Free The Vanishing Sculptor by Donita K. Paul

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