D E S C E N T
- Dim Aldebaran -
Chapter Three
In the velvet of darkness
by the silhouette of silent trees,
they are watching, they are waiting,
they are witnessing life's mysteries.
"Night Ride Across the Caucasus"
Loreena McKennitt
:i:
Juliet cried. She wasn't ashamed of it. She never was.
Juliet had always cried a lot. Puberty didn't help. Ko had taught her to hold it back for a time; but, sometime, somewhere, somehow, Juliet would cry, and there would be Hell to pay if anyone caught her crying.
Artemis had caught her crying once, when he was still that innocent, careless boy named Arty. Angeline had shouted at her for breaking a rope of her prized pearls—she couldn't hold back the fat, sticky tears until her bedroom across the Manor. She instead sought refuge in a spare room. She dropped to the parquet, sobbing. The hot tears shattered on the floor, like those broken pearls, strewn as a trail of stars.
And then he came to the door, those big blue eyes so curious, so innocent still. He had been eight. She hadn't been too mature. She screamed for him to leave—but even after the door closed she knew his ear was pressed against the oak paneling, listening for her half-gasping sobs. The next day, she put habanera peppers into his marmalade. She laughed so hard as he asked in a strained little voice for milk.
You get the picture.
She didn't like people seeing her cry.
She didn't have to resort to a spare room this time. She had gotten better at holding it in. She slammed her door, locking it behind her, and collapsed onto her bed. Her bedroom was not like Fowl's or Butler's; Angeline had had it decorated bright oranges and pinks, her current suite of favorite colors. The pillows were perfect for crying into—super-absorbent, soft, squishy.
She didn't notice when the drapes began to flutter as the window opened, then closed with a silence Mulch Diggums would have envied.
In fact, he did envy it. He was one of the few fairies who had seen Holly in action before.
:i:
Holly was the only one with a standing invitation to Fowl Manor.
She hated being special, at times.
Juliet's window had proved difficult. Chrysanthemum bushes are hardly pleasant to climb through. She had thought the sound of her flop to the floor would have alerted the younger Butler, but she was too busy with something else.
That 'something' was a habit Holly seldom indulged in. Seeing Juliet, hunched over, bald, heavily scarred, sobbing into her pillow like a child, struck Holly in too many places at once to be properly absorbed. Bald? Scarred? Sobbing?
One of the things that made Holly such a good LEPrecon officer was her quickness to act, her unhesitating performance on the field. She did what any elf would do:
She went over to Juliet, and handed her a Kleenex box.
Elves were emotional creatures, after all.
Juliet didn't notice the levitating box, at first. She took a tissue, blew into it, threw it to the floor, then grabbing another one. Holly wrinkled her nose—Mud Men were such filthy creatures—and bent to pick up the used tissue.
She threw it into the trash, watching Juliet. The Butler plucked another tissue from the box, staring at the haze Holly made. She blew her nose, still watching, and threw the tissue. It floated in midair, wavering—then reversed direction and splattered across Juliet's face. Some details are best left undescribed.
"For Frond's sake, Juliet, use the trash can. That's just disgusting."
The tissue box settled itself onto the tangerine duvet. The trash can scraped itself besides the bed. The door opened, and closed.
Juliet's tears had stopped during all this. They started again as she peeled the used tissue from her forehead. God must hate her. He had sent a poltergeist to torment her.
Holly, in the meantime, was none too happy. She feared the sponges in her ears would close, for all Root's ranting.
"She was crying, sir."
"So you blow our cover, Captain?" Root roared. She could almost smell the fungus cigars. "If she hadn't recovered her memories before, she will have now."
Maybe she should keep them this time.
It's probably our fault she's crying anyway.
Root continued: "May I remind you, Captain, that the Butlers are extremely dangerous. You're lucky to have caught her in such a state. You might have another two seconds before she sounds the alarm."
Holly gritted her teeth and sprinted up the stairs. Juliet's wavering cry of, "Dom!" drifted after her. There goes her two seconds.
Artemis' room was on the third story. All she had to do was get a glimpse of him with her iris cam. Foaly could do the rest from there, whatever it was he did.
When she reached the top of the stairs, she looked back. There was nothing. Fowl Manor was as eerily quiet as it had been last time.
Before the troll came, she reminded herself.
No troll here now.
No Butler either.
Juliet must have surely warned Butler, but where was the thunderous manservant?
Root broke her silence: "Use those girly legs of yours, D'Arvit!"
She did. At the end of the hall, strangely malevolent, was the door.
A thought struck her: "Ah, sir?"
"What?" Root barked.
"What if it's a trap?"
"Then it's a trap," Foaly replied. "Artemis won't hurt you, though. You're practically best friends." She could see his budding grin.
"How do you know?" she snapped, her bitterness surprising even herself.
The silence at the other end was equally surprising. Even Root seemed lost for a response.
"Open the door," Foaly said at last.
"I give the orders around here," Root said. His voice didn't have the same 'bark' to it.
"Whatever, Julius."
Root ignored that stoically. "Whenever you're ready, Captain."
One glimpse, Holly thought, that's all I need.
One glimpse.
That's all.
She opened the door, and out came an angel.
It twisted and twirled in midair, capering around like some faun from the old days, dancing, dancing, careless, dusting the air it passed through and making it sparkle with a strange light. Each curve of the phrase made her want to smile, and each whip of the notes made her yearn to laugh.
She stepped forward, trapped in a spell. Frond, it was beautiful. She never knew Artemis knew how to play the piano like this…
It seemed a sin, suddenly, to have violated the mind of an artist.
Foaly and Root were saying things into her ear. She reached into her helmet and turned them off. She didn't know these things could be done with seven simple notes, she didn't know the mere compression of matter could be so very alive—
The music twisted to the side, jerked into a minor key by an invisible assailant. The arpeggios spiraled downwards, thick and passionate, blood going down the drain.
Frond, it's so beautiful…
Artemis was a ghost, a blur of white in front of the great blackness of the piano. His shirt was soaked with sweat.
Darker, darker, went the sound. She could drown in its depths, drown and drown happily. Hell, she'd dive in.
Another step. Artemis was hunched over the ivory keys like an old man; but no old man would know such passion, no old man would remember it with the clarity Artemis expressed. The sharpness of the sound pierced her heart and made it clench in pain.
Step.
His hair was uncharacteristically messy, hanging loose and lank around his face. His body followed the music up and down the keys, leaning, straining, yearning. The lean white fingers could not be ten alone, surely, for they seemed to be everywhere at once, pressing keys with a sort of intuitive madness. The power, the speed of them was so unnatural it seemed only a fairy should be that sort of virtuoso.
They fell down, impossibly far, whirling with the wind that would end the world. If this was dying, she did it gladly, the song of death too sweet for her to possibly deny. There was only one word for the music Artemis played, only one word for what it was.
"The descent," Juliet whispered into her ear. "The descent of Artemis Fowl."
Holly whirled around. Juliet was looking at her, right at her eyes.
But the way Juliet looked at her, that curiously sad, bittersweet look, told the world to her. The music spiraled, out of control now, but Holly found herself caught by a very different spell.
Holly opened her mouth to say something, anything, but Juliet shook her head. "Artemis can't hear us anymore," she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the torrent.
Holly looked at Artemis. He was enraptured by the music, spirited away by something no one understood.
"We need to talk," Holly murmured.
Wordlessly, Juliet led Holly out of the room, closing the door behind her.
:i:
Angeline was considered a very happy person. Her face, though still rather young-looking, had smiles within the faint creases, ready to burst out and beam like a lighthouse. She took meticulous care of her teeth so her smile glistened, and wisps of chocolate hair framed her twinkling eyes. She was still a very pretty lady, especially considering all she had gone through.
Very little was now demanded of the mistress of Fowl Manor.
It bored her terribly.
She trailed through the Manor. Most stay-at-home moms would have cleaning to do, but Fowl Manor had two surrogate 'moms' to do the duties for her. Angeline lived too far from town to join a book club or the like, and she had neither the skills nor the desire for a job.
For a time each day she could devote herself to breakfast, turning morning reveries into an art form. She slept in every morning, until the sun sprawling across her bed woke her. Timmy would have already risen; she'd lay, thinking for a time, then take a slow bath, filling the spacious suite with the scent of patchouli, her favorite. She'd take a time to dress as well, pondering this and that, fretting over her age and her worn curves.
It would be eleven before she drifted down the grand staircase to breakfast. Timmy would be there, reading the newspaper; they'd smile at each other in that routine way less loving couples bore of, and sip their tea and nibble at their marmalade toast. She always managed to find herself in Timmy's eyes, where all was perfect bliss.
But Timmy always had to work. The sweetness of the morning would evaporate as he left for his study; she'd spend the rest of the day lost, wandering around the Manor, struggling to reclaim that golden innocence, that wonderful, honey-like viscosity that time reserved for mornings.
Her 'look' was almost Victorian; she looked proper, smelt proper, sounded proper. Her voice was carefully cheery, sweet as a schoolgirl's. Patchouli was subtly sensual, a full, sweet scent that she'd dab at her throat; but it was an old scent, a classic scent. Her petite hands flitted around like courting wrens, at the folds of her dress, at her sleeves, to her hair.
She had grown fond of interior decorating. Her current consultant was teaching her the art of feng shui, and she'd lose herself into the chi of each room for hours at a time. Or, at least, she'd try to. Her thoughts were restless; some rooms were abandoned in the middle of a paint-job, antique furniture covered with dusty white sheets, ghosts of a home.
Fowl Manor was vast. Some days she'd just wander about, listless, gazing at Fowls from ages past. Is Timmy really one of these monsters? she'd wonder, thinking of her kind, smiling husband, and then she'd think some more and see those austere white faces with their cold blue eyes and walk away red-eyed.
She feared for her Timmy, at times. Even though he was going legit, he was engrossed in his work; they barely even had the nights together, for he'd slip into bed worn and tired.
It was nearing dinnertime. She could go talk to Juliet, perhaps—but even before the accident she refused, almost scorned her help in any chore. Juliet had never been too fond of her, which nearly broke Angeline's heart, since Angeline looked upon her like a daughter…
Angeline paused. Before her was the painting that haunted her dreams; the painting of her, Angeline Madeline Fowl.
Angeline hated her portrait. The smile was painted on, not real at all, and even in her wedding dress she looked sad and reluctant; and surely the artist did not have to exaggerate those lines of care, so early on her face, surely he did not have to predict such pain… And Timmy was nowhere to be seen, she was alone, so alone, against the backdrop of black drapes like that in a funeral home.
All Fowls had their portraits done. The walls of Fowl Manor could be read like a genealogy, and each portrait like a memoir.
She didn't want that portrait to be her life's story.
The music came to her in slow waves, draping itself across her ears with increasing thickness until she could scarce breathe. It was a beautiful, evocative thing, and in the silence of Fowl Manor it came to her like a siren's song.
She was drawn from the portrait readily enough, following the corridor. She did not register it was the way to Arty's room, she did not register Juliet drifting by. The music brought something curious to her mind, something familiar yet so far away… She could not help but feel as she felt the music spiral downwards, and feel as she had not in a very long time.
The door was half-open. She went in, tugged by that quixotic music. God it was beautiful…
There was her little boy, her Arty, who looked so much like Timmy with his big blue eyes and pale, somber face that could scarce bear a smile for even an instant…
She stood there for a long time, her tears slipping down her face like notes from those precious white hands.
That's his son, she thought, that's Timmy's son.
Not my son.
:i:
Root turned to Foaly in the Ops Booth, which was a feat in itself: Ops Booth was a very small room, especially with a centaur who insisted on personal space. "Tell me again: why we can't get through to Holly?"
Foaly sighed. Even with Holly's sanity on the line, Root never ceased to amaze him. "She turned off the comm system."
"Why can't we turn it back on?"
"Because she turned it off."
"Why can't we turn it back on?"
"We've gone through this."
"This is Holly we're talking about, D'Arvit!" Root roared. His meaty hands scrabbled at his pockets for fungus cigars.
The comm system was hooked to the iris cam; turning one off turned off the other. They had nothing on Holly. Not even if she was alive or not. Root was driving himself mad with worry; and it didn't help there were no cigars in sight.
"Holly can take care of herself, Julius," Foaly replied, trying to look busy. There was no way to activate the comm system from the Lower Elements; the only remote activation on Holly was the self-destruct. Since the matter was entirely off the records anyways, Root had no intention of following regulations and using that 'just in case.'
Root glared at Foaly. His eyes were distinctly bloodshot; intrigued, Foaly looked deeper. "I want that comm system working," he barked.
"It'll have to be manual."
"Then do it."
"'Manual' means you'll have to send someone up to find Holly and flip the switch," Foaly contorted. Root seemed slower than usual today.
Root glared again. His hands fidgeted at his sides, awkward. "I want that comm system working," he repeated, and left.
Foaly stared after him for a few moments, pondering something or other. With an imperceptible sigh, he turned to the screen, bringing up the iris cam recordings.
He replayed the final minute before the system was turned off, with full sound. He zoomed in on Artemis, following the virtuoso's movements.
After an hour he turned the screen off. "Ah," he said to himself, "that's why."
:i:
Thanks for reading! This has been edited, albeit rather quickly. All I really did was take out this bit from Butler's POV (some people remarked that they were a little repetitive, so I've been skimming them down) and fix a few typos. So, if you have any criticisms on this specific chapter – or any chapter – feel free to remark on them, I'll certainly take them into consideration.
I hope you liked the bit with Artemis playing the piano. It was very fun to write.