this seemed to be oor Kornies

this seemed to be

Vertalings in die woordeboek Engels - Kornies

my a dybis henna dhe vos

this seemed to me to be

Soortgelyke frases

this seemed to me to be
my a dybis henna dhe vos

voorbeelde

this seemed to be
this seemed to me to be / my a dybis henna dhe vos / / /

this seemed to me to be
/ my a dybis henna dhe vos / / /

After this, Mr Kirwan couldn’t remember anything – he seemed to be dreaming – until the silver cup for the winner of the race was placed in his hands. Congratulations came from every side. Everyone asked him where he had found his wonderful jockey, who had made the horse fly like the spirit of the wind itself. But by now the jockey had disappeared. However, the stranger and his black horse were there, and he persuaded Mr Kirwan to dine with him.
Wosa hemma, ny ylli Mester Kirwan perthi kov a dravyth – dell heveli, yth esa ev ow hunrosa — bys pan veu delivrys dh’y dhiwla an hanaf arghansek rag gwaynyer an resek. Keslowena a dheuth a bub tu . Pubonan a wovynas orto ple kavsa y varghek marthys, neb re gawssa dhe’n margh neyja kepar ha spyrys an gwyns y honan. Mes, erbynn lemmyn, an varghek re voydsa. Byttegyns, yth esa an estren ha’y vargh du ena, hag ev a vovyas Mester Kirwan may hwrello ev kinyewel ganso.

Our cousins in the wider Celtic world seem to understand this. Comments from Welsh and Irish folk in our groups are asking what I am asking: why would we want to be part of this?
Y hevel agan kosins yn bys Keltek dh’y gonvedhes. Yma’n kampollow a dus Kembra hag Iwerdhon y’gan bagasow ow kovyn an pyth a wovynnav: prag y fynnsen bos rann a hemma?

When Mr Kirwan awoke, he couldn’t remember anything. But there was the mark of a woman’s hand around his wrist, that seemed to be burnt into the flesh. This mark remained with him until his death. Sometimes at night, there came to him a vision of the young woman with her necklace of pearls. But he never encountered the black horseman again. As for the silver cup, Mr Kirwan threw it into the lake, for he suspected that it had come to him by devilish sorcery. Thus, the cup sank beneath the waves and was seen no more.
Pan dhifunas Mester Kirwan, ny ylli ev perthi kov a dra vyth. Mes yth esa merk a leuv venyn a-dro dh’y gonna bregh, hag o leskys y’n kig, dell heveli. An merk ma a worta ganso bys dh’y vernans. Treweythyow, nosweyth, y teuth dhodho gwelesigeth a’n vowes yowynk gans hy delk a berlys. Mes ny vettyas ev orth an marghek du nevra namoy. Ow tochya an hanaf arghansek, Mester Kirwan a’n tewlis y’n lynn, drefen ev dhe wogrysi y tothya dhodho dre bystri dyowlek. Ytho, an hanaf a sedhis yn-dann an tonnow ha ny veu gwelys namoy.

This is furthermore also to exhort you, that remembering what misery came to mankind by sin and by such a sin as in some men’s judgement might seem to be but very small, it is to wit, by eating of an apple, you will be circumspect in avoiding all kind of sin and disobedience, be the thing in his own nature never so small a thing, which is by God himself or by such as we owe obedience unto, commanded.
Hemma yw pella ynwedh dh'agas eksortya hwi dhe remembra pana <miseri> ha drokkoleth a dheuth dhe vab-den dre begh, ha dre begh a'n par na dhe hevelep rann a'n bobel nyns o ma's byghan, henna yw dhe onderstondya dre dhybri an aval, dre {eksampel} a henna my a drest hwi a vydh <circumspect> dhe {avoydya} oll kinda peghosow ha <disobediens>, kyn fe an dra vydh mar nebes yn y natur y honan {Bonner: be the thynge in his owne nature neuer so smale a thynge], be-va dre gommondment Dyw, bo dre neb on ni dre <obediens> kelmys dhe servya ha speshly dre gommondment Dyw.

Frodo looked round. It did look like home. Many of his own favourite things - or Bilbo’s things (they reminded him sharply of him in their new selling) - were arranged as nearly as possible as they had been at Bag End. It was a pleasant, comfortable, welcoming place; and he found himself wishing that he was really coming here to settle down in quiet retirement. It seemed unfair to have put his friends to all this trouble; and he wondered again how he was going to break the news to them that he must leave them so soon, indeed at once. Yet that would have to be done that very night, before they all went to bed.
Frodo a viras a-dro. Yn hwir, y semlans o haval orth tre. Yth esa lies an traow o gwella ganso ena – hag ynwedh traow Bilbo (i a’n kovhas yn kever Bylbo yn tynn yn aga le nowydh) – hag oll anedha a veu restrys mar nes hag a allas bos gwrys dhe’n fordh mayth ens i restrys dhe Bag End. Tyller hweg, attes ha dynnarghek* o ; hag ev a vynnas ev dhe dhos omma rag omdenna yn kosel yn hwir. Dell hevelis dhodho, anewn o dhe wul dh’y gowetha kemmys a lavur; hag ev a omdybis unnweyth arta fatell wre ev ri an nowodhow dhedha ev dhe asa mar skon, distowgh yn hwir. Byttegyns, y fedha res dh’y wul dhe’n nos na, kyns mos dh’aga gweli.

It soon became clear that it wasn’t – but it was hours before any footage of the onslaught was shown. It showed complete bedlam, absolute carnage in the streets of central Melbourne – but no footage of the University itself. Hundreds of youthful, male zombies running amok and sweeping all before them – killing and dismembering anyone who couldn’t flee – or who even hesitated in their flight. “They seem to have come primarily from the Parkville area,” intoned the reporter, cowering behind an outside broadcast van. “Around the precincts of Melbourne University.” So, it seemed, we had been at the epicentre of the outbreak. All the havoc we saw on the flickering screen had spread from here. Then, without warning, all newscasts stopped. Why? National Security? The Zombie Apocalypse had apparently arrived and, besieged by the all- devouring horde, we found ourselves sitting about watching repeats of “Sesame Street”! This was a little unexpected. What happened to the “National Emergency Plan”? (Or whatever.) Where were the stern-faced politicians telling us what was now required? Not long after, we heard helicopters overhead. By craning our necks at the windows, we could see there were four in total: two military-style choppers (chinooks?) and two small, civilian jobs. After an hour or so, they went away – all of them – and didn’t return. I, for one, would have been happy to be plucked from the library roof and whisked away to safety. It seems, however, this was not part of ‘The Plan’ (whatever that may have been). Why? Were we not worth saving? Presumably, there were hundreds of others, holed up in buildings scattered about the campus. Indeed, we knew positively that there were because a few had called us at the Baillieu, thinking we could help them. (Sadly, even the best trained librarians were not prepared for this task.)
Heb mar, ni a wodhya nag o dydh Foll-Ebrel. Dres henna, lies our a dremenas kyns y teuth imajys an omsettyans der an bellwolok. Yth esa habadoellya difronn yn stretow Melbourne kresel, arva dhien – mes nyns esa dredhi imajys vyth a’n Bennskol hy honan. Yth esa kansow yonkers, zombis gorow, ow poenya yn hwyls ha skuba pup-tra oll a-dheragdha. Yth esens i ow ladha peub oll na allsa fia dhe’n fo – hag ynwedh an re na neb a hokyas. “I re dheuth dres oll dhiworth mestrev Parkville,” a hwystras an derivador, ow plattya a-dryv kertik darlesans-a-ves. “A-dro dhe glosyow Pennskol Melbourne.” Ytho, y fien ni yn kres-wartha an tardh, dell heveli. Oll an terroes a welsen der an skrin ow taskrena re via lesys dhiworth omma. Ena, heb gwarnyans, oll an darlesansow-nowodhow a hedhis. Praga? Sawder Kenedhlek? Gordhroglamm an Zombis re dhothya yn apert ha, omsettyes oll a-dro gans an rout nownek, ni a omgevi bos ow mires orth towlennow dasdharlesys a “Sesame Street”! Henn o nebes anwaytyes. Pyth re hwarsa dhe’n “Towl Kenedhlek Goredhomm”? (Po pypynag.) Pleth esa an bolitigoryon, asper aga fismens, orth agan leverel pyth o edhomm ahanan ni lemmyn? Wosa pols, ni a glywas eskelli-tro a-vann. Dre blegyans agan konnow erbynn an fenestri, ni a ylli gweles bos peder anedha: diw yn furv vreselek (Shinouk?) ha diw erell, vyghanna, yn furv sivilek. Wosa a-dro dh’unn our, i eth dhe-ves - ha ny dhewelsons i. Dhe’m part vy, y fien lowen bos drehevys dhiworth to an lyverva gansa ha degys dhe le salow. Byttegyns, nyns o hemma, rann ‘An Towl’ (pypynag o henna). Praga? A nyns esa gwiwder lowr dhyn rag bos selwys? Yth esa hwath kansow an dus erell, dell grysav, maglennys y’n drehevyansow oll a-dro dhe’n kampus. Yn hwir, ni a wodhya bos henna an kas drefenn nebes yntredhon dhe elwel, dre bellgowser, dhyn ni y’n lyverva, ow krysi agan galloes aga gweres. (Yn tryst, nyns o pareusys an gwella lyveryas hogen rag an oberenn ma.)

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.”

The doors swung open and the ‘red carpet’ took the form of being dragged roughly from the rear of the paddy-wagon and being dropped onto the tarmac of the roadway. (Oh, goody, just what I needed: some more deep bruising to my upper body!) David was treated likewise but I don’t think he got bruised – as I’ve said already, his skin sort of ‘tears’ if you apply enough force but you can patch the tears, as I had done in the crypt. Apparently, the Captain who had captured (and spared) us wanted to present his still-bound, still-blindfolded prizes to his commander. As best I can recall, the exchange went like this: Commander: “What have we got here, Captain?” Captain: “A zombie and his non-zombie brother, sir.” Commander: “They both seem still to be moving, Captain. Have you put a bullet in the zombie’s brain yet?” Captain: “No, sir.” Commander: “Bugger it, man, why on Earth not? Best thing for a zombie is a bullet in the brain. Can’t risk having one bite any of the officers, can we?” Captain: “Of course not, sir. But we could do with one or two for training purposes, Commander. After all, we have a thousand yank soldiers due to come through here in the next few days. And, none of them has ever even seen a zombie, sir. We don’t want them mistaking any of the living locals for the enemy, do we, sir?” (There was a pause, apparently while the commander absorbed this logic.) Commander: “Very well. But what about the other chap, the one who isn’t a zombie. Has he been bitten?”
Y leskas ledan apert an darasow ha’gan ‘leurlenn rudh’ o y’n furv a dhraylyans garow dhiworth delergh an kertik ha droppyans war darmak an fordh. (Ass o henna da. An dra esa edhomm ewn dhymm: moy a vrywyon down dhe’m korf ughella!) Davydh a veu dyghtyes yn kepar maner mes nyns esa bryw vyth dhodho – dell leveris seulabrys, y groghen a wra skwardya nebes mars eus fors lowr gorrys dhedhi. Byttegyns, y hyllir kloutya an groghen, dell wrussen vy y’n gleudhgell. Yn apert, yth esa an Kapten (re wrussa agan kachya - ha re wrussa agan sparya) ow mynnes diskwedhes y biwasow, hwath kelmys ha gorherys aga dewlagas, dh’y gaslywydh. Dell grysav, hemm yw an keskows a sywas – po neppyth haval dhodho: Kaslywydh: “Pyth yw henna, a Gapten?” Kapten: “Zombi, Syrr – ha’y vroder nag yw zombi.” Kaslywydh: “Yth hevel bos an dhew hwath ow kwaya, a Gapten. Eus pellenn yn ympynnyon an zombi hwath?” Kapten: “Nag eus, Syrr.” Kaslywydh: “Buggra, ‘was! A-barth an nev, prag na? An gwella tra rag zombi yw pellenn yn y ympynnyon. Ny yllir kemmeres chons nebonan yntra’n soedhogyon dhe vos brethys, a ny yllir? Kapten: “Na, Syrr. Ny yllir. Byttegyns, ni a allsa gul devnydh a onan po dew anedha rag agan trenyans, a Gaslywydh. Wosa oll, y fydh mil souder yanki ow tos der omma yn nebes dydhyow – ha nyns eus denvyth yntredha re welas zombi kyns, Syrr. Ny vynnyn i dhe gul kammgemmeryansow pan welvydhons, y’n kynsa prys, an eskar. Res yw dhyn konsydra an dus ow bywa.” (Yth esa powes. Yth esa an kaslywydh ow prederi a-dro dhe’n reson ma, dell heveli.) Kaslywydh: “Pur dha. Byttygens, pyth a vynnydh gul gans an gwas arall, an huni nag yw zombi? Brethys yw ev?”

“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.

NORTH MELBOURNE STATION At that time, North Melbourne train station was a fairly small, in fact, very typical suburban train station. It had not yet undergone the upgrade to a multi- platform complex that we now see and was then dominated by shabby, wooden structures which hearkened back to the 19th century – all painted in a curious dappled green. (Who ever thought of such a colour scheme for Melbourne’s train stations? Maybe it was a wartime thing – camouflage?) In any event, I chose to go to a suburban station rather than the central station at Spencer Street (now grandiosely named “Southern Cross Station”). The reasons were obvious: easier access, less officialdom, smaller crowds. I wanted to slip onto the northbound train with a minimum of fuss. But, before we entered the station carpark, I still needed to get David into the coffin and screw the lid firmly down. I parked the ute in a cobbled back lane, not far from the station. Once again, there was much coaxing required – and still further time lost. If we had missed the train, we would have had to wait at the station for another three hours – and thus have been likely to be exposed as impersonators during all of that time. Furthermore, the later trains would have been more crowded and the baggage car potentially full already. So, I needed to be more than usually, shall we say, ‘firm’ with David over the issue of his getting into the coffin. His resistance reached the point where he roared in my face in his most threatening manner. This would have awoken many of the ‘locals’ except that, it seemed, many of those locals had already fallen victim to the zombie apocalypse, being so close to the epicentre of the plague. North Melbourne was almost a ghost town. Eventually, however, David complied with my wishes and climbed into the coffin, still lying in the back of the ute. As I replaced the lid, I could still hear grunts of unhappiness emanating from within. “Shut up, ya stupid zombie!” I hissed. Noises of any kind coming from inside a coffin were likely to attract unwelcome interest.
GORSAV MELBOURNE A-GLEDHBARTH. Y’n dydhyow na, Gorsav Melbourne a-gledhbarth o poran byghan. Yn hwir, yth o kepar hag oll an gorsavow erell yn mestrevow Melbourne. Ny via hwath gwellheans rag y wul gorsav komplek gans lies kay a yllir gweles lemmyn. Yth esa warnodho drehevyansow prennek, byghan, usyes hag ankempenn, ow tos yn sur dhiworth an nawnsegves kansblydhen. Yth esens, oll anedha, payntyes yn liw gwyrdh brithek. (Piw re dhewissa towlenn-liw a’n par na rag gorsavow yn Melbourne? Martesen, dewis re via gwrys dres an nessa bresel – kudhliw?) Yn neb kas, ow dewis vy ow honan re via mos dhe orsav mestrevek – yn le dhe Bennorsav yn Stret Spenser (lemmyn henwys “Southern Cross Station”, meur y fasow). Apert o an achesonyow rag an ervirans ma: es y hedhas, nyns esa kekemmys soedhogoleth na bushys. My a vynna entra y’n tren ma, ow mos a- gledhbarth, heb trynn vyth. Byttegyns, kyns ni dhe entra yn park-kerri an orsav, res o hwath dhymm perswadya Davydh dhe omworra y’n eler hag, ena, trogentra fast an gorher anedhi. My a barkyas an karr-les yn stretynn a veyn kons nag esa pellder meur dhiworth an orsav. Unnweyth arta, yth esa edhomm dhymm gul meur a dhynyans – hag ytho moy a dermyn hwath o kellys. Mar fallsen kavoes an tren, res via dhyn gortos dhe’n orsav dres tri our arall – hag ytho gwirhaval a via agan bos diskudhys avel omfugoryon, avel fals- soudoryon yn effeyth, dres oll an termyn na. Dres henna, y fia moy a dus y’n diwettha trenow ha, martesen, an karyach-fardellow a via leun. Rakhenna, res o dhymm bos pur ‘serth’, dell yw leverys, gans Davydh a-dro dhe’y entra y’n eler. Meur y worthter, ev a vedhyglas y’m fas vy yn fordh ow wodros dres eghenn. Hemma a dhifunsa meur a dus esa ow thriga ena marnas, dell heveli, meur a’n dus ma re goedhsa seulabrys avel vyktymow an gordhroglamm zombi – drefenn aga bos ogas dhe gres an pla. Tre annedhys gans denvyth a-der spyrys o Melbourne a-gledhbarth – po ogas. Byttegyns, wor’tiwedh, Davydh a ros assentyans dhe’m hwansow ha krambla y’n eler, hwath ow korwedha yn delergh an karr-les. Ha my dasworrys an gorher, y hyllyn hwath klywyes roghow morethek ow tos dhiworth a-berth y’n eler. “Syns dha glapp, a zombi gokki!” a siis vy. Oll an trosow ow tos dhiworth geler a allsa dri attendyans anvynnys.

The North gate was much as I had imagined it: a squad of soldiers positioned behind and beside an APC (armoured personnel carrier) that had brought them there – and a well-constructed sandbag emplacement for a heavy machine gun. The machine gun was continuing to pour deadly metal into the dozens of zombies who streamed through the university gate into College Crescent. The squad members, lying prone on the footpath, added to this toll by directing their comparatively puny rifles at the same targets. It seemed that none of the zombies was getting more than a few feet past the gate before being felled. The pile of corpses had grown to an alarming height within a very short time. I guessed that, at its highest point, it was around seven feet high. But still the terrified – and often smouldering – undead came, climbing over the now-dead undead. And they, too, were shredded by the gunfire and fell just as quickly on those whose bodies they were climbing. What were my feelings as I watched this carnage? Could I put my emotions to one side merely because these creatures were no longer truly human? No, not really. Some of those fallen had been classmates of mine a few days previously. More than that, my own brother crouched beside me, watching the spectacle intently – and he, too, was one of these less-than-human beasts. And still I felt David’s pain – whether I wanted it or not. We both watched for, maybe, twenty minutes or more – and then a most unexpected thing happened: the clatter of the heavy machine gun abruptly ceased. Was it out of ammunition? Surely not, the APC must have been loaded with boxfuls of belts of machine-gun bullets. However, after firing continuously for so long, the barrel of the gun would have been red hot. So, perhaps, ...? I saw the commander leap into the gun emplacement and desperately try to manipulate parts of the silent weapon – with no obvious success. The gun had definitely jammed.
An Porth a-gledhbarth o kepar dell gryssen: yth esa para soudoryon a-dryv ha ryb KSD (kert-soudoryon durblatys) re’s drosa alena – hag ynworrans rag jynn- setha poes re via drehevys yn ta ow kul devnydh a seghyer tewes. Yth esa ow pesya an jynn-setha dinewi alkan marwel war dhewdhgow a zombis esa ow frosa dre borth an bennskol hag yn Gromman Kollji. Yth esa keffrys eseli an para, a’ga gorwedh war an gerdhva, ow keworra dhe’n sommenn ma dre dennans aga arvow byghan orth an keth kostennow. Nyns esa zombis vyth ow tremena an porth a-der nebes treys-hys kyns aga bos gwrys dhe goedha. Bern an korfow re devsa dhe ughelder euthyk yn berrdermyn. Yth esa an ughella le ow sevel ogas dhe seyth troes-hyns. Byttegyns, y teuth an dus anvarow, dyegrys ha hwath ow korleski, yn-unn- grambla a-dreus an dus anvarow erell (lemmyn marow yn hwir). Lemmyn, an re na a veu ynwedh skethennys gans alkan marwel – ha koedha mar vuan ha’n re a goedhsa seulabrys, aga horfow yndanna, hag i kramblys warnedha. Pyth o ‘m omglywyansow vy ha my mirys orth an krow ma? A yllyn aga gorra a-denewen yn sempel drefenn na vos an greadoryon ma yn hwir denel? Ny yllyn gul henna yn hwir. Nebes yntredha re via kesstudhyoryon dhymm nans o nebes dydhyow. Dres henna, yth esa ow broder ow honan, a’y blatt rybov, ow mires an hwarvosow euthyk, meur y luwder. Hag eev, ynwedh, o onan a’n vestes isella-es-denel. Ha, dres henna, my a glywo hwath galar Davydh – po mynnen po na vynnen. Ni a viras, agan dhew, dres ugens mynysenn martesen – po moy - hag ena y hwarva neppyth nag o gwaytyes mann: heb gwarnyans, y hedhis klattrans an jynn-setha poes. A remaynya dhodho pellennow? Yn sur, an KSD re via kargys gans boksasow a bellennow-grogys rag an jynn-setha. Byttegyns, wosa y denna heb lett dres termyn hir lowr, y talvien barel an jynn-setha dhe vos bros. Ytho, martesen, ... My a welas an hembrynkyas dhe lamma y’n ynworrans hag assaya porres handla rannow an arv dawesek – heb sewena apert. An jynn re dhothya ha bos glenys fast, yn sertan.

The second thing confirmed was that the Americans had indeed come to the aid of the underprepared Australian forces and mention was made of the F4 Phantoms assisting in the fightback. They were now based at the recently ‘liberated’ Point Cook airbase (which has since become another residential suburb of Melbourne). It was safe to assume that one of the Phantoms had been the delivery vehicle for the napalm last night. Final comment in the news item: an outbreak of the infection in Papua New Guinea, a ‘spot-fire’ which had gotten out of hand and, given the mountainous terrain and lack of indigenous forces (and/or modern infrastructure) in that ‘new’ nation, it was not expected to be controlled any time soon. Hmm. Very bad news but ... I’d store that one away for future reference. Okay. Save batteries. Turn of the radio. Break out the cards! I needed to know what was left of my brother, what was left of the guy with whom I had shared all the joys and pains of my young life. I needed to know also how much he could draw on our lifelong empathetic connection – a connection that, I thought, might set him apart from the other undead. I was not nurturing any false hopes, of course. I knew that all his ‘higher functioning’ had ceased along with his ‘vital signs’. That much was clear. But what was really left of Dave? As far as I could see, he had become akin to a particularly blood-thirsty and violent infant – just contained in an adult body. And there definitely still seemed to be some humanity about him – some of his more gentle gestures towards me were solid evidence of this. And I didn’t think this was merely a result of his connection with his living ‘other’, his connection with me. So, the attempt to teach him cards was no mere time-filling diversion – at least, not as far as I was concerned. At first, David merely looked with disdain at the five cards I had dealt to him. He picked one up from the floor, looked at it on both sides and then crumpled it. He dropped the crumpled card. Patiently, I retrieved the card and flattened it out – I did not wish the pack to be incomplete before we had even started.
An nessa tra re via konfirmyes o devedhyans an Amerikanas rag gweres an luyow Ostralek iselbareusys. Kampoellys o keffrys presens an F4 Fantoms avel rann an gweres ma. Selyes ens i ena orth Selva-ayr Poynt Kook (re dheu ha bos a-dhia mestrev annedhel arall dhe Melbourne). Salow o dhe grysi onan yntra’n Fantoms na re dheliversa an napalm nyhewer. An diwettha kampoell an nowodhow: tardhans an klevesans yn Papwa Gyni Nowydh, ‘tan-tyller’ re dhothya ha bos dres kontrol. Ha, dres henna, gans an tiredh menedhek ha’n fowt po luyow teythyek po isframweyth arnowydh y’n pow ‘nowydh’ na, nyns o gwaytyes y vos kontrolyes yn skon. Hmm. Nowodhow drog dres eghenn mes ...My a withsa an kedhlow ma y’m brys rag termynyow a dho. Da lowr. Gwith an pilyow. Skwych yn farow an radyo. Ple’ma’n kartennow? o0o Yth esen edhomm dhymm a wodhvos pyth o gesys a’m broder, pyth o gesys a’n polat a gevrennsa genev oll an joyys ha’n galarow a’m bywynans yowynk. Yth esen edhomm dhymm keffrys a wodhvos pygemmys a ylli ev kemmeres dhiworth junyans a’gan brysyow a obersa dres oll agan bywynansow – junyans a allsa, dell grysyn, y worra dhe dhenewen dhiworth an re anvarow erell. Nyns esen ow maga govenegow fals, heb mar. My a wodhya y hedhsa oll y ‘ughella gwythresow’ pan hedhsa y ‘sinys bywnans’. Kler o henna. Byttegyns, pyth o gesys yn hwir a Dhav’? Mar hir dell yllyn gweles, ev re dhothya ha bos kepar ha flogh, flogh pur woesek ha freudhek – yn korf tevesik. Gans henna, yth heveli bos hwath nebes denses ynno ev – nebes yntra’n dovva sinys re dhiskwedhsa dhymm re dhegsa dustuni dhe’n gwiryonedh ma. Ha nyns o hemma hepken drefenn y junyans gans y ‘huni arall’ byw, henn yw leverel, y junyans genev vy. Ytho, nyns o didhanans hepken assaya dh’y dhyski dell yw gwariys an kartennow – dhe’n lyha, nyns o henna ragov. Y’n kynsa le, meur y dhispresyans, Davydh a viras orth an pymp kartenn re rennsen ganso. Ev a guntellas onan anedha dhiworth an leur ha vires orth an dhew dhu anedhi hag, ena, ev a’s skwattyas. Ev a asas dhe goedha an gartenn skwattyes. Yn kosel, my a dhaskemmeras an gartenn ha’y flattyas - wosa oll, ny vynnen bos andhien an kartennow kyns hogen agan dalleth gwari gansa.

He seemed offended. He walked with me back to the front of the office. When we reached the reception area, he passed his eyes over the numerous zombies which were seated there. “Mr Tremelling?” he called. An elderly zombie stood and walked towards his office. But I caught his arm before he left the area himself. “But, sir, all your staff are dead. They’re rotting on the floor.” “Nonsense!” he retorted. “Staff morale in this office has never been higher.” “And, as I’ve said, all your clients are zombies.” He was incensed. “Young man, please leave. You’re upsetting my clients.” I looked towards the other zombies, still seated. Were they upset? Difficult to say. Certainly, David seemed very happy. The solicitor left, walked along the corridor with his client and closed his office door behind him. I decided to leave as well and called David to come with me. He was reluctant to go. Why would we leave all these lovely people? Then, I heard singing from the rear of building. Another survivor. The singing was loud and out of tune. The words were poorly enunciated. I decided to go back down the corridor to investigate – and to leave David to his new friends for the moment. The singing stopped and a racist tirade began. The subjects of the tirade seemed to be anyone who was not white. Australian aboriginals were especially ‘favoured’ by the speaker. I arrived at this other survivor’s office. He sat amongst huge piles of legal files and empty wine bottles. He saw me and started singing again. Then he stopped abruptly. “Are you Jewish?” he shouted. “No,” I answered quietly.
Offendyes o, dell heveli. Ev a gerdhas genev dhe’n degemmerva. Pan dhrehedhyn ena, ev a viras orth an zombis esedhys y’n sal na, an eyl wosa an gila. “Mester Tremelling,” a elwis ev. Zombi pur goth a sevis yn-bann ha kerdhes troha soedhva an den. Mes my a dhalgennas y vregh kyns ev dhe alloes y honan gasa ganso. “Mes, syrra, dha vayni, oll anedha, yw marow. Yth esons i ow pedri war an leur.” “Gas dha flows!” a worthybis ev. “Spyrys ow mayni yw ughella galla.” “Ha, dell leveris vy, dha gliensow oll yw zombis.” Sklandrys o: “Ow yonker vy, gwra mos dhe-ves. Yth eses jy ow reudhi ow kliensow.” My a viras troha’n zombis erell. Esons i reudhys? Kales o dhe leverel. Yn sur, lowen o Davydh, dell heveli. An laghyas a asas ha kerdhes gans y gliens a-hys an dremenva ha degea daras y soedhva war y lergh. My a erviras gasa keffrys ha gelwel dhe Dhavydh rag dos genev. Anvodhek o. Prag y talvien gasa oll an bobel deg ma? Ena, my a glywas nebonan ow kana yn delergh an drehevyans. Treusvywer arall. Ughel o an kenys – hag anhweg. Nyns o prononsyes yn ta an geryow. My a erviras mos arta a-hys an dremenva rag gul hwithrans – ha gasa berrdermyn Davydh gans y sos nowydh. Y hedhis an kenys – hag y tallathas predhek hilgasek. An benngostennow a’n predhek ma o an dus nag o gwynn, dell heveli. An enesigyon Ostralek a veu ‘faverys’ yn arbennik gans an arethor. My a dheuth dhe soedhva an treusvywer arall ma. Esedhys o ev yn mysk bernyow a restrennow laghel, meur aga braster, hag a votellow-gwin gwag. Ev a’m gwelas ha dalleth kana unnweyth arta. Ena an kenys a hedhis a-dhistowgh. “Osta Yedhow?” a armas ev. “Nagov,” a worthybis yn kosel.

“Sorry, Mate,” I thought. “We did our best. It just wasn’t good enough.” A corporal called his commanding officer over: “This one isn’t a zombie, Sir,” he said, pointing in my direction. “Perhaps he’s a collaborator.” A Captain approached. He wore a caduceus badge. He was a military doctor. “A collaborator?!” he scoffed. “What an absurd concept.” “He looked first at me and then at David. He did the same thing three or four times. “They’re related. Brothers, I’d say. Maybe even twins. It’s a bit hard to tell what the zombie looked like a few days ago – what with that awful grey skin and bloody mess that they all seem to wear.” He addressed himself to me: “You there! I could have you shot as a spy, you know. I assume you’re not really a Sergeant in Her Majesty’s Australian Army. The penalty for impersonating army personnel during time of war is summary execution, you know.” Yes, I had heard of this, now that I thought of it – but was this really a war? In any event, it seemed that David and I would be going together. That, at least, was some comfort. I remained silent. I had nothing to say. Then a strange thing happened. The Captain’s manner abruptly changed. He examined me and David more closely. David kept roaring his protest, of course, and tried vainly to escape his bonds. The Captain came and sat himself beside me, took off his hat and assumed an avuncular (but definitely creepy) tone with me: “Would you rather be shot, here and now, as a spy – or would you prefer to live on and, possibly, ensure the existence of your zombie relative for a while yet?”
“Drog yw genev, ‘Vata,” a brederis vy. “Ni re wrug agan gwella. Nyns o da lowr.” Korporal a elwis dh’y bennsoedhek: “Nyns yw zombi, an huni ma, Syrr,” yn-medh ev, hag ev poyntyes troha my. “Martesen kesoberer yw.” Y teuth Kapten dhyn ni. Yth esa ow kwiska arwoedhik kadusius. Medhek breselek o. “Kesoberer?!” a skornyas ev. “Ass o tybyans gokki.” Ev a viras, y’n kynsa le, orthymmo vy – ena, orth Davydh. Ev a wrug yndellna teyr po peder gweyth. “Unnwoes yns. Breder yns, dell grysav. Martesen, gevellyon hogen. Nebes kales yw dhe leverel pyth o semlans an zombi nans yw nebes dydhyow – drefenn bos lemmyn loes y groghen ha drefenn bos an lastedhes goesek warnodho.” Ev a gewsis dhymm: “Hou, Ty! Y hallsen vy erghi dhe’n soudoryon dha denna drefenn dha vos aspiyas. Ty a woer henna, a ny wodhesta? My a dhesev na vos yn hwir serjont yn Lu Ostralek Hy Meuredh Ryal. Dres termynyow a vresel, an kessydhyans rag omfugya avel souder po soedhek yw mernans heb lettya, a nyns ywa?” Ya, my a wodhya henna. Byttegyns, esen ni dhe wir yn ‘termynyow a vresel’? Yn neb kas, Davydh ha my a vetsa orth agan mernans warbarth, dell heveli. Dhe’n lyha, neb konfort dhymm o hemma. Y remaynis vy tawesek. Nyns esa travyth bos leverys. Ena, y hwarva unn dra goynt. Heb gwarnyans, y chanjas maner an Kapten. Ev a’m eksamnyas, meur y rach. Heb mar, Davydh a besyas bedhygla y brotestyans hag assaya heb sewen diank an roes. Y teuth an Kapten rag esedha rybov. Ev a removas y hatt ha kewsel genev yn ton ewntrek – o pur skruthus: “A via gwell genes bos tennys, lemmyn hag omma, yn maner a dhegoedh aspiyas – po a via gwell genes pesya bywya – hag, yn possybyl, gwitha keffrys bywnans dha zombi gar-ogas – dres pols dhe’n lyha?”

By nightfall, I was no further advanced in convincing David of the wisdom of my plans. In short, he couldn’t understand them beyond the most basic outline. Well, I suppose that was as much as I could ask of any dead person. David’s lack of understanding would not prevent me from putting the plan into effect. I should have been a little more cautious, I guess, but, without a plan of some sort, David’s ‘death expectancy’ was likely to be very short indeed. (All of his fellow zombies – at least the ones on campus – seemed, as I’ve said, to have been ‘neutralised’.) In the ‘wee small hours’ of the night, I crept out once more – trying hard this time not to upset the nearby fruit bats. My initial mission was simple: to check the ignition locks of the army vehicles for keys and collect two pairs of boots and two slouch hats from the veranda of the gate-keeper’s house. I will not trouble you with the details of this initial foray. Suffice it to say that all of the army vehicles were open and had keys in their ignition locks (after all, who was going to steal them?) And the boots and hats were duly collected without mishap. Oh, and the guard at the cemetery gate – a different member of the squad this time – was slumped in the chair and again snoring! “Hmm. That went well,” I thought. I returned in triumph to the crypt with the clothing. David seemed unimpressed by my feat – but was, once again, a little edgy. I stripped off my recently washed – but still filthy – rags to dress myself in the Sergeant’s uniform that I had stolen from the gate-keeper’s house. As was the custom in those days, my name-tag was sewn into the shirt, above the left chest pocket. Henceforth, I was ‘Sergeant S. Smith’ – which was, as I’m sure you will agree, conveniently easy to remember. I slipped the boots onto my bare feet – still no socks to be had but, unless I sat down, this was not noticeable. The boots were, naturally, of standard army issue: thick black cowhide covering the ankles, tough, ropey bootlaces and multiple layers of hobnailed leather on the sole. (Perfect for dancing at the Trocadero!)
Gorthugher, nyns en moy avonsyes y’m assayans dhe berswadya Davydh bos fur ow thowlow. War verr lavarow, ny ylli aga honvedhes dres an moyha sempel linennans. Wel, y tesedhav bos henna kekemmys a yllyn gwaytya dhiworth py den marow pynag. Fowt konvedhes Dhavydh, ny wrussa henna ow lettya rag effeythi an towl. Y talvien bos nebes warra, dell amyttyav, mes heb towl a neb eghenn, ‘gwaytyans a vernans’ Dhavydh o yn hwir pur verr. (Yth heveli oll an zombis erell – dhe’n lyha, an re esa y’n bennskol – dhe vos ‘dinerthys’, dell leveris vy.) Yn ‘ouryow byghan’ an nos, my a greupyas yn-mes unnweyth arta – owth assaya kales, an prys ma, ma na dhistemppren vy eskelli-kroghen an froeth esa y’m ogas. Yth o sempel ow hynsa oberenn: hwithra florennow-enowans an kerri-lu rag determya mar pe dialhwedhyow ynna – ha, dres henna, kuntelles dew goplow botas ha dew hatt dhiworth veranda chi an porther. Ny vynnav agas trobla gans manylyon an kynsa kaskyrgh ma. Lowr yw leverel bos dialhwedhys oll an kerri-lu - hag yth esa dialhwedhyow y’ga florennow- enowans. (Wosa oll, piw a allsa aga ladra? A-der my, heb mar.) Ha’n dillas a veu kuntellys dhiworth an veranda heb droglamm. Dres henna, yth esa hwath gwithyas ogas dhe yet an ynkleudhva – souder dihaval an prys ma – hag ev renkys yn y gador arta! “Hmm. Yth eth henna yn ta,” a brederis vy. Meur ow gormola, my a dhehwelis dhe’n gleudhgell gans an dillas. Ny heveli Davydh dhe vos kemmerys gans ow sewenyans. Byttegyns, nebes anes o ev arta. My a omdhiwiskas (ow dillas o hwath plos kyn fia golghys a-gynsow) rag omwiska yn uniform an serjont re ladersen dhiworth chi an porther. Herwydh usadow y’n dydhyow ma, y fia gwriys tokyn-hanow war an krys, a-ugh poket a- gledh. Y fien alemma rag ‘Serjont S. Angove’ – hanow nag yw kales dhe berthi kov anodho, dell grysav. My a slynkyas an botasennow war ow dewdroes noeth – nyns esa na hwath lodrigow dhymm mes, marnas my a esedhas ny ylli hemma bos merkyes. An botasennow o, yn naturel, kepar dell vydhons gwrys gans an lu, herwydh y usadow: bughkenn du ha tew rag gorheri an dhewufern, lasys kales ha lovanek hag yth esa lies gwiskas a vughkenn ynwedh, gans kentrow eskys, dhe’n godhnow anedha. (Perfeyth rag donsya dhe’n Trocadero!)

“No, Sir. Of course not, Sir.” Why was this bastard so interested in me and the coffin? How long before the next scheduled stop when, presumably, he’d get out of the baggage car? He contemplated my words further. “You say he’s one of ours. Was he killed in the recent action?” I remembered that the official line was that there had been no casualties. “I’m not at liberty to say, Sir,” I replied, a slight quaver creeping into my voice. “...because,” he continued, “there were no casualties on our side, Sergeant. Isn’t that so?” “I understand that to be the official position, Sir,” I said, with a degree of uncertainty. Uncertainty – the enemy of convincing falsehood! “So, this soldier must have died of a head cold, Sergeant?” “That would have to be correct, Sir – since no-one was killed in the recent action.” The Major smiled benignly. My plainly duplicitous answer seemed to please him. Perhaps he would leave me alone now? How long to the next stop? “That’s an extremely fancy coffin for a soldier. How is that, Sergeant?” “I am led to believe it was the only coffin readily available at short notice, Sir,” I replied. A truthful answer! But not one that the Major liked. He held out his hand towards me: “Show me your orders, Sergeant!” I reached into my inside pocket and pulled out the envelope that I had stolen along with the uniforms. I handed it to the Major and kept my eyes to the front, still standing to attention.
“Na, Syrr. Heb mar, Syrr.” Prag y kevi an bastard bern a’n par ma ynnov vy ha’n eler? Pes termyn a dremensa kyns es dell hedhsa an tren arta? (Pan dhiyskynnsa ev dhiworth an koch-fardellow, dell waytyen.) Ev a ombrederis a-dro dhe’m geryow. “Ty re leveris ev dhe vos dhyn ni. A veu ledhys y’n vatel a-gynsow?” My a borthas kov an ‘linenn soedhek’: nyns esa denvyth shyndyes yn batel an ynkleudhva (po yn ‘batel an bennskol’, mars yw henna gwell dhiso jy). “Nyns ov rydh dhe leverel, Syrr,” a worthybis vy, kren byghan ow tos dhe’m lev. “... drefenn...,” a besyas ev, “nag esa tus vryw vyth dh’agan para, a Serjont. A nyns yw henna gwir?” “My a gonvedh henna dhe vos an studh soedhek, Syrr,” a leveris vy, gans nebes ansurneth. Ansurneth – eskar dhe woegneth perswadus! “Ytho, res o dhe’n souder ma bos marow drefenn anwoes pur dhrog, a Serjont?” “Henn a via ewn, Syrr – drefenn nag esa denvyth ledhys y’n vatel a-gynsow.” Y finhwarthas an Ughkapten heb atti. Ow gorthyp, meur y dhewblegeth, a heveli plegya dhodho. Martesen, ny vellsa ev na fella genev lemmyn? Py pellder dhe’n nessa gorsav? “Henn yw geler afinus dres eghenn rag souder. Fatell yw henna, a Serjont?” “Ledyes ov dhe grysi na vos geler arall kavadow y’n termyn na, Syrr,” a worthybis. Gorthyp gwir! Byttegyns, nyns yw gorthyp o da vytholl gans an Ughkapten. Y leuv ystynnys troha my, ev a harthas: “Diskwedh dhymm dha arghadow, a Serjont!” My a worras ow leuv a-berth y’m jerkynn ha tenna dhiworto an maylyer re ledhsen gans an uniformys. My a’n ro dhe’n Ughkapten, ow kwitha ow dewlagas a-dheragov hag my sevys hwath yn attendyans.

I took David’s hand and, once again, led him from the cell to ensure he did not try to make a meal of Ingrid – though she may well have been tasty. We travelled along several narrow, linoleum-paved passageways. The cattle prods remained poised and ready to strike to our front and to our rear. We passed some sort of common room that was being used by the GI’s. They had some electric Blues playing loudly. As we got closer, I saw through a window that some of them were actually dancing to the music. More than that, I recognised that the music was something from Muddy Waters’ “Electric Mud” album – which I had recently bought second-hand from the late, lamented John Clements record shop in the city. Blues, even electric blues, is not supposed to cheer one up – but this was the first music I had heard in a while (since our time in the Rowden White Gallery) – and so it did cheer me a little. I also saw, as we passed the common room, that almost all of the GI’s in it were black guys – and I wondered who, if anyone, was re-introducing segregation amongst the US troops. But, maybe, it was not deliberate – maybe it was just the music that attracted the black guys there. Later, I realised that the white guys were more partial to the songs of The Eagles – which had not then made it to our shores – and The Guess Who – who, as far as I can remember, never really did ‘make it’ here at all. (Apart from “American Woman”.) Anyway, we eventually arrived at a couple of swinging doors which led to a very spartan laboratory. Not much equipment to be seen here – and, what was there looked pretty old and battered. I supposed that the Australian Army didn’t put very much of its funds into medical research. (And that’s a very good thing, in my humble opinion.) David and I were ‘encouraged’ by the goons to be seated in chairs that looked suspiciously like the electric chair – made with massively heavy timber and fitted with thick, heavy leather straps to restrain arms, legs, torso and head. I didn’t resist. David did – and was struck simultaneously with jolts from three cattle prods for his trouble. He eventually came round to the idea of sitting down and allowing himself to be strapped in. Once this had occurred – and both David and I were securely strapped into our chairs – the Captain strode into the room. (Very brave, it seemed, was our Captain – no appearance until ‘the threat’ had been thoroughly eliminated.)
My a gemmeras paw Davydh ha, unnweyth arta, y ledya dhiworth an bagh rag surhe na dheuth ha bos Ingrid y nessa boes – kyn fia sawrek lowr, dell grysav. Ni a gerdhas a-hys lies skochfordh ynn, konsyes gans laynolium. Y thriga an pokow-jatel parys dh’agan frappya – a-dheragon hag a-dhelergh dhyn. Ni a dremenas eghenn a stevell-gemmyn ha gwrys devnydh anedhi nebes soudoryon Amerikanek. Yth esen ow seni yn ughel neb Blouz tredanek. Ha ni neshes, my a welas nebes yntredha ow tonsya yn kettermyn gans an musyk. Dres henna, my a aswonnis an musyk – y tothya dhiworth dysk henwys “Leys Tredanek” gans Muddy Waters. My re brensa an dysk ma a-gynsow orth an gwerthji dyskow, “Yowann Klements” y hanow, y’n sita. Ny via flamm- nowydh ow dysk vy, herwydh ow usadow, mes nebes usyes. Blouz, blouz tredanek hogen, nyns yw desevys bos lowenek – mes hemm o an kynsa musyk re glywsen a-dhia berrdermyn (a-dhia agan termyn y’n Soler Rowden White) – hag ytho nebes lowenekhes en vy. Gans henna, ha ni tremenys an stevell-gemmyn, my a welas bos du ogas dhe oll an soudoryon ynno – ha my a omwovynnas py den esa ow tasdhalleth dibarth yn mysk an soudoryon Amerikanek. Byttegyns, martesen, nyns o henna ervirys vyth – martesen an musyk o an dra unnik re tennsa di an bolatys du. Diwettha, my a dheuth konvedhes bos gwell dhe’n soudoryon gwynn kanow an Eagles – na dhothya ena dhe morlannow Ostralek – ha kanow an “Guess Who” nag esa nevra aswonnys yn ta yn Ostrali (a-der “American Woman”) – dell grysav. Yn neb kas, wor’tiwedh, ni a dhrehedis dew dharas ow leska a ledyas dhe arbrovji o nebes gwag. Nyns esa meur a dhaffar ynno – hag an daffar ynno o koth lowr hag usyes. My a dhesevas na wrug an Lu Ostralek devnydh a’y arghasow rag hwithrans medhygel. (Tra pur dha, dhe’m tybyans uvel vy.) Yth esen ni, Davydh ha my, ‘perswadyes’ gans an bileni bos esedhys yn kadoryow a heveli bos kepar ha’n Kador Tredanek – gwrys gans prennyer, meur aga thewder, ha ledhrennow krev warnedha rag fronna agan diwvregh, agan diwarr, agan korfow ha’gan pennow. Ny wrugavy settya orta. Y’n kontrari part, Davydh a wrug yndella – hag ytho ev a veu frappyes yn kettermyn gans tri fokow-jatel. Wor’tiwedh, ev o akordyes gans owth omesedha hag omasa bos ledhrennys y’n kador. Pan hwarsa hemma – wosa Davydh ha my dhe vos ledhrennys fast y’gan kadoryon – y kerdhas an Kapten y’n stevell. (Pur golonnek, dell heveli, o an Kapten. Nyns esa omdhiskwedhyans bys pan alsa yn tien ‘an godros’.)

I had not had a cold shower for years. I had not had a shower of any description since Day One. David wasn’t the only one who stank. Having filled the watering can, I stood in the corner near the tap – over the small drain – and, lifting the can above my head, played the sprinkling water over my grimy, sweaty and bloody body. I shivered from the shock of the cold water but, almost immediately, felt refreshed and reinvigorated. The muck that was caked on my skin and in my hair fell away – thanks to some fragrant soap that I was using liberally – and that, I presumed, had also been ‘liberated’ from the gatekeeper’s residence. David’s dead eyes observed the cleansing of my body with no obvious emotion. In the back of my mind, I knew that I had to get David cleaned up if ever I were to be able to pass him off as a living soul – and effect an escape from the ‘war- zone’. How much resistance to this would he put up when I insisted on this? Having dried myself – using an equally ‘liberated’ towel – I stood looking at David. He returned the stare. (He was, at least, exceptionally good at that.) “David?” I said. “Your turn now – you’re a very dirty little boy!” He seemed to like being babied by me. Maybe it evoked some distant memory of his childhood, when Mum used to scold us for being such ‘grubs’ (which we were). I can’t be sure, of course, but, in any event, he rose to his feet and approached. He stood in front of me like a small child who could not undo his buttons. (In fact, I think he may have lost so much dexterity that this task was now beyond him.) I started to undo his blood-stained rags and he did not offer a protest. Soon, he stood naked and, like a small child, waited obediently for his bath. I gently bathed his greying skin, patched with tape the odd tear in his flesh that he had suffered as a result of recent carnal activities – and then shed a tear over what had become of my handsome brother.
Ny gemmersen kowas yeyn a-dhia nebes blydhynnyow. Ny gemmersen kowas vyth a-dhia Dydh Onan. Nyns o Davydh an huni unnik gans fler euthyk. Lenwys an kafas dowr, yth esen a’m sav y’n gornell ogas dhe’n tapp – hag a- ugh an sygerva byghan. Ha my drehevys an kafas a-ugh ow fenn, my a skoellyas an dowr ow stifa war ow horf goesek, meur y lastedhes ha’y hwys. Skruth an dowr yeyn a’m gwrug degrena mes, ogas a-dhistowgh, my a omglywo bos refreshyes ha dasnerthys. Y koedhas dhe-ves an most re via kalesys war ow kroghen hag y’m blew – gras dhe nebes sebon, hweg y ethenn, may hwren devnydh meur anodho. An sebon ma re via ‘delivrys’ ynwedh dhiworth chi an porther, dell grysen. Yth esa dewlagas marow Davydh owth attendya glanheans a’m korf, heb movyans vyth apert. Y’n delergh ow brys, my a wodhya bos res dhe Dhavydh bos glanhes mar pe possybyl dhe omwul y vos enev byw – ha diank ‘greugys an vresel’. Pygemmys defens a via dhiworto dh’y gowas pan deris vy? Ow kul devnydh a dowell (‘delivrys’ yn kepar maner), my a omsyghas ha sevel ena ow mires orth Davydh. Ev a settyas y dremmynn warnav. (Ev a ylli, dhe’n lyha, gul henna pur dha.) “’Dhavydh?” yn-medhav. “Dha dro jy yth yw lemmyn – meppik pur blos osta!” Yth heveli bos da ganso pan y’n dyghtyis kepar ha baban. Martesen, y trosa dh’y vrys kov hanter-ankevys a’y flogoleth. Y hwre Mamm agan deraylya drefenn agan bos ‘kontron’ (ha henn o gwir). Ny allav bos sur, heb mar, mes, yn neb kas, ev a sevis yn-bann hag omneshe dhymm. Yth esa a’y sav a-dheragov vy kepar ha flogh byghan na ylli diswul y votonyow. (Yn hwir, possybyl o y kollsa kemmys sleyghneth yn y diwdhorn ma na ylli na fella gul an oberenn ma.) My a dhallathas diswul y bilennow re via nammys yn town gans goes ha nyns esa krodhvol vyth dhiworto ev. Yn skon, ev a sevi noeth a-dheragov ha, kepar ha fleghik, gortos yn unn wostydh rag y dronkys. Yn tov, my a badhyas y groghen loes ha kloutya gans tapa nebes skwardyow yn y geher godhevys a-gynsow drefenn y vywderyow karnal. Ena, my a dhellos dager drefenn tenkys ow broder teg.

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!

The Cornish Pirates v. Ampthill -- After back-to-back losses, a win this week-end was very important – both for the players and the supporters. It was Ampthill who scored first. Following two consecutive penalties given away by The Pirates inside the first four minutes, Ampthill kicked to the corner and from a ‘catch and drive’ move, they scored an unconverted try. It was The Pirates turn to score next when Ampthill gave away a penalty in front of the posts. The Pirates chose the kick at goal, and Arwel Robson made no mistake, 3-5. Both teams continued to attack but many of the Pirates’ positive moves failed either by penalties or mistakes. It was Ampthill again who were next to score, which they did after another penalty given away by the Pirates, and following a 5-metre line-out they scored their second unconverted try, 3-10. The Pirates attacked strongly and after their rolling maul was held up, they succeeded with their second chance, when Will Crane was driven over the line. It seemed that this would be the score at half-time, but again The Pirates gave away a penalty in front of the posts – which also saw a yellow card – and the two teams left the field with the score 10-13. The second half proved to be in reality the same as the first, with both teams attacking fiercely, but through stout defending, without change to the score board. The half continued thus and it seemed certain that Ampthill would score, but they were unable to cross the line. Then with 7 minutes left on the clock, The Pirates gave away a further penalty and at the same time, seeing a yellow card for a deliberate knock-on. With one forward down for the remainder of the match and Ampthill in the red zone, a loss seemed certain. Ampthill saw their chance and kicked for the cornel. Perhaps this situation raised The Pirates’ will for they defended these last 7 minutes with everything they had. In the last minute, with The Pirates defending on their 5-metre line, they managed to steal the ball and gradually work their way up the field. With the clock deep in the red, they had succeeded in reaching the Ampthill 22 and still advancing, a quick ball was passed to Robin Wedlake, who scored in the corner. Although the conversion attempt failed, The Pirates had won 15-13!
Woja collow keyn dhe geyn, gwayn an bennseythen ma o pur bosek – rag an para ha’n scoodhyoryon maga ta. Yth o Ampthill neb a ygoras an scoryans. Yn udn sewya dew spal yn rew res dhe-ves gans An Vorladron a-jy an kensa peder mynysen, Ampthill a botyas dhe’n gornel ha dhyworth an movyans ‘cachya ha lewyas’ y a scoryas assay andreylyes. Yth o tro An Vorladron scorya nessa pan wrug Ampthill ry dhe ves spal adherag an peulyow. An Vorladron a dhewisas an pot orth gol, ha ny wrug Arwel Robson fyllel, 3-5. An dhew bara a besya omsettya mes lies movyans posedhek gans An Vorladron a fyllis dre po spalyow po camwriansow. Yth o Ampthill arta neb o an nessa dhe scorya, an pyth a wrussons y woja ken spal bos res dhe-ves gans an Vorladron, hag yn udn sewya linen-dewlel 5-meter y a scoryas aga nessa assay andreylyes, 3-10. An Vorladron a omsettyas yn crev ha woja aga omdowl-rolya bos synjys yn-badn, y a sewenis gans aga nessa chons, pan ve Will Crane herdhyes dres an linen rag assay treylyes gans Robson. Y hevely dell via hebma an scor dhe hanter-termyn, mes arta An Vorladron a ros dhe-ves spal a-dherag an peulyow – an pyth a welas ynwedh carten velyn – hag an dhew bara a asas an park gans an scor 10-13. An nessa hanter a brovas bos yn gwir an keth avel an kensa, gans an dhew bara owth omsettya yn fell, mes dre dhefendya stowt, heb chanj dhe’n bord scorya. An hanter a besya yndella hag yn fenowgh y hevely bos certan y whrussa Ampthill scorya, mes ny aljens y tremena an linen. Ena gans 7 mynysen gesys war an clock, An Vorladron a ros dhe ves spal pella hag yn kettermyn, gweles carten velyn rag knoukya yn-rag dre dowl. Gans fowt a udn voward rag remenant an fyt hag Ampthill owth omsettya y’n parth rudh, coll a hevely bos certain. Ampthill a welas aga chons ha potya rag an gornel. Martesen an studh ma a sevis both An Vorladron rag y dhe dhefendya an diwettha 7 mynysen ma gans keniver tra esa gansa. Y’n diwettha mynysen, gans An Vorladron ow tefendya war aga linen 5-meter, y a spedas ladra an bel ha tabm ha tabm a dhallathas dhe obery aga fordh yn-badn an park. Gans an clock down y’n rudh, y a wrussa seweny drehedhes an 22 Ampthill ha whath owth avonsya, bel uskis a ve delivrys dhe Robin Wedlake, neb a scoryas yn gornel. Kyn whrug an attent treylyans fyllel, An Vorladron re waynsa 15-13!