The Vanishing Sculptor (20 page)

22
Uncooperative

“Look,” cried Tipper, pointing to the sky. “Are those our dragons?”

She knew they could be. Their bodies hung under the wings rather than being positioned between them. The small airborne creatures couldn’t possibly be birds. But the minor dragons flew too far from where the questers stood. Tipper could not determine if they were Grandur, Hue, Junkit, and Zabeth.

She turned to her father. “Can’t you mindspeak with Grandur? Is it him? What are they doing?”

Her father’s frown grew fiercer. “It is Grandur, and I can mind-speak with him, but the conversation is not going well.”

Bealomondore came to Tipper’s side. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s good.” She turned back to Verrin Schope. “Can’t you order Grandur to come back?”

“Order a dragon?” He snorted. “No, my dear, one does not order a dragon to do anything. I think I’ve mentioned this before. One seeks to acquire his cooperation.”

“But doesn’t Grandur enjoy doing things with you? I thought he liked you.”

The four large dragons circled and headed toward the high end of the valley, where the tower stood. The minor dragons followed.

A light breeze skipped across Tipper’s bare arms, and either that or her father’s cold expression made her shiver. She turned to see Wizard Fenworth leaning over Librettowit, engaged in a serious conversation. Tipper scurried over to find out what the men knew about the little dragons defecting from their questing party.

A word exploded from the wizard. “Young!”

“Inexperienced,” the tumanhofer barked back.

“Needs to learn a thing or two.”

“Now,” said Librettowit with a grin, “isn’t it fortunate that we’ve come along to give him the benefit of our vast knowledge?”

Tipper stopped and waited for them to see her. They were too engrossed in their own discussion to notice.

“I,” said the wizard, “am not opposed to aiding a youngster in bettering himself.”

“Surely there is a mentor somewhere.”

“If there is, he has been most ineffectual.”

“We shall see. This is a strange country with strange customs.”

Tipper cleared her throat. Both men turned toward her.

“That dragon keeper has our minor dragons. What are we going to do?” she asked.

Fenworth straightened. He left Librettowit and came to her, putting his arm around her shoulders. With gentle pressure, he turned her and guided her back toward their camp.

“Why, we’re going to go calling on the inhabitant of the tower.”

“That dragon rider?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know he lives there?”

Fenworth stopped and turned shocked eyes to examine her. “You really don’t know, do you?” He patted her shoulder and sighed. “I’m a wizard, dear child.”

Tipper fought the urge to stamp her foot and answered as calmly as she could. “I am aware, sir, that you are a wizard.”

“Well, wizards do things, you know. And we know things as well. And, of course, wizards aren’t in the least bit timid about saying so.”

He turned to shout to the others. “Hurry, my friends. We have an appointment with the local dragon keeper.”

Tipper ran down the hill and began disassembling her tent before the others caught up with her.

“What’s the hurry?” asked Bealomondore.

“That boy has our dragons.”

The young tumanhofer stood looking at her until she cast a glare over her shoulder. He shrugged and then scooped up a pile of blankets. He divided them and poked them into their hollow knapsacks. Then he tackled the equipment Tipper gathered at a furious rate. He kept an eye on her frenzy with a scowl on his face.

Tipper rounded on him, placed her hands on her hips, and scowled back. “You can quit staring at me as if I’d suddenly grown another nose. What is your problem?”

“Are you mad at the dragon rider, the dragons, me, or the whole world?”

Her hands flew up in the air, expressing her outrage in a flurry of flapping fingers. “I was learning to talk to them. I was getting better at interpreting the impressions I got. I thought they liked me.”

“Who? The big dragons or the little ones?”

“Both!” She plopped onto the folded tent, put her elbows on her knees, and hid her face in her hands. “Who does he think he is?”

Bealomondore shuffled his feet. “The dragon rider?”

She nodded and sniffed.

“I guess he thinks he’s a dragon rider, or keeper, or whatever Fen-worth called him.”

Tipper heard Beccaroon’s claws scratch the dirt as he approached. She quickly sat up, scrubbing the tears off her cheeks with the sleeve of her blouse. She stood and snatched up the canvas tent but overbalanced when she rose. Staggering under its weight, she tried to keep from falling. Bealomondore rushed forward, grabbed the other side of the bulky tent, and steadied her.

She looked into his face, attempted a smile, and mouthed, “Thank you.”

He winked.

“Tipper,” said Beccaroon. “I’d like to talk to you.”

Bealomondore pulled the bundle from her arms. “I’ll take this over to Fenworth.”

She let him go and turned to face the inquiring eyes of her mentor.

“Talk to me.” He settled on a fallen log.

She sighed and sat beside him. “The ease and comfort of our journey has been destroyed. That one ill-mannered ruffian, that dragon keeper, had the power to turn the tide.”

Beccaroon chuckled and shook his head. “You amaze me, my girl. We’ve had a sheriff look down his nose at us, we’ve dealt with frantic sheep and a catastrophic fire, and you label this quest with words like
ease
and
comfort
”

“This quest has been a lot more fun than figuring out where to get more seeds after an insect infestation, or how to get a new pane of glass for a broken window, or how to pay the butcher. Climbing a mountain trail is more exciting than hoeing the garden. Sleeping under the stars is better than mending old, old tattered sheets. Dancing in the streets is definitely preferable to dusting a whole library full of books that nobody reads.”

Beccaroon held up the tip of one wing and silenced her outpouring. “I have explained to you the way of life, and you have experienced it on a small scale at Byrdschopen. Our quest will involve the same things. Beauty and ugliness. Feast and famine. Fortune and misfortune. A balance. Why do you expect life with no death? Why do you welcome rain and curse the flood? You must accept both the good and the bad to claim maturity.”

“I could quote that speech, Bec. You’ve said it often enough.”

“Because it’s true. If you struggle against truth, you will be dissatisfied and, ultimately, unhappy.”

“It all seems so haphazard. We should have more control over… everything.” She hung her head, knowing Beccaroon would likely point out the futility of such a desire. Her bird friend said nothing, and Tipper peeked at his face. He stared off into the nearby woods.

Tipper examined the trees but saw nothing. Nervous twinges pulled at her, making her tense, ready to run. What had captured Beccaroon’s full attention? She searched the trees again.

“Do you see something?” she asked.

“No, I don’t see at all.” He shook out his feathers. “And that bothers me.” He hopped off the log and strutted to where the others worked.

Tipper looked back at the small forest, then at Beccaroon’s retreating back. She tilted her head, puzzled. “I don’t think he was talking about things you
can
see.” Her head bobbed a nod as she came to a conclusion. “He’s bothered by Papa’s ideas.”

Thinking about their conversation, she could not determine what had reminded Beccaroon of her Papa’s strange devotion to that Wulder. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out, wishing there was someone to question besides herself

Bealomondore walked alongside Tipper, and she marveled that he had chosen her as a companion on their hike. She also wondered that he turned out to be the one she preferred as well.

Glad that her mother was not with them to complicate matters, she kept pace with the shorter man. With mother safely at Aunt Soo’s, Tipper didn’t have to explain over and over that she and the tumanhofer were not stepping out together. Just walking. She grinned.

“What are you thinking?” asked Bealomondore.

“That walking is pleasant. We’ve only had small knolls to trudge up. Some of those mountain passes were too steep to be enjoyable.”

“Ah yes, but the views!” He smiled in memory, then gestured back toward Librettowit and Fenworth. “I wish we could get them a ride. They’re too old to be tramping through mountains. And I don’t think it’s right that the wizard carries so much of the camping gear.”

Tipper watched Fenworth for a moment. The old man leaned on his walking stick and breathed heavily. Birds circled his head from time to time or rested on his shoulder. She knew that bugs of all kinds, and even snakes and lizards, roamed through his clothing with the same comfort with which they inhabited the alpine terrain.

She turned back to the tumanhofer. “I don’t think he really carries it. I know he puts it in those pockets—”

“Hollows.”

“Hollows. But I don’t think it exists until he takes it out again.”

Bealomondore chuckled. “That doesn’t make any more sense than his explanation.” He winked at her. “Or the librarian’s.”

Tipper grinned. “Not much those two do makes any sense to me.”

He squinted at the long narrow meadow through which they traveled. “We aren’t going to reach the tower tonight.”

She agreed, and the idea worried her. “Do you suppose the longer he has our dragons, the harder it will be to get them back?”

“I didn’t see any leashes. I don’t think he has them captured. Once we get close to them, they’ll want to come back to the ones they know best.”

Tipper shook her head. “Papa said that when he tried to get Grandur to return, the little dragon just acted annoyed to be interrupted. He was excited over the dragon keeper. Fascinated. His little brain frantically reflected image after image of the dragon rider to the exclusion of all else.”

“That certainly doesn’t sound normal.”

“It’s not.”

“So what are our learned leaders going to do about it?”

Tipper pointed to the tower. “They are going to talk to the source of the problem.”

23
Disobliging

“I didn’t sleep for more than ten minutes at a time, and I ache all over,” Tipper complained as she stood holding two corners of a sleeping bag.

Her father walked toward her, holding the other end. He joined his corners with hers, pulled them out of her hands, and finished making the cumbersome item ready to be stored. She watched as it decreased in bulk each time he folded the material. By the time he handed it back to her, it fit in her hand like a large potato.

She hefted the sleeping bag, testing its heaviness against its small size. The bundle weighed more like a heavy rock.

“Are you going to teach me how to do things like this?”

Verrin Schope continued packing the gear from his tent. “If Wulder has given you the talent, I would be pleased to help you expand your gift.”

Tipper thought of all the talents her father exhibited. Painting, sculpting, architecture, languages, music, the analytical sciences. The list went on forever.

“I don’t believe Wulder gave me a talent.”

Her father stopped putting large objects in a small bag. With his arms crossed over his chest, he studied her. She stood still for a moment, then shifted her feet. He continued to stare, and the longer he examined her, the more uncomfortable she became.

What should she do with her arms? She crossed them in imitation of his stance. That didn’t feel right. She clasped her hands behind her back. That was better.

She looked at his face and caught him still looking at hers. She swiftly focused on Fenworth and Librettowit chatting on the other side of the camp.

Her father’s voice interrupted her discomfort. “Your most obvious talent is singing.” He picked up his small bag of belongings. “Music is a wonderful tool for so many other endeavors. For instance, a song may bolster a deficiency in the heart. A rousing march builds courage for soldiers headed to war. A ballad may help a frozen heart express grief. Music lifts the spirits, expresses true emotion, heals, and fortifies. Ah yes, your talent for song is an incredible gift and worth investing in to develop.”

He held up a finger, indicating he had more to say on the topic. “The quest should bring out more of your talents that are presently unrecognized.”

He grinned and made a face that reminded Tipper of Wizard Fenworth, then spoke in the old man’s voice. “Quests are uncomfortable. You know that, don’t you? But if you’re hiding talents, they’ll come jumping out of you during a quest. Kind of like bubble beetles when they hear water running. That can be uncomfortable too, all that talent leaping around.”

Verrin Schope came to his daughter and gathered her in a tight embrace. He kissed the top of her head. “You’re to be careful. Bubble beetles sometimes drown in the water they converged upon with such zeal.”

He leaned back and looked her in the eye. “Did you say something earlier about not sleeping? You’re sore?”

“Yes. I went to bed without Grandur working his wonders on my poor feet and tired legs. And I missed Hue’s nighttime hums. His music is soothing.”

“Two weeks ago you ignored Junkit and Zabeth. Now you know our little friends’ usefulness. I’d say they spoiled you.”

“I didn’t totally ignore the house dragons. I think I did pretty much ignore Trisoda.”

“Trisoda?”

“The barn dragon. He’s new. Beccaroon brought him to us when I was twelve.”

“Ah.” Sadness pulled at her father’s face, making him look older. “I missed a lot.” He planted another kiss on her forehead and lightened his tone. “But we shall find the three statues and allow them to embrace, and I shall stay at home, read books, and drink hot amaloot.”

“Are you coming?” barked Fenworth.

Beccaroon strutted toward Tipper and her father. “I’m going on ahead. I’ll meet you at the tower.”