The Fowl Twins

by Eoin Colfer

  “And now Villa Éco has disappeared and reappeared?”

  “Exactly, so it seems as though the fairies want to keep you chicos safe for their own reasons.”

  “And if they saved us once, they might save us again,” reasoned Myles, scratching his crown vigorously. “So, we are to be bait?”

  “If you like,” said Jeronima. “On Dalkey Island, the environment is yours, but here, I am in control.”

  “And you can hold two minors who have had a close shave without counsel or supervision?”

  Jeronima smiled. “But you are not minors in the sight of the law.”

  Myles caught on quickly. “I see. We activated an EMP, so we are terrorists.”

  “Exactamente,” said Jeronima, bowing slightly in her chair.

  Myles appreciated the neatness of Jeronima’s plan. “And as terrorists we can be held indefinitely.”

  “Do not worry, chico. We will release you as soon as we have a fairy in custody.”

  Myles looked into Jeronima’s eyes and saw a zealot’s enthusiasm for her task.

  We must escape, he realized. Things do not generally end so well for bait. Just ask a worm on the hook.

  “When can I see my brother?” he asked, scratching behind one ear.

  “Soon,” said Jeronima, slipping the knife into a discreet pocket in her sleeve. “First I will speak with him. Perhaps Beckett will share some of the Fowl secrets.”

  Myles almost felt sorry for Sister Jeronima. Beckett had a way of making even the most steadfast people doubt their very core principles. Sister Jeronima would emerge from a meeting with Beckett more confused than she went in.

  Follow the plan, brother, he broadcast through the wall. Remember our way out.

  Beckett Fowl had awoken bleary-eyed, which was most unusual for him. Generally, he exploded into consciousness, eager to embrace another day of possibilities. But on this evening he was overtired and grumpy. This had only happened once before—when he’d contracted mumps as an eight-year-old and had developed a frightening case of bullfrog neck, which he absolutely loved once he got used to it. He even gave the lump a name: Bertram.

  But, as the naming of Bertram demonstrated, Beckett was too irrepressible to dawdle in the dumps for long, and when he noticed the throwing knife in Sister Jeronima’s hands, his mood took a rapid upswing.

  “Shiny knife, Sister,” he said, reaching across the table between them to touch the wickedly glittering blade of death.

  “Yes, Beckett,” said Jeronima. “This particular knife you are reaching for with your soft pink finger is coated with deadly nightshade. A horrible poison.”

  “Why do you even have a knife?” Beckett asked, reluctantly withdrawing his soft pink finger.

  Jeronima’s gaze was almost as sharp as her knife. “Zombies, Beckett Fowl. Did you ever hear of those creatures? When the apocalypse comes, this nun is going to be prepared.”

  A very good answer, Beckett decided. Jeronima was indeed a wise woman. “Do you know any zombies?”

  “A person cannot really know a zombie, Master Fowl. They are only interested in the eating of brains. Deadly nightshade is very effective for stopping a zombie from eating your brain.”

  “Eating my brain,” said Beckett. “Cool.”

  “I may not know a zombie,” continued the nun, segueing neatly into her area of interest, “but I do know other creatures who are not human.”

  “Me, too,” said Beckett.

  Jeronima played it calm. “Really, chico? What creatures do you know?”

  Beckett strayed infuriatingly from the point. He pulled up his left T-shirt sleeve, revealing a red mark.

  “This is my pet birthmark,” he explained. “We call it Infinity because Myles says it looks like the infinity symbol, but that’s because he’s stupid about real-life things. It actually looks like my pet goldfish, Gloop, who died. But two Gloops is too many Gloops.” He pointed to his tie. “This is the real Gloop, if you want to compare.”

  Sister Jeronima had heard about Beckett’s infinity birthmark. It was well-known, and she had an enlarged photograph of it in her file, scanned from hospital records.

  “Oh, chico,” she said. “That is such a lovely way to remember dear Gloop, even though he was not human. And do you remember when I was asking whether you knew any other creatures who were not human, and you said that sí, you did?”

  “Of course I remember,” said Beckett. “Because I know a dolphin.”

  “Ah,” said Jeronima, disappointed.

  “And some creatures with wings.”

  Jeronima was interested again. “Yes?”

  “I met some seagulls on the way over here.”

  More disappointment. “I see.”

  “And there are crows on the island.” Beckett jumped up on the chair. “Sometimes I call to them. Caw! Caw! It is I, Beckett. Caw! I’m their king.”

  “Very well, Beckett. You can sit down now, niño.”

  Beckett did not sit. Instead, he made binoculars of his fingers and studied the stone arches. “This is like a church or a dungeon.”

  “Actually, it is a little of both,” said Jeronima. “This was a hidden church from the times when Catholicism was actually illegal. My group uses the underground space as a black site. I mean as a safe space.”

  Beckett’s eyes glazed over. “That is so boring, Geronimo.”

  “Jeronima,” corrected the nun.

  “That is so boring, Jeronima,” said Beckett. “Why do you care about history when there are fairies flying around on invisible bicycles?”

  Jeronima coughed twice and was glad there was no water in her mouth. “Fairies, chico?”

  “Well, one fairy,” said Beckett. “Myles and me know all about fairies. Artemis told us stories. Artemis is our big brother—he’s in space.”

  “What stories?”

  Beckett inverted himself on the chair, resting on his shoulders, legs in the air. He made his position even more tenuous by pushing the chair back on two legs with his foot.

  “One about the time-traveling lemur, which is not a monkey, in case you don’t know. And one about the ghost warrior who took over my body, which tickled, for your information. And my favorite is the one about the dwarf who poops mud, which is actually very good for the environment. And there are demons who live in another dimension. And the angry pixie who blows herself up in a nuclear tube.”

  We are, Jeronima thought, getting a little off-topic.

  “Tell me about the invisible fairy,” said the nun.

  Beckett righted himself. “I will,” he said. “But first, Myles.”

  “Myles is asleep,” said Jeronima.

  Beckett was shocked. “That’s a lie, Sister. My brother said never to lie unless it’s to your own advantage.”

  “Which brother?” asked Jeronima.

  Beckett actually thought before answering. His expression while thinking was one of surprise, as though he couldn’t believe it was happening.

  “Both of them,” he said. “And my father.”

  Jeronima played it innocent. “Myles is sleeping. My soldiers assured me that he was sound asleep.”

  “Nope,” said Beckett. “He’s in the next room wide-awake and thinking.”

  “What is Myles thinking about, niño?” asked Jeronima, wondering just how strong this bond between the twins was.

  “The same thing as me,” said Beckett, rubbing his scalp against the chair. “Why is my head so itchy?”

  Sister Jeronima escorted Beckett next door and the twins were reunited. They shook hands formally before hugging, so both boys’ sensibilities were satisfied.

  Myles looked Beckett up and down. “Brother. You are unharmed, I see.”

  “I do have a pain in my neck from this place,” said Beckett.

  “Now, now,” admonished his twin. “We don’t use expressions like pain in my neck. They are colloquialisms.”

  “Can I say This place stinks?”

  “Again, factually inaccurate. There is a ce
rtain musk, but that is virtually unavoidable in an underground crypt.”

  “Underground,” said Beckett. “I knew that. Because of the fat air.”

  “That phrase is satisfactory,” said Myles approvingly. “Because gas can be compressed, its density depends on both pressure and temperature, so in actual fact the subterranean air is, on an atomic level, fatter.”

  Beckett groaned. “I said that already. Why do you take everything I say and make it boring?”

  Myles raised his lecturing finger. “Education leads to knowledge, which in turn leads to power.”

  Jeronima was beginning to sympathize with Beckett.

  “No one likes a sabelotodo, Myles. A—how do you say it?—know-it-all.”

  Myles was offended. “But I am not a know-it-all, Sister. There aren’t any know-it-alls. It would take an infinity of lifetimes to know even the tiniest fraction of everything. And the more we learn—”

  “—the less we know. ¿Correcto?” Sister Jeronima completed the maxim with the hope of cutting off the Fowl boy’s lecture.

  “The more we learn, the less we know?” asked Myles, aghast. “What kind of infantile babbling is that? How can one learn more and know less? Obviously, I was going to say: ‘The more we learn, the more we know.’ Honestly, is this what passes for intelligence in the intelligence community?”

  “That is not what I meant, precisamente.”

  Myles shrugged. “I cannot help what you thought you meant, Sister. I merely interpret your words and draw inferences from the movements of your eyeballs, your limbs, and general deportment. I am not a mind reader.”

  Jeronima was beginning to suspect that perhaps she was not the only expert interrogator in the room.

  “Muy bien, Myles Fowl,” she said. “You have made your point. I will be less casual with my use of proverbs in the future.”

  Myles was still in shock. “‘The more we learn, the less we know,’ indeed. If that were actually the case, my entire life would be without meaning or purpose. We must seek knowledge at all speed. Humans can but scratch the surface in this life and hope for total recall with each reincarnation.”

  Beckett heard the word scratch and was reminded to scratch, which he did. And since scratching is almost as contagious as yawning, Myles was soon engaged in the same activity.

  “Madre de Dios,” said Jeronima, irritated at yet another distraction from her line of questioning. “But what is this scratching?”

  “Obviously, our heads are pruritic, Sister,” snapped Myles.

  “He probably means itchy,” said Beckett.

  “Yes, I do mean itchy. It started in the helicopter. I had suspected some form of allergic reaction, but now I am leaning toward parasitic infestation.”

  Sister Jeronima recoiled. “¿Los parásitos? No, I will not permit it.”

  Myles snorted. “Your permiso is entirely irrelevant to parasites, Sister. Parasites tend not to speak English. Or Spanish, for that matter.”

  “The sleepy mask was itchy,” said Beckett, who was by now knuckling his hairline.

  Jeronima was skeptical. After all, were these not the brothers of Artemis Fowl, one of the world’s premier schemers?

  “Ven aquí, chico,” she said to Beckett, who immediately stepped closer without needing a translation of the command—which Jeronima should have picked up on, since Spanish was not in the boy’s file—but she was focused on debunking this scalp nonsense.

  “I was knowing it,” she said, raking manicured nails across Beckett’s scalp. “There is nothing….”

  But there was something.

  Little white bugs, which popped like minuscule blisters under her nails.

  “¡Madre de Dios!” she cried, stepping back. “¡Los piojos! The lice.”

  And while it was true that Sister Jeronima Gonzalez-Ramos de Zárate had been in the intelligence business for many decades and had not once flinched in the face of death, there are very few individuals on this earth who can behold a scalp crawling with head lice and not feel a shudder of revulsion. In Jeronima’s case, the shudder was so strong that for a moment she seemed to be dancing.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” snapped Myles. “If we are, as I suspect, being feasted upon by Pediculus humanus capitis, there is no cause for panic. All that is required is a series of treatments with medicated shampoo.”

  “Noooo!” said Beckett. “I like my insect friends.”

  Sister Jeronima composed herself. “Apologies, children. Have no fear, I will chastise the helicopter team for this infection, but we are not having the luxury of time. There will be no series of medical shampoosings.”

  “Shampooing,” corrected Myles. “And if there is to be no shampooing, then what do you suggest? Something barbaric, no doubt.”

  A phrase popped into Jeronima’s head. A phrase that had been planted by Myles during his solo interrogation.

  “No. Nothing barbaric. You shall both have the close shave.”

  Myles pretended to be appalled. “You would shave our heads? This is how you treat your guests?”

  “That is how I treat my guests who are infectado,” said Jeronima with a nunly firmness. And she raised one hand and snapped her fingers. Obviously, someone was watching, because seconds later two burly figures entered the room wearing lemon-yellow hazmat suits with beekeeper-style headpieces.

  “For heaven’s sake,” said Myles. “That’s a little much, don’t you think? We are two boys with head lice, not radioactive aliens.”

  “You are not simply two boys,” countered Sister Jeronima. “You are two Fowl boys. There is the big difference.”

  Myles accepted this backhanded compliment with a nod. It was true. Fowl boys were exceptional, even more so than their captor suspected.

  “Take them away,” said Jeronima to the burly figures. “Shave these niños. Make them both totalmente without the hairs and also burn the clothing. Every stitch.”

  “No hairs!” exulted Beckett. “A new thing!”

  “I am somewhat less enthusiastic about our imminent shearing than my brother,” said Myles. “But I am not fond of having bloodsucking insects so near to my brain, where it is conceivable they could somehow corrupt my cerebrospinal fluid, which could, in theory, arrest my thought processes somewhat. So, I suppose an all-over shave is practically foolproof.”

  “Practically,” said Jeronima. “But to be fully certain, also use the steam lances.”

  “Lances!” crowed Beckett, over the moon.

  Lances and shaving! Surely this was a prince among days.

  “At least forty degrees,” advised Myles. “Otherwise, it’s pointless.”

  “Precisamente,” said Sister Jeronima. “First the lance, then the shave. And then the lance once more for the good measures.”

  Both hazmat guys nodded, but if a person happened to be a student of kinesics, that is to say body language, that person might notice that one of the hazmat people seemed to find the notion of an all-over shave quite upsetting in spite of his nod. There was an audible crackle from the material of his suit as he flinched. Perhaps this was because the fellow was imagining the forced shaving of his own beard, which he had proudly brushed a hundred strokes per day for the past one hundred and thirty-two years.

  For, as you have no doubt deduced, the second hazmat guy was, in fact, our villain, Lord Teddy Bleedham-Drye, who would actually appreciate being referred to as a guy. Guy Fawkes, who had planned the infamous Gunpowder Plot to blow up the Parliament, was one of Teddy’s heroes, as he himself had considered a similar course of action some years previously when the House of Commons had banned foxhunting. It really irked the Duke of Scilly that commoners should be allowed to dictate to a fellow what he may or may not chase on his own plot.

  But how on earth had Teddy managed to infiltrate ACRONYM’s black site? This is a reasonable question and deserves an answer. And the answer is perhaps more straightforward than one might think, given the effectiveness of modern security systems. The problem with these security
systems is that somewhere in the chain there is a human link. And humans are invariably fallible, often inexpert, and occasionally dull-witted. The human whom Lord Teddy had encountered was all three.

  To rewind, as they say:

  Almost three hours earlier, you may remember that Lord Teddy’s Myishi CV bullet had coated the mini troll in radiation-infused cellophane in case his prey somehow removed itself from the shooting zone. Once this had come to pass with the aid of an army helicopter, the duke nipped down to the jetty and unzipped the tarpaulin covering a collapsible ultra-light aircraft that he habitually towed behind his yacht like a Jet Ski. He used a fob to fold out the wings, which bore his personal insignia, climbed into the tight two-seater cockpit, and took off in pursuit of the Westland helicopter.

  Lord Bleedham-Drye had purchased the seaplane from his old pal, Ishi Myishi, who claimed to supply the majority of the world’s more discerning criminals. Myishi’s actual company slogan was: Ninety percent of the planet’s criminal masterminds can’t be wrong, and the other ten percent are incarcerated.

  Teddy smiled whenever he thought of that slogan. Myishi certainly was a marketing genius, not to mention a technical one.

  The Myishi Skyblade was indeed a wonderful craft, and it came with certain features tailored to the discerning poacher’s needs. Features such as an aluminum fuselage wrapped in quantum stealth material, so that the craft was virtually invisible to the naked or electronic eye at night, and a weighted hunter’s net that could transport large animals several hundred miles. The duke adored his little plane and had already preordered a Myishi flying car, which would roll off the line five years before any police force in the world got their hands on one. Borders really wouldn’t exist for a chap with a long-range flying motor.

  Lord Teddy’s smartphone synced with the Skyblade’s onboard navigation, quickly extrapolating the most likely destination for the army helicopter, and so, two hours later, the Skyblade swooped into late-night Dutch airspace before the Fowl Twins even arrived. Teddy set down illegally in the Western Docks opposite the old Palace of Justice, which he thought a pleasing irony, and dawdled in the shadows of a moored party barge while the troll-nappers made their way into the city.