complete course oor Kornies

complete course

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

steus dhien

voorbeelde

complete course
/ steus dhien / / /

The wardrobe was completely destroyed. His mother was not pleased, of course.
Distruys yn tien veu an dhilasva. Nyns o y vamm pes da, heb mar.

After overcoming my revulsion at David’s ghastly fashion statement – and before daylight failed completely – I noticed that David had acquired a further ‘garment’. I studied it carefully. It was an officer’s dress-jacket, completely drenched in blood, of course. The officer’s rank was plainly that of Captain – and there were little caduceus badges clipped to each epaulette. I couldn’t actually read the good doctor’s name badge – that had been somewhat obscured by sanguinous effluvia – but I was content with what I saw. Very content. Captain Doctor Mengele should not have made his ‘grunt’ driver walk back to the base, should he? I imagined the frenzied and bloody scene when, in the twilight, David had fallen upon the lone and unsuspecting medical officer. Ah, well, excrement occurs!
Pan fethis ow skruth drefenn ‘derivas-fashyon’ euthyk Davydh – ha kyns an howlspann dhe vos yn tien – my a verkyas Davydh dhe gavoes ‘dillasenn’ arall. My a’n studhyas gans rach. Jerkynn formel an soedhek o, gwlyghys yn tien yn goes, heb mar. Renk an soedhek o apert – Kapten o – hag yth esa arwoedhigow-kadusius fastyes dhe bub skoedh-darn. Ny yllyn yn hwir redya arwoedhik-hanow an medhek da – nebes gorherys o gans effluvia goesek – byttegyns, da o genev drefenn an golok ma. Yn hwir, pur lowen en vy. Ny dalvia Kapten Doktour Mengele erghi dh’y lywyer dasgerdhes dhe’n selva. Y hyllyn gweles y’m brys an wel, woesek ha konnaryek, pan goedhsa Davydh y’n mo war soedhek medhegel, y honan ha heb gogrys. A, wel, y hwer ekskretyans!

Their land was originally unprotected from the East; but on that side they had built a hedge: the High Hay. It had been planted many generations ago, and was now thick and tail, for it was constantly tended. It ran all the way from Brandywine Bridge, in a big loop curving away from the river, to Haysend (where the Withywindle flowed out of the Forest into the Brandywine): well over twenty miles from end to end. But, of course, it was not a complete protection. The Forest drew close to the hedge in many places. The Bucklanders kept their doors locked after dark, and that also was not usual in the Shire.
Aga thir o anwithys dhe’n tu est; mes dhe’n tu na i re dhrehevsa ke : an Hay Hir. Ev re beu plansys nans yw lies henedh, hag ev o tew ha hir lemmyn, drefenn bos teudhys prest. Ev a wrug fordh yn gwydenn bras hag efan, ow kamma dhe-ves diworth an avon diworth Pons Brandiwayn, ha dasomjunya a wrug gans an avon arta dhe Bennhay (an le may veras an avon Wydhiwyndel mes an Koes Koth y’n Brandiwayn): moy es ugens mildir diworth unn penn dh’y gila. Nyns o difresyans tien dredho heb mar. An Koes a dho nes dhe’n ke dhe leow pals. An Buklandoryon a brennas aga daras dre dewlder, ha henn o anusys y’n Shayr ynwedh.

Paul seemed unamused by my involuntary mirth: “It wasn’t funny, Peter! It was quite terrifying actually.” I composed myself and, with difficulty, removed the grin from my face. “Of course. Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. ... So, may I take it you were taken unawares by this rearguard attack?” He nodded in a sullen fashion. (Obviously, he didn’t much like my attempted joke.) “There was just one – there haven’t been many zombies passing through the cemetery. So, after we managed to fight it off, we decided to stay put. We managed to scavenge some food and cooking equipment from the gate-keeper’s house without being noticed again. So, we’ve been here ever since – or so I believe.” There was an obvious gap in his recollection – a gap which I thought Charles could not (reliably) fill. So, I decided to pursue the matter. “How did you manage to fight the, er, ‘Roundhead’ off?” “Well, Charles was completely useless, of course ...” commenced Paul Charles frowned and started to protest. “...Correction: His Royal Majesty immediately took command of the situation and, by dint of bravely fainting, allowed me to deal with it ...” Suitably mollified, Charles fell silent. The story that emerged (after lots of hand-waving and recounting of exaggerated deeds of valour) was that, with a profusely bleeding left buttock, a naked Paul had been able physically to repel the initial attack of the zombie – which then turned its attention to a less troublesome target: the supine and unconscious figure of Charles. This explained how Charles, too, had been bitten – albeit on a more ‘decent’ part of his body. “... So, at that point, I sought divine intervention ...” (Paul was very pious.)
Nyns o didhenys Powl gans ow lowender (nebes a’m anvodh), dell heveli: “Nyns o hwarthus, ‘Beder! Owth euthega dres eghenn o, yn hwir.” My a assayas y’m gwella stoppya ow lowender ha, meur ow haletter, ow gryslans vy eth dhe-ves. “Heb mar. Owth euthega. Dres eghenn, owth euthega ... Ytho, eses jy kontrawaytyes gans an omsettyans ma ‘a soudoryon dhelergh’?” Ev a benndroppyas, dihwarth y fisment. (Yn apert, ny garas meur ow ges assayes.) “Nyns esa mas onan anedha – ny via meur a zombis ow thremena der an ynkleudhva. Ytho, wosa ni dh’y fetha , ni a erviras triga omma. Ni a ylli ladra nebes boes (ha daffar rag y gegina) dhiworth chi an porther heb agan bos gwelys unnweyth arta. Ha, gans henna, yth eson omma a-dhia an termyn na – po dell grysav.” Yth esa aswa apert yn y gov – aswa na allsa Charles lenwel, dell grysyn. (Dhe’n lyha, na ylli ev y lenwel yn fydhyadow.) Ytho, my a erviras chasya an mater. “Fatell yllowgh hwi fetha an ...hmm, an Pennow-rond?” “Wel, euver yn tien o Charles, heb mar ...” a dhallathas Powl. (Y talgammas Charles ha dalleth protestya.) “... Ewnans: Y Veuredh Ryel a gemmeras a-dhistowgh maystri an studh ha, dre nerth a’y glamderans kolonnek, a wrug gasa dhymm y dhyghtya ...” Medhelhes dell dhegoegh, Charles a goedhas tawesek. Wosa wevyans meur y dhiwdhorn ha, wosa derivasow splann a weythresow, meur aga holonnekter, istori Powl o yndella: y bedrenn ow koesa yn hworfals, Powl noeth re allsa, dre y nerth fisigel, gul dhe gildenna an zombi. Byttegyns, an zombi ma re dreylsa y omsettyans ena troha kostenn arall, le y galetter.Furv Charles o, a’y worwedh ha heb omwodhvos war an leur. An studh ma a dhisplegyas dhymm keffrys dell via brethys Charles - ha dell via brethys rann moy ‘gwiw’ a’y gorf. “...Ytho, y’n tor’ na, my a wrug hwilas mellyans a Dhuw ...” (Meur o kryjyans Powl.)

Marvellous! Hours of fun for the whole family. It made me proud to be a Roman Catholic. (I shouldn’t really be so disrespectful of the owners’ tastes in religious art. The little light in the basilica actually proved to be invaluable inside the otherwise gloomy crypt.) Anyway, there was no doubt as to the ancestry of the folk who had so generously provided my brother and me with this precious haven. And no expense had been spared, it seemed. In one of the niches, was a brand-new – and unoccupied – coffin of extreme grandeur and ornamentation. Whom was this waiting for? None could say since it did not yet bear a plaque. Given that it had obviously been made to order – and was of the highest specification – my guess was that it could only have been made for the (still-living?) patriarch or matriarch of the family. Just a guess, though. And, sure, there were plenty of other expensive fittings inside – including some which appeared to be made of gold and silver (or, at least, were plated with gold and silver) – but this wasn’t the most startling thing to me: it was the fact that the crypt had running water! There was no hot water, of course – let’s not get completely ridiculous – but there, in one dark corner of the room, sat a small water tap (with even a modest drain to catch any overflow). Why? Did the deceased family members get thirsty in the night and need to take a sip of water? I put this question to David – he was no help. I thought about this for a while – in the circumstances, there was nothing much else to do – then the obvious answer dawned on me. There were literally dozens of vases inside the crypt, mostly containing withered blooms. Who was going to lug water from outside to fill all these vessels on a regular basis? No-one would do it willingly. Far better to have the water piped in. Kinda sensible – in an extravagant sort of way. And now pretty handy for any living person – or even a zombie – who decided to move in!
Barthusek! Yth esa ouryow a dhelit rag oll an teylu. Prout en vy bos Katholik Romanek. (Ny dalvien gul anvri, y’n fordh ma, dhe vlas an berghennow a-dro dhe art kryjyk. Y hyllyn gul devnydh an golow byghan y’n vasilyka avel golowys y’n gleudhgell dewal. Poran dhe les o yn hwir.) Yn neb kas, nyns esa dout vyth a-dro dhe linyeth an dus re brovisa, meur aga larjes, an skovva breshyous ma dhymm ha’m broder. Ha, gans henna, kost vyth re via sparyes, dell heveli. A-berth yn onan a’n neythigow, yth esa geler, flamm-nowydh ha heb annedhyas, geler meur y veuredh mayth esa meur a afinans. Rag piw esa ow kortos an eler ma? Ny yllyn leverel drefenn na dhegi hwath lown. Gwrys herwydh arghadow o, dell heveli, ha dhe’n ughella ragavysyans. Ytho, my a grysi hy bos gwrys rag ughelvamm po ugheldas (hwath byw?) an teylu. Mes ny allav bos sur. Hag, yn sur, yth esa meur a stagellow kostek erell – y’ga mysk, an re gwrys gans arghans hag owr (po, yn lyha, platyes gans arghans hag owr) - mes nyns o hemma an moyha marthek tra dhe’m breus vy: an dra ma o an dowr ow resek y’n gleudhgell! Heb mar, nyns esa dowr toemm ow resek ynni – na dheun ha bos gokki yn tien – mes, ena, yn unn gornell dewal, y sevi tapp (hag yn-danno sygerva byghan rag kachya fennans). Prag? Esa sygh nosweyth dhe eseli marow an teylu – hag yndella esa edhomm dhedha ganowas dowr? My a wovynnas Davydh – nyns o ev gweres vyth. (Herwydh usadow.) My a ombrederis pols yn y gever – wosa oll, nyns esa travyth porres dhe wul. Ena, y teuth dhymm gorthyp apert. Yth esa dewdhegow a lestri-vleujyow a- berth y’n gleudhgell hag ynna, dre vras, bleujennow gwedhrys. Piw a vynnsa doen dowr yn fenowgh rag lenwel oll an lestri ma? Denvyth. Gwella a via dhe dhri an dowr a-bervedh dre bib. Poran konnyk – yn fordh nebes skoellyek. Byttegyns, gans henna, pur dhe-les o dhe’n dus vyw – po dhe’n zombis hogen – a erviras triga ena!

Well, he was a doctor and a Captain – and he had a very good opinion of himself as a result. But serous cases of over-inflated pride need urgently to be pricked , don’t they? (And I knew just the person to do it.) I bided my time. Eventually, the lecture came to an end – even David had long since ceased roaring and lapsed into a torpor. “I will take any questions from the floor,” stated the Captain. A few perfunctory and obvious questions were posed and answered – more or less correctly. Then: “Captain, can zombies talk?” “No,” asserted the Captain. “Zombies do not possess the power of speech. They have never been known to utter a single word. In fact, ...” This was my chance to do some pricking. “I beg to differ,” I interrupted. “I have met several talking zombies. Most of them spoke in single words – but a few could form complete sentences of a non- complex kind.” This was, of course, a lie – or, at best, a major exaggeration – but the audience, as one, turned to look at me. I think they had assumed that I could not speak either . “Silence!” ordered the Captain. (Since I was daring to upstage him in his finest hour .) But I was in front of a public audience. I was not to be silenced as easily as all that. “Oh, come on, Captain. These fine young GI’s deserve to hear it from the horse’s mouth. They need to know everything they can about creatures like my brother, David. Their lives will undoubtedly depend on it once they leave here.” “I demand you remain silent, prisoner!” spat the Captain. I turned and pointed at the creature beside me in the cage – who made a pathetic groan (again, right on cue!) I felt the ‘mood of the meeting’ might be turning. I played for sympathy.
Wel, medhek ha Kapten o – ha’y dybyans ev yn y gever y honan o ughel dres eghenn. Byttegyns, pan eus goeth dhe nebonan yw gorhwythys res yw poran y biga, a nyns ywa? (Ha my a wodhya an gour gwiw rag y wul.) Yth esen ow kortos bys pan o gwiw an termyn ynwedh. Wor’tiwedh, y hworfennas an areth – ha Davydh re hedhsa bedhygla dres termyn hir ha koedha yn eghenn a gosk. “My a wra dhegemmeres nebes govynnow dhiworth an woslowysi,” yn-medh an Kapten. Yth esa nebes govynnow sempel lowr a veu gorthybys yn ewn – moy po le. Hag ena: “A Gapten. A yll an zombis kewsel?” “Na yllons,” yn-medh an Kapten, meur y surneth. “Nyns yw galloes kewsel dhe’n zombis. Ny vons i nevra godhvedhys leverel ger vyth. Yn hwir, ...” Hemm o’m chons dhe wul nebes pigans. “Edrek a’m beus na allav assentya,” a wodorris vy. “My re dheuth erbynn lies zombi a ylli kewsel. Rann vrassa anedha a gewsis unn er unnsel po dew martesen – mes yth esa nebes yntredha a ylli gul lavarow dien, sempel lowr aga furv.” Hemm o gow, heb mar – po, y’n gwella, gorlywans bras – mes an woslowysi, warbarth, a dreylyas rag mires orthymm. My a grys i dhe dhesevos na yllyn kewsel – kepar ha’m broder. “Taw taves!” a erghis an Kapten. (Drefenn my dhe vedha y ankombra yn y dekka our.) Byttegyns, ottavy a-dherag an woslowysi, meur aga niver. Nyns o mar es dhe wul dhymm bos tawesek. “A, bydh lel, a Gapten! Yma’n soudoryon deg ma gwiw dh’y glywyes yn ewn dhiworth an bennfenten. Res yw dhedha godhvos puptra oll a-dro dhe greadoryon kepar ha’m broder, Davydh y hanow. Heb dhout, y fydh ow kregi aga bywnansow war an derivadow ma pan dhiberthons alemma.” “My a ergh dhis bos tawesek, ‘brisner!” a drewas an Kapten. My a dreylyas ha poyntya dhe’n kreador rybov y’n vagh. Ev a wrug hanasas truedhek (unnweyth arta, kepar ha pan eus lostlavar!) Y krysyn bos ow chanjya ‘cher an kuntellyans’. My a assayas dhe waynya y dregeredh.

THE EXPERIMENTS BEGIN I was, of course, perfectly prepared for the Captain and his assistant to take skin and blood samples. These would be completely useless because the key to the mystery of male zombification would later be found in the study of epigenetic changes in DNA wrought by the action of the virus. At that time, the study of DNA generally was exceedingly rudimentary (there would be no PCR or Human Genome Project for decades.) More than that, the study of epigenetics had hardly been thought of. (That is to say, unless you misguidedly included Lamarckianism within that scientific discipline.) (The relevant DNA of poor David had, of course, been well and truly ‘methylated’ by the virus.) Anyway, what I didn’t expect was the series of experiments that the Captain had in mind for both me and David – and I don’t think his original plans had been altered one iota by my ‘misbehaviour’ at his lecture. (At all subsequent lectures, when my attendance was required, I was bound and gagged.) Once the Captain’s experiments on us began, I took to referring to him as “Dr Mengele” – in remembrance of that awful medical monster, the “Angel of Death”, Josef Mengele, who performed some of his most hideous experiments on twins in the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz during WWII. The Captain sent for us. He sent his assistant doctor to collect us. She was the tall, striking woman who had escorted us to the lecture fiasco. Henceforth I shall call her Ingrid though this was not her real name. “The Captain is not very happy with you,” she said sternly. “So, don’t give me any trouble this time round.” ‘Trouble’? She hadn’t seen anything yet – not if I was to have my way. The three goons with the cattle prods came forward but I waved them away as if I were actually in charge. “No thanks,” I said. “There’s enough sparkle in my eyes already.” They took my ‘order’ and stood aside!
Y TALLETH AN ARBROVOW Parys en vy, heb mar, rag an Kapten ha’y dharbarer dhe kemmeres samplow a woes ha kroghen dhiworthyn. Euver yn tien a viens drefenn alhwedh an kevrin zombiheans gorow dhe vos kevys yn studhyans an chanjow epigenynnek yn ADN gwrys gans an virus warnodho. Y’n termyn na, dre vras, studhyans ADN o elvennek dres eghenn. (Ny via na CRP na Ragdres Genoem Denel bys lies degblydhen a-wosa.) Dres henna, skant ny via konsydrys studhyans epigenynnieth. (Henn yw leverel, marnas y komprehendys, yn kammdybys, tybyansow Lamarck a-berth y’n studhyans skiansek na.) (ADN o res dhe Dhavydh anfeusik re via, heb mar, ‘methylatys’ yn tien gans an virus.) Yn neb kas, pyth nag esen ow kwaytya o kevres an arbrovow re via towlys gans an Kapten rag Davydh ha my – ha ny grysav y dowlow derowel dhe vos chanjyes vyth gans ow ‘thebelfarans’ dres y areth. (Dres oll an arethow a sywyas, pan esa edhomm a’m attendyans, kelmys en vy ha’m ganow o lettyes.) Kettel dhallathas arbrovow an Kapten, y teuth ha bos y hanow “Doktour Mengele” ragov vy. Hemm o remembrans an euthvil medhygel, “El Mernans”, Josef Mengele y hanow, re wrussa nebes a’y arbrovow an moyha euthyk gans gevellyon dres an Nessa Bresel an Bys yn kampa keskreunyans Natsi henwys Auschwitz. An Kapten a dhanvonnas war agan lergh. Ev a dhanvonnas y isvedhyk rag agan kuntell. Hi o an venyn hir, marthys hy semlant, re wrussa agan ledya dhe’n areth, dhe’n moethow. Wosa hemma, my a wra hy henwel Ingrid kyn nag o hemma hy hanow gwir. “Nyns yw an Kapten pur lowen genes,” yn-medh hi, asper hy fisment. “Ytho, na rev dhymm namoy, an prys ma.” Grevya dhedhi? Ny welsa hi travyth na hwath – mar fia dhymm ow mynnas vy. Y teuth yn rag an tri bilen gans an pokow-jatel mes my a’s danvonnas yn kerdh gans gwevyans ow leuv kepar ha pan en yn charj. “Meur ras,” yn-medhav, “mes yma seulabrys terlentrow lowr y’m dewlagas.” I a obayas dhe’m ‘arghadow’ ha sevel a-denewen!

“Certainly, Sir,” I stammered. “But our comrade is in particularly bad shape and I ...” “Sergeant, I have seen action in Korea, during the ‘Malayan Emergency’ and in ‘Nam as well. How many broken and dismembered human beings do you think I’ve seen during that service?” The question was patronising – but he did have a point. I didn’t answer. I was running out of ideas. “Open the box, Sergeant! That is a direct order!” I commenced, slowly and with feigned difficulty, to unscrew the fastenings that held down the lid. Could I delay the process until we reached the next stop? Maybe – but probably not. The Major became impatient with my progress and started to bellow at me – just as he had at the private who had carried his luggage. David was picking up on this aggravation, of course. Firstly, he could hear the angry words being directed at me and, secondly, I’m sure he could empathetically sense my growing anxiety and fear. After several long minutes, I started unscrewing the final fastening. The Major roughly pushed me aside with a curse and completed the task himself. “This is not going to be pretty,” I thought. But what could I do? As the Major commenced to lift the lid, a grey arm clad in military fatigues shot through the gap between lid and box. David’s hand closed swiftly and securely around the Major’s windpipe – and, quietly but efficiently, crushed it. David had made his first kill in the flickering of an eyelid. I knew better than to try and intervene now – there would have been no purpose. The Major’s limp body slumped to the floor of the carriage and David freed himself from the coffin. David fell upon his prey and feasted. Soon, the floor of the carriage was swimming in blood. David’s busily gnawing face was buried deeply on the flesh of his victim, as seemed to be customary among zombies. So much for getting him cleaned up. So much for fresh clothing. Was this a good time simply to cut my brother adrift? Yes, probably, on any rational consideration of the circumstances.
“Yn sur, Syrr,” a leveris yn greg. “Byttegyns, agan kothman yw yn furv drog dres eghenn ha my ....” “A Serjont, my re welas batelyow yn Korea, dres ‘Goredhomm Malayek’ hag yn ‘Nam ynwedh. Pygemmys tus, terrys ha diskevelysys, a brederydh my dhe weles dres an termynyow na?” Y woynnn o yn kler dhiworth ughel orth isel – mes yth esa poynt da dhodhdo. Ny worthybis mann. Nyns esa tybyansow na fella dhymm lemmyn. “Igor an boks, a Serjont! Henn yw arghadow ewn!” My a dhallathas, yn lent ha gans kaletter fayntys, androgentra an kevrennow a synsi an gorher. A yllyn vy delatya an igeryans bys pan dhrehedsyn an nessa gorsav? Martesen ya – mes, dell heveli, na. Uskis, an Ughkapten a gollas y berthyans gans ow avonsyans ha dalleth arma orthymm – kepar dell armsa orth an souder re dhegsa y fardellow. Yth esa Davydh ow tegemmeres blas an trobel ma. Y’n kynsa le, ev a ylli klywes an geryow serrys ha, y’n nessa le, ev a ylli omglywes ow fienas ha’m own ow tevi – der ow holm broderel. Wosa nebes mynysennow hir, my a dhallathas androgentra an diwettha kevrenn. An Ughkapten a’m herdhyas a-denewen yn harow, molleth war y lev, rag gorfenna an oberenn. “Ny vydh hemma teg,” a brederis vy. Byttegyns, pyth a yllyn gul? Hag an Ughkapten dallethys drehevel an gorher, bregh loes, gwiskys yn uniform breselyek, a dennas der an aswa yntra’n gorher ha’n boks. A- dhistowgh, leuv Davydh a settyas dalghenn war vryansenn an Ughkapten – hag, meur y frether mes yn kosel, ev a’n kropyas. Davydh re wrussa y gynsa ladh yn flykkrans kroghen-lagas. Gwell o na wrav assaya mellya y’n mater lemmyn – ny via porpos da vyth. Korf an Ughkapten a goedhas dhe leur an koch ha Davydh omrydhhes dhiworth an eler. Davydh a goedhas kekeffrys war y breyth ha gul gwledh anodho. Yn skon, yth esa gorherys an leur gans goes. Yth esa fas Davydh ow knias, bysi ha down, war gig an vyktym. (Henn o herwydh usadow an zombis, dell hevel.) Dillas fresk? Tronkys? Henn re via tybyans da, a ny via? Termyn da rag gasa ow broder dhe’n mor? Ya, yn hwirhaval – wosa konsydrans herwydh reson oll an kyrghynnyow.

Well, on the day that me and my ‘troops’ got horribly lost, we managed not to kill anyone with the Bren Gun. But it was a heavy beast and ‘Boofa’ – the guy who had originally been assigned to carry it – got pretty sick of lugging it about, uphill and down dale, through the thick bush. So, the Bren gun got passed around all day – from shoulder to aching shoulder. Those shoulders included those of the guy who was holding the ‘highly accurate, highly sensitive’ prismatic compass (i.e. me.) A Bren Gun is a substantial piece of metal and – objects that at magnetised are attracted to substantial pieces of metal. A compass needle is a magnetised object. So, voila! While the massive bloody Bren Gun was hanging from my shoulder, all the bearings that I read from the compass were wrong – and massively so. Why did no-one bother to tell us this would happen? Buggered if I know. The people that thought this unimportant were probably the same people that decided that a Bren Gun was a good thing for a bunch of brainless kids to play with. In any event, why am I telling you all this? Is it just another digression by an old man whose mind is wandering? No – at least, not on this particular occasion. During the course of my squad’s misguided wanderings, we came upon a very ‘cool’ place. It was somewhere that, no doubt, the designers of the navigation course would have intended we avoid by a wide margin – if it were known to them at all - since it was definitely not marked on the topographical map. The ‘cool place’ was a long tunnel, a very long tunnel, driven into the side of a hill. Its collapsed entrance was now completely hidden by vigorous re-growth forest. If we had walked ten metres to either side, we would have missed it completely. Obviously, an old, disused mine is a dangerous place – and subject to further collapse at any time. It’s liable to trap and kill anyone foolish enough to enter it. So, did I order my squad not to go into it? Yes, of course, I did! Did they pay the slightest attention to my detailed, strident and urgent warnings? No. not a bit of it. So, very soon, we were all blindly wandering about inside a 100-year-old tunnel, deep inside the hill, Bren gun, useless compass and all.
Wel, an jydh pan eth ha bos kellys ow bagas a skolyers, denvyth na veu ledhys gans an gonn Bren. Byttegyns, best pur voes o ha ‘Boofa’ – an polat re via yn kynsa le appoyntyes dh’y dhoen – eth ha bos skwithys ganso. Res via dhodho y dhoen oll a-dro – war venydhyow hag yn nansow hag, an dhew, dre wylvos tew. Ytho, an gonn a veu tremenys yntra’n brentys-souder oll an jydh – dhiworth unn skoedh ow pystiga dhe huni arall. Yth esa yn arbennik unn skoedh dhe’n huni esa ow synsi an kompas kenkeynek, ‘meur y nerth ha’y gewerder’. (Henn yw leverel, dhymmo vy.) Gonn Bren yw tamm alkan, meur y vraster, ha’n taklow re veu tennvenhes a yll bos tennys gans tamm alkan, meur y vraster. Naswydh kompas kenkeynek yw tra dennvenhes. Ytho, ‘voilà!’ Ha’n gonn Bren, meur y vraster, kregys war ow skoedh, redyansow oll an kompas o kamm – ha kamm dres eghenn. Prag na wrussa denvyth agan gwarnya a-dro dhe’n hwarvos possybyl ma? Ny wonn vy. Yn hwirhaval, an dus a grysi an dra ma bos heb poester o an keth dus a grysi bos tra pur dha rag bagas skolyers heb ympynnyon dhe wandra der an gwylvos gans gonn Bren avel gwariell. Yn neb kas, prag yth esov ow leverel an taklow ma dhywgh? Yw travyth marnas gwandrans gans den koth mayth eus dhodho brys ow kwandra ynwedh? Na – dhe’n lyha, nyns yw an kas an prys ma. Dres an gwandransow heb amkan a’m para, ni a dheuth dhe’n le ‘koul’ dres eghenn. Nep-tu o, heb dhout, may ervirsa dhevisyoryon an oberenn-navigasyon y talvien ni avoydya gans amal ledan – mar kodhviens yn y gever (ha sertan en vy nag o notyes war vappa topografek). An le ‘koul’ o kowfordh hir, kowfordh pur hir, palys yn ewn yn tu bre. Koedhys war an dor, y fyllsa yn tien porth an gowfordh, gorherys ha kudhys uskis gans gwylvos dhasdevys. Mar kerdhsen deg meter dhe unn tu an gowfordh, y fallsen y weles mann. Yn apert, bal koth ha usyes yw tyller peryllus – le may kyll hwarvos pup-prys koedhow an dor. Ytho, oll an dus a allsa bos beghys po ledhys ena – mars yns gokki lowr rag entra ynno. Ytho, a wrugavy erghi orth ow fara nag ens gesys entra ynno? Yn hwir! A wrussons notya an manylyon a’m gwarnyansow, tynn ha ter aga gnas? Na wrussons. Ytho, yn skon, yth esen ni ow kwandra oll a-dro yn kowfordh, meur hy oes, hy duder ha’y hirder – gonn Bren ha kompas euver hwath genen ni.