it's a girl oor Kornies

it's a girl

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

mowes yw

voorbeelde

It's a girl!
/ Mowesi yw! / / /

Lovely! I had chosen well. Then a slight movement in the afternoon shadows. David didn’t see it at first – zombies have poor eyesight, remember? “Whoever or whatever you are,” I thought, “for God’s sake, stay still.” It didn’t. This time, David spotted the movement and immediately let out an almighty bellow. He broke free of my grip and was off in hot pursuit. The small figure ran for all it was worth – and I set off after both of them, cursing loudly. David’s zombie blood was up. (Oh, I forgot, they don’t have blood, do they? Hmm. Maybe they’ve got blood but it just doesn’t move about much – what with no beating heart and all.) Anyway, the chase was on. Both David and the small, retreating figure were vaulting tombstones and dodging around pencil-pine trees. David was gaining in the pursuit but not a lot – though both were definitely leaving me behind. I noticed the small figure was headed to where I’d been taking David anyway, one of the large family crypts. David roared and the small figure ‘squealed like a little girlie’ – though I was reasonably sure it was not a girl. It didn’t seem to move like a girl. In fact, though male, it seemed to be a dwarf of some kind. “Open the fucking door!” it screamed as it ran. “Paul! Get the door open now! There’s a fucking zombie!” Yes, definitely male – and familiar, definitely familiar. “Paul”, whoever he was, was too slow. The door of the crypt remained firmly closed as the small male reached it – and, within seconds, David fell upon him with a triumphant roar. “Oh, shit,” I thought. “David’s just caught lunch.” And I knew, from what had happened to Meryl yesterday, there was not a thing I could do to prevent David’s mealtime from taking its tragic course.
Ass o teg! My re wrussa dewis da. Ena, gwayans munys yn skeusow an dohajydh. Y’n kynsa le, ny’n gwelas Davydh – porth kov nag eus gwel dha dhe’n zombis. “Piwpynag (po pypynag) osta,” a brederis vy, “na way mann, awos Duw.” Gwayans. Y’n tor’ma, Davydh a’n aspias hag, a-dhistowgh, a dhellos bedhyglans pur vras. Ev a skapyas ow dalghenn ha resek uskis yn-unn-bursywya. An figur byghan a resas uskissa galla – ha my a dhallathas resek rag kachya an dhew, ow mollethi yn ughel. Pur doemm o goes-zombi Davydh. (A, my re ankovsa. Nyns esa goes dhe’n zombis, dell grysav. Hmm. Martesen, yma goes dhedha mes ny wra ev gwaya meur – drefenn na wrons i lemmel, aga holonnow.) Yn neb kas, an helghva re dhallathsa. Yth esa an dhew, Davydh ha’n figur byghan ow kildenna, ow lamma meyn-bedh hag ow koheles pinennow-pluvenn. Y ferkyis an figur byghan dhe resek wor’tu ha’n le may ervirsen ledya Davydh, onan yntra’n kleudhegellow teyluyek bras. Davydh a vedhyglas ha’n figur a skrijas kepar ha myrghik – kynth ov sur lowr nag o myrgh. Nyns esa ow kwaya kepar ha myrgh. Yn hwir, kynth o gorow, y heveli bos korr a neb eghenn. “Gwra igor an daras euthyk!” a skrijas hag ev resys. “Powl! Gwra e lemmyn! ‘ma zombi euthyk!” Ya, gorow yn sertan – hag aswonnys dhymm yn sur. ‘Powl’, piwpynag o ev, o re lent. Daras an kleudhegell a remayna degeys fast ha’n gour y dhrehedhys – ha, yn eylennow, Davydh re goedhsa warnodho, meur y ormola. “A, kawgh,” a brederis. “Davydh re gachyas y liv.” Ha my a wodhya, drefenn an denkys re goedhsa dhe Veryl de, nyns esa travyth a allsen vy gul rag lettya prys-boes Davydh, rag lettya trajedi arall.

reputation n. good r. ger da; hanow da; bad r. drog hanow ♦ it will give a good r. to all the girls e vedn rei hanow da dhe' mosy oll JB; respect, esteem bry /briː/ m. More often > vry; gain a r. cawas hanow >
reputation n. good r. ger da; hanow da; bad r. drog hanow ♦ it will give a good r. to all the girls e vedn rei hanow da dhe' mosy oll JB; respect, esteem bry /briː/ m. More often > vry; gain a r. cawas hanow >

David was making a bee-line for them. When he reached the group, he roared once again and threw himself among them. At first, I thought he was trying to fight them – but, no, he was merely pushing them aside, pushing them aside to share in what they had. What they had was a small, frail corpse. By the crimson of the blood pooling around it, I’d say the kill (if that’s what it was) was very recent, only a matter of minutes since. The zombies were noisily feasting on their prize. By its proximity to the southern exit of the building, I guessed that’s where the victim had come from – no doubt making a desperate dash for freedom. Yes, I could see it was a girl. She hadn’t got far. Her last horrific moments seem to have been spent trying to cower under the round wooden seat set around the large eucalypt tree. Very poor cover indeed. She must have been desperate. Wherever she had been within the building, it had kept her safe for at least 7 days. So, why run now? Why not keep waiting for help to arrive? I’ll never know. Perhaps the water ran out. Perhaps, the food. I watched David and the zombies devouring the unfortunate woman. Totally engrossed in their feast, they utterly ignored me. Hearing the ‘festivities’, other zombies soon came and joined in. A week ago, they had been young men and this young woman had probably been among their classmates. Fascinated but feeling relatively safe, I couldn’t help but edge closer to observe the unbelievable event that was occurring before my eyes. Then, it happened: One of the zombies paused and rose from its vile feasting just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the young woman’s face. “David!” I screamed. “We know her! That’s Meryl.” David lifted his head very briefly and flicked his dead eyes in my direction. “So?” they seemed to say. He returned immediately to the business at hand. I kicked savagely at his rear – to no good purpose. He rose to his feet and turned full-face to me.
Yth esa Davydh ow resek yn syth troha’n kolm. Pan dhrehedhas an bagas ma, ev a vedhyglas unnweyth arta hag omdhegesi yntra’n zombis erell. Yn kynsa le, ev a assaya dhe vatalyas orta - po dell grysen. Mes nyns o henna ewn. Nyns esa saw orth aga herdhya a-denewen – rag kevrenna y’n pyth esa seulabrys dhedha. An pyth esa dhedha o korf, korf byghan ha gwann. Yth esa goes pur rudhogh a- dro dhodho, yn poll ow tevi. Ytho, dhe’m breus vy, an ladhva (mar pe ladhva yn hwir) re hwarsa a-gynsow, nans o nebes mynysennow martesen. Yth esa an zombis ow koelya yn trosek orth aga fiwas. Drefenn y nester dhe entrans soth an drehevyans, my a grysi henn o le may tothya an studhyer ma – ow kul fysk yn desper rag frankedh, heb dhout. Ya, my a ylli gweles hy vos myrgh. Ny ressa hi pellder meur. Hy folsyow finek, meur aga euthekter, re via spenys, dell heveli, owth assaya plattya yn-dann an vynk brennek ha rond settyes a-dro dhe’n eukalyptwythenn meur. Skoes pur druan, yn hwir. Y fia hi yn desper, dell heveli. Plepynag y fia a-ji dhe’n drehevyans, ev re’s gwithsa orth danjer dres seythun y’n lyha. Ytho, prag y ressa hi lemmyn? Prag na bessas gortos rag gweres? Ny godhvydhav nevra. Martesen, nyns esa dowr na fella dhedhi. Martesen, boes vyth. My a viras orth Davydh ha’n zombis hag i dybrys an venyn anfeusik. Sedhys-oll y’ga fest, i a skonya aswonn ahanan yn tien. Pan glywsens an ‘darvosow lowen’ ma, zombis erell a dheuth yn skon rag omjunya ynna. Nans o seythun, an yonkers ha’n venyn yowynk ma a allsa bos warbarth, yn mysk aga hesstudhydhyoryon. My a omglywo bos salow mes yth esa dhymm hwans meur godhvos. Ytho, nyns esa dewis vyth dhymm saw omneshe rag merkya an hwarvos ankrysadow esa ow hwarvos a-dherag ow dewlagas. Ena, y hwarva ev: onan yntra’n zombis a bowesas ha sevel, diberthys dhiworth y fest los dres pols, termyn hir lowr rag ow kachya golok bejeth an venyn yowynk. “Davydh!” my a armas. “Ni a’s aswonn! Meryl yw.” Davydh a sevis pols y benn ha flykkya y dhewlagas marow wor’tu ha my. “Hag ytho?” a leveris an dhewlagas na, dell heveli. A-dhesempis, ev a dhasattendyas dhe’y ‘negys’. My a botyas yn krev orth y gilgorf – dhe borpos da vyth. Ev a sevis ha treylya dhymm. Yth esen ni ow sevel bejeth dhe vejeth. 33

I don’t have a proper explanation for what happened. Perhaps, every girl after the first simply repeated what the first one had said. But it’s possible that the simple explanation is that I smelt slightly less strongly than some of my Newlyn mates!
Ny’m beus displegyans gwiw rag an pyth a hwarva. Martesen, pub mowes wosa an kynsa a dhasleveris yn sempel an pyth re lavarsa an huni kyns. Mes possybyl yw bos an displegyans sempel my dhe flerya tamm le krev es dell wre nebes ow sos Lulyn!

How quick the way in which we come to accept as our natural right, something that we would have regarded previously, a moment ago, as an impossible dream. It suddenly seemed to me the most natural thing in the world that all the girls would want to be my partner.
Ass yw skav an fordh may teun ni dhe dhegemeres, avel agan gwir genesik, neppyth a welsen ni seulabrys, nans yw pols, avel hunros onpossybyl. A-dhesempis, yth heveli dhymm an dra a’n moyha naturel y’n bys may fynsa an mowysi oll bos ow hares.

Stupidly, I smiled. This wasn’t information that I wanted lightly to volunteer. Ingrid cast a meaningful glance through the glass panel of the door – at the goons still loitering, with interest, outside the interview room. It was not in my best interests to be coy, it seemed. “I’ll give you a hint,” I said. “These guys, those close friends of mine, seemed (to me, at least) to be very like the other young people who never even succumbed to the infection.” Ingrid was puzzled by this ‘hint’. “Other young people?” said her face. Perhaps, the ‘hint’ was a bit obscure for her. “But the only others who didn’t succumb were girls,” said Ingrid, stating the obvious. “I don’t understand your hint at all.” “Think about it, doctor: guys who seem a lot like girls?” (Remember this was the 70’s – a lot of people, including me and Ingrid, didn’t yet realise that many gay guys were not effeminate at all. After all, only ten years before, homosexuality was still officially regarded as a mental illness!) Ingrid half-shook her head before the look of revelation suddenly burst across her face. I nodded and smiled: “Well done, Doctor. It seems you’re making progress.” Actually, she was still a bit slow. She took some moments before blurting out: “Gay? Is that what you’re saying? That gay guys recover?” “My friends, the ones who recovered from the zombie bites were definitely gay – one of them was ‘out’ and the other may as well have been. So, that is indeed what I’m saying: gay guys do indeed get better,” I replied. “But that’s awful. Our best estimate, based on current research, is that one in six guys is gay,” she said – to no-one in particular. (This, indeed, was the statistic widely quoted at the time – though I always doubted it.) “You’ve got the stats, sister,” I replied. “Not me.”
Meur ow gokkineth, my a vinhwarthas. Nyns o hemma derivadow a vynnen ri yn es. Ingrid a dhannvonas golok der kwarel an daras – ha troha’n bilens hwath ow kwandra oll a-dro, yn-mes an stevell-geskows, meur aga hwans a wodhvos pyth esa ow hwarvos ynno. Nyns o dhe’m gwayn bos gohelus, dell heveli. “My a yll ri dhis gidyansik,” yn-medhav. “An bolatys ma, an kothmans ma dhymm, a heveli (dhymmo vy dhe’n lyha) bos kepar ha’n dus yowynk erell na goedhsa nevra dhe’n klevesans.” Ankombrys o Ingrid gans an ‘gidyansik’. “ ‘Dus yowynk erell’?” yn-medh hy thremmynn. Martesen, re ankler o rygdhi. “Mes nyns esa re erell vyth na goedhas dhe’n klevesans a-der myrghes,” yn- medh Ingrid, ow leverel pyth o apert. “Ny gonvedhav mann dha idyansik.” “Gwra prederi yn y gever, ‘Dhoktour: polatys a hevel meur bos kepar ha myrghes?” (Porth kov: yth esen hwath yn blydhynnyow ’70 – ny wodhya hwath meur a dus, my hag Ingrid y’ga mysk, bos meur a bolatys kethreydhel nag o benynek vyth. Ha, wosa oll, nyns o saw deg blydhen kyns kethreythegyeth dhe vos konsydrys yn soedhek dell o kleves a’n brys!) Ingrid hanter-shakyas hy fenn kyn dheuth a-dhesempis golowyans dh’y thremmynn. My a benndroppyas ha minhwerthin: “Gwrys da, ‘Dhoktour. Avonsyans dhis yw henna, dell hevel.” Yn hwir, hwath lent o hi. Byttegyns, wosa berrdermyn, hi a leveris heb preder: “Kethreydhel? Yw henna pyth esosta ow leverel? An bolatys gethreydhel a yll omwellhe?” “Ow sos, an re a omwellhas wosa an brathow-zombi, o yn sertan kethreydhel – onan anedha o ‘apert’ yn y gever ha’n huni arall o aswonnys bos yndella. Ytho, henn yw yn hwir pyth esov ow leverel: an yonkers gethreythel, (dhe’n lyha) a wra yn hwir omwellhe,” a worthybis. “Mes henn yw euthyk. Herwydh agan gwella dismygriv, selys war hwithrans a- dhiwedhes, yma onan yntra hwegh polat yw kethreydhel,” yn-medh hi – dhe dhenvyth arbennik, dell heveli. (An rannriv ma o yn hwir an statystyk dyllys ledan y’n termyn na – kynth esa pup-prys dout dhymm yn y gever.) “An statystygon yw genes jy, ow hwoer,” a worthybis. “Nyns yns genev.”

In any event, the slight knowledge of the layout of St. Hilda’s that I had thus gained was now to prove invaluable. I knew how to get into that building and how to get myself to a room that would give me a reasonable view of the Northern exit of the campus. I dragged the uncomprehending David along with me and left the bewildered zombies to their collective fate. We soon gained the lookout that I had wanted – with no other living or non-living persons in the building to bother us. Sanctuary from the madness outside. The student room that we chose was somewhat spartan – painted concrete block walls, a bed, a desk and chair and a small bookshelf. Its tenant had been a young woman, it seemed – probably a fresher. Why do I say that? On the wall was a poster of ‘The Partridge Family’, featuring prominently a fresh-faced David Cassidy. No-one other than a first-year girl would confess to still having a crush on that particular teenage heart-throb. That would have been so uncool. And the room was scented. I can’t say exactly what the scent was (rose oil?) but it was pleasant – and strong enough to counter the pungent smell of napalm that still hung in the air. On the bookshelf sat a few of the standard (girl) record albums of the time (Carol King, Carly Simon, Nina Simone, Helen Reddy) and, beside them, some surprisingly old teenage literature (Anne of Green Gables, Little Women, The Getting of Wisdom). On the desk sat an IBM ‘golfball’ typewriter – fairly modern (and expensive) for the time. In the typewriter sat an incomplete letter which commenced “Dear Mum and Dad” and continued in a newsy fashion for a couple of paragraphs before stopping mid-sentence. I would like to have met the young woman who had once occupied this room, a young woman who cared enough to write to her Mum and Dad. I think I would have liked her. I wondered idly if she had managed to escape on the first day – and hoped that she had.
Yn neb kas, yth o lemmyn a bris marthus ughel an skians munys a-dro dh’aray an kollji re dhysksen ena. My a wodhya dell yllyn entra y’n drehevyans na ha, dres henna, dell yllyn drehedhes chambour may firys orth porth a-gledhbarth an kampus. My a draylyas genev Davydh, a wodhya travyth a-dro dhe byth esa ow hwarvos, ha gasa an zombis erell, meur aga sowdhan, dh’aga tenkys guntellek. Yn skon, ni re waynsa an bennoelva a vynnen – heb tus erell, byw po anvarow, y’n drehevyans dh’agan annia. Meneghi, yth esa lemmyn an muskotter yn-mes. An chambour-studhyer re dhewissen o nebes spartek – parosyow payntyes gwrys a vrykkys-gentevynn, gweli, desk ha kador, hag argh-lyvrow vyghan. Delghyas an chambour re via myrgh, dell heveli – studhyer y’n kynsa blydhen, dell grysav. Prag y lavarav henna? Yth esa glenys orth an paros displywyans ow tiskwedhes ‘An Teylu Partrydge’, hag ow figura yn chyf Davydh Kassidy, pur fresk y fisment. Nyns esa denvyth a-der myrgh y’n kynsa blydhen a amyttsa hy hara hwath an lammgolon arbennik na, meur y vri yntra’n myrghes y’n blydhynnyow war dheg. Nyns o na fella Kassidy herwydh an gis y’n tor’ na. Yth esa ethenn dhe’n chambour keffrys. Ny allav leverel yn ewn pyth o an ethenn ma (oyl ros?) mes hweg o – ha krev lowr rag kesstrivya erbynn fler napalm ow kregi hwath y’n ayr. War an argh-lyvrow, yth esa esedhys nebes a’n plasennow meurgerys yntra’n myrghes (Karol Kyng, Karli Saymon, Nina Symoen, Helen Reddi ha’n erell) ha, rybdha, nebes romansow, poran koth, rag an myrghes a’n blydhynnyow war dheg (‘Anne of Green Gables’, ‘Little Women’, ‘The Gettting of Wisdom’) War an desk, yth esa owth esedha jynn-skrifa IBM, ‘pell-golf’ y furv – arnowydh lowr (ha kostek) y’n tor’ na. Ynno, yth esa lyther a dhallathas “Mamm ha Tas ker”. Tekst an lyther a besyas dre dhew po tri rannskrifow kyns y hedhi a-dhistowgh, hanter-lavar. Da via genev ow tos erbynn an vyrgh re drigsa y’n chambour ma, myrgh a vern lowr dhe skrifa dh’y Mamm ha’y Thas. My a’s karsa, dell grysav. My a omwovynnas mar tianksa hi an kynsa dydh – govenek o dhymm hi dhe alloes gul yndella.

69 Now Peter was sitting out in the courtyard, and a servant girl came to him. “You also were with Jesus of Galilee,” she said. 70 But he denied it before them all. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. 71 Then he went out to the gateway, where another servant girl saw him and said to the people there, “This fellow was with Jesus of Nazareth.” 72 He denied it again, with an oath: “I don’t know the man!” 73 After a little while, those standing there went up to Peter and said, “Surely you are one of them; your accent gives you away.” 74 Then he began to call down curses, and he swore to them, “I don’t know the man!” Immediately a rooster crowed. 75 Then Peter remembered the word Jesus had spoken: “Before the rooster crows, you will disown me three times.” And he went outside and wept bitterly.
69Ha Peder o esedhys dhe-ves y'n klos; hag unn vaghteth a dheuth dhodho ha leverel, ‘Ty ynwedh, yth eses gans Yesu a Alile.’ 70Mes ev a'n naghas a-dherag peub ow leverel, ‘Ny wonn pandr'a gewsydh.’ 71Ha wosa ev dhe vones yn-mes dhe'n porth, maghteth arall a'n gwelas hag a leveris dhe'n re esa ena, ‘Yth esa hemma ynwedh gans Yesu a Nazareth.’ 72Hag arta ev a'n denaghas gans ti, ‘Ny aswonnav an den.’ 73Pols byghan wosa henna an re ow sevel ena a dheuth ha leverel dhe Peder, ‘Dhe wir ty ynwedh yw onan anedha, rag dha rannyeth a wra dha dhiskudha.’ 74Ena y tallathas mollethi ha lia, ‘Ny aswonnav an den.’ Ha desempis an kulyek a ganas. 75Ha Peder a borthas kov a eryow Yesu, kewsys dhodho, ‘Kyns es an kulyek dhe gana ty a'm denagh teyrgweyth.’ Hag ev eth dhe-ves hag a oelas yn hwerow.

A tentative answer was not too hard to guess at. The corpses that remained lying about were, almost uniformly, quite incomplete. Indeed, some of the ‘corpses’ were actually just ‘bits’. So, it seemed there needed to be enough of the victim still hanging together before reanimation was possible. (Poor Meryl was definitely not going to make a re-appearance – but she was a girl anyway and, as you will recall, girls don’t become zombies.) So, how much was enough? Yes, I’ll admit it was a macabre question to ponder – but a question that seemed not out of place as we approached the Swanston Street exit of the Uni campus. I stood on the footpath, still holding David’s clammy hand. “Which way shall we go, Mate?” I asked. “Into the city or shall we go into Carlton?” He grunted. Maybe he understood the question but his grunted answer was unhelpful. (Hey, he was still male – I think.) So, we headed off towards Lygon Street, Carlton. Nowadays, there’s a lovely big supermarket in the main street – but not in the early 1970’s. As we walked down Faraday Street, I saw the familiar sight of the Carlton Movie-house – the ‘Bug House’ as it was then called. But this was not the establishment I needed – that was next door: “Genevieve’s”. (Café? Restaurant? Can’t recall what it called itself. It was always just “Genevieve’s” – named after an old cinematic car, as I recall.) “Fancy a cappuccino, Dave?” I asked. “I’m dying for a caffeine fix.” David seemed uninterested. Do zombies like a strong coffee? They look like they need it. No matter. In any event, I couldn’t get the cappuccino machine up and running and had to make do with ‘instant’ – yuck!
Nyns esa gorthyp a-gynnik re gales bos dismygys. Yth esens poran andhien, an korfow a remaynya a’ga gorwedh oll a-dro – ogas hag oll anedha. Yn hwir, nyns o nebes a’n ‘korfow’ a-der ‘temmyn’. Ytho, yth heveli bos edhomm a remenant lowr an vyktymow hwath ow klena warbarth kyns o possybyl dasvywya. (Ytho, nyns o possybyl Meryl anfeusik dhe wul omdhiskwedhyans arta – mes hi o myrgh yn neb kas ha, dell berthowgh kov, ny dheu ha bos an myrghes zombis.) Ytho, py remenant yw lowr? Ya, kwestyon skruthus lowr o mayth ombrederi, dell amyttyav, mes nyns o kwestyon anwiw ha ni neshes porth an kampus dhe Stret Swanston. Yth esen a’m sav war an gerdhva, hwath ow talghenna leuv oerlyp Davydh: “Py fordh a vynnyn mos, ‘Vata?” a wovynnis vy. “Yn sita, po a vynnyn mos yn Karlton?” Ev a roghas. Martesen, ev a gonvedhas an kwestyon mes y worthyp roghys o heb gweres ragov vy. (Ev o hwath gorow, yn apert.) Ytho, ni a dhallathas kerdhes troha Stret Lygon, Karlton. Y’n dydhyow ma, yma gorvarghas deg yn kres an stret na – mes nyns o an kas y’n blydhynyow 1970. Ha ni kerdhys a-hys Stret Faraday, my a welas gwel aswonnys yn ta: Chi Fylmow Karlton – an “Jideurek” dell o les-henwys, y’n tor’na. Mes nyns o an drehevyans mayth esa edhomm dhymm – henn o an nessa daras: “Chi Gwynnuwer”. (Koffiji? Boesti? Ny allav perthi kov an hanow gwir. Nyns o travyth a-der “Chi Gwynnuwer” herwydh usadow – a-barth karr-tan koth sinematek, dell grysav.) “A vynnta kappouchinow, a Dhavydh?” a wovynnis. “Yma edhomm meur dhymm a dhosenn kaffin.” Yth heveli nag esa henna didheurek dhe Dhavydh. A gar an zombis koffi krev? Yth esa edhomm anodho dhedha, dhe’m breus vy. Ny vern. Yn neb kas, ny yllyn gul an jynn-gappouchino gweytha – hag ytho res o dhymm eva ‘instant’ – thukk! 49

David and I were sitting towards the rear – we were not so studious. David abruptly turned and looked to the rear exits: both open and both so far unblocked by the things. “Get out the rear,” he yelled. “The back doors are open.” It was a good call, a very good call. And enough of the students heard it above the screaming and mayhem that, almost as one, they surged towards the rear of the auditorium. Hitherto unathletic students literally leapt over the seats and desks and fled, without a backward glance, while the beasts busied themselves, feasting on their victims in the front rows. But not Dave. One of the students, a mature-age student, had left a guitar behind in his haste to escape. David seized it and threw it to me. “Here! You know what to do.” I didn’t, of course – but I soon learned, once David himself seized a hockey stick, similarly left by one of the girls. (Yes, strange but true: a guitar and a hockey stick in a French lecture.) David raised the hockey stick and brought it down hard on the head of one of those creatures as it rushed at him. It didn’t get up again. I did likewise with the guitar as another one ran at me. This one also went down but the guitar shattered on impact with a sickening twang. I would not be taking any of the others out with this particular ‘axe’. David’s hockey stick was, however, not so fragile. He wielded it again and again. I’m not sure how many he felled but, by the time he struck his last beast with the now-bloodied hockey stick, there was only one other left in the lecture theatre. The problem was that this remaining creature was, at the time, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with me – and I was rapidly losing the contest. Dead people are so enormously strong, aren’t they? David did not have a clear shot at him because my body was between him and the beast. So, he tried to push me aside to create an opportunity to strike at it. As he pushed me, it lunged forward – and, momentarily, its teeth sank into his left forearm.
Yth esen ni, Davydh ha my, owth esedha wor’tu ha delergh an arethva. A- dhistowgh, Davydh a omdreylyas rag mires orth an mallborthow a-dhelergh. Yth esa an dhew hwath apert – hag ytho anlettyes gans an draow. “Dienkewgh war-dhelergh!” a armas Davydh. “An mallborthow yw apert!” Galow da o henna, galow pur dha. Yth esa lowr yn mysk an studhyansow re’n klywsa, yn despit dhe’n skrijiansow ha’n deray, may kwaysons i avel tonn troha delergh an arethva. Studhyoryon re via kyns gwann aga horfow a lammas a-dhistowgh a-ugh an esedhow ha’n deskys – ha fias dhe’n fo. Nyns esa gowolok vyth war-dhelergh dhiworta ha’n vestes andhenel ow kul fest gans aga vyktyms a’n esedhow a-rag – gowolok vyth a-der dhiworth Davydh. Onan yntra’n studhyoryon, huni kottha, re assa gitar hag ev tienkys. Davydh a settyas dalghenn warnodho ha’y dewlel dhymmo vy. “Ottomma! Ty a woer pyth dhe wul.” Yn hwir, ny wodhyen pyth dhe wul – mes, yn skon, my a dhyskas kettell settyas Davydh dalghenn war welenn hokki, gesys yn kepar maner gans onan a’n mowesi. (Ya, koynt mes gwir: gitar ha gwelenn hokki yn areth yeth frynkek.) Davydh a dhrehevis an welenn ha’y iselhe yn krev war benn onan an groaduryon hag ev ow fyski trohag ev. An dra a goedhas dhe’n leur. Ev a drigas ena. My a wrug an dra gethsam gans an gitar dhe huni arall hag ev ow resek troha my. An huni ma a goedhas keffrys mes an gitar a veu brywys, euthyk y dros. Ytho, ny vien ow ladha kroaduryon erell gans an ‘voel’ na. Nyns esa mar vrottel gwelenn hokki Davydh. Ev a’n kledhyas arta hag arta. Nyns ov sur pes kroadur a via weskys ganso mes, pan frappyas y dhiwettha best gans an welen woesys, nyns esa saw onan arall a veu gesys y’n arethva. Byttegyns, yth esa kudynn: an huni a remaynya, y’n tor’na, a omworrsa yn omladh, dorn dhe dhorn, genev vy – ha’n omladh ma o ogas kellys genev. (An dus varow yw mar grev, a nyns yns i?) Nyns esa chons kler dhe Dhavydh y frappya drefenn bos ow horf yntredho ha’n best. Ytho, ev a assayas ow herdhya a-denewen rag gul chons dh’y weskel. Hag ev herdhyes, an best omherdhyas war-rag – ha, dres pols, y dhyns a sedhas yn ragvregh gledh Davydh. 9

It seemed, however, that Miss Pascoe, who had seen the boys decline the chance of choosing their partners themselves, had no intention of letting the same boys “cherry pick” their partners from a shortlist; so I was not given the choice. Instead, “Miss” selected for me Jennifer Harvey, an attractive, quiet girl with a brown pony-tail. The reasons for her choice are unclear: Jennifer wasn’t the first, or the last, to ask for me. So perhaps “Miss” chose her for me according to some superior adult concept of mutual compatibility.
Dell heveli, byttegyns, nyns esa dhe Mestres Pascoe, neb re welsa an vebyon nagha an chons dhe dhewis aga howethes aga honan, mynnas vyth dhe asa an keth vebyon “dewis-keresen” aga howethes dhyworth rol verr; ytho ny veu res dhymm an dewisyans. Yn le, “Mestres” a dhewisas ragov Jenefer Harvey, mowes tennvosek ha kosel gans lost hobba gell. Nyns yw kler an achesonyow rag hy dewisyans: nyns o Jenefer na an kynsa na an diwettha a wovynnas ragov. Ytho, martesen “Mestres” a’y dewisas ragov war-lergh neb tybyans tevesik ughella a gessenyans an eyl gans y gila.

Once again, he roared his Earth-shaking roar. This time it was directed at me rather than at my attackers. “Back off, Brother. This is zombie-business,” said the roar. “You’ve no right to interfere.” This was the clear message, in any event. I did “back off”. I didn’t need to be told twice. I retired to a small wooden bench nearby and dry-retched into the garden bed next to it. (There was no food in my stomach – I had been starving, too.) I watched on helplessly as the body of Meryl was consumed. Meryl was a shy, country girl, a first year like me and David. (She hated college food – except for chockie pudding. That was always served on a Thursday evening and everyone came on that night.) I’d struck up an acquaintance with her in one of my French tutorials. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the group but she was slim, sweet and gentle. I’d asked her for a date once. She politely declined – I don’t think I was her type. No hard feelings – we stayed friendly. I couldn’t square my very recent memories of her with the grisly reality unfolding in front of me. Eventually – I’m not sure how much later – all the zombies, including David, had had their fill and left the meagre remains of Meryl where they lay. There were many other human remains strewn about but most had been there since the first day – or so I guessed from their advanced state of decay. But Meryl’s remains were different. They needed not to be ignored. For all the violence that had been visited upon them, I needed to do something. I needed to show some sign of respect. I walked inside Union House and immediately saw that it was a charnel house – with death and destruction everywhere.
Unnweyth arta, ev a vedhyglas krev may shakyas an dor. Mes, an prys ma, ev re vedhyg’sa orthymmo vy – nyns o orth ow omsettoryon, y’n tor’ ma. “Ke dhe-ves, a vroder. Hemm yw negys an zombis,” yn-medh an bedhyglans. “Nyns eus reyth dhis mellya orto.” Hemm o an messaj kler, dhe’n lyha. My a wrug kildenna. Nyns esa edhomm dhymm bos derivys diwweyth. My eth dhe vynk vyghan ha prennek esa a-ogas. My a hwyjas yn sygh y’n gyst-lowarth rybdhi. (Nyns esa boes vyth y’m glas – y fien ow famya ynwedh.) Dialloes yn tien, my a viras orth an hwarvos, dybrans korf Meryl. Y fia Meryl myrgh wohelus dhiworth sita bowel, y’n kynsa blydhen kepar ha Davydh ha my. (Hi a gasas boes an kollji may triga – a-der podin choklet a veu servyes dy’Yowweyth pan dho peub oll dhe’n prys.) My re dhothya er hy bynn yn onan a’m klassow frynkek. Nyns esa hi an tekka myrgh y’n bagas na mes moen, hweg ha jentyl o hi. Unnweyth, my re wovynnsa orti mos genev rag dydhvetyans. Hi re dheklinsa yn kortes – nyns en vy yonker gwiw rygdhi, dell heveli. Mes nyns en vy shyndyes – y trigen ni hwath hegar an eyl dh’y gila. Ny yllyn kesseni ow hovyow a-dhiwedhes yn hy hever gans an gwirvos grysel a dhisplegya a-dheragov vy. Wor’tiwedh – nyns ov vy sur pes termyn diwettha - oll an zombis, Davydh y’ga mysk, re dhyb’sa lowr ha gesyon tanow Meryl a drigas mayth esens. Yth esa meur a esyon denel erell a veu skoellyes a-les an bennskol mes rann vrassa anedha re via ena a-dhia an kynsa dydh – po yndella y krysis vy drefenn aga studh poder avonsyes. Byttegyns, gesyon Meryl o dihaval dhedha. Ny yllyn skonya aga aswonn. Yn despit dhe freudh kommytyes warnedhi, yth esa edhomm dhymm a wul neppyth a-dro dhedha. Res o dhymm diskwedhes sin reowta. My a gerdhas yn Chi an Kesunyans hag y hyllyn a-dhistowgh gweles y vos chi mernans – yth esa distruyans ha mernans oll a-dro.

Siege at the Baillieu “He’s gotta go, Pete. You know it – and I know it.” Jude’s voice was firm. Any sympathy she had for me had been put to one side. She continued: “Dave’s a guy. When he gets bitten, there’s no way back.” She was right, of course. Dave would die – and soon. It was a matter of a few hours at best. They would cast his body out. He’d join the other guys, the ones who’d gone before. “He’s not gonna go,” I said with quiet determination. “But, Pete, you know the score. He can’t stay here. Once he’s dead, he’s a threat. You’ve seen it with your own eyes.” “He’ll be no threat to me. No. Not to me,” I said, without fully believing my own words. I could not see my brother, my twin brother, slung outside the library doors, like some animal carcase. I could not see him simply exist amongst them, amongst those we had already cast aside over the last week – and the ones who had made them like they were. No. He was not “gonna go”. Nor would I destroy him – or see him destroyed. These were not options. He would stay with me, with us. Jude stood and sighed. She would talk to me again no doubt – within an hour or two – before Dave actually died. In the meantime, she left me to sit beside my dying brother. At least he was now unconscious, no longer suffering. Beads of sweat still clung to his forehead. He was pale, feverish, unmoving – except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. When his breathing ceased altogether, I knew what would happen – and happen very quickly. I’d seen it happen a dozen or more times in the last week – to other guys. Always the guys, never the girls. Not so far, anyway.
Esedhva dhe’n Baillieu “Res yw dhodho mos, ‘Beder. Yth ostejy an huni a’n goer – ha my a’n goer keffrys.” Lev Jude o fyrv. An dregeredh a glywsa hi ragov a via gorrys a-denewen. Hi a besyas: “Davydh yw polat. Pan yw brethys polat, nyns eus fordh war-dhelergh.” Ewn o hi, heb mar. Y fawrwsa Davydh – hag yn skon. Wosa nebes euryow hepken, martesen. Ow sos, y hwrussens gorra y gorf yn-mes, korf ow broder vy. Y fia ev yn mysk an bolatys erell, an re a alsa kyns. “Ow broder vy, ny wra eev mos,” yn-medhav, kosel ow ervirans. “Mes, ‘Beder. Ty a woer yn ta pyth a hwyrvydh. Nyns yw possybyl ev dhe driga omma. Kettell vydh marow, ev a dheu ha bos godros. Ty re’n gwelas gans dha dhewlagas dha honan.” “Ny vydh godros dhymmo vy. Na. Godros vyth dhymmo vy,” yn-medhav, heb kryjyans dien ow geryow ow honan. Ny yllyn gweles ow broder, ow gevell, bos tewlys yn-mes darasow an lyverva, kepar dell o karyn goedhvil. Ny yllyn y weles heb bosva, owth anvywa y’ga mysk, yn mysk an re tewlys yn-mes seulabrys dres an pennseythun re dremensa – ha’n re na re’s gwrussa bos yndellna. Na. Nyns esa ev “ow mos”. Dres henna, my re ervirsa na vynnen y dhistrui – nag y weles bos distruys. Nyns esens i dewisyow vyth. Ev a remaynsa genev, ev a remaynsa genen ni. Jude a sevis ha hanasa. Heb dhout, y fia kows genev unnweyth arta – wosa unn our arall po diw – kyns mernans Davydh. Ha henna ow kortos, hi a’m gesis a’m esedh ryb ow broder ow merwel. Dhe’n lyha, ev re glamdersa – ow kodhav na fella. Y glena dh’y gorn tal nebes paderennow hwys. Gwannliwek y fisment, ev o terthennek, anwayadow – a-der y gloes-diwvronn, lent ha bas hy drehevel. Pan hedhsa yn tien y anellans, my a wodhya pyth a hwarsa. Y hwarsa pur vuan. My re welsa an hwarvos ma dewdhek gweyth – po moy es henna – dres an pennseythun re dremensa. Pup-prys an bolatys. Mowesow vyth. Ny hwarsa henna bys ena, dhe’n lyha.

Two of my senses (sight and hearing) were temporarily knocked out but my sense of smell remained intact. That sense almost immediately was, in turn, overwhelmed by the pungent stench of gasoline-laden soot filling the air. Now the military was using napalm, or jellied gasoline, on us! The jet had screamed low over the zombie-filled oval and dumped a single bomb, filled with napalm. (I didn’t get to see the billowing, black mushroom cloud it must have made.) Many of the undead were destroyed instantly. Others, a bit further from the massive blast, were ablaze, running in all directions like so many ancient torches. Still others, even further away, had been splashed by the jellied petrol and suffered serious burns (and were still smouldering). Was it one of ours – a Mirage – or had the Yanks already arrived with F4 Phantoms? I wasn’t sure if a French-made Mirage could deliver a napalm weapon. Napalm wasn’t much favoured by the Aussies in Vietnam but I knew that a Phantom could do the job. This was, of course, an idle speculation on my part since I’d seen precious little of the plane that had stooped out of the night sky and delivered ‘Hell-in-a-Tincan’ to us. It might as well have been a Tiger Moth or a Spitfire. I’d seen this sort of thing on newsreels from the Vietnam War. I confess that I had been more upset by the incineration of living men, women and children – mostly civilians – than by the horror that was now unfolding before me. Still, the high-pitched wailing of hundreds of incandescent zombies is something I’m unlikely ever to forget. Sight and hearing came back to me by degrees. The afterimage of the flash and the loud ringing in my ears were persistent. However, I soon had enough senses about me to continue to put ‘Plan B’ into effect. Poor Meryl had been a resident of St. Hilda’s college. She and a friend had shown me around the place – and generously invited me to partake of the college dinner with them. (Little wonder, now that I think about it, that I naively thought she might be romantically interested in me. But, no, she was just a nice, country girl being friendly.)
Y halsa ow klywans ha’m gwel, an dhew, dres pols mes y hyllyn blasa hwath yn ta. Hag, ogas a-dhistowgh, oversettyes en vy gans fler euthyk a dho dhiworth petrol ha hudhygel esa ow lenwel an ayr. Hag, ytho, yth esa an awtoritys ow kul devnydh a napalm – po kowles-betrol – warnan ni! Y skrijsa an jynn-nija jet isel, a-ugh an tiryow krykket leun a zombis ha gasa koedha unn danbellenn unnik, lenwys gans napalm. (Ny yllyn gweles an gommolenn du, skavell-groenek y furv, gwrys gans an danbellenn ma.) Y feu distruys a-dhesempis meur yntra’n dus anvarow. Re erell, nebes pella dhiworth an fog euthyk bras, o gans tan, ow resek tro ha pub tu kepar ha keniver faglenn koth. Ha, dres henna, yth esa re erell hwath, pella arta a-ves, re via kabolys gans an kowles-betrol ha dhegemmeres loskow sevur. Yth esens ow koleski hwath. An jynn-nija, o ev dhe Ostrali – ‘Mirage’ y verk? Y’n kontrari part, a dhothya an Yankis gans aga F4 ‘Fantoms’? Nyns esen vy sur mar kylli Mirage, gwrys yn Pow Frynk, doen arv napalm. Nyns o da gans an soudoryon Ostralek an arvow napalm yn Vietnam mes my a wodhya Fantom dhe alloes gul an oberenn. Nyns o hemma travyth a-der pollans pur dhymm, heb mar – drefenn na welsen marnas nebes a’n jynn-nija re dheklinsa dhiworth an ebron-nos rag gasa koedha ‘Ifarn-yn-Kanna’ warnan. Y kallsa ev bos ‘Tiger Moth’ po ‘Spitfire’ – mar pe travyth a-der ow notyansow rag barna y honanieth. My re welsa hwarvosow a’n par ma dre rolyer nowodhow gwrys dres an vresel Vietnam. Dhe wir, moy reudhys en vy gans gwel gorlosk an dus vyw, gwer, benynes ha fleghes – dynasogyon, yn brassa rann - ages an euth ow tisplegya a- rag ow dewlagas. Byttele, an skrijans, ughel y bych, ow tos dhiworth kansow a zombis gannboeth yw neppyth na allav nevra ankevi. Y tasdheuth dhymm ow gwel ha’m klywans – tamm ha tamm. Y pesya berrdermyn imaj warlergh an lughesenn ha’n senyans ughel y’m diwskovarn. Byttegyns, yth esa dhymm gwel ha klywans lowr rag effeythi unnweyth arta ‘Towl B’. Meryl anfeusik re via trigores Kollji Sen Hilda. Hi (ha kothes dhedhi) re dhiskwedhsa dhymm a-dro dhe’n gollji – ha, keffrys, i re’m galwsa dhe gevrenna boes-kollji gansa. (Hag yndella, my a grysi yn anfel Meryl dhe vos tennys dhymm yn romansek. Byttegyns, nyns o henna an kas – hi o yn sempel myrgh hweg ha hegar re dhothya dhiworth an pow.)

The Death of John the Baptist (Mk 6.14–29; Lk 9.7–9) 1At that time Herod, the ruler of Galilee, heard about Jesus. 2“He is really John the Baptist, who has come back to life,” he told his officials. “That is why he has this power to perform miracles.” 3For Herod had earlier ordered John's arrest, and he had him chained and put in prison. He had done this because of Herodias, his brother Philip's wife. 4For some time John the Baptist had told Herod, “It isn't right for you to be married to Herodias!” 5Herod wanted to kill him, but he was afraid of the Jewish people, because they considered John to be a prophet. 6On Herod's birthday the daughter of Herodias danced in front of the whole group. Herod was so pleased 7that he promised her, “I swear that I will give you anything you ask for!” 8At her mother's suggestion she asked him, “Give me here and now the head of John the Baptist on a dish!” 9The king was sad, but because of the promise he had made in front of all his guests he gave orders that her wish be granted. 10So he had John beheaded in prison. 11The head was brought in on a dish and given to the girl, who took it to her mother. 12John's disciples came, carried away his body, and buried it; then they went and told Jesus. Jesus Feeds a Great Crowd (Mk 6.30–44; Lk 9.10–17; Jn 6.1–14) 13When Jesus heard the news about John, he left there in a boat and went to a lonely place by himself. The people heard about it, so they left their towns and followed him by land. 14Jesus got out of the boat, and when he saw the large crowd, his heart was filled with pity for them, and he healed those who were ill. 15That evening his disciples came to him and said, “It is already very late, and this is a lonely place. Send the people away and let them go to the villages to buy food for themselves.” 16“They don't have to leave,” answered Jesus. “You yourselves give them something to eat!” 17“All we have here are five loaves and two fish,” they replied. 18“Then bring them here to me,” Jesus said. 19He ordered the people to sit down on the grass; then he took the five loaves and the two fish, looked up to heaven, and gave thanks to God. He broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the people. 20Everyone ate and had enough. Then the disciples took up twelve baskets full of what was left over. 21The number of men who ate was about 5,000, not counting the women and children. Jesus Walks on the Water (Mk 6.45–52; Jn 6.15–21) 22Then Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side of the lake, while he sent the people away. 23After sending the people away, he went up a hill by himself to pray. When evening came, Jesus was there alone; 24and by this time the boat was far out in the lake, tossed about by the waves, because the wind was blowing against it. 25Between three and six o'clock in the morning Jesus came to the disciples, walking on the water. 26When they saw him walking on the water, they were terrified. “It's a ghost!” they said, and screamed with fear. 27Jesus spoke to them at once. “Courage!” he said. “It is I. Don't be afraid!” 28Then Peter spoke up. “Lord, if it is really you, order me to come out on the water to you.” 29“Come!” answered Jesus. So Peter got out of the boat and started walking on the water to Jesus. 30But when he noticed the strong wind, he was afraid and started to sink down in the water. “Save me, Lord!” he cried. 31At once Jesus reached out and grabbed hold of him and said, “How little faith you have! Why did you doubt?” 32They both got into the boat, and the wind died down. 33Then the disciples in the boat worshipped Jesus. “Truly you are the Son of God!” they exclaimed. Jesus Heals the Sick in Gennesaret (Mk 6.53–56) 34They crossed the lake and came to land at Gennesaret, 35where the people recognized Jesus. So they sent for the sick people in all the surrounding country and brought them to Jesus. 36They begged him to let those who were ill at least touch the edge of his cloak; and all who touched it were made well.
Mernans Yowann Besydhyer Mark 6:14-29; Luk 9:7-9 1Y'n prys na Herod an tetrargh a glewas derivas a-dro dhe er-da Yesu, 2hag ev a leveris dh'y wesyon, ‘Hemm yw Yowann Besydhyer; drehevys yw a'n re varow ha rakhenna yma oberow barthusek owth oberi ynno ev.’ 3Rag Herod re dhalghennsa Yowann ha'y gelmi ha'y worra yn prison drefenn Herodias, gwreg y vroder Felip; 4rag Yowann a leveris dhodho, ‘Nyns yw lafyl ty dh'y havoes.’ 5Ha pan vynnas y ladha, ev a borthas own a'n routh, rag i dh'y synsi avel profoes. 6Mesa pan dheuth penn-bloedh Herod, myrgh Herodias a dhonsyas a-dheragdha ha plesya Herod; 7mayth ambosas dre li dhe ri dhedhi pypynag a vynna hi govynn. 8Mes hi, ynniys gans hy mamm, a leveris, ‘Ro dhymm omma penn Yowann Besydhyer war dallyour.’ 9Ha grevys o an myghtern, mes drefenn an li, ha'n re esedhys ganso orth an voes, ev a erghis may fe res dhedhi, 10hag ev a dhannvonas dhe dhibenna Yowann y'n prison. 11Ha'y benn a veu degys war dallyour hag a veu res dhe'n vowes ha hi a'n dug dh'y mamm. 12Ha'y dhyskyblon a dheuth ha doen y gorf ha'y ynkleudhyas, ha dos dhe ri derivas dhe Yesu. Maga an Pymp Mil Mark 6:30-44; Luk 9:10-17; Yow 6:1-14 13Ha Yesu pan y'n klewas a omdennas alena yn gorhel dhe dyller difeyth, yn priva; ha'n routhow a glewas henna hag a'n siwyas a-droes dhiworth an sitys. 14Ha pan diras, ev a welas routh veur, hag ev a veu movyes gans truedh ragdha, hag ev a yaghhas aga klevyon. 15Ha devedhys an gorthugher, y dhyskyblon a dheuth dhodho ha leverel, ‘An tyller ma yw difeyth ha seulabrys diwedhes yw an eur; gas an routhow dhe vos, mayth ellons dhe'n trevow dhe brena boes ragdha aga honan.’ 16Mes yn-medh Yesu dhedha, ‘Ny res dhedha mos yn-kerdh; hwi rewgh dhedha dhe dhybri.’ 17Yn-medhons dhodho, ‘Nyns eus dhyn omma saw pymp torth ha dew bysk.’ 18Yn-medh ev, ‘Gwrewgh aga dri dhymm omma.’ 19Ena yth erghis dhe'n routhow esedha war an glaswels ha wosa ev dhe gemmeres an pymp torth ha'n dhew bysk ha mires yn-bann dhe nev, ev a vennigas ha terri, ha ri an torthow dhe'n dhyskyblon, ha'n dhyskyblon a's ros dhe'n routhow. 20Ha pub huni a dhybris ha lenwys vons, hag i a guntellas an brewyon a veu gesys, dewdhek kanstellas leun. 21Ha'n re a dhybris o neb pymp mil wour, heb rekna benynes ha fleghes. Kerdhes war an Dowr Mark 6:45-52; Yow 6:15-21 22Ha hware, Yesu a wrug dh'y dhyskyblon mos a-bervedh y'n gorhel ha mos a-ragdho dhe'n tu arall, hag ev ow tannvon an routhow yn-kerdh. 23Ha wosa dannvon an routhow dhe-ves, ev eth yn-bann dhe'n menydh rag pysi yn priva. Ha pan o devedhys an gorthugher, yth esa ev ena, y honan. 24Hag yth esa an gorhel yn kres an mor, tewlys yn harow gans an tonnow, rag an gwyns o er y bynn. 25Hag yn peswora goel an nos ev a dheuth dhedha ow kerdhes war an mor. 26Ha'n dhyskyblon, pan y'n gwelsons ow kerdhes war an mor, broweghys vons, hag yn-medhons, ‘Tarosvann yw’, hag i a armas rag own. 27Mes a-dhesempis Yesu a gewsis dhedha, ‘Gwellhewgh agas cher, my yw; na berthewgh own.’ 28Ha Peder a worthybis dhodho ow leverel, ‘Arloedh, mars yw ty, gwra erghi dhymm a dhos dhiso war an dowrow.’ 29Ev a leveris, ‘Deus!’ Ha Peder a dhiyskynnas a'n gorhel ha kerdhes war an dowrow ha dos troha Yesu. 30Mes pan welas an gwyns dhe vos krev, own a'n kemmeras, ha pan dhallathas sedhi, ev a armas ow leverel, ‘Arloedh, gwr a ow sawya!’ 31Hag a-dhesempis Yesu a ystynnas y leuv ha'y dhalghenna, ha leverel dhodho, ‘A ty a voghes fydh, prag y hwrussys doutya?’ 32Ha pan dhothyens a-bervedh y'n gorhel an gwyns a hedhis. 33Ha'n re esa y'n gorhel a'n gordhyas, ow leverel, ‘Yn hwir ty yw Mab Duw.’ Yaghheans an Glevyon yn Gennesaret Mark 6:53-56 34Ha pan ens i tremenys, i a dheuth dhe'n tir yn Gennesaret. 35Ha gwer an tyller na, pan y'n aswonnsons, a dhannvonas derivas dhe oll an pow a-dro ha doen dhodho oll an glevyon, 36ha'y bysi may tocchyens unnsel pilenn y vantell; ha seul a's tochyas a veu sawys.

It seemed, however, that Miss Pascoe, who had seen the boys decline the chance of choosing their partners themselves, had no intention of letting the same boys “cherry pick” their partners from a shortlist; so I was not given the choice. Instead, “Miss” selected for me Jennifer Harvey, an attractive, quiet girl with a brown pony-tail. The reasons for her choice are unclear: Jennifer wasn’t the first, or the last, to ask for me. So perhaps “Miss” chose her for me according to some superior adult concept of mutual compatibility. Thus, you could say that Jenefer became my first girlfriend. We went together to the Christmas party. But I don’t remember that this relationship was consumated in any significant way.
Dell heveli, byttegyns, nyns esa dhe Mestres Pascoe, neb re welsa an vebyon nagha an chons dhe dhewis aga howethes aga honan, mynnas vyth dhe asa an keth vebyon “dewis-keresen” aga howethes dhyworth rol verr; ytho ny veu res dhymm an dewisyans. Yn le, “Mestres” a dhewisas ragov Jenefer Harvey, mowes tennvosek ha kosel gans lost hobba gell. Nyns yw kler an achesonyow rag hy dewisyans: nyns o Jenefer na an kynsa na an diwettha a wovynnas ragov. Ytho, martesen “Mestres” a’y dewisas ragov war-lergh neb tybyans tevesik ughella a gessenyans an eyl gans y gila. Rag henna, hwi a allsa leverel y teuth ha bos Jenefer ow hynsa kares. Ni eth war-barth dhe’n kevewi Nadelik. Mes ny borth kov bos an keskowethyans ma kewerys yn fordh vyth a vri.

David didn’t seem to want to leave the comfort and fun of the truck cabin. He was enjoying the ride and his elevated position above the hoi-poloi – or so it seemed to me. So, I dragged him out. He came back with me to the crypt – but only with considerable bad grace. (Lots of huffing and groaning.) I met Paul outside the crypt. “We’ve got the truck. It’s bursting with food- enough to feed a small army. It’s parked outside the front entrance. You and Charles must come with us. You’ll be much safer with the others at the Baillieu, now that they will have food.” Paul turned it over in his mind. There was a problem. “How will I sell it to Charles? He thinks the zombies are roundhead soldiers from the mid-17th century. He doesn’t understand the danger we are in by staying here – more or less alone and isolated.” “Leave it to me, my Friend.” I ran into the crypt, ahead of David and Paul, exclaiming breathlessly: “Your Royal Majesty, I have just received word from Henrietta-Maria (i.e. Jude). The cavalier troops have regrouped not far from here. She begs that you join them and take command.” A king should sit at the head of his army, shouldn’t he? “Oh, goody. We do love that girl!” came Charles’ joyous response. No more problem – it was Paul’s turn to admire my own wit and guile. Quickly Paul and Charles gathered their essential belongings and, with only minimal resistance from the zombies who had gathered about in apparent curiosity, we succeeded in getting back to the truck and piling into its cab. (Speed was the key to our safe passage.) “And now, to the Baillieu!” I shouted.
Ny heveli Davydh dhe vynnes gasa konfort ha didhan an kab-kert. Yth esa owth omlowenhe an gorrans ha’y le ughel a-ugh an dus gemmyn (a-ugh an zombis gemmyn?) - po dell heveli dhymm. Ytho, my a’n draylyas yn-mes. Ev a dhehwelis genev dhe’n gleudhgell – mes heb gras vyth. (Yth esa meur a hwythans ha hanasans. dhiworto) My a dheuth erbynn Powl a-dherag an gleudhgell. “Ni re gevis an kert. Yma ev ow tardha gans boes – boes lowr rag maga lu byghan. Parkyes ywa yn-mes an chyf entrans. Res yw dhis ha dhe Jarles dos genen. Y fydhowgh moy salow gans an re erell y’n Lyverva Baillieu – pan vydh boes dhedha yn skon.” Powl a brederis a-dro dhe’n mater. Yth esa kudynn. “Fatell allav perswadya Charles? Ev a grys an zombis dhe vos soudoryon pennow-rond neb a dheu dhiworth an seythegves kansblydhen. Ny yll ev konvedhes bos peryllus agan triga omma. – heb tus erell genen ni.” “Gas e dhymmo vy, ow sos.” My a resas y’n gleudhgell, a-rag Davydh ha Powl, ow kria dianall: “Agas Meuredh Ryal, y teuth messaj dhiworth Henrietta-Maria...” (henn yw leverel Jude). “An soudoryon varghek re omguntellas warbarth arta. Nyns yw pellder meur alemma. Hi a’gas pys dhe omjunya dhedha unnweyth arta ha kemmeres kommand.” Y talvien myghtern sevel orth penn y lu, a ny dalvien? “A, lowender! Ni a gar an vyrgh ma!” a dheuth worthyp Charles, meur y joy. Kaletter vyth namoy – torn dhe Bowl o lemmyn rag gul vri a’m skians vy. Powl ha Charles a guntellas uskis aga thaklow a res dhedha ha, erbynn marnas defens ispoyntel an zombis nebes govynnus re omguntellsa a-dro, ni a sewenas dehweles dhe’n kert hag entra ynno warbarth-oll. (Alhwedh agan sewena o toeth.) “Ha, lemmyn, dhe’n Baillieu!” a armis vy.