The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  Those days were long gone.

  The extended family dwindled. Tipper’s mother and father had one child. The wealth slipped away. No one visited.

  Byrdschopen remained, but housed only four people.

  Tipper glanced back at the rich forest. “I didn’t see any snakes today.” Sipping the sweet liquid from her glass, she let the coolness ease the tension in her throat.

  Her mother puckered her lips in a moue of disapproval. “You could at least take Zabeth with you.”

  Tipper smiled at the long, lazy minor dragon sunning herself on the balustrade. “Zabeth is afraid of snakes.”

  “Just as she should be. You should be too.”

  “But I’m not.”

  Her mother looked up with a puzzled frown. “Not what, dear? That wasn’t much of a sentence, and I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

  Rather than explain, Tipper stroked Zabeth’s green back. The warm scales glistened with different hues. The minor dragon looked up, winked, and curled her tail around Tipper’s wrist, pulling her hand back to continue the gentle rub.

  Mother cleared her throat. “I want you to speak to your father, Tipper.”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “It’s what he hasn’t done. I’ve asked him time and again to do a little painting of the garden there.” She pointed to a fountain surrounded by a gravel walkway. Blooms fringed the pleasant sitting area with splashes of unbridled color. Every shade of pink dotted the dark green foliage. Spots of large yellow blossoms captured the sun. Tiny fibbirds with their purple and rose plumage flitted among the smaller flowers, drinking nectar.

  “But you know how he is lately. He turns a deaf ear. Whatever project has captured his interest keeps him in his studio far too many hours.” Her mother’s plaintive tone touched Tipper’s heart.

  “I know, Mother. It’s very hard.”

  “If he didn’t come to me at night, I’d die of loneliness.”

  Tipper nodded sympathetically.

  “So you will ask him. He always does as you request. You’re his favorite daughter. I wish to take the picture with me to show your aunt.” Her mother gathered up her things—a book, a fan, and a handkerchief She left the glass and stood. “So comforting to know you’ll take care of it. I’m tired now and will take my afternoon nap.”

  She came to kiss Tipper’s pale cheek. Her complexion was only a few shades darker, and her hair still glowed a honey yellow. On her hand she wore a simple gold band declaring her married state. Her only other jewelry adorned her hair. A thin gold circlet had shifted to one side but was in no danger of falling off since a few shining braids wrapped around Lady Peg’s head and secured the emblem of royalty.

  Lady Peg wrinkled her nose at the dozing dragon. “Come, Zabeth. You’ve exerted yourself too much today. We’ll go where it’s cool and rest.”

  The dragon rose, stretched, then flew to the older woman’s shoulder.

  “That’s right,” said Mother. “I’ll carry you. You must be exhausted.”

  Tipper whispered, “Lazy!”

  Zabeth turned her elegant head, bestowed a dragon grin on Tipper, and stuck out her tongue.

  Tipper chuckled and sat in her mother’s seat. A bowl of fruit in the center of the table released a tempting fragrance. She plucked a cluster of grapes and popped one into her mouth.

  The crackling voice of their butler, Lipphil, interrupted the pop of the fruit as she chomped it between her teeth. “Mistress Tipper?”

  She choked. The ancient o’rant in shabby formal attire rushed forward. He almost pulled one of her arms out of the shoulder socket as he stretched it straight up and pummeled her back. “Perhaps you had better stand, Mistress.”

  She stood more because he hauled her to her feet than because she was following his suggestion. Lipphil thumped her between the shoulder blades.

  She sucked in a breath. The butler let go and poured more juice into her glass. She sipped and nodded her thanks. This man had walked her at night as a colicky baby bandaged her knees, and wiped tears from her cheeks when her father disappeared.

  He stood at attention until she recovered. “Mistress Tipper, there is a young man here to see your father.”

  She tilted her head. “Send him away.”

  “He won’t go.”

  “Well, he won’t see Papa.”

  “Perhaps if you would tell him so. In the meantime, I’ll trot down to Rolan’s and have him come up to throw the young man off the property.”

  The thought of her ancient friend trotting almost caused Tipper to laugh out loud. With effort she kept a solemn face and said, “Certainly.”

  Lipphil left and returned, trailed by the unwanted guest. Tipper straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and tried to look as regal as her mother did when she received a guest. Thankfully, the tumanhofer couldn’t see her insides shaking like a quiverbug before a rainstorm.

  The butler announced the visitor. “Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore of Greeston in Dornum.”

  Tipper nodded. “Have a seat, Master Bealomondore.” She gestured toward a chair at the table.

  Lipphil poured a glass for the guest, then discreetly disappeared. Tipper noted that the butler had summoned a rather old minor dragon to be her protector. Junkit sat on the step into the house, looking alert and proud to be called to duty.

  The short tumanhofer pulled himself up to his full height, perhaps four feet, clicked his heels together, and gave a jerky bow.

  Tipper sat. “Please.” She smiled and gestured to the other seat.

  After flipping up the tails of his coat with a flourish, the young man sat. His eager expression showed in his eyes, while a grin stretched across his clean-shaven cheeks.

  “I make my appeal to you, dear daughter of the celebrated Verrin Schope. I am an artist, and I have come all this way to offer myself as an apprentice to the great master. I saw his statue A Morning in Time in Brextik. I was struck with his genius, as was all of the city. I found another statue, by chance, in the home of an old family friend in the Valley of Chester. That one was Dream Night. Are you familiar with it?”

  Before Tipper could affirm that she was, he went on with an air of enthusiasm that tired her. “Of course you are.” He put his fingertips to his lips, made a smacking noise, then flicked his fingers into the air as if sending his blessing to the heavens.

  Tipper sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair.

  Bealomondore’s eyes focused on something far, far away. “And the painting. Ah, the painting. A woman beside an ocean, a ship at sea, a cloud hovering in the distance, and the bird flying from vessel to shore with a message in its beak. The poetry of line, the color of emotion, the tenderness of technique.”

  His eyes riveted on Tipper. “I must study under Verrin Schope. I am capable. Let me speak with him. Let me show him my work. Let the master decide whether I am to slave for him and learn at his feet.”

  “He won’t see you, Master Bealomondore. He is a total recluse.”

  “So I have heard. But if his precious daughter were to make my plea…?”

  Tipper examined the aspiring artist with more interest. The precious daughter currently had a problem. Could the man actually paint? She looked beyond him to the fountain. How long would this obsession with having a likeness of the garden hold her mother? Would she forget in a day like she sometimes did?

  No. From long experience, Tipper knew this was one of the times her mother would harp on a point until her daughter felt like screaming. The tumanhofer presented a way to avoid days, weeks, even months of nagging, pouting, and silent despair. Her mother’s performance would drive Tipper to distraction. Perhaps the daughter could act as well.

  Sighing dramatically, she said, “You have come such a long distance, across the entire continent. I hate to turn you away with no hope.”

  He leaned forward, keen to hear her words, his face practically torn with expectation. His earnestness almost made Tipper forsake her sudden plan. But Mother
would want that painting day after day for months, until she inexplicably forgot about a picture from her husband’s hand.

  There was the trip to see her sister. Perhaps when her mother came back, the picture would be of no importance. No, it was more likely Lady Peg would postpone the trip until she had the painting. Then there would be two topics for her mother to worry to death—the delayed trip and the fountain depiction. The thought of her mother’s nagging pushed aside Tipper’s last hesitation.

  “You have seen my father’s work?”

  “Many times.” He reached across the table as if to touch her but withdrew his hand. “I have searched out every piece I could find. Twenty-nine statues, fifty-three paintings.”

  Tipper raised her eyebrows. She hadn’t sold that many. Perhaps her father still produced his masterpieces, wherever he was. She scowled.

  Tipper pointed to the fountain. “Paint that. Paint it tomorrow and be done by nightfall. Paint it in such a way that your very art proves you have already studied my father’s style and genius. I will show it to my mother, and if she approves, then she will petition my father to give you an audience.”

  “Thank you,” the tumanhofer gushed. He slid out of his chair and down on his knees before her, grabbed her hands, and bestowed a flurry of kisses on them. “Thank you. Thank you. You won’t regret this kindness.”

  Tipper cleared her throat and tried to pull away. Junkit flew to her rescue, batting his blue wings against the effusive man’s face.

  He cowered. “Excuse me, I beg you. I am zealous for my ultimate dream to come true.”

  “Yes, well.” Tipper glanced around. Her second servant stood in the door, a worried expression marring her usual serenity. “Gladyme, how good of you to appear at just the right time. Master Bealomondore will be staying the night and the morrow. Please show him to a room.”

  Gladyme gave a curtsy but looked doubtfully at the fancy-dressed guest. Nevertheless, she escorted the tumanhofer away.

  Tipper collapsed in her seat, expelling her relief with a puff of air.

  A few minutes later, Lipphil arrived with Rolan.

  “Is everything all right, Mistress Tipper?” he panted.

  “Yes, but I fear we shall have to do something with Mother tomorrow. I’ve allowed the artist to stay to paint the picture mother wants of the fountain. Even in her hazy state, I don’t think we can let her watch the stranger at work and then tell her the result is a gift from Papa.”

  Rolan scratched his head. “I’m taking my wife to Soebin tomorrow to visit the market. I know it’s not convenient for Lady Peg to go shopping, but it would get her out of the house.”

  Tipper jumped to her feet and squeezed the marione farmer’s arm. “Just the thing, Rolan. You’ve saved us.”

  “Not if she spies that huge clock I took away last week and has me haul it back home.”

  Tipper narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together in a straight line before speaking. “We’ll have to chance it. Surely Boscamon will favor us with one more lucky circumstance.”

  Boscamon, the unseen ruler of fate. She knew better than to rely on a myth, but the phrase had slipped from her lips as if it had meaning.

  It would be nice to have a mother or a father who took responsibility for regulating each day’s events. Tipper would even accept a being without shape or form such as the “hero of the universe” legend if he would only show some dependability.

  But Boscamon provided a convenient way to explain what could not be explained. Shifting blame for awkward situations onto the shoulders of Boscamon created a sense of relief without solving any problems. But Sir Beccaroon had taught her to carry her own burdens.

  Tipper’s body sagged as if a weight bore down on her. She recognized the threat, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “Whatever tomorrow brings, we’ll plow ahead. Determination isn’t a choice. It’s a necessity.”

  3

  The Proper Light

  Beccaroon cocked his head and critically examined the painting developing under the hand of the young tumanhofer Bealomondore. The grand parrot waited to comment until the artist pulled his brush back from the canvas. “You’re good.”

  The man jumped and turned abruptly to face Beccaroon. “I didn’t know you were there.” He dabbed his paintbrush on his palette, then waved its green tip at the mansion. “Do you live in the house?”

  “No, I’m visiting.”

  “Friend of the family?”

  “Yes.” He lowered his head, his version of a courtly bow. “I’m Beccaroon.”

  The tumanhofer put down his brush, wiped his hand on his artists overcoat, and extended it to shake.

  Beccaroon tilted his head. The feathers above one eye ruffled up like an eyebrow.

  Bealomondore withdrew his hand. “Ah! You don’t… um. Pardon me. I’m not accustomed to… um… Pleased to meet you. I’m Graddapotmorphit Bealomondore, at your service.” He clicked his heels together and bowed.

  Beccaroon nodded and turned his attention back to the likeness of the fountain on a six-by-six-inch canvas. “I’m impressed with your replication of Verrin Schope’s style.”

  The tumanhofer picked up his brush and rolled the slim handle between his thumb and forefinger. His brow furrowed as he studied the foliage surrounding the scene and then his work. He dabbed a few strokes of shading to the bushes, then stood back and glared at the fountain. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Lady Peg or Verrin Schope.”

  Beccaroon clicked his black tongue against his beak. “I doubt you’ll meet either.”

  The artist whipped around again, facing the parrot with a scowl. “Is my talent not great enough? Do not say so! I am the best of the best.”

  “Then why do you seek tutelage under Verrin Schope?”

  The tumanhofer’s demeanor changed in an instant. His head hung, and tears welled in his eyes. “Because no one takes me seriously. I am a man of infinite talent but no occupation. I can speak with a golden tongue, but no one listens. I am a fop in the eyes of my friends and relatives.”

  “Well, you can’t do a thing about your relatives, but you can choose better friends, ones who appreciate your gift.”

  Bealomondore shrugged, wiped his wet cheeks on his sleeve, and returned to his painting. “If Verrin Schope believes I have talent, then there will not be a soul to contradict him.”

  Beccaroon clicked his tongue again. “Verrin Schope is extremely involved in his current project. It could be that you will be denied your apprenticeship because the time is not right. While your talent would prove sufficient, Verrin Schope’s availability could be… nonexistent.”

  “Then I’ll wait,” said the painter. Using his brush, now tipped in vermillion, he pointed to one of the ground-level windows. “Mistress Tipper is trying to get your attention. I assume she doesn’t want to speak to me.”

  Beccaroon turned his head a three-quarter rotation. “She does, indeed, seem to be summoning me. What an unusual means of communication she’s chosen.”

  The tumanhofer made a guttural sound. “Whenever I turn toward the house, she pops behind the curtain. She should realize an artist is a keen observer.”

  “Perhaps she does not want to disturb you when you are so nearly done.”

  “Perhaps she is avoiding me altogether, as are her mother and her father.”

  “Well, well,” said Beccaroon as he stretched his glorious scarlet wings. “No need to imagine affront. I’ll go see what ails the girl.”

  He flew to an entrance near the window where Tipper lurked. He waited a moment before she opened the door and gestured for him to enter.

  “Is he done?” she asked.

  “Almost. He’s perfecting the shading and highlighting the flowers. His work is very good. Your father would be interested in the young man.”

  “ If he were here.”

  “I can’t think it is right to take this aspiring artist’s painting and then just send him on his way. I also think you may have a hard time getting ri
d of him.”

  Tipper bit her lower lip and peeked through the heavy brocade drapes. “He is determined.” She turned away from watching the artist and put a hand on Beccaroon’s shoulder. “Mother could come back any minute.”

  “And she might not come back for several hours,” Beccaroon countered. “Rolan knows you want her occupied for a greater part of the day.” He sighed. “You want me to check, don’t you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll return shortly.”

  They crossed the room and went through a hall to the main foyer, where Tipper opened the massive front door. She kissed Beccaroon on his forehead, right in front of the golden plumes that formed a substantial crest.

  He didn’t acknowledge the affection but strutted out the door. Tipper’s habit of stepping over his personal boundary should not be encouraged. He took flight without comment and soared high above the surrounding forest, following the wide path that wandered toward the market town. He flew over Rolan’s farm and saw the crops standing in neat rows, almost ready to harvest.

  He continued his journey, searching the road and several taverns along the way for any sign of Rolan, his wife, and Lady Peg. He squinted his eyes at a group of men camped by the River Noslow He’d send someone to keep watch over these strangers. People had been going missing closer to the coast. Most agreed they’d been taken for slave trade. A nasty business, and Beccaroon would not let it get started in his territory.

  Circling Soebin, he had a good view of the merchants folding up their tents, packing their wagons, and heading for home. Rolan and his lady passengers were nowhere in sight.

  He flew back by a different route and finally spotted the wagon pulled by a large dapple gray workhorse. Rolan had placed a two-seater sofa in the wagon bed. The ladies tilted their parasols against the setting sun and chattered away.

  Beccaroon swooped down and landed beside Lady Peg and Rolan’s wife, Zilla.

  “Oh, Beccaroon,” exclaimed Lady Peg. “Just look what we’ve found.” She pointed to a tarp-covered rectangular box around six feet tall. “You’ll never guess.”