The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  Bealomondore leaned toward Tipper. “We all knew that, didn’t we?”

  “Oh yes.” She grinned at him. Since the dance last night, the wall between them had crumbled. She’d watched him be kind to old women and young, fair and not-so-fair. He danced with all, acting gallant to an old and rather smelly hag as well as to a gangly girl who wished very much to be counted as a young lady.

  Tipper wanted that kindness to extend to her. The debonair tumanhofer’s approval became important. “Am I forgiven?” she asked.

  He looked at her with one eyebrow quirked, but the twinkle in his eye relieved any apprehension she had.

  “Yes. I admit there were extenuating circumstances.” His expression sobered. “But you understand that I will always examine what you say, wondering if circumstances are pushing against your ethics.”

  Tipper pursed her lips. “That doesn’t sound like you’ve forgiven me.”

  He picked a cluster of purple grassblooms and handed them to her. “Forgiven you? Yes. Forgotten the offense? No. I won’t act as if you lie at every opportunity but I won’t be caught again by any prevarication on your part.”

  Tipper sniffed the flowers, giving herself a moment to absorb what Bealomondore said. “I guess I deserve that.”

  “You do.”

  He didn’t have to agree so quickly. Who was he to point out her shortcomings?

  Words surfaced on her tongue. The words sprang from deep inside her. Sharp words, ready to wound. Strong words, tasting bitter in her mouth. She wanted to spit them out, but instead she swallowed, as if that would force them down. But these hateful words still clung to her lips. She swallowed again, but the action forced open her mouth. A hand gripping her elbow stopped the flow before it began.

  “Tipper.” Her father pulled at her arm. “Come walk with me.” He nodded to Bealomondore. “Excuse us.”

  The tumanhofer bowed and strolled up the hill toward the other members of their party, who led the advance.

  Verrin Schope pulled his daughter closer and tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. He gestured toward the grassblooms in her hand with his chin. “You’ve mangled the stems.”

  Tipper gasped at the mashed leaves and slender stalks. The heads of the purple blossoms drooped over the outside of her fist. Unclenching her hand, she let them drop. She stared at her palm covered with green goo. Her father flicked a cloth into her hand, and they stopped while she scrubbed away the evidence of her anger.

  When they resumed their walk, Verrin Schope patted her arm. “The Amarans have tomes written to record things that Wulder has proclaimed. Incidences in history, too, that reveal His wisdom. But I especially appreciate the pithy sayings that put into words exactly how things work—how we think and act and speak in a general sense. And how those processes influence our circumstances.”

  Tipper nodded, not really interested in what her father meant to tell her. Her heart still thumped in uneasy resentment of the fancy-mannered tumanhofer.

  “Here is one of the principles you almost acted out in your dealing with Bealomondore.”

  He’d caught her attention, but she wouldn’t urge him on. Instead she looked down, concentrating on the rocky path as it narrowed. Her father let her proceed and followed.

  Even from behind, his voice sounded warm and close, personal and kind. “ ‘My mouth says what I have told it not to. My tongue spits the poison I would not swallow. Later is remorse, but now is the sweetness of one barbed morsel after another.’”

  They walked on in silence. Tipper tried to repeat Verrin Schope’s words in her head, but they didn’t come out right. “Say it again,” she requested reluctantly.

  “ ‘My mouth says what I have told it not to. My tongue spits the poison I would not swallow. Later is remorse, but now is the sweetness of one barbed morsel after another.’”

  “It means… ?”

  “You tell me.”

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t attempt rephrasing the quote. Warring feelings of resentment and chagrin ruled her answer. “I wanted to blast Bealomondore with words that would hurt him. At the same time, I didn’t want to allow those words out of my mouth. But I almost said them. You stopped me.”

  “Yes, and another principle in Wulder’s Tomes is this: ‘I stand. I fall. Another and another stand together. We do not fall. I stand. I fall. Another and another raise me to my feet. We do not fall.’”

  “That means…?” She glanced back at her father.

  He winked. “Another principle: ‘The urge to do good blossoms in the company of those who also choose good. The urge to do bad can be multiplied by the influence of just one with evil intent.’”

  Tipper laughed. “Do these people in Amara ever just say something like ‘don’t steal’ or ‘don’t lie’?”

  Verrin Schope caught up with her and draped his arm over her shoulders. He squeezed. “Yes, but apparently Wulder prefers His people to puzzle over things and deepen their attachment to His truth.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “If you consider pondering to be laborious, then yes.” He looked back over his shoulder and turned her to face the fertile valley behind them. “‘A field tilled, a seed planted, the ground tended—the harvest repays each moment of care.’ ”

  “Let me guess. That’s in Wulder’s Tomes.”

  “That’s in Wulder’s heart. Written as a promise and shared with His people.”

  “Does it help to know these things presented this way, Papa? After all, we have similar sayings. ‘A cock crows to launch the day. A dove coos to ease the night.’ ”

  “Yes, my dear. Truth exists in many Chiril sayings, but Wulder’s equivalent goes beyond the stating of truth and reveals wisdom. That is an important difference.”

  At some point, as they climbed the steep hill, Tipper’s reluctance to engage in this conversation had flown. Eagerly she asked for more insight from these tomes. “And what is Wulder’s equivalent to the rooster and the dove?”

  “ ‘Begin a day with vigor, and give the night the simplicity of rest. The day and the night will be similarly productive. One generating satisfaction, the other yielding peace.’”

  “It sounds like a lot to learn.”

  “Like a song, dear Tipper. Like a song.”

  Tipper didn’t ask what he meant. She knew. Songs had always been her comfort, like the lullaby she remembered from the days before his departure.

  19

  A Little Trouble Three

  Beccaroon plodded along beside Tipper and Bealomondore, listening to his girl’s bubbly prattle.

  Tipper gathered her skirt to avoid a row of prickly weeds. “I don’t see what Fenworth objects to. He’s always saying that a quest is a bother, an inconvenience—uncomfortable and fraught with danger. I disagree. Traveling by foot in this glorious weather isn’t a hardship, and when our feet get sore, Grandur heals them.”

  Bealomondore nodded in enthusiastic agreement.

  She gestured to the towering peaks. “The scenery among these majestic mountains is inspiring. You’ve scouted out easy trails, Bec. The whole venture has proven that questing is a marvelous enterprise. Why does anyone ever stay at home?”

  “And I,” said the tumanhofer artist, “am storing up memories of landscapes that will cover more canvas than I could possibly purchase. Despite what the wizard says about questing robbing me of recollection, I look forward to capturing these memories. I don’t believe I will lose even one impression with the passage of time.”

  “At the risk of prying,” Beccaroon began, “you are a paradox to me, Bealomondore. Your clothing, your manner, and your education all speak of being raised in an affluent home. But every now and again, you say something that speaks of poverty.”

  This time Bealomondore gave a somber nod. “I did not have the money to pay my bill at the hotel.”

  Tipper placed a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to tell us if you’d rather not.”

  “And just now,” he continued as if she had
not spoken, “I mentioned more canvas than I could possibly purchase.”

  “Really,” insisted Tipper, “we respect your privacy.”

  Beccaroon chortled. “Oh, let him say it, girl. You’re as curious as I am.”

  She dropped her hand from the artist’s arm and placed it on her hip, stopping to glare at her friend. “I’m trying to be more attentive to what my thoughtless words might incur. You know—embarrassment, regret, things like that.”

  “Well, it’s not your wayward tongue, but mine.” Beccaroon hopped over a half-hidden boulder. “Come on, Tipper, you can walk while you listen. No need to stand there in a pose of righteous indignation.” He peered at Bealomondore, who looked to be at ease and ready to talk. “Go on, man. If she’s determined not to hear, she can fall behind and walk with Fenworth and Librettowit.”

  Just as he suspected, the suggestion did not sit well with Tipper. She clamped her mouth shut and strode beside them.

  Bealomondore did not seem at all nonplussed by having to explain his lack of funds. He strode along the path with the same jaunty air he always assumed.

  “Well, as you have guessed, my childhood was spent in a comfortable home. My father is the head of a mining company. I have three sisters and one brother—an older brother, one who pleases my father in every way. I am the delight of my sisters and basically ignored by our mother. This is not a sore point, for my mother ignores us all equally.”

  Bealomondore tucked his thumbs under the straps of his knapsack. “My mother’s sister, Aunt Eireenangie, cared for us as a governess. She more than made up for our mother’s neglect, and her strongest influence was in the area of art. My sisters are all accomplished watercolorists.”

  “And your brother?” asked Beccaroon, ignoring Tipper’s glare of reproach. “His talent is in another form?”

  “Talent?” The tumanhofer pursed his lips. “I’ve never thought of Araspillian as having a talent. My brother was and is attached to my father’s coattails. Or perhaps I should say he’s walked with his hand in my father’s pocket for so long he can no longer tell which set of trousers is his own.”

  The tumanhofer warmed to his descriptions and grinned with glee. “He treads so closely in our father’s footsteps that at times he is wearing the same shoes.” He chuckled. “The hat on his head is greased by my father’s hair. He sees not with his own eyes but through my father’s spectacles.”

  Beccaroon cleared his throat. “I think we get the idea.”

  “Ah yes, I suppose you do. The long and short of it is that my brother has won my father’s favor, and eventually my father noticed that I was nowhere to be seen. He came looking and found that I was cultured. Not only was I cultured, but I was remarkably adept at the social arts. This might have been tolerated, but I painted. What male tumanhofer paints?”

  He hunched his shoulders. “I was thrown out. My aunt gave me a small purse filled with coins. My sisters cried. My brother gloated. I have often wondered if my mother discovered the hullabaloo and made inquiry as to the source. Or if she did not, does she to this day not know I have been banished?”

  Beccaroon noted the look of sympathy that Tipper cast the tumanhofer, and so did Bealomondore.

  “Ah, Mistress Tipper, do not feel sorry for me. For quite some time, I dallied about in society. I am an entertaining character and contribute to any festivity with my sparkling conversation and uncommon wit. And I am knowledgeable in the fine arts. Hosts and hostesses like to be told that their collections are exquisite. Don’t forget, I am also the premier expert on Verrin Schope’s works.”

  His expression became serious. “But my passion is my painting, and one day I decided to establish myself as an artist. The same people who courted me and cosseted my whims when I was merely a decoration to their social revelry scorned my talent. Thus, I came to Byrdschopen.”

  Beccaroon bobbed his head. “Boscamon took with one hand and gave with the other.” He nipped off a flower bud, chewed it, then spit out a hard black seed. “It’s the way of things. Bealomondore is blessed with talent, then cursed with condemnation from his father and peers.

  “And the juggler performs once more. We need help in finding the three statues, and while that ball is in the air, Boscamon slips in Bealomondore, who wants to study under Verrin Schope and just happens to know the whereabouts of the statues.” The parrot tilted his head at Tipper, who obviously had something to say.

  Her eyebrows lifted, accentuating her pointed features. “But you don’t really believe that Boscamon exists.”

  “I believe there is something that acts to balance forces in the world. A juggler depicts the action as well as any other.”

  “You said you thought it would be nice to be able to thank whoever provided us with the beauty of your forest, of our surroundings.” She stopped but moved again when Beccaroon prodded her with his wing.

  He tamped down his irritation and strove for a calm voice. “And that is Boscamon, the conjurer. He pulls something out of nothing, much like your trickster wizard.”

  Tipper’s eyes flashed with as much portent as that confounded cloud Fenworth had put under the coach. “Do you think my father is a trickster as well?” Her tone of voice dripped icicles.

  Beccaroon almost chuckled. She sounded remarkably like her mother when Lady Peg chose to be affronted. He considered himself a wise old bird and did not hint that he found his girl amusing.

  “Papa became a wizard while he was in Amara, and he’s training to be a better one.” She stopped again, and this time Beccaroon did not urge her on.

  He no longer found her amusing, for she harped on the same things that worried him. He marched in silence.

  He hadn’t decided what he thought of this Wulder concept that Verrin Schope embraced. Indignation caused his feathers to fluff out, and that annoyed him. He’d rather carry his concern without exposing it to Tipper. He stewed over the whole business of his good friend’s return and the nonsense he’d brought with him. Nonsense that included Wizard Fenworth and his librarian, as well as some astonishing philosophies.

  Tipper came up beside him again, and he struggled for words that would say what he wanted to clarify but reveal nothing more of his turmoil.

  “Of course, I don’t take the tales of Boscamon seriously. No one but a very young child does. And that is why it bothers me so much that your father is committed to this Wulder. If he is intelligent enough to see through the fable of our own making, why has he chosen to be gullible where this other country’s fable is concerned?”

  “Perhaps,” said Tipper, “because this Wulder is not a fable.”

  “Awk!” Beccaroon spread his wings and left the troubling band of fellow questers below, seeking clearer vision in the blue skies above.

  The questing party sat along a stream in the second valley they’d entered that day. Tipper pulled off her soft leather boots and silky stockings and plunged her aching feet into the cool water.

  “Good idea,” announced her father as he sat beside her on the grassy bank. He took off heavier footgear and socks, then rolled up his trouser legs. He splashed as he plopped his feet into the stream up to his calves.

  Tipper laughed. “Be careful.”

  He leaned back, supporting himself on his elbows, and gazed into the branches of a bentleaf tree. “Fenworth and Librettowit have decided we should camp here.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait for Beccaroon to come back and report? He would know if this is the best place.”

  Her father frowned. “Do you really want to put your shoes back on and walk even one mile farther?”

  “Ummm…” She pretended to think about it. “No.”

  They laughed and sank back on the soft grass.

  Tipper put her hands behind her head. “Oh, this almost feels like a mattress.”

  “Wait until Fenworth pulls our bedding out of his hollows. You will not believe how comfortable you can be in a sleeping bag.”

  “A bag?”

  Her father rolled on his side
, propped himself up on one arm, and poked her, making her giggle. “A sleeping bag is like your softest down quilt at home. It’s folded over and fastens up the side. You’ll be warm and cozy, and these sleeping bags are even more rest-inducing than the beds we slept on in the mayor’s house.”

  “I can’t wait.” She pulled her feet out of the water but did not get up. “I’m sorer than I’ve ever been. Will Grandur help ease my aches?”

  “As soon as he and Zabeth have had some time together.”

  Tipper rolled to face him and gave her father an inquisitive look. “Romance?”

  Verrin Schope slapped his knee and sat up. Chortling, he managed to speak. “No, no, not that.” He stopped. “Well, I don’t think so, at least. Grandur is trying to help Zabeth awaken her skills as a healer.”

  The thought brought Tipper to an upright position. “Zabeth is a healer?”

  “She’s green.” He stood and gathered his boots and socks.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He extended a hand to help Tipper up. “Green dragons most often are healers. Purple dragons like Hue are usually singers.”

  Tipper stood with her hands on her hips. Verrin Schope snatched up her footwear and held them out. After a moment, she took them. “Maybe just dragons from Amara do this kind of thing.”

  “Hue is from Beccaroon’s forest.”

  “He is?”

  “Yes. He didn’t come through the gateway. Grandur found him in the forest and brought him to you to help you transition to being able to mindspeak with the dragons.”

  “I’ve only been able to do this ‘mindspeaking’ a very little.”

  “I know.” He put his arm around her shoulders and started toward Fenworth, Librettowit, and Bealomondore.

  “How do you know?”

  “Junkit told Grandur. Grandur told me.”

  Tipper leaned against her father. “Why could I do it well only the one time at Boss Inn?”

  “You were in just the right state of mind. And you had a need, probably an emotional need, that made you even more receptive.”