The Trashscarf Tales

Chapter 15 Loam Sweet Loam

The woods were lovely dark and deep, especially here on this little path less travelled by. Offswitch was easy to follow, at least-- he moved through the undergrowth like a runaway boulder, and Trashscarf followed in his wake. But after a few switchbacks and turns, he cleared his throat and uttered "Dude?", giving the word that particular inflection which indicates "Um, are you leading me out here in the woods to kill me?"

"Sorry," Offswitch said at once, a polite snarl in the verdant night, like a bear solicitor. "Like I said, a lot of us got killed, so we kinda have to keep a low profile."

"Of course," Trashscarf said, "But if you'd be interested in having a little better trail to follow--"

"Wouldn't help," Offswitch chuckled. "But we're here now!"

Trashscarf looked up ahead, and saw what at first he took for a massive pile of timber, but then he realized the timber was actually arranged.

It looked, he realized, rather like the case of a bagworm moth larva, but it was a house-- a log cabin of sorts, with shaggy shingles and sturdy walls and heavy doors, and only a tiny glint of light to be seen, as though hidden under a bushel. The foundation was made of gnarled roots that stuck out around like hundreds of twisty little legs.

The legs were moving, slowly but steadily, with a faint creaking of wood, and the bagworm cabin gradually crept through the thick woods, scraping against the trees from time to time. It was only going at a walking pace, and Trashscarf and Offswitch had no trouble running up to it and stepping onto the slowly shifting porch.

"Is it alive?" whispered Trashscarf, testing the surface under his feet.

"Nah," Offswitch said dismissively. "It's just a construct-- an animated object, in this case a big old tree stump. My Pater made it! See, he's always had a talent for making automata and constructs and stuff, and he's the one taught me how to take 'em apart when they get nasty." He smugly patted a pouch at his side that clinked with tools.

"Let's meet this feller!" Fluffy spoke up impatiently, and Offswitch quickly knocked on the door, a sequence of short taps.

There was an extended scuffle inside, and the door was yanked open from within. Trashscarf was subtly delighted that Beggartick Sr. was also very badger-brocky-stocky, but much more towards the tea-and-biscuits type. He wore striped pajamas and a dressing gown, and he had what looked like the offspring of a shotgun x bagpipe pairing tucked under one arm.

"Pa! Look!" Offswitch exclaimed, and Trashscarf posed dramatically with Fluffy.

"Howdy, mister!" Fluffy waved.

Pa squinted at him a moment through sleep-blinky eyes, and then his jaw dropped in a most satisfactory way, and the whatever it was fell from under his arm and hit the deck.

"WHOPP" went the thing, and Trashscarf fell over.

He came back to consciousness only a short time later, to find himself sprawled in a beanbag chair before a small but toasty woodstove. His upper lip was twitching as Fluffy talked to his rapt audience of father and son.

"So then, I git back awake, and I'm in this pail, with some of that there ivy--"

"By Centennial! The poison ivy!" Pa exclaimed, holding the pail aloft like a malodorous sacred chalice.

"Iff noff poifom!" Trashscarf protested, from underneath Fluffy.

"Well, not to you," Pa said, rapidly falling into Infodump Mode, while Offswitch grinned and rolled his eyes. "You see, the ivy was how our ancestors kept the Valley safe and hidden! It was under the control of the mycellium, and if evil people came, it could trigger the stinging hairs."

"Why did it need protecting? I thought it was all nice," Offswitch asked.

"That's why," Pa said, a bit sadly. "The Wise Ones knew about the mycellium and how all life is interconnected and important, and they realized that all things have their place... even evil things. But maybe that place shouldn't be in the same place as a bunch of hippies who can't fight back all that well."

"Hippief?"

"People came to the valley seeking enlightenment. People with all sorts of different backgrounds, abilities, and philosophies. Those who were able, could find inner truth and wisdom, with the mushstache," Pa explained, "And some of them stayed-- our ancestor, Tasso Clicktender, was a talented arcanificer-- the talent runs in the family, you see," he added proudly, although shooting a Parental Look at Offswitch. "Although some of us just squander it on foolishness."

"You say that, but I didn't hear you complaining when I took out that frog-zombie the other day," muttered Offswitch.

"Tasso had come to question the nature of life; what it might be, and were constructs, and other built or animated things that could seem to perform tasks of intelligence, actually alive? The wisdom that was finally revealed unto him, through the mushstache, was... no, they are not."

"So they're ok to kill," Offswitch said.

"One thing puzzles me," Pa said, leaning in close to peer at Trashscarf's face. "There was never any mention of the mushtache actually speaking. Just that it provided insight and wisdom and--"

"I might have taught it that," Trashscarf admitted. "This sort of thing tends to happen around me."

"Heck, I wouldn't be here atall if it weren't for this feller," Fluffy said, "But I kinda miss bein' all spread out proper."

"Once we get the valley's curse sorted out, we can take you back!" Offswitch said eagerly. "Or we could find you a new place to live."

"We've got to take good care of it," Pa said emphatically. "It's the only one there is! It's got to be protected, observed, studied, cherished!"

"I like how ya think, mister," Fluffy said happily. "Reckon I kin stay with you while Quisquilliaefocalis here gets the old place cleaned up?"

"It would be the greatest honor of my life," Pa said, sniffling, like a badger that had just found a particularly upsetting truffle.

"I'll miss you," Trashscarf said, sincerely, "But I think you're right-- you need to stay safe."

"Happy trails, Dustsash-- I reckon we'll meet again!"

"I do hope so," Trashscarf replied, holding a hand up to his nose, and with a final puff of coffee-smoke, the mushtache detached itself from his face and was gently returned to its pail. Pa clutched the pail reverently, looking into the fuzzy depths.

"Is that horsesh--"

"Capital H, yes," Trashscarf said briskly. "But I imagine any rich loamy sort of soil would work!"

"I shall guard this with my life," Pa said.

"And I'll go help fix whatever's been killing our valley," Offswitch said. "Maybe I'm not useless after all."

So the journey of Trashscarf and the Mushtache came to an end. But after bidding more farewells and having a drink for the road, Trashscarf and Offswitch set out once more-- back to Creel, back to adventure, and to the destiny that lay ahead.

As they headed back in the darkness before the dawn, they paused on a small hill overlooking the little town of Creel. They stared, then exchanged glances.

The tavern where they'd met was a smouldering ruin.