Shadows are areas of darkness, created perfectly naturally by lights, the one going hand-in-hand with the other. This type of phenomenon occurs when light produced by some shining object is blocked by an opaque object. The shadow fills the whole volume beyond the second object, and its cross-section is called a silhouette. Wide light-sources create unclear shadows, and several different sources close together can create complex shadows with colours in them. Light and shadow, good and bad, father and son, judgement and salvation, life and death – we, humanity, have invented the words to express all these binary differences. These concepts are excellent tools for theoretical debates, but which ones are fundamental, and authentic, and, one must ask, important, when push comes to shove? 

 

The influence of the youngest member of the Guild of Secrets has spread further that he could have imagined. Although he didn’t remember perfectly what had happened on his otherworldly trip, the shock-wave went like the sneeze of an angry giant through the Two Worlds. Something within the Old Soldier made him walk the World, and in this, he was similar to the despicable members of the Cowled Brotherhood. The wily man, that obstreperous trickster, wandered therefore over the face of the Earth, whilst the Youngest Magician worked his fingers to the bone at home (through non-stop reading, and tortured meditating, and very many other indescribable acts), and although his heart was full of peace, in theory at least, war followed him. And an entity called Swtach, lord of the desert, who hates learning, and who had grown weary with all the studying, went with him always and everywhere, unseen but powerful, like an inky shadow of evil, sowing winds in order to reap whirlwinds, with a cruel smile. But every now and then he would have to come back to his own Planet to pop into the onyx ziggurats to have a chat with the Old Masters.

 

In the Chief Ziggurat on the landlocked island of Atha-lanthé on the Southern Continent of the Nw Yrth, tribulation spreads itself across them, the Seven Sorcerers, as if it were some slack, velvet glove, which is trying to complete the act which will be necessary in order to seize sullen victory from the jaws of defeat. Over a void which cannot usually be bridged, the clamour of a committee of high-pitched voices cuts through the ceaseless sound of insectile carapaces, which are scraping threateningly – “chep-er, chep-er, chep-er” —

“So, is the terror coming upon them, at long last?”

“Is the time of tribulation arriving?” 

 

On the Earth, Swtach has been working very hard. If his plans succeed, a war shall begin in Angra in the middle of the Northern Continent which has been brewing for a long time. It will be a terrible conflict, and families and communities will be divided on the basis of language, faith, skin-colour, and ethnic background, with sons attacking fathers, mothers spitting in daughters, neighbours setting fire to each others’ houses, and life-long friends killing old comrades. Soldiers will be fighting too, as traitors or freedom-fighters, with the word depending on which side you support. Neither the one side nor the other will win, and perhaps it won’t be possible for anyone to prevail anyway in the end, with the two of them (if there are only two) rushing quickly towards complete destruction, taking the rest of the World with them.

 

Here's one of the would-be soldiers who’s a constant criminal and run-of-the-mill drug-dealer right now. In the future, he’ll be killed by an explosion of his own making, but now he’s suffering from concussion after being beaten almost to death by members of an opposing gang. The man’s eyes are as black as lumps of coal, and he keeps sniffing some white, spicy stuff from the tiny, battered tin he takes everywhere. Despite his confusion, he sure that he has to act steadfastly, following the fearsome commands he’s received from the otherworldly authorities. 

 

In order to complete the appointed task, he’s brought the usual tools. But he’s not on his own: there’s a father and son here, Ishakí and Adauvam from the Old Book, but lacking the company of the white dove or the black raven, which talk with tongues of fire, this time. By doing what’s needed, he shall bring the age-old war against the forces of the resistance on the Earth to an end once and for all before the latest battle begins in his back-yard, seizing the land back for the future. He’ll purify the ground. Get rid of the idolaters. Save the folk. Leave his mark on history. And here are his thoughts, running wild — 

 

“Here’s me lurking alone in the shadows. There’s a hole in my head, dark in my heart. Emptiness through me from head to toe. Always so lonely. No. They never leave me alone. Not here, not now. The voices inside my head. Mocking. Torturing. Mouths with blood on. My personality poured into a bucket.” 

 

The whole desolate landscape lies under a purple shadow. It appears that there is some small half-conscious creature in the hessian sack at the feet of the lost man, whose mind is fogged due to the blow that almost split his skull. Perhaps it’s just his fertile imagination that’s the source of this whole scene. But the pitiful thing’s trying to squirm, pulling against its rough bonds, whilst waves of pain wash over it. It’s agitated through lack of fresh air, and its muscles are incapacitated by acid. A little squeal escapes its lips through the dirty rag stuffed into his mouth. The ardent acolyte of the extra-terrestrial devils, who are insubstantial but very real, kicks the sack unthinkingly, and the incipient movement dampens with a shrill screech.

 

On the Nw Yrth, the sound, as sharp as a crystal dagger, hangs suspended by a silver thread of grief in the toxic air. At the same time, beings as numberless as sand-grains stuff the spectral landscape, and they are unseen and mute, but present nevertheless. Having damned themselves up like a volcano about to explode, here a unique voice is to be heard, which is insistent, authoritative, intense, and which demands a response:

“A sacrifice is necessary.”

“Who shall be the lamb to be sacrificed?”

“What thing shall be the scape-goat?”

And then, without a pause, there’s seven voices beginning to chant the old forbidden prayer of transformation and incarnation, over and over: “Khepereni kheperen kheperet kheperen kheperet nebet em-khet kheperi” – “As soon as I came to be, existence came to be; every being came to be after I came into existence.” 

 

On the Earth, an electrical shudder runs down the back of the man as soon as the chanting begins: “I know what I’m doing, now and always. Am I ready? No, I’m not. I’m not ready at all. I can’t. I must. I am the door and the key. The keeper and the way. I’ve learned everything from the Old Books. From my Masters, with the help of the Cowled Monks. This is my fate. They’ve told me things. They speak. Show. Reveal. And, Oh, they can cut, and bite, and rend, and slash, and rip. I must succeed.” 

 

A weak ripple goes through the expectant multitude, that uninvited audience; perhaps it’s only the breath of the raw rocks, or rather a stinking sigh from the leprous ground. And then there’s the turbulent voice beseeching once again, and again, it is answered:

“The earthly enchantment starts the ceremony!”

“We cannot act without consent!”

“We demand an answer!” 

 

And the servant vacillates: “The unique one am I, the one chosen and the one who choses; it is I who’ll loose the pestilence and the hosts of ravenous scarabs; I shall scatter the incredible forces of Perdition. I shall become a Sorcerer, disintegrating the Two Worlds. In me shall every prophecy be fulfilled! Me – I – shall begin, through bitter-sweet anguish, a deluge that cannot be dammed. And thus shall we win the war – forever and ever – eternally – for evermore!”

 

As this refrain – “We demand an answer,” repeated seven-fold – finishes, thick chunks of doleful absence gather in the empty ectoplasmic womb on the sacrificial stone in the middle of the desolate invocation-place. The rapturous pressure, more powerful than lightning, increases, which would give the Sorcerers goose-bumps if they possessed skin that could be so affected. And then boiling shadows from another dimension come together, like a tusked herd of vampiric horses, their eyes flaming, together with a vengeful pack of rabid white dogs, whose ears are red. 

 

Pupils dilate with the ultrasonic vibration that bursts blood-cells (since some of the Sorcerers have eyes, and fluid of some kind circulates through all their bodies), and then begins the zenith of a symphony performed to welcome the jubilant arrival of terrible Divinities, which has not been heard up till now in our universe. And after millennia of exile, their revenge shall be palpable.

“It is we who call upon you!”

“We who call you!”

“We who call on –“

“We wo call –“

“We who –“

“We –“

“Us –“ 

 

He’s put to lie down, the as yet blameless child (apart from the fact that he almost caused his Mum’s death in childbirth), frozen with fear. And there he is on a ledge in the same posture as described in the terrifying Grimoire, ‘Zleba Hava·róth,’ which has been lost for ages but which has recently been discovered, as if by magic. But it’s not on the Earth that the chosen child exists at present, of course, nor on the Nw Yrth either, but in the void between the Two Worlds, in that instant between the past and the future, in the pregnant gap between starting and finishing. And there he is every abused child, every man who of necessity has given up behaving according to the usual social rules. The hand of fate hovers, waiting the release of the final words. The World’s most inexperienced priest stares at the location: some bottomless cellar, or tower without a top, perhaps.

 

The man’s face is lit up by the weakest smile to flash across it since he escaped from his enemies pretending he’d died. But unfortunately for him, his face, and his body too, are soaked with blood, and spittle, and sweat, and snot. And then the filthy man mutters his abstruse mantras, which have not been revived by the breath of life since time immemorial in the eternal fog at the dawn of time. And his body distorts as a spasm of excitement flows through him. A pause, and then a hum, rather indistinct, echoes through the Two Worlds – the Earth and the Nw Yrth – as history wavers between two paths. Now he knows. Yes. Yes. Yes. Thrice yes. The taste of freedom’s almost on his lips, for himself and all his people – the special ones, the chosen – and authority, order, purity, peace, are in front of them – 

 

Now it will happen. Here. Outside the cottage, the unforgiving, bruised sky, teeming with unknown griefs, is darkening, while the stars, one-by-one, go out, immediately, and irreversibly. The feared Day of Judgement arrives. And ravenous spectres are the seven living shadows, which are almost dying from want of souls. And there everything would have finished (although the ascension of the self-chosen saviour would not have taken place, due to his filthiness), were it not for one other, essential, fact. The words of the rite he’s bawling –

 

“Kheper-i kheper kheperu kheper-kuy en kheperu em khepri kheperu em sep tepy" – "The creator of all that has come into existence am I; and it is I who came to be in the form of the god Khepri, and I formed myself in the primal age. I came into existence in the image of Khepri, and I myself am creator of everything which came to be. I formed myself using the ancient substance, and it is I who made and formed himself from the material which was in the first-time” 

 

– are incorrect. That’s a pity – for some, perhaps – isn’t it? The rash man, who believes he’s the Old Masters’ Anointed One, has broken the commandment which it’s essential to obey, “lest the whole dread power turn against the seeker.” And on top of that there’s the incorrect words, too. 

 

The greedy knife jerkily descends as the cruel Gods who are lurking in the extra dimensions beyond mortal existence, wait. But suddenly, the rusty dagger twitches as if it were alive separate from its wielder, and the man’s cutting himself, rather than sending the appropriate offering to oblivion. And blood flows in a wild river against a background as black as the Nw Yrth’s merciless sunset. And the man howls in frustration, and his face is ecstatic and devilish, in turns. Unbeknown to him, the ceremony has succeeded, in a manner of speaking at least, because the spilled blood, together with his cries, have opened an unknown path to the Other World which is usually prohibited. And although the Sorcerers themselves cannot cross at the present time, their influence will be much stronger from now on.

 

This minute, the tusked darkness is slashed by a peal of thunder sufficient to split your head open. Everywhere there’s a violet glow and the stink of ozone, and the bellowed laughter of some inhuman entities stirs up the entire fabric of the hateful place. And then, time and space dissolve. 

 

Personalities are rent in shreds. Causation is confounded the same way that a door is yanked off its hinges. One person becomes another. As the universe resounds, a man takes the part of a child, a woman appears like a man, the young change places with the old, and every image built in the imagination with familiar symbols is swept away by a fearsome reality beyond description. Everyone becomes one, as the individual shatters like fragments of some magic mirror. The landscape is transformed entirely. On the Nw Yrth, where time goes by a lot quicker than on the Earth, everything is out of sync. And there a child has been sent to do a man’s work. 

 

At last, the repugnant rite is finished. The kid in the sack – if he's still a child by now, an if he exists on the Earth at this time – is shouting as if the world were ending, as his former captor falls on top of his bound body, completely exhausted. And there, according to the normal rules of the cosmos, someone should have perished – but – but – the indolent Idolaters desired different. But despite that, a gate to the Other World had been opened, one which will not be closed during the child’s lifetime. 

 

Having survived on the whim of the opposition forces, there are seven magical lives that remain yet to be spent by the enchanted boy – and perhaps he might have a blessed life indeed. But this is not to be, despite the intent of his creator, that Youngest Magus, who had planned the whole ruse behind the scenes. And although the lad won’t remember anything about these events, he’ll be plagued by nightmares from now on. But having said that, it’s not the past that’ll be the biggest problem, since the future overwhelms everyone, in the fullness of time, as sure as eggs is eggs. The war between the different tribes had not been avoided, only postponed, and this newly-born Trey, the prince of a man with the two skilled hands, will use up his chances to live, one by one.

Lleoedd o dywyllwch yw cysgodion, wedi’u creu’n berffaith naturiol gan oleuadau, y naill yn mynd law yn llaw â’r llall. Bydd y fath ffenomen yn digwydd pan atelir golau wedi’i gynhyrchu gan ryw wrthrych llachar, gan wrthrych afloyw. Lleinw’r cysgod yr holl gyfaint y tu hwnt i’r ail wrthrych, ac amlinell yw’r enw ar ei drawslun. Crea ffynonellau llydan o olau gysgodion aneglur; a sawl tarddle gwahanol yn agos at ei gilydd a all greu cysgodion cymhleth ac ynddynt liwiau. Golau a chysgod, da a drwg, tad a mab, dyfarniad ac achubiaeth, byw a marw – yr ydym ni ddynolryw wedi dyfeisio’r geiriau i fynegi’r gwahaniaethau deuaidd hyn oll. Bydd y cysyniadau hyn yn declynnau ardderchog ar gyfer dadleuon damcaniaethol, ond pa rai ohonynt fydd yn sylfaenol, ac yn ddilys, a, rhaid gofyn, o bwys, pan ddaw hi i’r pen?

 

Mae dylanwad aelod ieuengaf Urdd Cyfrinachau wedi ymledu’n bellach nag y gallai dyn fod wedi dychmygu. Er na chofiai’n berffaith yr hyn a oedd wedi digwydd ar ei daith arallfydol, aeth y siocdon fel tisian cawr dig trwy’r Ddau Fyd. Roedd rhywbeth oddi mewn i’r Hen Filwr yn ei orfodi i rodio’r Byd, ac yn hyn o beth, roedd yn debyg i aelodau diystyrllyd y Gydfrawdoliaeth Gwflog. Fe grwydrai’r gŵr castiog, y twyllwr afreolus hwnnw, tros wyneb y Ddaear, wrth i’r Dewin Ieuengaf weithio'i fysedd at yr asgwrn gartref (trwy ddi-stop ddarllen, ac arteithiedig fyfyrio, a llawer iawn o weithgareddau annisgrifiadwy eraill), ac er mai llawn heddwch oedd ei galon, mewn theori o leiaf, rhyfel a’i dilynai. Ac endid o’r enw Swtach, arglwydd yr anialwch, sydd yn casáu dysg, ac oedd wedi blino’n llwyr ar yr holl astudio, âi gyda fe wastad ac ym mhob man, heb ei weld ond yn nerthol, fel cysgod inciog drygioni, gan hau gwyntoedd er mwyn medi corwyntoedd â gwên greulon. Ond bob hyn a hyn byddai'n rhaid iddo fynd yn ôl i’w Blanet ei hun i daro i mewn i’r sigwratau o onics i gael sgwrs gyda’r Hen Feistri.

 

Yn y Prif Sigwrat ar ynys dirgaeedig Atha-lanthé ar Gyfandir Deheuol y Nw Yrth, ymdaena trallod drostynt, y Saith Swynwr, fel petai’n rhyw faneg felfed, lac, a gais gyflawni’r weithred fydd yn angenrheidiol er mwyn cipio buddugoliaeth sarrug o enau trechiad. Ar draws gwagle na ellir ei bontio fel arfer, tyr dwndwr pwyllgor o leisiau meinion trwy sain ddi-dor argregyn trychfilaidd, a grafa’n fygythiol: “chep-er, chep-er, chep-er” —

“Felly, a ydy’r dychryn yn dod ar eu gwarthaf, ymhen yr hir a’r hwyr?”

“A ydy amser cystudd yn cyrraedd?”

 

Ac ar y Ddaear, mae Swtach wedi bod yn gweithio’n galed iawn. Os bydd ei gynlluniau’n llwyddo, fe ddechreua rhyfel yn Angra yng nghanol y Cyfandir Gogleddol sydd yn ffromi ers amser maith. Bydd yn wrthdrawiad erchyll, ac fe fydd teuluoedd a chymunedau’n cael eu gwahaniaethu ar sail iaith, crefydd, lliw croen, a chefndir ethnig, gyda meibion yn ymosod ar dadau, mamau’n poeri ar eu merched, cymdogion yn tanio tai’i gilydd, a ffrindiau bore oes yn lladd hen gymrodyr. Milwyr fydd yn brwydro hefyd, fel brawychwyr neu ymladdwyr dros ryddid, a’r gair yn dibynnu ar ba ochr fyddwch yn ei chefnogi. Ni fydd y naill garfan na’r llall yn ennill, ac efallai na fydd yn bosibl i neb drechu beth bynnag yn y pendraw, gyda’r ddwy ohonynt (os bydd dim ond dwy) yn cyflym ruthro i ddinistr llwyr, gan fynd â gweddill y Byd ganddynt.

 

Dyma un o’r soldiwrs honedig sy’n droseddwr cyson a deliwr cyffuriau ceiniog a dimai erbyn hyn. Yn y dyfodol, fe gaiff e ei lladd gan ffrwydrad o'i wneuthuriad ei hun, ond ar hyn o bryd mae’n dioddef o gyfergyd ar ôl cael ei guro bron hyd farw gan aelodau criw gwrthwynebol. Mae llygaid y dyn mor ddu â lympiau o lo, ac mae’n dal i ffroeni rhyw stwff sbeislyd, gwyn o’r tun bychan, tolciog mae’n mynd â fe o bant i dalar. Er gwaetha’i ddryswch, mae e’n sicr bod rhaid iddo weithredu’n gadarn, gan ddilyn y gorchmynion brawychus mae wedi’u derbyn gan yr awdurdodau arallfydol.

 

Er mwyn cyflawni’r dasg benodedig mae wedi dod â’r arfau arferol. Ond dyw e ddim ar ei ben ei hun: tad a mab sydd yma, Ishakí ac Adauvam o’r Hen Lyfr, ond heb gwmni colomen wen na chigfran ddu, sy’n llefaru â thafodau o dân, y tro hwn. Trwy wneud beth sydd ei angen, fe fydd yn dwyn y rhyfel oesol yn erbyn grymoedd y gwrthsafiad ar y Ddaear i ben unwaith ac am byth cyn i’r frwydr ddiweddara’ gychwyn yn ei filltir sgwâr, gan gipio’r wlad yn ôl i’r dyfodol. Puro’r tir a wnaiff. Cael gwared ar yr eilunaddolwyr. Achub y werin. Gadael ei farc ar hanes. A dyma’i feddyliau’n rhedeg yn wyllt —

 

“Dyma fi’n llechu ar ‘mhen ‘yn hunan yn y cysgodion. Mae twll yn ‘y mhen i, gwyll yn ‘y nghalon. Gwacter drwydda i o’r corun i’r sawdl. Wastad mor unig. Nage. Fyddan nhw byth yn gadael llonydd i fi. Ddim yma, ddim nawr. Y lleisiau tu mewn i ‘mhen. Gwawdio. Arteithio. Cegau â gwaed arnyn nhw. ‘Mhersonoliaeth wedi’i harllwys i mewn i fwced.”

 

Mae’r holl dirwedd anial yn gorwedd dan gysgod porffor. Mae’n ymddangos mai rhyw greadur bach, lled ymwybodol, sydd yn y sach hesian wrth draed y dyn colledig, a’i ymennydd wedi’i ddrysu o ganlyniad i’r ergyd a fu bron â thorri ei benglog. Efallai mai dim ond ei ddychymyg ffrwythlon yw tarddle’r holl olygfa hon. Ond mae’r peth pitw’n ceisio gwingo, gan dynnu rhag ei rwymau garw, wrth i donnau o boen olchi drosto. Mae’n dychryn oherwydd prinder awyr iach, a’i gyhyrau wedi’u hanalluogi ag asid. Mae rhyw wichian yn dianc o’i wefusau trwy’r clwt brwnt wedi’i wthio i’w geg. Mae’r acolit eiddgar i’r cythreuliaid sy’n ansylweddol ond gwirioneddol iawn, yn cicio’r sach yn ddifeddwl, ac mae’r symud cychwynnol yn lleihau â sgrech fain.

 

Ar y Nw Yrth, hongia’r sŵn, mor finiog â dagr o grisial, wedi’i grogi ag edefyn arian o alar yn yr awyr wenwynllyd. Ar yr un pryd, gorleinw bodau rif y tywod mân y safle rhithiol, ac y maent yn anweledig ac yn fud, ond yn bresennol serch hynny. Wedi cronni’i hunan fel llosgfynydd ar fin ffrwydro, dyma lais unigryw i’w clywed, sydd yn daer, awdurdodol, dwys, ac yn hawlio ymateb:

“Bydd rhaid aberth.”

“Pwy fydd yr oen i’w offrymu?”

“Pa beth fydd y bwch dihangol?”

Ac wedyn, heb saib, dyna saith llais yn cychwyn llafarganu’r hen weddi waharddedig o drawsffurfio ac ymgorffori, drosodd a throsodd: “Khepereni kheperen kheperet kheperen kheperet nebet em-khet kheperi,” “Cyn gynted ag y deuthum i fod, daeth bodolaeth i fod; daeth pob bod i fod ar ôl imi ddod i fodolaeth.”

 

Ar y Ddaear, mae ias drydanol yn rhedeg ar hyd asgwrn cefn y dyn gyda dechrau’r siantio: “Dw i’n gw’bod beth dw i i ‘neud, nawr a wastad. Ydw i’n barod? Nagw, dw i’m. Sa i’n barod o gwbl. Sa i’n gallu. Rhaid i fi. Y drws a’r allwedd dw i. Y ceidwad a’r ffordd. Dw i ‘di dysgu popeth o’r Hen Lyfrau. Gan ‘yn Meistri, gyda help y Mynachod Cwflog. Dyma ‘nhynged i. Maen nhw ‘di dweud pethau wrtho i. Siarad maen nhw. Dangos. Datgelu. Ac O, maen nhw’n gallu torri, a chnoi, a llarpio, a slaesio, a rhwygo. Rhaid i fi lwyddo.”

 

 crych gwan trwy’r lluosogrwydd disgwylgar, y gynulleidfa ddiwahoddiad honno; efallai mai dim ond anadl y creigiau cignoeth ydy, ynteu yn hytrach ochenaid ddrewllyd o’r tir gwahanglwyfus. A dyna’r llais trallodus yn erfyn unwaith eto, a drachefn, mae’n cael ei ateb:

“Y ddewiniaeth ddaearol ddechreua’r ddefod!”

“Ni allwn ni weithredu heb gydsyniad!”

“Nyni a eilw am ateb!”

 

A dyma’r gwas yn anwadalu. “Yr un unigryw dw i, yr un ddewiswyd ac yr un fydd yn dewis; fi fydd yn gollwng yr haint a’r lluoedd o sgarabiaid rheibus; fi fydd yn gwasgaru grymoedd anhygoel y Fall. Fi a ddaw’n Swynwr, gan chwalu’r Ddau Fyd. Yno i fe gaiff pob darogan ei wireddu! Myfi – fi – fydd yn cychwyn, trwy loes chwerwfelys, ddilyw na ellir ei argáu. Ac fel hyn fe fyddwn ni’n ennill y rhyfel – yn oes oesoedd – yn dragywydd – byth bythoedd!”

 

Wrth i’r byrdwn hwn – “Nyni a eilw am ateb,” a adroddir saith gwaith – orffen, dyma dalpiau tewion o absenoldeb wylofus yn hel at ei gilydd yn y groth wag o ectoplasm ar y maen aberthu yng nghanol lle diffaith deisyf. Cynydda’r gwasgedd afieithus, mwy nerthol na mellt, fyddai’n codi croen gŵydd ar y Swynwyr pe bai ganddynt groen i’w effeithio. A dyna gysgodion berwedig o ddimensiwn arall yn dod ynghyd, fel praidd esgyrnog o geffylau fampiraidd, ffyrnig, fflamllyd eu llygaid, ynghyd â haid ddialgar o gŵn gwynion cynddeiriog, cringoch eu clustiau.

 

Amleda canhwyllau llygaid â’r dirgryniad uwchsonig sy’n rhwygo gwaetgelloedd (am fod gan rai o’r Swynwyr lygaid, a bod hylif o ryw fath yn cylchredeg trwy eu cyrff i gyd), a dyna ddechrau anterth symffoni wedi’i pherfformio i groesawu cyrraedd gorfoleddus Duwdodau enbyd, nas clywyd hyd yn hyn yn ein cyfanfyd. Ac ar ôl milenia o alltudiaeth, amlwg fydd eu dial.

“Nyni a eilw arnoch chi!”

“Y ni a eilw arnoch!”

“Nyni a eilw ar –”

“Y ni a eilw –” 

“Nyni a –”

“Nyni –”

“Ni –

 

Fe’i rhoddir yn ei orwedd, y plentyn sydd eto’n ddi-nam (ar wahân i’r ffaith bu bron iddo beri i’w Mam farw wrth esgor arno), wedi’i rewi ag ofn. A dyna fe ar silff yn yr un ystum fel a disgrifir yn y Llawlyfr Hud a Lledrith dychrynllyd, ‘Zleba Hava·róth,’ a gollwyd ers hydoedd maith ond sy wedi’i ddarganfod yn ddiweddar, megis trwy hudoliaeth. Ond nid ar y Ddaeary mae'r dewis blentyn yn bodoli ar hyn o bryd, wrth gwrs, nac ar y Nw Yrth ychwaith, ond yn y gofod rhwng y Ddau Fyd, yn yr amrantiad hwnnw rhwng y gorffennol a’r dyfodol, yn y bwlch beichiog rhwng dechrau a gorffen. Ac yno pob plentyn wedi’i gam-drin ydy, pob gŵr sydd o reidrwydd wedi rhoi’r gorau i ymddwyn yn ôl y moesau cymdeithasol arferol. Mae llaw ffawd yn hofran, gan ddisgwyl rhyddhau’r geiriau terfynol. Syllu mae offeiriad mwyaf amhrofiadol y Byd ar y lleoliad: rhyw seler ddiwaelod, neu dŵr heb dop iddo, efallai.

 

Goleuir gwep y dyn gan y wên wannaf i wibio trosto ers iddo ddianc o’i elynion gan esgus ei fod wedi marw. Ond yn anffodus iddo, mae’i wep, a’i gorff hefyd, yn wlyb domen gan waed, poer, chwys, a llysnafedd trwyn. A dyma’r dyn aflan yn mwmial ei fantrâu astrus, nas hailfywiogwyd gan anadl einioes ers cyn cof yn y niwl tragwyddol ar wawr amser. A dyma’i gorff yn ystumio wrth i hwrdd o gyffro lifo trwyddo. Saib, ac wedyn si, braidd yn anamlwg, sy’n atseinio trwy’r Ddau Fyd – y Ddaear a’r Nw Yrth – wrth i hanes gloffi rhwng dau lwybr. Yn awr y gŵyr ef. Ie. Ie. Ie. Deirgwaith ie. Mae blas rhyddid bron ar ei wefusau, o’i ran ef ac o ran ei werin oll – y rhai arbennig. yr etholedig – ac awdurdod, trefn, purdeb, heddwch, sydd o’u blaenau –

 

Yn awr bydd yn digwydd. Yma. Y tu allan i’r bwthyn, mae’r awyr gleisiog, anfaddeugar, gyforiog o alaethau anhysbys, yn tywyllu, wrth i’r sêr, fesul un, diffodd, ar eu hunion, ac yn ddiwrthdro. Dyma gyrraedd Dydd y Farn a ofnwyd. A rhithiau gwancus yw’r saith cysgod byw, sydd bron â marw o chwant eneidiau. Ac yno fe fyddai popeth wedi gorffen (er na fyddai dyrchafael yr arwr hunan-benodedig wedi digwydd oherwydd ei halogedd), oni bai am un ffaith hanfodol arall. Geiriau’r ddefod mae’n eu bloeddio –

 

“Kheper-i kheper kheperu kheper-kuy en kheperu em khepri kheperu em sep tepy" – "Creawdwr popeth sydd wedi dod i fodolaeth wyf fi; a myfi a ddaeth i fod ar ffurf duw Khepri, ac ymffurfiais yn yr oes gysefin. Deuthum i fodolaeth ar lun Khepri, a myfi yw crëwr popeth a ddaeth i fod. Ymffurfiais gan ddefnyddio’r sylwedd hynafol, a myfi a wnaeth a llunio ei hun o’r defnydd a fu yn yr adeg gyntaf.”

 

– sy'n anghywir. Dyna resyn o beth – i rai, efallai – on’d ife? Mae’r dyn byrbwyll, sy’n credu mai Eneiniog yr Hen Feistri ydy, wedi torri’r gorchymyn y bydd yn angenrheidiol ufuddhau iddo, “rhag i’r holl nerth erch droi yn erbyn y chwiliwr.” Ac ar ben hynny, dyna’r geiriau gwallus hefyd.

 

Dyma’r gyllell farus yn herciog ddisgyn wrth i’r Duwiau creulon sy’n llechu yn y dimensiynau ychwanegol y tu hwnt i fodolaeth farwol ddisgwyl. Ond, yn sydyn, dyna’r dagr rhydlyd yn gwingo fel pe bai’n byw ar wahân i’w driniwr, a dyna’r dyn yn torri ei hunan, yn hytrach na hala’r offrwm priodol i ebargofiant. A dyna waed yn llifo mewn afon wyllt yn erbyn cefndir cyn ddued â machlud didostur y Nw Yrth. A dyna’r dyn yn rhwystredig ubain a’i wyneb yn ecstatig a dieflig, bob yn eilwers. Heb yn wybod iddo, mae’r seremoni wedi llwyddo, mewn ffordd o siarad o leiaf, am fod y gwaed wedi'i dywallt, ynghyd â'i floeddiau, wedi agor llwybr anhysbys i’r Byd Arall, sy’n waharddedig fel rheol. Ac er na all y Swynwyr eu hunain groesi ar hyn o bryd, fe fydd eu dylanwad yn gryfach o lawer o hyn ymlaen.

 

Y munud yma, holltir y tywyllwch ysgithrog gan drwst o daran digon i hollti’ch pen. Ym mhob man mae llewyrch fiolet a drycsawr osôn, ac mae beichio chwerthin rhai endidau annynol yn cythryblu holl ddeunydd y lle ffiaidd. Ac wedyn, dyma doddi amser a gofod.

 

Rhwygir personoliaethau’n ddarnau. Drysir achosiaeth yn yr un modd ag y tynnir drws oddi ar ei golfachau. Mae un person yn dod yn un arall. Wrth i’r cyfanfyd atseinio, dyn sy’n cymryd rhan plentyn, menyw a ymddengys fel gŵr, yr ifainc sy’n cyfnewid â’r henoed, ac fe ysgubir pob delwedd a adeiladwyd yn y dychymig â symbolau cyfarwydd gan realiti dychrynllyd y tu hwnt i ddisgrifiad. Mae pawb yn dod yn un, wrth i’r unigolyn ymddryllio fel teilchion o ryw ddrych hudol. Trawsffurfir y dirwedd yn llwyr. Ar y Nw Yrth, lle mae amser yn mynd heibio lawer cynt nag ar y Ddaear, mae pob peth o chwith. Ac yno plentyn a ddanfonwyd i wneud gwaith dyn.

 

O’r diwedd, fe derfynir y ddefod wrthun. Mae’r crwt yn y sach – os yw'n dal i fod yn blentyn erbyn hyn, ac os yw'n bodoli ar y Ddaear y pryd hwn – yn gweiddi fel petai’r byd ar ben, wrth i’w gyn-ddaliwr syrthio ar ben ei gorff rhwymedig mewn lludded llwyr. Ac yno, yn ôl rheolau arferol y cosmos, fe ddylai rhywun fod wedi trengi – ond – ond – fe ddymunai’r Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd, yn amgen. Ond er gwaethaf hynny, yr oedd porth i’r Byd Arall wedi cael ei agor, un na chaiff ei gau yn ystod oes y plentyn.

 

Wedi goroesi ar fympwy galluoedd y gwrthsafiad, saith bywyd hudol fydd yn aros i’w treulio eto gan y bachgen dan gyfaredd – ac efallai mai gwyn ei fyd yn wir. Ond nid hynny a fydd, er amcan ei grëwr, y Dewin Ieuengaf hwnnw, a oedd wedi cynllunio’r holl ystryw y tu ôl i’r llenni. Ac er na fydd y llanc yn cofio dim byd am y digwyddiadau hyn, fe fydd yn cael ei blagio gan hunllefau o hyn ymlaen. Ond wedi dweud hynny, nid y gorffennol fydd y broblem fwyaf, gan mai’r dyfodol a orletha bawb, yng nghyflawnder amser, mor sicr â bod bara mewn torth. Nid oedd y rhyfel ymhlith y gwahanol lwythau wedi’i osgoi, dim ond ei oroesi, ac fe fydd y Trey newydd-anedig hwn, y tywysog o ddyn gyda’r ddwy law ddethau, yn defnyddio ei gyfleoedd i fyw, fesul un.