Artemis Fowl: the time paradox

‘Sorry, Doctor,’ said the assistant contritely. ‘All, of course.’

Artemis approached Doctor Schalke, hand outstretched. The doctor did not return the gesture.

‘Contamination, Master Fowl,’ he said, without a trace of apology or sympathy. ‘We have not determined whether your mother’s condition is contagious.’

Artemis curled his fingers into his palm, sliding the hand behind his back. The doctor was right, of course.

‘We have never met, Doctor. Would you be so good as to describe my mother’s symptoms?’

The doctor huffed, irritated. ‘Very well, young man, but I am not accustomed to dealing with children, so there will be no sugar coating.’

Artemis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Sugar coating.

‘Your mother’s condition is possibly unique,’ said Schalke, banishing his assistant to her work with a shake of his fingers. ‘From what I can tell, her organs seem to be failing.’

‘Which organs?’

‘All of them,’ said Schalke. ‘I need to bring equipment here from my laboratory at Trinity College. Obviously your mother cannot be moved. My assistant, Imogen, Miss Book, will monitor her until my return. Miss Book is not only my publicist, but an excellent nurse too. A useful combination, wouldn’t you say?’

In his peripheral vision, Artemis saw Miss Book scurry round a corner, stammering into her smartphone. He hoped the publicist/nurse would display more confidence when caring for his mother.

‘I suppose. All my mother’s organs? All of them?’

Schalke was not inclined to repeat himself. ‘I am reminded of lupus, but more aggressive, combined with all three stages of Lyme disease. I did observe an Amazonian tribe once with similar symptoms, but not so severe. At this rate of decline, your mother has days left to her. Frankly, I doubt we will have time to complete tests. We need a miracle cure, and in my considerable experience miracle cures do not exist.’

‘Perhaps they do,’ said Artemis absently.

Schalke picked up his bag. ‘Put your faith in science, young man,’ advised the doctor. ‘Science will serve your mother better than some mysterious force.’

Artemis held the door for Schalke, watching him walk the dozen steps to his vintage Mercedes-Benz. The car was grey, like the bruised clouds overhead.

There is no time for science, thought the Irish teenager. Magic is my only option.

When Artemis returned to his study, his father was sitting on the rug with Beckett crawling along his torso like a monkey.

‘May I see Mother now?’ Artemis asked him.

‘Yes,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘Go now; see what you can find out. Study her symptoms for your search.’

My search? thought Artemis. There are difficult times ahead.

Artemis’s hulking bodyguard, Butler, waited for him at the foot of the stairs wearing full Kendo armour, the helmet’s faceguard folded away from his weathered features.

‘I was in the dojo, sparring with the holograph,’ he explained. ‘Your father called and told me I was needed immediately. What’s going on?’

‘It’s Mother,’ said Artemis, passing him. ‘She’s very ill. I’m going to see what I can do.’

Butler hurried to keep pace, his chest plate clanking. ‘Be careful, Artemis. Magic is not science. You can’t control it. You wouldn’t want to accidentally make Mrs Fowl’s condition worse.’

Artemis arrived at the top of the grand stairway, tentatively reaching his hand towards the bedroom door’s brass knob, as though it were electrified.

‘I fear that her condition couldn’t be worse …’

?

Artemis went inside alone, leaving the bodyguard to strip off the Kendo headgear and Hon-nuri breastplate. Underneath he wore a tracksuit instead of the traditional wide-legged trousers. Sweat blossomed across his chest and back, but Butler ignored his desire to go and shower, standing sentry outside the door, knowing that he shouldn’t strain too hard to listen, but wishing that he could.

Butler was the only other human who knew the full truth of Artemis’s magical escapades. He had been at his young charge’s shoulder throughout their various adventures, battling fairies and humans across the continents. But Artemis had made the journey through time to Limbo without him, and he had come back changed. A part of his young charge was magical now, and not just Captain Holly Short’s hazel left eye the time stream had given him in place of his own. On the journey from Earth to Limbo and back, Artemis had somehow managed to steal a few strands of magic from the fairies whose atoms were mixed with his in the time stream. When he had returned home from Limbo, Artemis had suggested to his parents, in the compelling magical mesmer, that they simply not think about where he had been for the past few years. It wasn’t a very sophisticated plan, as his disappearance had made the news worldwide, and the subject was raised at every function the Fowls attended. But until Artemis could get hold of some LEP mind-wiping equipment, or indeed develop his own, it would have to suffice. He suggested to his parents that if anyone were to ask about him they should simply state it was a family matter and ask that their privacy be respected.

Artemis is a magical human, thought Butler. The only one.

And now Butler just knew Artemis was going to use his magic to attempt a healing on his mother. It was a dangerous game; magic was not a natural part of his make-up. The boy could well remove one set of symptoms and replace them with another.

Artemis entered his parents’ bedroom slowly. The twins charged in here at all hours of the day and night, flinging themselves on the four-poster bed to wrestle with his protesting mother and father, but Artemis had never experienced that. His childhood had been a time of order and discipline.

Always knock before entering, Artemis, his father had instructed him. It shows respect.

But his father had changed. A brush with death seven years earlier had shown him what was really important. Now he was always ready to hug and roll in the covers with his beloved sons.

It’s too late for me, thought Artemis. I am too old for tussles with Father.

Mother was different. She was never cold, apart from during her bouts of depression when his father was missing. But fairy magic and the return of her beloved husband had saved her from that and now she was herself again. Or she had been until now.

Artemis crossed the room slowly, afraid of what lay before him. He walked cautiously across the carpet, careful to tread between the vine patterns in the weave.

Step on a vine, count to nine.

This was a habit from when he was little, an old superstition whispered lightly by his father. Artemis had never forgotten and always counted to nine to ward off the bad luck should so much as a toe touch the carpet vines.

The four-poster bed stood at the rear of the room, swathed in hanging drapes and sunlight. A breeze slipped into the room, rippling the silks like the sails of a pirate ship.

One of his mother’s hands dangled over the side. Pale and thin.

Artemis was horrified. Just yesterday his mother had been fine. A slight sniffle, but still her warm, laughing self.

‘Mother,’ he blurted on seeing her face, feeling as though the word had been punched out of him.

This was not possible. In twenty-four hours, his mother had deteriorated to little more than a skeleton. Her cheekbones were sharp as flint, her eyes lost in dark sockets.