by Eoin Colfer
The ceremony itself was simple and private, with only the Fowl and Butler families present. Artemis’s body was buried on the high meadow where he had spent so much of his time tinkering on his solar plane. Butler did not attend, because he steadfastly refused to believe the evidence presented to him by his own eyes.
Artemis is not gone, he asserted, time after time. This is not the endgame.
He would not be persuaded otherwise, no matter how many times Juliet or Angeline Fowl dropped down to his dojo for a talk.
Which was why the bodyguard showed not one whit of surprise when Captain Holly Short appeared at the door of his lodge at dawn one morning.
“Well, it’s about time,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the coatrack. “Artemis leaves instructions, and it takes you guys half a year to figure them out.”
Holly hurried after him. “Artemis’s instructions were not exactly simple to follow. And, typically, they were totally illegal.”
In the courtyard, a doorway had been cut into the orange glow of the morning sky, and in that doorway stood Foaly, looking decidedly nervous.
“Which do you think seems less suspicious?” asked Butler. “An alien-looking craft hovering in the yard of a country home, or a floating doorway with a centaur standing in it?”
Foaly clopped down the gangplank, towing a hover trolley behind him. The shuttle door closed and fizzled out of the visible spectrum.
“Can we get on with this, please?” he wondered. “Everything we’re doing here is against fairy law and possibly immoral. Caballine thinks I’m at Mulch’s ceremony. The Council is actually giving him a medal. I hate lying to my wife. If I stop to think about this for more than ten seconds, I might just change my mind.”
Holly took control of the hover trolley. “You will not change your mind. We have come too far just to go home without a result.”
“Hey,” said Foaly. “I was just saying.”
Holly’s eyes were hard with a determination that would tolerate no argument. She had been wearing that expression every day now for six months, ever since she had returned home from the Berserker Gate incident. The first thing she had done was seek out Foaly in Police Plaza.
I have a message for you from Artemis, she’d said, once Foaly had released her from a smothering hug.
Really? What did he say?
He said something about a chrysalis. You were to power it up.
These words had a powerful effect on the centaur. He trotted to the door and locked it behind Holly. Then he ran a bug sweep with a wand he kept on his person.
Holly knew then that the word meant something to her friend.
What chrysalis, Foaly? And why is Artemis so interested in it?
Foaly took Holly’s shoulders and placed her in a lab chair. Why is Artemis interested? Our friend is dead, Holly. Maybe we should let him go?
Holly pushed Foaly away and jumped to her feet. Let him go? Artemis didn’t let me go in Limbo. He didn’t let Butler go in London. He didn’t let the entire city of Haven go during the goblin revolution. Now tell me, what is this chrysalis?
So Foaly told her, and the bones of Artemis’s idea became obvious, but more information was needed.
Was there anything else? asked the centaur. Did Artemis say or do anything else?
Holly shook her head miserably. No. He got a little sentimental, which is unusual for him, but understandable. He told me to kiss you.
She stood on tiptoes and kissed Foaly’s forehead. “Just in case, I suppose.”
Foaly was suddenly upset, and almost overwhelmed, but he coughed and swallowed it down for another time.
He said, Kiss Foaly. Those exact words?
No, said Holly, thinking back. He kissed me, and said, Give him that from me.
The centaur grinned, then cackled, then dragged her across the lab.
We need to get your forehead under an electron microscope, he said.
* * *
Holly explained their interpretation of Artemis’s plan to Butler as they walked toward the Berserker Gate. Foaly trotted ahead, muttering calculations to himself and keeping an eye out for early-bird humans.
“The chrysalis was what Opal used to grow a clone of herself. It was turned over to Foaly, who was supposed to destroy it.”
“But he didn’t,” guessed Butler.
“No. And Artemis knew that from hacking into LEP recycling records.”
“So, Artemis wanted Foaly to grow a clone? Even an old soldier like me knows that you need DNA for that . . .”
Holly tapped her forehead. “That’s why he kissed me. There was enough DNA in the saliva for Foaly to grow an army, but it seemed like a natural trace to the airport scanners.”
“A genius to the end,” said Butler. He frowned. “But aren’t clones poor, dumb creatures? Nopal could barely stay alive.”
Foaly stopped at the lip of the crater to explain. “Yes, they are, because they don’t have a soul. This is where the magic comes in. When the first Berserker lock was closed, all fairy spirits within the magic circle were released from their bodies, but Artemis may have had enough human in him, and enough sheer willpower, to remain in this realm, even after his physical body died. His spirit could be a free-floating, ectoplasmic, ethereal organism right now.”
Butler almost stumbled over his own feet. “Are you saying Artemis is a ghost?” He turned to Holly for a straight answer. “Is he actually saying that Artemis is a ghost?”
Holly steered the hover trolley down the incline. “The Berserkers were ghosts for ten thousand years. That’s how the spell worked. If they lasted that long, it’s possible that Artemis held on for six months.”
“Possible?” said Butler. “That’s all we’ve got?”
Foaly pointed to a spot near the tower. “Possible is being optimistic. I would say barely conceivable would be a better bet.”
Holly undid the clips of a refrigerated container on top of the hover trolley. “Yes, well, the barely conceivable is Artemis Fowl’s specialty.”
Butler heaved off the lid, and what he saw inside took his breath away, even though he had been expecting it. Artemis’s clone lay inside a transparent tent, breath fogging the plastic.
“Artemis,” he said. “It’s him exactly.”
“I had to play with the hothousing,” said Foaly, unhooking the clone from its life support systems. “And I didn’t have access to my own lab, so he has six toes on his left foot now, but it’s close enough for a backstreet job. I never thought I’d say it, but Opal Koboi made good tech.”
“It’s . . . He’s fifteen now, right?”
Foaly ducked behind a twist of nutrient pipes to hide his face. “Actually, the timing got away from me a little, so he’s a little older. But don’t worry, I gave him a total makeover. Skin shrink, bone scrape, marrow injections—I even lubed his brain. Believe me, his own mother wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”
He rubbed his hands and changed the subject. “Now, to work. Show me where Artemis died.”
“Down there,” said Holly, pointing. “By the . . .”
She had been about to say tower, but her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the incredible roses that grew in thick curved bands, emanating from the exact point where Artemis had collapsed.
The Fowl Estate roses were something of a sensation, blooming as they did in a perfect spiral at the foot of the round tower, where no roses had been planted. Their unusual burnished orange petals made them visible from the other garden plots, and Juliet had been assigned the task of ensuring that none of the villagers helped themselves to as much as a single stem.
Because of recent little people rumors, the garden workers had taken to calling the flowers fairy roses, which was a better name for them than even they suspected.
Butler carried the enclosed clone in his arms, and he was suddenly reminded of a night years ago when he had carried someone else through a field, watching the tall grass swish in Artemis’s wake.
Except, that
time I was carrying Holly.
Foaly interrupted his thought. “Butler, you must place the body in the roses. At the center of the spiral. Without life support we only have minutes before degeneration begins.”
Butler laid the clone gently inside the spiral, on a soft patch where there were no thorns to pierce it.
Holly knelt to open the tent’s zipper. She pulled the flaps apart, and inside lay Artemis’s new body in a hospital gown, its breath coming in short gasps, sweat sheening its forehead.
Foaly moved quickly around the clone, straightening its limbs, tilting its head back to clear the airways.
“These roses,” he said, “they are a sign. There’s magical residue here. I would bet this formation is pretty much the same shape as Bruin Fadda’s original rune.”
“You’re pinning your hopes on a flowerbed sprouting in the meadow?”
“No, of course not, Butler. Bruin Fadda’s magic was powerful, and someone with Artemis’s willpower could easily last a few months.”
Butler held his own skull. “What if this doesn’t work, Holly? What if I let Artemis die?”
Holly turned quickly and saw that Butler was emotionally stretched. He had been hiding behind denial for half a year and would blame himself forever if Artemis didn’t come back.
If this does not work, Butler may never recover, she realized.
“It will work!” she said. “Now, less talk and more resurrecting. How long do we have, Foaly?”
“The clone can survive for perhaps fifteen minutes away from the life support.”
Butler knew that the time for objections was past. He would do whatever was necessary to give this plan a chance to succeed.
“Very well, Holly,” he said, standing to attention. “What should I do?”
Holly squatted three feet from the clone, fingers wrapped around rose stems, oblivious to the thorns piercing her skin. “It is all done now. Either he appears, or we have lost him forever.”
I think we will have lost something of ourselves, too, thought Butler.
They waited, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Birds sang, the hedgerow bustled, and the sound of a tractor engine drifted to them across the fields. Holly squatted and fretted, dragging flowers out by their roots. While she worried, Butler’s gaze rested on the clone’s face and he recalled times past spent with his Principal.
There never was anyone like Artemis Fowl, he thought. Though he didn’t make my job any easier with all his shenanigans. Butler smiled. Artemis always had my back, even though he could barely reach it.
“Holly,” he said, gently. “He’s not coming . . .”
Then the wind changed, and suddenly Butler could smell the roses. Holly stumbled forward to her feet.
“Something’s happening. I think something is happening.”
The breeze scooped a few rose petals from the flowers and sent them spinning skyward. More and more petals broke free as the wind seemed to curve along the orange spiral, quickly stripping each flower. The petals rose like butterflies, flitting and shimmering, filling the sky, blocking the sun.
“Artemis!” Butler called. “Come to my voice.”
Has he done it? Is this Artemis Fowl’s greatest moment?
The petals swirled with a noise like a chorus of sighs and then suddenly dropped like stones. The clone had not moved.
Holly moved forward slowly, as though learning to use her legs, then dropped to her knees, clasping the clone’s hand.
“Artemis,” she said, the word like a prayer. “Artemis, please.”
Still nothing. Not even breath now.
Butler had no time for his usual impeccable manners and moved Holly aside. “Sorry, Captain. This is my area of expertise.”
He knelt over the pale clone and, with his palm, searched for a heartbeat. There was none.
Butler tilted the clone’s head back, pinched its nose, and breathed life deep into its lungs.
He felt a weak heartbeat under his hand.
Butler fell backward. “Holly. I think . . . I think it worked.”
Holly crawled through the carpet of petals.
“Artemis,” she said urgently. “Artemis, come back to us.”
Two more breaths passed, then several rapid jerky ones, then Artemis’s eyes opened. Both a startling blue. The eyes were initially wide with shock, then fluttered like the wings of a jarred moth.
“Be calm,” said Holly. “You are safe now.”
Artemis frowned, trying to focus. It was clear that his faculties had not totally returned, and he did not yet remember the people leaning over him.
“Stay back,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
Holly took his hand. “We do know you, Artemis. And you know us. Try to remember.”
Artemis did try, concentrating until some of the clouds lifted.
“Y . . . you,” he said hesitantly. “You are my friends?”
Holly wept with sheer relief. “Yes,” she said. “We are your friends. Now we need to get you inside, before the locals arrive and see the recently deceased heir being escorted by fairies.”
Butler helped Artemis to his feet, on which he was obviously unsteady.
“Oh, go on, then,” said Foaly, offering his broad back. “Just this once.”
Butler lifted Artemis onto the centaur’s back and steadied him with a huge hand.
“You had me worried, Arty,” he said. “And your parents are devastated. Wait until they see you.”
As they walked across the fields, Holly pointed out areas of shared experience, hoping to jog the teen’s memory.
“Tell me,” Artemis said, his voice still weak. “How do I know you?”
And so Holly began her story: “It all started in Ho Chi Minh City one summer. It was sweltering by anyone’s standards. Needless to say, Artemis Fowl would not have been willing to put up with such discomfort if something extremely important had not been at stake. Important to the plan. . . .”
COMING FROM EOIN COLFER IN SPRING 2020
The first book in a new series about
Artemis Fowl’s younger brothers,
by internationally best-selling author Eoin Colfer
There are things to know about the world.
Surely you realize that what you know is not everything there is to know. In spite of humankind’s ingenuity, there are shadows too dark for your kind to fully illuminate. The very mantle of our planet is one example; the ocean floor is another. And in these shadows we live. The Hidden Ones. The magical creatures who have removed ourselves from the destructive human orbit. Once, we fairies ruled the surface as humans do now, as bacteria will in the future, but for now, we are content for the most part to exist in our underground civilization. For ten thousand years, fairies have used our magic and technology to shield ourselves from prying eyes, and to heal the beleaguered Earth mother, Danu. We fairies have a saying that is writ large in golden tiles on the altar mosaic of the Hey Hey Temple, and the saying is this: WE DIG DEEP AND WE ENDURE.
But there is always one maverick who does not care a fig for fairy mosaics and is hell-bent on reaching the surface. Usually this maverick is a troll. And specifically in this case, the maverick is a troll who will shortly and for a ridiculous reason be named Whistle Blower.
For here begins the second documented cycle of Fowl adventures.
The Baddie: Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye. The Duke of Scilly.
If a person wants to murder the head of a family, then it is very important that the entire family also be done away with, or the distraught survivors might very well decide to take bloody revenge, or at least make a detailed report at the local police station. There is, in fact, an entire chapter on this exact subject in The Criminal Mastermind’s Almanac, an infamous guidebook for aspiring ruthless criminals by Professor Wulf Bane, which was turned down by every reputable publisher but is available on demand from the author. The actual chapter name is “Kill Them All. Even the Pets.” A gruesome title that would put most n
ormal people off from reading it, but Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye, Duke of Scilly, was not a normal person, and the juiciest phrases in his copy of The Criminal Mastermind’s Almanac were marked in pink highlighter, and the book itself was dedicated as follows:
To Teddy
From one criminal mastermind to another
Don’t be a stranger
Wulfy
Lord Bleedham-Drye had dedicated most of his one hundred and fifty years on this green earth to staying on this green earth as long as possible—as opposed to being buried beneath it. In television interviews he credited his youthful appearance to yoga and fish oil, but in actual fact, Lord Teddy had spent much of his inherited fortune traveling the globe in search of any potions and pills, legal or not, that would extend his life span. As a roving ambassador for the Crown, Lord Teddy could easily find an excuse to visit the most far-flung corners of the planet in the name of culture, when in fact he was keeping his eyes open for anything that grew, swam, waddled, or crawled that would help him stay alive for even a minute longer than his allotted four score and ten.
So far in his quest, Lord Teddy had tried every so-called eternal youth therapy for which there was even the flimsiest of supporting evidence. He had, among other things, ingested tons of willow-bark extract, swallowed millions of antioxidant tablets, slurped gallons of therapeutic arsenic, injected the cerebrospinal fluid of the endangered Madagascan lemur, devoured countless helpings of Southeast Asian liver-fluke spaghetti, and spent almost a month suspended over an active volcanic rift in Iceland, funneling the restorative volcanic gas up the leg holes of his linen shorts. These and other extreme practices—never ever to be tried at home—had indeed kept Bleedham-Drye breathing and vital thus far, but there had been side effects. The lemur fluid had caused his forearms to elongate so that his hands dangled below his knees. The arsenic had paralyzed the left corner of his mouth so that it was forever curled in a sardonic-looking sneer, and the volcanic embers had scalded his bottom, forcing Teddy to walk in a slightly bowlegged manner as though trying to keep his balance in rough seas. Bleedham-Drye considered these secondary effects a small price to pay for his wrinkle-free complexion, luxuriant mane of hair, and spade of black beard, and of course the vigor that helped him endure lengthy treks and safaris in the hunt for any more rumored life-extenders.