"…whilst the mundane aspects of life continue to be withered by the passage of time. To be a road is to continually accept the responsibility of being a road, and not to shrink from the infinite. It is a necessary path, a life of endless toil and heedless determination. To travel this road is to live."

"Traveller, look upon this road, and consider where you stand. A road is lifetimes of toil, the infinitesimal effort of a thousand individuals, and the endless quotidian awareness of each and every traveller upon it, that this, at least, will always remain."

Trashscarf strolls along the beach, humming to himself. Sort of human, he dresses like a traveler, with the addition of his eponymous scarf, a long, untidy, hand-knotted web of many different fibers, with bits of his travels woven into it; trash, yes, but also feathers, dried flowers, interesting rocks, and, as of now, a few seashells, conveniently holed by the predation of moon snails.

The ocean laps peacefully to his left, and dunes brushed with coarse grass lollop away to his right. He carries no weapons, and currently his feet are bare, toes wriggling in the sand with each sauntering step, the heavy backpack he carries pushing his footprints far deeper than they would if he was unburdened. It seems a nice day, and he has been walking along this beach for a couple of hours, trusting that, eventually, he will come across something interesting, or perhaps at least a path or road that would lead to something more interesting.

For while the beach is pleasant enough, Trashscarf is a Waywalker, a sort of urban druid who calls it upon themselves to find and follow the roads and paths of the world, to use their wanderlust for the benefit of others by making sure that the ways are clear and open, and that travel should not be made more difficult for people than it already is. His curly hair blows in the breeze, and the sun shines on his browned face, unable to make a real dent against a complexion that's faced more suns and miles than he might care to count, if he wanted to, which he didn't.

He stoops to collect a winkle shell, striped in orange and cream, with a neat little hole midway along the spiral, and, humming to himself, spends a few moments threading a strand of the tough beach grass through it, before adding it to his scarf with a few deft knots. Giving the new addition a slight tug, and being satisfied with the result, he looks up, and frowns for a moment.

This has to be it; there's nothing more interesting for miles in any direction. A rise of ground, a single tree, and, most importantly, a sign. It's old, weather-beaten, and just the faintest bit weathered, but still readable. In a greyish-green that matches the trunk of the little gnarled tree, it reads:

“'Genius Loci'” – Trashscarf snorts – “That's a good one! Oh well, I doubt anyone's coming here any time soon, and I've had enough walking for the moment, anyway.”

He makes his way over the shallow rise, and, planting his back firmly against the tree, smiles to himself, lowering his head with a contented sigh as the warmth of the sun soaks through the thick fabric of his denim jeans. He props his backpack against the trunk, and plonks down on it, and leans his back against the tree. "Genius Loci," he says again, with a chuckle. "What in the World does that even mean?"

"Whatever it is, I'm sure I'm in for the demonstration, eh?" With that he opens the large, worn-leather backpack, and pulls out some rather chewy bread, a wedge of cheese, and an apple. Still smiling, he holds the apple up to the tree in his left hand, and slices it in two with his pocket knife, before separating a piece for himself, and offering the rest to the tree. He raises the apple to his mouth, but, as he takes a bite, the thought occurs to him that there might be something slightly odd about making an offering of an apple, to a tree, so he shakes his head a little, and looks at it, before eating the rest.

A few moments later, there's a slight rustling sound, and, casually enough, a small, spindly, gnarled hand smooths out of the trunk of the tree, and points to the piece of bread.

"Ohhh-kay," says Trashy, hastily getting to his feet, and arching an eyebrow. "Sure, fine, whatever. Here you go." He gingerly places the heel of bread into the rootlike hand. It clasps round it, and draws it slowly back into the tree. Trashscarf nervously moves his backpack away from the trunk as well. "It's a bit stale," he says to the tree, "Sorry about that."

The hand comes out again, and points to the wedge of cheese.

"This as well?" The tree nods, and the cheese vanishes inside, as the hand withdraws back into the trunk.

"So," says Trashscarf, "I'd assume you're a genius loci. One of those tree spirits, or something, right?" The tree shakes its leafy crown, lightly, as though a stray breeze had struck it.

"Nope?" Trashscarf says, "I thought not, and I was right, by golly. So, what are you?"

"Not... not a- a spirit," the tree replies, its voice seeming to come from the base of its trunk, its mouth hidden somewhere in the heartwood. "More of a... a... a... metaphor-" The rest is swallowed by a coughing fit, and some spluttering.

"A what?"

"A metaphor!" says the tree, raspy and faint.

"That's a nasty cough you have," Trashscarf says sympathetically, "Here, have some water." And he offers the tree his filled waterskin. "Fresh water, hardly any backwash!" A few drops splash onto the tree's sandgripping roots.

The tree hesitates, then, slowly, cautiously, two more roots or so emerge from the trunk, and sniff at the air delicately, almost like snails, before seizing upon the waterskin, and drawing it deep into the tree to fill up.

"Get it all down, tree!" Trashscarf says, "You're looking a lot better already!"

"Oh, I'm not a tree, it's just..." it doesn't seem to want to finish the sentence, it coughs again, before saying, "I'm not a tree. I'm a Genius Loci. There are no trees here."

"I'm afraid you've lost me entirely," Trashy groans. "You sure LOOK like a tree. No offense."

"Ah," says the Genius, "I know who you are. It's your way, it's your Way. You're a Waywalker, one of the Road Brothers, and you've walked your way here. You're tired, and you've never met a genius loci before."

"Oh holy crackers, you've lost me twice over," Trashy sighs.

"Oh, it's nothing so mysterious or sinister," the Genius continues cheerfully.

"I'm a Genius Loci," it explains, "It's my job to, well- I suppose you might say embody-- metaphorically! the essence, or spirit, of a place."

"This place?" Trashscarf points at the ground under his feet. "This place right here? Sand dunes and empty beach for miles, and a single not-actually-a-tree?"

"Of course!" the Genius replies.

"Fascinating," Trashy says drily.

"Do you have a name, genius loci?" The tree coughs again, for a much longer time, and the waterskin ripples and shudders.

"Oh, yes, I have a name!" it says, with a few more rasping coughs, "I have many names! I've been called a genius loci, a tree spirit, a genius of place, and a woods-giant, but I'm also called by many, many other names."

"Oh, good," says Trashy, "that's what we want; lots of names, not difficult to remember."

"I've been named alternately by those who have abused me, and those who have worshipped me," the Genius continues, "Those who have taken from me, and those who have given everything to me, and--"

Trashscarf, trying to be polite, clears his throat. "Can I just call you Gene? Short for Genius?"

"Gene! Yes, that's a very good name!" the Genius replies, sounding a lot more cheerful. "I do like that! Gene, one of many names, many titles. I am Gene!"

"Excellent," says Trashy. "Well, Gene, if you're not a tree-"

"I'm NOT a tree! I'm made of wood, but I am not a tree!"

"Yes, I'm sorry; you're not a tree. So, what IS a dunes-sand-type place doing with a spirit of place, genius loci and not a tree and all, anyway? I mean, that's an odd thing, to have."

The Genius flutters its leafy crown uncertainly.

"What do you mean?" it asks.

"I mean," Trashy waves his hands vaguely at the landscape, "What's so special about this place? Why does this part here deserve a Genius Loci, and that bit about four miles back--" he points down the beach, "--where I had a whiz, doesn't have one? At least I hope it doesn't," he adds a bit nervously. "I'd feel pretty bad if I peed on someone who wasn't actually a tree."

The Genius doesn't answer immediately. It seems to be thinking.

"I think we have a lot in common," it says finally, "You see, I believe people take things for granted. They see them everyday, and they don't realize how… special they are."

"I think I agree with you, Gene," says Trashy with a grin, "but how does this relate to this place, exactly?"

"What people don't realize is that great things make great places," replies Gene. "This place is where great things happen."

Trashy thinks.

"Like what?" he asks eventually.

"Oh, you know, things," the Genius replies airily, "Events. Things!"

"What sort of things? A battle? A big gullywasher?"

"Well, a battle, but this is usually AFTER a rain, and we haven't had rain in ages. Mostly just people, mostly travellers, like you. Well, people and animals, and occasionally things."

"Things?" Trashy asks, intrigued. "Like what sort of things?"

"Things... like me." Says the Genius. "Things... like your Way."

"Yes," replies Trashy slowly. "My Way is pretty great."

"Indeed," replies Gene, "And this is where you've led your Way, and your Way has led you. You see, I think it's possible that your Way is VERY special."

"I'll say," Trashy says.

"I know, and it was going along fine, wasn't it, but, well, excuse me for being blunt, it seems to me that you've currently lost your Way. Because you're a Waywalker, but you're standing still and talking to a tree."

"We're allowed to stop and rest sometimes, you know," Trashscarf retorts haughtily, but then winces in chagrin, "Actually, Gene, you've got a point. I was just walking along this beach looking for a road or something, to pick up my Way again. I don't suppose you know where one might be?"

"Ha! I do! I do indeed!"

"I'd be much obliged if you'd share, then," says Trashy.

"Ah, I'm sorry, I wasn't being quite open with you," begins the Genius.

"No problem," Trashy replies casually.

"In fact," the Genius continues, "You see, I want your help."

"My help? I'll stop you right there," says Trashscarf, holding out a hand. "I'm a Waywalker, not a god-walker. I'm not a hero, or a savior, or a prophet. My Way is through the world. I don't do adventures, or big fights, or heroic quests, or great things, or anything like that. I just walk through the World, and help others do the same. If you need someone to fight, or something like that-- Well, I don't have any skill, I don't have any weapons, and I'm a terrible coward. You'd get more help from that sign there than from me."

Gene says nothing, letting the silence hang between them, and then finally Trashscarf gives a huge sigh, scruffles his hair with his hands and flomps his shoulders.

"Fine, fine," he says. "Alright. If you need rescuing, or something like that, I'll try to help," he says to the Genius. "If it's something like that, like boars or robbers or something, I'll probably do okay, but only with help, you understand? Only with help. But if you're looking for someone to take on some great thing, or some great quest, or something like that, or something that doesn't sound like fun, or that involves any danger, or that makes noise, or that involves large groups of party animals, then I'm outta here. You'll have to find someone else."

The Genius is silent for a minute, and Trashy begins to think that maybe he might have made it quite clear that is wants nothing to with his mess, but then the Genius says, "Then you're in luck."

"Oh, goody," says Trashscarf.

"You see, it's rather like this," Gene says. "Why, I want you to write a little guide-book for this place. There's got to be people towards the middle of their path, and at the ends of their paths. They need to know about this place, and what better way to let them know than to write it out, eh?"

"Oh," says Trashscarf, "I was wondering what that was all about. So I have to find, and write about great things like you, and that makes this place just that little bit more great?"

"Precisely!"

"You want advertising, basically?" Trashy asks cautiously. "To get more people to come here and visit?"

He rubs his chin thoughtfully and looks around. "All right, you tell me where the nearest road is, and I'll tell folks I meet along it that they should totally come here to a bunch of sand dunes and talk to a tree. I know you said guide-book, but honestly, a lot of people can't or won't read. Word of mouth, though-- that means more than dead letters. And once they're here, you can tell them about the great things. They'll just love it. Some will even be so great it brings them to their knees, in front of you, to worship you!"

"No, no," Gene says bashfully, "I'm afraid I can't have people worshipping me. I wish I could, but I can't."

"Well, you can't blame people," Trashy says. "If you're a most-special tree, it'd be awfully rude to be rude back. And look, flower-crowns or a golden robe or something-- they're not a pride thing, I understand that, I'll bet you don't even know about that gods and goddesses have a pride thing-- it's just they'd be so happy and grateful for the greatness of the thing that they're worshiping you, they'd want to show it."

"I see," says Gene, sort of tasting the idea. Leaves quivered a bit. "Do you think they'd make me a new sign? A better one?"

"Absolutely," Trashscarf says with a nod, "And you can tell them to add "not a tree" to it as well. In parenthesis, like-" He sketched vague curves in the air with his fingertips. "That should help."

"I see," Gene says.

"Well, I'd better get on my way," says Trashy, "It's been lovely to chat with you, but I'd like to know where the road is, or where I can find one. If you could tell me that, that would be a great service. Do you think you could do that?"

"I can do that," Gene says. "Just keep going, but you'll need this."

"What?" Trashscarf asks, as the Genius plucks a flower from its branches and offers it to him; it looks like a nearly-yellow daffodil.

"It's a sign," Gene says.

Trashscarf takes the flower carefully, and braids it securely into his scarf. "A sign of what?" he asks.

"A sign to remind you to

keep on going."

"Hey, that's-- That's a nice idea," Trashscarf says, taking the flower, "It feels like I could've thought of that!" He tilts his head, as if seeing the idea in a new light. "Wait, no-- Oh, I get it. I'll tell everyone I go on with to come back as soon as they see that flower, and then they'll tell their friends, and so on-- onwards and onwards and onwards, everyone coming here to see you!"

"Yes," Gene says, "Yes, that's exactly right! It's wonderful. Now go on, I'll let them know that you're coming."

"Exactly what?" Trashy asks. He jerks back in surprise, "What do you mean, you'll let them know I'm coming?"

"There are wonderful things that are wrong," the Genius says.

"Wow," says Trash

scarf. "That is a very pithy and accurate description of most of my adventures. Very well, let them, whoever they may be, know that Trashscarf the Waywalker is heading their way, so they'd best... be nice to him," he finished a bit sheepishly.

He reshouldered his pack, flipped back his scarf over his shoulder with the daffodil tangle across where his lapel would be if he was dressed Business Formal instead of Hobo Bohemian, and set back out on his Way.

"Just keep going!" he repeated to himself, tapping the daffodil, and setting out further up the beach with sandy strides.

He'd left Gene the tree several miles behind, before he saw what the tree-- wait, not a tree, sorry about that -- had been talking about. Up ahead,

there was a fork in the road.

"Well, I hope they were friendly," Trashscarf says, "Because I had a few stories. And I think I know a few fighting songs. And I'm sure they'd have been more than happy to hear them all!" he added, a bit louder.

He'd been going for a while when he noticed that there was a sort of a glow on the horizon. It wasn't a torch, and it wasn't a fire, and it wasn't a light shining down from the sky. It was a glow, a steady sort of a glow, that was just there.

"Oh, no," he says, "Is that-- Is that the glowy, glowy light that you're supposed to throw yourself into if you want to be dead? That could be trouble, if that's where I'm supposed to be going. If I'm supposed to throw myself into that, or find

some way to pass through it-- um, no, thank you. Been there, done that, do not want." But there wasn't anything else that seemed anxious to attract his attention, and of course those familiar with adventures will know that a weird glow just hovering over an area is never just a coincidence (except for that one time)-- no, that is the unmistakeable visual stench of fresh, steaming Plot. Trashscarf knew this, and so he approached cautiously, but with a certain sense of resigned curiosity. He didn't draw a weapon, because he didn't have any, and he didn't gird his loins or whatever because he wasn't that sort of protagonist, nor was this that sort of story, but he did

draw his scarf more tightly around his neck, because it was chilly.

He crested a dune, and saw it. A great pit, with an even greater bridge across it, made of stone. He decided, somewhat reluctantly, to take a closer look.

"Ohhh, yuck." He took a step back. "Ohhhh, great." He took another step back. "I guess this is just where I'm supposed to go, no choice about that, eh? Well, I've said to myself before that I've got to do what I've got to do, so. Aw, nuts. Aw, nuts!" He took a deep breath, to steel himself for whatever was coming next. He strode forward, paused at the lip of the bridge, and took a step out onto it.

The bridge reached across the pit, but there was no other side. That is to say, there was no sign of an end,

not as far as he could see, just the bridge stretching endlessly until it vanished into the infinite horizon.

Trashscarf blinked, puzzled. He stepped back, and looked at the great pit, and the great bridge across it. Great though they were, they didn't continue into infinity-- he'd have noticed, surely - indeed, from the side, it seemed that the bridge was less easily less than a thousand feet, and the pit, though too deep to see the bottom and comparable in width to the bridge, obviously, it was a pit, not a fissure in the very fabric of space and time. He looked back across the bridge-- infinite, or near as dammit.

"I knew Zeno had a pair of docks, but I didn't realize he'd branched out into bridges," Trashscarf muttered to himself. The bridge was the Way, obviously-- even if the landscape hadn't been unforgiveably rocky all around, thus precluding the far simpler task of simply walking -around- the pit, it bothered his Waywalker instincts to see something as useful and friendly as a bridge twisted to this sort of... whatever this was.

Magic, obviously. Trashscarf had more than a passing familiarity with the stuff, although he tried very hard to abstain from using, because of its addictive properties. He'd been mundane for several weeks now, and was loath to break his streak. So he shrugged, picked up a chip of stone from the grit of the bridge, and started tatting a web of snug knots around it, to incorporate it into his scarf, as he walked onto the impossibly-long spanse.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It didn't take long for him to come upon someone. It was an old man, dressed in rags, holding a staff, sitting on the bridge, humming to himself. He turned to look at Trashscarf as he approached, and smiled.

"Pleasant day, isn't it?" the old man asked.

"Is it really?" Trashscarf asked, looking around. "I don't know, it just-- I don't know. It just feels wrong. I'll give it that, though, it is pretty warm."

"I just find it remarkable that you feel you have to ask me that question," the old man said.

"Well, you know, I don't know anything about anything, so I--" Trashscarf started shaking his head, "No, no, no, I'm sorry. I don't know

how I didn't expect this, but of course. You're me again aren't you?"

"Hello," said his older self, waving. "Just figured I'd come back and tell you to stop trying to walk across an infinite bridge, so you can avoid turning into me."

"Oh, because once you're involved in infinity, everything's basically the same time and the same place?"

"That's about as good as I ever understood it," sighed his older self. "You're going to have to use magic on this one."

"Shan't!" Trashscarf tossed his mane of curls and stamped a defiant foot.

"Look, Trashscarf," Trashscarf said, and he unwound a bit of the rags that he wore, rags that were in fact a very simple, very repetitive, very dull scarf, made from savagley salvaged threads that matched those currently cunningly crafted into Trashscarf's own scarf. "This is what infinity does to you! This bridge is a trap, and we've got to escape."

"How?"

"You've got to use magic," Trashscarf said. "And I've got to use magic," he said, criss-crossing his strands and weaving.

"Why?"

"To get off the bridge," Trashscarf said, and he finished his knot and then stood up to demonstrate. "See? Easy."

"Ah," replied the older self, and he stood up and made a similar knot around his own, simpler bits of rags. "I get it."

"See, now we're getting somewhere," Trashscarf smiled.

"Huh," said his older self, and he started to walk after Trashscarf. "Crazy place. Shouldn't be surprised though, really. I know you."

"I know you, too," Trashscarf grinned. "That's my past self! I was worried I was going to have to figure this one out on my own."

"Nope

, well, actually, you are," said Trashscarf, as they stepped out along the bridge, with their scarfs interconnected... and twisted into a Moebius strip.

There was a sensation as though the whole world was a rubber balloon that someone had sat on--- then it popped. And the bridge

screeched like rusty machinery and broke cleanly in two, and the older Trashscarf and his own entangled self popped out the other end, and stared at each other for a long, long moment.

"Well," said Trashscarf, and he turned his head away and looked down at his scarf, and frowned. "This is what infinity does to you," he muttered. "It's like one of those rubber bands that just gets tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter and then just snaps and then you're all 'Ohhhh, that's what it's like to be me.'"

"And then," said the older version of himself, hopping down and crossing the bridge and scuffing his feet. "You do it again."

"Only this time," said the younger version, and he took a deep breath and smiled, and there was an odd sort of comfort in the raggedy bits of cloth tied around his neck. "

--differently," he said simultaneously, and with the tug of a thread, the scarves untangled, and then he was back to being Trashscarf, singular, esquire, though perhaps slightly older and wiser, as everyone becomes every moment.

He looked over at the bridge, as the last of its magical power faded, and was surprised to see that there was indeed still a bridge there! It didn't look at all the same-- it was a wooden covered bridge, and the pit had transformed into a rather pleasant little gully with a river running along it. And the bridge still wasn't actually a bridge, because someone had made it into a home; a door at one end and presumably the other, windows cut in the sides, and a little crooked tin stovepipe peeking out the edge of the roof, next to a battered wire antenna.

"Huh," he said, stepping back to look around. There was nothing preventing him from simply crossing the river by sliding down the bank, swimming across, and climbing out, but there was a bridge, dammit, and it was still blocked; by the front door and by whatever was behind it, that had presumably had enough magical power to create the infinite bridge diversion.

He put on a stern expression, and rapped his knuckles sharply on the door, but even before the door opened his face had relapsed into its usual expression of cheerful imbecility.

The doorway opened to reveal an old man, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, with neatly kept white hair, smiling at him.

"Hello!" said the man, cheerfully. "Who are you, and how nice to see you!"

"I'm Trashscarf."

"What a delight to meet you, Mr. Trashscarf! I'm Mr. Bridge!" The old man's eyes sparkled. "It's so wonderful to see you! Come in! Come in! Can I offer you some tea?"

"Oh, I don't want to intrude, it's just I'm trying to find the road to the other side of the bridge, but it's not -there- anymore, or at least there's no sign of it, and I'm not sure what to do."

"Well, I used to know the way, but I've forgotten it now, I'm afraid." The old man shrugged, and

motioned for him to come in and be welcome, and the Waywalker gladly stepped into the little haven of warmth and light.

It was quite a charming little home, in fact-- A workbench ran along one wall and gradually turned into a kitchen counter and then galloped off into shelves, while on the other wall something similar happened with a sort of window nook and a simple bunk bed with storage above, that turned into an eating area.

In the middle of the house, in the center of the span, was what you might call the plumbing-- a sink with a pump running down into the upstream current, while the little pot-belly stove (resting on insulating slabs of stone) sat next to a standoffish discreet cabinet that could only be a toilet, snug and warm for those late-night visits, occupied the downstream side.

Herbs grew in little salvaged cans and cups on the windowsills, and the place was decorated with driftwood and whatever the sweep of the sea and the roll of the river had brought. The shelves were full of oddments and books in equal quantity, and the little old man beamed with happy pride to see Trashscarf's admiration of his home. The floor beneath their feet was the same rustic wood of the bridge, but slathered with mismatched rugs and mats, many of them saying "WELCOME".

"Forgive me for stating the obvious," Trashscarf said brightly, as his host fussed about with a teakettle and turfed out a struggling basil in order to rise out its cracked mug for company, "But it seems like the road to the other side of the bridge goes right through your house."

"It does indeed!" the old man's eyes sparkled. "You're very observant, Mr. Trashscarf! It's wonderful, isn't it? It doesn't go anywhere, though-- it's just here, passing through, good for traffic but nobody lives here! So I settled down, and I made this little place for myself, and-- well, here I am, quite comfortable, thank you very much, and I'm happy to see you!"

"I'm happy to see you, too!" said Trashscarf, beaming. "I'm sorry for bothering you, but I was hoping to find someone who knew the way to--"

"The Road to the Other Side of the Bridge!" the old man said, almost jumping up and down in his seat with excitement, his hands flapping about as he spun in place.

"YES!" said Trashscarf, delightedly. "That's the one! What's the best way to

get to the other side of the bridge? Through your house! But--" he now looked puzzled, quizzical, bemuzzed even-- "Up until just recently, there was a rather strong magic on this place, making it look like an infinite bridge, and trapping people who tried to cross it. Do you know anything about that?"

The old man stopped his happy spinning, and became very serious.

"I do indeed know about those things, Mr. Trashscarf. I built those things."

"Huh," said Trashscarf. "Huh."

"And now," said the old man, his eyes twinkling again, "I live here."

"That's a bit of a stretch," said Trashscarf, but then he smiled. "But that's a wonderful thing to hear! You've been keeping an eye on this place, then? You've been watching out for people who got caught here?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," the old man said. "I've been sitting right here, doing my little job, and I've been happy! At first I was a bit upset, because no one was coming through here anymore, but then I realized that I was doing a very important job all by myself, and that I don't need anyone

or anything to visit me, and so I made all kinds of ways to keep them out, and out they stayed! And I've been so much more productive, and been much happier, and it's been so very very long since I've had to deal with any company-- until you." He blinked, puzzled. "How did you get here?"

"I cheated," Trashscarf admitted, ducking his head abjectly. "Thank you," he added, taking the cup of tea and warming his hands around it. "So I'd guess you're a wizard of some sort?"

"Why, yes," said Mr. Bridge. "How did you know?"

"Well, the magic things," Trashscarf explained. "And you have a stuffed crocodile hanging from your rafters. Dead giveaway, that."

"Oh," Mr. Bridge seemed a bit taken aback, and he looked around. "I'd offer you a place to sit down," he said apologetically, "But there's only the one chair, for me, and I do need it," he sighed, settling into it and setting it rocking. "I don't normally have company. I don't actually LIKE company," he said, slowly, looking up at Trashscarf. Trashscarf sat himself down on the quite-comfortable toilet so as to be eye to eye with his host.

"You don't like company?" he said. "But you'd like company to the other side of the bridge?"

"Oh, I'm quite happy here," Mr. Bridge said sadly. "I don't really need the other side of the bridge."

"I suppose not," said Trashscarf, dubiously. "But perhaps you'd like some company, then?"

Mr. Bridge's eyes widened at that, and while he didn't jump up and down in his chair, the Waywalker could see he was definitely interested.

He had, in all probability, been alone for rather a very long time.

"Do you know how to get to the other side of the bridge?"

"Why yes, I do!" said Mr. Bridge, happily. "I can show you, if you'd like."

"Oh, I already know how to get there," said Trashscarf, smiling mischievously.

He added, "I was just wondering if you did."

Mr. Bridge nodded. "I like company, and talking," he said wistfully, as though saying it to himself for the first time. "I just don't like... people. Coming in here, bothering me, wanting things, saying things. I'd like to have someone to talk to that doesn't do all that, someone who wouldn't walk away, but wouldn't follow me either."

Trashscarf beamed. "Have I got the friend for you!" he exclaimed.

He helped Mr. Bridge get a walking stick and a nice packed lunch and plenty of water, and then the two of them set out-- back the way Trashscarf had come, without crossing the bridge -- along the shore, until they saw the solitary tree that wasn't a tree, Gene, the Genius Loci, waving its branches at them. Trashscarf waved back, and Trashscarf introduced Mr. Bridge to Gene.

"Hi, Gene," Trashscarf said, "This is Mr. Bridge. He fixes things. Say 'Hello, Mr. Bridge!'"

"Hello, Mr. Bridge," Gene said, as he lifted his branches to shake the man's hand.

Mr. Bridge looked confused, but he didn't pull his hand away or flinch, as he might have as a wizardly type. "Hello, Gene. What a very large tree."

"It's a tree," Trashscarf explained, "but it's not a tree. It's a Genius Loci, a living spirit of a place. It's a monk, actually, but a nice one!"

"I don't know about the 'nice' part," said Gene, "but I do like trees, and I will be nice to you!" He reached up and petted Mr. Bridge's hand. Gene likes to pet things, and people especially.

"That's very nice of

you," said Mr. Bridge, his eyes twinkling again. "I'd like to come and talk to you sometimes, if that would be all right?"

"I would very much like that," said Gene happily, and it put out a few new leaves to show how happy it was.

"Would it be all right if people could walk through your house when you weren't there, because you're here talking to Gene?" Trashscarf suggested. "You could use your magic to make it look just like a normal covered bridge, and no one would know it was your home, and they wouldn't disturb anything, just walk straight through."

"But that wouldn't be fair!" said Mr. Bridge. "If I didn't want anyone to come--"

"No one will know it's your home. They'll just see a bridge, and they'll walk through, and I'll make sure they don't drop coins or litter or leave behind broken swords or anything. I'll have to come back and check up on you, and on Gene, and on the trees and on the river and on the rocks and on everything, and on Gene and on the grass and on the plants and on the beach and on all the water and on the little gray men and on all the birds and on all the fishes and on the giant slug and on the squirrels and on the spiders and on the--"

"All right, all right," said Mr. Bridge. "Yes, I see your point. I'd like to meet people again. It might be nice to talk to someone without magic, without spells,

but I do like my privacy too. All right, I'll let people cross my bridge, but I don't have to talk to them unless I want to. Maybe once I've gotten used to talking again, talking with Gene here, I'll be ready to talk to more people," said Mr. Bridge shyly.

"That sounds like a fine idea," enthused Trashscarf. "Let's drink to it!"

And he had a swig of his tea, and then poured the rest out for Gene, who said, "This tastes more like coffee than tea."

"Well, it was ground just this morning," admitted Mr. Bridge, and they all laughed. Good times.