"The Rock," as it turned out, was not just an actual rock, but the name of a pub that allowed minors to frequent it, although, of course, it didn't serve alcohol to anyone under Ireland's legal drinking age of eighteen (at least not on inspection nights). There was loud music, a pool table, three dart boards and, the pièce de résistance, the large, four foot stone in the center of the establishment that had been part of the inspiration to name the place. The owner claimed that it was the missing half of the famous Stone of Scone, the other half of which, of course, was the famous Blarney stone.
The legend was that the Stone of Scone was once used to crown Scottish kings, because it was believed to have the power to give anyone who kissed it the ability to speak persuasively. People who were either too drunk to be rational, too cheap to travel all the way to Blarney castle or simply too superstitious for their own good were gathering around the rock and kissing it, particularly before trying to pair off with members of the opposite sex.
"Ain't this place brilliant?" Covey insisted, sitting at one of the corner tables with Artemis and two of their schoolmates, an American boy in Artemis' year named Aaron Crawford and another native named Miles Brennan. He was swishing around a pint glass filled with root beer and pretending to himself that it was actual beer. Artemis, by contrast, was twirling his finger on initials that someone had carved into the tabletop and pretending that each grain of wood he smashed under thumb was a crisp hundred euros slipping into his bank account.
"It's alright," Aaron admitted, taking a swig of his own carbonated drink. "Be nicer if there were girls our age about."
Miles straightened his school uniform tie. "Nothin' wrong with the older ones," he jested, ribbing Covey in the side.
Artemis raised one eye to peer at Covey and noted that the boy seemed discomforted by his friend's jab. It was a comforting thought for a moment that Covey should be having just as horrible a time as he was, but then he rationalized that Covey must have asked him along because he anticipated that he wouldn't enjoy being alone with Miles and Aaron. Perhaps if he fostered a friendship amongst them, he wouldn't have to come along the next time?
He pointed over to the pool table, whose players were gathering up their things to leave. "Perhaps we should engage in some competitive activity?" he suggested.
Covey sighed, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he insisted, glaring at Artemis. "Repeat after me." He cleared his throat. "Hey."
"Hey," Artemis repeated, trying to keep the annoyance from his face.
"Let's," Covey continued.
"Let's," Artemis parroted.
"Play," Covey finished. Aaron and Miles started to giggle at the interaction.
"Play." Artemis shrugged. "You understood what I was trying to conv…"
"Ah ah ah," Covey interrupted, wagging his finger. "Say the whole phrase now."
"Hey, let's play," Artemis complied, his voice flat and monotonous.
"Put some feeling into it, Arty!" Covey practically yelled. By this point, the other boys were in hysterics, especially at hearing the boy's nickname.
"Don't call me that," Artemis snapped, a dangerous edge in his voice now. He got up and headed towards the table without another word.
"Awww, you hurt his feelings," Aaron mocked, ribbing Covey some more. "Want us to give you some alone time so you can make up?"
"Shut up," Covey complained, getting out of his seat and following Artemis. The four of them then proceeded to play eight-ball, Covey teamed with Artemis and Miles with Aaron. Naturally, Artemis was very good at the game. Once he compensated for the damage done to the felt table, it was basic mathematics to rationalize where and how to hit the cue ball so that it would have the desired effect. After two games, the others were ready to call it quits, and the four youths finally walked back to their dormitory.
"Listen," Covey said as they changed for bed, "I'm… I'm sorry I called you Arty."
Artemis shrugged. "It's alright," Artemis declared. "It was just discomforting in front of the others." Instantly, he was surprised at himself for saying that. He didn't even like it when Juliet or Mother called him Arty, and here he was, practically giving Covey permission to do so in private?
Either Covey didn't notice said permission, or he still felt self-conscious enough to continue. "I'm just not used to being so… formal, with roomies, y'know? My roomie last year was pretty laid back, party type." He smirked. "'Course, that's probably why he flunked out."
"I don't usually spend much time around my… peers," Artemis confessed.
Covey snickered. "It shows, man. Believe me, it shows." The boy crawled into bed and wrapped himself up in the blanket. "G'night, man."
"Goodnight, Covey," Artemis said solemnly.
A few hours later, while Covey's light snoring playfully cut into the silence of their room, Artemis stayed awake, leaning over the books that would represent the next six months of his life's work. He had already gone to the Sotheby's website and obtained an auction estimate request form. Photographs of the beaten and leatherbound materials had fooled the selection committee, as did Artemis' perfect forgery of Leonardo da Vinci's handwriting. In plain terms, he had successfully convinced the auctioning committee that he had the authentic lost diaries of one of the greatest inventors and painters in all of Europe.
He selected an internet auction as the forum for unloading these fraudulent manuscripts, and insisted that the only acceptable currency for bidding would be weighted gold. All that remained was the inspection of the buyer and he was going to gain back almost all of the gold he'd lost when he purchased his mother's health from Captain Holly Short and the LEPRecon squad.
The problem was, now he had to write the damned thing.
There was only so much his mind could embellish. What would really interest and, more importantly, convince the buyer of the work's authenticity? There needed to be multiple facets… a story of his work and, at the same time, of his personal life. Of course, it was well known that Leonardo da Vinci was a practicing homosexual, indeed that he tended to like rather young teenage boys, and yet, at the same time, painted some of the most beautiful murals of women in states of undress to ever be created on canvas. Artemis finally decided that his creative writing endeavour would talk about the creation of the Mona Lisa, and at the same time, talk of a boyfriend who drifted in and out of the painter's life as he went through the creative process.
To do this, of course, he used an actual quill and ink. He had gone to far too much trouble to get dated paper, to study the master's paintings, and to learn how to imitate his handwriting. He wasn't going to get sloppy in the end by using ball-point. Dipping the quill in the bottle, he began to write.
14 May 1487
How do I describe his beauty? I was sitting in my workshop, working on my canvas, when I saw him walk by the dull pane of my window and on towards the gazebo in the villa. I had to put down my brush to admire. Even through the dirty glass, the brightness of his form shone through at me. Hair, like strands of hay in the barn, the color of dull gold. Eyes like grass after a rain. Orange drops glittering all over creamy beige skin, like grains of cinnamon on the surface of an egg white. He entrances me, tempts me to denounce the woman in my frames and turn to the glory of his own beauty.
He struts around the others, so self-confident, so alike them, and yet so far apart. I see him dressed, and I see him undressed, and I know that he holds secrets that I have longed for an eternity to know. I long to imitate him, but ponder my worthiness to do so. So unsophisticated is he. So beneath me, and yet so far above that I can never hope to touch him. Shorter than I, and yet so tall that I must blink when I look, for fear of being blinded by the sun.
With a chance glance to his right, Artemis noticed that Covey's blanket had halfway come off of him, so he rose from his chair and moved to the younger boy's bedside. Picking up the fold of the blanket, he pulled it back over his roommate's sleeping form, tucking it in under the boy's neck. As he did so, Covey's face turned and a lock of his light brown hair dipped just over his brow. Reflexively, Artemis reached out and stroked the hair away from the spot, eyes focused on Covey's face. He stared at the boy for almost a full minute before he realized what he was doing, shaking it off and moving back to the manuscript.
He sat down to begin again but blinked, shocked, and put the quill back down. He reread the passage he had just written, and then looked to his right again.
Covey. While pretending to describe Leonardo's imaginary gay lover, he had just described, with perfect accuracy, Covey Hanlon.