The Trashscarf Tales

Chapter One: The One and the 101

  

Trashscarf and the Mustache

Chapter 1: The One and the 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-Bay," 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.