a via saw oor Engels

a via saw

Vertalings in die woordeboek Kornies - Engels

would be cured

voorbeelde

/ a via saw / / /
would be cured

ow arloedh a via saw.
My lord would be cured ;

22 Ternos, an routh ow kortos a’n tu arall dhe’n mor a welas na via gorhel arall ena saw onan, ha na wrussa Yesu mos a-bervedh y’n gorhel dh’y dhyskyblon, saw unnsel y dhyskyblon a wrussa mos dhe-ves. 23 Mes gorholyon erell a dheuth dhiworth Tiberias, ogas dhe’n tyller may tyb’sens an bara, wosa an Arloedh dhe ri grasow. 24 Ytho pan welas an routh nag esa Yesu ena, nag y dhyskyblon, i ynwedh eth a-bervedh yn gorholyon ha dos dhe Kapernaum, ow hwilas Yesu.
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

O yw pymthegves lytherenn a'n lytherennek romanek dre vras hag a'n lytherennek Kernewek (mes an beswardhegves mar ny niverir I yn Kernewek Unys). Hi yw an pesweres bogalenn keffrys. War-lergh "A Grammar of Modern Cornish" gans Wella Brown, hanow an lytherenn O a via leverys o. Avel an bogalennow erell saw U hag I, O yw lytherenn pur venowgh yn Kernewek Kemmyn herwydh unn studhyans servadow. Devedhyans an lytherenn ma yw an arwoedh Foenisek rag an gessonenn, mes yn Etruskek ha lytherennegi Europek erell yth eth hi hag arwoedhya bogalenn
O

O yw pymthegves lytherenn a'n lytherennek romanek dre vras hag a'n lytherennek Kernewek (mes an beswardhegves mar ny niverir I yn Kernewek Unys). Hi yw an pesweres bogalenn keffrys. War-lergh "A Grammar of Modern Cornish" gans Wella Brown, hanow an lytherenn O a via leverys o. Avel an bogalennow erell saw U hag I, O yw lytherenn pur venowgh yn Kernewek Kemmyn herwydh unn studhyans servadow. Devedhyans an lytherenn ma yw an arwoedh Foenisek rag an gessonenn, mes yn Etruskek ha lytherennegi Europek erell yth eth hi hag arwoedhya bogalenn.
O yw pymthegves lytherenn a'n lytherennek romanek dre vras hag a'n lytherennek Kernewek (mes an beswardhegves mar ny niverir I yn Kernewek Unys). Hi yw an pesweres bogalenn keffrys. War-lergh "A Grammar of Modern Cornish" gans Wella Brown, hanow an lytherenn O a via leverys o. Avel an bogalennow erell saw U hag I, O yw lytherenn pur venowgh yn Kernewek Kemmyn herwydh unn studhyans servadow. Devedhyans an lytherenn ma yw an arwoedh Foenisek rag an gessonenn, mes yn Etruskek ha lytherennegi Europek erell yth eth hi hag arwoedhya bogalenn.

An serjont a lammas yn tu lywyer an jip ha kemmeres an ros yn y dhiwla. Ev a dhallathas yn fordh gans tynkyans a ruber war gentevynn. Yth esa Ingrid, hwath ankempenn ha dygribys heb mar, a’y esedh - ha jip arall a sywyas. Ingrid a boesas war-dhelergh ha garma orthymm: “Rag nessa rann an gwari ma, y fydh edhomm ahanas jy. Ni a vynn assaya dhasgavoes Davydh dhiworth an vaghow.” Ya! Yth esa ow pompya ow andrenalyn lemmyn. Yn y dro ev, an Serjont a boesas war-dhelergh ha garma keffrys orthymm – kepar ha pan esa ow mynnes poesleva lavarow Ingrid: “Ha byth moy a’n kawgh mabyar ma, koedhans war an leur namoy!” “Yasyrr! A, nasyrr!” a worthybis vy, y’m gwella fordh breselek. Yn sertan, yth obersa ow diwarr an nessa prys a via edhomm anedha dhymm. Nyns esa an prison breselek saw pellder kott a-dhiworth an vedhegva. Drehevyans sempel mes nerth lowr o, gwrys a-dro dhe vlydhynnyow 1940. Ny synsis nevra saw nebes prisners, an rann vrassa anedha re via polatys re alsa ha bos medhow y’n dre ha mayth esa edhomm dhedha a omgoselhe. Yn fordh arall, yth esa soudoryon may fia, yn apert, ‘koll an eur’ hag ytho i re alsa ha bos EHK (Estrigys Heb Kummyas). Ny synssa nevra kyns an prison zombi – po broder zombi, rag an mater na. Na kerys na diogel yn arbennik o – ha ny via kyns edhomm vyth bos yndella. Y teuth an dhew jip yn kommolenn a dhoust hag i a hedhis yn unn skrija. Y triga yn y jip an nessa lywyer. An Serjont-lywyer, y’n kynsa jip, a lammas dhiworth y esedh ha resek troha’n withysi a’ga sav orth daras drehevyans an prison. “Sevewgh a-denewen, ‘wesyon,” a harthas hag i salusys dhodho. “Negys sawder moyha ter.” An dhew gwithyas a lagattas a-dheragdha ha sevel a-dhesempis yn attendyans. An kottha gwas, korporal, yn-medh: “Drog yw genev, Syrr. Ny res kummyas dhyn rag degemmeres arghadow dhiworth SHK (Soedhogyon Heb Kommyssyon) an Statys Unys.”
The Sergeant vaulted into the driver’s side of the jeep and took the wheel. He took off with a chirp of tyres on concrete. The dishevelled Ingrid sat beside him and another jeep followed us. Ingrid leaned over the back of the seat and yelled at me: “We’re gonna need you for this next bit. We’re gonna try to retrieve David from the cells.” Yes! My adrenalin kicked right in. The Sergeant leaned over his own seat and also yelled at me, as if to emphasise what Ingrid had just said: “And no more of this chicken-shit falling-over garbage neither!” “Yessir! Er, no sir!” I replied in my best available military fashion. My legs would definitely work next time I needed them. The military prison was only a short jeep-drive away from the infirmary. It was a modest but sturdy wooden structure, circa 1940. It never housed more than a few prisoners, mostly guys who’d gotten drunk in town and needed to cool off – or soldiers who had ‘lost track of the time’ and gone AWOL (absent without leave). The prison had never previously held a zombie – or a zombie’s brother, for that matter. It was neither fortified nor particularly secure – and had never needed to be. The two jeeps arrived in a cloud of dust and screeched to a halt. The driver of the second jeep stayed put. The Sergeant, driver of the first jeep, leapt from his seat and ran to the guards standing at the door of the prison building. “Stand down, men,” he barked, as they started to salute him. “This is urgent security business.” They both looked straight ahead and snapped to attention, rifles at the ready. The more senior of them (a corporal) said: “Sorry, sir. We’re not permitted to take orders from any of the U.S. NCO’s (non-commissioned officers).”

Ena, ev a sevis y dhiwla dh’y gudynnow goesek ha gwaya y vysies der y vlew. Ev a worras palvow y dhiwla a-dheragdho ha mires orta yn unn estymya. Hanasans gwelghys arall. Ev a dhrehedhis an palvow na dhe’m fas ow honan ha y dhorgura gans goes Meryl. Kynsa, my a dennas dhe-ves dhiworth an sin ma. Byttegyns, y teris Davydh hag ytho my a’n gasas dh’y wul. My a lagattas yn town yn dhewlagas marow Davydh rag assaya kavoes y styr ev. Ny gevis travyth ena. Ni a hedhis pols hag, ena, Davydh a dreylyas ha entra y’n chi mernans re via ‘An Kesunynans’. My a’n sywyas. Nyns esa dewis vyth dhymm. Yn apert, ev re ervirsa y vos agan harber an nos na. Ni a entras yn sal-dynnargh an drehevyans. Davydh a hirgammas dhe’n wrisfordh a-der an Kaff. Yn kolodhyon drehevyans, an selder, mayth yw amariow an studhyoryon ha’n privedhyow, y hwrussa an zombis aga thre. (Aga selva oberyansow?) Yth esa nebes dewdhegow anedha ena, ow kwandra oll a- dro, ow tiskwetha, ow tybri. Mar pe Chi an Kesunyans harber an kynsa dydh rag an dus vyw, ny allsa an dus na perthi orth an zombis dres termyn hir. Y fia dyffrans poesek yntra’n lyverva ha Chi an Kesunyans: nyns esa saw unn jyf entrans dhe’n lyverva mes, dhe’n Kesunyans, meur anedha. Yth o, yn effeyth, hedhas apert. Yn hwir, ny yllys y dhefendya. Yn apert, y fia rann vrassa a’n gesyon denel a’y gorwedh y’n drehevyans dres nebes dydhyow. Martesen, an drehevyans re via oversettyes an kynsa dydh na, dres an kynsa omsettyans. Mes Meryl? Ny via hi ledhys saw a-gynsow. Ple fia hi owth omgudha? Yn onan a’n salyow rag kowethasow studhek, y’n leuryow ughella? Ena, y hyllys perthi orth an zombis dres pols mes, pell an Kaff, nyns esa boes vyth – martesen, nebes dowr, mar pe chons dhedhi. Martesen, yth esa hwath nebes treusvyworyon y’n salyow na, ow kesklena rag bywnans. Byttegyns, a allsen aga gweres mar hwrussen aga hwilas – gans ow broder rybov vy? Hmm. Res o dhymm ombrederi yn y gever.
Then he lifted his hands to his bloodied locks and ran his fingers through his hair . He held the palms of his hands before him and looked admiringly at them. Another grunt of satisfaction. He then raised those palms to my own face and smeared it with what had, so recently, been Meryl’s lifeblood. At first, I pulled back from the gesture but David insisted and I allowed him to do it. I stared deep into David’s dead eyes to try and guess what purpose his withered mind had in doing this. I found none. We paused a moment and then he turned and entered the charnel house that had been ‘The Union’. I followed. I had no choice. Apparently, this was to be our shelter for the night. We entered the foyer area and David strode on to the stairwell outside the Caff. In the bowels of the building, where the lockers and toilets are, the zombies had made their home. (Their base?) There were dozens of them there, pacing about, resting, eating. If Union House had ever been a refuge for the living on that first day, it hadn’t been able to hold out long. Unlike the library, which had just one main entrance, there were just too many entrances to the Union building. It may as well have been open access. It was certainly undefendable. Most of the human remains that were lying about had obviously been there for days. Maybe the building had just been overwhelmed on that first day, in the initial onslaught. But Meryl? She had only just been killed. Where had she been hiding? In one of the activities rooms upstairs? You could hold out there for a while but, well away from the Caff, there’d be no food at all – maybe some water, if you were lucky. Perhaps there were still some survivors clinging on up there. Would I be doing them any favours if I went searching – with my brother in tow? Hmmm. I’d have to think on that one.

40 Pan welas oll an bobel an seyth dydh dhe vos passys, ha ny dhehwelsen vy y’n sita, i oll a omguntellas war-barth, byghan ha bras, ha leverel dhymm, 41 ‘Fatell wrussyn pegha er dha bynn, ha py kamm a wrussyn dhis, ty dh’agan forsakya, hag esedha y’n tyller ma? 42 Rag yn-mes a’n brofoesi oll ty unnsel yw gesys dhyn, kepar ha bagas a grappys, ha kepar ha lugarn yn tyller tewl, ha kepar ha porth rag gorhel gwithys saw dhiworth annawel. 43 A nyns yw lowr an droglammow a wrug agan tochya? 44 Mar kwredh agan forsakya, pygemmys gwell via ragon mar pen ni ynwedh leskys y’n tan a loskas Sion. 45 Rag nyns on ni gwell es an re a verwis ena.’ Hag i a oelas gans lev ughel.
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

Hwath tewl o hag yth esa dhymm ha Davydh, dell grysyn, ogas dhe’n our ow trebuchya der an gwylvos tew rag drehedhes ow amkan. Govenek o dhymm y trigsa kler lowr y’m brys skeusenn fas a’n pow. Homma re via furvyes nans o nebes blydhynnyow ha my patrolyes gans bagas prentys- soudoryon. Mar nyns esa kler lowr, ny via travyth saw bostyans an hardhder a dhiskwedhsen dhe’n Serjont, yn arbennik pan dhothya an keun-helerghi dhiworth Melbourne. Kyns bos fondyes Selva Pukkapunyal gans an awtoritys (dres blydhynnyow an Kynsa Bresel an Bys) y fia ena meur a valweyth – na via sewenus dre vras. Pan via kemmerys an tiryow gans an awtoritys breselek, oll an balweyth re hedhsa, heb mar. Dres henna, drefenn fowt trovyansow moen rych ynna, ny via meur a dhiswaytyans kawsys gans an ervirans governansel ma. Yn berrdermyn, peub re ankovsa istori kott a valweyth y’n tiryow na. Pan esen mab-souder, ow ledya ow fara a skolyers ankempenn der an gwylvos tew a-dro dhe Vre an Krann, ni eth ha bos kellys – heb mar. Ni a dreylyas a- dhiworth an fordh dewlys – lies mildir a-ves, yn hwir – hag ytho ny yllyn dehweles dh’agan kamp bys pan dremensa ouryow wosa an termyn rag an oberenn-navigasyon ma. Nyns o lowen genen an dhyskadoryon skolyek (na byth namoy o an dyskador an lu) – yn arbennik, nyns ens i lowen genev drefenn ow bos hembrenkyas hanwel an para. (Ass o feusik an para!) Prag y hylsen ha bos kellys? My re lonksa dihwans an dyskansow navigasyon proviyes dhyn gans soudoryon gemmyn hag ytho my a wodhya yn ta dell o redyes mappa topografek, meur y vanylyon. Dres henna, y hwodhyen keffrys dell o devnydhyes kompas kenkeynek, meur y nerth ha’y gewerder. Ytho, pyth re via an kudynn? An gonn Bren euthyk re via an kudynn! Ya, ty re’n redyas yn ewn. Lu Ostralek re assa bagas a vebyon wokki dhe wandra oll a-dro an gwylvos Ostralek ow toen gonn Bren. Rag an re anurdhyes, hemm o jynn-setha poes ow tos dhiworth oes an Nessa Bresel an Bys – koth mes ladhadow yn tien.
It was still dark and David and I had, I guessed, about an hour ahead of us, stumbling through the thick bush to gain my objective. I hoped that my mental picture of the lay of the land – that I had formed some years previously while on patrol as an Army Cadet – had remained sufficiently accurate. If not, the confidence I had just shown to the Sergeant could turn out to be mere bravado, particularly when the tracker dogs arrived from Melbourne. Before Puckapunyal Army Base had been set up by the military (during the first World War) there had been a fair bit of (comparatively unsuccessful) mining activity in the area. Once the military had taken over, of course, this had all ceased – and, given the lack of genuine mineral ‘strikes’ in the area, no-one had been particularly disappointed by this government decision. People quickly forgot the modest legacy of mining that the area once had. When I was a boy soldier, leading my rag-tag squad of schoolboys through the dense bushland of the Scrub Hill area, we got lost – naturally. We deviated from the planned route by many miles and were unable to make our way back to camp until hours after the time allotted for the navigation exercise had expired. The teachers and the Army instructor were very unhappy with us – and, in particular, with me – since I was the nominal leader of the squad. (Lucky squad!) Why had we gotten lost? I had absorbed keenly the navigation lessons provided to us by the regular army guys and I knew very well how to read a detailed topographic map. I also knew how to use a modern, rugged and highly accurate prismatic compass. What then had been the problem? The fucking Bren gun had been the problem! Yes, you heard it right. The Army let a bunch of stupid kids wander about the Australian bush with a Bren Gun. For the uninitiated, this is a heavy machine gun of World War II vintage – old but absolutely lethal.

ha pan gammdremenas Adam erbynn ow ordenansow an pyth a via kreatys a dheuth yn-dann vreus. 12 Ytho an entransow dhe’n bys ma a veu gwrys ynn, ahwerek ha lavurus; boghes ha drog yns i, leun a beryllow ha beghys gans kaletteryow bras. 13 Mes entransow an bys efanna yw ledan ha saw, hag i a askorr an frut a anvarwoleth. 14 Rakhenna, marnas an re vew a dremen der an taklow ynn hag euver ma, ny yllons degemmeres an taklow yw gwithys ragdha. 15 Lemmyn ytho prag yth osta yn ankres, ha ty den podradow? Ha prag yth osta movys, ha ty marwel? 16 Prag na dreylsys dha vrys dhe’n taklow a dheu, kyns es dhe’n taklow a-lemmyn?’
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

My a igoras an daras poes, gwrys a dhur – aswa pur vyghan hepken y’n kynsa le. Yth esa nebes golewder dhiworth an golowys-stret – ha nyns esa sin a vywnans na gwayans. Ytho, my a wrug ledanna an aswa – ha, na, ny via oyl vyth war an medynyow a-dhia termyn hir. I a wrug gwighyow ughel. Tarosvannus – hag annius. Yth esa figbrenn bras (“Pleg-mor Morton”) a-ogas ha, orth gwigh an medynyow, nebes eskelli-kroghen-frut bras eth dhe’n fo, aga hylghlinennow erbynn an ebron-nos. (Y’n dydhyow na, yth o an eskelli-kroghen ma poran tanow yn Melbourne.) Y fiens i ow kevywi war an figys, heb mar, hag y hwrussen vy aga ankresya. Buggra! Y fia govenek dhymm bos nebes kosella dres ow hynsa hwithrans yn- mes an gleudhgell. Ytho, my a wrug gortos, parys rag kildenna a-bervedh mar tennsen neb attendyans na vynnen. Y tremenas pymp mynysenn po ogas. Ny dheuth denvyth. Kammow vyth. Levow vyth. Da lowr, my a slynkyas der aswa y’n porth ha, meur ow rach, y herdhya degeys arta. Nyns esa tros vyth pan y’n degeis. Prag? Ny wonn. Synsys en vy yn sempel drefenn mersiow byghan. Yth esov a’m sav berrdermyn rag gasa ow dewlagas dos ha bos usyes dhe’n tewlder. Yn despit dhe hemma, yth heveli bos hwath tewl yn euthyk. My a viras wor’tu ha’n chi an porther. Mar trigsa an soudoryon ogas dhe borth an ynkleudhva, a-dal porth gledh an bennskol, henn o keffrys an le may hallsens herwydh reson gorra aga selyans. My a waytya aga hoska ena ynwedh. Ny via drehevys chi an porther saw avel trigva y’n 19ves kansblydhen. Kyn nag o pur vras, nebes haval o ev dhe’n drehevyansow teg a via gwrys a-ogas y’n bennskol gans krag (kepar ha’n chi an porther). Heb mar, y fia distruys an akord pensernethel ma nans o termyn hir dre dhreheveyansow arnowydh a-ogas. Yn neb kas, my re gryssa pup-prys chi an porther dhe vos trigva a-dhevis hag attes may allsa triga den jentyl. (Lowarth hweg ynwedh – a-berth yn skeuswydh.) Yth esa golow isel der onan a’n fenestri mes nyns esa son vyth ow tos dhiworth an drehevyans. Yth esa, y’n dydhyow na, chi an porther owth oberi avel trigva ha kresenn venystrek keffrys. Ytho, my re waytsa an para – po, moy gwirhaval, y gemmerer le – dhe gavoes oll an taklow a res dhe vos kavadow y’n drehevyans ma – ha, dres henna, y fia spas lowr rag gwitha dafar bresel ha’n traow a’n par na.
I opened the heavy steel door just a crack at first. The distant streetlights provided some illumination – and I could see no movement or sign of life. So, I opened the door a little wider – and, no, the hinges had not been oiled for some time and they creaked loudly. Spooky – and annoying. There was a large Morton Bay fig-tree nearby and, at the sound of the creaking hinges, a flock of several large fruit bats took to flight, silhouetted against the night sky. (At that time, fruit bats were still very rare in Melbourne.) They had been feasting on the figs, of course, and I had interrupted their meal. Bugger! I had hoped to be a little less obtrusive in my first sally forth from the crypt. So, I waited, ready to retreat inside quickly if I had attracted any unwanted attention. Five minutes or so had passed. No-one came. No footsteps. No voices. Okay, I slipped through the door and carefully pushed it shut again. It made no noise when I closed it. Why was that? Don’t know – I was just grateful for small mercies. I stood for a time to allow my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Even so, it was still bloody dark. I cast my eye towards the gate-keeper’s house. If the soldiers had remained stationed at the cemetery gate – opposite the Northern gate of the university – that was the logical place for them to set up base. I expected that they would sleep there, too. The gate-keeper’s house was built solely as a residence some time in the 19th century. Though it was not exactly grand, it must have blended in well with the nearby sandstone buildings of the university. Of course, that harmony had long since been disrupted by the presence of more modern buildings nearby. Still, I had always thought it looked like a particularly elegant and comfortable place in which a gentleman could reside. (Nice garden, too – within a privet hedge.) There was a soft glow at one of its windows but no sound coming from the building. The gatekeeper’s house was, in current times, set up both as a residence and administrative centre. So, I would have expected the squad – or, rather, its replacement – would have found all mod-cons available in the building – as well as space to set up communications, store munitions and so on.

Praga? Y fia an mowesow brethys keniver ha polatys – moy martesen. Nebes anedha re wodhevsa terthenn mes nevra terthenn sevur. Na, terthenn sevur vyth. Wosa unn jydh po dew, nyns esa na fella terthenn ynna, an mowesow. Nyns esa sinys vyth. Mes an polatys? Wel, pubonan re via brethys o lemmyn gyllys – a-der Davydh. Ha, wor’tiwedh, y sevi ev war dreudhow an nessa bosva (mars o ‘bosva’ an ger gwiw rag studh a’n re erell na). Ev a gynas nebes. My a dhinewis tamm dowr war y dhiweus - ha sygha y dal. Ev a omdhiskwithas unnweyth arta. “Ny drig hirneth ragos lemmyn, ‘Vata,” yn-medhav vy, ow kodhvos na ylli ow klywes. “Mes yth esov vy hwath omma. Ny vynnav dha asa.” My a wodhya na yllyn y asa. Na nevra. Andhismygadow o hemma. Fatell hwarsa hemma? Bagas yonkers ownek, owth omgudha y’n lyverva pennskol, kyrghynnys gans rout kroaduryon a growdra yn trosek yn-mes, ow hwilas travyth saw aga devorya. Ny via gwarnyans vyth. Gwarnyans vyth. Hemm yw dell hwarva genen: Yth esa Davydh ha my a’gan esedh yn areth frynkek, leur a-woeles, Drehevyans Redmond Barry, ow klywes yn kever “An Philosophes”. Ena, frapp! Yth esa eth anedha, deg, dewdhek martesen, ow tardha y’n arethva, ow pedhygla hag ow skwardya, ow pedhygla hag ow skwardya ... Y’n kynsa le, ni a grysis y vos neb eghenn a ges-studyer a-barth an ‘Seythun Prosh’. Mes nyns o. Hag, ena, onan a’n draow na a settyas dalghenn war an arethores – ha skwardya yn-mes hy bryansenn. Hy goes arteriek a stifas nebes pellder y’n ayr – hag ytho Davydh ha my a wodhya nag esa hemma ges vyth. Y tallathas an skrijians. Skrijians gluw ha kruthys. Rann vrassa an studhyoryon o myrghes. Yth esa yn hwir Davydh ha my y’n rann vyghanna. (Ni re’n garsa yndella.) Ena, an groaduryon a omdhegesas orth an re esa y’n arethva – orth an re y’n esedhow a-rag, an moyha studhyus – ha dalleth skwardya orta. Yth esa moy goes, moy goes dres eghenn, dillas ha kig denel skethennek.
Why was that? Just as many girls had been bitten – maybe more. Some had gone down with a fever but never real bad. No, not real bad. In a day or two, there was no more fever, no more symptoms at all. But the guys? Well, every one that had been bitten was now gone – except David. And finally, he, too, stood on the threshold of his next existence (if ‘existence’ was an apt word for what the others had become.) He moaned a little. I poured a little water on his lips. Mopped his brow. He relaxed and settled again. “Not long to go now, Mate,” I said, knowing he could not hear me. “But I’m still here. I won’t leave you.” I knew I would not leave him. Not ever. It was inconceivable. How had it come to this: a bunch of starving, scared kids holed up in a university library, surrounded by a mob of creatures that loitered noisily outside, wishing for nothing but to devour them? There had been no warning, no warning at all. This is how it was for us: David and I were sitting in a French lecture, ground floor, Redmond Barry Building, taking in lots about “Les philosophes”, when bang! In burst eight, ten, maybe a dozen of them, roaring and tearing, roaring and tearing. We thought it was a joke at first, some sort of student prank for ‘Prosh Week’. Only it wasn’t Prosh Week. And then one of the things seized the lecturer and tore her throat clean out, and when her arterial blood squirted some feet in the air, David and I knew it was no prank. The screaming started. Shrill, panicked screaming. The students were mainly female – David and I were very definitely in the minority. (We had liked it that way.) The creatures then hurled themselves at those in the auditorium – at those in the front rows, the most studious – and started tearing at them. More blood, much more blood, shredded clothing and flesh.

9 Ena an ARLOEDH o serrys orth Solomon drefenn y golonn dhe dreylya dhe-ves a’n ARLOEDH, Duw Ysrael, re omdhiskwedhsa dhodho diwweyth, 10 ha gorhemmynn dhodho war an dra ma na holya duwow erell; mes ny verkyas an pyth a worhemmynnis an ARLOEDH. 11 Ytho an ARLOEDH a leveris dhe Solomon, ‘A-ban via henna dha vrys ha ny withsys ow hevambos na’m ordenansow a worhemmynnis dhis, my a derr an wlaskor a-dhiworthis ha’y ri dhe’th was. 12 Byttegyns a wovis dha das Davydh ny’n gwrav y’th dydhyow; my a’n terr a leuv dha vab. 13 Saw ny dorrav an wlaskor oll; my a re unn loeth dhe’th vab a-barth ow gwas Davydh hag a-barth Yerusalem, re dhewisis.’
[no English parallel text | tekst kettuel Sowsnek vyth]

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

AN KERT YEYNELL Nyns esa porpos da vyth bos servyes dre gewsel a-dro dhe vaterow poesek gans Charles. Yn hwir, yth esa ev yn y bys byghan y honan – ha lowen o ev bos ena. Byttegyns, dihaval o Powl. Gwir o y vos owth omdhesevya yn kryjyk. Wosa oll, nyns yw pub huni a dhegemmer Maria Wynn avel godrigores. Byttegyns, yth heveli y vos resnel yn selyek – yth esa edhomm meur dhymm a’y vos astell-son rag an nessa towlow ragov vy ha rag Davydh. Ytho, pan esa Davydh ha Charles ow powes, my a’n kemmeras a-denewen. “Dhe by pellder a grysydh bos an pla drehedhys lemmyn?” a wovynnis vy. “Y tesevydh nag y vos lesys saw gans brath an zombis?” “Desav. Nyns esa denvyth ow kudha y’n Baillieu a dhiskwedha sinys marnas i re via brethys. Ytho, nyns yw gwirhaval bos lesans an klevesans der ayr po dre dhowr,” yn-medhav. “Wel, ny yll an pla lesa pella – hag uskissa – ages an zombis,” a worthybis Powl, meur y reson. “Ytho, py pellder a yll mos an zombis yn ...pyth ywa lemmyn? Naw dydh?” Henn o kepar ha kwestyon dhiworth Monty Python’s Flying Circus: “Mar kelmir krogen knowenn goko orth y esker, py pellder a yll nija gwennel Afrikanek yn ...?” “An zombis a yll kerdhes mar uskis ha’n dus vyw mes an re a welis vy, ny gerdhons i yn linennow syth, dell heveli. Ny wrons marnas gwandra oll a-dro – menowgh ogas dhe’n keth le.” “Prederyn ni a-dro dhe henna,” yn-medh Powl, ow tevi y omvyskans y’n kwestyon ma. “Ny yllys gweles an re a fisa, a ny yllys? Drefenn ty dhe driga y’n keth le – ogas dhe’n bennskol...” Observyans ewn. “...ytho, leveryn bagas byghan anedha dhe dhewis gwandra dhe-ves, mes trohag unn gwartron unnsel, ha pesya yn sempel gwandra y’n fordh na heb chanj. Py pellder re lavuryas an voward ma, voward an klevesans, bys an tor’ ma?”
THE FRIDGE TRUCK There wasn’t much point in discussing matters with Charles. He was definitely in his own little world and happy to be there. Paul, however, was a different proposition. It is true that he was religiously self-deluding. After all, not everyone receives visitations from the Blessed Virgin Mary. However, he seemed basically rational and I desperately needed a sounding board to plan my (and David’s) next moves. So, when David and Charles both chose to rest, I took him aside. “How far do you think the plague has spread?” I asked. “You’re assuming it is spread only by zombie bite?” “Yes, no-one who was hiding in the Baillieu showed any symptoms unless they had been bitten. So, airborne or waterborne infection seems unlikely,” I said. “Well, the infection will have travelled only as far – and as fast – as the zombies,” replied Paul, not unreasonably. “So, how far can zombies travel in, what is it now? Nine days?” This sounded like one of those questions from Monty Python’s Flying Circus: “If you tie a coconut shell to its leg, how far can an African swallow fly in ...?” “Zombies can walk as fast as living people but the ones I’ve seen tend not to travel in straight lines. They just mill about in much the same place.” “Let’s think about that,” said Paul, warming to the conundrum. “You wouldn’t see the ones who had cleared off, would you? Because you yourself have stayed put – near the uni ...” A fair point. “...now let’s say a small but significant percentage of zombies choose to wander off in a particular direction and just keep going. How far would this vanguard of the infection have gotten by now?”

♦ to bring the money home and b. more drei dre an mona ha perna moy WP?; you should not b. firewood by the horseload ny dal dhis perna cünys war an saw JJ; it would be better to b. some coal gwell hei via perna nebes glow JJ; just as he bought you dearly pecar dre (< kepar del) e’th pernas ker BK; and I shall b. it from you. ha my a’s pren dhyworthys PC; I will give the women money to b. food and drink my a vedn dhe'n benenes rei
♦ to bring the money home and b. more drei dre an mona ha perna moy WP?; you should not b. firewood by the horseload ny dal dhis perna cünys war an saw JJ; it would be better to b. some coal gwell hei via perna nebes glow JJ; just as he bought you dearly pecar dre (< kepar del) e’th pernas ker BK; and I shall b. it from you. ha my a’s pren dhyworthys PC; I will give the women money to b. food and drink my a vedn dhe'n benenes rei

PARK MEUR KASTLEMAYNE Nyns o poynt vyth ow kul plentyans gans Davydh. A blentir gans pakk eusvilas po teylu lewyon? Ladher o Davydh – henn o lemmyn rann y gnas. (Rann agan gnas?) Byttegyns, res o dhymm y gemmeres dhiworth y ladh kyns ni dhe dhrehedhes an nessa gorsav. My a reknas, yn ewn, an drogober (mars o yndella yn hwir) dhe vos diskudhys kettell dhrehedhsen an orsav. Kyn re via uskis an ladh, ev o goesek ha strolyek. Travyth a-der anyen re’n gidsa. Ny via preder vyth dhodho a-dro dh’y gudha. Mar pe dhyn termyn ha daffar y fia edhomm a ouryow rag klanhe an leur ha gul ‘kellys’ an korf. Nyns esa nag an eyl nag y gila dhyn ni. Davydh a besyas an wledh ha my ombrederys. (Ny’m gweresa trosow grysel Davydh.) Pyth o agan dewisow? Nyns o saw unn dhewis yn hwir: fia an tren skonna galla hag omgudha plepynag a via an gwella le ena. An nessa gorsav o Kastlemayne. Tre vras lowr, yth esa dhedhi, martesen, 10,000 enev. Nans yw termyn hir, nebes brassa o – kepar dell o lies tre yn Budhykka – drefenn Fysk dh’Owr dres an blydhynnyow 1850 ha 1860. Y’n termyn ma, hi a worra hy fydh yn ammeth hag yn tornyaseth. My a wodhya da lowr aray stretow an dre ma drefenn my dhe vysytya yn fenowgh ow herens goth ena pan en vy fleghik. Dhe ble a dalvien fia? Po omgudha? My a galkyas bos dhymm le es 10 mynysenn rag konsydra ow dewisow. Yth esa lies shafta forsakyes mes yth esens nebes pellder dhiworth an dre – ha pur beryllus. Oll an shaftys hag o nessa dhe’n dre re via lettys po lenwys nans yw degblydhynnyow. Ytho, y hyllys ankevi an tybyans na. My a borthas kov my dhe wari, pan en vy fleghik, y’n park lowsoniethel. Rag tre vyghan lowr, hemm o park pur deg. Pan o brassa an dre, yn termynyow sewenus (drefenn an owr), an vurjysi rych re ervirsa bos edhomm dh’aga thre a le a’n par na rag aga gwari jentyl. Onan yntr’an vurjysi re henwis hogen lynn an park warlergh y wreg, Johanna hy hanow. Lynn vras lowr o, ynys y gres may hwrug an heyji ha’n ydhyn aga neythow ha may hallsens maga aga miles yowynk. Ha, dres henna, nyns esa an park saw ogas dhe 100m dhiworth an orsav, war ryb an dre. Gans chons da, meur a jons da, ni a allsa resek ena kyns o diskudhys strol y’n koch-fardell.
CASTLEMAINE GARDENS There was simply no point in remonstrating with David – anymore than there would have been with a pack of hyenas or a pride of lions. David was a killer – that was now part of his nature. (Part of our nature?) However, I needed to get him away from his kill before we arrived at the next scheduled stop. I calculated, correctly, that the crime (if such it be) would be discovered almost as soon as we pulled into the station. The kill (though death had been quick) had been very messy and bloody. It was entirely instinctive and David had given no thought to concealing it. If we’d had the time and equipment, it would have taken hours to clean up and dispose of the remains. We had neither. David continued his feasting as I considered our options. David’s grisly noise did not help. There was really only one option: flee the train at the earliest opportunity and hide in whichever place best presented itself. Castlemaine was the next scheduled stop. It’s a medium-sized own of, maybe, 10,000 people. It was once much bigger – as were many such towns – during the Victorian Goldrush of the 1850’s and 1860’s. But now it relied on agriculture and tourism. I was familiar, in general terms, with its layout as I had visited elderly relatives there several times in my childhood. Where to flee? Where to hide? I guessed I had less than 10 minutes to weigh my options. There were many abandoned mine-shafts but they were way out of town – and very dangerous. Any mines closer to town had been blocked off or filled in decades ago. So, forget that idea. I remembered that, when I was a kid, I’d played in the botanical gardens. For such a modest town, these were fine gardens. When the town had been larger and more prosperous, the wealthy burghers had decided their town needed such a place for genteel recreation. One of those burghers had even named the ornamental lake after his wife, Lake Johanna. It was a largish lake with an island in the middle where ducks and waterfowl made their nests and raised their young. And, moreover, the gardens were within 100m of the train station, on the edge of town. With luck, a lot of luck, we could sprint there before the mess in the baggage car were discovered.

Y TREYL AN MORDID. Ny wellasa selder Chi an Kesunyans. Yth esa hwath fleur korfow denel breyn re via skattrys oll a-dro. Yth esa hwath dewdhegow a zombis ow kwandra oll a- dro. Yth esa hwath an gathes driliw druan na – a rewlya oll a-dro, dell heveli. Hag yth esa hwath Davydh – a grysi, dell heveli, an selder euthyk na dhe vos y dre ev. Ha ni entrys an pytt ifarnek, my a glywas, yn pytt ow glas ow honan, golow toemm ha lowen re dhothya dhiworth glas Davydh. An kesomglywans ma a gevrannsa Davydh ha my dres oll agan bywnansow o lemmyn fenten a euth meur ragov. Ha my klywys plesour Davydh, y brederis a’n lavar krin na “Nyns yw ev poes, ev yth yw ow broder vy” – hag omgavoes bos ow kana “Nyns yw ev zombi, ev yth yw ow broder vy.” Hwarthus dres eghenn. Y treylyas an gathes ha lagatta orthymm – ny attendsa an zombis dhe’m kenys anhweg. Ytho, pyth o kudynn an gathes wokki na ganso? A ny wrug fors? Na wrug. Dismygyans best kathek, ny rosa dhymm assoylyans gordhroglamm an zombis. (A rosa e?) My a wodhya na via gwayys Davydh a-dhiworth y nessa tre ev. Ytho, yn despit dhe’n gwelyow ha’n fleryow esa ow ri dhymm penn-dro, nyns esa dewis vyth saw gul an gwella a’n studh – po perisshya yn euthyk kepar ha Meryl hweg hag anfeusik. My a gevis neythik, kler lowr a zombis ha temmyn korfow denel, hag esedha. Unnweyth arta, yth esov ughhewoel drefenn an gathes – mes ny heveli bos omsettyans ow tos. My a wra krysi my dhe goedha yn kosk pols heb ow bos aperys. Yth heveli bos lowen Davydh yntra’n re a’y eghenn y honan. Ny wre ev ha’y eghenn saw kowethashe warbarth, dell heveli. Yth esa roghow ha hanasennow herwydh usadow ha, treweythyow, strif a-dro dhe ‘voes’ kro. (Y tothya provians byghan a gig nowydh dres agan estrik alena.) Byttegyns, an rann vrassa anedha, yth esens yn sempel ow kwandra oll a-dro – po owth esedha dison warbarth. Yth o kepar ha’n gwettha kevywi may hallsewgh tybi – mes lowen lowr ens i, dell heveli.
THE TIDE TURNS. The basement of Union house had not improved. It still stank of rotting human remains which were scattered about here and there. It was still populated by dozens of zombies in various states of activity. It was still seemingly ruled by that wretched tortoiseshell cat. And David still seemed to think of it as home. As we entered this hellish pit, I felt David’s warm and contented glow in the pit of my own stomach. The fellow-feeling that David and I had shared throughout our lives was now a source of considerable revulsion to me. As I felt David’s pleasure, I thought of that trite saying “He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother” and found myself singing “He ain’t zombie, he’s my brother.” Hysterical. The cat turned and glared at me – the zombies didn’t notice my off-key singing. So, why should it bother that stupid cat? Did it matter? No. Figuring out a bad-tempered feline was not going to solve the zombie apocalypse. (Was it?) I knew that David would not be moved from his home-away-from-home. So, despite the nausea-inducing sights and smells, I had no choice but to make the best of it (or perish horrifically like poor, sweet Meryl.) I found a corner which was relatively free from both zombies and human detritus – and settled down. Once again, I kept a watchful eye on the cat – but attack did not seem imminent. I do believe I even nodded off for a brief time without coming to harm. David seemed happy amongst his own. He and his kind just seemed to ‘hang out’ together. There were the usual grunts and groans, the occasional squabble over the fresher pieces of ‘food’. (There had been a minor re-supply of meat in our absence.) Mostly, however, they just milled about or simply sat together. It was like the worst party you could possibly imagine – but they seemed happy enough with it.

A-dreus an pellder, y hyllyn klywes harthow keun. Nyns en re droblys drefenn nag esa an keun ma saw keun-gwith normal dhiworth an selva. Ny via termyn lowr hwath rag dri goes-keun dhiworth Melbourne. Ytho, marnas Davydh ha my a ve gokki lowr rag bos ‘gweladow’ der agan ethenn, ny gavsa an keun- gwith agan kovva kyns ni dhe asa. Byttele, y hwodhyen bos edhomm dhymm a driga ena. Yn hwirhaval, ow gwandrans oll a-dro dhe’n gwylvos dres an nos a allsa tenna attendyans a oll eghennow a gi. Res bia dhe Dhavydh omwitha. My a dremenas an nos ow kortos yn prederus ha my a’m gorwedh difun war an leur yeyn gwrys a bri, yn town a-berth y’n gowfordh. Yth esen ow kortos hag owth ombrederi – kepar dell wra kerens a dhus yowynk pan dhallethons mos yn-mes hebdha. (Kyn nag o Davydh den yowynk herwydh usadow.) Y teuth myttin – hwath yth esa Davydh mes a wel. “Dhe ble osta gyllys, ‘vastard kig-debror byghan?” yn-medhav yn ughel. Unnweyth arta, my a wrug gortos bys hanter-dydh – hag ena y teuth termyn ma na allsen godhevel an fienas ha preder. My a gramyas troha porth an gowfordh ha, wosa goslowes dres termyn hir lowr, assaya golok skav yn-mes anedhi. Travyth. Nyns esa sin vyth re dremensa an hwithoryon. Difresys en – nebes. My a wortas neb hirra – dres unn our po dew martesen – ha goslowes. An jydh ma yn hav o pur gosel. Nyns esa son del ewkalyptwith hogen, son aswonnys yn ta y’n awel glor. Y’n gwylvos, y’n studh ma, y hallsa bos klywys oll an sonyow ughel a-dreus lies mildir. Mar fia kertys ow rolya a-hys fordh dhe Vre an Krann, my a wrussa aga klywes. Mar fia keun ow hwithra hwath, my a allsa klywes aga harthow. Nyns esa mann anedha. Ytho, pyth a styras an taklow ma? Martesen, an hwithrans re alsa dhe neb-tu arall. Martesen, hedhys o bys pan dhothya goes-keun dhiworth Melbourne. Yn fordh arall, moy gwirhaval, yth esa lemmyn soudoryon ow kortos yn-dann gel, ow mires oll a-dro bys pan dhothyen yn-mes neb-tu y’n tiryow ma. Yn hwirhaval, yth esa dhedha arghadow dhe tenna a-dhistowgh orthiv pan veuv gwelys drefenn bos hemma, wosa oll, oberyans dres termyn a vresel. Ny yllyn na hwath bedha mos yn-mes. Nyns esa skians vyth yn henna. Salow lowr en yn le mayth esa – dres pols. Res bia dhe Dhavydh omwitha (marnas, dell en prederus, ev re via tennys seulabrys gans kelsethor owth omgudha y’n gwylvos – kyn na glywsen tennow-gonn vytholl.)
In the distance, I could hear dogs barking. This did not overly trouble me because these dogs would have been just the normal guard dogs at the base. There had not been time to get any bloodhounds up from Melbourne yet. So, unless David or I were stupid enough to make ourselves highly scent-visible, the guard dogs would not find our hide-out before we had moved on. Even so, I knew that I now needed to stay put. Wandering about in the bush at night was likely to attract the attention of any sort of dog. David would just have to fend for himself. I spent an anxious night lying awake on the cold, earthen floor, deep within the tunnel complex, waiting and wondering – just like parents do when their teenagers start going out at night without them. (Though David was hardly a typical teenager.) Morning came – still no David in sight. “Where have you gotten to, ya little flesh-eating bastard?” I said aloud. I waited till mid-day once again before I could no longer stand the anxiety and suspense. I crept towards the mouth of the tunnel and, after listening for a time, ventured a peek out of the entrance. Nothing. There was no sign that the searchers had passed by. That was a relief, of sorts. I waited a further time – an hour or two maybe – and listened. It was a very still, summer’s day. Not even the familiar sound of eucalypt leaves rustling in the breeze. In the bush, in those conditions, any loud sound will carry for miles. If there had been any trucks rumbling along the Scrub Hill road, I would have heard them. If there had been any dogs still searching, I would have heard their barking. There were none. So, what did this mean? Perhaps the search had moved on elsewhere. Perhaps it had been suspended until proper tracker dogs had arrived from Melbourne. Or, more likely, there were now troops stationed in bush ‘hides’, just watching and waiting until I emerged somewhere in the area. They probably had orders to shoot on sight because, after all, this was being treated as a wartime operation. I couldn’t take the risk of emerging just yet. That would have made no sense. I was comparatively safe where I was – for the moment. David would have to fend for himself (unless, as I worried, he had already been picked off by some sniper hiding in the bush – though I had heard no gunfire at all.)

Yth heveli bos ena moy es unn dhen – yth esa re lienyow-gweli rydhwariys ma na via onan hepken. O hemma an le may fia Meryl anfeusik owth omgudha keffrys? Esa an zombis lemmyn ow kevywya war hy diwettha koweth? Prederi yndellna o galarek oll dhymm – kyn hyllyn vy omglywes yn keskodhevek nebes rann a aswolghas gormoledhek an brys ow broder-gevell, (‘joy’ kevrennys y’m kolonnyow na wrugavy dynnerghi). Yth esa edhomm ter dhymm bos bysi. Yth esa unn rann an Rowden White devnydhyes rag musyk hepken. Y’n termynyow na, yth esa sal-goslowes y’n lyverva na – kadoryow attes may hylles omdhiskwitha ha dewis musyk pibys dhywgh hwi dre skovarnigow mynsek. Y’n nessa sal, yth esa nebes trovordys ow kwari plasennow re via dewisys gans an studhyoryon re dhothya ena. Le meurgerys o rag passya dohajydh ‘kellys’. Yth esa yntra’n dewisyow meurgerys a vusyk “Hwedhlow a Geynvoryow Topografyethek” (gans Yes) ha’n plasenn tryflek a Emerson, Lake ha Palmer (rekordyes yn performyans byw) – nyns yw an dhew herwydh an gis vyth lemmyn. Y’n termynyow na, y krysyes aga bos musyk a dhelledhi yn perfeyth pan vynnys dos ha bos ughel gans droggys. (Ny yllyn argya gans henna, ay?) Yn hwir, ha ty entrys an sal-goslowes, ty a dheuth erbynn niwl a mog-gewargh mar dew ma na ylli den gweles y dhorn a-dherag dh’y fas. (Da lowr, hemma res eth re bell, martesen. Byttegyns, ty a yll konvedhes pyth esov ow leverel.) Kewargh o hwath, heb mar, anlaghel dres eghenn y’n dydhyow na – ha nyns esa na hwath dewisyow medhel yntra’n penaltiow laghel o kavadow ena rag an dus re via kachyes hag i offendyes. Byttegyns, an kreslu yn Karlton re gonkludysa nans o termyn hir akord, heb y leverel, gans an Bennskol a-dro dhe’n mater ma. Nyns ov sertan a-dro dhe’n manylyon mes byth pan grodhvolas neb mellyer a- dro dhe’n studhyoryon ow megi kewargh y’n Rowden White, an lyveryas a via kedhlys bos gwirhaval gwithysi-kres dhe vysytya ena an jydh na – hag oll an megyans a hedhis a-dhistowgh. Akord pur fur, dhe’m breus vy. Byttegyns, nyns ethen di, Davydh ha my, saw goslowes orth an musyk! (Ha, dres henna, ny brensyn nevra ‘Playboy’ saw redya an erthyglow keffrys.)
There seemed to have been more than one person there – too much improvised bedding for just one. Was this where poor Meryl had been hiding out as well? Were the zombies now feasting on her last companion? Thinking thus was all a bit miserable – though I could empathetically feel something of the exultant mental backwash from my twin brother, (a vicarious, visceral ‘joy’ that I did not welcome). I needed to keep occupied. One part of the Rowden White was devoted to music. There was then a listening room in the library – comfy chairs to recline in while a selection of music was piped to you through bulky headphones. There was an adjacent room with a number of turntables playing various vinyl records chosen by the students who came in. It was a popular place to spend a ‘lost’ afternoon. Popular listening choices included “Tales of Topographical Oceans” (by Yes) and Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s triple live album – now deeply unfashionable. At that time, they were thought to be music which was perfectly suited to get stoned by. (And who was I to argue?) Indeed, as you entered the listening room, you would be confronted by a haze of dope smoke so thick you could hardly see your hand in front of you. (Okay, that’s a minor exaggeration – but you understand my meaning.) Marijuana was, of course, still highly illegal in those days – no soft legal options were yet available for those caught offending. However, the local cops in Carlton had long since reached a tacit understanding with the University authorities over the matter. I’m not sure of the details but I think that, whenever some busybody complained about the students smoking dope in the Rowden White, the librarian would be advised that the constabulary were likely to pay a social call later that day – and all dope smoking abruptly ceased. A very sensible arrangement, if you ask me. However, David and I only ever went there for the music! (And we only ever bought ‘Playboy’ to read the articles, too.)

Y profyas studhyoryon vywgemigiethek nag esa dre vrath an kynsa klevesansow. Henn yw leverel, klevesansow kansow polatys re boensa yn hwyls an kynsa dydh na. Martesen. Byttegyns, nyns esa denvyth, dh’agan godhvos, re via klevesys gans neppyth arall a-der brath. An seythun re dremensa, y fien ni, oll ahanan, ow triga, ow koska hag ow tybri yn ogas warbarth – yn mysk an dus po klav po ow merwel. Nyns esa denvyth saw an vrethys re dhothya ha bos klav mann. Y’n fordh na, treuskorrans der ayr po dre dhowr a ylli eskeys, dell heveli. “Martesen, yth esa neb eghenn a brov klynykal, rag ensampel, towlenn vreghyans a wrug mos dres rewl,” a brofyas onan a’n studhyoryon vedhegiethek – heb meur a gowses. An studhyoryon vywgemigiethek a skornyas an tybyans ma ha dythya oll aga frotokolys arbrovel (o gerennow yn sempel dhymmo vy). “Nyns yw possybyl an hwarvos ma,” a gonkludyens i, yn unnver. Byttegyns, dhe’m brys anadhyskys, an profyans ma o gwirhevelep, yn sur. Oll an observyansow o gwiw dhodho ha, dres henna, yth esa yn sertan lies fondyans hwithrans bywoniethek, meur aga bri, yn ranndir Parkville. Esa gwella le rag pla anwaytyes hag angontrolyes? Ha, wosa oll, nyns yw da an gwella protokolys hogen saw pan wra an hwithroryon aga sywya. 17
The student biochemists suggested that maybe the initial infections, those of the hundreds of guys who ran amok on the first day, were not by bite. Perhaps, but no-one we knew had been infected by anything other than by being bitten. For the last seven days, we’d been living, sleeping and eating in very cramped quarters – in the presence of the sick and dying. No-one but the bitten had become sick at all. That sort of ruled out transmission of the infection by air or water . “Maybe it was some sort of clinical trial, for example, some vaccination programme that went out of control,” offered one of the medical students – without much conviction. The Biochemists pooh-poohed the idea and recited experimental protocol and that. (All gobbledygook to me.) “It just couldn’t happen,” they concluded, as one. But, to my simple mind, the suggestion was certainly plausible: it fitted the observations and there were certainly a number of the world’s foremost biological research institutes to be found in the immediate Parkville area. Where better for an unexpected and uncontrolled plague to erupt? And, after all, even the best protocols are only any good if researchers actually follow them.

Byttegyns, pan dheuth an termyn rag desedha an jynnow-seth poes, an zombis a dhallathas resek troha’n soudoryon, meur aga govenek dhe gavoes boes kro, govenek heb govenek. Pyth a sywyas o eghenn a grow o aswonnys yn ta dhymm drefenn Gorladhva an Bennskol. An zombis a veu skwardyes yn temmyn gans lies kartryjenn-vazouka ha’n dreusvywysi an tardhans ma a veu treghys yn kepar maner gans pellennow an jynnow-seth skav. (Gonnys ‘Sten’? Ny wonn – nyns ov sur aga bos devnydhyes hwath y’n blydhynnyow 1970 gans soudoryon Ostralek – a-der an brentys-soudoryon, heb mar. Y’m kas vy, y tothya ow gonn hir ow honan, ‘.303’, dhiworth oes an Kynsa Bresel an Bys!) Gorfennys o batel Hel an Dre Lonk Redenennwyth kyns bos desedhys an jynnow-seth poes hogen. Pes da o an bolatys Ostralek dre reson a’ga howlwriansow ha, yn termyn diwettha, hag i ow terri syghes gans ‘korev ow klanhe’, dervynnys yn ta, hwedhel an hwarvosow eth ha bos gluwwa ha gluwwa, gans moy a vanylyon hogen. (Moy gorliwys?) A-ogas, yth esa a’ga esedh an Yankis. Yth esens ow kemmeres keffrys ‘korev ow klanhe’ – mes nyns esens owth omjunya gans an rejoysians Ostralek. Wosa oll, ny ‘welsens i batel’ na hwath – hag ytho na yllens kevrenna aga hwedhlow aga honan. Yth o henna da lowr – yth ow pub bagas ow kasa an huni arall yn kres. Ena, hag an Ostralianas gyllys ha bos nebes medhowwa – ha moy noysus – y tallathas an studh dhe dreylya dhe’n gwettha tu. An Ostralianas a dhallathas boestya a-dro dhe’n taklow re wrussens dhe gorfow an zombis wosa aga bos ‘gwastyes’. I re’n defolas dre bisans warnedhi. Nyns o hemma jentyl, heb mar mes, dres henna, temmyn an zombis re via arayys oll a-dro dhe’n Hel an Dre, herwydh lyklod rag digolenni an zombis ha lettya aga dehwelans. (Nyns esa denvyth a grysi henna.) Y fia lies zombis ow skwychya hwath. An re na re via ‘lynchyes’, kregys dhiworth golowbrennyer po gorrys yn stummow reydhel – kepar ha korrigow lyk – yn lowarthow an chiow y’ga ogas. (H’aga klywys a-dro dhe’n hwarvosow, meur o divlas an soudoryon Amerikanek, trenyes saw a-dhiwedhes ha fresk aga fismens. Nyns esa a-der Porther o kolonnek lowr rag y leverel. Ev a gewsis dhe blemmik.) “A, re’n jyowl,” a worthybis onan yntra’n rakkoryon Ostralek. “Nyns yns a-der zombis mollothek, ‘was. Ke war dha gamm. Nyns yns denel hogen.”
It was only when the heavy machine-guns were being set up that the zombies started rushing at the troops in the vain hope of a fresh feed. What then followed was the familiar carnage that I had witnessed at the University massacre. The zombies were blown to pieces with several rounds from bazookas and those that made it through those blasts were cut to bits by light machine gun fire. (Sten guns? Don’t know – not sure they were still being used in the early 1970’s by regular soldiers.) It was all over at the Fern Tree Gully town hall before the heavy machine guns were even set up and operative. The Aussie guys were pretty happy with what they had achieved and, later on, as they slaked their well-earned thirst with a ‘cleansing ale’ or five, the account of what had occurred became more and more detailed and vivid. (And exaggerated?) The Yanks had been sitting nearby – also taking in a ‘cleansing ale’ – but not joining in the Aussie celebrations. After all, the Yanks had yet to ‘see action’ and could not therefore share their own experiences. That was okay – each group left the other alone. Then, as the Aussies got a bit drunker and more boisterous, things started to take a turn for the worse. The Aussies started to brag about what they had done with the remains after the zombies had been ‘wasted’. And what they had done was not merely defiling the corpses by urinating on them or such like. Bits of zombies had been ‘arranged’ about the area of the town hall, ostensibly to scare off any other zombies from coming back into the area – but no-one believed that. Several of the zombies had still been twitching. These were ‘lynched’, strung up from lamp-posts – or placed, in sexual poses, like obscene garden gnomes in the front gardens of nearby houses. (This disgusted the fresh-faced GI’s, straight out of basic training – and Gately was man enough to say so. Very forthrightly.) “Ah, fuck me,” replied one of the Aussie raconteurs. “They’re just fuckin’ zombies, man. Cool down. They’re not even human.”

AN BIBEL KERNEWEK 2020 1 Myghternedh 3 Pysadow Solomon rag Furneth 1Solomon a wrug keffrysyans demmedhyans gans Faro myghtern Ejyp, hag ev a gemmeras myrgh Faro ha'y dri dhe sita Davydh, bys pan worfennsa drehevel y balas y honan, ha chi an ARLOEDH, ha'n fos a-dro dhe Yerusalem. 2Yth esa an bobel ow sakrifia y'n tylleryow ughel, drefenn na via chi drehevys hwath dhe hanow an ARLOEDH. 3Solomon a garas an ARLOEDH, ow kerdhes yn ordenansow Davydh y das: saw y hwre ev ladha ha leski sakrifisow y'n tylleryow ughel. 4An myghtern eth dhe Gibeon dhe sakrifia, rag bos henna an tyller ughel meur. Solomon a offrynnas milvil offrynn leskys war an alter na. 5Yn Gibeon an ARLOEDH a omdhiskwedhas dhe Solomon yn hunros yn nos: ha Duw a leveris, ‘Govynn orthiv an pyth a vynnydh my dhe ri dhis.’ 6Ha Solomon a leveris, ‘Ty re dhiskwedhas dhe'th was Davydh ow thas tregeredh veur, drefenn ev dhe gerdhes a-ragos yn gwiryonedh, yn lenduri hag ewnhynseth an golonn genes; ha ty re'n gwithas rag an kuvder meur ma, ha ri mab dhodho dhe esedha war y dron hedhyw. 7Ha lemmyn, A ARLOEDH ow Duw, ty re wrug dha was myghtern yn le ow thas Davydh, kynth ov marnas flogh byghan; ny wonn fatell ylliv yn-mes na dos a-ji. 8Hag yma dha was yn mysk dha bobel re dhewissys, pobel veur, mar niverus ma na yllons bos komptys na niverys. 9Ro dhe'th was ytho kolonn a yll konvedhes rag barna dha bobel ha dissernya yntra da ha drog; rag piw a yll barna dha bobel mar veur ma?’ 10Plegadow o an kows ma dhe'n ARLOEDH, Solomon dhe wovynn an dra ma. 11Ha Duw a leveris dhodho, ‘Drefenn ty dhe wovynn hemma, ha drefenn na wovynnsys dhe'th honan bewnans hir na kevoeth, na bewnans dha eskerens, mes govynn ragos dha honan konvedhes dhe venystra barn, 12my a wra lemmyn herwydh dha er. Yn tevri, my a re dhis kolonn fur ha meur hy honvedhes; nyns esa denvyth avellos a-ragos ha ny sev denvyth avellos war dha lergh. 13My a re dhis ynwedh an pyth na wovynnsys, kevoeth hag enor oll dha dhydhyow; ny vydh myghtern arall kehevelys orthis. 14Mar kerdhydh y'm fordhow, ow kwitha ow ordenansow hag ow gorhemmynnow, dell gerdhi dha das Davydh, ena my a ystynn dha dhydhyow.’ 15Ena Solomon a dhifunas; hunros o. Ev a dheuth dhe Yerusalem le may sevis a-rag argh kevambos an ARLOEDH. Ev a offrynnas offrynnow leskys hag offrynnow kres, ha provia gwledh rag oll y wesyon. Furneth Solomon yn Barn 16Ena diw venyn o horys a dheuth dhe'n myghtern ha sevel a-ragdho. 17An eyl a leveris, ‘Mar pleg, ow ARLOEDH, an venyn ma ha my yw trigys y'n keth chi; ha my a dhineythis flogh pan esa hi y'n chi. 18Ena y'n tressa dydh wosa my dhe dhineythi, an venyn ma a dhineythis ynwedh. Yth esen ni war-barth; nyns esa denvyth arall genen y'n chi, marnas agan diw y'n chi. 19Ena mab an venyn ma a verwis y'n nos, drefenn hi dhe wrowedha warnodho. 20Hi a sevis yn kres an nos ha kemmeres ow mab a'm tenewen ha'th vaghteth ow koska. Hi a'n gorras orth hy bronn, ha gorra hy mab marow orth ow bronn. 21Pan sevis myttinweyth rag maga ow mab, my a welas y vos marow; mes pan viris gans rach, kler o nag o an mab a dhineythis.’ 22Mes an venyn arall a leveris, ‘Na, an mab bew yw dhymm, ha'n mab marow yw dhis.’ Ha'y ben a leveris, ‘Na, an mab marow yw dhis, ha'n mab bew yw dhymm.’ Yndellma i a gewsis a-rag an myghtern. 23Ena an myghtern a leveris, ‘An eyl a lever, “Hemm yw ow mab yw bew, ha dha vab marow”; ha'y ben a lever, “Nansi! Dha vab yw marow, ha'm mab vy yw bew.” ’ 24Ytho an myghtern a leveris, ‘Drewgh kledha dhymm,’ hag i a gyrghas kledha a-rag an myghtern. 25An myghtern a leveris, ‘Rynnewgh an maw yn diw rann; ena rewgh hanter dhe'n eyl, ha hanter dh'y ben.’ 26Mes an venyn, ha dhedhi an mab bew, a leveris dhe'n myghtern – drefenn piteth rag hy mab dhe leski ynni – ‘Mar pleg, ow arloedh, ro dhedhi an maw bew; yn tevri na'n ladh!’ Ha'y ben a leveris, ‘Ny vydh ev na dhymm na dhis; rann e.’ 27Ena an myghtern a worthybis: ‘Ro dhe'n kynsa benyn an maw bew; na'n ladh. Hi yw y vamm.’ 28Ysrael oll a klewas a'n vreus re rosa an myghtern; hag i a ownas an myghtern, drefenn i dhe weles bos furneth Duw ynno, dhe wul barn. © Kesva an Taves Kernewek 2004, 2021 © Cornish Language Board 2004, 2021KING JAMES VERSION (BIBLE SOCIETY PARAGRAPHED EDITION 1954)
1 Kings 3 Marriage to Pharaoh's Daughter 1And Solomon made affinity with Pharaoh king of Egypt, and took Pharaoh's daughter, and brought her into the city of David, until he had made an end of building his own house, and the house of the LORD, and the wall of Jerusalem round about. 2Only the people sacrificed in high places, because there was no house built unto the name of the LORD, until those days. 3And Solomon loved the LORD, walking in the statutes of David his father: only he sacrificed and burnt incense in high places. 4And the king went to Gibeon to sacrifice there; for that was the great high place: a thousand burnt offerings did Solomon offer upon that altar. Solomon's Choice of Wisdom 5In Gibeon the LORD appeared to Solomon in a dream by night: and God said, Ask what I shall give thee. 6And Solomon said, Thou hast shewed unto thy servant David my father great mercy, according as he walked before thee in truth, and in righteousness, and in uprightness of heart with thee; and thou hast kept for him this great kindness, that thou hast given him a son to sit on his throne, as it is this day. 7And now, O LORD my God, thou hast made thy servant king instead of David my father: and I am but a little child: I know not how to go out or come in. 8And thy servant is in the midst of thy people which thou hast chosen, a great people, that cannot be numbered nor counted for multitude. 9Give therefore thy servant an understanding heart to judge thy people, that I may discern between good and bad: for who is able to judge this thy so great a people? 10And the speech pleased the Lord, that Solomon had asked this thing. 11And God said unto him, Because thou hast asked this thing, and hast not asked for thyself long life; neither hast asked riches for thyself, nor hast asked the life of thine enemies; but hast asked for thyself understanding to discern judgment; 12behold, I have done according to thy words: lo, I have given thee a wise and an understanding heart; so that there was none like thee before thee, neither after thee shall any arise like unto thee. 13And I have also given thee that which thou hast not asked, both riches, and honour: so that there shall not be any among the kings like unto thee all thy days. 14And if thou wilt walk in my ways, to keep my statutes and my commandments, as thy father David did walk, then I will lengthen thy days. 15And Solomon awoke; and, behold, it was a dream. And he came to Jerusalem, and stood before the ark of the covenant of the LORD, and offered up burnt offerings, and offered peace offerings, and made a feast to all his servants. 16Then came there two women, that were harlots, unto the king, and stood before him. 17And the one woman said, O my lord, I and this woman dwell in one house; and I was delivered of a child with her in the house. 18And it came to pass the third day after that I was delivered, that this woman was delivered also: and we were together; there was no stranger with us in the house, save we two in the house. 19And this woman's child died in the night; because she overlaid it. 20And she arose at midnight, and took my son from beside me, while thine handmaid slept, and laid it in her bosom, and laid her dead child in my bosom. 21And when I rose in the morning to give my child suck, behold, it was dead: but when I had considered it in the morning, behold, it was not my son, which I did bear. 22And the other woman said, Nay; but the living is my son, and the dead is thy son. And this said, No; but the dead is thy son, and the living is my son. Thus they spake before the king. 23Then said the king, The one saith, This is my son that liveth, and thy son is the dead: and the other saith, Nay; but thy son is the dead, and my son is the living. 24And the king said, Bring me a sword. And they brought a sword before the king. 25And the king said, Divide the living child in two, and give half to the one, and half to the other. 26Then spake the woman whose the living child was unto the king, for her bowels yearned upon her son, and she said, O my lord, give her the living child, and in no wise slay it. But the other said, Let it be neither mine nor thine, but divide it. 27Then the king answered and said, Give her the living child, and in no wise slay it: she is the mother thereof. 28And all Israel heard of the judgment which the king had judged; and they feared the king: for they saw that the wisdom of God was in him, to do judgment.

“ ‘Aspier’? Eus aspier?” a brederis. “Piw a allsa bos?” Wosa unn vynysenn po diw, y teuth dhe’m brys kemmyskys honanieth an aspier: nyns esa saw onan may hallsens bos ow hardha – gonador has dout, my! A Dhuw! Draylyes dhe’n vynk gans an rout ha namna yllyn sevel war’m dewdroes. Nyns o hemma a byth re via dhymm govenek na pyth re dowlsen. Ena, y teuth ‘an Marghoglu’ – moy po le. Y tardhas y’m chambour Ingrid ha Serjont Amerikanek. (Yth erghsens yn ughel dhe withysi an vedhegva dhe sevel a-denewen.) “Kav dha dhaffar euthyk, souder – ha gwra e uskis,” a erghis an Serjont Yankee. “Yth edh jy lemmyn – marnas ty a vynn bos lynchyes gans dha gothmans.” (Ass o hweg dhe’m gelwel ‘souder’, a brederis.) “Gway e!” a skrijas ev y’m fas. Ny wonn hwath y hanow – mes, yn apert, ev a garsa lowr pyth a lavarsen y’n kynsa areth hag ytho ev a grysi ‘y vois’ dhe dhynya dh’Ostrali dre falsuri. Po, martesen, Stevyer ha Porther re lavarsa dhodho. Yn neb kas, del heveli, ev a grysi y talvien bos selwys ow bywnans. My a assayas arta sevel mes ow diwesker a omhwelas yn-dannov wosa nebes kammow. Ingrid, ankempenn ha mes a uniform, a dreylyas ha skrija: “Gwithyas!” Onan yntr’an tri bilen, meur y ankombrynsi, a dheuth yn unn resek y’n chambour. Ingrid a boyntyas dhymm, a’m worwedh war an leur. “Gwra y dhrehevel ha’gan sywya!” Ev a wrug yndella. An bastard milek o pur nerthek – mes, yn fordh arall, my re gollsa meur a boester ha nerth a-dhia ow devedhyans orth selva ‘Pukka’. Ytho, nyns en begh meur. Yn skon, my a omgevis bos tewlys yn harow yn delergh jip. Parkyes re via ryb plen an gerdhva. Yth esa oll a-dro soudoryon yn freudh – mes nyns esa nebonan yntredha a wrug agan attendya – yth esa, dell heveli, re freudh bos gwrys hwath.
“‘Spy’? Is there a spy?” I thought. “Who would that be?” It took a minute or two for my woolly-headed self to realize that the only person whose blood they could be baying for was the sower of the seeds of doubt: me! Oh dear. Dragged to the scaffold by the mob when I could hardly stand on my own two feet. This was not entirely what I had hoped or planned for. Then, ‘The Cavalry’ arrived – almost literally. Ingrid and a U.S. Sergeant burst into my room, having vociferously ordered the infirmary guards to stand aside. “Get your goddammed stuff, soldier – and be quick about it,” ordered the Yankee Sergeant. “You’re leaving now – unless you want to be lynched by your fellow countrymen.” (How nice of him to call me ‘soldier’, I thought.) “Move it!” he screamed in my face. I still don’t know his name – but, evidently, he’d been impressed by what I’d had to say at the lecture and believed that ‘his boys’ had been lured to Australia under false pretences. Perhaps Gately and Swooper had spoken to him. In any case, it seemed he considered that my life might be worth saving. I tried to stand once again but my legs buckled underneath me after a few steps. Ingrid, whom I noticed was dishevelled and out of uniform, turned and screamed: “Guard!” One of the three goons, confused and disorientated, came running into the room. Ingrid pointed to me, now lying on the floor. “Pick him up and follow us!” He did. The brutish bastard was surprisingly strong – but, then again, I had lost a lot of weight and condition since arriving at ‘Pucka’. So, I was no great load to carry. Soon, I found myself flung roughly into the back tray of a jeep. It had been parked at the side of the parade ground. Brawling troops surrounded us on all sides but none paid us any attention – there was just too much brawling that needed still to be done.

SOLER ROWDEN WHITE Martesen entrans an kert – ha’n krakkys ha’n bommynn re dhothya dhiworto – re via klywys. Ha, martesen, an den re’s klywsa re ervirsa bos studh a “lemmyn po nevra” – hag ytho ev a ressa yn desper rag daswaynya y frankedh. Ny allav nevra bos sertan. Yn neb kas, ha my helerghys Davydh, ow kerdhes troha Chi Kesunyans, yth esa skrij a folsas an ayr – skrij den a vywa hwath. Y hedhis Davydh pols rag goslowes orth an son – ha frikhwytha an ayr. Yth teuth ena skrij arall ha Davydh a dhallathas poenya. Yth esa an skrijyans ow tos dhiworth Chi Kesunyans, dell heveli, ha, heb mar, henn o an le mayth esa ow poenya Davydh. My a assayas resek ganso mes yth esa seulabrys nebes pellder yntredhon ni. Ha ni entrys an drehevyans der entrans a-dhygowbarth (nyns esa entrans a’n howlsedhes y’n tor’ na) y hedhis an skrijyans a-dhistowgh – yn hanter-skrij. Ny lenthas Davydh. Yn hwir, ev a uskishas ha’n pellder yntredhon a dheuth ha bos brassa. My a’n gwelas lamma an wrisfordh, tri hamm y bas – ankevys lemmyn an selder – ha bush zombis devedhys alemma, pytt meur y dhroktra. Byttegyns, yth esa Davydh yn rag ha’n bush orth y sywya. Drefenn ow salowder ow honan, res o dhymm gwitha kestav ganso – neppyth na yllyn gul heb kaletter meur. Lustwoes Davydh o ughel yn hwir hag ytho nyns esa na fella dhodho tybyans vyth a’m difresyans. Y’n gwella prys, an zombis a sywya Davydh o distennys yndellna keffrys – dres pols dhe’n lyha – ha ny’m attendyens saw nebes. Pan dhrehedhis vy Soler (gans lyverva) Rowden White, tressa leur an drehevyans, re dhiwedhes o. An den re via ow skrija yn desper re via ledhys gans an zombis. Ny grysav Davydh dhe dhos skon lowr rag kemmeres rann y’n ladhva hy honan – kyn na allav bos sertan – mes yth esa ev ow hemmeres rann y’n hwarvosow a sywyas.
THE ROWDEN WHITE GALLERY Perhaps the entry of the truck – and/or the resulting crashes and bangs – had been heard. And perhaps the person hearing this had decided “It’s now or never” – and had made a desperate dash for freedom. I will never be quite sure. In any event, as I trailed along behind David towards Union House, a scream split the air – the scream of a living person. David halted briefly to assess the sound – and sniff the air. Then came another scream and David was off at a gallop. The screams seemed to come from Union House and, naturally, that was the direction in which David was running. I tried to keep up with him but he already had a head-start on me. As we entered the building via the South entrance (the Western entrance did not exist at the time) the screams stopped abruptly – in mid-scream. David’s pace did not slacken – if anything, it quickened and I fell further behind. I saw him leaping up the stairs, taking three at a time – the basement was now ignored and a crowd of zombies was coming forth from that evil pit. David, however, was ahead of that pack and, for my own safety, I needed to keep in contact with him – a feat which I just barely managed. David’s bloodlust was definitely up and all thoughts of protecting me seemed to have disappeared. Fortunately for me, the zombies following David were likewise distracted – for the moment at least – and paid me little heed. By the time I reached the Rowden White Gallery cum library on the third floor of the building, it was all over. The person who had been screaming so desperately had been killed by the zombies. I don’t think David arrived in time to participate in the actual killing – though I can’t be sure – but he was certainly participating in what followed.