Diary of Pip Rippon

Out along the Dun today for a change towards Outibridge, and then into the Coumes wood, a favourite place of mine. From there, continued up and over Onesmoor -- that giant of the scenery that alluded me for so long not such a long time ago, and now covered by that most distasteful of plants -- yellow snough weed -- the sinus congesting blight of the fields; why it is cultivated, I have no idea. From there, cycled back around and along the Kirk Edge, high above Damflask, before heading back across Wadsley common, and spotting a hoverwing and that rarer of the corvid family, the one with the beard.

Headed for Boots tower today (see previous entry). Peewhits a plenty just outside Dungworth, so called for their peculiar calling sound. I can't be sure, but out there in those wild rolling hills, I think I heard the tell tale howl of a ripperthroat; maybe it was just the howl of the wind as it was channelled down the valley and through the strangulated trees at the side of the track, but Shad was very wary, sniffing the air and moaning audibly. We hurried on, only to find our route blocked by wooltards, forcing a diversion so as not to worry the sensitive creatures, and adding a good chunk of time to our journey. It was all for nought, however, as out past the red ugg waterfall and the hanging tree, our route was finally blocked for good by an ugly and offensive looking bull demonspawn. Although the creature was half a field away, and I'm pretty sure it didn't see us, I had no desire to test that theory, and on sighting it, simply about turned and retreated from whence I had come.

You would have thought that by this time of year the murk might be receding a bit, but it tracked me down and bombarded me out on the Stannington steppes, not once, but twice. Ensconced in the gloom I lost my sense of direction for a time and wandered about in something of a hopeless state, my mind playing tricks on me, or so I thought -- twice out of the corner of my eye, I saw, or at least thought I saw a Syncarid waiting to strike, but when I spun about to face it, it was gone, so whether it was really there or not, I shall never know, since I did return to the Middle wood road finally. My body unscathed, but my thoughts heavily scarred.

The off-world conspiring against me, again. But today, out t'otherside of Wadsley Common, looking over Onesmoor and the Coumes wood -- part of the Wisewood -- saw the tell-tail signs of a hailstorm, and diverted back towards Worral and Outibridge, only for the murk to volumise aggressively, and follow me to Boggard lane, where I was viciously assaulted. Took refuge in the hag for a while, avoiding the worst of it, then used my local knowledge of footpaths, ginnels and the wherabout of local hostelries, to get to the Travellers Rest at Outibridge -- only several moments away. To my chagrin, "No barkers allowed". Is a barghest a barker ? Shouldn't be, I'd have thought, but decided to think that they are likely narrowminded crosslanders at the helm of that establishment, and a ghost barker is a barker to a crosslander. Continued on through the hail and sleet to the Hare and Hounds, a place more welcoming of barker hikers, ghostly or otherwise, where I was able to dry out for a while and sup a pint of their amber ale. Not usually a fan of amber ales, but this one slid down splendidly.

There is drug taking in Hellsborough and The Dark Peak, mainly a thing called rockcrust, which will jack you into the murk and let you experience what is known as scerm, apart from that, there's alcohol and weed, so it makes the off-world almost seem dangerous by comparison. I don't curse much, there is very little cursing on this website, or in Hellborough in general to be fair -- it's all pretty tame, really.

Why do I tell you this? Well, it's all to do with my first time. The first time I came through The hinge. When The Hinge claimed my virginity, is one way I could put it. That first time is exhausting. All that unknown. All that trepidation. All that excitement.

I uttered those incantations, the ones I had deciphered from the milting semagrams -- a semagram that I held onto tightly as the world began to shift, and with no bodily movement, I transgressed The Hinge and came out on the Hellsborough side. Or at least I thought that's what had happened since, moving between parallel universes is nothing but a non-event.

There were no great claps of thunder, no bolts of lightning, no sign from the universe that I had done anything that I shouldn't have done, that I had broken any rules, that any rules had even been broken.

There were two questions in my mind: Had I crossed over at all? And, what now?

To answer the first question, yes, I felt exhausted, but was that just nervous energy being expended after what I had thought I had done? If I had done anything?

Then I fainted. It was then, as my consciousness began to ebb away and my frail mind clutched at the fading straws of my awareness, that I realised -- physiologically, if not in a cognitive sense -- that I was being poisoned.

The murk. It was not initially evident to me when I "stepped" through The Hinge without moving, but within seconds, it had wrapped itself around my alien form, curling up my legs and enveloping my chest; smothering my face.

And then my eyes were open again and I breathed, fitfully at first, then deeply, from the psycmask (as I now know it) that covered my face, purifying my air supply, and filling my thoughts and brain with strange images and sounds that made me feel like I had been transported through some new portal to a world more alien than I could ever have expected to experience.

I passed out again from the sensory overload.

When I next awoke, the psycmask's sensitivity must have been reduced, since the sounds and pictures that now flooded into my mind had a calming effect. Rivers and hills, trees, flowers, flappers and creatures of the forest -- familiar sights to someone not unused to doing a bit of exploring of one's locale.

Words whispered into my feeling: Mutable, fluid, transforming. Informing, advising me of where I am, what I am, where I'm going, where I've been, when and what, and how and who.

And then I am sat upright, aware of my surroundings. I am in a room, it is an old room, possibly the oldest room that I have ever visited. It reminds me of a museum, except it is a museum that is genuine, not one that been thoughtfully curated and dusted down everyday before paying visitors arrive; this room is a lived in room. I am reclining on a chaise longue, my back supported by its back, my legs horizontal. There is a huge mirror, I see myself in the mask out of my left eye, I am an abomination. There are paintings, portraits, military figures; they wear masks, like the one I wear.

What appears to be a giant hand bangs the chair beyond my shoeless feet (where are my shoes, I wonder, I had shoes when I arrived here, I'm sure I did), making me and plumes of dust jump. Then I realise my senses aren't attuned right. The hand is normal sized, it belongs to a slender form with a grizzled chin, and it was a pat, not a bang -- a self invitation for this person to take a sitting position beyond my toes.

Damn good job I took that crust when a did, young'un, that Murk had tha good, was only cos I was surfing t'scerm that a found thee when I did; lucky n'all this old 'ouse sits right on t'junction an we still 'ave these 'eadbangers kickin about, I reckon tha'd been crozzled.

From that day until this, I have never forgotten how Van Hallam managed, largely by accident, to save my life, but I will be forever grateful.

Scaled the mighty Wilkin Hill that towers over the Damflask, and the murk being elsewhere for a while, out this way at least, impressive views not only over Damflask -- it is in the background, really -- but also Agden, Dale Dike and Strines. If I strained my eyes, I could see a wraithlike structure, which I assumed to be Boot's Folly -- built in 1927 by Charles Boot the son of the founder of local construction company Henry Boot. You can read more about that place here, it'll be on my list of travels soon. While I was out in Bradfield dale, heard he screeching of a ripperwing -- its call echoing down the valley -- and fleetingly, saw its partner, I presume. Then later, down by the banks of the Loxley, spotted a pair of yellow-wagtail -- made my day.