The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  With one hand on her elbow, her father guided her to a chair. “Just sit here, and Grandur and I will ease your discomfort.”

  Tipper sat. “Grandur?”

  “This is a healing dragon, and yes, his name is Grandur. I realize it is a bit incongruous, but they are born with their names already in place. Grandur informed me of his name right after he hatched.”

  Tipper put her face in her hands. “I think I hit my head harder than I thought.”

  “Are you dizzy now? Do you feel sick to your stomach? How’s your vision?”

  “The last is my problem.” She raised her head. “I see a light that cannot be there. And a dragon named Grandur. And I’m hearing a voice that sounds like my father’s, but my father never talked nonsense, and this voice is relaying all sorts of absurd bits of absurdity.”

  He lifted one eyebrow and looked sternly at Tipper. “Tipper-too, absurd bits of absurdity’ is redundant.”

  She grinned up at him, remembering the silly banter they’d enjoyed when she was small. Wrinkling her nose at him, she responded as she would have fifteen years earlier. “Nonsensical bits of nonsense.”

  “That’s my daughter. You haven’t lost your sense of humor. As long as you have a wit to call your own, you will be just fine.”

  He turned her hand over in her lap and put the tiny dragon in her palm. Grandur hopped several times, then nestled into her cupped hand. She expected him to be cold and rough skinned, but instead his little body radiated a comforting heat, and smooth, velvety skin covered his feet and stomach.

  Her father kept one hand over hers and placed the fingertips of his other on the swollen knot on her forehead.

  “Just relax. This will only take a moment.”

  Tipper took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The pain eased from the bump. A tingle spread from the top of her head to her toes. She smiled.

  The anxiety in her mind dissipated. Her father producing light out of thin air would be explained. The important thing was that he had returned unharmed after fading away. The little dragon was not so unusual, just a dragon in a smaller version than she normally saw. Not that she saw many dragons. Having two in their home and one in the barn was three more than most families possessed. And the Grandur-naming-himself thing…? Father would explain.

  The restorative procedure that took away the pain on her forehead expanded to include some core of her being. She felt the contentment that had eluded her for so many years. For one moment, she thought she could reach out and gather into her hand something that held peace and love and joy. She opened her eyes and saw only her father, the green dragon, and her mother’s vacant bed. Her eyes widened. The empty bed pierced her contentment, leaving a disturbing hole.

  Her father patted her hand and spoke to her concern. “Concentrate on the glimmer of hope. Focus not on the shadows of dismay.” Peace again flooded her.

  When Verrin Schope drew back, Tipper reached up and felt her forehead. No bump. No soreness to the touch. Grandur moved from her hand to her knee and peered at the other two dragons.

  Her father cleared his throat. “Do you want us to repair the damage to your backside?”

  She giggled and shook her head. “It’s better. I think it will mend on its own.”

  Grandur jumped off her lap and flew to Junkit and Zabeth. The three chittered as if communicating. To Tipper it sounded like a conversation in some whistling, chirping language.

  “Were Junkit and Zabeth born with names?” she asked.

  “Probably. But no one with the ability to understand them captured the name. Subsequently, no one has called them by their birth names. They may have forgotten,” said her father. “I’ll ask.”

  He fell silent, and all three dragons turned toward him, stopping their chatter and looking for all the world as if they were paying attention. But her father said nothing.

  He smiled. “They did have other names, but they have grown accustomed to the names given to them and would not change now.” He laid one of his long-fingered, fine-boned hands on her shoulder and squeezed. “They assure me that you are the best of mistresses, even though your ability to communicate is somewhat stunted.”

  “I’m their mistress?”

  “A formality only. A courtesy title. No one is really the master or mistress of a dragon. Only a fool would believe he has anything but the privilege to request cooperation from one of these magnificent beasts.”

  Junkit, Zabeth, and Grandur must have understood his comment. They stood straighter and puffed out their tiny chests. Tipper grinned at their antics as Junkit swaggered in front of the other two. Then a thought wiped the smile from her face.

  “Do they understand everything you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And everything I say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Her father’s arm slipped around her shoulders. “Would you like to tell me whatever it is that you would rather Zabeth and Junkit did not let slip?”

  “I think I would.”

  “And it’s about?”

  “Having money to live on for over fifteen years without you.”

  Verrin Schope rubbed his hand over his chin. “And?”

  Tipper blinked back tears and looked at her hands folded in her lap. “And your art.”

  She heard his sharply indrawn breath, but he gently took her hand. “My intuition tells me that this is something of great import. More than you could surmise, not knowing all the circumstances.” He hooked her arm in his and started for the door to the hall. “We shall need wise counsel. Shall we rejoin Fenworth, Librettowit, and Sir Beccaroon in your room?”

  Tipper allowed her father to lead her. Wise counsel? A crazy wizard, a prickly librarian, and a grand parrot? Yes, they should ask Beccaroon what course was best to take. If only she didn’t have to confess to her father before Bec could offer his advice.

  Verrin Schope gave her arm a tug. “Come, child. March forward. Problems are never as big once you’ve faced them head on.”

  Tipper sighed. Her experience proved that problems could multiply in the wink of an eye, even while you tried to stare them down.

  9

  Unbalanced

  They sat in the silent bedroom, Tipper’s room, but now it felt more like a judge’s chambers, and she was the criminal. Beccaroon might be her advocate. The two men from Amara would be the jury. And her father? He would be the judge. The certainty of who played what roles added to her tension.

  She didn’t know what to expect from the strangers. Bec would most likely allow her to weigh her crimes herself, using the strict standards he’d instilled in her. But how would her father react? With rage?

  After her explanation of her dealings with Hanner and Master Dodderbanoster, Tipper expected her father’s temper to explode. Over the years, this image of his anger had been at the back of her mind many times. She had even hoped the discovery of her pilfering among his treasures might bring him home. But the reality before her loomed larger than any scenario she had imagined. She held her breath as her father digested the news.

  He spoke his question calmly, quietly. Too calmly. Too quietly.

  “You sold my artwork, the pieces I had hidden in the jungle so no eyes would behold them until I deemed it necessary?”

  She nodded but didn’t look up. Squeezing her eyes shut, Tipper waited for the explosion. Instead, silence pushed against her. She opened one eye and peeked at the men sitting across the room. They stared at her father, obviously shocked by her admission.

  Verrin Schope patted her and gave her a little squeeze. “How many have you sold?”

  “I lost count.”

  “How many are left?”

  She couldn’t answer, but Beccaroon spoke up for her. “Three.”

  She heard Librettowit’s sharp intake of breath and looked up. Fen-worth waggled his eyebrows and wobbled his head back and forth. The action dislodged a bird and several bugs. The sparrow snatched a flying insect and flew out the
window.

  The wizard watched the bird’s departure. “Harrumph! What were we discussing? Three? Ah yes, three! Odd number. But odds are the three are not the right three.”

  Tipper pulled away from her father to look him in the eye. “What is he talking about?”

  “We are looking for three statues in particular. They were carved out of one piece of marble, and in my cleverness, they will fit back together.” He did not look particularly pleased as he boasted of his skill. In fact, Tipper thought he looked considerably more downcast than before.

  Her father wiped a hand over his face. “They cannot be rejoined as they originally were, one solid stone, but the sculpted pieces fit together as if three figures embrace one another. In my ignorance, I did not realize that the rock I sculpted was one of Wulder’s foundation stones.”

  “Wulder?” Tipper asked. “Who’s he?”

  “Ignorance!” The wizard slapped his hands on his knees, and small beetles scuttled out of the folds of his robe. “Like father, like daughter. Librettowit, what are we doing in this heathen land?”

  “Unheathenizing the populace.” The librarian sniffed and turned his gaze back to Verrin Schope.

  Beccaroon cast the two men an outraged glare. Tipper waited for him to issue a scathing retort over the nonsense of their country being uncivilized. But he shook his feathers and settled them, obviously controlling his indignation.

  “Is it possible?” The wizard’s glower swept over the inhabitants of the bedchamber. “Will the populace learn? I hate to spend time on unprofitable ventures. Trailing truth before lovers of deceit. Offering light to those who relish dark. Admit it, Librettowit, some minds are too little to hold even a drip of a big concept. We can avoid the sea of explanation and not dip into futility.”

  “Verrin Schope realized the truth,” said Librettowit.

  “But he is an exceptional man. Brilliant! Talented! Sensitive! Like me. Absorbing knowledge like a sponge.”

  Librettowit rolled his eyes. “Thank Wulder you are not a lake wizard.” His shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath and drooped as he expelled it in a sigh of excessive patience. “The simple can detect the truth. Wulder does not wish to be out of reach.”

  Tipper shook her father’s arm. “There’s that name again. Who is Wulder?”

  Verrin Schope beamed. “Longing to know, aren’t you? Caught me that way too.” He tapped his finger on her brow. “Now smooth out those worried wrinkles, and I’ll tell you.” He winked at Beccaroon. “You’ll be interested in this as well.”

  Wizard Fenworth leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve heard it before.” He snorted twice and commenced a rhythmic breathing, indicating he’d fallen asleep with no more ado.

  “We refer to Wulder as Boscamon, but our perception is incomplete.” Verrin Schope tapped his daughter’s forehead. “You’re frowning again.”

  “Tell me, Mistress Tipper,” said Librettowit, “what do you know of Boscamon from your childhood?”

  “He is the one behind everything. Before there was anything, he conjured up all that we see.” She looked at her father and he nodded, so she continued. “He keeps each thing in balance with the others. He arranges elements of our world, taking away one thing and replacing it with another.”

  “That covers the temporal,” Verrin Schope prompted, “but what of the nonphysical?”

  Tipper thought for a moment. “Part of his realm is to see that goodness is rewarded in time and evil is punished.”

  Verrin Schope nodded and turned to face Librettowit. “In pictures drawn for children, Boscamon is often depicted as a magician or a juggler. But unlike Wulder, he is mysterious, unknown, beyond reach.”

  Librettowit shifted on the footstool. “Not much use, is he?”

  Tipper knew her frown had returned, but she could not figure out what her father meant or why it should be important enough to discuss. Surely the statues and the ramifications of her selling them were more to the point than fables.

  Beccaroon shook his feathers. “Boscamon has never been sufficient for me. There have been times I’ve looked at the magnificence of my jungle and known I should give thanks to Someone for its existence. It is rather disconcerting not to have anyone to whom I may express gratitude.”

  Verrin Schope scrunched his expression as he grasped for words. “Bec is right. Our people give Boscamon no homage, nor do we worship him. He is just a hypothetical power. Something that might explain what has not been explained.”

  Librettowit pinched his lower lip between his thumb and finger and nodded, a look of concentration on his face. “Your Boscamon is a fairy-tale figure. Storytellers have woven his existence out of a dim understanding of how things must work without any real knowledge to give weight to the theories.”

  “Exactly!” Verrin Schope grasped his daughter’s hands and shook them slightly to secure her full attention. His face shone with excitement. “The marvelous thing is that Wulder has revealed Himself to the people of Amara, and we can introduce Him to our civilization.”

  “If,” said Librettowit in a deadly serious voice, “we can secure the three statues that make up the foundation of your corner of the world before irrevocable damage is done.”

  “Which statues do you need, Papa?”

  “Morning Glory, Day’s Deed, and Evening Yearns. ”

  Tears welled in Tipper’s eyes. “All gone. Among the first to go.”

  Verrin Schope cupped his hand around his daughter’s chin. “Still no need to despair, my dear. Just tell me who you sold them to.”

  “I never know.” She let her head fall onto his shoulder, hiding her face in his robe.

  Beccaroon tsked. “She gives them into Hanner’s care. He takes them to Tackertun, and Dodderbanoster sells them locally and to distant art dealers. They are spread all over the fair land of Chiril and quite possibly beyond our borders.”

  “We shall start with Dodderbanoster, then,” said Verrin Schope. “He’s an old friend and will help us, I’m sure.” He patted Tipper on the shoulder. “Brace up, girl. All is not lost.”

  Tipper sobbed and managed to squeak out an answer. “Hanner told me that Dodderbanoster said the artwork often trades hands many times as greedy patrons endeavor to collect the most valuable pieces.” She hiccuped. “The three statues could be anywhere. Nobody can tell us exactly where each piece is.”

  Beccaroon shifted from foot to foot. “Not true. There is a possibility.”

  “Who?” asked Librettowit. “A cataloger?”

  “No, an artist.”

  Tipper wailed.

  “There, there,” said her father with more ineffectual patting of her shoulders. “Speak, Bec. Who?”

  “Bealomondore.”

  Tipper raised her head. “Yes,” she managed to say. “But no!”

  “Why not?” Verrin Schope asked.

  Beccaroon shook his tail feathers. “Tipper managed to alienate the young artist’s goodwill.”

  “This is the young man who painted the fountain?”

  “Yes.” Tipper sniffed and wiped her face with a handkerchief

  Verrin Schope released her. “Oh, busted banderilles.”

  She hung her head. “I know. I have been deceitful, and the worst is the spite I felt at having to sell them. I knew you would be displeased.”

  “Well, yes, there is that anger of yours. Your mother has mentioned it,” said her father. “But that wasn’t the cause of my oath.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Decidedly not.”

  “Then…?” She looked straight at him and realized the problem.

  “Banderilles, broken, bashed, and blitherated. I’m fading again.”

  10

  Changes

  And so it falls to me to usher these odd fellows to hidden statues in my beloved forest. Beccaroon strutted through the dense undergrowth, following a path the wizard and his librarian would never have been able to discover on their own. He glanced over his shoulder and realized they
had stopped again. The tumanhofer wrote in his notebook as he examined the leaf of an ordinary sputzall vine. The wizard appeared to be talking to a striped monkey. Beccaroon tsked and flew up into a tree to snack on boskenberries while he waited.

  Tipper and I informed them that the statues are not those they seek, but do they listen? No.

  The librarian took a few steps and examined another bush. Wizard Fenworth sat down with a “tut, tut” and became very still. Soon a flatrat peeked out from the underbrush and sniffed the air. The furry shadow scuttled across a bare patch of ground and poked its nose under the hem of the wizard’s robe. To Beccaroon’s amazement, the timid beast disappeared into the folds of the cloth.

  After a moment, the wizard stood. “Sir Bec, where are you? Shouldn’t we be on our way?”

  Beccaroon tsked again. As if I’m the one stopping every whipstitch to examine the flora and fauna.

  He spread his red wings and glided to the forest floor. “This way,” he said and parted the branches obscuring the path.

  If he’d flown, the journey would have taken three minutes. If he’d walked with Tipper, it would have taken ten. But guiding the two men from Amara through the jungle, prodding them past mundane foliage that the librarian declared “exquisite,” and getting the wizard back on his feet after his many stops for “a bit of a rest” lengthened the expedition to an hour and three-quarters. Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit exhausted all of Beccaroon’s patience.

  “We’re here,” he announced and gestured toward a vine-covered statue only two feet tall.

  The wizard glared at the overgrown vegetation. The branches loosened their hold on the sculpture, dropping to form a circle at the base of a carved boy hunched over an animal in his cold hand.

  The wizard raised an eyebrow at his companion. “Well, help me lift it, Librettowit.”

  Beccaroon eyed the heavy stone and the two old men. “You can’t possibly carry that statue.”