The Lost Colony

by Eoin Colfer

  Minerva’s gaze swept past the rock cluster and rested on the line of bushes where they were hiding. She couldn’t possibly see them, but her intellect told her that they were there.

  Artemis focused on the girl’s pretty face. It amazed him that he could appreciate Minerva’s features even as his friend was being hauled into captivity. Puberty was a powerful force.

  Minerva was smiling. Her eyes were bright and they taunted Artemis across the distance between them. She spoke to them in English. Artemis and Butler, both expert lip-readers had no difficulty interpreting her short sentence.

  “Did you get that, Artemis?” asked Butler.

  “I got it. And she got us.”

  Your move, Artemis Fowl, Minerva had said.

  Butler sat back in the ditch, slapping mud from his elbows.

  “I thought you were one of a kind, Artemis, but that girl is a smart one.”

  “Yes,” said Artemis, musing. “She’s a regular juvenile criminal mastermind.”

  Belowground, in Section 8 headquarters, Foaly groaned into his microphone.

  “Great,” he said. “Now there are two of you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  SUDDEN IMPACT

  Inside Chateau Paradizo

  No1 was having a lovely dream. In the dream, his mother was holding a surprise party for him, in honor of his graduation from warlock college. The food was scrumptious. The dishes were cooked, and most of the meat was already dead.

  He was reaching for a beautifully presented basted pheasant in a basket of woven herb bread ropes, just like the one described in three of Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow, when suddenly the vision retreated into the far distance, as though reality itself were being stretched.

  No1 tried to follow the feast, but it drew farther and farther away, and now his legs wouldn’t work, and No1 couldn’t understand why. He looked down and saw to his horror that everything from his armpits down had turned to stone. The stone virus was spreading upward across his chest and along his neck. No1 felt the urge to scream, and he was suddenly terrified that his mouth would turn to stone before he could. To be petrified forever and hold that scream inside would be the ultimate horror.

  No1 opened his mouth and screamed.

  Billy Kong, who had been lounging on a chair, watching, snapped his fingers at a camera on the ceiling.

  “The ugly one is awake,” he said. “And I think it wants its mother.”

  No1 stopped screaming when his breath ran out. It was a bit of an anticlimax, really, starting out with a lusty howl and petering off to a reedy whine.

  Okay, thought No1. I am alive and in the land of men. Time to open my eyes and find out just how deep in the pig dung I actually am.

  No1 cracked his eyes open warily, as though he might see something big and hard heading for his face at high speed. What he did see was that he was in a small bare room. There were rectangular lights on the ceiling that threw out the light of a thousand candles, and most of one wall was taken up by a mirror. There was a human, possibly a child, perhaps a female, with a ridiculous mane of blond curls and an extra finger on each hand. The creature was wearing a ludicrously impractical toga-type arrangement and spongy-soled shoes with lightning bolts embossed on the sides. There was another person in the room. A slouching, leering, thin man, who tapped a staccato rhythm on his leg. No1’s eyes were drawn to the second human’s hair. There were at least half a dozen colors in there. The man was a peacock.

  No1 decided that perhaps he should raise his empty hands to show that he wasn’t carrying a weapon, but it’s difficult to do that when you are tied to a chair.

  “I’m tied to a chair,” he said apologetically, as though it were his fault. Unfortunately, he said this in Gnommish and in the demon dialect. To the humans it sounded like he was trying to dislodge a particularly annoying blockage from his throat.

  No1 resolved not to talk again. Doubtless, he would say the wrong thing, and the humans would have to ritually execute him. Thankfully, the female seemed eager to chat.

  “Hello, I am Minerva Paradizo, and this man is Mr. Kong,” she said. “Can you understand me?”

  It was all gibberish to No1. Not a single recognizable word from the text of Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow.

  He smiled encouragingly to show he appreciated the effort.

  “Do you speak French?” asked the blond girl, then switched languages. “How about English?”

  No1 sat up. That last bit was familiar. Strange inflections, surely, but the words themselves were from the book.

  “English?” he repeated.

  This was the language of Lady Heatherington Smythe. Learned at her mother’s knee. Explored in the lecture halls of Oxford. Used to profess her undying love for Professor Rupert Smythe. No1 loved the book. He sometimes believed that he was the only one who did. Even Abbot didn’t seem to appreciate the romantic bits.

  “Yes,”said Minerva.“English. The last one spoke it well enough. French, too.”

  Manners must be appreciated somewhere outside a book, No1 had always thought, so he decided to give them a go.

  He growled, which was the polite demon way of asking to speak in front of your betters. This must not be how humans interpreted it, because the skinny human jumped to his feet, pulling out a knife.

  “No, kind sir,” said No1 hurriedly, cobbling together a couple of sentences from Lady Heatherington. “Prithee sheath thine weapon. I bring joyous tidings only.”

  The skinny human was confounded. He spoke English as well as the next American, but this little runt was spouting some kind of medieval nonsense.

  Kong straddled No1, holding the knife to his throat.

  “Talk straight, ugly,” said the man, deciding to give Taiwanese a go.

  “I wish I could understand,” said No1, shaking. Unfortunately, he said this in Gnommish. “What I . . . eh ...meanest to say is ...”

  It was no good. Quotes from Lady Heatherington that he could generally shoehorn into any occasion just weren’t coming under pressure.

  “Talk straight or die!” shrieked the human into his face.

  No1 shrieked right back at him. “How can I talk straight, you son of a three-legged dog? I don’t speak Taiwanese!”

  All of this was said in perfect Taiwanese. No1 was stunned. The gift of tongues was not one demons possessed. Except the warlocks. More proof.

  He intended to ponder this development for a few moments, now that the knife-wielding human had backed off, but suddenly the beauty of language exploded inside his brain. Even his own tongue, Gnommish, had been severely culled by the demons. There were thousands of words that had been dropped from regular use on the basis that they did not relate to killing things or eating them, and not necessarily in that order.

  “Cappuccino!” shouted No1, surprising everyone.

  “Excuse me?” said Minerva.

  “What a lovely word. And ‘maneuver.’And ‘balloon.’”

  The skinny man pocketed his knife. “Now he’s talking.

  If he’s anything like the videos you showed me of the other one, we’ll never get him to shut up.”

  “‘Pink!’” exclaimed No1 delightedly. “We don’t have a word for that color in the demon commonspeak. Pink is considered undemonlike, so we ignore it. It’s such a relief to be able to say pink!”

  “Pink,” said Minerva. “Fabulous.”

  “Tell me,” said No1. “What is a cotton candy? I know the words, and it sounds . . . scrumptious . . . but the picture in my head cannot be accurate.”

  The girl seemed pleased that No1 could talk, but slightly miffed that he had forgotten his situation.

  “We can talk about cotton candy later, little demon. There are more important things to discuss.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kong. “The demon invasion, for example.”

  No1 rolled the sentence around in his head. “Sorry, my gifts must not be fully developed. The only meaning I have for ‘invasion’ is a hostile entry of an armed force in
to a territory.”

  “That’s the one I mean, you little toad.”

  “Again, I’m a little confused. My new vocabulary is telling me that a toad is a froglike creature. . . .” No1’s face fell. “Oh. I see, you’re insulting me.”

  Kong scowled at Minerva. “I think I preferred him when he spoke like an old movie.”

  “I was quoting scripture,” explained No1, enjoying the shape of these new words in his mouth. “From the acred book Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow.”

  Minerva frowned, looking at the ceiling as she thought back in time. “Lady Heatherington Smythe. Why is that familiar?”

  “Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow is the source of all our human knowledge. Lord Abbot brought it back to us.” No1 bit his lip, shutting off his own babbling. He had said too much already. These humans were the enemy, and he had given them the blueprint to Abbot’s plans. Blueprint. Nice word.

  Minerva clapped her hands once sharply. She had found the memory she was looking for.

  “Lady Heatherington Smythe. My goodness, that ridiculous romance! Remember, Mr. Kong?”

  Kong shrugged. “I don’t read fiction. Manuals mostly.”

  “No, remember the video footage of the other demon. We let him have a book; he carried it around like a security blanket.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember that. Stupid little goat. Always toting around that stupid book.”

  “You know, you’re repeating yourself,” said No1, chattering nervously. “There are other words for stupid. ‘Dim,’ ‘dense,’ ‘slow,’ ‘thick,’ just to name a few. I can do Taiwanese if you prefer.”

  A knife appeared in Kong’s hand as if from nowhere.

  “Wow,” said No1. “That’s a real talent. A ‘bravura,’ in fact.”

  Kong ignored the compliment, flipping the knife so he was holding the blade.

  “Just shut up, creature. Or this goes between your eyes. I don’t care how valuable you are to Miss Paradizo. To me, you and your kind are simply something to be wiped off the face of the earth.”

  Minerva folded her arms. “I will thank you, Mr. Kong, not to threaten our guest. You work for my father, and you will do what my father tells you to do. And I am pretty sure my father told you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  Minerva Paradizo may have been a precocious talent in many areas, but because of her age, she had limited experience. From her studies, she knew how to read body language, but she did not know that a skilled martial artist can train himself to control his body so that his real feelings are hidden. A true disciple of the discipline would have noted the subtle tightening of the tendons in Billy Kong’s neck. This was a man holding himself in check.

  Not yet, his stance said. Not yet.

  Minerva returned her attention to No1.

  “Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow, you say?”

  No1 nodded. He was afraid to speak in case his runaway mouth leaked any more information than it already had.

  Minerva spoke now to the large mirror. “You remember that one, Papa? The most ridiculous fluffy romance you are ever likely to avoid like the plague. I loved it when I was six. It’s all about a nineteenth-century English aristocrat. Oh, who’s the author . . . Carter Cooper Barbison. The Canadian girl. She was eighteen when she wrote it. Did absolutely no research. She had nineteenth-century nobles speaking like they were from the fifteen hundreds. Absolute trash, so obviously a worldwide hit. Well, it seems our old friend Abbot brought it home with him. The cheeky devil has managed to sell it as gospel truth. It seems he has the rest of the demons spouting Cooper Barbison as though she were an evangelist.”

  No1 broke his no-speaking vow. “Abbot? Abbot was here?”

  “Mais oui,” said Minerva, resting her palms on her knees. “How do you think we knew where to find you. Abbot told us everything.”

  A voice boomed through a wall-mounted speaker. “Not everything. His figures were flawed. But my young genius Minerva figured it out. I’ll get you a pony for this, darling. Whatever color you like.”

  Minerva waved at the mirror. “Thank you, Papa. You should know by now that I don’t like ponies. Or ballet.”

  The speaker laughed.“That’s my little girl. What about a trip to Disneyland Paris? You could dress as a princess.”

  “Perhaps after the selection committee,” said Minerva with a smile. The smile was slightly forced, though. She did not have time for Disney dreams at the moment. “After I am sure of the Nobel nomination. We have less than a week to question our subjects and organize secure travel to the Royal Academy in Stockholm.”

  No1 had another important question. “And Lady Heatherington Smythe’s Hedgerow? It’s not true?”

  Minerva laughed delightedly. “True? My dear little fellow. Nothing could be further from the truth. That book is a cringe-worthy testament to teenage hormonal fabrication.”

  No1 was stunned. “But I studied that book. For hours. I acted out scenes. I made costumes. Are you telling me that there is no Heatherington Hall?”

  “No Heatherington Hall.”

  “And no evil Prince Karloz?”

  “Fiction.”

  No1 remembered something. “But Abbot came back with a crossbow, just like in the book. That’s evidence.”

  Kong joined the discussion; after all, this was his area of expertise. “Crossbows? Ancient history, toad. We use things like these now.” Billy Kong drew a black ceramic handgun from a holster tucked in his armpit. “This little beauty shoots fire and death. We’ve got much bigger ones, too. We fly around the world in our metal birds and rain down exploding eggs on our enemies.”

  No1 snorted. “That little thing shoots fire and death? Flying metal birds? And I suppose you eat lead and blow golden bubbles, too.”

  Kong did not respond well to cynicism, especially from a little reptilian creature. In one fluid motion he flicked the safety off his weapon and fired three shots, blowing apart the headrest of No1’s seat. The imp’s face was showered with sparks and splinters, and the sound of the shots echoed like thunder in the confined space.

  Minerva was furious. She began screaming long before anyone could hear her.

  “Get out of here, Kong. Out!”

  She kept screaming this, or words to this effect, until their ears stopped ringing. When Minerva realized that Billy Kong was ignoring her commands, she switched to Taiwanese.

  “I told my father not to employ you. You are an impulsive and violent man. We are conducting a scientific experiment here. This demon is of no use to me if he is dead, do you understand, you reckless man? I need to communicate with our guest, so you must leave because you obviously terrify him. Go now, I warn you, or your contract will be terminated.”

  Kong rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was taking every shred of patience he had not to dispose of this whining infant right now, and take his chances with her security.

  But it would be foolhardy to risk everything because he could not keep his temper for a few more hours. For now, he would have to content himself with some more insolence.

  Kong took a small mirror from his trouser pocket and plucked at the gelled strands of his hair.

  “I will go now, little girl, but be careful how you speak to me. You may come to regret it.”

  Minerva spread the fingers of her right hand into a W.

  “Whatever,” she said in English.

  Kong pocketed his mirror, winked at No1, and left. No1 did not feel comforted by that wink. In the demon world, you winked at your opponent in pitched battle to make clear your intention to kill him next. No1 got the distinct impression that this spiky-haired human had that same intention.

  Minerva sighed, took a moment to compose herself, then resumed her interview with the prisoner.

  “Let’s start at the beginning. What is your name?”

  No1 supposed that was a safe question to answer. “I have no real name, because I never warped. I used to worry about that, but now I seem to have a lot more to worry about.” />
  Minerva realized that her questions would have to be quite specific.

  “What do people call you?”

  “You mean human people? Or other demons?”

  “Demons.”

  “Oh . . . right. They call me No1.”

  “No1?”

  “That’s right. It’s not much of a name, but it’s all I have. And I console myself with the fact that it’s better than No2.”

  “I see. Well then, No1, I suppose you would like to know what’s going on here.”

  No1’s eyes were wide and pleading. “Yes, please.”

  “Two years ago, one of your pride materialized here. Just popped up in the middle of the night on the statue of D’Artagnan in the courtyard. He was lucky not to be killed, actually. D’Artagnan’s sword pierced one of his arms. The tip broke off inside.”

  “Was the sword silver?” asked No1.

  “Yes. Yes it was. We realized later that the silver anchored him to this dimension; otherwise he would have been attracted to his own space and time. The demon was, of course, Abbot. My parents wanted to call the gendarmes, but I persuaded them to bring the poor half-dead beast inside. Papa has a small surgery here that he uses for his more paranoid patients. He treated Abbot’s burns, but we missed the silver tip until a few weeks later when the wound became infected and Papa did an X-ray. Abbot was quite fascinating to observe. Initially, and for many days, he flew into psychotic rages whenever a human approached him. He tried to kill us all, and vowed that his army was coming to exterminate humankind from the face of the earth. He conducted long arguments with himself. It was more than split personality. It was as if there were two people in one body. A warrior and a scientist. The warrior would rage and thrash, then the scientist would write calculations on the wall. I knew that I was on to something important here. Something revolutionary. I had discovered a new species, or rather, rediscovered an old one. And if Abbot really was going to bring a demon army, then it was up to me to save lives. Human and demon. But of course, I am merely a child so no one would listen to me. But if I could record this and present it to the Nobel Committee in Stockholm, I could win the physics prize and establish demons as a protected species. Saving a species would give me a certain satisfaction, and no child has ever won the prize before, not even the great Artemis Fowl.”