I’m besotted with you, thou lovest me not. The same thing over and over, but changing all the time, tickling the black soul of the skilled inventor who’s also an expert spy. Don’t love you, do you hate me? Trivial hissing broadcast at random from an Alternate World. Lust and indifference playing tricks on each other at her expense. After all, she’s the most cunning assassin in the Bloody Kingdom, and she doesn’t have much time to spare for lovemaking. But perhaps it’ll lead her to her Son. Knots, and bows, and laces are undoing themselves all around her as the Harsh Planet undresses itself, very slowly, and not without a sly titter. She wants to and doesn’t want to. Not again. Not now. But she must.

 

The Bloody Princess wants to kill both of them, the Mother and the Son, now she’s used the poisoned razor-wire and seized control over the Kingdom. And that’s because she, like everyone possessing great power and determined to exercise it, for good or for ill, is terrified of losing it. The sweaty sea, several metres below, keeps on howling “don’t, don’t, don’t” in a rough baritone, but somehow, she has to force herself. What choice does she have? They say that time slows down as you fall, but she doesn’t believe that, doesn’t know what she believes any more, and with all her heart does not truly want to find out.

 

The air, thick as stew, bubbles and warps about her, spitting and hissing. Time stops in a black hole, she thinks, now what blasted world did I learn that on? And what does it matter anyway? After all, never believe the experts, that’s the mantra of the day. And so, the wind licks, and tickles, and teases, a tame animal with a warm, wet tongue, insistent on stealing her concentration as she steels herself to jump.

 

Magical portals aren’t really physical or literal doors. She knows that. Or there’s no need for them to be at least. They’re more like ways of thinking. If you can just imagine it right, you can slide from where you are to some other place. You just have to be able to put a brave face on, and give the right look. Well, that’s the start, anyway. Then you’ll need to move about suitably, reciting the incantations designated to complete the task. Everything is so complex, and each different outcome has its own unique technique, of course.

 

A hot breeze wafts the mist in the haze above the sea to make the shape of some enormous chimerical creature, all hoofs and horns and tails. Conjured by the Princess, no doubt, who’s always experimenting, and deceiving, and trying to confirm thorny hypotheses. And her, widowed mother to a beast of a kid, the Wandering Whelp, who hates her and has run off to some Other World, or something like that, and so young, too! A child prodigy and no mistake. And like a flash of lightning the Son had gone after him, leaving nothing but a painful after-image on her retinas. She’s absolutely bursting to follow the trail. But all she can find are scraps of conversations, confused thoughts, and futile prayers that have escaped from televisual screens, mechanical recordings, and electronic devices somewhere in an Alternate Reality —

 

Warmest greetings, fellow-travellers on the way to some land we know not yet! Frederick Fantastic is my name. Well, that is not my real name, of course, and it is certainly not my magical by-name either, but rather a common-or garden nickname. It shows that I am one who zealously sucks every drop of marrow from the bones of life (I’ve seen the film “The Society of the Deceased Poets” several times, you see? – “fan of tasting” in the old Kimbric tongue – d’you get the little joke?).

 

The monster lounges, regarding her with disdain. She’s being burned by the stare as if she were rushing towards centre of the Sun. She can’t stop laughing when she remembers those words in “I Haina u Thafathi”, “The Sunsong,” from some world she’d visited years and years ago – “Ia Thafathī usonu ina. A sana, ā fathe inā thu a lisipāzisas sanas ī the” – “There was, in the beginning, the Sun. And He was alone, and wrapped in thought, and knowing only Himself.” Although she’s like a living piston, pumping poison into the bloodstream of every World she lands on, the spectre won’t even bother to leap on her and kill her. Why, with her about to do herself in, probably? Well, if she can’t escape, one of the great families will send her on the long hike to oblivion, no two ways about it. Or perhaps they’ll cooperate to get rid of her: wonders will never cease!

 

I am Full Master in the Guild of Secrets, faithful servant to the true Magus, the Doctor from the old land named Kimbria, John Dee, Keeper of the Old Mysteries of Bifrons who knows everything that happens on the face of this planet, and everything that will happen to boot.

 

To be perfectly honest they’ve both, the Mistress of the Craft, and the Young Neophyte, been under great suspicion from every side ever since they reached these backward shores and started offering their incomparable services to all who could pay. That’s what comes from running with the hare and hunting with the hounds, of course, and playing one faction off against the other, whilst assisting every one of them to slaughter his enemy, his comrade, his spouse, or his child, as necessary. There had been more than enough people, from every walk of life, who were ready to reach into their pockets and hand over the cash, as well as share hidden knowledge about long-lost secrets. “Why are they always so stupid, though?” she thinks. “They ask, and plead, and coax, and command, so that they can get what they want. But when they’ve done the evil deed, and achieved their goal, the cry-babies bawl their eyes out, and run off like scalded cats, blaming poor old me.”

 

I am the mender of murdered dreams, and the remembrancer of lives lost at the hands of the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers. I have been labouring to devise potions to give this Embittered Earth a taste of its own medicine; and further, I have been slaving to teach righteousness to the wayward, although there are only a few who listen.

 

And on top of that, the Princess has put a price on both their heads, after the Son stole that Handbook of Scientific Magic, newly copied on the best parchment, from the palace scriptorium. And then he’d used some exotic technique in it to disappear off the face of the Harsh Planet under the Bumpkin’s nose. The slight on the sublime dignity of the First Woman Despot was too much for her, and she went crazy, swearing revenge on everyone in the Kingdom. The exasperated Mother curses “Masterpieces of Intangible Technology from the Incomparable Heritage of the Delkurí,” whilst hoping against hope it’ll be her means of salvation. If only she’d sacrificed the troublemaker of a lad to the Strange Old Gods, the Delkvovim, when she’d had the chance.

 

How much I have seen, and heard, and understood, by giving heed to the voices that surround me, the whispering from the shadows, and translating the foreign words that come to me from beyond, and which I need to share with you. Now, in The Pines Clinic, I have found documents which contain a very important message. And here is the fruit of my research in the form of formal notes, and recordings, and philosophical scribblings, and what appear to be creative pieces.

 

But it’s not just a matter of how you think: portals are ways of behaving, too. She’s decided to pretend she’s planning to escape from the uncouth and violent clans by flying off on fake wings. But in fact, she’s collected together the appropriate tools to allow her to follow the Son’s trail, including his own notes on the relevant parts of the Handbook. So, she makes sure that everyone sees her buying the correct kit in the public marketplace, like metres of leather cord, and quite a bit of brown paper and sealing wax. Having fashioned the stupid fins so that everyone knows about them, she slinks off, lugging them in an enormous hessian sack in the dead of night. And now, smashed to bits on purpose, they’re being carried off on the tide below as she vacillates on top of the highest peak in the Copper Hills.

 

But, Oh, upon my word, they are attempting to prevent me, the agents of the otherworldly order, the monks of the cowled brotherhood under the command of the unholy preacher, the Red Painter (or maybe it’s the Red Priest, I’m really not too sure). The devils have mixed up all the manuscripts, but I shall stick with it despite them.

 

She moves slightly, trying to prepare herself for the frightful journey. Once again. No knowing where the Boy’s gone, but she been working might and main to follow him. There’s a weak signal coming from somewhere, like a warning beacon flashing regularly. Someone, who knows where, has opened a gate a little bit, on the other side of the Slash in Space she’s about to create. She trembles then, remembering that the darkest shadow’s at the foot of a lighthouse.

 

In the name of the Indolent Idolaters of the Nw Yrth, I shall have vengeance on those who wish to thwart our cause, we the freedom-fighters, either in this world, or the next! Read on, therefore, and weep, discovering the happy truth about our place in this existence. First, however, I must explain a little about myself in the chapters to follow. But if it is not thus that you decide, I would suggest reclining in a dark room, and having a lovely cup of lukewarm maté tea.

 

She should not know how to perform the prestidigitation, but she’s gained the knowledge by surreptitious observation coupled with cunning guesswork. But more pertinent, she should know that she cannot cast the spell (that is, govern the flow of unseen energy) without ripping a hole in the folds of the shimmering fields that bind the sense of the All-World together. She flinches as she motions with her left hand, a puppet of some external, unthinking force, inscribing the forbidden Yellow Sign on the electrified air.

 

For my part, I am very fond of reading (and writing) gothic novels in my spare time in order to relax. And, when the Muse calls, who can resist Her? After all, even Dendrah the Bogey-Slayer (my heroine!) must go on holiday once in a blue moon to have a little break after all the jumping between worlds, and murdering, and inventing devilishly clever gadgets.

 

And yet make the motions she does. She’s so unsure of the proper words, and she doesn’t know at all what will happen. But she jumps anyway -- or gets pushed -- screaming her head off. And with a crack, she falls. No real intimation of the mirror-smooth ocean surface rushing towards her, whether to smash her in smithereens or engulf her, who in any World knows?

 

By the way, I am always deadly serious, as you can see, and I like feasting on exciting films like “Escape from the Deadly Planet”, but, don’t worry, I appreciate too that it’s unrestrained humour that greases the world’s wheels, as they say (well the ones who don’t have the communication skills belonging to a wet sack of dead ferrets!).

 

Just falling, then. Time stopping? No, time doesn’t even slow down here, she imagines later she thought, as the waves’ salty tang stings the hairs up her prominent nose, and her stomach tries to detach itself from inside her like a balloon. Descending. Or maybe the Merciless World drops away from her, turns its back on her. Expels the intruder. Spits the foreign body out.

 

So, it shall not all be doom and gloom! I’ll leave you with every good wish, and every blessing, for a future full of diversion and transformation. And remember, whilst you develop and mature: you are enormous, you contain multitudes; now then allow them to live!

 

And then she can smell that Fruitful Planet across the Tear between the Worlds, which is now the stomping ground of the Wandering Whelp, as well as the Bull-man and the Bumpkin, in some shape or form at least. And, she hopes, the new home of her troublesome Son, too. Sharp, acrid stench of ozone. Flash of ultraviolet light. The hot tarmac in the middle of Taviston High Street in the Islands of the Disunited Kingdoms’ oppressive Pink Zone on the Cruel Earth indents several inches as the Mother’s muscular but supple body hurtles into it.

 

As they say on the Nw Yrth, in that strange old story called “A Davuth-e-Kanu” or “The Sunsong,” that Dai told me once, grinning mischievously – “A Davuth zif a hwahlé shé. Fli-salmé lif lír fli-afoth-ri nanez athw hlathwn lír hlispi fliri zif fl’azis lír” – the Dazzling Sun, “Davuth,” will always keep on shining, come what may! What a wonderful thought. And who am I to disagree, although I don’t understand all the words? It gives me strength and hope for a better future, anyway.

 

“Shift ya fat arse, y’ugly old sow!” is the first warm, friendly greeting to strike her ears in the Brave, New World. Thethalu Mother of Ithru she used to be, but who is she now? As she grabs the bare calf of the stocky, red-faced labourer snarling above her, trying to drag herself up, she pricks the fatty flesh with her poisoned talon. Despite the stunning shock and enormous pain (or maybe it’s the specific combination of very odd circumstances that motivates her well-considered behaviour), she decides on the spot to fall in love with the Cruel Earth, thinking that this will be a World worth conquering. And that insolent nitwit will be dead before the morning.

Rwy’n gwirioni arnat ti, ni’m ceri. Yr un peth drosodd a thro, ond yn newid drwy’r amser, yn cosi enaid du’r dyfeisiwr cywrain sy hefyd yn gampwr ar ysbio. Sai’n dy garu di, wyt ti’n fy nghasáu i? Hisian dibwys wedi’u darlledu ar hap o Fyd Amgen. Chwant a chlaerineb yn chwarae castiau ar ei gilydd ar ei thraul hi. Wedi’r cwbl, lleiddiad mwya cyfrwys yn y Deyrnas Waedlyd ydy, a rhwng yr holl lofruddio ac andwyo, does fawr o amser da hi i’w sbario ar gyfer caru. Ond falle bydd yn ei harwain at ei Mab. Dyna gylymau, a dolenni, a chareiau’n datgloi’i gilydd ym mhob man o’i chwmpas, wrth i’r Blaned Yrth ymddihatru, yn ara ara, ac nid heb slei biffian. Mae hi’n moyn neud e, ond dyw hi ddim eisiau neud e chwaith. Ddim eto. Nage nawr. Ond mae hi’n gorfod.

 

Mae’r Dywysoges Waedlyd yn dymuno’u lladd y ddau ohonyn nhw, y Fam a’r Mab, nawr iddi ddefnyddio’r llinyn rasel gwenwynig a chipio awenau’r Deyrnas. A dyna gan mai hithau, fel pawb yn meddu ar rym mawr, ac yn benderfynol o’i arfer er da neu ddrwg, sy’n ofni’i golli. Mae’r môr chwyslyd, yn sawl metr islaw, yn dal i oernadu “paid, paid, paid” mewn bariton cryg, ond rywsut mae rhaid iddi’i gorfodi’i hunan. Pa ddewis sy da hi? Bydd amser yn arafu wrth i chi gwympo, meddan nhw, ond dyw hi ddim yn credu ‘ny, dyw hi ddim yn gwybod beth mae’n gredu mwyach, ac o waelod ei galon dyw hi’m am ddarganfod y gwir.

 

Dyna’r awyr drwchus fel cawl yn byrlymu a warpio o’i hamgylch, gan glecian a phoeri. Bydd amser yn stopio mewn twll du, mae’n meddwl, nawr, ar ba fyd ddiawl dysgais i ‘ny? A beth yw’r ots ta be? Wedi’r cwbl, peidiwch ymddiried yn yr arbenigwyr, dyna arwyddair y dydd. A dyna’r gwynt, felly, yn llyfu, a chosi, a phoeni, fel anifail dof â thafod gwlyb, twym, sy’n mynnu ei rhwystro rhag canolbwyntio wrth iddi fagu digon o galon i neidio.

 

Nage drysau diriaethol na llythrennol yw pyrth hudol mewn gwirionedd. Mae hi’n gwybod hynny. Neu sdim rhaid iddyn nhw fod, o leia. Mwy tebyg i ffyrdd o feddwl ydyn nhw. Os wyt ti ond yn gallu dychmygu amdani’n gywir, wyt ti’n gallu sleifio o ble wyt ti i rywle arall. Does raid i ti ond ceisio edrych yn ddewr a thaflu’r golwg cywir. Wel, dyna’r dechrau, ta be. Wedyn, bydd di angen symud o gwmpas yn addas, wrth adrodd y swynganeuon wedi’u pennu i gyflawni’r gorchwyl. Mae popeth mor gymhleth, ac i bob canlyniad gwahanol ei dechneg unigryw ei hun, wrth gwrs.

 

Mae awel boeth yn chwythu’r niwlen yn y tes uwchben y môr i ffurfio siâp rhyw greadur enfawr, chwedlonol, yn gyrn, a charnau, a chynffonau i gyd. Wedi’i gonsurio gan y Dywysoges heb os, sy wastad yn arbrofi, a thwyllo, a cheisio cadarnhau damcaniaethau dyrys. A hithau’n fam weddw i fwystfil o grwt, y Cnyw Crwydrol, sy’n ei chasáu ac wedi rhedeg bant i Fyd Arall neu rywbeth tebyg, ac yntau mor ifanc! Plentyn rhyfeddol, sdim dwywaith amdani. Ac fel fflach o fellten aethai’r Mab ar ei ôl, gan adael dim ond ôl-ddelwedd boenus ar ei retinâu. Mae hi bron â thorri’i bola eisiau dilyn y trywydd. Ond yr unig be mae’n gallu cael hyd iddo yw pytiau o sgyrsiau, meddyliau dryslyd, a gweddïau ofer, wedi dianc o sgriniau teledol, recordiadau peiriannol, a dyfeisiau electronig yn rhywle mewn Realiti Amgen —

 

Cyfarchion cynhesaf, gyd-deithwyr ar y ffordd i ryw wlad nas adwaenom eto! Ffredric Phantastig yw f’enw i. Wel, nid f’enw go iawn, wrth reswm, yw hwnnw, ac yn wir, nid yw fy nglasenw hudol chwaith, ond yn hytrach llysenw cyffredin. Mae’n dangos mai un sy’n selog sugno pob diferyn o fêr o esgyrn bywyd ydwyf fi (rwy wedi gweld y ffilm o’r enw “Cymdeithas y Beirdd Marw” sawl gwaith ch’wel? – “ffan o dastio” yn yr hen iaith o’r enw Kimbreg – chi’n deall y jôc fach?).

 

Mae’r anghenfil yn lolian, gan rythu arni gyda dirmyg. Mae’n cael ei llosgi gan y llygadrythu fel ei bod yn rhuthro tuag at ganol yr Haul. All hi ddim llai na chwerthin o gofio’r geiriau ‘na yn “I Haina u Thafathi”, “Cân yr Haul,” o ryw fyd roedd hi wedi ymweld â fe, flynyddoedd maith yn ôl – “Ia Thafathī usonu ina. A sana, ā fathe inā thu a lisipāzisas sanas ī the” – “Yr oedd, yn y dechreuad, yr Haul. Ac ar ei ben ei hunan ydoedd, wedi lapio amdano â myfyrdod, heb adnabod neb ond Efe’i hun.” Er ei bod fel piston byw yn pwmpio gwenwyn i lif gwaed pob Byd fydd hi’n glanio arno, fydd y rhith ddim yn mynd i’r drafferth o lamu arni hi, a’i lladd, hyd yn oed. Pam, a hithau ar fin neud amdani’i hun, siŵr o fod? Wel, os na all hi ddianc, bydd un o’r teuluoedd mawr yn gyrru hi i ebargofiant, sdim dau amdani. Neu falle byddan nhw’n cyd-dynnu i gael gwared arni: mae rhyw newydd wyrth o hyd!

 

Myfi yw Feistr Llawn yn Urdd Cyfrinachau, gwas teyrngar i’r gwir Ddewin, y Doethur o’r hen wlad o’r enw Kimbria, Siôn Du, Ceidwadwr Hen Ddirgelion y Dauwynebog a ŵyr popeth sy’n digwydd ar wyneb y blaned hon, a phopeth a fydd yn digwydd at hynny.

 

A bod yn berffaith onest maen nhw ill dau, y Feistres ar y Grefft a’r Hyfforddai Ifanc, wedi bod dan amheuaeth fawr o bob ochr erbyn iddyn nhw gyrraedd y glannau annatblygedig ‘ma a dechrau cynnig eu gwasanaethau digymar i bawb allai dalu. Dyna be sy’n dod o chwarae’r ffon ddwybig, wrth reswm, a gosod y naill garfan yn erbyn y llall, wrth gynorthwyo pob un ohonyn nhw i ddifodi’i elyn, ei gymrawd, ei briod, neu’i blentyn yn ôl yr angen. Fe fuodd hen ddigon o bobl, o bob lliw a llun, yn barod i fynd i’w boced a rhoi’r arian parod, yn ogystal â rhannu gwybodaeth gêl ynghylch cyfrinachau hen golledig. “Pam maen nhw bob tro mor hurt, er hynny?” mae’n meddwl. “Maen nhw’n gofyn, ac ymbil, a chocsio, a gorchymyn i gael hyd i’r hyn a ddymunan nhw. Ond pan fyddan nhw wedi gwneud y weithred erchyll, a mynd â’r maen i’r wal, fe fydd y babis swci mami’n beichio llefain a’i heglu hi fel cath i gythraul, gan fwrw’r bai arna i, druan ohona i!”

 

Atgyweiriwr breuddwydion mwrdredig, a chofiadwr bywydau wedi’u colli dan ddwylo’r Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd ydwyf fi. Rwy wedi bod yn llafurio i ddyfeisio moddion er mwyn rhoi i’r Ddaear Chwerw hon flas o’i ffisig ei hun; ac ymhellach rwy wedi bod yn ymlafnio i ddysgu cyfiawnder i’r rhai cyndyn, er mai dim ond ychydig sy’n gwrando.

 

Ac ar ben hynny, mae’r Dywysoges wedi rhoi pris ar eu pennau nhw ill dau, ar ôl i’r Mab ddwyn y Llawlyfr Hud Gwyddonol ‘na, newydd ei gopïo ar y memrwn gorau, o ysgrifendy’r palas. Ac wedyn roedd e wedi defnyddio rhyw dechneg egsotig ynddo i ddiflannu o wyneb y Blaned Yrth o dan drwyn y Llabwst. Roedd y sarhad ar urddas aruchel yr Unbennes Gyntaf yn gymaint iddi, ac aeth hi o’i cho, gan dyngu dialedd ar bawb yn y Deyrnas. Dyna’r Fam anniddig yn melltithio “Campweithiau Technoleg Anghyffwrdd o Etifeddiaeth Ddihafal y Delkurí,” wrth obeithio er gwaetha popeth y bydd yn foddion iachawdwriaeth iddi. Petai hi ond wedi aberthu’r llanc o gi twrw i’r Hen Dduwiau Rhyfedd, y Delkvovim, pan oedd siawns gyda hi.

 

Cymaint rwy wedi’i weld, a’i glywed, a’i ddeall, trwy roi sylw i’r lleisiau sy’n fy nghwmpasu, i’r sibrwd o’r cysgodion, a thrwy gyfieithu’r geiriau estron sy’n dod ataf fi o’r tu hwnt, y mae arnaf fi angen eu rhannu â chi. Nawr, yn y Clinig o’r enw “Y Pinwydd,” rwy wedi dod o hyd i ddogfennau sy’n cynnwys neges bwysig iawn. A dyma ffrwyth f’archwilio ar ffurf nodiadau ffurfiol, a recordiadau, a sgriblan athronyddol, a darnau creadigol yn ôl pob sôn.

 

Ond nage ddim ond mater o sut dych chi’n meddwl ydy: mae pyrth yn ffordd o fihafio hefyd. Mae hi wedi penderfynu cymryd arni ei fod yn cynllunio i ddianc rhag y claniau aflednais a threisgar trwy hedfan bant ar adenydd ffug. Ond mewn gwirionedd, mae hi wedi hel y taclau priodol at ei gilydd i adael iddi ddilyn trywydd y Mab, yn cynnwys ei nodiadau yntau ar rannau perthnasol y Llawlyfr. Felly mae hi’n neud yn siŵr bod bawb yn ei gweld hi’n prynu’r geriach cywir yn y farchnad gyhoeddus, fel metrau o gorden ledr, a chryn dipyn o bapur llwyd a chŵyr selio. Wedi llunio’r esgyll gwrthun fel bod pawb yn gwybod amdanyn nhw, mae hi’n sleifio bant gan eu cludo nhw mewn sach enfawr o hesian gefn trymedd nos. A nawr, wedi’u malu’n chwilfriw ar bwrpas, maen nhw’n cael eu cario ymaith gan y llanw islaw wrth iddi bendilio ar frig ucha’r Bryniau Copr.

 

Ond, O, myn fy ffydd, maent yn ceisio f’atal i, asiantau’r drefn arallfydol, mynachod y frawdoliaeth gycyllog dan awdurdod y pregethwr anfad, y Peintiwr Coch. (Neu efallai mai’r Offeiriad Coch yw’r enw, wn i ddim i’r dim.) Mae’r cythreuliaid wedi drysu’r llawysgrifau i gyd, ond fe ddaliaf ati er eu gwaethaf nhw.

 

Mae hi’n symud fymryn wrth drio paratoi at y daith ddychrynllyd. Unwaith eto. Does wybod i ble mae’r Mab wedi mynd ond mae wedi bod yn gweithio nerth deng ewin i’w ddilyn. Mae signal gwan yn dod o rywle, fel goleufa rybudd yn fflachio’n rheolaidd. Mae rhywun wedi agor porth ychydig, yr ochr draw i’r Rhwyg yn y Gofod mae hi ar fin ei greu. Mae’n crynu wedyn wrth gofio taw duach cysgod wrth fôn goleudy —

 

Yn enw Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd y Nw Yrth, fe fyddaf yn bwrw fy llid ar y rhai sydd yn dymuno rhwystro ein hachos ni’r ymladdwyr dros ryddid, naill ai yn y byd hwn neu ynteu yn y byd a ddaw! Darllenwch ymlaen, felly, ac wylo, o ddarganfod y gwirionedd llawen am ein lle yn y fuchedd hon. Yn gyntaf, fodd bynnag, rhaid i fi esbonio tipyn bach amdanaf fi fy hunan yn y penodau i ddilyn. Ond onid felly y penderfynwch, fe fyddwn i’n awgrymu gorwedd i lawr mewn ‘stafell dywyll, a chael dysglaid hyfryd o de mate, llugoer.

 

Ddylai hi ddim gwybod sut i berfformio’r gonsuriaeth, ond mae wedi ennill yr wybodaeth trwy arsylwi’n lladradaidd yn ogystal â dyfalu’n graff. Ond, yn fwy perthnasol, fe ddylai hi wybod na all hi fwrw’r hud (hynny yw, rheoli llif yr egni anweledig) heb rwygo twll ym mhlygion y meysydd pefriog sy’n rhwymo synnwyr yr Holl Fyd ynghyd. Mae’n gwingo wrth ystumio gyda’i llaw chwith, yn byped i ryw rym difeddwl tu allan iddi, a sgrifennu’r Arwydd Melyn gwaharddedig yn yr awyr wedi gwefreiddio.

 

O’m rhan i, rwy’n hoff iawn o ddarllen (ac ysgrifennu) nofelau gothig yn f’amser sbâr i ymlacio. A phan eilw’r awen pwy eill ei gwrthod? Wedi’r cwbl, mae rhaid i hyd yn oed Dendrah Leiddiad Bwcïod (f’arwres!), fynd ar wyliau unwaith yn y pedwar amser i gael hoe fach ar ôl yr holl neidio rhwng bydoedd, a mwrdro, a dyfeisio taclau tra chlyfar.

 

Ond neud yr ystumiau a wnaiff. Mae hi mor ansicr am y geiriau priodol, a dyw hi ddim yn gwybod o gwbl be’ fydd yn digwydd. Ond dyna hi’n neidio ta be -- neu’n cael ei gwthio -- wrth weiddi nerth ei phen. Gyda chlec mae’n cwympo. Dim awgrym go iawn o wyneb y môr, yn llyfn fel drych, yn rhuthro tuag ati, p’un ai i’w malu’n chwilfriw neu i’w llyncu, pwy mewn unrhyw Fyd a ŵyr?

 

Gyda llaw, rwy wastad o ddifri calon, fel y gwelwch chi, ac rwy’n hoffi gwledda ar ffilmiau cyffrous megis “Dianc o’r Blaned Farwol,” ond, peidiwch â phoeni, rwy’n sylweddoli hefyd mai hiwmor diatal sydd yn iro olwynion y byd, fel y meddant hwy (wel, y rhai nad ydynt â’r sgiliau cyfathrebu sy’n perthyn i sach wlyb o ffuredau marw!).

 

Dim ond syrthio, felly. Amser yn stopio? Na, dyw e ddim yn arafu yma, hyd yn oed, mae’n dychmygu yn hwyrach ei bod yn meddwl, wrth i adflas hallt y tonnau bigo’r blew lan ei thrwyn amlwg, a’i stumog yn trio dod yn rhydd o’i thu mewn fel balŵn. Disgyn. Neu falle bod y Byd Didostur yn cwympo’n ôl oddi wrthi hi, gan droi’i gefn arni. Taflu’r tresmaswr allan. Poeri’r corffyn estron ma’s.

 

Felly nid tranc a thristwch fydd popeth! Fe fyddaf yn eich gadael gyda phob dymuniad da, a phob bendith am ddyfodol llawn o ddifyrrwch a thrawsffurfiad. A chofiwch chi wrth ichi dyfu a datblygu: enfawr dych chi, cynhwyswch laweroedd: gadewch nawr iddyn nhw fyw!

 

Ac wedyn mae’n gallu clywed oglau’r Blaned Ffrwythlon ‘na ar draws yr Hollt rhwng y Bydoedd, sy bellach yn filltir sgwâr i’r Cnyw Crwydrol, yn ogystal ag i’r Dyn-darw a’r Llabwst, ar ryw ffurf neu’i gilydd o leia. Ac, mae’n gobeithio, yn gartre newydd i’w Mab trafferthus hi, ‘fyd. Drewdod llymsur, siarp osôn. Fflach o olau uwchfioled. Dyna’r tarmac poeth yng nghanol Stryd Fawr Tredafwys ym Mharth Pinc Gormesol Ynysoedd y Teyrnasau Anghytûn ar y Ddaear Greulon wedi’i dolcio sawl modfedd wrth i gorff cyhyrog ond ystwyth y Fam daro yn ei erbyn.

 

Fel y maent yn dweud ar y Nw Yrth, yn yr hen stori ryfedd hwnnw o’r enw “A Davuth-e-Kanu” neu “Cân yr Haul,” a ddywedodd Dai wrthyf unwaith, dan wenu’n gellweirus – “A Davuth zif a hwahlé shé. Fli-salmé lif lír fli-afoth-ri nanez athw hlathwn lír hlispi fliri zif fl’azis lír” – fe fydd yr Haul Disglair, “Davuth,” wastad yn dal i dywynnu, doed a ddelo. Am syniad bendigedig. A phwy ydwyf fi i anghytuno, er na ddeallaf y geiriau oll? Mae’n rhoi imi nerth a gobaith am ddyfodol gwell, beth bynnag.

 

“Symud dy din dew di, yr hen hwch hyll!” yw’r croeso cyfeillgar, cynnes, cyntaf i daro ar ei chlyw yn y Byd Newydd, Braf. Thethalu Fam Ithru oedd hi unwaith, ond pwy yw hi bellach? Wrth iddi afael ym mola coes noeth y labrwr cydnerth ag wyneb coch yn chwyrnu uwch ei phen, er mwyn ei llusgo’i hun i lan, dyna hithau’n pigo’r cnawd bras â’i hewin wenwynol. Er gwaetha’r sioc syfrdanol a’r boen ddirfawr (neu hwyrach mai’r cyfuniad neilltuol ‘ma o amgylchiadau od iawn sy’n ysgogi’i hymddygiad tra ystyriol), mae’n penderfynu cwympo mewn cariad â’r Ddaear Greulon yn y fan, gan feddwl bydd hwn yn Fyd gwerth ei goncro. Ac fe fydd yr hurtyn anfoesgar ‘na farw cyn y bore.