Chapter Ten: The Really Big Ugly Thing

White. . . white blurry stuff. Paper? Yes. Cheek numb. Why's that? Oh. . .

Dorothea sat up, blushing. Well, one side of her face blushed: the side that had been smooshed on the desk while she dozed stayed pale and freckly. Desk? Oh, right. Desk that she'd been writing in her diary at. And there the diary was, underneath her nose, pages full of scribbly words and little caricatures of certain miniature crime lords. Heh.

So, now what? Dorothea asked herself. It's about, oh, six o'clock in the morning and you couldn't even manage to get back to your bedroom before going to the land of Nod.

Nod?

Oh. . . it's some cutesy collo- collqui- thing that people say when they mean you fell asleep.

But you're not people, Dorothea. You're you, the only, the unique, the One With Fuzzy Teeth, the. . .

Got the picture, inner me. Or whoever you are. I thought I told you lot to go away?

You will never be rid of us! We are the voices at the back of your head! We are the conscience that fills you with dread! We-

Y'all have some random theme-song.

You said "y'all"

Didn't!

Did!

Didn't!

Did!

I thought "y'all"! Nyah!

Realizing how pointless it was to have such a conversation with anyone, let alone herself, Dorothea mentally pinged the little voice far, far away into the horizon and stood up. She had better get back to her room before everyone else woke up, and have a shower. A shower would be bliss.

But of course, given the labyrinthine layout of the Fowl manor, a shower was not forthcoming. Umpteen corridors (drat that word), several rooms and a staircase later, Dorothea found herself outside.

It was quite nice, really. Nice crunchy snow, nice cool air, nice- no, beautiful velvety black sky. . . for some reason, Dorothea felt very, very homesick.

Not that there was ever this much snow at home, of course. Snow back home lasted, oh, one night at the longest unless you went out to the ski fields. Then it was great, mountains and mountains of crisp whiteness, bus trips out to the Remarkables or Coronet Peak. . . or back home, shoving fistfuls of snow down everyone's shirts.

Dorothea tried to imagine shoving snow down one of her hosts' shirts. Nu-uh. Pity. . .

She looked out at the snowy grounds again. The temptation was too much to resist.

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Artemis glanced out his study window and frowned. He had risen early in order to work on a particular task that needed quiet concentration- not the yells and thuds of a teenage girl's unsuccessful attempts at making the world's fattest snow yeti. If that was what she was trying to shape.

He tugged the curtains closed and sat down in front of his computer workstation. If he could not work on what he had planned to, he would at least check that the various security devices he had installed around the house and grounds were working up to scratch. You could never be too careful. Especially after that unexplained incident with those unusual contact lenses.

The computer whirred softly as sensors from all over Fowl manor sent it their news. Seismic activity, air movement, heat, noise, air pressure, all were monitored constantly by Artemis's bugs. At the moment the only disturbance was that caused by Dorothea's artistic destruction. Her sculpture was now beginning to resemble the Sydney Opera House, with ears.

". . . Buttercup baby, la la let me down let me down, mess me around da da, worst of all, la la la, 's when ya don't call me when ya say you will (say you will) but I love ya still, da da da! Da da da, da da da da da da da da da da. . . Doo de doo. . ." Back at her school, Dorothea's voice had been classified as a weapon of mass destruction and the principal paid her a dollar a week not to join the junior choir.

She stood back from her work, red from the effort of singing and building at the same time. Her feet were beginning to get cold. Maybe it would be a good idea to go inside and warm up, before her toes went all black and ew like what happened to those trampers in the Himalayas. She turned and started walking back towards the house.

"Come, come, come on OOOOOOOO-vaaa, dah de dah. . . Um, whatever the next words are, dum de dum. . ." Stupid song. What was another song she could sing? Oh, right. "Some-body once told me the world is kinda, uh, roamy? Um. I ain't the sharpest tool in the she-ed, hmm hmmm hm. . . ah, forget it." Now, where was her bedroom. . .

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The computer blipped politely. After a few seconds, it began to blip more urgently. Startled out of his reverie, Artemis glanced at the screen.

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Dorothea walked a few steps, then skidded and fell onto hands and knees. Funny- the snow wasn't all that slippery as a whole, and she'd been watching where she was going. Blighty growth spurts. It was hard to do anything right when your feet were moving rapidly away from the rest of you and you kept growing out of your favourite clothes.

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Artemis did not gasp. To gasp would be to admit he had not expected something like this to occur at some stage, and would give the impression he was at a loss as how to deal with the situation. That was not true. He picked up his cellphone and speed-dialed-

"Butler?"

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Dorothea wrinkled her nose so much that her vision blurred. She unwrinkled her nose. That was better. She seemed to be scooting from side to side on the snow without using any muscles, so with the slow logic of someone who is very, very cold and has snow down her back she deduced that it must be an earthquake. Cool. It'd been ages since she'd been in an earthquake- well, ages since she'd been awake during an earthquake. There were heaps in New Zealand, because of the . . . Hang on. Ireland wasn't on a fault line, was it?

Something erupted out of the sculpture behind her.

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Butler hurtled down the stairs like a case full of pétonque balls, formulating a plan of action. If one of Artemis II's 'business associates' had taken advantage of the elder Fowls' absence to, well, tunnel into the estate with the intention of harming Butler's principal, they would no doubt have come prepared. Fortunately, Butler was also prepared. Panting slightly, he burst through a side door and focused his gun on the intruder.

A few metres away, Dorothea sat on the ground and looked up. . . and up. . . and up. . . The- thing- was really big. Really big and ugly. It looked like Bethy's brother after a hard night's partying: bulky, smelly, red-eyed and with horribly greasy dreadlocks. Huge dreadlocks. Like enormous hairy candles hanging off the thing's head and back.

It was- it couldn't be. It couldn't be looking at her. She felt her throat close up. It was looking at her. Oh, dear. Tusks.

No. she was wearing white pjs. White against a white background, so it couldn't see her. Hah! Now. . . stay very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very still. Now it was looking away.

She bit back a sigh of relief. That would've been a really stupid thing to do. Making a noise just when she was reasonably safe. Only stupid people would sigh a sigh of relief at a moment like this.

Dorothea allowed herself a short snigger against the silly sighing people.

Oops.

Butler went into action as soon as he saw the creature's head swing back towards the teenage girl. Textbook shots, forehead then chest.

It didn't stop the beast, but it certainly diverted its attention. Safe for the moment, Dorothea crawled off at a cracking pace and burrowed into a snow boulder. This was better- no, it was worse- no, it was just that she was experiencing so much more head-throbbing-eyes-twitching-breath-catching-in-chest-muscles-tensed emotion right now than she had ever felt in any midnight game of Spotlight.

Something niggled at the back of Butler's consciousness but he ignored it. Any distractions right now could be fatal. Slowly, he moved one hand down to his belt and eased a stun grenade from his pocket. Madame Fowl had objected to all the weapons Butler kept around his person, but now it would pay off.

Dorothea really didn't understand why trampers stayed in snow caves. The one she had burrowed for herself was very cold. Then again, trampers had polyprops and woolen socks and swannies and boots and hats and gloves and little primus camp burners for making hot cups of sachet drink or tea on. They didn't wear white flannel pajamas. She tried not to look at what was happening outside her snow boulder. Tents-Arrows-Elves-Orlando-Pirates-Ships-Sails-Flags-Holes-Hobbits. It didn't work. This was worse than getting shot at.

Butler pulled the pin, swung his arm back and sent the grenade hurtling through the air towards the. . . Troll? Some type of ape, he corrected himself. This was no time to let his armoured tank of thought wander. He counted under his breath and took a step back.

The blast rocked the creature on its feet, but didn't fell it. Incredible, but not in the literal sense of the word. The beast's combined thick skin and mass of dreadlocks had doubtless acted as a sort of organic armour, absorbing the force and shrapnel of the explosion. Artemis watched on avidly from his viewpoint at the window. Amazing.

Enraged, the beast spun around in an attempt to hunt out its attacker. Why it did not simply rush at the obvious target- i.e., the person who threw the explosive device- Butler did not know. Possibly the blast had messed up its self-orientation.

It found another target.

Dorothea screeched and held her pajama top in place as the thing held her aloft- upside-down. Was this what it felt like to be Fay Wray? She'd never seen the movie. She didn't even know the character's name.

She really wanted to be able to find out the character's name.

Author's Note: This story takes up 43 pages, according to my computer. That beats my previous record of 14 by quite a long way! Alright, so I have lots of gaps, 1.5 spacing and lots of

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, which take up a lot of unnecessary space, as my Mum just pointed out. Grr. At least it looks nice.

Oh, yes. . . who is the character Fay Wray played on King Kong? I could always look it up or ask someone, but. . . nah.