Diary of Pip Rippon

After that hard freeze came the first snow of Bleak. I got out with Shad, of course, a bit of snow is no barrier to Shad and I getting out in The Dark Peak or to the pub. We started out down the Loxley, avoiding hills and staying in the valley, which seemed sensible, but I couldn't help myself and ascended the bank by a few hundred paces. Of course, to my chagrin, I still managed to slip on dead leaves and dirty ground on my way back, smothering by leg in muck and filth. No broken bones, just a jolt and an embarrassing look about, just in case anyone saw me. I don't think anyone did, there wasn't anyone around that I could see.

That proved to be the end of it for me though and after that I couldn't wait to get back the The Middlewood road for a tasty pint of three of porter, to warm my chilled bones. No sign of Van these days, not sure what he is up to -- but we need to meet up soon, since I have almost finished my research and write-up of Sophie Hinchcliffe and we need to start work on the second book of his Chronicles.

The Legend of Loxley Bottom (The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe) Chapter three: Wandering.

Blind. Soul-less. The cadaver that was Sophie wandered, an animated corpse. A zombie in your modern off-world parlance, but such a word doesn't exist on this side of The Hinge.

The supernatural exists in The Dark Peak -- to us humans at least. But the denizens of the hex -- the clowns, the xin, the nascenti, they're not so concerned by what us humans think of as supernatural.

To us humans, the supernatural is a real thing -- gabbleratchets are proof of that. But you'll never tie a clown down on the subject. For instance, they can physically see Shad, Van's barghest that spends so much time by my side. They tolerate him, at least here in Hellsborough -- not so much out in The Dark Peak, as Van attests in Chronicles one -- but they do not fear him like many humans do. It must be something to do with the hivemind -- and the indigenous hivemind at that -- maybe it's just something that psycmasks just cannot ascertain at all.

There are also the murk wraith -- the ghosts of the tormented. Sight of which, like a barghest, with burning eyes the size of saucers, is a sign of impending doom.

The Boggarts and the syncarids, the morivarids and murk dwelling cryptids like the Loxley kraken, the bracken man of Wadsley common, the giant raptor of Worral and the Dun Bog Beast. All are supernatural to us humans. To the denizens, not so much supernatural as naturally super maybe. Anyway, I digress.

The shell that used to be Sophie stumbled aimlessly along the banks of the Loxley river in the direction of the Damflask. "She" had no need for food any more. A dead person -- even when animated, as she was -- has no need for food, the organs no longer function, so there is no need for fuel.

Her psycmask had been ripped from her face by those rabid gabbleratchets as they devoured her oneness, their toxic saliva melting it away like it was nothing. But as with food, she had no need for a psycmask now, the murk could do her no harm.

That viscous saliva though, laced as it was with the rockcrust of generations, animated her corpse and drove her towards water. She knew somehow that the Loxley flowed in the wrong direction to where she needed to get to -- she headed upstream towards the Damflask.

That great source of water dragged her forwards like iron filings drawn towards a magnet -- or an alcoholic towards a full bottle of rhum.

The mud on the banks of the Loxley grabbed at her bare feet and sank between her toes, making her slip and slide. She stumbled over devilish rocks and grasping roots. Bracken and thistles stung and bit at her unclothed flesh. But she felt no pain -- there was no pain any more for Sophie.

The damage to her skin, to her body, went nowhere. The nerve endings didn't register any pain. Her brain had no feeling.

She was spotted by an slipperman, alone on the banks at this time after murkfall. He was dirty from a day on the banks, covered in muck and filth, almost invisible in the murk. He watched with a lecherous glint in his eye as this young woman approached through the murk.

This slipperman, although human, didn’t believe in the supernatural.

All that is reyt daft, he were known to say in the pub when someone raised something out of the ordinary as the subject, tha lot 'as to be crackers to believe in any o'that rubbage.

I doant believe in none of that stuff, tha daft buggers, he would say, before pitching back another pint of ale.

But Jed, what about the skull moon, his friends would say -- Tha ain't supposed to go out when the skull moon is up. D'divi knows, tha is not supposed to go out, tis dangerous and tha is likely to come a cropper.

Just a trick of t'murk. Just tha lot go on believing that, and I'll keep tekin me share of them slippers from the river in the murkneet. I’m not taking any effing smelt from you D'divi worshippin' chuffers. If tha lot is too scared to come out of tha 'ouses at neet, that's tha own business, nowt to do with me.

Me, I'd rather be deed than live in fear like tha lot does.

Sophie was almost on top of him.

Stumbling in the darkness, she pitched forwards landing in his lap. She turned what was left of her face towards his. Gargling half-words that meant nothing, expelled from a brain that no longer functioned, screaming like a murk wraith from a ripped throat that could no longer form human sounds.

Is tha reyt? He stammered. His words caught in his throat, he said no more.

She stared in his direction. Her empty eye sockets and vacant face howling at him.

He dropped her into his slipping tackle and ran for home, not stopping until he was back in doors.

By the time he got back to his home up the hill in Dungworth, he was panting worse than a barker that had been without water for a week.

When his wife came into the kitchen to find out what all the noise about, his terrified eyes made her scream.

Scrabbling back to her feet, Sophie shumbled like an automaton along the Loxley trail. She passed onto the long lane, and beyond -- into the emptiness of the wisewood proper, and followed the scent of the Damflask.

If you read nothing else then pay attention to this. This is what has kept me alive and allowed me to prosper in Hellsborough -- it's what the past few months here have taught me.

My number one rule: You make the most money when you stop giving a chuff.

All of them jellyheads, they're caught up in status games and throwing their lives away -- most of them don't do anything. They do nothing at all, they take from the nascenti what they need to exist -- and they exist, that's all -- and that's the way the nascenti wants them -- subordinate.

The ones that achieve in Hellsborough are the Jellheads -- capital J.

The rest of them are slaves to the others -- if you let things go on around you, you are a jellyhead; if you make decisions and make the rules, you're are a Jellyhead.

I'm sat here in my bedsit above Corner News on the Middlewood road. I'm alone, I'm lonely, but I'm not sad and I'm definitely not depressed. I have found that here in Hellsborough, of you feel bored, or stressed, or tired, or lost, then there are things you can do about it.

Just focus.

This place is all about making ¢hits. That's all. Once you realise that, things start to fall into place. They did for me anyway. Since I got here, I've made quite a bit of money -- most of it by doing the wrong things.

And I don't mean "wrong" in an illegal sense. I just mean "wrong" as in doing the things that most folk don't do. Stuff I've done by mistake, or just without not really knowing what I was supposed to be doing. Call it beginner's luck, or the luck of an immigrant to this world.

My best piece of advice: Do things for fun instead of out of obligation. Don't concentrate on the money. Your work will be rewarded. Mine was.

Van appeared briefly today in the bar, he made it clear has wasn't going to stay long -- I have no idea why that was, but he accepted a pint and downed it within a few moments, before making off. Whilst there, he quickly sketched out the differences in markings between the netherlander clans. I don't know why he wanted to share that either, but he did, and then he was gone.

The Legend of Loxley Bottom (The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe) Chapter four: Rescue.

I've got to sit down, I need to relax, I'm too angry. Naval raged inside his own head.

Naval was pissed and off his head on rockcrust. His frame of mind wasn't the best, to say the least. He slumped himself down on the bench outside the bar and pulled on his vipe, trying to calm his anger with a little bit of bliss.

Empty. No pull to be had. He swore and violently through the vipe into the gutter. Shaking, he controlled himself and realised -- No matter, it was an easy thing to rectify.

#### HMM::OUT('Need juice.  Get me juice for me vipe.  Mandarin orange.')
`ask:: Oakey, Naval // stat:: accept[ok]__ // src:: 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//4259]__ // now:: 79.rain-rooter.13.15.0.7.1`

`HMM::IN('..Order received, delivery 1m_`

`..50% Non-refundable deposit of 30¢hit taken__  Balance on delivery__')`

Naval didn't have to wait long, as promised. Thirty seconds later a clown ran into the park, palmed him his order and disappeared as quickly as he had arrived. Naval didn't even have time to say thank you, Piers -- as that was who he thought it was, but the clown apparition appeared and disappeared so quickly, he didn't have the chance.

Between them, the nascenti, the fungai and the clowns have delivery sorted. In this world -- or the off -- sure, you can go into a shop and buy what you want. You can get a deal on a street corner, if you're in the right place at the right time and know your man. You can get a package delivered next day, maybe even today if you're lucky.

But you ain't going to get what you order from a park bench in thirty seconds, I can guarantee that much. Maybe you will, one day, but in Hellsborough capitalism is so advanced and fine-tuned that you can get almost anything your heart desires mind-bogglingly fast.

You can hardly blame me for staying here when I get this level of service can you?

#### HMM::IN('Transaction complete.  Total transaction value 60¢hit.')
`hits:: 1 // [this]2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//467]__ // now:: 79.rain-rooter.13.15.0.7.2`

And that's the other thing. For the level of service, things can be extremely good value. 60¢hit that's around £6 in your money today -- as I write it's December 2023 in your world, so it's not breaking the bank is it!?

That's capitalism for you: Fast delivery and a great price!

Naval plugged in his new cartridge and sucked on that vipe pipe long and hard.

It relaxed him. He felt a sense of bliss as the chill Windstrom breeze of the murknight closeted him in his own melancholy.

Something stirred deep inside him. Something inside him said he needed to act. Maybe it was that statement by one of the other customers at the end of the night before they left the bar, about the gabbleratchets being abroad. That struck a chord.

Something's not right, things are not how they should be and now he's worried and feels foolish for the way he has acted and behaved tonight.

He'd been to half a dozen bars, all of the closest ones to where Sophie worked. Everyone, in each of them, well most of the drinkers at least, knew Sophie. It would have been really out of character for her to go into S1. Someone would have said something if that was the case. No. Sophie stayed in S6. Always. That was what they did. This was where they lived, this was their home.

And she was never home late, not without leaving a message anyway.

This was unusual behaviour for Sophie.

Naval finally came to his senses and realised the obvious.

Obvious?

The thought finally entered Naval's head that Sophie hadn't gone on a drinking binge with her work colleagues, that she hadn't decided to go into town by herself, that she wasn't having some affair with her boss or another colleague, that she actually wasn't out partying with anyone at all on this D'divi-foresaken night.

The realisation was that she had been abducted.

Then Naval started to panic.

He needed supplies he realised. He needed to mount a rescue mission.

Where had the gabbleratchets taken her?

What had the gabbleratchets done to her?

Where was she now?

What was she feeling?

Could he get her back?

The questions raced through his mind, bombarding him with feelings of dread and guilt. His throat was dry as his anticipation grew with alarm, distaste and reluctance.

There was no time but the present.

Naval didn't need supplies, he just needed to get after Sophie. But something inside him said that it would still be a good idea to pick up some provisions -- He would still need to eat himself, and Sophie would be hungry.

The Corner News was still open, he went in and grabbed some food pouches, they would do fine. His mind raced, there was no need for anything fancy, this was about basics, this would do, nothing fancy, nothing fancy, cheap and cheerful, quick and easy.

There'd be time for something more substantial when he got her back home. And then he'd treat her to a meal out. They'd go to that nice little tapas place on Bradfield road, he'd spare no expense -- she could have whatever her heart desired. He'd even stretch to tiramisu for dessert.

Naval knew Van Hallam. Everyone knew Van Hallam. He had explored in The Dark Peak, and that was where Naval knew in his head that he had to go now.

There were three main routes through the wisewood. The Loxley, the Rivelin and the Dun. He felt sure that Sophie lay in one of those directions.

But which one?

The bars were emptying now.

Which route? He said out loud to someone at random.

Which one what, fella?

Where did they take her? Where did the gabbleratchets take Sophie?

The Loxley, said one guy who heard his plea.

Yeah, alway the Loxley. That's always the direction the gabbleratchets head, said another.

They don't ever go down the Dun, the skewerwings hunt there, and the banks of that Rivelin, they is too muddy -- tis always towards the Loxley pond that them gabbleratchets head, you should try there first.

Good luck young'en, tha's gonna need it on a neet like toneet.

Naval sucked on his vipe pipe, trying to regain his senses. The murk was suddenly thicker than it had been and the drizzle started again, getting heavier and heavier. Then the wind got up, blowing stuff about hither and thither; wailing through the streets like a mourning murk wraith.

Before long, Naval was soaked to the skin, his clothes sticking to his skinny frame like muck thrown at a window in a storm.

He had a destination -- he would go into the wisewood. He had to. It was his only choice. he knew that no-one entered the wisewood, but he wasn't scared.

Van Hallam had been through the wisewood. He had met demonspawn and D'divi knows what else, but he had survived.

Naval looked around, he looked within, he looked up.

He longed for a source of light, a sense of lightness, as he began to climb out of that well, thumb by painful thumb. But the rain just lashed down and the wind howled like a ripperthroat on the edge of madness.

It felt heavy, the air, the murk. But he remembered —- he remembered he was not alone in this brokenness. Not alone in this anger and angst and disappointment —- he had Sophie's spirit to help him through -- her pretty laugh, her sweet smile. The thought of her drew him forwards, pulled by her attraction. That was when he understood he had to do everything in his power to get her back, despite the risks of the wisewood.

The wisewood it can't be that bad? Can it? Surely not...