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Paperback Gwawr y Lladron [Welsh] Book

ISBN: B0GQNR1K15

ISBN13: 9798233250316

Gwawr y Lladron [Welsh]

GWAWR Y LLADRON - STORI ARSWYD YN GYMRAEG A SAESNEG - HORROR STORY IN WELSH AND ENGLISH - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERG

Yng nghalon anghyfannedd Ucheldir De Affrica, mae dyn o'r enw Willem Strydom yn darllen yr arwyddion na all eraill eu gweld. Yn feistr ar grefft y clo, mae ganddo'r gallu prin i ganfod y ffiniau bregus a wahanant ein byd ni rhag yr hyn sydd yn crynu y tu hwnt. Wedi'i lusgo o'i alltudiaeth gan ysbryd o'i gorffennol, gorfodir Willem i gasglu criw wedi'i hollti ar gyfer un swydd anhygoel olaf: i agor clo'r crypt Aurora. Ond nid yw'r nod hwn yn unig yn drysorfa olud; mae'n endid byw, yn anadlu, yn gaer seicig sy'n llyncu ac yn gwarchod y cyfnewidyn fwyaf afreolus oll, sef cof a chwant dynol.

In the desolate heart of the South African Highlands, a man named Willem Strydom reads signs that others cannot see. A master of the locksmith's craft, he possesses the rare ability to perceive the fragile boundaries that separate our world from what trembles beyond it. Drawn out of his exile by a spirit from his past, Willem is forced to assemble a divided crew for one final, extraordinary task: to open the lock of the Aurora Crypt. But this objective is more than a repository of riches; it is a living, breathing entity - a psychic fortress that consumes and guards the most volatile exchange of all: human memory and

"Nid oedd arogl ar yr awyr. Yr oedd ganddi wead: llwch m n a chwys breuddwydion yn pydru. Anadl yr Ucheldir oedd, a chariai Willem Strydom hi yn ei ysgyfaint fel clefyd. Safai ar berth ei ffermdy dadfeilio, ei ddwylo - dwylo cloddwr beddau, dwylo datodwr - yn gafael yn dynn yn y canllaw haearn. Cynnes oedd y metel, ond nid gwres yr haul oedd ynddo. Tarddai o grombil y dur, twymyn araf annaturiol.

The air had no scent. It had a texture: fine dust and the sweat of decaying dreams. It was the breath of the Highveld, and Willem Strydom carried it in his lungs like a disease. He stood on the porch of his dilapidated smallholding, his hands a gravedigger's hands, a dissector's hands clenched around the iron railing. The metal was warm, but the heat didn't come from the sun. It seeped from within the steel, a slow, unnatural fever.

O'i flaen gorweddai'r mynyddoedd, nid fel clais, ond fel corff cawr o dan flanced borffor. Nid oedd y cwmwl a gasglai uwch eu pennau'n drwm gan law. Yr oedd yn drwm gan ddistawrwydd. Distawrwydd trwchus llaith a lyncai bob sŵn.

Before him lay the mountains, not like a bruise, but like a giant corpse beneath a purple blanket. The cloud gathering over them was not heavy with rain. It was heavy with silence. A thick, humid silence that devoured sound.

Y tu mewn i'r tŷ, gwaeth oedd y distawrwydd. Nid absenoldeb sŵn mohono. Presenoldeb rhywbeth fu farw ers oesoedd oedd, ond yn dal i anadlu. Y teimlad o rywun y tu l i'th ysgwydd oedd, er gwybod bod yr ystafell yn wag.

Inside the house, the silence was worse. It wasn't the absence of sound. It was the presence of something that should have long been dead, but still breathed. It was the feeling of someone behind your shoulder, even though you know the room is empty.

Ar y bwrdd pren wrth ei ochr gorweddai casgliad o gloiau. Ar un ochr, set o ddewisbinnau mor fain nodwyddau esgyrn. Treiglodd ddolen grwn ei offeryn dur rhwng ei fysedd. Nid offeryn yn unig mohono erioed. Estyniad o'i ewyllys oedd. Torri pilen oedd agor clo. Bob tro, gollyngai rywbeth allan. A gollyngai rywbeth i mewn.

On the wooden table beside him lay a collection of locks. To one side, a set of lock picks as fine as bone needles. He rolled the bullet-shaped handle of tool steel between his fingers. It was never just an instrument. It was an extension of his will. To open a lock was to pierce a membrane. It always let something out. And let something in.

Ond byth ag anghofia dyn flas y tu draw.

But one never forgets the taste of the other side."

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