The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  The wizard grunted as he leaned over the boy. “Not in our arms, of course.” He spread his cloak around the statue. “There, I’ve got his head in the opening, Librettowit. Just tip him in.”

  The librarian took hold of the base of the statue and thrust it upward and over, sliding it into the opening. The cape bulged momentarily, then hung flat again. Both men straightened.

  “One down,” said the wizard.

  “Two to go,” said the tumanhofer.

  Wizard Fenworth took a step, and his robe flowed as it had before. No lump or sagging in the cloth indicated that a heavy statue was stored within.

  “What did you do?” asked Beccaroon. “Where is Verrin Schope’s sculpture?”

  “In a hollow,” answered the wizard, holding his cloak open so the bird could see the lining. “It looks just like these other pockets, but the opening leads to a… hmm. How to explain it? Librettowit?”

  The tumanhofer stroked his beard. “If you were to open a cupboard door and place an object, say a cup, on the shelf and close the door, you would know that the cup is in that cabinet, on a shelf.” He pantomimed putting a cup into a cupboard. “When you put an object in a hollow, the object is still there but not just on the other side of a door.”

  “Confusing!” The wizard waved his hands in front of him, and a myriad of creatures escaped his sleeves, some dropping to the forest floor and scurrying off, some flying to nearby branches. “Are you talking about a pocket or a cabinet?”

  “A hollow,” stated the librarian.

  “You’re making things altogether too complicated.” Wizard Fen-worth turned to Beccaroon. “When we put the statue in my pocket, we more specifically put the statue in a hollow. Therefore, it is there but not there. It is essentially far away in another place but quite positively there instead of the there you expect. Understand? It’s simple.”

  Tired of the muddled rhetoric, Beccaroon nodded. “I see. Shall we go on to the next hiding place? I assume another statue will fit in this hollow.”

  Wizard Fenworth waved one hand as if dismissing any doubts. “A hollow will accommodate any number of things as long as the thing initially fits through the opening.”

  “The openings do not stretch,” said Librettowit.

  Fenworth grinned and held up one finger. “But I have more than one hollow with varying sizes of openings.”

  Librettowit spoke softly as he shuffled away from his tall friend. “And even I have a hollow.”

  “He does indeed,” said the wizard with his face pulled into a frown. “But he has odd notions.”

  “Precautions,” objected the tumanhofer.

  “Worrywartish, unscientific, unfounded superstitions. Comes from sitting with books too much.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ve never reached my hand into my own hollow and pulled out a full-grown centimonder.”

  Fenworth blustered. “And you are implying—”

  The shorter man seemed to grow a bit as he stood up to his companion. With one eyebrow cocked, he glared at the old wizard.

  “Ah yes,” said Fenworth. “I remember being bitten.”

  The tumanhofer agreed with one emphatic nod.

  Beccaroon ruffled his feathers. “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?”

  Ushering the two visitors farther into the tropical forest to the second and then the third hidden statue proved to be just as strenuous on Beccaroon’s nerves as the first leg of their journey. As they headed back, he took them a shorter route.

  “That’s an odd tree,” said Wizard Fenworth. He moved off the path to examine his find. “Librettowit, take a look at this. We have nothing like it in Amara.”

  His curiosity aroused, Beccaroon doubled back to see what his followers had found. He landed on a branch close to the librarian’s hat.

  “What do you call this tree?” asked Librettowit.

  “I’ve never seen it before, and it’s dying. It looks somewhat like a bittermorn tree, but it is so disfigured and twisted…” Beccaroon leaned over the tumanhofer’s shoulder and nipped a leaf. He spit it out after a second. “Awk! It’s a bittermorn for sure. Tastes awful.”

  Librettowit scowled. “I’m afraid this tree may have dissipated as Verrin Schope does.”

  Fenworth nodded. “And come back together every which way.” He scrunched his brow and looked askance at Beccaroon. “I would assume that this tree, in the normal way of things, is not sapient.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Beccaroon knew the man was touched in the head, but sapient? “Do you mean you have trees in Amara that think, plan, and converse?”

  “We have some that are emotional, but few are thinkers.”

  “As far as I know,” said Beccaroon, “this type of tree has shown no sign of being able to reason.”

  Fenworth nodded as he considered the parrot’s words. “Didn’t have the sense to guide its reassemblage so that it would turn out a tree as it had been before.”

  “This is proof, then?” asked Librettowit.

  “We’ll discuss it with Verrin Schope, but I believe our theory of the effect of the foundation-stone fiasco is correct.”

  “What?” squawked Beccaroon. “What are you talking about?”

  Librettowit cast him an apologetic look as Fenworth returned to the path and started on. “If more things besides your sculptor friend start dissipating and reforming, we may have a landscape covered with these abnormalities.”

  If he had not been looking at evidence of disaster, Beccaroon might have scoffed. Instead, he grew silent and got the two foreigners back to Byrdschopen as quickly as possible.

  By the time they returned to Verrin Schope’s mansion, exasperation quivered at the tip of every feather of the grand parrot’s spectacular plumage. The men had expounded on every possible mishap that could possibly come about as objects passed through the process that ailed their apprentice wizard.

  Tipper rushed onto the back veranda as soon as the men stepped into the fountain garden.

  “Did you find them?” she called.

  “We did,” Beccaroon muttered.

  Fenworth patted the sides of his robe. “Magnificent work. Your father is a genius.”

  Tipper merely nodded. “Do you want to send someone out to fetch them?”

  The old wizard laughed, jarring loose a few leaves clinging to— or were they growing from?—his robes. “We brought them, my dear. Now where is your father?”

  She frowned, looking at the two old men as they climbed the three stairs to the veranda and then at her friend perched on a balustrade. Beccaroon shrugged.

  Tipper glanced over her shoulder to the second-story windows. Her father looked down from her mother’s chamber.

  “He’s still upstairs. I’ve been sitting with him ever since you left. He has spent the day going into the closet as he fades and then coming out, whole and happy again, a few minutes later.” She smiled wanly at Sir Bec. “It makes a conversation rather disjointed.”

  Beccaroon cleaned his wing feathers and made no comment.

  “Let’s go see if he’s in or out,” said Fenworth. “I’ll carry the statues, Librettowit. No reason to bother yourself.”

  “I hadn’t intended to.” The librarian trudged toward the door without waiting for the others.

  Tipper paused to speak to Beccaroon. “Are you coming, Bec?”

  “Awk.” He shook his head. His feathers ruffled. “I’ve had enough of those two. You go along. I’m going to seek seclusion in my forest. I have some thinking to do.”

  “Oh, Bec.” Tipper brushed her fingers softly from his shoulder down one scarlet wing. “I’m sorry.”

  “Awk! Hurry along. Maybe some good will come of all this. If not—and I, for one, am not expecting easy outcomes—you know where you can find me. And Tipper… tell your father about the rocks by the fountain.” He shifted away from her, spread his wings, and flew off.

  Tipper wondered for a moment over his parting words but had something else to catch her attention. She wanted to see the statu
es and verify that the ones the men sought had been indeed sold. She easily caught up with Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit. Neither of the old men moved faster than a steady plod.

  They entered her mother’s chambers just as her father opened the door of the closet and stepped out. His smile encompassed his two old friends, as well as his daughter.

  He clapped his hands together. “You’re back. I trust you found the three remaining statues.”

  “We have,” said Librettowit, “and I believe your daughter is correct. These are not the statues we seek.”

  Wizard Fenworth unfastened the string at his neck that held his cloak in place. He removed the cape with a flourish and spread it across the bed inside out.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  Tipper gasped as he and Librettowit pulled a bulky stone figure from the flat material. Verrin Schope came to their aid and helped hoist the crouching boy onto a nearby table.

  “Aha!” exclaimed her father. “I called this one Protector. See, the child has a young pippenhen in his palm. He’s covered the bird with the other hand to shield it from harm.” He stood back and frowned. “All wrong, all wrong. See how the lines curve in? See the darkness at the center of the piece? This is about withdrawing from life. Not at all what I intended. But then that was before Amara, so of course, I have a better perspective now.”

  He gently placed his fingers under the boy’s chin and coaxed the stone to move. Tipper put a hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. She blinked and looked again. Her father stroked the features of the now upturned little face. Concern eased out of the statue’s expression. A brightness, a sense of wonder, appeared, especially around the eyes, as her sculptor father reworked his art.

  Verrin Schope once again stepped back and eyed the statue. “Yes, better.”

  Tipper sat down with a whoosh on the cushioned chair.

  Absorbed in his task, her father didn’t glance at his mystified daughter. “Now for this tiny chick.”

  He rubbed the rigid wrist of the boy’s top hand for a moment, then gently turned it over so that both hands now cupped the tiny bird. Verrin Schope got on his knees and plied the material that made up the half-formed chick.

  Tears welled in Tipper’s eyes as she watched her father transform the rough rock into a lifelike image of a pippenhen. If he were to add color, Tipper would expect the figure to peep.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Librettowit came to her side and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Your father’s talent has multiplied as he has come closer to Wulder. This increase is not unusual. The Creator first gives the gift, then perfects the gift if the recipient is willing. Your father has told us he always knew there was more and found his work frustrating instead of satisfying because he perceived the lack.”

  Tipper sniffed and retrieved her handkerchief from her pocket. “Everyone proclaims his genius.”

  “But they don’t know, do they? How could they? Only the individual can recognize the potential that is yet unfulfilled. Only the individual can stand on what has been given and reach for what is offered.”

  “You’re talking about this Wulder? He’s the Creator, the Giver, the…what?”

  The old tumanhofer smiled and patted her back. “Wulder. He is Wulder.”

  11

  To and Fro Back and Forth

  The broot made an excellent swing. Tipper leaned back on the thick vine that looped toward the forest floor. Her perch swayed forward, lifting her into the cozy clearing. She breathed deeply trying to relax. Beccaroon sat in the branches of a sacktrass tree a few feet away.

  With his head tilted, he looked like he focused only one eye on her. But she knew he had been listening intently to her description of what had passed during the last twenty-four hours. The debate at the mansion covered every aspect of a proposed quest.

  Beccaroon flapped his crimson wings and settled them against his blue sides. “So the major flaw in their plan is that your father cannot accompany them.”

  Tipper gave an extra shove with her foot to make her swing scoot higher into the brush behind her. “I see flaws all over the place. Too much of what they think is speculation.”

  “Your father always exhibited extreme intelligence and good sense. If he says the three statues reunited will stabilize his condition, then…”

  “The two foreigners and Papa admit this reuniting idea is just a theory. Wizard Fenworth says if combining the stones doesn’t work, they will just rethink their hypothesis and see what new ideas they can come up with. Apparently he doesn’t feel it necessary to ‘attack an adversary not posing a threat.’ It sounded like a quote when he said it. He’s a confident one.” She held up a finger, imitating Fenworth. “ ‘But not to worry now, because our design hasn’t yet failed’”

  “I haven’t known him long, but I can hear the words flowing from his mouth as frogs hop out from under his robe.”

  Tipper giggled. “I think that time it was a small green garter snake.”

  “Letting your father live in a perpetual state of disappearing and coming back together in your mother’s closet is not an option, Tipper. Something must be done.”

  “But their strategies involve too many unknown factors. They don’t know how much time they have. They hint that Papa is just the first sign of an unstable environment. Perhaps the problem will spread. They didn’t like that tree you saw in the jungle, and they had me go get one of the rocks that changed color. Librettowit thinks more dire things will happen. The house could disappear and try to reassemble in the closet, which would, of course, be gone as well. Even Fenworth thought that might be an inconvenient occurrence.”

  Beccaroon’s head bobbed. “That explains the urgency to begin the search for your father’s sculptures. They plan to leave tomorrow?”

  “And they don’t know where the artwork is.”

  The grand parrot clicked his tongue and let out a whistle. “But Bealomondore does.”

  Tipper shook a stray lock of fine hair away from her face. “Perhaps, but we don’t know where the artist went. Probably back home, and that is too far away to even consider.”

  “He’s in Temperlain, staying at the Boss Inn.”

  Tipper dragged her foot in the dirt and came to an abrupt stop. “How do you know that?”

  Beccaroon lifted one shoulder in an understated shrug. “I am a respected leader of the community. Most people treat me as such and take the time to keep me informed.”

  Tipper reacted to a tangent thought. Her mentor again brought up how people usually regarded him. He did it to point out her shortcomings. “Your veiled allusions to my impertinence are annoying. I’m never sure if you mean what I think you mean. Couldn’t you just be blatant about it and shake a wingtip in my face?” Tipper hopped out of the swing and put her hands on her hips. “And besides, I treat you with respect. At least I think I do.”

  “Awk! You treat me with affection.” He gave her a disgruntled look. “Affection suitable to a doddering old uncle. At times your conduct is extremely flippant.”

  Her heart seized up as she studied his demeanor. Her old friend truly resented the manner in which she loved him. “Is that so bad, Sir Bec? You practically raised me, and many times you’ve been the only one to give me comfort.” She cocked her head. “Does it wound your pride for an emerlindian girl to dote on you?”

  “It is not that you bruise my dignity, my dear. I have enough self-confidence to be able to sustain a few callous blows.” Bec sidled along the branch. “But you act as if I am not worthy of your regard. Your offhandedness reflects on you, showing a lack of discernment.” He tossed his head and looked into the rich green canopy above them. “I thought I had taught you to be more adept at judging the appropriateness of any chosen behavior.”

  Tipper twisted in the corner of her mouth and bit her lip. Having a grand parrot as her guardian for all these years had been as much a trial to her as it had been to him. At times she could not seem to please the fussy b
ird, even though she loved him dearly. And that was the problem. He accepted her love, but not the demonstration of it. He was not a father who would hold her in his lap or swing her up in his arms. She missed that. But if she could reason out why their relationship scraped along a bumpy road from time to time, why couldn’t he? Why did she always have to be the one to apologize and make adjustments?

  Beccaroon hopped off his perch and landed in front of her. His beady eyes narrowed as he gazed into her face. “Perhaps it is your lack of social interaction with the outside world. Perhaps it would be good for you to travel with this wizard and his librarian and be exposed to a more sophisticated population.”

  As if he’d punched her, Tipper’s answer whooshed out in a shriekish whisper. “What?”

  “Your father can’t go. You would benefit from an introduction to the world outside your secluded niche. And you need to make peace with Bealomondore.” He smoothed the feathers on his chest with his beak. “You should go.”

  “I can’t leave.” She found her arms flailing in the air, emphasizing her objection. She pinned them to her sides. “Who would run the estate?”

  “Your father.”

  “From a closet?”

  “He isn’t always in the closet.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from his absurd suggestion. “I don’t want to go.” She pointed her chin at him. “Why don’t you go?”

  Beccaroon wagged his head back and forth. “I don’t want to go.”

  “You’re Father’s best friend.”

  “You are your father’s daughter.”

  Tipper stiffened. “I’m tired of being his daughter. I’m tired of responsibility and impossible circumstances.”

  “Then run away from home and have an adventure.”

  She growled in her throat but not loud enough for her mentor to hear. “You taught me not to run away from my obligations.”

  “Then go with Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit and fulfill your obligations.”

  She whirled, stomped away, then turned back. “You’re more suited to accomplishing tasks of great importance.”