Stori Sycamorwydden
- Sycamore Story

Gan Seran Dolma a Lisa Hudson

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Mae’r stori hon yn rhan o brosiect Seran Dolma i ysgrifennu cyfres o straeon byrion yn seiliedig ar sgyrsiau gyda cyfranogwyr a phartneriaid Utopias Bach. Mae Seran Dolma yn awdur Preswyl Utopias Bach.

This Story is part Seran Dolma’s project to write a series of short stories based on conversations with participants and partners of Utopias Bach. Seran Dolma is Author in Residence at Utopias Bach.

Mae hadau masarn yn asgellog.  Mae nhw’n troelli wrth ddisgyn, ac yn medru cael eu cario ymhell gan y gwynt.  Gelwir hwynt yn Saesneg yn ‘keys’. 

Fe arhosais amdani hi am amser hir.  Roeddwn i’n gwybod ers oeddwn yn egin bach newydd o’r hedyn y deuai hi rhyw ddydd.  Mae gan pob coeden ei dyfyn;  Bod arall y mae nhw’n gyfarwydd â hwy, rhywun i rannu eu doethineb, eu dysg, eu dail, eu pren, weithiau, os mai dyna’r ffawd sy’n eu cysylltu.  Mae rhai coed yn gydnabyddus a theulu o adar arbennig; cenedlaethau o gywion yn deor a magu yn eu canghennau dros y blynyddoedd.  Mae rhai yn hoff le i sefyll gan dylluanod, neu yn bostyn crafu i garw neu fuwch.  Mae rhai yn cynnal chwilod, gwyfynod, morgrug, cacwn neu bryfed.  Mae llawer mewn cariad a ffwng arbennig, ac yn treulio’u hoes mewn sgwrs diddiwedd â’r myseliwm sy’n plethu trwy eu gwreiddiau.  Rwy’n nabod hen dderwen sydd wedi gwahodd haid o wenyn i nythu mewn ceudwll yn ei chanol, ac nawr ble bu pren caled ei chalon mae dil mêl yn sïo trwy’r haf.  Mae pob coeden yn gynhaliaeth a chartref, cysgod a chysur i rhywun neu rhywrai, ond mae rhai ohonom yn gwybod bod ein dyfyn ni’n un o’r creaduriaid dwy goes rheiny sy’n galw eu hunain yn bobl. 

Mae pobl ifanc, plant, yn caru coed.  Mae nhw’n hoffi dringo, a gosod rhaff ar gangen i wneud swing, ac mae nhw’n breuddwydio am fyw mewn tŷ coeden.  Mae rhai yn aros felly wedi tyfu, ond mae rhywbeth yn digwydd i rhai ohonyn nhw wrth fynd yn hŷn.  Mae nhw’n torri coed i lawr.  Ac nid ambell goeden, am eu bod nhw eisiau adeiladu tŷ neu gwch, fel erstalwm, ond cannoedd o goed.  Coedwigoedd cyfan.  Roedd fan hyn yn goed i gyd dim ond mil o flynyddoedd yn ôl – pan oedd nain yn goeden ifanc.  Rŵan does dim ond ambell glwtyn bach o goedwig, yma ac acw rhwng caeau’n llawn defaid.  Mae’r ddaear yn deall.  Mae hi’n dweud nad allan o gasineb at goed mae nhw’n gwneud, ond am fod yn rhaid iddyn nhw fwydo’u plant.  Dwi’n siŵr ei bod hi’n iawn, mewn rhyw ffordd dirgel, ond dwi’n gwybod nad ydy eu plant nhw ddim yn bwyta pren. 

Pan oeddwn i’n egin bach newydd, a cefais wybod trwy’r gwefrau yn fy ngwreiddiau mai dynes oedd fy nyfyn i, feddyliais i ddim byd am y peth, dim ond tyfu ac edrych ymlaen i’w chyfarfod hi rhyw ddydd.  Ond wrth aeddfedu ac amsugno dysg y pridd, ac atgofion coed eraill, a negeseuon o bell trwy’r rhwydweithiau tanddaearol; wrth ddysgu mwy am sut rai ydi pobl, dechreuais boeni.  Beth os mai un felly fydd hi?  Mae dyfyn yn rhywun y mae dy ffawd wedi ei glymu wrthi yn dynn, ond dydi dyfyn ddim bob amser yn ffrind.

Bûm i’n tyfu ac anadlu a deilio ac yn cysgodi amrywiaeth o adar a thrychfilod mân.  Mae gen i Robin goch sy’n cadw tiriogaeth yn fy nghanghennau, ac yn canu can mor drist a swynol pan mae’r haul yn machlud yn yr hydref, mae’n gwneud i ‘ngwreiddiau gofleidio’r garreg islaw yn dynn dynn.  O na bai’r Robin yn ddyfyn i mi, neu’r garreg, neu’r glaw.  Ond fy nheulu ydyn nhw, mae dyfyn yn rhywbeth arall, ar wahân. 

Rydw i wedi siarad dros y blynyddoedd a’r goeden ewcalyptws sy’n tyfu wrth fy ymyl.  Mae’r ewcalypt yn hiraethu am wres Awstralia, ble mae’r pridd yn goch, ac mae hi’n ysu am gael dyfyn sy’n goala, ond mae hithau, fel fi, yn aros am berson.  Rydan ni’n closio at ein gilydd, yn unig ac ofnus rhai dyddiau pan ydym ni’n clywed sŵn lli gadwyn o bell, ac yn synhwyro gwaed a lludw ein brodyr a’n chwiorydd ar y gwynt.

Ond un diwrnod yn yr hydref, pan oedd fy nail yn troi’n aur ac yn disgyn o un i un i’r llawr, fe gefais neges. 

“Mae hi wedi ei geni!” 

Roedd hi’n bell i ffwrdd, ac roedd ein cyfarfyddiad blynyddoedd eto i ddod, ond fe wyddwn, o leiaf, ei bod hi yn y byd, a’i bod hi’n berson bach perffaith, di-fai. 

O hynny allan, fe fûm i’n cadw golwg arni, o hirbell, trwy’r gwyntoedd a’r creigiau a’r dyfroedd.  Disgynnodd dafnau o law arna i oedd wedi bod yn y môr pan fu hi’n nofio. Gallwn deimlo dirgryniadau ei thraed yn dawnsio trwy’r ddaear.  Cyrhaeddodd ei llais, ei hanadl ar gerrynt y gwynt.  Anadlais hwy i mewn, a gwyddwn fod ei hysgyfaint hi’n goeden.  Roedd hi’n ddrych; fy ngwrthwyneb.  Anadlodd hi allan, anadlais innau i mewn.  Anadlais i allan, anadlodd hithau i mewn.  Ymgorfforais ei hatomau, a hithau fy rhai i. 

Roedd hi’n symud o gwmpas, yn hedfan pellteroedd mawr, yn cael ei chario gan y gwynt fel hedyn masarnen.  Dwy flynedd yma, tair fan draw.  Roedd hi’n rhydd, ond heb wreiddiau.  Byddai’n ail-greu ei hun o hyd, yn rhywun gwahanol pob tro y symudai.  Fel ‘na mae rhai, yn diosg eu croen wrth dyfu. 

Hoffai ddarllen.  Gallwn deimlo ei dwylo ar bapur fu unwaith yn goeden bîn mewn planhigfa yn yr Almaen.  Roedd staeniau inc ar ei dwylo, a’r ewinedd wedi eu cnoi i’r baw.  Roedd hi’n byw yn ei phen, mewn storïau, mewn geiriau, mewn ysgrifen.  Pan doedd hi ddim yn darllen, roedd hi’n ysgrifennu.  A dyna pryd gefais i’r syniad y gallwn i ysgrifennu neges iddi. 

Mae rhisgl masarnen ifanc yn llyfn a llwyd, ond wrth dyfu’n fawr mae’r rhisgl allanol yn cracio ac yn ffurfio platiau sy’n symud oddi wrth eu gilydd, ac yn y pen draw yn disgyn i ffwrdd.  O dan y platiau o rhisgl marw, mae patrwm yn ymddangos, sy’n medru edrych fel llinellau topograffeg ar fap, neu grychau mewn dŵr, neu ysgrifen.  Fe es ati i ffurfio’r neges dros flynyddoedd ei harddegau a’u hugeiniau. 

Fe ddaeth hi’n agosach.  Bu hi’n byw ymysg y llechi.  Magodd blant.  Ymchwiliodd i hanes lleol, gwisgodd yr hanes, a’r llechi, a theimlo, o’i gwirfodd, bwysau hyn oll ar ei hysgwyddau.  Mabwysiadodd gyndeidiau, a chyn-neiniau.  Daeth yn rhan o linach y lle.  Magodd wreiddiau.

Gwyddwn y deuai hi’n fuan, a perffeithiais fy neges, yn gyfrinachol, o dan y rhisgl.  Bu hi am flynyddoedd hir, yn byw gerllaw, ond mae blynyddoedd yn pasio’n sydyn i goeden.  Daeth dynes i fyw yn y tŷ wrth ymyl.  Roedd hi’n dod o bell, hefyd.  Roedd hi’n deall rhywbeth am bridd, a glaw, ac anadl.  Artist oedd hi.  Hi oedd dyfyn yr ewcalyptws, a hi wahoddodd fy nyfyn i, a chriw o artistiaid eraill un prynhawn yn yr hydref, i grwydro o amgylch yr ardd ac edrych yn fanwl ar bethau bach.  Diosgais y platiau allanol olaf o rhisgl marw.  Roedd fy neges yn barod. 

Ac fe ddaeth.  Daliais fy ngwynt.  Sisialodd yr awel yn fy nail.  Edrychodd i fynnu, ar y golau’n aur ymysg y dail melyn.  Roeddwn i wedi dal ei sylw.  Siaradodd efo’r bobl eraill, crwydrodd o gwmpas, ond roedd hi’n gwybod, gystal a mi, mai arna i oedd hi eisiau edrych.  Edrychodd ar fy moncyff.  Anadlodd.  Gwelodd bod yno ysgrifen dirgel mewn iaith wedi ei greu yn unswydd iddi hi.   Cyffyrddodd a’r rhisgl a’i dwylo.  Roedd blaen ei bysedd yn galed gan waith – gwnïo a cherflunio, plethu a thyllu llechi.  Ond roedd ei chyffyrddiad yn fwyn.  Murmurodd rhywbeth o dan ei gwynt.  Siglais.  Roeddwn i mor hapus.  Syllodd yn hir.  Tynnodd luniau.  Ymdawelodd.  Gwrandodd.  Gwyddai fod yma neges, ond roedd yn anodd i’w ddarllen.  Roedd yn rhaid iddi hi ddeall, dehongli, dyfeisio.  Roedd yn rhaid iddi hi ddychmygu y gallai hi ddarllen fy neges.  Agorodd ei meddwl led y pen, a llifodd rhywbeth i mewn.  Rhywbeth fel anadl coeden, ond yn fwy na hynny hefyd.  Anadl popeth.  Daliodd ei gwynt.  Ymestynnodd y foment. Llifodd amser coed, ac amser cerrig, ac amser pobl at eu gilydd i’r un pwll.  Llonyddodd popeth.   

Ac yna, fel gwawr yn torri, fe ddeallodd.  Safodd yn llonydd iawn.  Roedd hi wedi syfrdanu.  Cyffyrddodd eto yn y rhisgl â blaenau ei bysedd.  Nodiais, ie ie, i ti mae o.  I ti yn unig, fy nyfyn bach. 

“Diolch”  meddai’n dawel, ac yna’n uwch:

“Diolch!”  Gan edrych i fynnu i fy nghanghennau. 

Felly rydw i wedi dysgu iddi ddarllen, ac yn awr mae hi’n gweld negeseuon ym mhobman.Ysgrifen coed, ysgrifen cerrig, ysgrifen dŵr.Mae hi’n gweld, mae hi’n gwybod bod y byd yn llawn ystyr, ond dydi hi ddim wedi llwyddo i ddarllen ysgrifen y lleill. Dim eto.

See also TEXTure - Asemic text and communication with the non-human

Sycamore seeds are winged. They spin as they fall, and can be carried long distances by the wind. In English they are called 'keys'.

 
I waited for her for a long time. I knew since I was a tiny seedling that one day she would come. Every tree has a familiar; a being that they know, someone to share their wisdom, their learning, their leaves, their wood, sometimes, if that is the fate that binds them. Some trees are familiar with a particular family of birds, - generations of chicks hatching and growing and fledging in their branches. Some are a favourite perching place for owls, or a scratching post for a deer or a cow. Some support beetles, moths, ants, wasps or aphids. Many are in love with a particular fungus, and spend their lives in endless conversation with the mycelium that weaves through their roots. I know an old oak tree that invited a swarm of bees to nest in a hollow in it’s trunk, and now where the hard heartwood used to be, honeycomb seethes and buzzes all summer. Every tree is a home, a shelter, a comfort and a support to some or several beings, but some of us know that our familiar is one of those two legged creatures that call themselves humans.

Young human people; children, love trees. They like to climb, to hang a rope on a branch to make a swing, and they dream of living in a tree house. Some stay like that into adulthood, but something happens to some of them as they get older. They cut down trees. And not a few trees, because they want to build a house or boat, like long ago, but hundreds of trees. Whole forests. This was a forest just a thousand years ago, when my grandmother was young.  Now there are only a few scattered patches of woods, between fields full of sheep. The earth understands. She says they do it not out of hatred for trees, but because they have to feed their children. I'm sure it's true, in some mysterious way, but I also know their children don't eat wood.

When I was a seedling and I learned through the electrical signals in my roots that my familiar would be a woman, I thought nothing of it, I just carried on growing and looked forward to meeting her one day. But as I grew and absorbed the lessons of the soil, and the memories of other trees, and received messages through the underground networks, and learned more about what people are like, I started to worry. What if my one is like that? A familiar is someone to whom your fate is tightly bound, but a familiar is not always your friend.

I grew and breathed and leafed and shaded a variety of birds and small insects. I have a Robin who holds a territory in my branches, and he sings such a sad and charming song when the sun sets in the autumn, it makes my roots embrace the stone below and squeeze it tight. If only the Robin could be my familiar, or the stone, or the rain. But they are my family, a familiar is something else, separate.

I have talked for years with the eucalyptus tree growing beside me. The eucalypt longs for the heat of Australia, where the soil is red, and she yearns for a koala familiar, but she, like me, is waiting for a human person. We huddle together, lonely and scared some days when we hear the sound of a chainsaw from afar, and sense the blood and ashes of our brothers and sisters on the wind.

But one day in the autumn, when my leaves were turning gold and falling one by one, I got a message.
"She is born!"
She was far away, and our encounter was years to come, but I knew, at least, that she was in the world, and that she was a perfect, faultless little person.
From then on, I kept watch over her, from afar, through the winds and the rocks and the waters. A shower of rain fell on me that had been in the sea when she was swimming.  I could detect the vibrations of her skipping feet through the ground.  Her voice, her breath, arrived on currents of air, and I breathed them in, and knew the structure of her lungs were a miniature tree.  My opposite.  She breathed out, I breathed in.  I breathed in, she breathed out.  We incorporated each other’s atoms. 

She was constantly moving around, flying great distances, carried by the wind like a sycamore seed. Two years here, three there. She was free, but without roots. She kept reinventing herself, a different person every time she moved.  Some people are like that.  They shed their skins as they grow.

She loved to read. I could feel her hands on paper that was once a pine tree in a German plantation. She had ink stains on her hands, and the nails were chewed to the quick. She lived in her head, in stories, in words, in writing. When she wasn’t reading, she was writing. And that's when I got the idea that I could write a message for her.

Young sycamore bark is smooth and grey, but when grown large the outer bark cracks and forms plates that move away from one another, and eventually fall away. Beneath the plates of dead bark, a pattern emerges, which can look like topographical lines on a map, or ripples in water, or writing. I shaped my message over her teenage years and early twenties.

She came closer. She lived among the slate.  She raised children.  She researched local history, dressed herself in it, and in the slate, and felt, voluntarily, the weight of it all on her shoulders. She adopted ancestors, great-grandparents. She became part of the lineage of the place.  She took root.

I knew she would come soon, and I secretly perfected my message under the bark. She was there for many years, living nearby, but years pass quickly for a tree. A woman came to live in the nearby  house. She came from a distance, too. She understood something about soil, and rain, and breath. She was an artist. She was the familiar of the eucalyptus, and she invited my familiar, and a gathering of other artists, one autumn afternoon, to wander around the garden and look at small things. I shed the last outer plates of dead bark. My message was ready.

And she came. I held my breath. The breeze whispered my leaves. She looked up, at the golden light I was casting. I had caught her attention. She talked to the other people, wandered around, but she knew, as well as me, that I was the one she wanted to look at.  She stared at my trunk.  She breathed. She saw that there were mysterious writings there, in a language created especially for her. My leaves trembled. She touched the bark with her hands. Her fingers were hardened from work - sewing and sculpting, weaving and slate boring. But her touch was gentle. She murmured something under her breath. I swayed. I was so happy. She stared for a long time.  She took pictures. She was quiet. She listened.  She knew there was a message, but it was difficult to read. She had to understand, interpret, invent. She had to imagine she could read my message. She opened her mind wide, and something flooded in. Something like the breath of a tree.  The breath of everything.  The moment stretched. Tree time, and stone time, and people time flowed together into the same pool. Everything stilled. 

And then, like the breaking of dawn, she understood. She stood very still. She was amazed. She touched the bark with her fingertips again. I said, yes yes, it is for you.  For you only, my little familiar.
"Thank you" she said quietly, then louder:
"Thank you!" Looking up into my branches.

So I taught her to read, and now she's seeing messages everywhere.  Tree writing, stone writing, water writing.  She sees, she knows it’s there, but she has not been able to understand the others. Not yet.