Artemis Fowl: the time paradox

Don’t worry, Artemis told himself. In a few short seconds Mother will be well, then I can investigate what happened here.

Angeline Fowl’s beautiful hair was frizzed and brittle, broken strands criss-crossing her pillow like a spider’s web. And there was an odd smell emanating from her pores.

Lilies, thought Artemis. Sweet yet tinged with sickness.

Angeline’s eyes opened abruptly, round with panic. Her back arched as she sucked breath through a constricted windpipe, clutching at the air with clawed hands. Just as suddenly she collapsed, and Artemis thought for a terrible moment that she was gone.

But then her eyelids fluttered and she reached out a hand for him.

‘Arty,’ she said, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘I am having the strangest dream.’ A short sentence, but it took an age to complete, with a rasped breath between each word.

Artemis took his mother’s hand. How slender it was. A parcel of bones.

‘Or perhaps I am awake and my other life is a dream.’

Artemis was pained to hear his mother speak like this; it reminded him of the turns she used to suffer from.

‘You’re awake, Mother, and I am here. You have a light fever and are a little dehydrated, that’s all. Nothing to be concerned about.’

‘How can I be awake, Arty,’ said Angeline, her eyes calm in black circles, ‘when I feel myself dying? How can I be awake when I feel that?’

Artemis’s feigned calm was knocked by this.

‘I-it’s the… fever,’ he stammered. ‘You’re seeing things a little strangely. Everything will be fine soon. I promise.’

Angeline closed her eyes. ‘And my son keeps his promises, I know. Where have you been these past years, Arty? We were so worried. Why are you not seventeen?’

In her delirium, Angeline Fowl saw through a haze of magic to the truth. She realized that he had been missing for three years and had come home the same age as when he went away.

‘I am fourteen, Mother. Almost fifteen now, still a boy for another while. Now close your eyes and when you open them again all will be well.’

‘What have you done to my thoughts, Artemis? Where has your power come from?’

Artemis was sweating now. The heat of the room, the sickly smell, his own anxiety.

She knows. Mother knows. If you heal her, will she remember everything?

It didn’t matter. That could be dealt with in due course. His priority was to mend his parent.

Artemis squeezed the frail hand in his grip, feeling the bones grind against each other. He was about to use magic on his mother for the second time.

Magic did not belong in Artemis’s soul, and gave him lightning-bolt headaches whenever he used it. Though he was human, the fairy rules of magic held a certain sway over him. He was forced to chew motion-sickness tablets before entering a dwelling uninvited, and when the moon was full Artemis could often be found in the library, listening to music at maximum volume to drown out the voices in his head. The great commune of magical creatures. The fairies had powerful race memories and they surfaced like a tidal wave of raw emotion, bringing migraines with them.

Sometimes Artemis wondered if stealing the magic had been a mistake, but recently the symptoms had stopped. No more migraines or sickness. Perhaps his brain was adapting to the strain of being a magical creature.

Artemis held his mother’s fingers gently, closed his eyes and cleared his mind.

Magic. Only magic.

The magic was a wild force and needed to be controlled. If Artemis let his thoughts ramble, the magic would ramble too and he could open his eyes to find his mother still sick but with different-coloured hair.

Heal, he thought. Be well, Mother.

The magic responded to his wish, spreading along his limbs, buzzing, tingling. Blue sparks circled his wrists, twitching like shoals of tiny minnows. Almost as if they were alive.

Artemis thought of his mother in better times. He saw her skin radiant, her eyes shining with happiness. Heard her laugh, felt her touch on his neck. Remembered the strength of Angeline Fowl’s love for her family.

That is what I want.

The sparks sensed his wishes and flowed into Angeline Fowl, sinking into the skin of her hand and wrist, twisting in ropes round her gaunt arms. Artemis pushed harder and a river of magical flickers flowed from his fingers into his mother.

Heal, he thought. Drive out the sickness.

Artemis had used his magic before, but this time was different. There was resistance, as though his mother’s body did not wish to be healed and was rejecting the power. Sparks fizzled on her skin, spasmed and winked out.

More, thought Artemis. More.

He pushed harder, ignoring the sudden blinding headache and rumbling nausea.

Heal, Mother.

The magic wrapped his mother like an Egyptian mummy, snaking underneath her body, raising her fifteen centimetres from the mattress. She shuddered and moaned, steam venting from her pores, sizzling as it touched the blue sparks.

She is in pain, thought Artemis, opening one eye a slit. In agony. But I cannot stop now.

Artemis dug down deep, searching his extremities for the last scraps of magic inside him.

Everything. Give her every last spark.

Magic was not an intrinsic part of Artemis; he had stolen it and now he threw it off again, stuffing all he had into the attempted healing. And yet it wasn’t working. No, more than that. Her sickness grew stronger. Repelling each blue wave, robbing the sparks of their colour and power, sending them skittering to the ceiling.

Something is wrong, thought Artemis, bile in his throat, a dagger of pain over his left eye. It shouldn’t be like this.

The final drop of magic left his body with a jolt and Artemis was thrown from his mother’s bedside and sent skidding across the floor, then tumbling head over heels until he came to rest sprawled against a chaise longue. Angeline Fowl spasmed a final time, then collapsed back on to her mattress. Her body was soaked with a strange thick, clear gel. Magical sparks flickered and died in the coating, which steamed off almost as quickly as it had appeared.

Artemis lay with his head in his hands, waiting for the chaos in his brain to stop, unable to move or think. His own breathing seemed to rasp against his skull. Eventually, the pain faded to echoes, and jumbled words formed themselves into sentences.

The magic is gone. Spent. I am entirely human.

Artemis registered the sound of the bedroom door creaking and he opened his eyes to find Butler and his father staring down at him, concern large on their faces.

‘We heard a crash. You must have fallen,’ said Artemis Senior, lifting his son by the elbow. ‘I should never have let you in here alone, but I thought that perhaps you could do something. You have certain talents, I know. I was hoping …’ He straightened his son’s shirt, patted his shoulders. ‘It was stupid of me.’

Artemis shrugged his father’s hands away, stumbling to his mother’s sickbed. It took a mere glance to confirm what he already knew. He had not cured his mother. There was no bloom on her cheeks or ease in her breathing.

She is worse. What have I done?

‘What is it?’ asked his father. ‘What the devil is wrong with her? At this rate of decline, in less than a week my Angeline will be-’

Butler interrupted brusquely. ‘No giving up now, gents. We all have contacts from our past that might be able to shed some light on Mrs Fowl’s condition. People we might prefer not to associate with otherwise. We find them, and bring them back here as fast as we can. We ignore nuisances like passports or visas and get it done.’