The Vanishing Sculptor

  “I have almost heard them since then, but not quite. I did hear the lullaby.”

  “That is exactly why Grandur brought Hue into our midst.”

  Bealomondore stood close by with wooden stakes and a tangle of ropes in his hands. He looked up as Tipper and her father approached. “I hope you know what to do with these things. That wizard’s in a foul mood. I thought he’d turn me into one of his toads when I asked him to explain again what I was supposed to do.”

  Verrin Schope strode to the young tumanhofer’s side and took the knotted ropes. “I’ve never known Fenworth to turn anyone into anything. I’ve seen him convince a snake that it was a stick. And I’ve heard him teach an owl to howl. But I think you’re safe from toadhood, Bealomondore.”

  The ropes had fallen into straight lines while Tipper’s father held them. “Come,” he said to the tumanhofer. “I’ll help you put up the tents.” He gazed around at the slope of the land and pointed to one level area. “There. Tipper, see if you can help our wizard with our meal.”

  The aroma of roasted chicken still mingled with the smoke of the fire when Beccaroon returned. He strutted into their cozy circle and perched on a fallen log. The questers voiced their welcome.

  Tipper didn’t get up to greet him. “Bec, I’m tired and full and wonderfully content to just lie here. Have you eaten? What did you see?”

  “I’ve eaten. And I’ve seen two things of interest.”

  The murmuring between camp members ceased. Even the minor dragons gave Beccaroon their attention. Tipper licked her lips and gave a quick glance around at the others, all stilled by anticipation.

  “What did you see, Bec?” asked Tipper.

  The parrot’s eyes creased at the corners, the closest he ever came to a smile. Tipper felt a warm glow at the sight. Everything—well, almost everything—had been astounding. And Beccaroon had good news.

  “I’ve spotted the dragons.”

  Tipper clapped. Bealomondore squirmed. Librettowit, Fenworth, and her father exchanged satisfied smiles.

  “Far?” asked Fenworth.

  Beccaroon shook his head. “No, but the other thing I saw isn’t far either.”

  “What is that?” asked Verrin Schope.

  “In this unpopulated mountain range, where only animals are said to dwell, there is a man-made tower.”

  “An ancient edifice?” asked Librettowit.

  Bec’s voice dropped. “Undoubtedly.”

  Tipper’s skin crawled. “It’s old and abandoned, right?”

  “I saw no one, but there is evidence that someone has been concerned with the upkeep. A well-tended garden circles the base, the windows are clean, and a square on the roof has been recently patched.”

  “Found the dragons?” Fenworth rubbed his hands on his knees, and lightning bugs swirled around his hat. “Our course is plotted.”

  “What about the tower?” asked Bealomondore.

  “Tower?” He pinched his chin, pulling that scrap of beard into a tight cluster. “I’ve never heard of a tower attacking anyone. We shall proceed.”

  Bealomondore came to his feet, and he paced back and forth beside the fire. He abruptly stopped. “I don’t know that I want to ride on a dragon.”

  “That’s not such a big problem, son,” said Librettowit. “There’s a much weightier problem to consider.”

  Bealomondore’s expression looked even more morose. “And that is?”

  Librettowit rubbed his nose. “What if the dragons don’t want you to ride on them?”

  20

  Dragons!

  If Hue hadn’t sung her to sleep, Tipper might have been awake all night. Grandur eased her sore muscles, and Zabeth decided to be cuddly, curling up next to her inside the sleeping bag. But Hue’s soothing tones pulled away the tension and then calmed her anticipation. Still, she awoke when the first morning bird trilled and the dawn light barely gave color to the festoon of yellow and orange mountain lilies.

  She stood as she ate breakfast, unable to contain her excitement and sit serenely with the others. She studied the happy faces of her companions. Bealomondore alone exhibited a thwarted spirit.

  “I’m off.” Beccaroon shook his tail feathers. “I want to scout for the inhabitants of the tower. Perhaps this early in the morning I will catch them close to home.”

  “Well, then,” said Bealomondore with an uneasy smile, “we can wait for your return before embarking on our search for the dragons.”

  Beccaroon laughed. “I’m sorry, dear tumanhofer. I’ve given directions to Verrin Schope. You’ll reach the meadow where the dragons rested last night before I will.”

  The young tumanhofer held a spoonful of porridge aloft. “Perhaps they moved on this morning.”

  “I doubt that you shall be so fortunate.” The big bird stretched. “The area looked like it was their usual residence.” He moved away from the fire, flapping his wings. “The sun is up.” He took flight as he bade them, “Fair weather and good progress, my friends.”

  Tipper smiled as she watched her feathered friend fly away. His colorful form grew smaller and smaller until he appeared as a large black dot and then vanished behind a hillside. In spite of his doubts, he seemed to be enjoying this adventure.

  The sky was clear and crisp and, to her way of thinking, absolutely astonishing. But she turned from the enjoyment of her surroundings to the work they all must do. She helped gather their paraphernalia as quickly as she could and took it to Fenworth. She didn’t even pause a moment to gape with her usual fascination as the wizard slipped object after bulky object into his cloak.

  When their campsite was restored to its natural state, Verrin Schope led the way, following the stream to a small lake. From there they traveled west to a narrow valley that served as a passage between two larger mountain peaks. By midafternoon, they reached a spot where the trees thinned and revealed a spectacular view of the expanse between the lofty peaks. Tipper gasped at the beauty of the landscape. She’d never been able to see so far from anywhere near Byrdschopen.

  “It must be miles to the other side,” she said.

  No one responded. The panorama created a feeling of awe. Tipper sensed something far more imposing than the vista. She looked around, wondering if a large and magnificent beast watched them.

  Her father stood closest to the edge, where the ground dropped off in a gradual decline. He flickered, faded out, and returned almost too quickly to notice. If Tipper hadn’t been looking directly at him, she would have missed it. Her father had come close to mastering his problem. With him as their leader, she knew everything would turn out well.

  Large, flat boulders, laid out like a grand staircase, provided an easy path down the gentle slope to the massive valley floor. The surface of the vale rippled in gently rolling hills. Streams crisscrossed the entire region, small stands of trees dotted the expanse, and a lake sparkled at the southernmost end.

  Directly across from their vantage point, a pale stone tower pointed to the sky. Numerous colored windows reflected the rays of the sun, glistening like jewels set in a scepter. Red and blue swirls decorated the bulbous top, and an emerald green band circled the base of the roof globe, shimmering as if made of some metal.

  “There!” declared Wizard Fenworth.

  Tipper followed the line of his pointing finger.

  On one of the hills, three large dragons stood at attention, obviously watching them, strangers that dared enter their valley. Tipper blinked. Was the splendid awareness she’d felt earlier generated by these creatures? She willed herself to evaluate the atmosphere surrounding her, but that elusive presence from before was gone. She realized the mysterious sensation had nothing to do with the dragons.

  Still, they were not ordinary animals. Their scales shimmered in the sunlight, one predominantly blue, one purple, and the last, shades of scarlet, gold, and cream.

  The minor dragons piped a rumpus of shrill chatter. Grandur flew off in the direction of the large dragons. Junkit, Zabeth, and Hue hesita
ted for a moment and then flew after the Amaran dragon.

  “Those huge beasts have seen us,” squeaked Bealomondore. “Don’t you think we should hide?”

  “Harrumph!” said Fenworth. “Dragons don’t have to see you to know where you are.”

  Librettowit scowled. “That’s not exactly true, Fen.” He turned to Tipper and the other tumanhofer. “Dragons can make a bond with one of our kind, then they know exactly where their partner is. All dragons do not know where all people are at all times. One dragon may know where one person is, but only if he has that special rapport with that person. But we are in no danger. Dragons are passive creatures unless connected with someone evil or driven to defend something or someone of importance to them.”

  “Oh,” said Tipper, still unraveling the information.

  “They’re far too interested in us for my comfort,” said Bealomondore.

  Fenworth charged forth as fast as the old man could travel, using his walking staff and almost hopping from one flat stone to the next.

  “Wait up, Fen,” called Tipper’s father. “We’re not going to get there any faster if we have to pick up your broken body and carry you.”

  The old man called over his shoulder, “Insolent pup!” and kept up his breakneck pace.

  “Fortunately,” said Tipper’s father as he took her arm. “His fast isn’t too fast for us to catch up.”

  They scrambled down the massive steps while the dragons watched them with interest. Once in the basin, the questing party had to trudge through several pastures of waist-high grass and cross three streams. They could no longer keep an eye on their target with the landscape serving as an obstacle.

  The pace of the two old men amazed Tipper. She expected Fenworth to demand one of his “rests,” but the wizard tramped forward with a steady flow of energy.

  She didn’t worry so much about the wizard and Librettowit since she could see that neither man looked in distress, but she wondered about Zabeth and Junkit. They were old, too, and only accustomed to trials that might arise in a household, not the wild.

  “I wish our dragons would return.”

  Her father glanced her way. “They can take care of themselves.”

  “You don’t think those big dragons will hurt the little ones?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. I can’t recall ever hearing of such a thing.”

  Tipper concluded that her father’s knowledge of what dragons did in Chiril was as limited as her own, so she clarified his statement. “In Amara.”

  “Well, yes, of course, in Amara,” replied her father, his tone a bit impatient. “Why should it be different in Chiril?”

  Tipper saved her breath for hiking. Her father did not choose to be worried, and neither did Librettowit and Fenworth. Librettowit would most certainly worry if there was a need. Since the librarian did not perceive a danger, she resolved to be optimistic. She glanced back at Bealomondore. His reluctant trudging looked anything but confident of their reception.

  His apprehension rubbed off on her, and she wished Beccaroon would return soon. With the big bird by her side, she would be braver in confronting the enormous dragons. He’d always stood with her when she had to do something difficult.

  As they got close to their destination, they chose to go around a little wood rather than through it. After the stand of trees, they climbed one last hill before Fenworth called a halt. On the next knoll, the three dragons munched on grass and scrutinized the intruders with no particular alarm.

  Next to Fenworth, a mound of grass-covered dirt pushed up out of the earth until it was the proper height for a seat. Fenworth perched on it.

  “Now there’s a fine sight,” he exclaimed. “Three healthy riding dragons. Not a bit skittish around people. This should be an enjoyable interlude. Then we shall be on our way. Questing for the real objects of our quest instead of questing for a means of questing more efficiently, not to mention in comfort.”

  Fenworth reached inside his cloak and pulled out a tall glass filled with a ruby liquid. He took a drink and smacked his lips. “A quest can be so irritating, but with proper planning and cooperative dragons, our quest shall progress quite well.”

  Librettowit sat on the ground. “I wouldn’t say we’ve properly tested the theory of cooperative dragons, Fenworth.”

  “Hungry?” asked the wizard. “I am too. Gather round, everyone. Let’s feast before we play”

  Verrin Schope’s new custom of thanking Wulder for their provisions included gratitude for a snack from the wizard’s hollows. Tipper paused out of respect for her father’s little speech, then bit into the flat, circular, crunchy cake called a daggart.

  Librettowit passed out flasks of cold milk. The next portion of their refreshment consisted of a handful of nuts and a parnot fruit for each. Tipper particularly liked the green fruit from Amara. And last, Fenworth pulled out sandwiches with crisp lettuce and thin slices of ham. Each piece of the meal was chilled, but Tipper knew that Fenworth could just as easily pull out mugs of hot soup.

  Bealomondore wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. “Have we decided not to go any farther? Those beasts look much bigger than they did from the mountain pass.”

  Fenworth stood up, and the mound flattened back to its original state. “Ah, dragons. Let us go make their acquaintance. These splendid beasts should make cheery, first-rate companions.”

  “If they don’t eat us,” said Bealomondore as he rose and halfheartedly dusted bits of grass from his trousers.

  Tipper bounced along behind Fenworth, Librettowit, and her father. Bealomondore followed, staying close enough not to be separated from the group but still managing to drag his feet.

  A dozen yards from the red and gold dragon, Fenworth came to a standstill. He raised his hand in salutation. “Hello. I’m known as Wizard Fenworth. We’ve come a long distance to enlist your aid.”

  The dragon snorted, bent his neck, and ripped off another swatch of tall grass. He chewed and eyed Fenworth.

  “Do you suppose,” asked Bealomondore in a whisper, “that these dragons are strictly vegetarian?”

  Librettowit pointed to a pile of bones. The younger tumanhofer gulped and covered his mouth. From the size of the rib cages, Tipper assumed the animals had been goats and sheep. Most of the bones were cracked and broken. Obviously the dragons chewed on the whole animal and spit out the skeleton. Other animals and birds probably stripped off the remaining meat. Tipper found nothing disgusting in the sight, but Bealomondore paled and turned away.

  The wizard edged slightly toward Verrin Schope but kept his eyes on the dragon. “Have you tried to mindspeak to our new friends?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  “I assume you’ve had no success.”

  Verrin Schope shook his head.

  “Peculiar.” Wizard Fenworth clutched his beard at his chins point. “Neither have I.”

  “Each message seems to disappear into a black void.” Verrin Schope put his hands on his hips. “I believe they are deliberately shutting us out.”

  The red dragon stepped toward them.

  “He’s coming,” Bealomondore squeaked and backed up.

  “Hold your ground,” ordered Librettowit. “The last thing we need is for the creatures to think we’re playing a game of chase and they’re supposed to catch us.”

  The younger tumanhofer froze in place.

  The red dragon took nine more steps closer and stretched out his neck. His face stopped inches from Fenworth’s. They stood looking into each other’s eyes. Then the dragon lifted his chin slightly, puffed through his nostrils, and blew Fenworth’s crumpled wizard hat off his head. The creature turned, barely missing them with his tail, and loped away.

  Knowing how particular Fenworth could be about his hat, Tipper expected one of his tirades. But he remained unruffled. Verrin Schope picked up the hat and handed it back to the wizard.

  “Hot breath, but not scorching,” said Fenworth. He paused, tilted his head, then grinned. “Did you hear tha
t?”

  “I did,” said Verrin Schope, smiling as well.

  “What?” demanded Tipper.

  “A chortle,” said her father.

  “More than one,” said Fenworth.

  Tipper glared at them. “I don’t understand.”

  Her father winked. “The dragons are laughing at us.”

  21

  Frustration

  Beccaroon circled the knoll, watching the strange dance Fenworth and Verrin Schope performed with the dragons. The men approached, the dragons allowed them to get close, the men held out a hand, the dragons sidled away. The ballet loosely followed the same pattern again and again.

  Bealomondore and Librettowit sat beneath a lone tree to one side. Tipper had claimed a boulder in the midst of the action. Beccaroon landed beside his girl and noted that she looked bored. She held a flower chain made from wild mumfers. She greeted him with a wan smile, picked another bloom, and split the stem.

  “What are they doing?” Beccaroon asked.

  “Trying to establish communication.” Tipper sighed. “We’ve found a difficult watch of dragons.”

  “Watch?”

  “It’s a grouping like a herd or a swarm or a flock.”

  Beccaroon eyed the three dragons and two men. “The dragons don’t seem aggressive. Very placid. They don’t seem to mind being approached.”

  “Papa says they’re playing a game and laughing at us.”

  “So they can communicate.”

  “He’s sure of it, though they won’t cooperate. He and Fenworth have caught bits and pieces of their thoughts but mostly the sound of them laughing.”

  Beccaroon watched them for a minute more, then turned to study Bealomondore and Librettowit. The older tumanhofer appeared to be asleep. The younger sketched on a large pad of paper.

  “Where are our dragons?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She waved a mumfer in the air. “They flew ahead of us with Grandur in the lead. They headed this direction, so I assumed they would be here.”