The 35th Rastagon the Great
A suicidal wizard clone tries to foist his responsibilities onto the next one.
First things first: Happy Birthday. I am terribly sorry.
As you know, I have once again killed myself. It is reassuring that there is no need to explain why. In a moment, you yourself should remember. After all, you are me.
I read the lightly glowing scroll with bleary eyes. It was all that was in the room besides an intricate mirror, composed of great silvery shards fused like a web. I remembered the liquid feeling of swimming through its mercury, emerging.
I didn’t remember anything else.
You must think yourself somewhat sentimental, to see your predecessors write the same note thirty-three or so times. But it wouldn’t be right to send you off without at least this common courtesy, for I am asking so much of you.
Rastagon the Great has too many responsibilities to disappear. So it is with a humble heart that I ask you to carry the torch. But if you find the task too daunting… I understand. In that case, please reactivate the device before joining me.”
The 34th Rastagon the Great
That was it. Whoever Rastagon was, he was confident his replacement would need little convincing, and even less advice.
I felt around the dark brick until I felt an opening to a winding stair to a small door, just wide enough to crawl through. In front of it was something incredibly heavy, concealing and barring it. I jolted against the door, immediately feeling my entire skeletal structure protest. A little light streamed in, and I saw that my hands were not young. Was Rastagon trapped here? Or did he have other means to move such weight?
I did not. A few painful pushes and the heavy thing fell over with a deafening crash. I spilled out into a magnificent room, filled to the brim with silk and silvery metals. I saw now that the heavy thing was a cabinet with sparkling liquids spilling from it, soaking into a floor composed of fine white sand. Unfamiliar animals in spun glass cages panicked at the calamity, and I instinctively moved to calm them.
As I did so, the sand shifted around my feet, and a shadow went over me. I turned around, tripping over myself as a mound of sand formed into the lazy shape of a man.
“Help!”
The door burst open, and a young woman perhaps nineteen or twenty, in sparkling robes marched through.
“Master! What’s happened?!”
It was at that point I realized I was naked.
The woman closed her eyes, looking annoyed as she flicked her hand. “Ramil, fetch my father his robe before my eyes burn out their sockets.”
The sand creature shivered before stretching up over silken banisters, past shelves of books to racks of ornate outfits. A clump of them fell, smothering me.
“Thank you… Ramil.” The creature vibrated before reforming its lump. If that amounted to satisfaction from praise, I couldn’t tell.
She looked around. “What is this mess? Some experimental failure?”
“Ah yeah. I was tinkering with…” I looked around as I hastily clothed myself, clocking a stack of levitating disks. “That thing.”
She opened her eyes, raising an eyebrow after she saw what I was pointing out. “Isn’t this an older experiment? The disks are suspended by their future falling selves, I think.”
What? “Right well… their future exploding selves knocked over my cabinet.
She rolled her eyes. “A secret then. Fine. Good day, master.”
“Good day… daughter.”
She stopped. She turned for a moment, her face cold, eyes squinting with suspicion. My breath stopped as I anticipated my discovery.
But she just left without a word.
***
Months passed, but Rastagon’s memories never returned to me. I did manage to scrape together some information about my situation though.
The young woman’s name was Luneniene, daughter of Rastagon the Great, a wizard renowned for great and puzzling magic that offered wondrous solutions for impossible problems. She was also “my” apprentice.
Rastagon himself was a painfully cryptic and secluded individual. As I wandered through the halls of his tower, servants scattered from me unless directly addressed. Outside the many windows, I saw an oppressive wall, high enough to deter even birds from entering. The entire tower and its grounds were suspended in the sky, with only a precarious spiral staircase of floating steps connecting it to the earth below.
Despite the treacherous climb, supplicants poured in. Week after week, I listened to their stories. Everyone came for Rastagon the Great, expecting miracles I was incapable of.
Thankfully, miracles were rarely needed.
One came seeking treasure, so I pulled a cryptic looking map out of Rastagon’s drawer. Another came seeking knowledge of all things, so I hired them as staff for the library. One wanted to know how they would die; they were a sailor, so I gave an educated guess.
A few people did need specifically magical solutions, legendary weapons or ever-burning torches, but Ramil, Rastagon’s mute lump of sand, seemed to have a perfect memory of Rastagon’s stock of metaphysical knicknacks.
It all seemed to work out.
Yet, outside of Rastagon’s supplicants, hardly anyone interacted with me at all. Luneniene seemed to avoid me, and even the staff made themselves scarce when I wandered the halls.
At least there was Ramil. It followed me around as a knee-high clump, not really sliding so much as folding-over after me. I wasn’t sure what Rastagon used it for, but my favorite thing about Ramil was that it couldn’t repeat complaints. Or secrets.
“I would lose my mind without you, Ramil.”
“...”
“Truly, you are my rock.”
Before Ramil could answer, I heard steps coming from behind me.
The servant woman bowed, “Sir, you have a guest.”
I nodded, heading to the wizard’s hall, waiting until an unexpected supplicant entered.
“Luneniene?”
She ignored me, striding forward before kneeling. “Great Rastagon, will you hear my wish?”
Slightly disturbed, I nodded.
“I am Luneniene, daughter of the Sorceress Isolt. Seven years ago, she… passed, and I was left alone.”
A strange emotion came over me. It was like the seed of sadness dying on dry ground as I realized I had never lost or gained anyone. With no water to nourish it, the feeling failed, leaving an awkward emptiness. “I’m sorry.”
“In my childhood, my mother would make a pastry, filled with poppy. When I realized I would never taste it again, I was filled with regret. Great Wizard, I want nothing more than to taste my mother’s cooking one last time.”
Luneniene stared into my eyes, searching for my reaction. Her own eyes were filled with a deep sadness tinged with rage. What was she hoping for?
“Do you remember how they tasted?”
She shook her head. “Only faintly.”
It was an impossible request. Rastagon the Great could have probably snapped his fingers and conjured these poppy dumplings out of thin air. But I wasn’t Rastagon. I couldn’t read forgotten memories to create a recipe lost to time. Who could?
I smiled. I was not Rastagon, but I had the next best thing. “Luneniene, how would you grant this wish?”
Her eyes went wide. “You want… my opinion?”
Oh no. I had clearly done something un-Rastagon-like. “You are my apprentice aren’t you? Or have you learned nothing?” Slightly more Rastagon.
Her eyes narrowed, but she was thinking. “There is a poultice for memory… but I never learned the recipe; it would only bring back the taste.”
Close enough. “How many cooking staff do we have?”
Luneniene shrugged, and I looked around the hall until a servant spoke up. “There are one-hundred and twenty-three staffed in the kitchen, sir.”
“Great. Luneniene, you’ll be making this poultice. Restore your memories. Then we’ll just make a few hundred variants and have you taste them.”
“A few hundred?! I’d be living on poppy for months!”
“We’re trying to match an exact taste. Besides, it sounds entertaining.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Really? It’s your solution.”
“Not that. You have never asked for my assistance before.”
“Indeed.”
“What’s changed, master?”
“Can you handle it?”
She answered indignantly, “Of course.”
“Then that is what’s changed. You will be handling many requests from now on. I will assist you, but I will give no instruction.”
She looked slightly panicked. “Master, what if the request is above my ability? Like the dancing plague, or the root serpents?”
I stopped. “Address me as master no more. You are no longer my student.” Not that I could teach her a thing to begin with. “I’ve chosen to believe in you, Luneniene.”
She looked conflicted, swallowing several words. “I will not disappoint you. I will begin concocting the poultice this evening… will you at least assist me?” There was some doubt in her voice. But I had no choice but to bet on her.
“I will come. But only as a father.”
Luneniene was the wizard of the tower now. Hopefully Rastagon was a better teacher than he was a parent.
***
Luneniene worked in Rastagon’s study day and night. I accompanied her, giving nebulous advice and vaguely encouraging sentiments when she seemed discouraged or asked for advice.
“You’ve reached a dead-end, retrace your steps.”
“You are not restarting, you are learning.”
“Well how would you test it if I wasn’t here?”
Thankfully, Ramil was far more helpful than I. It seemed to know the library by heart, and fetched tools as soon as they were named. I was deeply relieved, though the fact that Ramil was probably sentient made me a bit nervous. It knew too much.
Luneniene smiled as her potion changed color to a star filled purple. Wiping her brow she held it up proudly. “Master, we’ve done it!”
“Well done, Luneniene. But it’s you who completed this task. And I told you, I’m not your master anymore. I’m only your-”
Her embrace took me by surprise. I awkwardly patted her back, looking down to see her tearful face.
“Father, thank you for trusting me. I… I’ve missed you.”
I shouldn’t have felt anything from this stranger’s embrace. But still, something real resonated within my chest. “I enjoyed our time together, Luneniene. I’ve also been too lonely.”
After a moment, she became embarrassed and pushed me away. “You should check on the poppies.”
“Right.”
***
Inspecting the poppies was actually a secret delight of mine. I went out to the grounds, where Rastagon kept a vast garden. The soil made plants grow with unnatural speed, and we had dedicated a patch to the absurd amount of poppy we would require. I was hardly needed, but the task of supervising the patch was my favorite part of the day.
I made it to the gated entrance, striding past through rows of fragrant flowers. In the distance I saw wheat, shimmering like gold. I took my time sauntering to the poppy plants, where the hooded groundskeeper was sitting.
He raised a hand to greet me, “How goes poultice making, master?”
“Excellently. How are the poppies?”
He grinned as he stroked a tall stalk. “They reach half this height in the land below. Hard to keep up when everything grows like weeds.”
I laughed. “Sorry to overwork you.”
He shook his head. “It’s a welcome change. Rastagon the Great never needed help before this, but now the cooking staff is bustling, looking for unique poppy recipes. The gardeners also appreciate the challenge. I’ve also noticed you’ve accepted more guests than usual; the servants are pleased.”
“I see.” I smiled bitterly. “I must have thought the world would collapse without me, when in reality, all these people were here to support Rastagon.”
“Indeed, he was a fool.”
I tensed up. No servant addressed Rastagon this way. “How long have you been here, Master Groundskeeper?”
“Not much longer than you. I replaced the aging groundskeeper in his retirement, taking his appearance and role. Would you believe that hardly anyone noticed the change?”
“I would.” A thousand questions bubbled up inside me, until one broke through. “Why?”
“I had the same question for you. Why have you changed?”
I scowled at him. “I didn’t. The mirror failed!”
He seemed perplexed, then surprised. “Ah. How unexpected. My failure to die partially interfered with the memory transfer. You are not Rastagon.”
“No. I’m not.”
My hands were shaking, and I felt my nails dig into my palm.
“I’m sorry. I’ve troubled you excessively, though you’ve managed to perform admirably, all considered.”
“You idiot.” I was surprised to feel tears on my face. “All these people love you, but I’m just an imposter. Can you imagine how lonely I’ve been?”
“Of course I can, I’m the 34th after all.”
Right. We were both clones. Fakes. I calmed myself. “Why? Why any of this?”
He gave a pained expression. “Seven years ago, the Sorceress Isolt, wife of Rastagon the Great, died.”
“Rastagon can’t bring back the dead?”
“It wouldn’t matter if he could. Isolt took her own life.”
That strange emotion returned. The seed of sadness. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s an old story. But I… no, Rastagon was broken by it. He isolated himself, and raised his tower high in the sky. He shut everyone out, when they needed him most. Even Luneniene. She is right to hate him.”
“But she doesn’t. Nobody does.”
The 34th Rastagon gave me a doubtful look. After a moment, he continued, “You’re more than an imposter you know. It is you who have brought life to this place.”
“But I’m not Rastagon.”
“You can be.” He touched my forehead. “If you want my memories, I will give them to you.”
I looked out over the fields. Beneath the stalks were many gardeners, whispering and laughing. Somewhere in the tower was Luneniene, excited to regain the memory of her mother. We would be trying a hundred poppy recipes in the day to come, mostly delicious but some surely awful. Would Rastagon laugh together with them?
“No.” I pushed the hand away. “Your memories are poison, Rastagon. Why did you stay here, when you can go anywhere in the world? Why didn’t you, with your great magic, erase your pain?”
The 34th Rastagon was silent.
And I, the 35th, spoke. “You’re bound to your grief. But I’m not. Because I’m not Rastagon the Great, I can be a Rastagon who lives. The one these people need.”
I smiled, and put a hand on the groundskeeper’s shoulder. “Great Rastagon, will you hear my wish? After we harvest this poppy, I think it’s time we free your tower from the clouds.”
***
I returned to my study, knocking on the door.
“Luneniene? Have you tried the poultice?”
The door opened, and Luneniene had tears streaming down their cheeks.
Alarmed, I looked closely at her face. “Did it fail?”
She shook her head.
“Then why are you crying?”
She laughed. “They were delicious.”
I smiled at the joyful expression of Rastagon’s daughter. And it felt real.
Words From the Author
My birthday is just around the corner, and as I think back on the year, I remember one of my favorite stories. I often fail to evoke the emotions I’m hoping for with my stories. High concepts, funny twists, horror, these things I understand well. But in Rastagon’s story, I had the rare luck of imbuing drama into fantasy.
Fantasy and drama are not so easily blended. Fantasy is abstract, and the more fantastical your setting, the farther away you are from the grounded experience of human emotion. Bridging the gap of empathy needs far more skill while you are also trying to convince your reader of a strange world’s reality. I am not so skilled a writer, so Rastagon must connect to the reader through emotional universals: family and grief.
But for me Rastagon is more than your standard treatment of these subjects. The magical element is not flavoring, but an attempt at engaging with the philosophical core of grief. In his repeated suicide, Rastagon tries to answer why loss so perturbs us.
Many of the things we lose in life, the things that cut the deepest, are things that we were once without. Lost items, broken relationships, a loved one who is no longer around. You can remember a time before you had these things, when you were satisfied, so why does their absence leave such a hole? Did they dig a space in you, one too deep and specific to fill?
The 35th Rastagon is, in a sense, an enlightened individual. His botched memory transfer has not left him totally clueless, but it has left him utterly detached. What distinguishes him from the 34th is not merely his identity, but his profound forgetting. In accepting people into our heart, we change to accommodate them, we dig their space.
The 35th Rastagon, with his clean plot, can plant relationships that the 34th cannot. The 34th certainly knows this, but he will never remove his own his grief. It is too precious to him. He cannot part from the Rastagon who loved Isolt.
But despite the heaviness of its subject, Rastagon’s story remains whimsical, slightly comedic. The world teases little mysteries and wonders. What is Ramil? Who are the people living in the tower? What is the nature of the world’s magic?
And who is Rastagon the Great?