Read Online The Vanishing Sculptor by Donita K. Paul - Free Book Online Page B

were, one solid stone, but the sculpted pieces fit together as if three figures embrace one another. In my ignorance, I did not realize that the rock I sculpted was one of Wulder’s foundation stones.”
    “Wulder?” Tipper asked. “Who’s he?”
    “Ignorance!” The wizard slapped his hands on his knees, and small beetles scuttled out of the folds of his robe. “Like father, like daughter. Librettowit, what are we doing in this heathen land?”
    “Unheathenizing the populace.” The librarian sniffed and turned his gaze back to Verrin Schope.
    Beccaroon cast the two men an outraged glare. Tipper waited for him to issue a scathing retort over the nonsense of their country being uncivilized. But he shook his feathers and settled them, obviously controlling his indignation.
    “Is it possible?” The wizard’s glower swept over the inhabitants of the bedchamber. “Will the populace learn? I hate to spend time on unprofitable ventures. Trailing truth before lovers of deceit. Offering light to those who relish dark. Admit it, Librettowit, some minds are too little to hold even a drip of a big concept. We can avoid the sea of explanation and not dip into futility.”
    “Verrin Schope realized the truth,” said Librettowit.
    “But he is an exceptional man. Brilliant! Talented! Sensitive! Like me. Absorbing knowledge like a sponge.”
    Librettowit rolled his eyes. “Thank Wulder you are not a lake wizard.” His shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath and drooped as he expelled it in a sigh of excessive patience. “The simple can detect the truth. Wulder does not wish to be out of reach.”
    Tipper shook her father’s arm. “There’s that name again. Who is Wulder?”
    Verrin Schope beamed. “Longing to know, aren’t you? Caught me that way too.” He tapped his finger on her brow. “Now smooth out those worried wrinkles, and I’ll tell you.” He winked at Beccaroon. “You’ll be interested in this as well.”
    Wizard Fenworth leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’ve heard it before.” He snorted twice and commenced a rhythmic breathing, indicating he’d fallen asleep with no more ado.
    “We refer to Wulder as Boscamon, but our perception is incomplete.” Verrin Schope tapped his daughter’s forehead. “You’re frowning again.”
    “Tell me, Mistress Tipper,” said Librettowit, “what do you know of Boscamon from your childhood?”
    “He is the one behind everything. Before there was anything, he conjured up all that we see.” She looked at her father and he nodded, so she continued. “He keeps each thing in balance with the others. He arranges elements of our world, taking away one thing and replacing it with another.”
    “That covers the temporal,” Verrin Schope prompted, “but what of the nonphysical?”
    Tipper thought for a moment. “Part of his realm is to see that goodness is rewarded in time and evil is punished.”
    Verrin Schope nodded and turned to face Librettowit. “In pictures drawn for children, Boscamon is often depicted as a magician or a juggler. But unlike Wulder, he is mysterious, unknown, beyond reach.”
    Librettowit shifted on the footstool. “Not much use, is he?”
    Tipper knew her frown had returned, but she could not figure out what her father meant or why it should be important enough to discuss. Surely the statues and the ramifications of her selling them were more to the point than fables.
    Beccaroon shook his feathers. “Boscamon has never been sufficient for me. There have been times I’ve looked at the magnificence of my jungle and known I should give thanks to Someone for its existence. It is rather disconcerting not to have anyone to whom I may express gratitude.”
    Verrin Schope scrunched his expression as he grasped for words. “Bec is right. Our people give Boscamon no homage, nor do we worship him. He is just a hypothetical power. Something that might explain what has not been explained.”
    Librettowit pinched his lower lip