One theory relating to the fate of the universe predicts the following result. Whilst the cosmos expands eternally towards oblivion, the majority of the types of fundamental particles of matter (that is the fermions) will disappear, leaving only a few of them behind, together with photons of light (which are bosons). In accordance with statistical principles connected with the phenomenon called entropy, everything will at last reach a state named heat death, that is the greatest homogeneity and uniformity of temperature on the part of matter and energy. Because of the constant expansion, the wavelength of the electromagnetic radiation will get longer and longer, redder and redder, as the particles move further away from each other. Needless to say, there will not be a single human being there to watch this eventuality, which will be futile, empty, and lonely, developing in the incredibly distant future. Despite that, however, we must remember that this possibility tells us nothing at all about the vague but exciting situation in the present day. Thus, should we allow such hypothetical musing to steer our thoughts and our behaviours whilst we are still alive, and flourishing, and succeeding in this remote part of the galaxy at least – whilst killing ourselves and the planet which nourishes us at the same time?

 

Here’s an Old Soldier who desires to become a Wizard. He has been wandering about his manor-house, the ancestral pile he owns at the moment, at least, whilst the others ferret about for something very important. And what with all the confusion, and the never-ending pain, he sows the seeds of chaos in his wake, until the whole bad-tempered family (apart from Fred the faithful old retainer) get fed-up with the performance. As soon as he’s almost escaped through the back door for the third time, the ministering angels have to give him a plentiful dose of calming snuff in a copper goblet full of hot mead. And then they sweep off to the local hostelry, The Lost Sheep, for a long afternoon of counselling and meditation, and to drown their worries in a gallon or two of the Fake Ambrosia, leaving their patron under the caretaker’s eagle eye. Due to the disease, the medicine, and the enchantment enswathing the place, the old rotter's mind is churning like the waters of the Well of Souls, as he dozes fitfully —

 

"Here am I, Lords and Ladies, he he – Yandrim Mek·vatsha Prok·ethra – Jack Procter – floating in the living darkness, blind and frozen still but sweating buckets, with the 'Life Song of the Gloomy Envoys' filling my head in the silence. As I wait for the appointed instant when I'll leave this filthy sphere of being at last, I grin despite the angst, thinking that I owe an explanation, somehow, about what will happen soon, to those of you who've listened to me without judging before now. I am ready to sacrifice my name, my personality, my existence, I who am without voice, choice, and hope, dying from the side-effects of too much loving (and cancer), my heart so bitter. Having succeeded in escaping from the Guild of Secret's artificial henchmen, I'll be waiting for a broadcast from beyond, with the stuff of creation about to gush around me. And then I'll break through and fall headlong into the unknown on the wrong side of the mirror, as the stars explode, if everything goes to plan. I'll have to travel trillions of miles, drifting alone over the unimaginable distance. And in the end, I pray, I should reach the end of my once in a lifetime pilgrimage with my last mortal breath."

 

By some unlucky twist of fate, however (for some, at least, divine or diabolical intervention assisting human weakness, perhaps), the employee is feeling exceptionally tired after gulping down a dozen special cakes that were cooling on the hob. As he enjoys the sleep of the blessed, let us hope, in a hammock in the conservatory, like some dozy red monkey, the devilish teacher awakes from his uneasy slumber at just the right time and slips through the hidden tunnel towards the cellar of his hide-away on the bank of the sweet-smelling river. He’s an old hand with the drugs, of course, in his own opinion anyway, and an excellent actor to boot, and after he’s typed his last message, he indulges, or loses himself, in visions, before his Great Work begins in earnest — 

 

“I’m sitting on the edge of a precipice, hanging between the Earth and the Nw Yrth, calling on every divinity I can think of to help me on my last journey as I’m afraid I’ve not prepared well enough. I’m an Old Soldier in the guise of a teacher (or vice-versa), and I would be a Wizard too, a man who is destiny’s child, and a hostage to fortune, and not by choice but rather because of the toss of the cosmic dice. But who owns the hand that plays such tricks with my life, with all our lives? You have to ask, of course, whether that, the idea that we’re nothing but pawns in a game of chess, is better than the alternative situation, where we are controlled by physical forces completely beyond our comprehension. It makes no difference about the details to tell the truth, since here I am squirming above an enormous pitch-black void, but, by the Seven Old Masters, I’m not ready to jump yet…

 

“I know that the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers of the Extremely Exalted Empire of the Yrthians visit the sins of the young who do not yet exist upon the aged; and it is the parents who are punished in order to purify the children; and of necessity I accept this conclusion. And so, bearing the yoke of the Earth’s sins on my shoulders, I shall become Death, who shall destroy the World in order to begin creating afresh. I shout out, therefore, O Great Kali, who is known as Nuthkí on the Nw Yrth, give me strength! Spasms of pain wash my reason away. A pang like a spear with some bitter dragon’s bile on its tip stabs my side once again, as has been happening so often recently. Like Lushfé am I, in the hands of Swtach, before he was dismembered and his limbs scattered to the four corners of the Nw Yrth… 

 

“But then, a draught of poisonous infusion containing illegal dust, raises me to the zenith of perplexed exultation. Perhaps this can delete every jot of the shell-shock I’ve been suffering from for years. And also, I must get rid of the shade of war-terror, connected with that colossal battle that’s to come, which is supposed to honour our holy faith, safeguard our existence in its purity and original strength, defend our tribe against predators who would destroy us, and uphold our principles in the face of those who would sweep away every concept of justice, correctness, and consistency… 

 

“I’ve conjured the otherworldly locus according to the recipe, but I do not recognise a speck here as I have not been trained, but instead have stolen the words illegally, or dreamed them up myself. But then again, necessity is the mother of invention, and this knows no law. Oh, everything in this place is as black as a sacrificial stone, and as cold and slippery too, not that there’s anything to be seen clearly, nor heard with complete certainty, but as smooth as a mirror of pure, polished silver, wrapped in a sheet of red silk is the surface of the land where I am waiting... 

 

“Every straight edge, which should be stable, is flexible, and it’s terribly comfortable, in some sense, but here, he who sleeps shall die without a doubt, in the end. This is habitation of Kalpavriksha, the tree which fulfils very wish, and it is governed by Kamadhenu, the cow who lies on a slab of salt, dreaming of a past that has not been, and a future which is not possible either. And here Kalachakra, the time-wheel, is always rotating, and singing its cruel song of eternal return. Oh, what sweet lies are to be experienced by the unwary!...

 

"There are pins-and-needles on my skin, as if I were some foetus, obnoxious and irascible, developing fiercely in the womb. And that is because the compound eyes of the beings on a blue and red planet, near a star that was old when our Earth was born, are staring into my soul, whilst their feelers tremble in expectation of finding a new servant. Of course, they always want to know what will happen when some fool strives to complete an alchemical rite involving psychedelic drugs, in order to transform his perception. Under the pressure of the ceaseless sparkling, which I cannot see from within the complete darkness, but which I imagine perfectly despite that, I doubt I am worthy, and whimper childishly as a result… 

 

“There is no cock crowing here in the wilderness between the Two Worlds to measure time, no society to rule with an iron hand over the standards of behaviour that are expected from groups or individuals, nothing at all except the scraping of the shields of chitin hiding the backs of the strange creatures in the Other World which is beyond my reach yet. So, no, no, thrice no: triply I deny those who would restrain me and halt my quest for the spiritual strength and the physical might which are greatly needed to discipline our Turbulent World. Like an invincible hero I set my mind against the accusers, and disavow their judgement! I have prepared myself to face my challenges; I am wearing the heavy robe, stolen from my brother, against the dangers which shall come; and it is a splendid, scarlet gown, containing threads of golden charms plaited by magical spiders… 

 

“In order to initiate the ceremony and create a link with the Otherworld, I begin to chant the words of the Amasus Ritual, in reverse order, and backwards – ‘Hatalag, Mitalag’ – whilst everything about me flows into the Bottomless Pit, changing the World entirely. And so, in light of the moon which is by now gleaming as fiercely as molten onyx in the heat of the Nw Yrth’s deepest craters, I search for hidden principles, falling down a rabbit-hole that is also a key-hole. This place teems with uncertainty like a reflection in a shattered mirror, and it is governed by illogical laws, namely that the void contains the seeds of every possibility, that stillness is motion, and that travelling everywhere is equivalent to going no-where...

 

“Come with me, then, on this strange voyage to the Nw Yrth. It will be a journey to fruitful but spectral lands, where live enchanting princesses and imaginary princes. We shall go together to secret kingdoms, overflowing with mesmerism and manna. In this landscape, every craggy mountain sings a tale; every glass-blade whispers secrets; and the babbling brooks themselves carry meaning, if we bother to prick up our ears. In this World, future-memories bear promises; and manufactured reality represents a picture of life, stupendously beautiful, invented by us ourselves. And there I shall cause the Forgotten Deities to collect together, by wielding the words – ‘Ataz, Itaz’… 

 

“There, on the Nw Yrth, the inhabitants fight without rest the war of the powers. At the moment, it is the Seven Seraphic Sorcerers, the lords of justice, who are governing, from within the main ziggurat on the planet’s southern continent, waving their splendid, blue banner, whilst enforcing strict laws and iron discipline. Sometimes, on the Earth, they come to light in the form of immense, cowled shadows, in ecstatic dreams. And then they tempt mortal souls with sweet words and tasty morsel of ambrosia, and angelic bread, and of heavenly manna. They are collecting together the forces of order, including priests, teachers, soldiers, academicians, and politicians, those who crave to adjudicate on prudence, appropriateness, morality, correctness, and actuality. And we need their help on the Earth now more than ever before, in these last days... 

 

“Standing against the Sorcerers are the mercenaries, the opposition forces, the Innumerable Indolent Idolaters, the Ineluctable Unauthoritative Overseers of the Nw Yrth, under the ragged, red standard, beyond the wretched pool on the World’s northern continent. I have learned that the Idolaters insist on excessive tribute but that they render nothing but blotting-out in the end. Because of this, they do not have an extensive number of true disciples except a few shamans, madmen, artists, and magicians, who prance unrepentantly, as it is the Old Masters who shall crown their heads with laurel in oblivion. But they flourish on every drop of disorder, and doubt, the least bit of disobedience and independence feeds them. And now they are multiplying more and more rapidly. And that is why I must work so hard to prevent them...

 

“Now, wandering between the Two Worlds is a servant of the Seven Sorcerers called Swtach. It is he who is the one true powerful spirit amongst the hosts, who invents uncertainty, creates chaos, disperses disorder, whispers rubbish, frolics in filthiness, fans malice’s flames, and gorges on gore. When I look at him, I see an injured youth, the image of revenge, his skin all blistered, and he has horns and goat-hoofs, a prehensile, ginger tail, and totally black eyes like cruel diamonds. He wears ragged military uniform, coloured mottled green, and as he makes his enchantments he handles his infernal implements, namely a serrated carving-knife, sharpened bones, and a cauldron of boiling bile. I have received his support several times up to now, and he has brought instructions on how to open the gate to the Nw Yrth… 

 

"By reciting the appropriate incantation, written originally in living symbols of fire on the walls of the most ancient temples, and later in the lost Grimoire called ‘For All the Great Gods’ that I have found on my travels, I have forced Swtach to go hither and thither to unearth information on my behalf. Thus shall I, the Old Soldier – who shall be re-created by Khepri, and guided by Karna, illegitimate son of Kunti, and Kumbhakarna, the monkey-eater – be able to behave like the Lord Krishna who makes love to the whole World. I shall rouse the serpent Kundalini, who lies coiled up in the eternal flames, out of her sleep...

 

"As a result, there shall be revealed to me by Shakti and Shiva, the old mysteries of the scabbard and the sword, the lingam and the yoni, the comb and the column; and I shall learn the secrets of the egg and the seed. But I shall need to take care lest I declare the worlds incorrectly, since failure shall mean a fate worse than death. But I shall never fail as I persevere in chanting the words of the Ritual – ‘Atsetop Oe’! And finally, everyone who still lives on the Earth shall rejoice, when they have been washed, and cleaned as well, with blood, and tears, and fire… 

 

“And now, I dream that I am an unborn babe, who exists in the form of spotless consciousness clothed with flesh. I am alone, boiling with confusion, in a womb where I am programming the World’s innate computer system. Next, I awake as some coward slick with blood, who has been thrown abruptly into a hateful forest to be destroyed. And Jack Procter am I, and his pupil Dai Baxter, David – Ivan, and his son Daud – I live not, but I’ve not died either – and again, I’m in the cellar of my cottage and in the ancient tomb of the Wizard, namely the House of Rebirth, full of shadows, too. Because, according to the verse in ‘Secrets of the Darkest Art’ – ‘My soul is now open, to be concealed in the object of my desire. My sacrifice shall be my immortality.’…

 

“By now the Time of Tribulation is on the verge of arriving from the extremities of the void to change our old Earth completely, leaving the whole of today’s World behind. And everything shall come to an end in an enormous bonfire; and the whole shall blaze away; and I shall be sealed with the red-hot Scarlet Seal; and the World’s transgressions shall be annulled in a river of blood; and at that time all manner of torture shall begin for those who deserve it. Thus shall existence begin to be, and this being shall start to exist again. And here I shout the final words – ‘Mifares Leiro’ – Old Father of the Sky, O Great, Dark Mother, into your hands I place my spirit! Into the immense, empty void — where softness, compliance, forgiveness, grace shall be replaced by lumen, phosphor, fluor, candle — I —!"

 

And in the cellar of the cottage, which is more similar, perhaps, to a spectral tower of bone, a sudden glissando of sound erupts, from twenty Hertz to twenty-thousand hertz, almost sufficient to burst ear-drums. And there follows the kind of pause described in graphic novels – pregnant postponement – and then – release – unexpected – like a tsunami. And having opened the gate, the Old Soldier prepares himself to invite the Seven Sorcerers to come through using the rest of the Rite of Summoning, including the appropriate words, the usual tools, and all the gestures. He has written his last will and testament. And he is delighted to think that he shall win the final prize in due course, as he drinks the cocktail of drugs, but it’s not an exceptionally fat spliff, and a glass of cool Bollinger champagne (eleven degrees Celsius is the ideal temperature) to follow it, but something that is a lot less tasteful. 

 

Having failed to complete the required sacrifice of two worthless lives in a van-collision the first time, when it was as if they were protected by a magical shield he could not penetrate then despite his strongest efforts, he has had to improvise with respect to several elements of this ceremony. And most creative he's been, without an iota of doubt. He is extremely aware of his myriad failings and all his faults, and it is these facts that have motivated his passionate but rambling oration. But despite his deepest hopes, his strict discipline, and his iron will, for some reason or other he cannot stop imagining himself as his pitiful life almost ebbs away to nothing. And there he is, pierced to death with pencils in his eyeballs – and his head’s exploding – and his blood’s bubbling and roiling – and his wasted existence baptizes the site of the Foretold Son’s return.

Mae un theori ynghylch ffawd y cyfanfyd yn darogan y canlyniad canlynol. Wrth i’r bydysawd ymledu’n dragwyddol tuag at ebargofiant, bydd y mwyafrif o’r mathau o ronynnau elfennol o fater (hynny yw, y ffermionau) yn diflannu, gan adael dim ond ychydig ohonynt ar ôl, yn ogystal â ffotonau o olau (sydd yn fosonau). Yn unol ag egwyddorion ystadegol yn gysylltiedig i’r ffenomen o’r enw entropi, bydd popeth yn cyrraedd o’r diwedd gyflwr o’r enw gwastadrwydd gwres, lle ceir y gydrywiaeth fwyaf ac unffurfiaeth tymheredd o ran mater ac egni. Oblegid yr ymlediad cyson, bydd tonfedd y pelydriad electromagnetig yn mynd yn hwy hwy, yn gochach gochach, wrth i’r gronynnau symud yn bellach byth oddi wrth ei gilydd. Heb raid dweud, ni fydd yr un bod dynol yno i wylio’r achlysur hwn, fydd yn ofer, gwag, ac unig, yn datblygu yn y dyfodol pell anhygoel. Serch hynny, fodd bynnag, rhaid inni gofio nad yw’r posibilrwydd hwn yn dweud dim byd o gwbl wrthym am y sefyllfa amhendant ond cynhyrfus yn y byd sydd ohoni. Felly, a ddylem adael i’r fath fyfyrio damcaniaethol liwio ein meddyliau a’n hymddygiad wrth inni ddal i fyw, a ffynnu, a llwyddo yn y gornel anhygyrch hon o’r alaeth o leiaf – wrth inni ladd ein hunain a’r blaned sydd yn ein meithrin ar yr un pryd?

 

Dyma Hen Filwr sy’n dymuno dod yn Ddewin. Mae wedi bod yn crwydro o amgylch ei blasty, yr honglad cyndadol y mae’n perthyn arno am hyn o dro, o leiaf, wrth i’r lleill chwilota am rywbeth pwysig iawn. A rhwng y dryswch oll, a’r loes ddiddiwedd, mae’n hau dannedd y ddraig yn ei sgil nes i’r holl deulu drwg ei dymer (heblaw Ffred yr hen was da a ffyddlon) syrffedu ar y perfformiad. Unwaith y bu bron iddo ddianc drwy’r drws gefn am y trydydd tro, mae rhaid i’r angylion gwasanaethgar roi dogn helaeth o snisin lleddfol iddomewn gobled o gopr yn llawn medd poeth. Ac wedyn dyna nhw’n ysgubo i ffordd i’r dafarn leol, Y Ddafad Golledig, am brynhawn hir o gwnsela a synfyfyrio, ac i foddi’u pryderon mewn galwyn neu ddau o’r Ambrosia Ffug, gan adael eu noddwr dan lygaid barcut y gofalwr. O achos y clefyd, y moddion, a'r hudoliaeth yn gorchuddio'r lle, mae meddwl yr hen goblyn yn corddi fel y dyfroedd yn Ffynnon Eneidiau, wrth iddo bendwmpian bob yn ail â pheidio —

 

“Dyma fi, Arglwyddi ac Arglwyddesau, he he – Yandrim Mek·vatsha Prok·ethra – Jack Procter – yn arnofio yn y tywyllwch byw, yn ddall ac wedi rhewi hyd at fêr f’esgyrn ond yn chwysu’n stêcs, a 'Cân Fywyd y Cenhadon Dilewyrch' yn llenwi ‘mhen yn y tawelwch. Wrth i fi aros am yr eiliad benodedig pan adawaf fi’r sffêr fudr hon o fod o’r diwedd, dw i’n gwenu’n gam er gwaetha’r ing o feddwl fod arna i esboniad, rywsut, am yr hyn fydd yn digwydd yn fuan, i’r rhai ohonoch chi sy wedi gwrando arna i heb feirniadu cyn hyn. Parod i aberthu fy enw dw i, fy mhersonoliaeth, fy modolaeth, fi sydd heb lais, heb ddewis, heb obaith, ac yn marw o ormod o garu (a chanser) a ‘nghalon mor chwerw. Wedi llwyddo i ddianc rhag cefnogwyr artiffisial Urdd Cyfrinachau, bydda i'n aros am ddarllediad o’r tu hwnt, a deunydd y greadigaeth ar fin ffrydio o ‘nghwmpas. Ac wedyn bydda i’n torri drwyddo a syrthio’n bendramwnwgl i’r anhysbys ar yr ochr chwith i’r drych wrth i’r sêr ffrwydro, os aiff popeth yn iawn. Bydd yn rhaid i fi deithio triliynau o filltiroedd, gan noflithro ar ‘mhen ‘yn hunan dros y pellter annychmygadwy. Ac yn y pendraw,  weddïaf, fe ddylwn i gyrraedd terfyn fy mhererindod unwaith mewn oes gyda ‘ngwynt meidrol ola.”

 

 

O ganlyniad i ryw dro anlwcus ar fyd, fodd bynnag (o ran rhai, o leiaf, ac ymyriad dwyfol neu ddieflig yn cynorthwyo gwendid dynol, efallai), mae’r gŵr cyflog yn teimlo’n eithriadol o flinedig ar ôl llyncu dwsin o deisen sbesial oedd yn oeri ar y pentan. Wrth iddo fwynhau cwsg y rhai cyfiawn, adewch inni obeithio, mewn gwely crog yn yr ystafell wydr, fel rhyw fwnci coch cysglyd, dyna ddihuno’r athro cythreulig o'i gwsg anesmwyth ar yr union amser ac ymlusgo drwy dwnnel cudd tuag at seler ei loches ar lan yr afon beraroglus. Mae’n hen law gyda’r cyffuriau, wrth gwrs, yn ei farn ei hun beth bynnag, ac actor gwych ar ben hynny, ac wedi iddo deipio ei neges derfynol, dyna fe’n ymbleseru, ynteu ymgolli, mewn gweledigaethau eraill, cyn i’w Waith Mawr ddechrau o ddifri —

 

“Ar fin dibyn rwy’n eistedd, yn hongian rhwng y Ddaear a’r Nw Yrth, gan alw ar bob duwdod allaf fi feddwl amdano i’m helpu ar fy nhaith olaf gan fy mod yn ofni nad ydw i wedi paratoi’n ddigon da. Hen Filwr yn rhith athro ydw i (neu’r ffordd arall), a Dewin fyddwn i hefyd, dyn sy’n blentyn tynged, a gwystl ffawd, ond nid trwy ddewis ond yn hytrach oherwydd tafliad y disiau cosmig. Ond pwy sy’n perthyn ar y llaw sy’n chwarae’r fath gastiau gyda fy mywyd, gyda’n bywydau ni i gyd? Rhaid holi, wrth reswm, a ydy hynny, y syniad mai dim ond gwerinwyr mewn gêm wyddbwyll ydym, yn well na’r sefyllfa amgen, lle y cawn ni’n rheoli gan rymoedd corfforol yn hollol y tu hwnt i’n dirnad. Does dim gwahaniaeth am y manylion a dweud y gwir, achos mai dyma fi’n gwingo uwchben gwagle enfawr, pygddu, ond, neno’r Saith Hen Feistr, dw i ddim yn barod i neidio eto…

 

“Fe wn i y bydd Saith Swynwr Seraffaidd Ymerodraeth Dra Dyrchafedig yr Yrthiaid yn ymweld â phechodau’r ifainc nad yw’n bodoli eto ar yr henoed; a’r rhieni, a gosbir er mwyn puro’r plant; ac o reidrwydd rwy’n derbyn y canlyniad hwn. Ac fel hyn, gan gario iau camweddau’r Ddaear ar fy ngwar, yr Angau fyddaf fi, a fydd yn difa’r Byd er mwyn cychwyn creu o’r newydd. Dyma fi’n gweiddi, felly, O Kali Fawr, a adwaenir fel Nuthkí ar y Nw Yrth, rhowch imi nerth! Mae hyrddiau o loes yn golchi fy rheswm ymaith. Dyna wayw’n debyg i waywffon ac ar ei bigyn ryw fustl chwerw draig, yn gwanu f’ochr unwaith eto, fel sydd wedi bod yn digwydd cyn amled yn ddiweddar. Fel Lushfé ydwyf fi, yn nwylo Swtach, cyn iddo yntau gafodd ei ddatgymalu a’i aelodau’u gwasgaru i bedwar ban y Nw Yrth…

 

“Ond wedyn, dracht o drwyth gwenwynig yn cynnwys llwch anghyfreithlon, fydd yn fy nghodi i anterth gorfoledd ffwndrus. Efallai y gall hyn ddifodi pob gronyn o’r siel-syfrdandod rwy’n dioddef ohono ers blynyddoedd. Ac ar ben hynny bydd rhaid imi gael gwared ar gysgod dychryn rhyfel, a gysylltir â’r gad anferthol honno i ddod, sydd i fod i anrhydeddu’n ffydd lân, gwarchod ein bodolaeth yn ei phurdeb a’i nerth cysefin, amddiffyn ein tylwyth rhag ysglyfaethwyr fyddai’n ein difa ni, ac ategu’n hegwyddorion yn wyneb y rhai fyddai’n ysgubo ymaith bob cysyniad o gyfiawnder, cywirdeb, a chysondeb…

 

“Rwy wedi consurio’r fangre arallfydol yn unol â’r rysáit, ond nid wyf fi’n adnabod rhithyn yma gan nad ydwyf wedi cael fy hyfforddi, ond yn lle hyn wedi dwyn y geiriau’n anghyfreithlon, ynteu’u dyfeisio nhw. Ond eto i gyd, angen yw mam pob dyfais, a hwn a dyr ddeddf. O, cyn ddued â maen aberthol yw popeth yn y fan hon, ac mor oer a llithrig hefyd, nid bod dim byd i’w weld yn glir, na’i glywed yn gwbl sicr, ond mor llyfn â drych o arian caboledig, pur, wedi’i lapio mewn llen o sidan coch ydy wyneb y tir lle rwyf fi’n aros…

 

“Hyblyg yw pob ymyl syth a ddylai fod yn sad, ac mae’n enbyd o gyfforddus, ar ryw ystyr, ond yma, y sawl sy’n cysgu a fydd yn marw’n ddiamau, yn y pendraw. Dyma annedd Kalpavriksha, y goeden sy’n diwallu pob dymuniad, ac fe’i rheolir gan Kamadhenu, y fuwch sy’n gorwedd ar slab o halen, gan freuddwydio am orffennol na fu, a dyfodol na fydd yn bosibl ychwaith. Ac yma mae Kalachakra, olwyn amser, yn cylchdroi byth a hefyd, a chanu’i chân greulon am ddychwelyd tragwyddol. O, am gelwyddau melys fydd i’w profi gan yr anwyliadwrus!...

 

“Mae pinnau bach ar fy nghroen, fel petaswn i’n rhyw ffetws, ffiaidd a ffrom, yn ffyrnig ddatblygu yn y bru. A dyna gan fod llygad cyfansawdd y bodolaethau ar blaned las a choch, ger seren oedd yn hen pan anwyd ein Daear ni, yn rhythu i’m henaid, wrth i’w teimlyddion grynu mewn disgwyliad o gael hyd i was newydd. Wrth gwrs, byddan nhw wastad yn dymuno gwybod beth fydd yn digwydd pan fydd rhyw ynfytyn yn ymdrechu i gyflawni defodau alcemegol yn golygu cyffuriau seicedelig er mwyn trawsffurfio’i ddirnad. Dan bwysau’r pefriad digyffro, nad wyf yn gallu'i weld oddi mewn i’r tywyllwch llwyr, er fy mod yn ei ddychmygu’n berffaith serch hynny, rwy’n amau nad wy’n deilwng, ac yn cwynfan yn blentynnaidd o’r herwydd…

 

“Nid oes dim ceiliog yn canu yma yn yr anialdir rhwng y Ddau Fyd i fesur amser, dim cymdeithas i reoli â llaw haearn dros safonau ymddygiad a ddisgwylir gan grwpiau nac unigolion, dim byd o gwbl heblaw sgraffinio’r tariannau o gitin yn cuddio cefnau’r creaduriaid rhyfedd yn y Byd Arall sydd y tu hwnt i'm cyrraedd eto. Felly na, na, deirgwaith na: yn driphlyg rwy’n gwadu’r rhai fyddai’n fy rhwystro ac atal f’ymchwil am y nerth ysbrydol a’r grym corfforol sydd eu mawr angen i wastrodi’n Byd Cythryblus ni. Fel arwr anorchfygol rwy’n gosod fy mryd yn erbyn y cyhuddwyr, ac yn diarddel eu barn! Wedi ymbaratoi rwyf fi i wynebu fy heriau; rwy’n gwisgo’r fantell drom, wedi’i dwyn oddi ar fy mrawd, rhag y peryglon a ddaw; a gŵn ysgarlad, ysblennydd ydy, ac ynddo edafedd o swynganeuon euraidd wedi’u cyfrodeddu gan gorynnod hudol…

 

“Er mwyn cychwyn y seremoni a chreu cyswllt â’r Isfyd, rwy’n dechrau llafarganu geiriau’r Ddefod Amasus, yn y drefn wrthol ac o chwith – ‘Hatalag, Mitalag’ – wrth i bopeth o’m gwmpas lifo i’r Pwll Diwaelod gan newid y Byd yn llwyr. Ac felly, yng ngolau’r lleuad sy bellach yn llewyrchu mor danbaid ag onics tawdd yng ngwres craterau dyfnaf y Nw Yrth, rwy’n chwilio am wyddorion cudd, gan syrthio i lawr twll cwningen, sy’n dwll clo hefyd. Mae’r lle hwn yn heigio ag ansicrwydd fel adlewyrchiad mewn drych chwilfriw, ac fe’i rheolir gan ddeddfau afresymegol, sef mai’r gwagle sydd yn cynnwys hadau pob posibilrwydd, mai llonyddwch yw symudiad, ac mai cynradd â mynd i unman yw teithio i bobman…

 

“Dewch gyda fi, felly, ar y fordaith ryfedd hon i’r Nw Yrth. Siwrnai i diroedd toreithiog ond rhithiol fydd hi, lle y mae tywysogesau hudolus a thywysogion dychmygol yn byw. Awn ni gyda’n gilydd i deyrnasoedd dirgel, yn orlawn o fesmeriaeth a manna. Yn y dirwedd hon, pob mynydd ysgithrog sy’n canu chwedl; pob glaswelltyn sy’n sisial cyfrinachau; ac mae’r nentydd baldorddus eu hunain yn dod ag ystyr, os trafferthwn ni glustfeinio. Yn y Byd hwn, mae atgofion o’r dyfodol yn dwyn addewidion; ac mae realiti gwneuthuredig yn cynrychioli llun o fywyd yn syfrdanol o hardd, a ddyfeisir gennym ni’n hunain. Ac yno fe achosaf fi i’r Duwdodau Anghofiedig gasglu ynghyd, trwy drin y geiriau – ‘Ataz, Itaz’…

 

“Yno, ar y Nw Yrth, mae’r trigolion yn brwydro heb orffwys ryfel y galluoedd. Ar hyn o bryd, y Saith Swynwr Seraffiaid, arglwyddi cyfiawnder, sy’n llywodraethu oddi mewn i’r prif sigwrat ar Gyfandir Deheuol y blaned, gan chwifio eu baner las, ysblennydd, wrth orfodi cyfreithiau llymion a disgyblaeth haearnaidd. Rywbryd, ar y Ddaear, maen nhw’n dod i’r golwg ar ffurf cysgodion aruthrol, cwflog, mewn breuddwydion gorfoleddus. Ac wedyn byddan nhw’n temtio eneidiau meidrol â geiriau croyw a thameidiau blasus o ambrosia, o fara angylion, o fanna nefol. Cynnull grymoedd trefn at ei gilydd y maen nhw, gan gynnwys offeiriaid, athrawon, milwyr, academyddion, a gwleidyddion, y rhai sy’n ysu am ddyfarnu ar briodoldeb, pwyll, moesoldeb, cywirdeb, a dirwedd. Ac mae arnom ni angen eu help ar y Ddaear yn awr yn fwy na byth erioed o’r blaen, yn y dyddiau olaf hyn…

 

“Sefyll yn erbyn y Swynwr y mae’r hurfilwyr, lluoedd y gwrthsafiad, y Delw-addolwyr Dioglyd Dirifedi, Arolygwyr Anawdurdodol Anochel y Nw Yrth, o dan y lluman coch, carpiog, y tu hwnt i’r pwll gresynus ar gyfandir gogleddol y Byd. Rwy wedi dysgu bod y Delw-addolwyr yn mynnu teyrnged ormodol ond na roddan nhw ddim byd ond difancoll yn y pen draw. Oherwydd hyn, nid oes ganddynt nifer helaeth o ddisgyblion go iawn ac eithrio ychydig siamaniaid, lloerigion, artistiaid, a dewiniaid sy’n prancio'n ddiedifar, gan mai’r Hen Feistri fydd yn eu gwobrwyo â choronau llawryf am eu pennau mewn ebargofiant. Ond maen nhw’n ffynnu ar bob diferyn o anhrefn, ac amheuaeth, y mymryn lleiaf o anufudd-dod ac annibyniaeth sy’n eu bwydo nhw. Ac mae'n nhw'n lluosogi'n fwyfwy cyflym bellalch. A dyna pam y bydd rhaid imi weithio mor galed i’w rhwystro nhw…

 

“Nawr, crwydro rhwng y Ddau Fyd y mae gwas i’r Saith Swynwr o’r enw Swtach. Yr un ysbryd grymus go iawn ymysg y lluoedd ydy, sy’n dyfeisio dryswch, creu caos, lledaenu llanastr, sibrwd sothach, ymhyfrydu yn aflendid, megino malais, a gwancio gwaed. Pan fyddaf yn edrych arno, byddaf yn gweld glaslanc anafus, delwedd dialedd, a’i groen yn llawn chwysigod, ac mae ganddo gyrn a charnau gafraidd, cynffon gringoch, afaelgar, a llygaid yn hollol ddu fel diemwntau creulon. Bydd yn gwisgo lifrai milwrol, racsiog, wedi’i liwio’n wyrdd brith, ac wrth iddo gyfareddu, bydd yn trafod ei arfau uffernol, sef twca danheddog, esgyrn wedi’u hogi, a chrochan o fustl berwedig. Rwy wedi derbyn ei gymorth sawl gwaith hyd yn hyn, ac mae wedi dod â chyfarwyddiadau ar sut i agor y porth i’r Nw Yrth…

 

“Trwy adrodd y swyngan briodol, wedi’i hysgrifennu’n wreiddiol mewn symbolau byw o dân ar waliau’r temlau mwyaf hynafol, ac yn y Llawlyfr Hud a Lledrith colledig o’r enw ‘Ar gyfer Fy Nuwiau Mawr Oll’ rwy wedi’i ddarganfod wrth deithio, rwy wedi gorfodi Swtach i fynd amgych ogylch i ddarganfod gwybodaeth er fy mwyn. Felly y gallaf fi, yr Hen Filwr – a ail-grëir gan Khepri a thywysir gan Karna, mab gordderch i Kunti, a Kumbhakarna, sy’n traflynci mwncïod – ymddwyn fel yr Arglwydd Krishna sy’n ymgaru â’r holl Fyd. Fe fyddaf yn ennyn y sarff Kundalini, sy’n gorwedd yn dorchau yn y fflamau tragwyddol, allan o’i chwsg…

 

“O’r herwydd, datgelir imi gan Shakti a Shiva hen ddirgelion y wain a’r cleddyf, y lingam a’r yoni, y crib a’r golofn; ac fe ddysgaf fi gyfrinachau’r wy a’r had. Ond bydd arnaf angen gofalu rhag ofn imi ddatgan y geiriau â nam, gan mai methu fydd yn golygu tynged waeth nag angau. Ond ni phallaf fi byth wrth imi ddyfalbarhau i siantio geiriau’r Ddefod – ‘Atsetop Oe’! Ac o’r diwedd, bydd pawb yn dal i fyw ar y Ddaear yn llawenhau, pan fyddant wedi’u golchi a’u glanhau hefyd, â gwaed, a dagrau a thân…

 

“A nawr, dyma fi’n breuddwydio mai baban heb ei eni dw i, sy’n bodoli ar ffurf ymwybod glân wedi’i ddilladu â chnawd. Ar fy mhen fy hunan dw i, yn berwi gan ddryswch, mewn croth ble dw i’n rhaglennu system gyfrifiadurol, gynhenid y Byd. Nesaf, dyna fi’n dihuno fel rhyw gachgi wedi’i wlychu gan waed, a daflwyd yn ddiswta i fforest ffiaidd i’w ddistryw. A Jack Procter dw i, a’i ddisgybl Dai Baxter, David – Ivan, a’i fab Daud – dw i’m yn byw, ond dw i’m wedi marw ‘chwaith – ac eto, yn seler fy mwthyn ac ym medd hynafol y Dewin, sef Tŷ Aileni, llawn cysgodion dw i hefyd. Achos, yn ôl y pennill yn ‘Cyfrinachau'r Gelfyddyd Dduaf’ – ‘Mae f'enaid wedi'i agor bellach, i'w gelu yn y gwrthrych rwy'n ei ddymuno. F'aberth fydd f'anfarwoldeb.’…

 

“Erbyn hyn mae Amser Cystudd ar fedr cyrraedd o bellafoedd y gwagle er mwyn newid ein hen Ddaear yn gyfan gwbl, gan adael holl Fyd heddiw ar ôl. Ac fe ddaw popeth i ben mewn coelcerth enfawr; ac fe lysg y cyfan yn wenfflam; ac fe lyncir pob dim gan fflam;ac fe’m serir â’r Sêl Ysgarlad, wynias; ac fe ddiddymir camweddau’r Byd gan afon o waed; a’r pryd hwn y bydd pob math o artaith yn dechrau ar gyfer y rhai fydd yn ei haeddu. Felly y cychwynna bodolaeth fod, a dechreua’r bod hwn fodoli drachefn. A dyma fi’n bloeddio’r geiriau olaf – ‘Mifares Leiro’ – Hen Dad yr Awyr, O Fam Fawr, Dywyll, yn eich dwylo chi dw i’n rhoi f’ysbryd! I mewn i’r gwacter dirfawr, gwag — lle yr amnewidir tynerwch, cydymffurfiad, maddeuant, bendith am leufer, ffosffor, fflworoleuedd, cannwyll — fi —"

 

Ac yn seler y bwthyn, sydd debycach, efallai, i dŵr rhithiol o asgwrn, dyna ffrwydro llithriad ebrwydd o sain, o ddeuddeg o herts i ddeuddeng mil o herts yn ddigon bron i dorri tympanau clustiau. Dyna ddilyn saib o'r fath a ddisgrifir mewn nofelau graffig – gohirio disgwylgar – ac wedyn – gollwng – dirybudd – fel tswnami. Ac wedi agor y porth, dyna’r Hen Filwr yn ymbaratoi am wahodd y Saith Swynwr i ddod drwyddo gan ddefnyddio gweddill y Ddefod Wysio, yn cynnwys y geiriau priodol, y teclynnau arferol, a’r ystumiau i gyd. Mae wedi ysgrifennu ei ewyllys olaf. Ac mae wrth ei fodd o gredu y bydd yn ennill y wobr derfynol maes o law, wrth iddo yfed y coctel o gyffuriau, ond nid yw'n sbliff dew dros ben, a gwydraid siampên Bollinger, lled oer (un radd Celsius ar ddeg yw’r tymheredd delfrydol), i’w chanlyn, ond rhywbeth sy’n llai chwaethus o lawer.

 

Wedi methu cyflawni’r aberth gofynnol o ddau fywyd diwerth, mewn gwrthdrawiad fan y tro cyntaf, pan oedd fel pe baent wedi’u diogelu gan darian hudol na allai fe dorri drwyddi ar y pryd er ei ymdrechion cryfaf, mae wedi gorfod creu’n fyrfyfyr o ran sawl elfen o'r seremoni hon. A chreadigol iawn a fuodd e, heb fymryn o amheuaeth. Mae'n dra ymwybodol o'i fethiannau fyrdd a'i ddiffygion oll, a'r ffeithiau hyn sydd wedi ysgogi'i araith angerddol ond dryslyd. Ond er gwaethaf ei obeithion dyfnaf, ei ddisgyblaeth lem, a'i ewyllys haearn, am ryw reswm neu'i gilydd, ni all beidio â'i ddychmygu'i hun wrth i’w fywyd truenus bron yn treio. A dyna fe wedi’i drywanu i farwolaeth â phensiliau ym mheli’r llygaid – a dyna’i ben yn ffrwydro – a dyna’i waed yn byrlymu ac yn tasgu – a dyna’i hoedl seithug yn bedyddio mangre dychweliad y Mab Darogan.