Raspar Treachery
Centuries upon centuries ago, a race lived in the foothills of Medialia who could not quite be called human, nor quite animals, either. Somewhere in-between, they lived in the caves of marble and granite. Their tribal name was Quaar, and their individual names were all Quaar. In those years magma stilled flowed out of the mountain peaks, leveling trees and igniting fires, and the molten rock cooled into mighty stone across the homeland of the Quaar. The belching eruptions and streams of lava warmed the territory, turning whole rivers into steaming baths, stimulating the scaled ones to roam the expanse of Medialia freely.
The Quaar ran about on short, muscular legs, and their arms hung long from the shoulders, short from the elbows. Their broad shoulders and heavy pelvis made them massively strong. Their dark hair lay in a tangle down their backs, and on some of the men the tangle continued to their furry loincloths. Squat little heads topped those massive shoulders, with little above the eyes or below the teeth. For this reason, they had no intellect to speak of, and indeed could talk in only short words and sentences. Time proved them clever enough, however, to learn to cut the stones that the lava formed all around their caves. The white-hot rock, as it poured from the mountain peaks above, also burned the softer stone the Quaar gathered from dry riverbeds; and so they quite accidentally invented quicklime. By default they became builders, but they had no ambitions for their skills.
The ancient Raspars shared the land, but they owned no home nor shelter. They roamed the woods and open lands that bordered the River Alluvia; hardly a day passed when they did not fall under attack from some raiding tribe or animal. The Raspars had no weapons nor tools to speak of yet, neither did their bodies show any particular strength or vigor, but their minds operated with power and precision, and they had ideas. The greatest of the ancient Raspars had drawn a plan in his head; his name was called Zardracon.
“Aye, ye fellow Raspars,” he addressed his council of tribal elders. “We face the failure of our clan. The animals hunt our young ones, and the other peoples of Medialia take what they wish from us. We are chased throughout the land. We have not a tree in Medialia that we call our own, not a hole to hide in, not a hut nor a cave to call refuge.”
“Nay! Nay! Nay!” chanted the elders, indicating their accord and bitterness at Zardracon’s words. They hammered the ground rhythmically with their long staffs, but carefully talked in hushed tones, so as not to bring thylak or deviltooth down upon themselves.
“Aye, the Raspars must take their own place in Medialia. Even the Quaar have their caves, while we scamper about like lost mice, with no shelter for our kin. We Raspars must take for ourselves a homeland, to build upon and defend.”
“Lo, with what?” asked one elder. “For we have nothing with which to build, and nowhere to lay our foundations.”
“Lo, will we take the caves of the Quaar?” asked another.
“Nay, we will not, for caves are the dwelling-places of animals,” said Zardracon. “Caves are not suitable for a thinking clan such as Raspars. Nay, we will move the Quaar caves, and build for ourselves grand homes, towering palaces no enemy can overrun. The Raspars will build a citadel, hidden into the depths of the wilderness, where we will be safe forever from the attacks of those who love to make us their victims. And we will build it upon the backs of the Quaar!”
“What? What? What?” chanted the elders.
Zardracon lifted high a great, flat piece of stone, with lines etched all across its front. “Lo, on this slate I have drawn the plan for a city, a great stone city. We will build east, away from the River Alluvia, in the outback beyond the River Gravidas, where the clans of Medialia fear to go. We will take Quaar stone, and mortar, and Quaar labor, and we will build our city, and finally the Raspars will have a home! What is good for the Raspars must come first.”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!” And the elders agreed among themselves to name Zardracon chief, and to follow him.
Zardracon set out for the caves immediately, prepared to barter with the Quaar. The Raspars had little to offer in trade, but he would not come to the end of his trek empty handed. Along the way he trapped a wild rumidont, easily, with a simple noose. He filled a leather pouch with water from one of Medialia’s deep, crisp pools. He picked up a pointed stone of flint.
Though Zardracon approached the Quaar caves cautiously, he needed not. When the clansmen saw him, they stopped their simple domestic activities and calmly awaited his arrival.
“Aye, my friends, the Quaar!” he called out. The calculating ways of the Raspars were hard for him to mask, and his feigned enthusiasm would not have fooled most.
“Friends,” the Quaar closest to him repeated. They knew no pretense, in themselves nor others.
“Lo, I am Zardracon, of the Raspars. I have come to make trade with ye. I have much to give to your fine people, to make ye a grander people of Medialia.”
“Give to Quaar?”
“Aye, I have brought good things to share with the Quaar, things that will make ye great among your people.”
“Good things.”
“Aye. I have come all this way to give ye this skin. It fairly bursts with water, so great is its bounty, and who can live without water? Even the mighty Quaar must have the drink of life. With this bag ye will be able to travel a long way, and never thirst. The Quaar will come to treasure this bag, this wonderful device.”
“Water!” said the Quaar, and as he tested the bag he accidentally emptied most of the contents upon his face.
“Aye, isn’t that fine? And this also, this rumidont. It eats only grass, and from it ye can attain milk and wool. This animal can keep your babies warm and their stomachs full. Ye will much appreciate the blessings this little animal can bring to your clan.”
“Cow?”
“Nay, rumidont. A wild rumidont captured in the deep forests of Medialia, through much cleverness and danger. I offer to make it yours, and may ye prosper with it.” Yet Zardracon made no mention of how to shear, or weave, or how to extract milk from the animal.
“Lo, these things I bring for all of ye,” Zardracon continued. “We give all to the Quaar, gifts from the clan of the Raspars. We ask but one thing from ye in return. We Raspars wish ye to do only one small thing for us, and if ye agree I will show ye a miracle beyond anything ye have ever seen.”
“What thing?”
“Lo, the Raspars have no home, do they not? My people live every day exposed to the most vicious hatred of all who live around us. We have no homes for our children, as ye have in your caves. We want to build a home, oh honorable Quaar, we must build ourselves a shelter, and we wish to build with the stones of your mountain.”
The Quaar seemed to understand Zardracon’s meaning. “Stones,” he said, smiling and nodding his head.
“Aye,” said Zardracon. “We wish for ye to cut stones for us, and deliver them to our homeland which we claim in the uninhabited forests by the River Gravidas. We ask ye to help us build, with your stone and mortar, and strength.”
“Quaar stone,” agreed the Quaar.
“Aye, and in return ye may keep the bag, and the rumidont, and I will show ye a mighty miracle.”
“Mir?”
“Miracle, aye. Do we agree?”
The Quaar looked around to his other clansmen gathered behind him, and after a series of grunting words turned back to Zardracon. “Agree. Mir?”
“Aye, a miracle beyond anything ye have ever seen. But I can show ye only if ye allow me to enter into your caves.”
The clever Raspar walked to the mouth of the Quaar caves and produced the flint. Skillfully he traced the outline of the rumidont, following a Quaar, led by a leash. Some of the Quaar gasped with delighted recognition at the drawing, while others shifted uneasily to the back of the cave, afraid to look. The lead Quaar touched the scraping with the tips of his fingers.
“Aye, these wonderful drawings I give to ye as well, and I will make many more for ye, as long as ye deliver stone to the Raspars. Give us your rock and labor, and the walls of your caves will be covered with these beautiful artworks for the rest of time!”
“Agree! Mir!” said the Quaar, still gingerly caressing the etching, and from that day on they served under the lash of the Raspars.
The Quaar bent under their labor, cutting the boulders from the mountain, then transporting them across two rivers into the wilderness. As well they fainted from the heat, for the Quaar relied upon the volcanoes to burn quicklime for mortar. But the simple people did not complain; they merely went about their labors, for it was all they knew. The smooth words and fascinating art of Zardracon always sufficiently satisfied them.
Months went by, then years, then decades. As time passed, the stones piled high along the Gravidas. Zardracon produced his drawing of the city, and slowly the towers began to rise. The Raspars invented platforms, slung between trees, to continue the walls’ ascent. They built simple pulleys and levers to lift the stones into position. Wheels smoothed out of stone made the transport of the building blocks more efficient. Whatever need arose, a Raspar designed a device to see to it, for they truly were an inventive people. On and on the construction went, floor added upon floor at the emerging city, and Zardracon drew and drew upon the Quaar cave walls.
As the grand homeland fortress neared completion, an aged Zardracon sat in contemplation within the highest tower, before the council of elders.
“Lo, a problem looms before us,” he said.
“What? What? What?”
“Aye, the Quaar have been immensely helpful in building our city.”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!”
“Aye, in fact, the Quaar have seen every square inch of the city we build for our safety. They know every entrance, every weakness, every chink in the mortar. The Quaar know this edifice as well as I do, and that makes us safe not at all!”
“Lo, but what do we have to fear from the Quaar?” asked one elder. “They think of nothing but peace, and too slow to ever consider warring against us.”
“Aye, their slow brains make them all the more dangerous. Without guile, they fall easily to trickery. Any enemy of ours would have no trouble learning every secret about our city from them.”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!”
“Lo, we must act immediately to protect ourselves from this threat. What is best for the Raspars must come first. Should we wait until some dread foe learns from those dim-witted Quaar how to kill us all in our sleep?”
“Nay! Nay! Nay!”
“Nay! What is best for the Raspars must come first. We must do something to protect this, our grand new city!”
“What? What? What?”
“Lo, there is only one thing to do,” said Zardracon. “Only one thing will forever prevent the Raspar fortress from being overtaken. Only one action will produce the utmost end to our worries: We must wipe out the Quaar.”
“Nay!” arose a female voice. “Nay, we must not do so!”
“Lo, Mercia! What say ye?” bellowed Zardracon.
“Lo, we suffer no offense at the Quaar!” she cried out passionately. Though the Raspars purposed to be a cold and restrained people, their passions roiled strongly below the surface, and sometimes slipped out. “All Medialia despises them, just as they do us, though because we are weak, not simply different. Shall we turn this weakness upon others? Should we not instead pour out upon them empathy in our shared plight? Only because of the Quaar do we even have our city. To repay them with harm now would be a crime upon our heads!”
“Nay, what is best for the Raspars must come first. If we must sacrifice the Quaar to save ourselves, then so be it! And at the same time we will lift from Medialia the burden of this bumbling tribe of idiots,” said Zardracon.
“Nay, ye suppose something that may not be true!” said Mercia. “What the Quaar know today, they may well forget tomorrow!”
“Lo, ye suppose as well,” replied Zardracon. “My supposition will leave them dead, rather than my own kinsman. Ye cannot make that claim.”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!” the elders chanted.
“Nay, what you seek is wrong, it is an evil that Gryphon will lay upon our children!” cried Mercia.
“Lo, Gryphon does not see us,” said Zardracon.
“Nay! Nay! Nay!”
“Nay, we must not! We must not do this thing!”
Zardracon turned away from Mercia and addressed the elders. “Lo, are we agreed?”
“Aye! Aye! Aye!”
“Nay, we must not!”
“Lo, remove her,” said Zardracon. “And we will devise the utmost end.”
Her clansmen dragged Mercia from the presence of the elders, and they considered their hideous plans at the foot of the city walls. Mercia shook off the grasp of her escorts and walked about the wonderful new structure, thinking what a grand notion it once had been, only to be stained red. Tears that never flow from Raspar eyes spilled out of hers, and she considered throwing herself from the highest wall. Her heart rent between the loyalty she felt for her people, born from years of suffering and persecution, and the wickedness of killing off an entire race. How could she live in this house now, knowing its price? But if she rejected the city, how could she live any other way, still wandering the unforgiving land, but surely alone? Mercia settled in her heart upon neither, and upon what she knew she must do.
The elders decided upon a cunning trick to rid themselves of the Quaar, a plan devious and deadly in its simplicity. Only one obstacle lay before them: The Raspar plan required a lure who would not return.
“Lo, let it be me,” said Mercia, when she heard of the trap. “For I will not live among a people who would do such cruelty.”
“Lo, we have one more request of ye, before our city is finished,” Zardracon said to the Quaar. “We ask ye for some very special stone to finish off the parapets. I have seen such stone in your caves, as I made my wonderful artwork. Mercia knows the stone to cut, but ye must help her find it. And see? I have given her the flint. After the stone is out, she will make ye a drawing far grander and more beautiful than any I have ever done.”
“Flint,” said the Quaar excitedly. None of the Raspars ever determined if the Quaar realized the figures were mere images, or perhaps thought them real animals and humans created upon the walls. But they clearly loved the drawings.
“Aye, find the special stone, and ye will have all ye wish,” said Zardracon, and to Mercia, “Find the crack in the ceiling where sand trickles out.”
The doomed clan filed into the side of the mountain, each one eager to see the drawings that would reward their efforts. Mercia took a torch and followed the Quaar into their cave. Her eyes fell upon the hundreds of drawings left upon the cave walls, and she felt churning in the hollow pit of her stomach. She knew she led the people to their deaths, in which she would join; she thought she could give them no more. Deeper into the mountain they went, swallowed by the darkness and hopelessness, the Quaar completely unsuspecting.
“Lo!” said Mercia. “There overhead lies the stone we want. Hew out that rock above ye!”
And so the obedient Quaar carried out the order, hacking at the cave ceiling with their rustic tools, in no way thinking that they could bring the mountain down upon themselves. But that is just what they did. A great rumbling sound rang from the mouth of the cave, followed by thick dust billowing before the staring Raspars, and all fell silent. Over the following days they found a few Quaar stragglers and stoned them to death, and that put a tragic end to a people noble in their simplicity.
But the Quaar left their curse upon the Raspars. The clan prospered in its new city, where no opposing tribe nor animal nor even deviltooth could touch them, cowering inside the steadfast walls. Over the generations the Raspar clan increased as never before, as families produced great numbers of children who grew into adults and produced families of their own. But the city increased not at all, for the workers of the quarries no longer lived to cut new stone, and no strong arms and legs remained to haul the boulders across the land. The rooms of the city filled with people, until a steady mass of humanity moved about it as one, until sleeping Raspars lined the floors of every room and hallway throughout the night. The council of elders had no choice but to limit every family to one child, with no exceptions, and the clan’s prosperity ended. Instead, it began to die.
And never, even now, did a Raspar speak of Mercia with pity, or with honor, or with any understanding of why she had gone to her death in sympathy with a condemned nation. The traditions knew her only as a Raspar who had died, the last who died in the dangers of the wilderness, outside the protection of the great city walls.
