When I close my ears to the sounds of this circus my eyes rise to the paths where Will High-Bridge-Arm waits for me. The papers said it was the sovereign in his pocket that was bait for thieves. I wonder whether time froze for him as he tasted, heard, felt the pain of the world passing by him?

The gang laughed at him as they caught the glint of moon in his gold coin. Will High-Bridge-Arm sank into oblivion’s fountain. When he rose from the water the world was changed. Where the fields had filled his memory there were acres of foreign words and unstable rocks above him by the headland pool and the barn gable about to fall. He did not recognize this new country. Only the fairies saw him cross the sea on the full moon toward Ireland.

When they dragged his body out of the peat bog some said he seemed to be asleep, because he was still warm. I remembered having asked him once if there was any good in the world.

“Yes, somewhere between here and Baltimore,” he had replied.

He didn’t seem like he wanted to talk much now.

The gang were all in the front row trying to touch the ringmaster’s sleeve with their outstretched hands. He was a big man with waxed mustache and long red coat, white trousers, a whip and boots that shone like the bottom of a pot. He pretended not to be interested in the bad boys in the front row. He didn’t seem to notice Llinos or me, although we did not take our eyes off him. When he went back for his break I went out to the cotton candy stand and watched the pink web spin in its silver pan.

“Don’t forget your change, love,” called the woman in the red scarf as she pushed some coins into my hand.

“When I’m in your arms the world is warm,” said Llinos, her eyes shining like two stars. She took my hand and placed in on her stomach. “It’s a boy,” she said. “I can tell by the way he kicks.”

The next day the rain was falling like I remember summers long ago. I saw them through the rain-spatted windows in their hats and coats climbing the steps toward me. There was no sun nor masts on the waves. Perhaps it was something about the cut of their collars that had alerted me.

That was twelve years ago. Since then I have been in this cage and Llinos is history. I got a card from her from New City one time. She said the boy’s name was Ianto.

I can’t tell right now if I’m on a pinnacle or if it’s a void under my feet that makes my head spin. I remember them telling me to empty my pockets. They were interviewing all Will’s old neighbors.

The officer called his chief over. “Look what this son of a bitch has in his pocket.”

I had never seen that sovereign before. It shone quietly like sun through mist and glowed yellow in the eyes of the wardens. The chief put on a transparent glove and raised it between his finger and thumb. Then he looked at me and I saw the red veins pulsing in the whites of his eyes.

“Before the circus?” he demanded. “And afterward?”

“Take your claws off me,” I insisted. “I have nothing to hide.”

“You have something to hide,” he told me. “Like all the rest.”

He took up a remote control and pointed toward a white screen. It was footage of the place Will’s body was found. A peat bog and black pools, low hills beyond. Once seen, Hill Marsh is best forgotten. I saw a deep pool with Will’s legs sticking out. I’m not sure if they were still thrashing.

I told them I was innocent.

The chief clicked off his presentation. “We don’t arrest innocent citizens,” he told me. “And even if we did, we couldn’t let you go in case people started thinking innocent people were getting picked up at random.”

“I appreciate your explanation,” I said. I should have said “Sir,” I guess.

When they used to hit me on the black and blue bruises it was like they were pouring boiling water on my legs. When I was tired I had to stand at attention. If I said I was cold I was sent to stand barefoot in the snow for hours. When I was thirsty they would say: Give a prisoner a drink and soon he’ll want a piss. I asked if I could give in.

“Give in?” screamed the assistant discomforter, his eyes dripping wet. “You bastard.” He sank his teeth into my neck and I screamed for a long time.

“Leave him,” said the discomforter-in-chief. “Go take a break.” He threw a few pennies at his assistant.

My attorney admitted that he had slept during the trial.

“Why not?” he asked me. “It was obvious you were guilty.”

“Why didn’t you plea bargain?”

“What with?” he asked. “Cotton candy?” He lit a cigarette. He didn’t ask me if I smoked.

I never saw my attorney again but I did see the discomforter-in-chief. Years later I recognized him as he came toward me. He was watching me from the corner of his eye. The same light shone from his eyes as before, yellow like the eyes of a lizard.

He told me he did not have a choice back then. It was his job, it fed his family. Had it not been for him someone worse would have been in charge, the assistant maybe, or one or two of the others out there in line banging on the door wanting to come in. He told me that with the earphones on he could hardly hear people scream. The apron kept their blood off his clothes. Once he was showered and changed he would sit in his window seat on the bus home through the cornfields and he would start to think of other things.

He told me he was promoted three days after processing my case. “Moved upstairs,” as he put it. New policies received and passed on. They had carpets on the floor. The coffee, however, came from a machine. The windows did not even open. Baked in summer and in winter the heating was never turned on.

I was the last prisoner he had processed. He had worked well upstairs until three years ago when he fell out of favor. Arrested as a counterrevolutionary. His reptile eyes licked me like an oil lamp. He said he might be able to help me.

I said no thanks. I did not need his protection. He probably had permission to see me. He had enough contacts. Maybe he wanted to see me because I was the only one left of the ones he’d processed, as he called it?

It’s against the rules to communicate in this prison without permission. Permission is not like confetti. We live here like fleas on a fox’s tail. We are on a raft over the falls. Occasionally you remember the sun through mists like the yolk of an egg falling into flour and the tweed of yellow larch and pines along the hillside.

We have a new alphabet to talk through walls. The wardens can’t destroy it even though they won’t understand a word of it themselves. We used to suffer if we used it; now with a bribe they usually turn a blind eye.

When you’re like us in solitary the urge to communicate is stronger than these tin pot time lords will allow. But we can’t exist in a world without other people. That’s why we knock on our neighbor’s walls.

We have divided the alphabet into five columns of five letters and have given two numbers to each. We tap those numbers with a pause between each. It took me three months to understand how it worked and write down the first question, “Who are you?” My neighbor had been trying to get through for twelve weeks.

Crumbs of communication like that tasted good to those who hungered for communion. Life in a box and lights in your eyes with no knowing what the hour of day or night might be. Losing track of the city of your incarceration. You are told there is no one left outside there who is aware of your existence.

I walked my cell all the way to America. Back and forth like the swing of a long pendulum I counted steps, imagining the journey. Turn the corner in the street behind the prison, cross the canal over the lover’s bridge. Follow the river under the trees and parasols of the grand avenue. Outside the sounds of the city, through the suburbs and the plains. West toward an imagined border, no checkpoint to worry about. In a cell you don’t need a passport. I walked across France and Brittany and put a toe in the water in the Atlantic off Brest.

I walked like Jesus on the crest of waves, counting ten hundred paces to a kilometer. Every so often a shoal of fish would brush against my shins. Other times I got entertained by dolphins. Once I saw a bird with wingspan to spare that didn’t look down to shit on me.

Eventually the seagulls came to welcome me to the new world along with a green star that rose over the horizon. It was followed by a green hill with two blue lakes upon it and a hand raising a flaming torch with no fire lit. I was down near the Broken Lands at the end of Long Island. I had her address, she lived somewhere in the New City.

My wife was standing with her back to me slicing cucumber with a sushi knife. I coughed. She turned on her heel and stuck the knife right through me as if I was air. She turned back to the sink, calling out to Jeff to open the window, she was cold.

“What do you mean?” said the man. “It’s July.”

“I know,” she said. “Probably the air conditioning is on too strong.”

I followed her out of the kitchen. She didn’t go to check the air conditioning. She went to stand on the veranda. She was looking due east. It was a warm close night. She was looking for the stars. Perhaps she was thinking about the way we used to see the stars and smell the bracken burning on the high pastures.

“When I was in your arms one time you told me your world was warm,” I said. “Now I just make you cold.”

She went from the veranda like the wind was blowing her back inside. I wonder when she wakes at night does she still hear my voice? Or is she just glad to get away? Maybe she can’t even spit out my name. I asked her these questions but she didn’t reply.

I passed her by to go upstairs. There was a boy sitting on his bed playing a game on a flat screen. I sat on his bed. “You’re Ianto then?” I said.

He raised his head.

“Go to bed, Ianto,” called his mother from down stairs.

He put his hand on my knee, went through it onto the bed. “The bed’s soaking wet, Mam,” he shouted.

“Who the hell is up there with you?” she demanded. I heard her heels clacking on the stairs.

“I haven’t done anything,” shouted Ianto.

“It’s my fault,” I explained.

“This is sea water,” she whispered as she raised her palm to her nose.

I walked down the stairs and out of the house. The wind took me block by block along the avenues. I lit out for Baltimore where they say the whiskey’s a good price and the women aren’t scared of ghosts. I thought that’s where I’d find him.

Now again I found myself walking along forest roads lit by a slanting sun. I was aware of each pine needle that fell in the forest and hissed into the moss. I saw the moon reflected in the eye of a dewdrop. I was a while at a country crossroads where the curlew cried out from the mountains. When he had finished I asked him whether it was easy to live like that for so many years. He looked at me and his eye shone and was gone like the wind without a word.

“Sod this,” I thought with every intention of going home. But there was no home to go to so I went on.

“It’s been a while,” said Will Upper-Bridge-Arm coming down the highway toward me. “Baltimore, is it?” he said.

“How did you guess?” I asked. I showed him where I got hurt and he turned down his upper lip. Will Upper-Bridge-Arm said the circus boys had got him by the peat bog pool before the circus. He heard the bells as he went under. He said it was not the sovereign in his pocket that they wanted. He said it was him they were after.

“And why didn’t you check your change?” he accused me. “Or did you just pretend you never saw that sovereign in your hand?”

“Pretend?” I said, “Llinos had just told me she was expecting our baby. That’s all I was thinking about, that and the cotton candy.”

“You need to get real,” said Will.

“I will,” I said to Will before I started to feel a bit queasy. I never made it to Baltimore. Not this time. Only real ghosts get to go to Baltimore with Will Upper-Bridge-Arm. My legs were shaky and my breath was in my fist. A blast of cold air hit me, then a wallop of sleet got me in the ear hole. I grappled for something to hold on to. I was on the side of a mountain holding on to some bushes with dry earth falling from their roots like sand in an egg timer between my finger and my thumb. I could hear my boots scrape the rocks as I fell.

I landed on board ship with a roller coaster in my stomach. The ship was up and down like a cork; rain spewed down on us. The waves were high above us then sank like caverns down into the sea with a hiss and swell. The sailors were lashed to the mainsail and all secondary sails as far as I could see. I crossed myself and I jumped ship.

No churning ocean filled my head but sweet breezes through beachside palms and dancing sunlit leaves. Having squeezed the water out of my eyes I found myself sprawled on a white sands bay. Birds were screeching from the forest. I realized it would not last very long as I blinked again.

I was back within the walls I knew. Then one day two needles were found in one haystack. We were back in action. The killers of Will Upper-Bridge-Arm were brought to light and I was set free. Now I have to think about crossing the Atlantic.

Dim ond geiriau yn fy mhen ydyn nhw bellach a finnau’n cau fy llygaid. Dwi’n cau fy llygaid a’m clustiau am byth o sŵn y syrcas a dringo’r llwybrau tua’r lle mae Wil Pont Ucha Braich yn aros amdanaf. Abwyd i ladron, meddai’r papurau, oedd y sofran yn ei boced. Sgwn i ddaru amser rewi iddo fyntau ac yntau’n clywed blas, clywed sŵn, clywed poen a gweld y byd ar un amrantiad?

Chwarddodd y giang wrth ddal golau’r lleuad yn llygad y darn o aur a Wil yn suddo i ffynnon ebargofiant. Pan gododd o’r dŵr roedd y byd yn wahanol. Lle bu’r caeau’n llenwi’r cof roedd erwau o iaith estron a’r creigiau’n gwegian uwch ei ben ym Mhraich-y-Pwll a thalcen sgubor Tyddyn Isa ar fin syrthio. Nid oedd o’n nabod y wlad hon. Dim ond y tylwyth teg welodd o’n croesi tuag atyn nhw dros lwybr y lleuad llawn ar draws y môr heibio Iwerddon.

Pan dynnwyd ei gorff o’r mawn roedd rhai’n dweud ei fod o fel petai’n cysgu. Un tro roeddwn i wedi gofyn iddo fo oedd yna ryw ddaioni yn y byd.

“Oes, rhwng fan hyn a Baltimôr yn rhywle,” meddai.

Roedd y giang i gyd yn y gorlan flaen a’u dwylo’n estyn at lawes y dyn syrcas. Dyn o bwys a’i fwstas startsh a’i got laes goch a’i drywsus gwyn oedd hwn a’i chwip yn ffraeth a’i fwtsias yn sgleinio fel tin sosban. Chymrodd o ddim sylw o’r hogia drwg yn y gorlan flaen. Welodd o mo Llinos a finnau chwaith er ein bod ni’n dilyn ei holl ystumiau. Pan aeth i’r cefn am hoe es innau i nôl candi fflos i’r ciosg a gwylio’r we binc yn troi mewn padell arian.

“Cofia dy newid,” meddai’r ddynes hefo’r sgarff goch am ei phen a gwthio rhyw bres i’m llaw.

“Pan dwi’n dy freichiau mae’r byd yn gynnas,” meddai Llinos a’i llygaid fel dwy seren. Gafaelodd yn fy llaw a’i rhoi ar ei bol. “Hogyn ydio,” ychwanegodd.

“Fedra’i ddeud rywsut.”

Drannoeth a’r glaw yn bwrw fel hafau erstalwm edrychais allan o’r ffenest a’u gweld yn eu hetiau a’u cotiau yn dŵad i fyny’r stepiau tuag atom. Dim heulwen ar y tonau na hwylbrenni. Roedd yna rywbeth yn bwrpasol yn nhoriad eu coleri.

Roedd hynny ddeuddeng mlynedd yn ôl. Ers hynny dwi yma mewn caets mwnci a Llinos wedi mynd. Ges i gerdyn ganddi ryw dro o Efrog Newydd yn dweud mai. Ianto oedd enw’r plentyn.

Wn i ddim ydw i wedi cyrraedd rhyw gopa ond mae’r gwagle oddi tanaf yn fy nychryn ac yn codi pensgafndod arnaf. Dwi’n cofio nhw’n dweud wrtha’i am wagio fy mhocedi a finnau’n cael fy holi. Roeddan nhw’n holi pawb o’r cymdogion.

Galwodd y swyddog ar ei bennaeth. “Sbïwch be sgin y gingroen yn ei boced.”

Doeddwn i rioed wedi gweld y sofran o’r blaen. Roedd hi’n pelydru’n dawel fel haul drwy’r niwl a’i lliw yn felyn yn llygaid y wardeniaid. Rhoes y pennaeth faneg dryloyw am ei law a chodi’r dystiolaeth rhwng bys a bawd. Rhoes ei ben ar osgo i sbïo arnaf a’r rhwydi cochion yn berwi yng ngwyn ei lygaid.

“Lle oeddach di cyn mynd i’r syrcas?” meddai. “Lle’r es ti wedyn?”

“Tyn dy grafangau oddi arna’i,” meddwn innau. “Sgin i ddim byd i’w guddio.”

“Mae gan bawb rywbeth i’w guddio,” meddai. “Ein gwaith ni ydi darganfod be ydi o.”

Cododd declyn rhwng bys a bawd a gwasgu botwm i agor sgr—n i ddangos lluniau o’r lle cafwyd y corff yn gorwedd. Mawndir eang a phyllau duon hefo bryniau isel draw. Pwll mawn llawn dŵr a thraed Wil Pont Ucha Braich yn sticio allan. Unwaith wyt ti wedi bod yng Nghors y Bryniau wnei di mo’i hanghofio hi. Fues i ddim ar gyfyl y lle noson y syrcas.

Dywedais wrthyn nhw fy mod i’n ddiniwed.

Diffoddodd y pennaeth y sgr—n. “Tydan ni ddim yn arestio neb diniwed,” meddai.

“A hyd yn oed os basat ti’n ddiniwed, fedren ni mo’th ollwng di’n rhydd rhag ofn i bobol ddechrau poeni fod rhai diniwed yn cael eu harestio.”

“Diolch am egluro,” meddwn innau.

Pan fydden nhw’n fy nghuro ar fy mriwiau du las newydd byddai fel tollti dŵr berwedig ar hyd fy nghoesau. A finnau wedi blino byddwn i’n goro sefyll yn fy unfan. Fyddai fiw imi rwgnach am yr oerni neu’n droednoeth yr eira fyddwn i’n sefyll. Pan fyddwn i’n sychedig y diwn gron fyddai: Ddŵr i garcharor ddaw a phiso yn ei sgil. Ges i lond bol, gofynnais gawn i roi’r ffidil yn y to. Roeddwn i isio ildio.

“Ildio?” sgrechiodd gwas yr arteithiwr a’i llgada’n glafoerio. “Be s’an ti’r basdad.” Roedd ei ddannedd yn fy ngwddw cyn imi droi a finnau’n gollwng sgrech.

“Gad o,” meddai’r prif arteithiwr. “Dos am dy baned.” Taflodd geiniog neu ddwy ato.

Cyfaddefodd y twrnai a roddwyd imi iddo gysgu yn ystod yr achos.

“Pam lai?” meddai. “Roedd hi’n amlwg i bawb dy fod ti’n euog.”

“Pam na fasat ti wedi bargeinio?”

“Hefo be?” meddai a thanio sigarét. “Candi fflos?” Ofynnodd o ddim oeddwn i’n smocio.

Welis i mo’r twrnai wedyn ond mi welais y prif arteithiwr. Do, ymhen blynyddoedd. Roedd o’n edrych arna’i drwy gil ei lygaid. Yr un golau oedd yn pefrio o’i lygaid ac o’r blaen, hen olau melyn fel llygad madfall.

Eglurodd nad oedd ganddo ddewis ond fy ngham-drin o’r blaen. Roedd o’n waith, roedd o’n cynnal ei deulu. Ac oni bai amdano fo mi fyddai eraill saith gwaeth yn ei le, y gwas efallai, a rhes o rai eraill y tu allan yn curo ar y drws isio roi cynnig arni.

Eglurodd hefo’r cyrn gwrando am ei ben na fyddai’n clywed y sgrechian. Fyddai’r ffedog yn cadw’i ddillad rhag y gwaed. Byddai pawb hwyr neu hwyrach yn cerdded y tri cham ar ddeg i’r theatr fach a’r gwely gwyn. Wedi’r gawod a’r dillad glân, ac yntau’n swatio’n ei sedd ar y bws adref trwy’r caeau ŷd, byddai’i feddwl yn tawelu ac yn troi at bethau amgenach.

Dywedodd wrthyf iddo gael dyrchafiad dri diwrnod ar ôl fy nhrin. ‘Symud i fyny’r grisiau,’ oedd ei eiriau. Dyna lle roeddan nhw’n penderfynu’r polisïau. Roedd yno garped o dan draed. Ond roedd y coffi o beiriant botymau ac roedd y ffenestri’n cau agor; roedd hi’n rhy boeth yn yr haf ac eto drwy’r gaeaf fyddai’r gwres canolog byth yn gweithio.

Fi oedd y carcharor diwethaf iddo ei brosesu. Roedd o’n falch nad oedd o ddim yn y busnes yna ddim mwy. Dair blynedd yn ôl collodd gefnogaeth y pennaeth a chafodd ei gyhuddo o fod yn wrth-chwyldroadwr. Roedd ei lygaid ymlusgiaid yn pefrio arnaf. Roedd o’n mynd i’w ateb drannoeth, wedi gofyn am fy ngweld. Mae’n siŵr ei fod o’n nabod digon yma i gael ambell ffafr. Wn i ddim pam ei fod isio ‘ngweld i. Hwyrach nad oedd neb heblaw fi ar ôl o’r rhai a fu dan ei ddwylo.

Mae’n anghyfreithiol cyfathrebu yn y carchar hwn heb ganiatâd. Tydan ni’n byw yma fel chwain ar gynffon llwynog. Rydan ni’n nofio dros y rhaead. Dim ond weithiau daw’r atgof am yr haul trwy’r niwl fel melynwy ŵy mewn blawd a phatrwm brethyn y llarwydd melyn a’r coed p—n fel locsyn morwr ar hyd y lôn.

Mae ganddon ni wyddor newydd i siarad drwy’r waliau. Fedar y gwarchodwyr mo’i lladd hi, ond maen nhw’n cau dallt run gair na’i dysgu hi eu hunain. Dan ni’n diodda os ydan ni’n cael ein dal yn ei harddal hi.

Ond am ein bod yn gaeth mewn unigrwydd mae’r ysfa i gyfathrebu yn drech nag arglwyddi amsar. Tydan ni ddim yn gallu bod mewn byd heb neb heblaw ni’n hunain. Dyna pam mae’n bwysig cnocio waliau’n cymdogion.

Rydan ni wedi rhannu’r wyddor yn bump colofn o bump llythyren ac wedi rhoi dau rif i bob un. Taro’r rhifau hynny a bwlch yn y canol. Fe gymrodd dri mis imi ddallt sut oedd o’n gweithio a medru dallt y cwestiwn cyntaf, “Pwy wyt ti?” oedd wedi bod yn cael ei ofyn imi gan fy nghymydog ers deuddeg wythnos.

Roedd briwsion o gyfathrebu felly’n amheuthun i’r rhai a lwgai am gwmpeini. Byw mewn blwch a’r golau yn dy lygaid heb wybod na’r awr o’r dydd na’r nos a neb ddim callach o’th fodolaeth.

Cerddais yn fy nghell bob cam i America. Nôl ac ymlaen fel pendil cloc, cyfrif’r camau, dychmygu’r siwrne. Troi’r gornel yn y stryd tu cefn i’r carchar a chroesi’r gamlas dros bont y cariadon. Lawr y rhodfa fawr dan gysgod llwyd y dail a’r ymbarelau. O ddwndwr y ddinas i’r maestrefi a’r gwastadeddau. Cerddedd y lonydd diarth am y gorllewin. Cyrraedd y ffin a thrio’i chroesi. Pan ti mewn cell ti ddim angen pasport. Croesi Ffrainc i gyd a Llydaw. Mynd i’r môr yn ymyl Brest. Cerddais fel Iesu ar wyneb y tonnau gan gyfri cilomedrau fesul mil o gamau. Ambell waith byddai heigiau o bysgod yn cosi fy fferau. Dro arall cawn gwmpeini llambedyddion. Unwaith gwelais aderyn ar adain lydan yn troelli fel cudyll uwch fy mhen.

Ymhen hir a hwyr daeth y gwylanod i’m croesawu i’r byd newydd a finnau’n gweld seren las yn codi dros y gorwel. Gweld bryncyn glas a dau lyn glas arno. Gweld llaw yn dal ffagl dân fydd byth yn llosgi. Lawr yn y Tir Chwalu ar ben Hir Ynys. Mynd yn ddi-ffeth yr holl ffordd i’w thŷ yn y Ddinas Newydd.

Roedd fy ngwraig yn sefyll a’i chefn ataf yn y gegin yn tafellu ciwcymber hefo cyllell o Siapan. Pesychais. Troes hithau ar ei sawdl ac aeth y gyllell drwydda’i fel tawn i’n wynt. Troes yn ôl at y sinc gan weiddi ar Jeff i agor ffenest, ei bod hi’n oer.

“Paid â malu,” meddai’r dyn. “Mae hi’n ganol Gorffennaf.”

“Wn i hynny,” meddai hi. “Hwyrach mai’r peiriant awyru sy’n rhy gry.” Aeth o’r gegin ac mi es innau ar ei hôl hi.

Nid i sbïo’r peiriant awyru’r aeth hi ond i sefyll ar y feranda a syllu tua’r dwyrain. Roedd hi’n noson gynnes glos. Sbïodd ar y s’r. Hwyrach ei bod hi’n cofio amdanom ni fel yr oeddan ni ac yn clywed aroglau llosgi’r ffridd yn ei ffroenau.

“Pan oeddwn i yn dy freichiau unwaith mi ddywedaist wrtha’i fod dy fyd yn gynnes,” meddwn i wrthi. “Rŵan dwi’n dy wneud di’n oer.”

Aeth o’r feranda fel petai gwynt wedi ei chwythu’n ôl i’r tŷ. Sgwn i weithiau fydd hi rhwng nos a bore’n deffro a’m llais yn dal yn ei chlustiau? Hwyrach ei bod hi’n falch i gael ei thraed yn rhydd yma’n y byd newydd. Hwyrach na fedr hi ddim yngan fy enw i erbyn hyn. Gofynnais iddi ond ches i ddim ateb.

Es i heibio iddi ac i fyny’r grisiau. Roedd yna hogyn yn ista ar wely’n chwarae g’m ar sgr—n. Eisteddais ar ei wely. “Ianto wyt ti, ynde?” meddwn i.

Cododd ei ben.

“Cer i dy wely, Ianto,” meddai llais ei fam o waelod y grisiau.

Rhoes ei law ar fy ngl—n, aeth drwodd i’r gwely. “Mae’r gwely’n wlyb soc, mam,” gwaeddodd.

“Pwy ddiawl sydd yn fan’na hefo chdi?” meddai’i fam. Clywn ei sodlau’n clepian ar y grisiau.

“Tydw i ddim wedi gwneud dim byd,” meddai Ianto.

“Arnaf i mae’r bai,” meddwn i.

“Dŵr môr ydi hwn,” meddai’r fam gan ffroeni cledr ei llaw.

Cerddais i lawr y grisiau ac allan o’r tŷ. Cerddais o floc i floc ar hyd y strydoedd a’r gwynt yn fy hel fi yn fy mlaen. A’m ffrwyn ar fy ngwâr euthum am Faltimôr lle mae’r wisgi’n rhad a’r merchaid ddim ofn ysbrydion. Roeddwn i’n meddwl mai yno y cawn i hyd iddo fo. Roedd cerdded yn ddilyffethair yn braf a’m synhwyrau led y pen nes clywed pob brigyn o’r goedwig yn suo yn y gwynt a gweld llygad y lleuad mewn gwlithyn ar fonyn gwair. Sefais yn hir ar groesffordd wledig gan wrando’r gylfinir yn chwibianu o’r mynydd. Pan oedd o wedi gorffan gofynnais iddo oedd hi’n hawdd byw’n bruddglwyf am flynyddoedd. Edrychodd arnaf ym myw fy llygad a chodi ar ei adain heb roi imi atab yn y byd.

“Wfft i hyn i gyd,” meddwn innau gan feddwl ei chychwyn hi am adra. Ond doedd yna ddim adra’n bod felly es i yn fy mlaen.

“Suma’i, erstalwm,” meddai Wil Pont Ucha Braich gan gamu ataf ar draws y lôn.

“Mynd i Faltimôr?”

“Pam lai?” meddwn innau. Dangosais iddo fo lle cefais fy nghlwyfo yn fy nghoesau ac yntau’n tynnu gwynab sur.

Dywedodd Wil Pont Ucha Braich fod hogia’r syrcas wedi ei amgylchynu ger pwll y fawnog ddechra’r noson. Nid y sofran yn ei bocad oedd yr unig abwyd i’r lladron. Roeddan nhw am ei waed o hefyd.

“Pam na fasach di wedi sbïo dy newid?” meddai. “Ynteu smalio na welis ti mo’r sofran oeddach di?”

“Smalio dim,” meddwn i. “Toedd Llinos ond newydd ddeud wrtha’i ei bod hi’n disgwyl babi. Dim ond hynny a’r candi fflos oedd ar fy meddwl i.”

Ches i ddim mynd yr holl ffordd i Faltimôr wedi’r cwbwl. Dim ond ysbrydion go iawn sy’n cael mynd i Faltimôr hefo Wil Pont Ucha Braich. Roedd fy nghoesau’n simsanu a’m gwynt yn fy nwrn. A dyma chwa o wynt ar fy moch a’r munud nesa aeth llafn o eirlaw i’m clust nes oeddwn i’n crafangu am rywbeth i afael ynddo. Roeddwn i ar ystlys mynydd a’r grug yn fregus a’r pridd mân fel tywod berwi wyau rhwng fy mysedd. Clywais sŵn fy mwtsias mawr yn crafu’r graig a sylweddoli fy mod i’n cwympo’n ddilyffethair.

Glaniais ar fwrdd llong a’m stumog yn codi i’m gwddf wrth iddi bowlio a rhowlio fel corcyn ar y don. Roedd y glaw’n hyrddio a’r tonnau codi drosom ac wedyn yn suddo’n bantiau oddi tanom. Roedd y morwyr wedi hen glymu eu hunain i’r hwylbrenni. Gwnes arwydd y groes cyn canu’n iach a’r byd a phlymio i’r dŵr.

Ond nid trochion eigion môr lanwodd fy mhen ond awel braf drwy’r coed palmwydd ar erchwyn traeth a’r dail yn dawnsio hefo’r haul. Wedi gwasgu’r dŵr o gonglau fy llygaid gwelais fy mod ar fy hyd mewn tywod gwyn, mân a hwnnw’n gynnes. Clywais adar o’r coed yn sgrechian.

Y tro nesaf agorais fy llygaid roeddwn i’n ôl yma’n y theatr fach yn gorwedd ar wastad fy nghefn a’m breichiau ar led. Mae’r nodwydd yn fy mraich a’r gynulleidfa drwy’r gwydr yn disgwyl i’r sioe gychwyn. Efallai mai fel hyn ddaru amser rewi i Wil Pont Ucha Braich a fyntau’n suddo i bwll y fawnog. Dim ond geiriau yn ei ben a sŵn y syrcas yn cosi tu mewn i’w glustiau.

Read more: http://wordswithoutborders.org/article/y-syrcas#ixzz3q5t6FL5G