Perhaps it is the interaction between absorption and reflection that is the root and essence of everything in the world; every thing that is, which was created through a game of hide-and-seek between opposing forces, the one of which cannot exist without the other. After all, the existence of shadows presupposes light, in a similar way to how thoughts and ideas (not to mention objects) here and now suggest that there were other things in different places, a little while ago, and that various things will be coming into being sometime in the future. As well as that, stories call for story-tellers, who relate them whilst changing them, and we have to ask therefore – Do children create their parents? Do lies illuminate truth? Do sacrifices sanctify the impious? Does fear stimulate bravery? Is it events that make men? Thus it may be, to some extent, but perhaps the situation is much more difficult, in reality, where the opposite poles take part in a complex and chaotic process, being transformed, constantly, from one thing to the other, in a way we cannot envisage easily at all without following the path to see where it will lead at last.

 

Here’s two lads, David and Steffan, venturing out on some ill-appointed task organised by the Youngest Magus, under the direction of Lady Meykbeds, having escaped from the Old Soldier’s torture and the tender but sarcastic mercies of the Trainee Mentalist. Or rather, perhaps, they are two charming princes from the Heart of the Continent, Daud and Stjepan, in their pumpkin-carriage, with their footmen who are really mice, and they’re looking for princesses to save (or a swain to caress in the case of one of them) – as well as over-enthusiastic dragons to slay, and wars to fight. They’re in a borrowed white van full of things that could get them into considerable trouble, to tell the truth. So it would be better to use the alternative names Dai and Stevo, perhaps, which reflect their true cheeky characters more accurately, according to some in the know at least.

 

They’ll be doing quite some good by undergoing considerable evil – but who can judge – that’s their business, isn’t it? There’s no map fashioned with symbols or images that will be of use to them in this place. In the distance, on the estate, amongst the pines, it appears that something like a tower of light is piercing the threatening sky. Little do they know that they are travelling under the shadow of a great and awful revelation. And the half-blind tower’s eye is winking and shining like a death-bound star – dot, dot, dot – dash, dash, dash – dot, dot, dot. 

 

On the sound-transceiver a vile preacher named the Red Priest is commanding every sinner on the Earth (everyone therefore) to pay attention to his fearful warnings, but his hypnotic words are turning to mush – ‘dalatha, bravlu, klendru, eshempa’ – which are bewitching the two lads like a prayer intended to summon some cruel gods to appear. And here’s one of the characters in our comic strip, Dai, Daud, David, thinking –

 

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Considering the bucket-loads of nonsense pouring from the SoTra, thrashing my ear-drums, it’s no surprise that I’m feeling like spewing my guts up across the dirty carpet of Stevie’s uncle’s van. But it wouldn’t make much of a difference to the sticky layer of crap – The Seven Sorcerers know what – that’s lying between sleep and waking on the floor, licking my Vans trainers, which are exceptionally distressed by now, more’s the pity. I could cry, really, but I force myself to grow up, stop myself from making a fuss, and manage not to weep. In Lushfé’s name, I’m sorry that I stuffed my guts with two bottles of ouzo – and all the other stuff – earlier on.

 

Hell’s teeth! It’d been a devil of a long night – which had wandered like a rainbow-coloured snake through the next day – before flowing out to tickle other dark shores. I should never’ve bought into all that nonsense about a Midsummer Party. I could feel that second the taste of sickly aniseed refluxing up my scorched tubes. And at the same time, there’s the evangelist’s rhythmic chanting – ‘silpistí, madrolu, bamlaru, zileví’ – breaking through the heavy, grey rain, threatening to wash the road away, and these sinners in the van too. But, well, y’know, sometimes when you’re already on the verge of going dizzy from a cocktail of substances, in a muddy field with a crowd of old, bald hippies whose pony-tails are hangin’ down to their arse-holes, well, you’ll hoover up anything they give you without much of a thought, won’t you? And they they’ll fall asleep, leaving you to face the authorities on your own. Well, until you escape in the van, of course!

 

It seems that Stevie doesn’t notice how the words that’re flowing through the SoTra into our stinky and constrained space agree so well with the mood of the weather outside – ‘turikikihí, thirularop, bahuakah, veraza’. Summer in Kimbria – winter in Kimbria – it’s all the same. I’m trembling from hearing the devilish ranting, and curse our lack of preparation – and I, Dai-boy, had such great plans for revenge and malicious damage too, y’see. But at least Stevie’s keeping things going, stopping them getting boring. Where in hell’s the driving rain come from – just as it’s getting dark? And there’s no sign of shelter to be had, either – it’s like a hurricane in Hawaii here. Good for us for having fun in the middle of the summer in only a vest and pair of shorts – that’s one thing – but, well, really, may the Old Gods preserve us – my goose-pimples’re shivering with the cold!

 

Thank goodness he – Stevie – isn’t trying to be an entertainer, like he usually does. I don’t think I can stand his weak witticisms, especially as something – I’m not sure what – is sending shivers down my spine, and I’m dizzy too, and now the waves of loving brought on by my recent indulgence are making me feel distinctly sea-sick. I could’ve sworn in the names of all the Strange Gods that I can taste metal – the same kind of thing as the smell that comes from a newly-fired gun, and I scowl when I realise that I’ve bitten my tongue, somehow – when exactly – before? I can’t remember and the bloody gobbets of sound – ‘endilda, andíshis, lilivalis, kestala’ – defiling the air, aren’t helping. I wish my mind would work, and I gulp down the mouthful of blood and spit while my mind reels, trying to begin to deal with everything that’s happening.

 

As I stir myself from within the black pool of my thoughts, hauling myself back to the real world, it’s as if the motor’s bubbling, then there’s a loud whining, the sound of nails being scraped on a black-board, sliding itself through the wall of rain, while the chanting intensifies – ‘brubumbu, elentlova, kualuru, tithihenta’. And the van’s rushing forward too – faster and faster – through the putrid jelly about it – labouring and trembling enormously. And suddenly, what’s on the road in front of the van? Is it a kid wandering like a damned soul, some lost ectoplasmic entity, a pitiful creature with a cowl on its head under a death sentence? How in the Two Worlds did that happen? I don’t know, but despite the whole mixture of illegal and illegal substances whirling about in my damaged body, here’s me snatching the wheel off the bewildered driver. Then, something snapping – and the wheels turning quicker and quicker, there’s no difference to me – and the pines not far off —

 

Then a sound, a voice, calling me to remember something else, somewhere else, some other time – ‘anvisashé, kouroakrí, ankelrerek, shezesista’ – the smell of wintergreen, cheap aftershave, smuggled fags. Am I wearing clean pants to meet the undertaker? I’m itching to brush my teeth for some reason – and itching, tickling, scratching, literally, too – in the name of the Lazy Ones, the grave-beetles’re gnawing on me – I’m being eaten alive. My chest’s being crushed by an enormous, unseen rock. I need – I have to – escape – I’m almost dying of fear – desperately wanting to jump out of the van and run. I’m a frightened kid – cold, sweaty, warm, locked up in the dark, who’s begging for his toys, and the only light is a trembling street-lamp in the distance. Is that the sound of a siren coming to arrest us? But by The Anointed of the Old Gods who went down into the fire-pits on the Nw Yrth, I’m having a panic attack – and all the time there’s that hateful ranting, calling on us to burn forevermore.

 

I can see the whole thing – the accident, should we say, maybe – now – very slowly – as slow as possible, to tell the truth – as slow as a lame tortoise limping without its shell at midday on some scorching day in the middle of summer – I think – but is it me – who is that ‘me’, over there, anyway? The me who’s screaming the final words of the incantation – ‘vilizda, huiklé, vildarsí, deklo’. 

 

Without warning – the thing, the spirit, the kid, the monster, comes into view once again – Stevie breaks hard, exactly the same moment that the van engine reaches the peak of its screeching – and then the breaks give way – squealing as if we were in a slaughter-house. Oh, Swtach keep us, I swear under my breath, what an end to a free party amongst the pines after we’ve just escaped from the Patriotic People's Militia ‘cos those old devils on the Committee’ve tried to arrange that I get arrested.

 

I don’t understand what’s happening, mun. It’s like a nightmare caused by medicinal mushrooms. Everything’s moving very slow. And then I realise. Ha, that’s funny, I never know what’s going on usually. I feel I’m several people at the same time, it’s like there’s a host of characters in me who want to come out and have their say. There are Two Worlds here at the same time, one on top of the other, separated from each other by a kind of veil. And here, in this place where substance melts, here’s the Lord of the Old Ones who tore the veil before, rending the veil again.

 

There’s stuff everywhere, like an unseen web, or the membranes of your intestines, stretched over every void and spread in every gap. I can sense it, in a way, from the corner of my eyes, the stuff that’s gluing every bit of the world together. Well, it’s like colourless jam, perhaps, or better to say jelly, I notice the substance similar to transparent plastic when I stretch my fingers wide. And if I move extremely slowly, I touch it, and then I realise that it’s dragging against me all the time, making me feel really odd. 

 

And here’s the pulsating body of the Old Master who’s always lurking on the threshold, consisting of thousands of shining globes, precipitating from the mist in front of us. And I remember Mum (my lost angel) and Dad (the old devil), and everyone else who’s come and gone, that I’ve tried to connect with, to some degree, without succeeding, mostly. And here’s the keeper who knows the gate, who possesses the silver key, who wanders across all time under the Scarlet Seal. I need to think about that lump of a best friend, the Viking, sitting beside me, and the cold, difficult-to-understand girl I like so much (whilst hating her at the same time) before I die.

 

And I’m being forced to acknowledge all my weaknesses and inadequacies and failings. I was so full of enthusiasm before, so willing to harm those who deserved being punished, despite all the fine words and moralizing. I meant well, though. But right now everything’s changed completely. I’m totally confused. What a hypocrite I am, who had wanted to be so nasty before. There’s no choice then, I have to confess to myself that I can’t hurt anyone not to mention kill them, even those I hate most, and that it’d be better to do good instead of fighting back. How could I’ve considered sacrificing that other stupid lad? I don’t understand anything anymore. I wanted to succeed but I’ve failed. And this is the real prize, probably. I was lying to myself all along. I’m not who I think I am. What’s up with me? Remember the message of peace and love, mun. But now I’ve run off, once again. Is that failing?

 

And there’s the face of my Mum who’s lying in the hospital, poor thing, and she’s pleading with me to be released from her torture, and I can’t help her. As I scrunch my eyes so tight they hurt, to try and stop the fear, here’s the Ancient of Days manifesting, that which ploughs the void before sowing all the seeds of chaos. The entity with its thousands of eyes starts to jump at the van, and it’s slimy with iridescent oil that would cause any ordinary man to go on a once-in-a-lifetime acid trip if he came into contact with it. And here’s Isheth itself stretching out its myriad slimy, ectoplasmic tentacles towards us, to snatch our solus away.

 

And there’s a sickly smell of rotten flowers filling the air – and the complete silence – the total darkness – like a morgue, but worse because it’s teeming with spectral, vampiric horses – that night that happens over and over – a savage, tusked night, its mouth full of poison bile – night become a ravenous wolf.

 

And I’m being pushed straight forward in the real world, well, the world I recognise, whilst being squashed in some dimension outside the usual four I’m familiar with only through reading all the sci-fi, and I’m getting stretched out and turned into spaghetti at the same time. And my head smashes against the dashboard – splitting my tongue, and filling my mouth with life-fluid – with the taste of blood. And there’s the stink of ozone, and an ultraviolet glow, and wild laughing. And then – nothing.

 

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THE FOLLOWING events which are connected with the celebrated Clinic called The Pines in Aberdydd deserved being chronicled in the local newspaper. I quote from the article word-for-word here. — D.B.P.

 

“The mysterious young man had disappeared from the innovative, experimental clinic, which is on the point of being shut down due to lack of funding, into the local community, many times before. Every time he would act very strangely – helping the aged to cross the road, preventing fights between children, painting over graffiti in the Poly-varsity, arranging free dance-parties for the unemployed, and collecting rubbish – in every case, without being asked or paid. On other occasions, he would translate works by unknown old masters such as Nukulu Vili-seketh into Kimbric. And an unconfirmed report alleges that he had discovered original work in Kimbric by a stripling Tomos Aildon. Whilst venturing beyond the clinic’s safe walls, he would usually carry a sack containing two rag-dolls, a rusty knife, a pot of red paint, and toys in the form of a cat and a cockerel, of all things under the sun. Furthermore, the foreigner was accustomed to chant mantras in strange languages.”

 

The report goes on — “This time, however, he was caught after an accident in a white van. It appears that a nurse was taking him away to get treatment in the clinic after he was seriously injured when he had run into the street to sweep a child from the path of a car that was speeding amongst the pines, saving her life. The details are unclear, however, as he the would-be hero is lying in a coma at this time [*]. It is not sure what his age is, but he was abused terribly when he was a small boy before coming to this country. He had been obsessed with ideas of the occult and the supernatural since he joined the army as a boy-soldier at thirteen years of age to fight all over the continent by all accounts. It is likely that he was suffering from shell-shock after the war in the Heart of the Continent. The medics have stated that he was experiencing persistent auditory hallucinations – ‘voices from the world to come’ – which encouraged him to do strangely useful acts of all kinds. The trainee clinician we spoke to, H Grossmann, had believed that the latest change in his medication should have had a beneficial effect, but it is possible that she was ‘unfortunately incorrect’ (according to her own words). ‘Time is the best healer’, was her final comment.”

 

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[*] I am a great supporter of the local (and often quite independent) press. But, the “Vale of Aber Weekly Record” (“VAWR”) isn’t always correct in terms of details to say the least. Maybe they did Daud (and the Clinic) a favour in reporting on this story like this, however. I don’t know. I am not a journalist, after all.  — P.M.

 

Efallai mai’r cyd-adweithio rhwng amsugno ac adlewyrchu yw gwraidd a chraidd popeth yn y byd; pob peth hynny yw, a grëwyd trwy gêm chwarae mig rhwng grymoedd gwrthwynebol, yr un ohonynt na all fodoli heb y llall. Wedi’r cwbl, bodolaeth cysgodion a ragdyb olau, mewn ffordd debyg i sut y bydd meddyliau a syniadau (heb sôn am wrthrychau) yn y fan hon, ar y funud yma, yn awgrymu bod pethau eraill mewn lleoedd gwahanol, ychydig amser yn ôl, ac y bydd amryw bethau’n dod i fod rywbryd yn y dyfodol. Ar ben hynny, geilw hanesion am storïwyr, a fydd yn eu hadrodd wrth eu newid, ac fe fydd rhaid inni ofyn, felly — A grea plant eu rhieni? A oleua celwyddau wirionedd? A yw ebyrth yn dwyfoli’r annuwiolion? A annog ofn ddewrder? Ai digwyddiadau a wna ddynion? Felly y bo, i ryw raddau, ond dichon fod y sefyllfa’n anos o lawer, mewn realiti, lle bydd y pegynau croes yn cymryd rhan mewn proses cymhleth a chaotig gan gael eu trawsffurfio’n gyson o’r un peth i’r llall mewn ffordd na allwn ni ei rhagweld yn hawdd o gwbl heb ddilyn y llwybr i weld i ble bydd yn arwain o’r diwedd.

 

Dyma ddau lanc, David a Steffan, yn mentro ar ryw berwyl drwg a drefnwyd gan y Dewin Ieuengaf, dan gyfeiriad yr Arglwyddes MacBeth, wedi dianc o artaith yr Hen Filwr a thrugareddau tyner ond sarcastig y Meddyliaethydd dan Hyfforddiant. Neu yn hytrach, efallai, dau dywysog swynol o Galon y Cyfandir ydyn nhw, Daud a Stjepan, yn eu cerbyd o bompiwn, gyda’u gweision lifrai sy’n llygod mewn gwirionedd, ac maen nhw’n chwilio am dywysogesau i’w hachub (neu gariadfab i’w garu o ran un ohonyn nhw) – yn ogystal â dreigiau gorselog i’w llofruddio, a rhyfeloedd i’w brwydro. Maen nhw mewn fan wen wedi’i benthyca sy’n llawn pethau a allai beri cryn helynt iddyn nhw, a dweud y gwir. Felly gwell fyddai defnyddio’r enwau amgen Dai a Stevo, falle, sy’n adlewyrchu’u gwir gymeriadau hyf yn fwy manwl, yn ôl rhai sydd ynddi hi, o leia’.

 

Byddan nhw’n gwneud cryn dda trwy ddioddef cryn ddrwg – ond pwy all feirniadu – dyna rhyngddyn nhw a’u cawl, on’d ife? ‘Does unrhyw fap wedi’i lunio â symbolau na delweddau fydd o fudd iddyn nhw yn y fangre hon. Yn y pellter, ar yr ystâd, ymhlith y pinwydd, mae’n ymddangos bod rhywbeth fel tŵr golau’n tyllu’r awyr fygythiol. Bychan a wyddant eu bod yn teithio dan gysgod datguddiad mawr ac ofnadw’. A dyna lygad y tŵr hanner-dall yn wincio a disgleirio fel seren ar farw – tri dot – tair strôc – tri dot.

 

Ar y sain-drosdderbynnydd mae pregethwr ffiaidd o’r enw yr Offeiriad Coch yn orchymyn i bob pechadur ar y Ddaear (pawb felly) dalu sylw i’w rybuddion arswydus, ond mae’i eiriau llesmeiriol yn troi’n slwtsh – ‘dalatha, bravlu, klendru, eshempa’ – sy’n rheibio’r ddau lanc fel gweddi a fwriedir galw ar i ryw dduwiau creulon ymddangos. A dyma un o’r cymeriadau yn ein stribed comig, Dai, Daud, David, yn meddwl –

 

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O ystyried y bwcedeidiau o lol sy’n arllwys o’r SDDd, gan ddyrnu drymiau ‘y nghlustiau, ‘sdim syndod mod i’n clywed awydd chwydu cynnwys ‘nghrombil i dros garped budr fan wncwl Stevie. Ond, fyddai fe ddim yn ‘neud cymaint â hynny o wahaniaeth o ran yr haenen ludiog o faw lled-ymdeimladol – Y Saith Swynwr a ŵyr beth – sy’n gorwedd rhwng cwsg ac effro ar y llawr gan drio llyfu 'nhreinars ôl-ddyfodolaidd Doren drudfawr o ledr artiffisial coch gydag adain bach aur ar y sodlau (maen nhw’n eithriadol o dreuliedig erbyn hyn, gwaetha’r modd). Gallwn i lefain, yn wir, ond dw i’n 'y ngorfodi'n hun i dyfu lan, nadu i’m hun ‘neud ffwdan, a llwyddo i beidio crio. ‘Neno Lushfé, ma’n ddrwg ‘da fi i fi lenwi ‘mol i â’r ddwy botel o owso – a’r holl stwff arall – gynnau fach.

 

Uffern dân! Ro’dd hi ‘di bod yn ddiawl o noson hir – o’dd wedi crwydro fel neidr enfysaidd drwy’r dydd nesa’ – cyn llifo tuag allan i gosi glannau tywyll eraill. Ddylwn i erio’d fod wedi prynu i mewn i’r holl rwtsh ‘na am Barti Calon Haf. Gallwn i deimlo ‘reiliad ‘na flas yr anisid afiach yn adlifo lan ‘y nhiwbs llidus. Ac ar yr un pryd, dyna gorgan rythmig yr efengylwr – ‘silpistí, madrolu, bamlaru, zilevíí’ – yn torri drwy’r glaw llwyd, trwchus, gan fygwth golchi’r ffordd ymaith, a’r pechaduriaid ‘ma yn y fan hefyd. Ond, wel, ch’mod, rywbryd pan fyddwch chi eisoes ar fin mynd yn benysgafn gyda choctel o sylweddau, mewn cau mwdlyd gyda thorf o hen hipis moel a’u plethi cynffon merlen yn hongian i lawr i dyllau eu tinau, wel, byddwch chi’n hwfro lan unrhyw beth fyddan nhw’n roi i chi, heb ormod o feddwl, on’ byddwch? Ac wedyn fe fyddan nhw’n cwympo i gysgu. gan adael i chi wynebu’r awdurdodau ar eich pen eich hunan. Wel, nes i chi ddianc yn y fan wrth gwrs!

 

Ma’n ymddangos bod Stevie ddim yn sylwi ar shwd ma’r geiriau sy’n llifo drwy’r SDDd i mewn i’n lle cyfyngedig a drewllyd ni’n cytuno mor dda â naws y tywydd tu ôl – ‘turikikihí, thirularop, bahuakah, veraza’. Yr haf yng Nghimbria – y gaeaf yng Nghimbria – man a man yw hi. Dw i’n crynu o glywed y rhefru dieflig, a bwrw melltithion ar ein diffyg paratoi ni – ac roedd cynlluniau cymaint ‘da fi, Dai-boi, o ran dial a difrod maleisus hefyd, ch’wel. Ond o leia’ ma’ Stevie’n cadw pethau ar fynd, gan stopio nhw rhag mynd yn ddiflas. O ble gythraul ma’r glaw gyrru wedi dod – gyda bod hi’n nosi? A ‘sdim arwydd o gysgod i’w gael, chwaith – ma’ fel corwynt yn Hawäi ‘ma. Da iawn ni o ran cael hwyl yng nghanol yr haf mewn dim ond fest a phâr o siorts – dyna un peth – ond, wel yn wir, yr Hen Dduwiau’n catwo – dyma ‘nghroen gŵydd yn rhynnu gan yr oerfel!.

 

Diolch byth dyw e – Stevie – ddim yn trio bod yn ddigrifwr, fel bydd e’n ‘neud fel arfer. Dw i’m yn credu mod i’n gallu godde’ ei ffraethebion gwael, yn enwedig achos bod rhywbeth – dw i’m yn siŵr beth – yn gyrru iasau drwy ‘nghnawd i, ac ma’r bendro arna’ i hefyd, a bellach ma’r tonnau o garu wedi’u hachosi gan yr ymbleseru diweddar yn ‘neud i fi deimlo’n bendant sâl môr. Gallwn i fod wedi tyngu’n enwau’r Duwiau Rhyfedd oll mod i’n gallu blasu metel – yr un fath o beth a’r gwynt sy’n dod o wn newydd ei danio, a dw i’n gwgu pan dw i’n sylweddoli mod i wedi brathu fy nhafod rhywbryd – pryd yn union – o’r blaen? Sa i’n gallu cofio a dyw’r talpiau gwaedlyd o sain – ‘endilda, andíshis, lilivalis, kestala’ – yn baeddu’r awyr, ddim yn helpu. Dw i’n dymuno byddai’ n ymennydd i’n gweithio, a dw i’n llowcio lawr y gegaid o waed a phoer wrth i’n meddwl i bendroi gan geisio dechrau delio â phopeth sy’n digwydd.

 

Wrth i fi ymysgwyd oddi mewn i bwll du’n meddyliau, gan halio’n hunan ‘nôl i’r byd go iawn, ma’ fel ‘sai’r motor yn byrlymu, wedyn dyna nadu uchel, sŵn ewinedd wedi’u crafu ar hyd bwrdd du, yn sleifio’i hunan drwy’r wal o law wrth i’r siantio ddwysáu – ‘brubumbu, elentlova, kualuru, tithihenta’. Ac ma’r fan yn rhuthro yn ei blaen hefyd – yn glouach glouach – drwy’r jeli braen o’i chwmpas – gan lafurio a chrynu’n ddirfawr. Ac yn sydyn, beth sy ar y ffordd o flaen y fan? Ife crwt yn crwydro fel enaid wedi’i ddamnio, rhyw endid ectoplasmig colledig, creadur truenus a chwfl am ei ben dan ddedfryd marwolaeth? Sut yn y Ddau Fyd ddigwyddodd hynny? Sa i’n gw’bod, ond er gwaetha’r holl gymysgedd o sylweddau cyfreithlon ac anghyfreithlon yn chwyrlïo yn ‘y nghorff drylliedig, dyma fi’n cipio’r olwyn oddi wrth y gyrrwr ffwndrus. Wedyn rhywbeth yn torri’n glec – ac yr olwynion yn troi’n fwy buan a mwy clou, ‘sdim gwahaniaeth i fi – a’r pinwydd heb fod ymhell —

 

Dyna sain, llais, yn galw arna i i gofio rhywbeth arall, yn rhywle arall, rywbryd arall — ‘anvisashé, kouroakrí, ankelrerek, shezesista’ – gwynt coedwyrdd, afftyrsief rhad, ffags wedi’u smyglo. Ydw i’n gwisgo trôns glân i gyrraedd y trefnydd angladdau? Dw i’n ysu am gael brwsio’n nannedd am ryw reswm – ac yn ysu, yn cosi, yn crafu, yn llythrennol hefyd – ‘nenw’r Rhai Dioglyd, dyma chwilod y bedd yn ‘y nghnoi – dw i’n cael ‘yn lleibio’n fyw. Ma’ mrest i’n cael ei wasgu gan gerrig enfawr, anweledig. Dw i angen – rhaid i fi – ddianc – fi’n bron marw o ofn – yn daer am neidio mas o’r fan a rhedeg. Crwt ofnus – oer, chwyslyd, twym, dan glo yn y tywyllwch, sy’n erfyn am ei deganau – dw i, ac yr unig olau yw lamp stryd grynedig yn y pellter. Ife sŵn seiren yn dod i'n harestio ni yw ‘ny? Ond myn Eneiniog yr Hen Dduwiau a aeth i lawr i’r pyllau tân ar y Nw Yrth – dw i’n cael ymosodiad panig – a drwy’r amser dyna’r brygowthan atgas ‘na, yn galw arnon ni i losgi’n dragwyddol.

 

Dw i’n gallu gweld yr holl beth – y ddamwain, ddylen ni ddweud, falle – erbyn hyn – yn araf iawn – mor araf â bo phosib, a dweud y gwir – cyn arafed â chrwban cloff yn hercian heb ei gragen am hanner dydd ryw ddydd crasboeth yng nghanol yr haf – dw i’n credu – ond ife fi ydy – pwy yw’r ‘fi’ ‘na, draw fanna, ta ‘be? Y fi sy’n bloeddio geiriau ola’r swyngan – ‘vilizda, huiklé, vildarsí, deklo’.

 

Heb rybudd – mae’r peth, yr ysbryd, y crwt, yr anghenfil, yn dod i olwg unwaith ‘to – dyma Stevie’n brecio’n galed, yr union eiliad pan fydd injin y fan yn cyrraedd ei ‘sgrechian ucha’ – ac wedyn diffygio ma’r brêcs – gan wichian fel ‘sen ni mewn lladd-dy. O, Swtach a’n cadwo ni, dw i’n rhegi dan ‘y nannedd, am ddiwedd i barti rhydd ymhlith y pinwydd ar ôl i ni jyst ddianc rhag Milisia’r Bobl Wlatgar achos bod yr hen ‘ffernols ‘na ar y Pwyllgor wedi treio trefnu i fi gael ‘yn arestio.

 

Dw i'm yn deall beth sy'n digwydd, w. Ma’ fel hunllef achoswyd gan fadarch meddyginiaethol. Mae popeth yn symud yn araf iawn. Ac wedyn dyma fi’n sylweddoli. Ha, dyna ddigri, dw i byth yn gw'bod beth sy'n mynd ymlaen fel rheol. Dw i'n teimlo mod i'n sawl pobl ar yr un pryd, mae fel 'sai llwyth o gymeriadau gwahanol ynddo i sy eisiau dod mas a dweud eu dweud. Mae Dau Fyd yma ar yr un pryd, un ar ben y llall, wedi'u gwahanu oddi wrth ei gilydd gan fath o len. Ac yma, yn y fangre hon lle mae sylwedd yn toddi, dyma Arglwydd yr Hynafiaid a rwygodd y llen o'r blaen, yn treiddio'r llen drachefn.

 

Mae stwff ym mhob man, fel gwe anweladwy, neu'r pilenni yn eich perfeddion, wedi'i dynnu dros bob gofod a lledu mewn pob bwlch. Dw i'n gallu'i glywed e, mewn ffordd, o gil 'yn llygaid, y stwff sy'n gludio holl bytiau’r byd wrth ei gilydd. Wel, mae'n debyg i jam di-liw, falle, neu well fyddai dweud jeli, dw i'n sylwi ar y sylwedd yn debyg i blastig tryloyw pan fydda i'n ymestyn 'y mysedd ar led. Ac os bydda i'n symud yn ara' ara', bydda i'n cyffwrdd â fe, ac wedyn dw i'n sylweddoli fod e'n llusgo drosta i bob tro, gan ‘neud i fi deimlo’n od iawn.

 

A dyna gorff dirgrynol yr Hen Feistr sy wastad yn llechu ar y trothwy, yn cynnwys miloedd o lobau llachar, yn caledu o'r tarth o’n blaen ni. A dw i'n cofio Mam (‘yn angel colledig) a Dad (yr hen ddiawl), a phawb arall sy wedi mynd a dod, dw i 'di ceisio cysylltu â nhw i ryw raddau, heb lwyddo gan amla'. A dyma'r ceidwad sy'n nabod y porth, sy biau'r allwedd o arian, sy'n crwydro dros amser oll o dan y Sêl Ysgarlad. Dw i angen meddwl am y labwst ‘na o ffrind gorau, y Ficing, yn eistedd yn ‘yn ymyl i, a’r ferch oeraidd ac anodd ei deall, dw i'n lico cymaint (wrth ei chasáu ar yr un pryd), cyn i fi farw.

 

A dw i’n cael ‘y ngorfodi i wynebu’n holl wendidau, a diffygion, a beiau. Mor lawn sêl o’n i o’r blaen, mor fodlon ar frifo’r rhai sy’n haeddu cael eu cosbi, er gwaetha’r holl eiriau teg a’r moesoli. Ro’dd ‘y mwriad yn iawn, ta be’. Ond y funud hon mae popeth wedi newid yn llwyr. Dw i wedi drysu'n lân. Am ragrithiwr dw i, oedd wedi dymuno bod mor gas o’r blaen. ‘Sdim dewis wedyn, rhaid i fi gyfadde' wrth 'yn hunan dw i'm yn gallu 'nafu neb heb sôn am eu lladd nhw, hyd yn oed y rhai dw i'n casáu mwya', a taw gwell fyddai ‘neud da yn lle brwydro yn ôl. Sut allwn i fod wedi ystyried aberthu’r llanc twp arall ‘na? Sa i’n deall dim byd mwyach. Ro’n i eisiau llwyddo ond dw i ‘di methu. A dyma’r wobr go iawn, siŵr o fod. Ro’n i’n dweud celwyddau wrtha’n hunan drwy’r amser. Dw i ddim pwy dw i’n credu mod i. Be’ sy’n bod arna i? Cofia’r neges o heddwch a chariad, w. Ond nawr dw i ‘di rhedeg bant, unwaith ‘to. Ife ffaelu yw ‘ny?

 

A dyna wyneb ‘yn Mam sy’n gorwedd yn yr ysbyty, druan â hi, ac mae’n ymbil arna i am gael ei rhyddhau o’i hartaith a dw i’m yn medru helpu hi. Wrth i fi grychu'n llygaid mor dynn nes bod nhw’n brifo, i geisio atal y braw, dyma'r Hen Ddihenydd sy'n troi'r gofod cyn hau holl hadau caos yn ymrithio. Mae’r endid gyda’i filoedd o lygaid yn dechrau neidio at y fan, ac mae’n llysnafeddog gan olew symudliw fyddai’n achosi i unrhyw ddyn cyffredinol fynd ar drip asid unwaith-mewn-oes ‘sai fe’n dod i gysylltiad â fe. A dyma Isheth ei hun yn ymestyn ei dentaclau fyrdd o ectoplasm, seimllyd tuag aton ni i sleifio'n heneidiau ymaith.

 

Ac mae gwynt cyfoglyd blodau pydredig yn llenwi’r awyr – a’r distawrwydd hollol – y tywyllwch llwyr –fel mewn marwdy, ond gwaeth achos fod e’n heigio â cheffylau fampiraidd, rhithiol – y noson honno sy’n digwydd drosodd a thro – noson giaidd, ysgithrog, a’i cheg yn llawn bustl gwenwynig – nos wedi dod yn flaidd rheibus.

 

A dyma fi'n cael 'y ngwthio'n syth yn 'y mlaen yn y byd go iawn, wel, y byd dw i'n gydnabod, wrth gael 'y ngwasgu mewn rhyw ddimensiwn tu fas i'r pedwar dimensiwn arferol dw i'n gyfarwydd â nhw dim ond drwy ddarllen yr holl ffug-wydd, a dw i'n cael 'yn estyn a throi'n sbageti ar yr un pryd. A dyna ‘mhen i’n taro yn erbyn y forden flaen – gan hollti ‘nhafod i, a llenwi ‘ngheg â hylif bywyd – gyda blas gwaed. A dyna sawr osôn, a thywyn uwchfioled, a chwerthin gwyllt. Ac wedyn – dim byd.

 

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HAEDDODD y digwyddiadau canlynol a gysylltir â’r Clinig hyglod o’r enw Y Pinwydd yn Aberdydd gael eu croniclo yn y papur newydd lleol, Rwy'n dyfynnu o'r erthygl air am air yma.  — D.B.P.

 

“Wedi diflannu yr oedd dyn ifanc, dirgel, o’r clinig arbrofol, arloesol, sydd ar fin cael ei gau o ddiffyg cyllid, i’r gymuned leol, lawer gwaith o’r blaen. Bob tro byddai’n gweithredu’n rhyfedd iawn – yn helpu’r henoed i groesi’r ffordd, atal ymladd rhwng plant, paentio dros graffiti yn y Boly-ysgol, trefnu partïon dawns rhydd ar gyfer y rhai di-waith, a chasglu ysbwriel – ym mhob achos, heb i neb ofyn iddo na’i dalu. Ar adegau eraill, byddai’n cyfieithu gweithiau gan hen feistri anadnabyddus fel Nukulu Vili-seketh i’r Gimbreg. Ac mae adrodd heb ei gadarnhau’n honni iddo ddarganfod gwaith gwreiddiol yn y Gimbreg gan Tomos Aildon yn laslanc. Wrth fentro’r tu hwnt i furiau diogel y clinig, byddai’n dwyn fel arfer sach yn cynnwys dwy ddoli glwt, cyllell rydlyd, pot o baent coch, a theganau ar ffurf cath a cheiliog, o bob peth dan haul. Ymhellach, arferai’r dyn dieithr siantio mantras mewn ieithoedd estron.”

 

Â’r adrodd ymlaen — “Y tro hwn, fodd bynnag, daliwyd ef ar ôl damwain mewn fan wen. Ymddengys bod nyrs yn mynd â fe ymaith i gael triniaeth yn y clinig wedi iddo gael ei anafu’n ddifrifol pan oedd wedi rhedeg i’r stryd i blycio plentyn o ffordd car a yrrai’n rhy gyflym ymhlith y pinwydd, gan achub ei bywyd. Mae’r manylion yn aneglur, fodd bynnag, gan fod yr arwr tybiedig yn gorwedd mewn coma ar hyn o bryd. Nid yw’n sicr faint yw’i oedran, ond cam-drinnid ef yn enbyd pan oedd yn blentyn bach cyn dod i’r wlad hon. Gwirionai ar syniadau’r ocwlt a’r goruwchnaturiol er pan oedd wedi ymuno â’r fyddin fel sowldiwr bach yn dri ar ddeg i frwydo ar hyd a lled y cyfandir yn ôl pob sôn. Yr oedd yn dioddef o siel-syfrdandod, mae’n debyg, ar ôl y rhyfel yng Nghalon y Cyfandir. Mae’r meddygon wedi datgan ei fod yn profi rhithweledigaethau clywedol parhaol – ‘lleisiau o’r byd a ddaw’ – a’i hanogai i wneud gweithredoedd rhyfeddol ddefnyddiol o bob math. Yr oedd y clinigwr dan hyfforddiant, H Grossmann, y siaradon ni â hi, wedi credu y dylai’r newid diweddaraf yn ei feddyginiaeth fod wedi cael effaith fuddiol, ond mae’n bosibl ei bod yn ‘anffodus o anghywir’ (yn ôl ei geiriau ei hun). ‘Amser yw’r meddyg gorau’, oedd ei sylw olaf.”

 

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[*] Cefnogwr mawr y wasg leol (ac yn aml eitha annibynnol) dw i. Ond, dyw “Papur Wythnosol Cwm Aber” (“PWCA”) ddim yn gywir drwy’r amser o ran manylion a dweud y lleiaf. Efallai iddyn nhw wneud cymwynas â Daud (a’r Clinig) wrth ohebu ar y stori ‘ma fel hyn, fodd bynnag. Dw i ddim yn gwybod. Nid newyddiadurwr mohona i, wedi’r cwbl. — P.M.