The Lost Colony (Disney)

by Eoin Colfer

  The journey was over almost as soon as it began, and the twins found themselves deposited in two small chimneylike padded tubes toward the rear of the house. The drobots lowered them to the safe room, then sealed the tubes with their own shells.

  NANNI’s face appeared in a free-floating-liquid speaker ball, which was held in shape by an electric charge. “Shall I activate the EMP?”

  Myles considered this as he unclipped the servo cable. Villa Éco was outfitted with a localized electromagnetic-pulse generator that would knock out any electronic systems entering the island’s airspace. The Fowls’ own electronics would not be affected, as they had backups that ran on optical cable. A little old-school, but it could keep systems ticking until the danger was past.

  “Hmm,” said Myles. “That seems a little drastic. What is the nature of the emergency?”

  “Sonic boom detected,” said the comforting female voice. “Origin uncertain. Possibly a high-powered rifle.”

  A sonic boom could be many things, and the majority of those things were harmless. Still, Myles now had a valid excuse to employ the EMP, something he had been forbidden to do unless absolutely necessary.

  It was, in fact, a judgment call.

  Beckett, who had somehow become inverted in the delivery chute, tumbled onto the floor and cried, “Activate the EMP!”

  And for once, Myles found himself in agreement with his brother.

  “I concur,” he said. “Activate the EMP, NANNI. Tight radius, low intensity. No need to knock out the mainland.”

  “Activating EMP,” said NANNI, and promptly collapsed in a puddle on the floor as her own electronics had not yet been converted to optical cable.

  “See, Beck?” said Myles, lifting one black loafer from a glistening wet patch. “That is what we scientists call a design flaw.”

  Lord Bleedham-Drye was doubly miffed and thrice surprised by the developments on Dalkey Island.

  Surprise number one: Brother Colman spoke the truth, and trolls did indeed walk the earth.

  Surprise the second: The troll was tiny. Whoever heard of a tiny troll?

  Surprise the last (for the moment): Flying boys had sequestered his prey.

  “What on earth’s going on?” he asked no one in particular.

  The duke expertly broke down his rifle and cleaned the component parts with a chamois cloth, still muttering to himself. “These Fowl people seem prepared for a full-scale invasion. They have flare countermeasures. Drones flying off with children. Who knows what else? Antitank guns and trained bears, I shouldn’t wonder. Even Churchill couldn’t take that beach.”

  It occurred to Lord Teddy that he could blow up the entire island for spite. He was partial to a spot of spite, after all. But after a moment’s consideration, he dismissed the idea. It was a cheery notion, but the person he would ultimately be spiting was none other than the Duke of Scilly, i.e., his noble self. He would hold his fire for now, but when those boys reemerged from their fortified house, he would be ready with his trusty rifle. After all, he was quite excellent with a gun, as his last shot had proven. Off the battlefield, it was unseemly to shoot anything except pheasant, unless one were engaged in a duel. Pistols at dawn, that sort of thing. But he would make an exception for a troll, and those blooming Fowl boys.

  Lord Teddy reassembled the rifle and set it on the balcony floor, muzzle pointed toward the island.

  You can’t stay in that blasted house forever, my boys, he thought. And the moment you poke your noses out from cover, Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye shall be prepared.

  He could wait.

  He was prepared to put in the hours. As the duke often said to himself: One must spend time to make time.

  Teddy lay on the yoga mat, which had been his bed for almost a month now, and ran a sweep of the island through his night-vision monocular. The whole place was lit up like a fairground with roaming spotlights and massive halogen lamps. There was not a square inch of space for an intruder to hide.

  Clever chappies, these Fowls, thought the duke. The father must have a lot of enemies.

  Teddy fished a boar-bristle brush from his duffel bag and began his evening ritual of one hundred brushes on his beard. The beard rippled and glistened as he brushed, like the pelt of an otter, and Teddy could not help but congratulate himself. A beard required a lot of maintenance, but, by heaven, it was worth it.

  On stroke fifty-seven, Lord Teddy’s hunter senses registered that something had changed. It was suddenly darker. He looked up, expecting to find that the lights had been shut off on Dalkey Island, but the truth was more drastic.

  The island itself had disappeared.

  Lord Teddy checked all the way to the horizon with his trusty monocular. In the blink of an eye the entirety of Dalkey Island had vanished with only an abandoned stretch of wooden jetty to hint that the Fowl residence might ever have existed at the end of it.

  Lord Bleedham-Drye was surprised to the point of stupefaction, but his manners and breeding would not allow him to show it.

  “I say,” he said mildly. “That’s hardly cricket, is it? What has the world come to when a chap can’t bag himself a troll without entire land masses disappearing?”

  Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye’s bottom lip drooped. Quite the sulky expression for a 150-year-old. But the duke did not allow himself to wallow for long. Instead, he set his mind to the puzzle of the disappearing island.

  “One can’t help but wonder, Teddy Old Boy,” mused the duke to the mirror on the flat side of his brush, “if all this troll malarkey is indeed true, then is the rest also true? What Brother Colman said vis-à-vis elves, pixies, and gnomes all hanging around for centuries? Is there, in fact, magic in the world?”

  He would, Lord Teddy decided, proceed under the assumption that magic did exist, and therefore by logical extension, magical creatures.

  “And so it is only reasonable to assume,” Teddy said, “that these fairy chaps will wish to protect their own, and perhaps send their version of the cavalry to rescue the little troll. Perhaps the cavalry has already arrived, and this disappearing-island trick is actually some class of a magical spell cast by a wizard.”

  The duke was right about the cavalry. The fairy cavalry had already arrived.

  One fairy, at least.

  But he was dead wrong about a wizard casting a spell. The fairy who had cast the spell was a far cry indeed from being a wizard of even the most basic level. She had made a split-second decision and was now pretty certain that it was absolutely the wrong one.

  EOIN COLFER is the author of the New York Times best-selling Artemis Fowl series, which was adapted into a major motion picture from the Walt Disney Studios. He also wrote the critically acclaimed WARP trilogy, and many other titles for young readers and adults, including Iron Man: The Gauntlet, Airman, Half Moon Investigations, The Supernaturalist, Eoin Colfer’s Legend of…books, The Wish List, Benny and Omar, and Benny and Babe. In 2014, he was named Ireland’s laureate for children’s literature. He lives with his wife and two sons in Dublin, Ireland, where he is working on an Artemis Fowl spin-off novel, The Fowl Twins.

  To learn more, visit www.eoincolfer.com. He is also on Twitter and Instagram @EoinColfer.