by Eoin Colfer
“Day?”
“It’s Christmas Day, you silly boy. Christmas Day! Presents are traditional, are they not?”
Yes, thought Artemis. Traditional. San D’Klass.
“And look at this place. Drab as a mausoleum. Butler?”
The manservant hurriedly pocketed his Sig Sauer.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Get on the phone to Brown Thomas. The platinum set number. Reopen my account. Tell Hélène I want a Yuletide makeover. The works.”
“Yes, ma’am. The works.”
“Oh, and wake up Juliet. I want my things moved into the main bedroom. That attic is far too dusty.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”
Angeline Fowl linked her son’s arm.
“Now, Arty, I want to know everything. First of all, what happened here?”
“Remodeling,” said Artemis. “The old doorway was riddled with damp.”
Angeline frowned, completely unconvinced. “I see. And how about school? Have you decided on a career?”
While his mouth answered these everyday questions, Artemis’s mind was in turmoil. He was a boy again. His life was going to change utterly. His plans would have to be much more devious than usual if they were to escape his mother’s attention. But it would be worth it.
Angeline Fowl was wrong. She had brought him a Christmas present.
Now that you have reviewed the case file, you must realize what a dangerous creature this Fowl is.
There is a tendency to romanticize Artemis. To attribute to him qualities that he does not possess. The fact that he used his wish to heal his mother is not a sign of affection. He did it simply because the Social Services were already investigating his case, and it was only a matter of time before he was put into care.
He kept the existence of the People quiet only so that he could continue to exploit them over the years, which he did on several occasions. His one mistake was leaving Captain Short alive. Holly became the LEP’s foremost expert in the Artemis Fowl cases, and was invaluable in the fight against the People’s most feared enemy. This fight was to continue across several decades.
Ironically, the greatest triumph for both protagonists was the time they were forced to cooperate during the goblin insurgence. But that’s another story.
Report compiled by Dr. J. Argon, B.Psych, for the LEP Academy files.
Details are 94% accurate, 6% unavoidable extrapolation.
The End
THE loss of her husband had had a profound effect on Angeline Fowl. She had retreated to her room, refusing to go outside. She had taken refuge in her mind, preferring dreams of the past to real life. It is doubtful that she would have recovered had not her son, Artemis the Second, done a deal with the elf Holly Short: his mother’s sanity in return for half the ransom gold he had stolen from the fairy police. His mother safely restored, Artemis Junior focused his efforts on locating his father, investing large chunks of the family fortune in Russian excursions, local intelligence, and Internet search companies.
Young Artemis had received a double share of Fowl guile. But with the recovery of his mother, a moral and beautiful lady, it became increasingly difficult for him to realize his ingenious schemes, schemes that were ever more necessary to fund the search for his father.
Angeline, distraught over her son’s obsession and afraid of the effects of the past year on Artemis’s mind, signed her thirteen-year-old up for treatment with the school counselor.
You have to feel sorry for him. The counselor, that is…
Saint Bartleby’s School for Young Gentlemen, County Wicklow, Ireland; Present Day
Dr. Po leaned back in his padded armchair, eyes flicking across the page in front of him.
“Now, Master Fowl, let’s talk, shall we?”
Artemis sighed deeply, smoothing his dark hair back from a wide, pale brow. When would people learn that a mind such as his could not be dissected? He himself had read more psychology textbooks than the counselor. He had even contributed an article to The Psychologists’ Journal, under the pseudonym Dr. F. Roy Dean Schlippe.
“Certainly, Doctor. Let’s talk about your chair. Victorian?”
Po rubbed the leather arm fondly. “Yes, quite correct. Something of a family heirloom. My grandfather acquired it at auction in Sotheby’s. Apparently it once stood in the palace. The Queen’s favorite.”
A taut smile stretched Artemis’s lips perhaps half an inch.
“Really, Doctor. They don’t generally allow fakes in the palace.”
Po’s grip stretched the worn leather. “Fake? I assure you, Master Fowl, this is completely authentic.”
Artemis leaned in for a closer examination. “It’s clever, I grant you. But look here.”
Po’s gaze followed the youth’s finger.
“Those furniture tacks. See the crisscross pattern on the head? Machine tooled. Nineteen twenty at the earliest. Your grandfather was duped. But what matter? A chair is a chair. A possession of no importance, eh, Doctor?”
Po scribbled furiously, burying his dismay. “Yes, Artemis, very clever. Just as your file says. Playing your little games. Now shall we get back to you?”
Artemis Fowl the Second straightened the crease in his trousers. “There is a problem here, Doctor.”
“Really? And what might that be?”
“The problem is that I know the textbook answers to any question you care to ask.”
Dr. Po jotted in his pad for a full minute. “We do have a problem, Artemis. But that’s not it,” he said eventually.
Artemis almost smiled. No doubt the doctor would treat him to another predictable theory. Which disorder would he have today? Multiple personality perhaps, or maybe he’d be a pathological liar?
“The problem is that you don’t respect anyone enough to treat them as an equal.”
Artemis was thrown by the statement. This doctor was smarter than the rest.
“That’s ridiculous. I hold several people in the highest esteem.”
Po did not glance up from his notebook.
“Really? Who, for example?”
Artemis thought for a moment. “Albert Einstein. His theories were usually correct. And Archimedes, the Greek mathematician.”
“What about someone whom you actually know?”
Artemis thought hard. No one came to mind.
“What? No examples?”
Artemis shrugged. “You seem to have all the answers, Dr. Po, why don’t you tell me?”
Po opened a window on his laptop. “Extraordinary. Every time I read this—”
“My biography, I presume?”
“Yes, it explains a lot.”
“Such as?” asked Artemis, interested in spite of himself.
Dr. Po printed off a page.
“Firstly, there’s your associate, Butler. A bodyguard, I understand. Hardly a suitable companion for an impressionable boy. Then there’s your mother. A wonderful woman in my opinion, but with absolutely no control over your behavior. Finally, there’s your father. According to this, he wasn’t much of a role model, even when he was alive.”
The remark stung, but Artemis wasn’t about to let the doctor realize how much.
“Your file is mistaken, Doctor,” he said. “My father is alive. Missing perhaps, but alive.”
Po checked the sheet. “Really? I was under the impression that he has been missing for almost two years. Why, the courts have declared him legally dead.”
Artemis’s voice was devoid of emotion, though his heart was pounding. “I don’t care what the courts say, or the Red Cross. He is alive, and I will find him.”
Po scratched another note.
“But even if your father were to return, what then?” he asked. “Will you follow in his footsteps? Will you be a criminal like him? Perhaps you already are?”
“My father was no criminal,” Artemis said testily. “He was moving all our assets into legitimate enterprises. The Murmansk venture was completely aboveboard.”
&
nbsp; “You’re avoiding the question, Artemis,” said Po.
But Artemis had had enough of this line of questioning. Time to play a little game.
“Why, Doctor?” said Artemis, shocked. “This is a sensitive area. For all you know, I could be suffering from depression.”
“I suppose you could,” said Po, sensing a breakthrough. “Is that the case?”
Artemis dropped his face into his hands. “It’s my mother, Doctor.”
“Your mother?” prompted Po, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. Artemis had caused half a dozen counselors to retire from Saint Bartleby’s already this year. Truth be told, Po was on the point of packing his own bags. But now…
“My mother, she…”
Po leaned forward on his fake Victorian chair. “Your mother, yes?”
“She forces me to endure this ridiculous therapy, when the so-called counselors are little better than misguided do-gooders with degrees.”
Po sighed. “Very well, Artemis. Have it your way, but you are never going to find peace if you continue to run away from your problems.”
Artemis was spared further analysis by the vibration of his cell phone. He had a coded secure line. Only one person had the number. The boy retrieved it from his pocket, flipping open the tiny communicator. “Yes?”
Butler’s voice came through the speaker. “Artemis. It’s me.”
“Obviously. I’m in the middle of something here.”
“We’ve had a message.”
“Yes. From where?”
“I don’t know exactly. But it concerns the Fowl Star.”
A jolt raced up Artemis’s spine.
“Where are you?”
“The main gate.”
“Good man. I’m on my way.”
Dr. Po whipped off his glasses. “This session is not over, young man. We made some progress today, even if you won’t admit it. Leave now, and I will be forced to inform the dean.”
The warning was lost on Artemis. He was already somewhere else. A familiar electric buzz was crackling over his skin. This was the beginning of something. He could feel it.
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 normal 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.
But Lord Teddy was all too aware that he had yet to hit the jackpot, therapeutically speaking, in regards to his quest for an unreasonably extended life. It was true that he had eked out a few extra decades, but what was that in the face of eternity? There were jellyfish that, as a matter of course, lived longer than he had. Jellyfish! They didn’t even have brains, for heaven’s sake.
Teddy found himself frustrated, which he hated, because stress gave a fellow wrinkles.
A new direction was called for.
No more penny-ante half measures, cribbing a year here and a season there.
I must find the fountain of youth, he resolved one evening while lying in his brass tub full of electric eels, which he had heard did wonders for a chap’s circulation.
As it turned out, Lord Bleedham-Drye did find the fountain of youth, but it was not a fountain in the traditional sense of the word, as the life-giving liquid was contained in the venom of a mythological creature. And the family he would possibly have to murder to access it was none other than the Fowls of Dublin, Ireland, who were not overly fond of being murdered.
This is how the entire regrettable episode kicked off.
Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye reasoned that the time-honored way of doing a thing was to ask the fellows who had already done the thing how they had managed to do it, and so he set out to interview the oldest people on earth. This was not as easy as it might sound, even in the era of worldwide-webbery and marvelous miniature communication devices, for many aged folks do not advertise the fact that they have passed the century mark lest they be plagued by health-magazine journalists or telegrams from various queens. But nevertheless, over the course of five years, Lord Teddy managed to track down several of these elusive oldste
rs, finding them all to be either tediously virtuous, which was of little use to him, or lucky, which could neither be counted on nor stolen. And such was the way of it until he located an Irish monk who was working in an elephant sanctuary in California, of all places, having long since given up on helping humans. Brother Colman looked not a day over fifty, and was, in fact, in remarkable shape for a man who claimed to be almost five hundred years old.
Once Lord Teddy had slipped a liberal dose of sodium Pentothal into the Irishman’s tea, Brother Colman told a very interesting story of how the holy well on Dalkey Island had come by its healing waters when he was a monk there in the fifteenth century.
Teddy did not believe a word of it, but the name Dalkey did sound an alarm bell somewhere in the back of his mind. A bell he muted for the present.
The fool is raving, he thought. I gave him too much truth serum.
With the so-called monk in a chemical daze, Bleedham-Drye performed a couple of simple verification checks, not really expecting anything exciting.
First he unbuttoned the man’s shirt, and found to his surprise that Brother Colman’s chest was latticed with ugly scars, which would be consistent with the man’s story but was not exactly proof.
The idiot might have been gored by one of his own elephants, Teddy realized. But Lord Bleedham-Drye had seen many wounds in his time and never anything this dreadful on a living body.
There ain’t no fooling my second test, thought Teddy, and with a flash of his pruning shears he snipped off Brother Colman’s left pinky. After all, radiocarbon dating never lied.
It would be several weeks before the results came back from the Advanced Accelerator Mass Spectrometer Laboratory, and by that time Teddy was back in England once again, lounging dejectedly in his bath of electric eels in the family seat: Childerblaine House, on the island of St. George in the Scilly Isles. Interestingly enough, the island had been so named because in one of the various versions of the St. George legend, the beheaded dragon’s body had been dumped into Cornish waters and drifted out to the Scilly Isles, where it settled on a submerged rock and fossilized, which provided a romantic explanation for the small island’s curved spine of ridges.