this afternoon oor Kornies

this afternoon

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

an dohajydh ma

hedhyw androweyth

voorbeelde

It's windy this afternoon.
FSS: Gwynsek yw hi an dohajydh ma. / KK: Gwynsek yw hi an dohajydh ma.

this afternoon
/ hedhyw androweyth / / /

It's windy this afternoon
Gwynsek yw hi an dohajydh ma

I was playing Scrabble in Cornish this afternoon - it was hard!
Yth esen vy ow kwari scrabble yn Kernewek an dohajydh ma - kales o!

At what time is the train to London this afternoon?
Dhe by eur yth yw an tren dhe Loundres an dohajydh ma?

It’s windy this afternoon.
Gwynsek yw hi an dohajydh ma.

This afternoon they are meeting their friends.
An dohajydh ma ymons i ow metya orth aga howetha.

It's windy this afternoon.
Gwynsek yw hi an dohajydh ma.

Another splendid 'Riding for Disabled' nativity this afternoon in Lelant Downs, as usual.
Genesigeth 'Ow Marghogeth rag an Evredhyon' splann aral an dohajydh ma yn Goon Lannanta, dell yw usys.

this afternoon
/ an dohajydh ma / / /

Where did we walk this afternoon? Doesn't matter, I've got a craving for a pasty & a pint now!
Ple hwrussyn ni kerdhes an dohajydh ma? Ny vern, yma ewl dhymm a basti ha pinta lemmyn!

This afternoon they are meeting their friends. / Remember, dohajydh stresses the last syllable.
An dohajydh ma ymons i ow metya orth aga howetha. /

Splendid!' said Frodo. ‘If we make as good going this afternoon as we have done this morning, we shall have left the Downs before the Sun sets and be jogging on in search of a camping place.' But even as he spoke he turned his glance eastwards, and he saw that on that side the hills were higher and looked down upon them; and all those hills were crowned with green mounds, and on some were standing stones, pointing upwards like jagged teeth out of green gums.
‘Splann!’ a leveris Frodo. ‘Mar spedyn ni kemmys y’n dohajydh ma ha dell wrussyn ni y’n myttin, ni a vydh gasa an Goenyow kyns howlsedhes ha ni a vydh ow koresek war-rag ow hwilas kampva.’ Mes, hag ev ow kewsel, y dhewlagas a dreylyas war-tu ha’n Est, ha dhe’n tu na ev a welas an breow dhe vos ughella, ow mires yn-nans orta; hag oll a’n breow na o kurunys gans krug glas, ha dhe nebes anedha yth esa menhiryon, ow sevel haval orth dens dynsek orth aga sav yn-mes a weli-dens*3 glas.

Good afternoon everyone and welcome to this celebration of marriage here at (place) with a very special welcome to our Bride, (name) & Groom (name).
Dohajydh da peub ha dynnargh dhe’n solempnyans demedhyans ma omma dhe (le) gans wolkom fest arbennik dh’agan Benyn Bries, (hanow) ha Gour Pries (hanow).

Many things are sold. The wind was strong. The ships couldn't come near to the harbour. The grandfathers sat together outside the pub and chatted. The cat is lying on the floor under the chair in the sitting room. Is there enough money in the bank to buy a new car? Have we enough money in it? Mr Stevens's nephew is slim and his niece is fat. Give her her brown shoes, please. At what time is the train to London this afternoon? There is a fast train at twenty-three minutes to two. Look! These trousers are too short for me. You must buy new trousers then. I had a great thirst and I drank a glassful of beer straightaway. Some jugs are broken, others are dirty. No one can drink milk from them. Are the cupboards against the wall? Yes! There isn't a chestnut tree left in the wood, I think. Perhaps an old one only. Catch hold of the door handle and turn it! How many miles is the road to Truro from Saltash? The songs of our land are sweeter than the songs of other lands. We ate lunch. Then we walked. It was a long walk to the rocks on the moor.
Meur a draow yw gwerthys. An awel o krev. Ny allas an gorholyon dos ogas dhe'n porth. An tasow-wynn a esedhas warbarth ynmes a'n diwotti ha klappya. Yma an gath a'y growedh war an leur yn-dann an gador y'n esedhva. Eus arghans lowr y'n arghantti rag prena karr nowydh? Eus arghans lowr dhyn ynno? Noy Mr Stevens yw moen ha'y nith yw tew. Ro dhedhi hy eskisyow gell, mar pleg. Dhe by eur yth yw an tren dhe Loundres an dohajydh ma? Yma tren skav dhe dhiw eur marnas teyr mynysenn warn ugens. Otta! An lavrek ma yw re verr ragov. Res yw dhis prena lavrek nowydh ytho. Yth esa syghes bras dhymmo vy hag yth evis gwedrennas a gorev a-dhistowgh. Nebes podigow yw terrys, re erell yw plos. Ny yll den eva leth anedha. Usi an amaris orth an fos? Ymons! Nyns eus gesys kestenenn y'n koes, dell dybav. Martesen onan goth hepken. Syns dornla an daras ha trel e! Py lies mildir yw an fordh dhe Druru a Essa? Kanow agan bro yw hwekka ages kanow broyow erell. Ni a dhybris li. Ena ni a gerdhas. Kerdh hir o dhe'n kerrek war an hal

Sing the twenty-first psalm! Mr Bates' butcher's shop is the fourth shop in Church Street. She read the ninth lesson. This afternoon they are meeting their friends. Weren't they holding the handles? Will you eat this apple? No thanks! Can you see the sea yet? I can (= yes). Look here's the basket but there's nothing in it. There is the fishing boat but there's no one in it. Now we buy mackerel in the market. Will you go with us to the dance? He made a dresser of oak wood. They have sold the old cinema. The plants are alive still. Little Marilyn saw a monkey in the tree. Take this drink for you (= yourself). I don't like that woman any more. The sky was grey with clouds and it rained. You can fill the cup with water. Drink a cupful of it! George left his dog outside the house. You can't sit on the lawn. It's too wet. Goodbye! See you soon. My car is not sold yet. Her green dress is new. Those (people) talk nonsenes. I don't know that man. There was a tall chestnut tree in the middle of the lawn. Who is her mother-in-law, then? Look at that dirty cushion! Wait two minutes, please!
Kan an kynsa salm warn ugens! Kikti Mr Bates yw an peswara gwerthji yn Stret an Eglos. Hi a lennas an nawves dyskans. An dohajydh ma ymons i ow metya orth aga howetha. A nyns esens i ow synsi an dornleow? A vynn'ta dybri an aval ma? Na vynnav, meur ras! A yll'ta gweles an mor hwath? Gallav! Ottomma an ganstell mes nyns eus travydh ynni. Ottena an kok mes nyns eus den ynno. Lemmyn y prenyn brithylli y'n varghas. A vynnowgh hwi mones genen dhe'n dons? Ev a wrug lestrier a brenn derow. I re werthas an sinema koth. An losow yw byw hwath. Marilynn vyghan a welas sim y'n wydhenn. Kemmer an diwes ma ragos. Ny garav an venyn na namoy. An ebrenn o loes gans kommol ha hi a wrug glaw. Ty a yll lenwel an hanaf a dhowr. Yv hanafas anodho! Jori a asas y gi yn-mes a'n chi. Ny yllydh jy esedha war an glesin. Re lyb yw ev. Duw genes! Dha weles skon. Nyns yw ow harr gwerthys hwath. Hy fows wyrdh yw nowydh. An re na a glapp flows. Ny aswonnav an gour na. Yth esa kestenenn hir yn kres an glesin. Piw yw hy hweger ytho? Mir orth an bluvek blos na! Gorta diw vynysenn, mar pleg!

The sun was beginning to get low and the light of afternoon was on the land as they went down the hill. So far they had not met a soul on the road. This way was not much used, being hardly fit for carts, and there was little traffic to the Woody End. They had been jogging along again for an hour or more when Sam stopped a moment as if listening. They were now on level ground, and the road after much winding lay straight ahead through grass-land sprinkled with tall trees, outliers of the approaching woods.
Yth esa an howl ow talleth dos ha bos isel hag yth esa an golow dohajydh war an tir dell wrussons i mos yn-nans an vre. Dhe’n termyn na, ny wrussons i mettya gans den vyth arall war an fordh. Nyns o an fordh ma devnydhys lieskweyth, drefenn na vos gwiw rag kertow dre vras, ha nyns esa meur a dharomres dhe Lostwydhdir. I re gerdhsa arta dres po our po moy pan hedhis Sam pols, haval ev dhe woslowes. Yth esens i lemmyn war tir gwastas, ha’n fordh, wosa meur a wandrans, o ewn dres tir-gwels hag o bryghys gans gwydhennow hir, ragseveloryon*3 kyns an koes a-rag.

I’m not sure if it were the jazz, as such, or the fact that the zombies had sated their blood-lust, but those few that remained on the upper floors of the building seemed to sink into an afternoon torpor. (Do tired zombies need a ‘nanna nap’? Dunno.) In any event, this provided me with an opportunity to re-acquaint myself with the undead brother who had shamelessly abandoned me to pursue his obscene carnal pleasures. “David!” I yelled as I emerged from the Gallery. “Get up, you vile monster. We’ve got stuff to do.” He remained torpid – staring at me with his dead eyes which seemed to say: “Fuck off, dickhead! I’m sleeping.” So, I kicked him into activity. He was unhappy, roared loudly and, for the first time, shaped to attack me. There were limits even to brotherly love, it seemed. I would have to remember that. I quickly softened my attitude to him: “Come on, Mate. Help me find a decent radio. There’s got to be one here.”
Nyns ov vy sur mars o an jazz hepken - po mars o yn sempel lust-goes an zombis dhe vos gwalghys – mes an re a remaynsa yn leuryow ughella re omgavsa yn klamderyans poes. (Eus edhomm dhe’n zombis skwith a goskas mamm-wynn? Ny wonn.) Yn neb kas, yth esa lemmyn chons dhe omjunya unnweyth arta gans ow broder anvarow, an broder neb re’m forsaksa heb meth rag omgemmeres y blesours lyk ha kigus. “Davydh!” a armis vy ha my devedhys dhiworth an soler. “Sa’ban, euthvil plos. Res yw dhyn gul nebes taklow.” Poes hwath y glamderyans, ev a lagattas orthymm gans y dhewlagas marow a heveli leverel: “Voyd alemma, Penn-kal! Yth esov hwath ow koska.” Ytho, my a’n potyas. Lemmyn leun a vywder, nyns o lowen. Ev a armas yn ughel ha gul furv rag ow omsettya. An kynsa prys y’m kever. Yth heveli bos finwethow dhe gerensa broderus. Res ‘via dhymm perthi kov a’n finwethow ma. Yn uskis, my a vedhelhas ow omdhalgh yn y gever: “Deun yn-rag, ‘Vata. Gweres dhymm rag kavoes radyo. Y talvien bos huni omma.”

**I write this on a warm February afternoon, overlooking Gwithian beach, watching the sea gently stroke the sand. I recognize and honour the wisdom and knowledge of indigenous and aboriginal peoples, who have been stewards of the land for generations and have much to teach us about regenerative practices, and I acknowledge the contribution of lineage holders in Cornish, indigenous and aboriginal cultures that help us connect with the spirit of Kernow** For thousands of years, Mama Kernow and Cornish people have lived in a loving, reciprocal relationship. She rose up out of the sea to give us respite from the endless waves of the vast ocean and has sheltered us from the Atlantic storms. She has fed us and the animals by feeding the plants, who have given themselves to us to sustain us. She has allowed us to dig deep into her for metals that we need, and that we can trade. She has cared for Cornish people, and all life here, like a mother cares for her children. She has given all of herself to us. And without her, we cannot do anything. And for thousands of years, we also played a role in returning the love and care that she shows us. We did our bit to care for our brothers and sisters: the fish, the forests, the animals, the plants, each other. We returned nutrients to her soil for our microbial siblings. We made sure to keep the waters clean and gave her space to breathe. Humans have always been the youngest of the natural family, and so, like rebellious teenagers, we recently have set out on our own, determined to prove our independence. We have liked to think that with materialism and science we could prove that we could do by ourselves. However, that journey, which starts with dependence, and then independence, always ends with coming home, with a waking up to the interdependence that sustains us. That has always sustained us. Even when we disappeared and neglected our role, Mama Kernow carried on feeding and sheltering us. However, this time now represents our homecoming. We are waking up and Mama Kernow is welcoming us back with a warm embrace. She smiles because she always knew we’d come back. She knows that, in fact, with our new found skills and knowledge, we can step up to play a different, more mature role in the household. She is calling on us, both those born here and those drawn here, to regenerate and enhance life. To breathe life back into Kernow, it’s children and places. To honour the spirit of Mama Kernow. So how can we do this, how can we reconnect with Mama Kernow? There are many ways and each is valid. But we could begin by calling her by her right name. “Cornwall” is the name that others have called her behind her back. The suffix, meaning “foreigners” in Anglo-Saxon, is a “wall” that prevents our reaching home. When we call her by her correct name, Kernow, she hears us. We can also speak to her in her language, Kernewek. Sure, she understands English, but that’s not the language of her heart. Mama Kernow gifted us with Kernewek names reflecting the essence of the spirit of each place, and without our connection to the language, we are unable to receive her gift or connect to each place. Thankfully, lineage holders kept this language alive through the generations. Without it, our connection to Mama Kernow might have been lost forever. Our language is just one of many doorways into our cultural heritage, though perhaps a key to unlocking many of them. Our stories, our songs and dances, our celebrations, our history, our buildings and our food, amongst many other things, are also rich seams of connection back to Mama Kernow. By caring for each of these manifestations of our culture, we take care for our paths of connection. We also must play our part in regenerating the soil so that our brothers and sisters, the trees and the plants, can play their role in caring for our mother, and for our other siblings, like the birds and the animals. We must be wary to not tell them how to do their job. They are receiving instructions from Mama Kernow we are not aware of. So, instead, we can simply create the space for them to regenerate, rewild and care for us. We should be careful to not take more land than she gives us. Where we are given land to feed ourselves, we should honour our mother for her gift to us, showing up with gratitude and reciprocity. We should honour the gift of each plant we harvest to eat, and ensure we are gifting nutrients back to the soil in return. And we must also regenerate our community soil. We must recognise we are all children of Mama Kernow, whether born here or drawn here, and we all playing our role, whether we understand it or not, or love it or not, just like the trees. We care for our community soil when we weave connections between us, seek to uncover each other’s unique gifts and find a way for them to be received by the community. We regenerate our communities when we listen to and value what our brothers and sisters are already doing to make where they live a better place, rather than imposing the whims of funders, charities or institutions. We honour our mother when we show up from a place of love that lifts up our fellow family members, rather than from a place of fear, anger and judgement. And the final step in connection is to realise that we are not just children of Mama Kernow, but we are Mama Kernow herself. We are all manifestations of this spirit that is bigger than us. To call ourselves her children is just a manner of speaking, half way between the scientific and the spiritual. How does it change how we show up with each other, and with all the manifestations of Mama Kernow around us, if we recognise our shared nature? What does it mean to come back home?
**Y hwrav vy skrifa hemma dres dohajydh tomm mis-Hwevrer yn unn vires dhe dreth Godhyan ha’n mor ow palva an tewes. Y hwrav vy aswon hag enora godhvos ha furneth tus genesik neb re veu rennyas an dir dres henedhow ha neb a wra kavos meur dhe dhyski dhyn dro-dhe argerdhow dasvewel. Y hwrav vy aswonn rohow an synsysi-linaja yn gonisogethow Kernow ha genesik neb a wra agan gweres dasjunya dhe spyrys Kernow** Dres milyow a vledhen, y hwrug Mama Kernow ha tus Kernow bywa yn karder a gerensa ha kesparthek. Y hwrug hi sevel yn-bann diworth an mor rag ri dhyn hedh diworth mordonnow heb lett an keynvor efan hag agan klesa diworth tewedhow Atlantek. Y hwrug hi bosa an lesyow rag may hyllsen i ri aga honan dhyn ni rag agan sostena. Y hwrug hi agan gasa palas yn town rag kavos alkenyow res hag aga kenwertha. Y hwrug hi gwitha war dus Kernow, ha bewnans oll omma, kepar dell wra mamm gwitha war hy fleghes. Y hwrug hi ri oll anedhi dhyn. Hag hebdhi, ny yllyn gul travyth. Ha dres milvledhynnyow, y hwrussyn ni gwari rann yn attyli an gerensa ha gwith a dhiskwedh hi dhyn. Y hwrussyn gwitha war agan breder ha hwerydh: an puskes, kosow, enevales, ha’n lesyow. Y hwrussyn ri tre megyans dhedhi rag agan kesfleghes korrbryvek. Y hwrussyn gwitha glan an dowr ha ri spas dhedhi rag hwytha. Re beu tus yowynkka an deylu naturek, hag ytho, kepar dell wra degowogyon trehwelek, a-gynsow y hwrussyn ni ervira mos a-ves war agan honan, krev an mynnas previ agan anserghogeth. Da re beu genen prederi y hyllyn gul genen ni agan honan dre wodhonieth ha materialism. Byttegyns, an vyaj na, hag a wra dalleth gans serghogeth, ha wosa anserghogeth, a wra gorfenna pupprys gans dehweles tre yn unn dhifuna dhe’n kesserghogeth hag a wra agan sostena oll; hag a wrussa agan sostena pupprys. Kyn hwrussyn ni dispresya agan rann, y hwrug Mama Kernow pesya agan bosa ha klesa. Byttegyns, an termyn ma a represent agan dehwelans. Y hwren ni omdhifuna hag yma Mama Kernow orth agan dynnerghi gans byrlans tomm. Y hwra hi minhwarth rag hi dhe wodhvos pupprys y hwrussen ni dehweles. Yn hwir, y hwra hi godhvos y hyllyn ni gul pas yn-rag dhe wari rann diffrans ha moy adhves y’n teylu gans agan skiens nowydh. Y hwra pysi orthyn, an re genys ha’n re tennys omma, a dhasvewa ha gwellhe bywnans. Y hwra hi agan pysi hwytha bywnans yn Kernow, hy fleghes ha tylleryow. Rag enora spyrys Mama Kernow. Ytho, fatell yllyn ni gul hemma, fatell yllyn ni dasjunya gans Mama Kernow? Yma lies fordh, hag oll yw ewn. Mes y hyllyn ni dalleth gans hy henwel hanow ewn. Cornwall yw hanow hag a wrug tus erell hy henwel a-dryv dhe hy heyn. An lostelven, hag a wra styrya “moryon” yn Sowsnek, a wra agan hedhi drehedhes tre. Pan wren ni hy henwel gans hanow ewn, Kernow, y hwra hi agan klywes. Ynwedh, y hyllyn ni kewsel dhedhi yn hy yeth, Kernewek. Y hwra hi konvedhes Sowsnek yn sur, mes nyns yw henna yeth hy holonn. Y hwrug Mama Kernow ri dhyn henwyn tyller Kernewek kelmys dhe essen an spyrys a bub dyller, ha, heb kevrenn dhe’n yeth, ny yllyn ni degemeres hy ro po junya orth an leow ma. Yn grasek, y hwrug synsysi-linaja gwitha war vywnans agan yeth dres an henedhow. Hebdho, martesen y hallsa bos kellys agan kevrenn dhe Mama Kernow bys vykken. Mes agan yeth yw onan yn mysk lies daras dhe agan ertach gonisogethel, kynth yw martesen alhwedh dhe lies anedha. Yth yw agan hwedhlow, agan kanow ha donsyow, agan solempnyansow, agan istori, agan drehevyans hag agan boos, yn mysk taklow erell, gwythiennow rych rag junya gans Mama Kernow. Pan wren ni gwitha war an re ma, y hwren ni gwitha war an lerghow dh’agan Mama. Res yw dhyn gwari agan rann a dhasvewhe an gweres may hyll agan breder ha hwerydh, an gwedh ha’n lesyow, gwari aga rann a witha war agan mamm ha’gan kesfleghes, an ydhyn ha’n enevales. Res yw dhyn bos war sevel orth leverel dhedha fatell godh dhedha oberi. I a dhegemmer dyskansow a Mama Kernow ankoth dhyn. A-der henna, yn sempel y hyllyn ni gul spas may hyllons dasvewa, daswylshe ha gwitha warnan. Y tal dhyn bos war na gemeryn moy a dir es yw res dhyn. Le may hwrug hi ri dhyn tyller rag agan bosa, y kodh dhyn enora agan mamm rag an ro ma, hag omdhiskwedhes gans gras ha kesparthekter. Y kodh dhyn enora an ro a bub les kuntelys ragon, ha surhe y hwren ni ri sostenans dhe’n gweres ynwedh. Ha res yw dhyn dasvewhe gweres agan kemenethow ynwedh. Res yw dhyn aswon agan bos oll fleghes Mama Kernow, genys omma po tennys omma, hag y hwren oll gwari agan rann, pypynag y hwren y gonvedhes po y gara. Y hwren ni gwitha war gweres agan kemeneth pan wren ni gwia kevrennow yntredhon ha hwilas roasow kudhys ha fordhow may hyllons bos degemerys gans an gemeneth. Y hwren ni dasvewhe agan kemenethow pan wren goslowes ha ri bri dhe’n pyth a wra agan breder ha hwerydh rag gwellhe an le mayth yns trigys, yn le beghya hwansow arghasoryon, alusennow ha fondyansow. Y hwren enora agan mamm pan wren ni omdhiskwedhes yn spas a gerensa hag a wra lyftya eseli agan teylu, yn le spas a own, sorr ha breus. Ha’n rann diwettha yn gwrians an gevren yw aswonn nag on ni yn unnik fleghes Mama Kernow, mes yth on ni Mama Kernow hy honan ynwedh. Yth on ni heweledhow an spyrys ma hag yw brassa esson. Agan henwel hy fleghes yw maner a gows ynter an skiansek ha’n spyrysek. Fatell wra treylya an fordh hag ynno y hwren ni kevren gans tus erell, ha gans oll heweledhow Mama Kernow a-dro dhyn, mar kwren ni aswonn agan gnas kevrynnys. Ha pandr’a wra styrya dhe dhehweles tre?

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.

45 From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land. 46 About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli,[c] lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”).[d] 47 When some of those standing there heard this, they said, “He’s calling Elijah.” 48 Immediately one of them ran and got a sponge. He filled it with wine vinegar, put it on a staff, and offered it to Jesus to drink. 49 The rest said, “Now leave him alone. Let’s see if Elijah comes to save him.” 50 And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. 51 At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split 52 and the tombs broke open. The bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. 53 They came out of the tombs after Jesus’ resurrection and[e] went into the holy city and appeared to many people. 54 When the centurion and those with him who were guarding Jesus saw the earthquake and all that had happened, they were terrified, and exclaimed, “Surely he was the Son of God!” 55 Many women were there, watching from a distance. They had followed Jesus from Galilee to care for his needs. 56 Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Joseph,[f] and the mother of Zebedee’s sons.
45Ha dhiworth an hweghves eur yth esa tewolgow war oll an nor bys y'n nawves eur. 46Hag a-dro dhe'n nawves eur, Yesu a armas gans lev ughel ow leverel, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabaghthani?’ henn yw: ‘Ow Duw, Ow Duw, prag y'm forsaksys?’ 47Re an dus a sevi ena, pan y'n klewsons a leveris, ‘Yma an den ma ow karma war Elias.’ 48Ha dihwans onan anedha a boenyas dhe gavoes spong hag a'n lenwis a aysel ha'y worra war welenn ha'y ri dhodho dhe eva. 49Mes an re erell a leveris, ‘Gesewgh ni dhe weles mar teu Elias rag y sawya.’ 50Ena Yesu a armas arta gans lev ughel hag a dhaskorras an enev. 51Hag otta, vayl an tempel a veu skwardys yntra diw rann, a'n penn a-wartha bys y'n goeles, hag y feu dorgrys ha'n karregi a veu folsys, 52ha'n bedhow a veu igerys ha meur a gorfow a'n syns koedhys yn kosk a veu drehevys; 53hag i a dheuth yn-mes a'n bedhow wosa y dhasserghyans, ha mos y'n sita sans hag omdhiskwedhes dhe lies huni. 54Ha'n penn-kangour ha'n re esa ganso ow kwitha Yesu, pan welsons an dorgrys hag oll a hwarva, a borthas own meur, ow leverel, ‘Yn tevri hemma o Mab Duw.’ 55Hag yth esa ena lies benyn ow mires a-bell, neb a holyas Yesu dhiworth Galile, orth y servya. 56Yn aga mysk yth esa Maria Magdalena, ha Maria mamm Jamys ha Yoses, ha mamm mebyon Zebede.

Did that make him, comparatively, a mental giant among zombies? Possibly. Not sure. But, contrary to popular belief, this particular zombie, my twin brother, had a discernible intelligence. He was no mere automaton, driven by some base instincts alone. That said, he was not about to win any awards for higher learning – nor for philanthropy (unless, by philanthropy, you mean someone who loves the taste of other men.) In any event, the suggestion of going to the cemetery had struck some chord deep within David’s psyche. He put out his hand and placed it in mine. I took this to mean he wanted to be taken there. So, we turned around and headed North along Lygon Street. Melbourne General Cemetery was, maybe, 10 to 15 minutes gentle stroll away. o0o It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky. One or two of the streetlights came on as we walked. I marvelled that, despite the chaos and destruction, simple things like streetlights continued to work. David continued to hold my hand. It was cold. Did he draw warmth from me? Some comfort, perhaps. Don’t know. Zombies still roamed the streets, of course, but paid us no mind. Even outside the University precinct, I was still an honorary zombie, it seemed. We paused briefly at a vacant block where students used to park their cars, without permission, of course. My blue 1962 EJ Holden (HPC 933) was still there – but blocked in by about twenty other vehicles. Useless. A little further on, we passed the government building for motor vehicle registration. It had been burnt to the ground. Why? How? Don’t know. Maybe zombies don’t like government officials. A block further on, I saw an electric sign, still working – like the streetlights. It was above a solicitors’ office. The solicitors’ names were still written boldly in gold on the window. ‘Sic transit gloria’, I thought. I noticed that one of the letters in the sign was slightly crooked – a sign-writing error, I guessed. Was that significant? We paused as I peered through the window: a waiting area, with clients still seated, waiting!
A wrug henna dhodho, dre gomparyans, bos kowr skiansek yn mysk an zombis? Possybyl o. Nyns ov sur. Mes, dihaval dhe gryjyans gwerinek, yth esa dhe’n zombi arbennik ma, ow gevell, ow broder vy, poell a allsa bos dissernyes. Nyns o yn sempel kroadur omrewlys, drivyes gans gnas isel unnsel. Byttele, ny ylli Davydh gwaynya piwasow rag dyskas ughella – na rag dengerensa (marnas, dre ‘dengerensa’, ty a styr nebonan a gar blas an dus erell.) Yn neb kas, ow profyans dhodho mos dhe’n ynkleudhva o neppyth a sonas yn town yn kolonn Davydh. Ev a worras y leuv y’m huni. Henn a styryas ev dhe vynnes bos kemmerys bys di, dell grysyn. Ytho, ni a dreylyas dhe’n gledhbarth rag kerdhes arta a-hys Stret Lygon. Yth esa Penn-Ynkleudhva Melbourne rosyas es alemma dres 10 po 15 mynysenn. o0o Yth esa isel an howl y’n ebrenn. Gorthugher o. Onan po dew yntra golowys an stret re dhothya yn fyw ha ni kerhdys. Hwath meur o’w marth drefenn, yn despit dhe’n deray ha’n distruyans, yth esa traow sempel, kepar ha golowys an stret, ow pesya oberi. Yth esa Davydh hwath ow dalgenna ow leuv. Yeyn o y baw.. A ylli kavoes toemmder dhiworthiv? Neb konfort, martesen. Ny wonn. Yth esa zombis oll a-dro dhyn ni y’n stretow, heb mar. Byttegyns, ny wrens agan merkya, dell heveli. Kynth esen vy yn-mes klos an bennskol, zombi dre enor hwath en, yn apert. Ni a hedhis pols ogas dhe dir gwag le mayth esa parkyes kerri-tan studhyoryon,- heb kummyas, heb mar. Yth esa ena ow harr-tan ow honan, Holden gwrys yn 1962 ha glas y liw (HPC 933). Byttegyns, keys a-bervedh o gans ogas ha ugans karr arall. Euver yn tien. Nebes pella, ni a dremenas drehevyans governansel – rag kovskrifans an kerri- tan. Leskys dhe’n dor o. Praga? Fatell? Ny wonn. A ny gar an zombis soedhogyon governansel? Martesen. Nebes pella arta, my a welas arwoedh dredanek hwath yn fyw – kepar ha golowys an stret – a-ugh soedhva laghysi. Yth esa henwyn an laghysi hwath skrifys, yn lytherennow meur owrek, war fenestr an soedhva. ‘Sic transit gloria’, a brederis vy. My a verkyas bos kamm onan yntra lytherennow an arwoedh. Kammgemmeryans an skrifer-arwoedh, dell heveli. O hemma heb styryans? Ni a hedhis ha my mirys dre an fenestr: degemmerva – gans kliensow hwath esedhys, ow kortos! 61

THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED Tinned carrots and corned beef – that was my first meal after escaping from Puckapunyal. And I was truly grateful for it. Presumably, the Sergeant had grabbed what he could from what was lying about in the mess and had thrown it into the kitbag. For ‘dessert’, there was a packet of rock-hard ‘dog biscuits’. Very nutritious, I’m sure, and lots of fibre – but they tasted like baked excrement. (Imagine being up to your thighs in mud, in the trenches of the Western Front, and then having to eat those dog biscuits. Yuck!) I gave some corned beef to David. Predictably, he looked at it scornfully (inasmuch as dead eyes can express scorn), made a very disapproving noise (which sounded like flatulence) and promptly discarded it. This was something I would need to work on. I knew I couldn’t readily obtain a regular supply of freshly killed human flesh. So, David would just have to find something else that suited his zombie palate. (And corned beef was obviously not that ‘something’.) By mid-afternoon, we decided to do a little exploring. On an adjacent hill-top, a hill which was much higher than the one into which the tunnel had been driven, there stood an abandoned watch-tower. You know, one of those spindly wooden towers that fire-fighters sit in to watch for any signs of smoke on the horizon or, close by, in the bush. This one had definitely not been in service for many years. Its structural members, made of local timber, were rotting and cracked. The whole thing had developed a discernible lean and the original cover for the platform that sat atop the structure had been blown away a long, long time ago. (Bits of it lay about the base, slowly melting into the humus.) Nevertheless, the tower was not entirely on the point of collapse and I was able, with some difficulty, to climb it. Just as I had suspected, this vantage point afforded me with a view not only of the surrounding bushland for miles around but, in the distance, of the main base at Puckapunyal. Far more importantly, I could see (more or less) right along the road that led to the base from the Scrub Hill area.
AN HELGHOR HA’N HUNI HELGHYES Karetys yn kanna ha bewin sellys – henn o’m kynsa boes wosa agan diank dhiworth Pukkapunyal. Hag, yn hwir, y hwodhva meur ras anodho. Dres lyklod, an Serjont re dhalgennsa pyth a ylli sesya yn mysk an taklow ow korwedha war vynkow y’n voesva ha’ga thewlel y’n sagh keyn. Avel melyssand, yth esa fardellik leun a desennow-kales, kales dres eghenn, leshenwys ‘tesennow-kales rag an keun’. Leun a vegyans, sur ov, ha gans meur a fiber – mes yth esens dhedha blas a gawgh fornyes. (Gwra tybi dha vos y’n kaskleudhyow an Voward a’n Howlsedhes, a’th sav down yn leys – hag ena res o dhis dybri an tesennow-kales na rag keun. Thukk!) My a ros tamm bewin sellys dhe Dhavydh. Yn targanadow, ev a viras orto, meur y skorn (mar kyll dewlagas marow diskwedhedhes skorn). Yn apert, kas o dhodho yn y gever. Ev a wrug son kepar ha bramm ha’y dewlel dhe-ves a- dhistowgh. Homm o neppyth may fia edhomm dhymm oberi. My a wodhya na yllyn menowgh kavoes proviansow a gig denel kro, heb meur a galetter. Ytho, res a via dhe Dhavydh kavoes neppyth arall dhe dhybri, neppyth o gwiw dh’y stevnik-zombi. (Ha nyns o bewin sellys an ‘neppyth’ na, yn apert.) Hanter-dohajydh, my a erviras gul neb hwithrans. War benn an nessa bre, bre ughella ages an huni le mayth esen ni, bre an gowfordh, y sevi tour-goelyador forsakyes. Henn yw leverel, onan a’n touryow, gwann ha prennek, may hwre esedha tangasoryon rag hwilas sinys a vog orth an gorwel – po y’n gwylvos nes dhedha. Yn sertan, ny via an huni ma devnydhyes dres lies blydhen. Yth esa ow leytha (ha felsys) y lithyow framweythel – gwrys gans prennyer dhiworth an gwylvos ma, heb dhout. Dres henna, yth esa poesans apert dhe’n drehevyans dien hag y halsa nans o termyn pur hir an skovva a esedhsa war y benn. (Yth esa temmyn anedhi skoellyes oll a-dro y ven, ow teudhi yn lent y’n dor.) Byttele, nyns o an tour hwath ow fyllel yn tien hag ytho y hyllyn, gans neb kaletter, y grambla. Kepar dell gryssen, penn an tour a ros dhymm gwel an lasneth oll a-dro, a-dreus milvilyow anedhi – hag, y’n pellder, my a ylli gweles selva Pukkapunyal. Ha, dres henna, y hyllyn gweles a-hys oll an fordh (po ogas) a ledya dhiworth an gwylvos a-dro dhe Vre an Krann dhe’n selva.