Melltith y Tir Sych

MELLTITH Y TIR SYCH - STORI ARSWYD - CYMRAEG A SAESNEG - THE CURSE OF THE DRY LAND - HORROR STORY - WELSH AND ENGLISH - BREDEVOORT VAN DEN BERG Yng nghanol distawrwydd creulon y Karoo, mae fferm a fu unwaith yn ffrwythlon bellach yn sychu o dan haul didostur. In the harsh silence of the Karoo, a once-fertile farm now withers beneath a merciless sun. Mae Johan a Lena yn brwydro i oroesi ar eu tir cras, lle mae saith mlynedd o sychder difrifol wedi troi pob gobaith yn llwch. Johan and Lena struggle to survive on their barren land, where seven years of devastating drought have turned all hope to dust. Yna, mae un diferyn o law coch yn disgyn, ac mae eu byd yn dechrau cracio o dan bwysau grym hynafol, anweledig. Then, a single drop of red rain falls, and their world begins to crack under the weight of an ancient, unseen power. Mae ôl bysedd bach yn ymddangos ar y ffenestri, mae plentyn yn diflannu i'r ddaear heb adael unrhyw olrhain, ac mae'r pridd sychedig ei hun yn dechrau mynnu dyled na all neb ei thalu. Small fingerprints appear on the windows, a child vanishes into the earth without a trace, and the thirsty soil itself begins to demand a debt no soul can repay. "Roedd Johan Steenkamp ar ei liniau yn y llwch, ei fysedd yn cau am garreg fel gafael mewn gweddi. Johan Steenkamp knelt in the dust, his fingers clenched around a stone as if it were a prayer. Yr oedd y ddaear oddi tano yn wefusau craciog na allent mwyach yngan gair. The ground beneath him was cracked lips that could no longer utter a single word. Saith mlynedd. Saith mlynedd dan felltith heb yr un diferyn o law. Seven years. Seven damned years without a drop of rain. Crynai ei ddwylo wrth iddo rwbio'r pridd diffrwyth, fel petai'n dal i deimlo ysbryd y tywysennau a gynaeafwyd yma gynt. His hands trembled as he rubbed the barren earth, as if he could still feel the ghost of maize stalks that had once been harvested here. Nawr, dim ond llwch a gobaith oedd yn cael eu chwalu gan bob awel. Now, only dust and hope, scattered with every gust of wind. Safai Lena y tu ôl iddo, ei chysgod yn gorwedd ar draws holl agennau'r tir. Lena stood behind him, her shadow falling across the fissures in the soil. Yr oedd ei breichiau wedi'u plethu dros ei bol, a'i gwefusau hithau hefyd yn sychion ac yn rhwygiedig. Her arms were crossed over her stomach, her own lips dry and split. "Nid yw hyn yn iawn," meddai. Torrodd ei llais fel brigau'r goeden ddrain a wrthodai farw. "This isn't right," she said. Her voice cracked like the branches of the thorn tree that refused to die. Edrychodd Johan i fyny. Gwyn gan wres oedd yr awyr, ond wele, uwchben y gorwel, crogai un cwmwl du. Johan looked up. The sky was white with heat, but there, above the horizon, hung a single black cloud. Bychan. Tywyll. Fel cleren yn hofran uwchben buwch. Small. Dark. Like a fly circling a cow. "Lena," murmuriodd, ei lais yn gras. "Edrych." "Lena," he mumbled, his voice rough. "Look." Dilynodd ei lygaid, gan gulhau ei golwg. "Does yna ddim ystyr iddo. Buom yn edrych o'r blaen." She followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing. "It means nothing. We've looked before." Ond ni symudodd y cwmwl. Crogai yno, yn drwm gan rywbeth amgen na glaw. But the cloud didn't move. It hung there, heavy with something other than rain. Yna fe agorodd. Then it broke open. Tarodd y diferyn cyntaf dalcen Johan. Cynnes. Dieithr. Sychodd ef ymaith, edrychodd ar ei fysedd. The first drop hit Johan on the forehead. Warm. Strange. He wiped it away, looked at his fingers. Coch. Red."