The Trashscarf Tales

Chapter 2: Up The Old Seadog

As Trashscarf strolled down the slope of the coast into the village of Barking-By-The-Sea, the dogs were the first to meet him. Every place he passed pulled pooches off porches to bark and frolic at his heels, leaping and wagging and sniffing-- for Trashscarf smelled like the entire World, and was a feast for any nose. He finally flung himself full-length and let the dogs pile over him like puppies until they were satisfied, and then, wiping slobber from his face, he sat up and distributed pats and approval.

The dogs were all in good health, and wore fine collars stamped proudly with their names and addresses. Barking was a pleasant little town, but with very strict standards, and had been founded by a community that had left the oppressive rule of Bridgetower long ago. When dogs had been banned in the city, the dog-owners had come here-- and even now, it was required that every man, woman and child have at least one dog to call their own, to care for and to care for them. A community that was as nosey as its canine companions, if anyone in Barking was caught mistreating or neglecting a dog, the penalty was banishment-- and you couldn't even take your dog with you.

Trashscarf thought, looking up at the gentle slope of the village around the white sand beach, at comfortable villas set in tumbled gardens and twisting pines and liveoaks and olives whispering secrets into the sea-scented breeze, that there were certainly worse places to be, dogs or no dogs.

As an urban druid, even a fallen one, he could communicate to some extent with the souls of civilization. Wolves were a threat that had sent him up many a tree, but dogs were a cheerful form of domesticated comfort, and as most of the dogs gave him a final wag and trotted back to their homes and porches, a grizzled looking beast like a cross between a husky and a brick wall gave him a thoughtful stare and a dignified wag. His collar named him Coaster, and Trashscarf followed his chonky rump down to the promenade along the shoreline, where streetlights glowed along the driftwood dock and moonflowers opened in tangles among the cypress.

The people of Barking were setting out on their evening Walkies-- all around him, people walked, briskly introspective or chattering ambles, with dogs on leashes, dogs in arms, dogs at heel and dogs bounding ahead. He'd have felt quite out of place, if it wasn't for Coaster at his side, gently shepherding him towards the octagonal form of the Slathering Seadog, a convivial tavern at the foot of a narrow, wrought-iron lighthouse in the shape of an enormous streetlight. A cloud of moths swirled around the sodium-amber light above, flickered through by hungry bats.

There was music coming from the Seadog as well-- a light and lively melody on mandolin and flute and drum, and Trashscarf mustered up a little tappity-tap as he went up the creaking stairs, earning him a bemused but tolerant look from Coaster. Rather than make a dramatic entrance, he slipped in quietly, his wide eyes darkening as they adjusted to the golden-green light of the lamps around him.

He recognized some of the patrons right away; his friends from the road, just passing through and seeking only peace and rest after a long day of miles. The stout man and his wife were still arguing with each other but now more cheerfully, each with a mug of stout (duh) and splitting a squat square pork pie between them. Bander's two thumbs were at the bar-- young men who were probably brothers, with the nervous excitement of folk who had never been away from their home village until a Horse had wandered through and offered them work and coin to come along and do as they were told. The young lady with the very useful stick was sitting in the corner by the fire, watching warily. Around them, the regulars and locals sat in their accustomed places (Except for one old man who was clearly glaring at the young lady for having taken his usual seat), with dogs lolling under their tables, sitting attentively hoping for the blessings of gravity to work their magic on forkfuls of food, or ambling about seeing who might have a pat or a scratch to spare for a poor, suffering, unloved dog who never ever EVER got any attention or food or anything, or so they would have you believe from their soulful eyes, despite their plump frames and glossy coats.

It was a civilized, quiet, respectful scene, politeness hanging heavy in the air as the newcomers tried to drown the inevitable pong of canine in strong drink, and the habituals indulging in some flat-out ogling of the funny-looking people from far away, without dogs. Both, no doubt, wondering how the other could possibly manage to live like that. Trashscarf's eyes narrowed, but they were crinkling up at the corners, and he swung himself up onto a barrel by the bar, as Coaster trotted into the kitchen in the back, and the barman set a tankard of local cider on the bartop without even looking around.

The first sip of the tart apple-and-orange blossom honey drink made his teeth sweat and his shoulders sink gratefully as his pack fell to the floor at his feet with a heavy thud. He sucked and smacked his lips appreciatively, and fixed his attention on the musicans speculatively.

A moment later he relaxed further; although quite skilled, the musicans were clearly locals; two rat terriers, a large shaggy thing with a nose at one end and a tail that beat time to the bodhran at the other were installed under respective stools. At first Trashscarf thought the flute player might not have a dog, but then he saw the small button-eyes peering brightly out of a fluffy face in a pocketful of pomeranian, and nodded. They didn't have a hat out, either. Locals, then-- musicians, yes, but at least they weren't bards, thank the Way! He downed the rest of his cider, plonked it back on the bartop for a refill, shot his cuffs, flipped his ragged lapels, and went to work.

He waited until the musicians had finished their song to some applause of hands echoed by the thump of tails on the wooden floor, and then stepped out into the heart of the room- it wasn't in the center, it wasn't at the bar, no, the heart of this building was directly under the driftwood chandelier and about ten feet from the front of the fireplace, and Trashscarf could feel it beating as easily as his own. He could almost imagine the building wagging its lightpost lighthouse like a tail as he did so.

"Greetings to you all on this fine evening!" he announced, grinning as he felt all eyes land on him. It had been a long, long time since he'd craved that feeling, but it was still nice to have a little of it now and then, as a treat. "I am Trashscarf the Waywalker, and I bring you blessings from the Way." He beamed around at the crowd, which unaccountably failed to erupt in cheers and free drinks.

"Waywalker my ass," spoke up the stout man. "This hobo practically got us all killed on the road in because he couldn't even read a darn sign."

Trashscarf's grin took on a glint; if he couldn't have adulation he'd take a snarkastic banter in a heartbeat.

"Perhaps the sign itself was the diversion," he said, taking another sip of cider to wash the dust from his throat. His voice warmed as he continued. "Why, I myself once encountered a tribe of beardless bandits, who led travelers astray by means of cunning placards of clever phrases-- and those they robbed they insulted further by shaving them most unmercilessly! While nothing much to you or I, such a fate would be terrible and traumatic to the Dwarven-folk, and they had wagonloads of golden sparkling ale and gold that sparkled like cider, speaking of cider, would you mind--" He held up his mug without looking around, "--that had places to go and things to do, if not for this strangely poetic threat to the dignity of the Dwarves that drove it--"

As his mug was filled and his story continued, the mandolinist brought in some background chords, twinkling around his tale as he told of the Bandits of Burma, their cunning traps of wordplay, and their leader, a bard gone bad named Rimarius, who had challenged Trashscarf to limerick for his life.

Speaking on behalf of the bandit leader Rimarius, Trashscarf made his voice growly and gruff with woodsmoke and trotted out an opening salvo--

"In a town that's renowned for its cheese,

Lived a cat with remarkable ease.

In the moonlight he'd prowl,

With a menacing scowl--"

At this point, it seemed, though, that his remarkable memory and storytelling ability failed him. "Wait, how did it go?" he said, frowning, in his own voice. "Something about... fleas?"

"Knees!" supplied one of Bander's thumbs, his young voice blurting out probably louder than he'd expected. "And he brought all the dogs to their knees!"

This didn't go over very well, of course, and a mutter ran round the locals.

But Trashscarf leaped up excitedly, pointing, "Yes! That was it! And so, then, I responded--ahem!

"There once was a man with a beard,

whose whiskers were rightly revered,

They grew long, and grew wide,

In a great fluffy tide--

Um...."

He snapped his fingers a few times, and this time, catching on, the drummer spoke up with a grin, "And everyone said he was weird!"

This got a laugh and an approving nod and thumbs up from Trashscarf, and he continued, the tale of the limerick contest getting increasingly dramatic and often rather risque due to some of the lines the audience was now eagerly taking turns to come up with. Even the dogs were listening, ears pricked and eyes bright in the firelight as their owners talked and laughed and lightened with conviviality.

The room warmed, the shadows faded, every time someone came up with a good line, there would be cheers and drinks bought for them, and when Trashscarf at last wrapped up his tale, with Rimarius and his merry men convinced to leave their banditing ways and take up vaudeville instead, there was applause, but also a lot of chatter as well, and that was better to Trashscarf's ears than all the slapping palms and stamping feet one could ask for.

Trashscarf scanned the crowd like a hungry hyena and found a straggler to pick off-- the stout man was still grim-faced, although his wife had actually contributed a line to one of the limericks that had gotten a roar of laughter that made Trashscarf realize he'd have to look up some of those words later.

"You, my good sir," Trashscarf said respectfully, catching the man blinking in the spotlight of his attention. "You are clearly wise in the Ways of the road, and your caution in the face of signs hints at a wariness that would speak further. I suspect you have a tale of bandits that is not so frivolous."

"Yer darn right," said the stout man, his mouth working as though he was chewing something, but he'd helped himself to some of the many drinks that had been showered on his wife, and this tug from Trashscarf had been enough to loosen his tongue. "I ain't met any, thank the Ears, but my own father, well, he was a merchant, y'see, out of Creel--"

The stout fellow's story needed a bit of nudging so that it didn't ramble off into a general litany of complaints, but soon it was flowing, a story told from father to son that had probably gone from a simple excuse for being late to a full-fledged fiction of bloodthirsty bandits whom Pater had faced down single-handed, armed with nothing more than a barrel-stave in hand and a brave bulldog at his side. This canine addition pleased the locals greatly, and the heroic partnership of dog and man got a rousing toast from the room.

So it continued through the evening; of course most of the locals had stories about dogs they'd known, but these reminded the tourists of things they'd seen on their travels, and soon the room was flowering with conversations across all the tables, chairs were scraping as people shifted around to hear better and join in, the musicans started up again, with the thumbs singing the old folk tune and others joining in on the chorus, and the bartender put a bowl of hearty beef stew which probably wasn't dog food in front of Trashscarf with a smile and a nod of appreciation as the drink and chatter flowed.

Throughout it all, though, Trashscarf noticed one figure remaining reserved and quiet, but he could feel her eyes on him from the shadows by the fire. It was the young lady with the stick, and while a younger, wilder Trashscarf might have seen this as a challenge and tried to lure her out, the older, wiser one he was knew that sometimes a person doesn't want to be bothered, and more wisely still, he respected that.

Connections and community clicking around him, strangers becoming familiar and the weaving of the Way wrapping round like the threads of scarf he tangled as he talked, fingers spinning strands of hair caught from stroking canine coats, Trashscarf waited until the night had worn on, and some of the crowd dispersed--the stout couple going upstairs to their rented bed arm in arm, the locals rousing sleepy hounds before bidding farewell and heading home. Then he flomped wearily down into a seat across the fireplace from the young lady, with her stick leaning back against the wall by her chair. She watched him with a look like a cat in this town of dogs, but he realized the fire needed poking, so he poked it, and got so involved in doing this that he almost didn't even notice when she finally spoke to him.

"You're quite the storyteller," she told him; her voice was low, but not unpleasant. "But not quite accurate."

"Excuse me?" Trashscarf said, genuinely puzzled. The World in which he lived was as strange inside his head as it was without, and even he wasn't sure which of his tales were true. But the young woman's tone was heavy with a story in itself, one that she hadn't felt willing to share with the room, but was now being presented to Trashscarf personally, and he sat back down, on the hearth near her, and looked up with the innocent piety of a squire at vigil.

She looked at him a long moment, across his face, into his eyes, as though he was an icy lake she was testing with her weight. Then she spoke again, low with foreshadowing.

"It wasn't a beard. It was... a mustache."