The Legend of Loxley Bottom 6

A new diary entry on hellsborough.com is coming soon:

Also known as "The Gabbleratchets of Sophie Hinchcliffe", this is a work in progress based on research that I have undertaken into the recent modern age of the history of Hellsborough under the rule of the nascenti. A local girl and simple shop worker, Sophie Hinchcliffe, who -- inexplicably -- becomes the first CEO of the DPDC -- that is the first Chief Executive Officer (the original boss, if you will) of the Dark Peak District Council, the local government that administers Hellsborough and The Dark Peak for the nascenti overlords.

Sophie is a major character in the forthcoming sequel to "Dark Peak -- Hellsborough Chronicles book one", so it is only right that I do the research to uncover her backstory, most of which I have gleaned from the local library in Hellsborough -- an awesome resource for research, because, as you would expect, those nascenti overlords want the populace here and hereabouts to understand the importance of local characters that have helped to define their rule.

It will be serialised here, as well on on Twitter/X in short form.

Read Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four and Chapter five.

Chapter six: Search.

Hellsborough is close to the wisewood, and to the North and West, it encroaches on the city landscape.

Often creatures from the wood lose their way in the murk, finding themselves wandering through the streets of Hellsborough, terrorising unsuspecting residents.

Many an over-intoxicated jellyhead has been found by the exacids at the bottom of a ginnel or on some lonely lane, half devoured with horror in his or her wide and starey eyes.

Naval wasn't scared, he had a mission -- he would find his girlfriend, wherever she was and whatever mess she had gotten herself into, and he would bring her home -- back to their home in Winn Gardens.

Despite the amount of drink he'd taken on, he felt sober, and he knew his feet would carry him forwards with purpose. His mind was set and his body was ready -- he was on edge, sure, but he was focused and knew what he needed to do.

The Loxley pond -- that is what one of the stragglers who'd left the last bar had said. It was but a few thousand paces away, and so that was where he headed. He knew where to go, he'd been there many a time -- but never when the murk was so thick or the dark was so black. He covered his face with a shroud; he knew his psycmask would allow his to breath freely, but the extra warmth of the snood gave him comfort -- and he needed some comfort from something at that moment.

As a child, he and friends had ignored their parents advice and headed out in the direction of the pond, messing around in the muck and mud and water, not worrying about what might lurk beneath its surface.

He had no fear then, none of them did. But when he thought back on those friends from those days -- few of them were still about. One, Ellen Gobsthwaite had made a name for herself -- she had become someone in the Farantees retail empire, but many other names that he remembered: Phil Turner, Ronnie Sykes, Jim Savage, Davey Hawley -- there were all long gone. Suffering some unexpected demise for some terrible, yet inexplicable reason.

It was always an inexplicable reason -- always a tragic accident -- always something that shouldn't have happened.

But they did happen. Those names were gone now. Laid to rest. Just gravestones in the grounds of Wadsley church or Wardsend cemetery.

Naval tried not to dwell on the gory details. He tried not to think about what might have happened to those old childhood friends.

He tried even harder not to think what might be happening to his Sophie, or might have already happened while he fumed and raged around the Middlewood bars.

All that he cared about now was finding her and rescuing her. His little love, his precious girl.

Got any ¢hits fella?

A beggar looked up from the filth, nestling a drainpipe that spewed filthy water onto the flagstones by the junction.

Naval's lip curled upwards -- what was a beggar doing on the streets of Hellsborough?

Surely the exacids wouldn't put up with this?

Yet here he was, this decrepit individual, asking for a hand-out.

Naval bit his tongue, not answering, just staring at the hobo.

#### HMM::OUT('Transfer 5 ¢hits to him')

ask:: Oakey, Naval // stat:: accept[ok]__ // src:: 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//4259]__ // now:: 79.rain-rooter.13.15.0.22.49

HMM::IN('..5 ¢hits delivered to 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:3492:fd31:abfe__')

Grateful fella, grateful! The beggar said, snoughing into his filthy lapel and clutching the drainpipe for support. I'll not forget thee fella. Tha is a diamond tha is!

Ten minutes later Naval was at the Loxley pond. Now, after midmurk, all was quiet. The flat surface of the pond reflected the murkmoon like a dirty mirror.

How does it feel to be on your own, baby? Naval knew Sophie was here or hereabouts, he felt her presence was here -- or at least had been. Something on the breeze, something in the air. He could smell her, he could sense her, she had been here.

But Naval knew he was by himself now. All was quiet on the pond. Even the quackers and the clownfeet were sleeping at this hour.

But he knew Sophie had been here.

He searched in the darkness for signs of her, stumbling along the edge of the pond -- that narrow runway that splits the pond and the Loxley river itself.

He picked a fragment of cloth from an ensnaring tree branch that grew into the pond.

It was hers, he was sure.

It could have been anything, it was filthy and wet, covered in grime and silt, but he knew it was hers, of her. He could feel her presence if that scrap of material.

When a lover walks out the door forever, the short-term pain is enormous. When Sophie walked out of their door on Winn Gardens this morning, it was with a kiss and a gleeful wave, the full shock of it all hadn't hit him yet.

As Naval followed that narrow tract of land, he saw more bits of stuff -- detritus, fragments of garments, scraps of this and that -- all he felt sure were evidence of Sophie's existence previously at the pond.

He had no choice now.

He was on the edge of the wisewood and the only way was forwards.

He couldn't turn back. Tha can't turn back now, he said to himself.

The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand erect, his fear palpable. His heart beginning to race. And, there's no such word as "can't" -- the words of his mother echoed through his confused thoughts.

Naval felt the presence of another. It wasn't Sophie. It was someone else.

Naval turned around, peering into the blackness and the murk.

There was a shape -- A shambling form behind him, maybe a hundred paces back, maybe less -- it was hard to tell in the lack of light.

Who's there? Shouted Naval.

There was no response, but a tell-tale snough was enough to inform Naval that the beggar from the crossroads had followed him.

What do you want? I know who you are.

Aye fella, tha knows who I am, I is just 'ere to 'elp.

Help? How can you help?

Sophie is deed, tha knows that reyt?

The beggar came closer, hobbling through the murk.

Dead? What do you mean dead?

You've seen the evidence fella, you've seen her bits and bobs strewn about -- ain't that evidence enough that tha Sophie is no longer in t'land of t'livin'?

She's alive! I'm searching for her now, I'm going to rescue her! I have provisions, I'm going to get her home safe!

She's gone fella. Them gabbleratchets took her and brought 'er 'ere. I saw 'em carry 'er off mesen from t'crossroads. And them things doant leave nowt much behind. Them scraps of cloth that thas 'olding close to tha chest, that's all that's left of 'er, believe me, I knows about these things.

You're wrong, my Sophie is still alive. I know them things have done her wrong, but she is stronger than that, she is stronger, she is stronger, I know she is, I know her, I'm gonna save her, I'm gonna take her home.

She's gone fella. Doant enter that wisewood -- that's all I 'as to say to thee.

I have to go in, that's where she's gone. I have to go in and get her back.

She'll come back fella, when she's good and ready. Tha doant need to go in there looking for her.

You're wrong. I have no choice. I need to go into the wisewood.

Do as tha pleases then. I 'as said me piece.

Wait, what? -- how do you know she'll come back?

I's milting fella, I maybe old, but I's seen all this an 'undred times before.

Milting? What's milting? Naval shouted into the darkness. Naval had never heard the word milting before.

But the beggar had turned his back and was gone, away from the wisewood, back towards the grime and filth of Hellsborough.

Indignant and annoyed, Naval ran down the towpath -- The only thought in his mind now: Finding his Sophie.

Up the steps by the weir, past the pumping station -- he and it running at full pelt in the torrential rain that slewed from the murky night.

Up above the pumping station, on that dirty and discarded track, lives the Gosava tree.

The Gosava tree eats meat. A rapacious predator, albeit one that is rooted to the ground; but one that extends its reach into all corners of this part of the wisewood, it's tangle of dark dripping branches blackening the canopy, cutting out what little light the murk allows to enter.

The Gosava tree is hungry. The Gosava tree is ravenous. It hasn't eaten for days, weeks maybe. As Windstrom turns to Bleak, pickings in the wisewood are few and far between -- there isn't much meat to be had here or hereabouts at this time of year.

It has extended its roots and rhizomes searching for nourishment -- clawing and climbing into every gap and fissure in its hungry search.

The gift of live human flesh doesn't come along very often. Maybe once a season, maybe less. Rarely at this time of year.

Ensnared by those tangling dendritic threads, the Gosava tree brought Naval down, encasing him in its spiralling web of tendons and branches.

Naval could no longer move, his legs gripped by the voracious plant. One of his arms was pinned to his side, his other grasped at a tender stem.

Behind him, Naval heard the most horrid of moans -- subsonic it was -- a deep, penetrating growl.

Naval has never felt fear like this before. The darkness, the murk, the sudden cold of the wisewood making his teeth chatter in his head. He pulled the sapling towards his mouth with his free hand and put it in his mouth, his teeth bouncing up and down on the springy twiglet.

In his mind he remembered the legend of Van Hallam, and he resisted biting on the twig.

He shouldn't have resisted; worse things happen by resisting.

The Gosava tree forced itself on him, into him. His remaining free arm captured, and his prone form splayed into a cruciform.

Dunlockslyn thanked Naval for his sacrifice to nourishment of The Dark Peak.

In other news, Hellsborough Chronicles book one “Dark Peak” is now available on Kindle and paperback.

I am also tweeting on a daily basis, and you can follow me here.

If you can leave a review of Dark Peak on Amazon, I'd be more than grateful.

Cheers, until next time,

Pip :)