The Trashscarf Tales

Chapter 1: The One and 101

The sun slowly sank seaward, settling like a broody hen into a nest of gold and pink clouds, far out across the water. On the crinkled contours of the Fractal Coast, stretching from the glaciers and fjords of the far north, to the lands of fire and ice at the south, adventure and danger awaited any who sought to navigate the magical land's strange permutations of complex coastline.

But there is a road-- here, it twists along the very edge of the cliff that drops hundreds of gull-wheeling feet into a mass of black rocks and white froth beneath, little more than a wagon-track of scuffed stone. And just in case you were wondering where you were, here on the edge of the World with night coming on, there's a sign; weathered and wormriddled, but still showing the pokerwork burnt slashes that spell out "Via Litoralis"--- well, it will, once a ragged looking figure has finished wiping out the "C" that every passing wag seems to feel compelled to add to the sign.

"Yes, ha ha, very funny," Trashscarf muttered, his eponymous garment blowing in the wind off the water-- a complex macrame-madness knotwork-knit tangleorium of random fibers twisted and worked around even more random objects. It was whispy rather than warm, but it wrapped numerous times around his lanky shoulders and still trailed in the dust behind, while the front end was a raw webbing of fibers and a couple of windflowers and rattlesnake grass heads clinging precariously like the haul of a vegan spider.

Trashscarf ran his thumb back and forth over the "C"-- ok, quiet, that's not what I meant and you know it--, and instead of making the crudely-gashed crescent deeper, it seemed to be filling in; the torn fibers of the ancient wood stretching to re-weave around each other, gently pinched together now by long, graceful fingers bronzed by birth and browned by being.

It took some time, it took some care, but Trashscarf, thanks to a bit of magic, was able to accomplish in a few minutes what it would have taken a woodworker at least an hour of sanding and smoothing.

"There!" Trashscarf said, stepping back to look at it and almost falling off the cliff to his death. "That's better. That's a respectable sign for a very respectable road." He patted the sign gently, as though it were a bored horse, and then patted the road as well, tapping with one booted foot, like a spider testing its web.

"Barking-By-The-Sea," he said, pleased. "Oh, lovely. Haven't been there in ages!" And he set off down the road towards the glint and glimmer of buildings of smooth slushstone and warped and weathered wood that curled like a sleepy hound around the crescent of white sand that shone like the moon in the last of the sunlight.

His duties as a Waywalker were many, but none so important as ensuring safe passage for travelers along the fractal paths. As Trashscarf walked, he had a bounce to his stride, a thump to his footstep that was like the opposite of someone sneaking.

He left a trail upon the trail; rocks and pebbles rolled helpfully away from his thin-soled steps and lined up along the sides of the path like an appreciative crowd, and his scarf that trailed behind him seemed to widen the Way with faint curlicues of dust and time.

As he walked, his hands were busy before him, like a raccoon washing its food; knotting and tangling the strings of his scarf into complex snarls and patterns. He pulled grass stems from the wayside, and once, with a pleased cry, a length of faded fishing line--fibers formed the weave of the scarf and he added to it a bit of chewing gum that he'd picked off the sign earlier. It hadn't had any flavor left anyway.

"And so ends another glorious day to walk the Way!" Trashscarf proclaimed, raising his arms as he spun in a circle. His patchwork coat fluttered behind him, threadbare but well-loved. His jeans were ragged and ripped, but also incredibly comfortable, and his boots, though mismatched, were so broken-in they were almost part of his feet. The lightness of his step seemed contrary to both the heavy pack he wore on his back, and the deepening of the road under his feet. A family of Hedgehogs trundled past, nodding their prickly heads in greeting, and he gave them a pleased wave as they puttered back up the track he was clearing.

The Waywalker's path was rarely dull. Around each bend lay a new surprise: perhaps a hidden glade filled with tittering pixies, or a ruined tower haunted by a melancholy ghost. Or a bridge that folded itself into infinite space, or a talking tree, a wild winter festival or a sundrenched tropical paradise. He never knew what was coming next, but he welcomed it with bright-eyed curiosity. He was a scrawny sort, mostly Human, with a hearty crop of dark tangled curls, and large expressive eyes like a Muppet. His hands had long and clever fingers, and his face, friendly and open, could have been that of a senior still swimming in childlike wonder and kept young by hunger, or that of a youth who'd been aged by time and tragedy. There were some wrinkles, yes, but they were basically just support lines for a smile. Beyond that? He looked like whatever you wanted him to look like; he could blend in almost anywhere, but he'd always be Trashscarf.

His mind drifted as he walked, conjuring nonsense rhymes and whimsical thoughts. His fingers danced and scampered through the fibers of his scarf, flicking down impressions, memories, notes and notions in a quipu-quotation system only he was eccentric enough to understand.

Up ahead, he saw a small group of people, perhaps a half-dozen, with a cart and wagon and a couple of horses. They were arguing about something, and blocking the road, and Trashscarf bustled forward to investigate.

"Hallo hallo!" he called, as he approached, so as not to startle them. The people, all Human, were clearly travellers and not natives of the village ahead, for there were no dogs in sight.

The people turned, and he recognized one of them-- the horse pulling the cart was in fact a Horse, named Bander, whom Trashscarf had encountered on the road earlier. The two Humans that Bander had hired as 'thumbs' to work the details of tack and harness turned hopefully as Bander craned his neck to see who was coming up behind him, his tail whisking irritably.

"Thank Equus! Trashscarf! Will you please tell these Humans that they're being ridiculous?" whinnied Bander.

"It's not ridiculous," said one of the other humans, a stout man with a grim expression. "It's a sign, innit? Official and all. You got to obey the signs."

"Well said, with some caveats," Trashscarf said cheerfully, striding up. And in the dusk light he helped the people look at the sign. It was yellow and black, and rectangular, and it said, "WATCH FOR FALLING ROCKS".

"Yes, and?" he asked, trying not to let impatience creep into his voice. Yes, he wanted to help travelers, but there was a warm fire and a cold drink waiting somewhere ahead and this sign wasn't even as funny as the last one he'd dealt with.

"We ain't seen any rocks fall yet," said the stout man's stout wife. She had her arms folded across her chest and looked about as moveable as a fireplug.

"Gotta do what the sign says," asserted the stout man, like a dog unwilling to leave the fireplug.

"You don't!" snorted Bander, shaking his harness impatiently. "It's just telling you to be careful!"

"Yup, and we're being careful," said the wife firmly. "Watch for falling rocks. So we're watching."

Trashscarf considered this. He exchanged a look with Bander, who rolled his eyes. "Trashscarf here's a Waywalker," Bander said, "If he says it's safe, it's safe."

"Oh come on," Trashscarf said, with a smile. "It looks safe enough to me!" He looked up the rocky cliff that stretched up above the sign, and then frowned. "Well, hmm. That one's a bit loose-- anyone got a stick?"

A tall woman, dressed in hide and bone and steel, with an axe slung on her back, wordlessly passed him a stick, that oldest and most versatile of tools. It was a good stick-- the woman who handed it to him had been using it as a walking stick, and he nodded his thanks and gripped it, and let his pack fall to the road as he scrambled up the hillside, sending a few cascades of gravel down to some argument from the stout couple.

Trashscarf bouldered boldly up to where the suspicious-looking rock was, and gave it a tentative poke with the stick. It didn't move, but he felt like maybe it wanted to, so he poked it again, harder.

The landslide took out the path ahead and would have taken Trashscarf with it if the tall woman hadn't lunged out at the last minute and grabbed the other end of her stick as it went past. Trashscarf clung to it as rocks pummeled past him, and dust caked the sweaty dark curls of his hair.

"Sorry," he coughed up at her.

"I've got you," she reassured him. "You hardly weigh anything."

"Wisdom is enlightening," Trashscarf said, trying to sound mysterious, as he was hauled to safety.

"There, now you've seen some falling rocks," Bander snorted to the stout couple, as the landslide slowly trickled to a halt before them, showing that the Fractal Coastline had added yet more surface area to its nigh-infinite complexity.

The path itself was surprisingly clear-- the fall had cut a new curve in the track, a stable path beneath the instability. The larger rocks even formed a sort of guardrail on the cliffside, and Trashscarf sat on one and tried to shake the sand out of his hair as he gave the young lady back her stick.

"Can we please get on, now? There's fresh baked bread and a bowl of hot oats up ahead, I can smell it," Bander said, stomping a forehoof impatiently.

"Yeah, all right," sniffed the stout woman, and her husband nodded, and Trashscarf led the way across the newly-cleared path, the rocks and sand settling firmly under his feet so that the wheels of Bander's wagon, heavily loaded even as it was, didn't shift it.

Trashscarf let them all pass him, waving and nodding and accepting their thanks (and a couple of coins from Bander, courtesy of one of his thumbs.) He watched them go, and then turned his attention back to the yellow sign, looked around stealthily, and then quickly rubbed his thumb on it, expertly placing the 'C' over the 'R', with an air of an artist signing a masterpiece. Snickering at his own wit, he trotted down the slope towards the rippling light and laughter of the village ahead.

His cheerful demeanor belied the worry gnawing at his thoughts. There were more than just natural obstacles blocking the fractal paths these days. Trashscarf feared that even his considerable skills might not be enough to keep the way open and the travelers safe. The darkness was spreading, and he had a feeling this was only the beginning.