedd seico, nôl y gist o arfau ma’s i dincera a thrio cyweirio pethau. Ond (dyma lais y Dewin yn siarad ar ôl iddo fe ishte a phigo’i drwyn a driblan am oriau), trwy geisio dofi rhannau cudd y meddwl, fe fydd hyd yn oed y bobl fwyaf gwâr yn cynhyrchu angenfilod newydd, rhyfedd – “ac fel hyn y bydd y sbiral andwyol yn parhau.” Yn y pendraw, i osgoi’r fath ddychryn di-os, dyna’r dorf yn ildio i reoli meddwl a phwylltreisio, gan roi’r gorau i awtonomiaeth a chael ei llyncu gan y peiriant cymdeithasol hollysol, wedi’i lywodraethu gan ddeddfau mecanistig ac annynol. Ma’ popeth yn fwyfwy tywyll wrth i hanes ddechrau newid yn gyflymach, gyflymach o achos technoleg, a chyfathrebu torfol, a’r cyfryngau. Tra bydd ein golwg hollgynhwysol ar y Byd yn datblygu heb rwystr, fe aiff y delweddau cyfarwydd oll yn fwyfwy aneglur a sigledig.

 

“Ac fe gaf fy nial – trwy deg neu hagr – ar y Grymoedd Gorthrymus – naill ai yn hyn o fyd, neu ynteu’r tu hwnt i’r llen! Rwy wedi agor fy nghalon i leisiau’r cysgodion sy’n galw arnaf oddi mewn ac oddi allan. Ni fydd pardwn i'r troseddwyr – nid oes dim byd y mae’n werth ei faddau – ond difetha llwyr fydd. Ymwared na fydd, nid oes dim byd y mae’n werth ei arbed mewn bywydau'r arteithwyr, y dallbleidwyr anfad. Fe fydd yn rhaid i gethwas wybod ei le; ond myfi, y prif was, sydd wedi gwneud fy lle fy hun.”

 

Wel, fi sy'n credu taw digon yw digon. Y Digrifwas Difrifol dw i, wedi'r cwbl, fel yn y comics, yn rhith tywysog swynol, er mod i 'di 'nghreithio mor boenus mod i'n edrych fel creadur o'r lagŵn du dan ‘nillad. Wi 'di deifio yng Ngheunant Anghofiedig Alathak, a chroesi dyfroedd cythryblus Afon Sed yng Nghalon y Cyfandir, wrth osgoi'r holl fampiriaid seicig wedi'u harwain gan Sonath Dieskrad. Yn ystod fy nhaith hir ofnadw' i, o'dd rhaid i fi guddio o'r golwg yn y dirwedd lygredig, liw dydd a liw nos. Fe gasglais i gymaint gan y lleiafri' lloerig, a'r siamaniaid ysbrydoledig, a'r rhai difreintiedig yn byw ar ymylon cymdeithas. Wi ‘di darllen, a chlywed, a gwylio – a dysgu drwy brofiad, t’wel. A meistr mor galed yw bywyd, yn bendant – buodd cymaint o waed, a chwys, a dagrau, ‘sdim dwywaith amdani. Ma’n hala di i feddwl on’d ydy – sut all dyn fyw, a thrais a throseddau ar gynnydd o hyd? Nage drwy fod yn dda bob amser, i sicrwydd, ac yn hyn o be’ dw i yn llygad ‘yn lle yn ‘marn, yn ôl pob tebyg.

 

A dyma fi'n ymryddhau ar ddamwain o afael dirwedd bydol, gyda'i arwyddion rhanedig a'i ddelweddau hynafol, drwy dderbyn afrealiti fel 'naiff crwt diniwed, dyw'm wedi'i lygru gan y deddfau atgas 'to. Yno, yn y cyfnos parhaol, geiriau melys chwedlau'n sôn am deganau byw, anifeiliaid sy'n siarad, a gwelyau hedegog yw'r pethau mwya' pwysig, yn ogystal â'r rhesymeg lithrig sy'n rheoli'r gefnwlad rithiol. Ac yno ma' cyrff mor hyblyg â molysgiaid plastig, a dych chi'n gallu ymestyn syniadau nes bod nhw bron â thorri.

 

“Rwy wedi cael fy hyfforddi gan y rhai sydd yn deall y gwirionedd, ac yn awr rwy dan orchymyn. Ni fedr neb fy rhwystro i. Un gryfach nag ef, yr un a aeth yn gaeth i gyffuriau, ydwyf fi. Rwy’n ddeallus, wedi cael gormodedd o addysg. Rwy’n rhugl ac yn ddyfeisgar, tra oedd ef yn y pen draw yn enghraifft druenus o fod dynol, wedi’i dwyllo a’i dorri. Am hyn o dro yr arhosaf fy nghyfle, wrth ddisgwyl i’r Sêl Ysgarlad ymddangos.”

 

Yno, yn yr Amgenfyd, ma' pob alltud yn creu rheolau newydd fydd yn gadael i unrhyw be' ddigwydd. Yn wir, ma'n nhw'n gweud – y bobl fydd byth yn gartrefol yn unman – taw ym myd y dychymyg, fe all emosiynau oresgyn lledu di-ball y gofod, rywsut, a hyd yn oed llenwi, crochan diwaelod amser. Un ffaith wi’n siŵr amdani hi, ta be’ yw taw celwyddau, cysgodion, a chofion ill tri sy’n rhannu’r un hanfod, o’r enw hud, wedi’i greu gydag iaith – hud sy’n byw mewn rhyw ddimensiwn arall, ble ma’r hunan yn toddi, wrth i’r arall geulo, a’r ffordd arall rownd, jyst drwy rannu geiriau. ‘Lly dim ond cysgodion ieithegyddol, lledrithiol dyn ni i gyd – wrth gwrs.

 

Fi sy 'di bod yn ceisio 'ngair hudol 'yn hunan, 'lly, ac yn ddiweddar wi 'di ddarganfod e – er dwi’m yn mynd i ‘sgrifennu fe ‘ma, na’i ddweud e. Ond ma'n air wedi'i greu drwy ddefnyddio llythrennau cynta’ enwau rhai Duwdodau Dieithr. Ac ma'n llawn doethineb a nerth, y gair 'ma, wi eisoes wedi darganfod 'ny. Wi’n mynd i ddefnyddio fe i ‘nhrawsffurfio'n hunan yn llwyr. Chwedyn fe alla i chwilio am y Graig Fythol ble bydda i'n cipio'r llucheden i newid culni'n dderbyniad, a chasineb yn gariad, unwaith ac am byth. Ar ôl 'ny, fe fydda i'n diflannu o'r Byd cyffredin, wrth 'yn atal 'yn hunan, diolch i ‘mhwerau hudol, rhag mynd yn gonfensiynol, a normal, a diflas. A 'lly, yn y Byd Braf, Newydd, sy'n bwydo fel symbiont ar ein gobeithion a'n hofnau, ac sy'n tyfu'n gyson wrth aeddfedu a mynd yn fwy cymhleth o achos 'ny, fe fydda i’n byw gyda ‘Nhywysoges Brydferth. Ac fe fydd cyfeillgarwch, a gobaith yn ennill dros golled, galar, beirniadaeth, a dychryn, o'r diwedd.

 

“Pan ddaw’r tro, myfi a ollynga’n rhydd nerthoedd na welwyd erioed o’r blaen ar wyneb y Ddaear gron, o gaeau seithliw’r Nw Yrth. Oblegid mai myfi oedd y baban a grëwyd trwy gastiau hudol, fydd yn cyflawni’r cyfamod a wnaethpwyd â’r Dewin cyntaf yn ystod y cyfnod cynharaf, yn Nhŷ Aileni oedd fy medd a’m bru hefyd. A dyma dywod amser yn diwrthdro ehedeg, ‘chep – er – chep – er – chep – er,’ o awrwydr chwilfriw bodolaeth fodern, hyd nes y disgyn y cysgod olaf. Felly yr wyf wedi llefaru. Ac felly y bydd hi!”

 

Wi eisiau rhedeg bant a chuddio, nes bydd y cysgodion o’r tu hwnt yn cyrraedd, i ‘nghipio fi a’n llusgo fi i’r Byd Nesa’, pryd bynnag fydd ‘ny’n digwydd, ta be’.Ac ma' rhaid i fi gadw draw oddi wrth y tiwtor od 'na o'r enw'r ffug-Ddewin. Wel dyna’n enw i arno fe, ta be’. Ma’n atgoffa fi am ‘Nhad i, pwy bynnag o’dd e. Sa i’n cofio’n reit o gwbl, dyna be’ wi’n feddwl. Ma’ ‘nelo’r hen stompiwr â'r hen ŵr, rywsut neu’i gilydd, a dyna pam wi ‘ma, wi’n credu. Fe fydd ‘nghroen i’n cosi’n enbyd bob tro bydda i’n weld e, neu feddwl amdano fe, yr hen athro di-glem ‘na. Ach a fi! Fe fydd e’n trio rhoi sbrag yn ‘yn olwyn bob dydd a ‘nghadw i rhag cael hwyl, drwy ddal i falu awyr am ei holl syniadau twp. Pa mor aml wi ‘di clywed am sut i berfformio’r Gelfyddyd Ddu, wrth droi llaca’n snisin, a phres yn electrwm, a’r gweddill o’r rwtsh? ‘Dwn i’m o gwbl, a ‘sdim ots ‘da fi ‘chwaith. Wi’n siŵr fod e eisiau dwyn ‘mhwerau i, a rhoi pen ar ‘nhrawsffurfio i. ‘Lly dw i angen diflannu bant am sbel, ma’i holl gastiau’n mynd yn ormod a wi’n cynllunio dial, ta be’, ac yn meddwl am sut i gael gafael ar ei ffwng ffrîci a’r sigwrat ‘na wedi’i ‘neud o fetel gwerthfawr.

 

Yn y cyfamser, fe fydda i’n dal i fyfyrio ar bethau fel ‘yn. Ife coed coch, cadarn ydyn ni, â’n canghennau’n estyn i lan i’r nefoedd; neu gysgodion rhydlyd, ansylweddol, â’n gwreiddiau simsan yn turio i lawr i’r dyfnderoedd mewn dychryn? A be’ am drigolion y Niws Gyrth, y Swyddogion Sarffaidd a’r Doethion Diobaith? Ydy ‘ny’n reit? Allan nhw fodoli heb fod yn aelodau o’r naill lwyth na’r llall? Neu falle taw’r ddau ar yr un pryd dyn nhw ar y slei bach. Hmm, diddorol iawn. Wel, rhaid i fi’i heglu hi, ‘yn antur fwya’ sy o ‘mlaen, ‘achan, ma’n nhw’n galw arna i, y Lleisiau Trallodus. Ma’n nhw wastad yn begian, a bwgwth, a chocsio, ac addo pethau. Ond paid di poeni amdana i, sa i’n credu hanner o be’ wi’n ddarllen, a bron dim o be’ wi’n glywed. Sa i mor hurt â ‘ny, wedi’r cwbl, dw i? Ac ar ben ‘ny, fi’n tynnu ei goes yntau drwy’r amser, ‘fyd, y Dewin Ifanca’, on’d dw i, wel, rywbryd, wrth ffugio llawer o’r straeon ‘ma, ma’ e mor hoff ohonyn nhw. Falle, yn ei ôl e, fe fydda i’n dod i weld pobl eraill yn y diwedd nage dim ond fel cymysgedd haniaethol o elfennau sylfaenol ond fel gwrthrychau pedwar dimensiwn, cyfannol. Wwww, wi'n hoffi pethau fel 'ny'n fawr iawn, ma'n swnio mor gymhleth a hudol, bron, fel rhywbeth o stori ffug-wydd. 'Lly gwell i fi bydru arni hyd y diwedd un i orffen yr hanes, sbo. Wel, ta-ta tan toc, w – dyna gyffrous yw bywyd, on’d ife?

 

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[*] Mae'r prif destun yn dod o "Cariad, Colled, Chwilod" gan Dai Baxter, a'r rhyngosodiadau o'r gwaith syfrdanol diweddara' gan Elfan Baldrog Bacster, "Plentyn Indigo Atha-lanthé." — P.M.