Diary of Pip Rippon

This weekend there has been something of a huge rally in Hellsborough park -- they called it the ten zero event (the start date being 79.hail-ripperthroat.10.0). The place has been infested by not only the jellyheads of Hellsborough (who wouldn't have had a choice to attend -- the hive mind would make attendance pretty much mandatory), but by those from the Nether lands and even further afield. I attended, of course -- it's research for me, and I spotted numerous instances of the Netherlander Alliance flag (officially banned by the authorities of course, and those sporting it, at risk of arrest by the Exacid henchmen of The Nascenti, should they so desire, but I saw no such activity. From an authority point of view, things were decidedly low key) -- on headwear, on shirts, on stickers; not in your face, but there and thereabouts. From what I understand, the rally -- let's be honest, a festival -- was funded by The Dark Peak District Council, and put on for the folk here or hereabouts, intended to keep them entertained, no doubt. On the first night, there were a number of spokesfolk, who seemed to entertain pretty well, judging by the the response from the sizeable crowd that had gathered. The second day, there were so many folk there that I found the whole thing quite intimidating -- being without my buddy Shad -- for some reason the authorities deemed it inappropriate for a barker to be admitted (never mind a barghest), so I didn't stop as long (although long enough), and, for the record, didn't see the same level of Netherlander Alliance activity as I has on the previous day. The third day, I abstained completely, heading out towards the Damflask, but the murk was extremely active, and I was soaked through as it followed me as I hastily hiked the banks of the Loxley and traversed up to the common. It was on that third day, the day that I didn't attend, that a bomb went off, and there was much shooting. I was up on the common when I heard the gunshats crackling weakly in the distance -- both I and Shad froze in our tracks at the sound.

I was out and about today, having a rare free moment. The humidity plant seems to be over its crisis, but there is still plenty of activity on the undergrowth, which led me on to thinking about the flora and fauna and the confusing (if you're reading this in the off-world) terms that you may encounter in my recordings. So... On stingers, scratchers, buzzers and biters: This is a translation thing, I know, so I wanted to add an entry to my diary to try and explain it, a little at least, because even to me it's confusing. Stingers, scratchers, buzzers, biters, slicers, slingers, dicers, bitchers, breechers, belters, filtchers, grinchers, haggers, that's just a brief summary of some of the words that are used in The Dark Peak to refer to critters -- both animal a vegetable -- and they're often used interchangeably. A stinger, in terms of The Dark Peak, always refers to what you would understand to be a wasp of the yellow jacket variety, which obviously (I say obviously, it may not be that obvious), doesn't exist in The Dark Peak -- there are no wasps in The Dark Peak. The lack of existence of wasps of the yellow jacket variety is, from what I have researched, the reason for the existence of the denizens at all -- the clown, Dyapnid, The Xin, The Nascenti and the others, would not exist at all (as they don't in the off-world. See the origin story). Yet there are plenty of stingers, both of the insect variety and the plant. What you might call nettles are known as stingers, so are what you would call a bee -- which here, are also referred to as buzzers (but also see below). A scratcher is a cat in the off-world, but here, can also mean literally anything that can give you a scratch -- like a briar, thistle or even the branches of a mountain ash. Buzzers, as noted already are bees, but also flys, or any flier which makes any sound at all -- yet you can be equally be buzzed by a thorn or a gorse bush, similar with biters: Usually small insects such as what in the off-world you'd call midges or mosquitoes, here they are the same, but because of the translation can sometimes mean vegetation like bind weed that grabs as you pass, or a plant that bites in the murk, such as yellow snough weed, as in: That snough come out of murk and bit me like a bastard.

Someone set a tripwire! Brought me down it did, out the back of Wadsley common, not far from Boggard lane. Why would someone do that, I have no idea.

There is only one explanation for the current heat -- the humidity plant is out of control and in a state of failure. This heat is bizarre in the extreme and not at all usual for the time of year, and from what I hear via the hive mind, this malfunction is likely to continue for some foreseeable time. I have had no communication with Van, but who can blame him for hibernating in this excessive heat -- not I. I did manage to escape the morbidity and oppressive heat briefly, and get into Beeley woods. The place is now a jungle. The venomtooths, buzzers and biters, roam freely, and even with Shad at my side, I felt the danger of the place -- not somewhere to venture in this sort of heat -- and the dead wood was more sinister than I have ever known -- no longer as dead as I have previously experienced. Afterwards, in need of a stiff drink or three, I met some character from the crosslands -- nice enough chap, goes by the name of Delf.

Today, one week later, I returned and twice thought I had passed the hidden glade, but then I found myself right in it, passing just a few paces from the sentinel stone, much closer than last time -- I am very sure of that. Conclusive proof that the common rotates about some axis, possibly the white obelisk being the central fulcrum. The forktail and cresentwing are now in abundance.

This is third part of a journal entry in which I talk about my interests in folklore (read part one and part two)

In order to do some proper research on The Legend of Van Hallam and the Loxley Kraken of Hellsborough Hole, I had to get my hands dirty, and get myself down to the places that might be mentioned in the legend and see for myself whatever there was to see after all this time. As somewhere that was instrumental in the industrial revolution, and various earth works will have been undertaken, I wasn't expecting much, but field work is part of the job.

There are several goals of active folklore research. The first objective is to identify traditions within a social group and to collect their lore, preferably in situ. There are many old boys and gals that remember this legend, but details are so generic these days, that anything specific is just too long gone.

There are many other tools I have at my disposal as a folklorist to do my research, but front and centre, is getting down and dirty at the site in question. Which meant really immersing myself into The Masons Arms (properly, The Freemasons), and understanding any shared vocabulary, which could vary by sometimes somewhat divergent shades of meaning; this I needed to use thoughtfully and consistently. I know, a terrible hardship, I'm sure you'll agree.

As a folklorist I also tend to rub shoulders with other researchers, we share tools and inquiries in neighbouring fields. No-one was particularly looking at my Kraken research, but I spoke to many other folks interested and researching the literature, anthropology, cultural history, linguistics, geography, musicology, sociology, and psychology of the Hallamshire region.

As the pub mentioned in the legend still stands, it was at the invitation of the current tenants, that I ventured into its vast underground catacombs. Those tunnels stretch deep, long and fetid beneath that most liminal of junctions above at the crossroads. Those dark archways and blind passageways take you way, way beneath the Loxley river, the red brick channels oozing the dampness and silt of the river. It is like going back in time a thousand years or more. Dark, dank and oppressive with fumes of wet sulphur, mist and murk saturating the ether, clogging your lungs, making you cough heavy phlegm with every forward step.

It was stumbling through this vile snoughing damp, with just the beer light to guide me, that I happened upon a small sarcophagus.

Buried behind a lifetimes collection of brick-a-brack, rubble and detritus, lodged in a tiny hole which could have been made to home it, possibly washed there from Dale Dyke when the reservoir collapsed and caused the Great Floods of 1864 -- but likely not -- in all likelihood, that parcel had survived in its hiding place for generation after generation, going back all the way to shortly after 66 Ma. That package had lain there all along, since it was originally deposited. Lain to rest there by Milting, guardians of The Hinge.

Opening that sarcophagus was nothing if not an anti-climax, I have to admit.

A few pumice blocks, if it wasn't for their uniform shape, and rubbing them with my fingertips -- noticing they were carved rather than formed, I'd probably have discarded them there and then as unimportant shards of worthless rock.

Luckily, those slight indentations sparked my interest.

The smallest of scratches -- but to the untold experience of all those professionals, all those discussions, all those inebriated chats with anthropologists, cultural historians, linguists, musicians, sociologists, psychologists, and the rest, they paid their price in gold. My fingertips recognised something, something of significance. Small, insignificant, tiny scratches on rough stone.

Maybe the most important indentations ever realised? I don't like to blow my own trumpet, but, it's significant, I know.

Lucky they were noticed. Had I not, those semagrams contained in the pumice, the liminal importance of the junction, and ultimately, Hellsborough and The Dark Peak wouldn't have been discovered.