The Curse of the Were-Hyena

by Bruce Hale

  “All right,” I said. “We don’t want them getting more freaked-out.”

  What I didn’t mention was: Benny and I kind of wanted to solve this on our own. After all, we were nobody special—just regular, comics-nerd-type kids. Neither of us had ever done anything big.

  Neither of us had ever been the hero before.

  Planting her hands on her hips, Tina said, “Stop messing around. This situation calls for serious measures.”

  “What?” said Benny. “We’re serious.”

  “Sure you are, Chicken Boy. I’m gonna get help from someone who really knows their stuff.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Our pastor,” she said. “I bet he can exorcise evil spirits and get it right.”

  “Fine,” snapped Benny. “Go ahead.”

  “Fine,” said Tina, “I will. This isn’t just your problem, you know. It’s everyone’s problem.”

  We didn’t have an answer for that, so Karate Girl spun and marched off down the street.

  “She’s right,” I said.

  “Maybe,” said Benny. “But we started trying to cure him first. And we’re the ones who are gonna finish it. Come on!”

  He hustled into the comics store with me hot on his heels.

  Inside, the after-school rush had died down. A few older kids browsed through the bins, but Mrs. Tamasese sat alone at the counter. When she saw us enter, she snagged a slim book from the shelf behind her, jerked her head for us to follow, and wheeled her way over to an unoccupied corner.

  Benny and I joined her.

  “Well?” he said. “What did you find out?”

  Mrs. Tamasese’s normally twinkly brown eyes were grave and thoughtful. “It’s not good.”

  Benny’s expression told me he was glad we’d had the ice cream.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “First, let me ask if your teacher was still acting weird today. I’m hoping there’s another explanation.”

  We told her about our botched exorcism and Mr. Chu’s increasingly strange behavior. “And he practically mauled Tina to get at that chicken,” I finished up.

  Mrs. Tamasese’s beefy shoulders bunched and she wagged her head ruefully. “Shoots. It’s as bad as I thought.”

  I leaned forward. “What is?”

  “What you said about the laughing tipped me off. According to this”—she tapped the book on her lap—“your teacher is becoming…a were-hyena.”

  Benny and I had the exact same reaction. Our eyes goggled, our mouths fell open, and together we said, “A were-what?”

  “A WERE-HYENA,” Mrs. Tamasese repeated. “I’m almost positive.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Benny, half grinning.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. Mrs. T often talked as though Batman and the Hulk were neighbors of hers. This had to be more of the same.

  She didn’t crack a smile. “I’m as serious as a choke hold.”

  “But a were-hyena, in Monterrosa?” I asked. “How is that even possible?”

  Benny spread his arms. “Yeah, last I checked, the total hyena population in this part of central California was, like, zero.”

  The store owner raised a palm, acknowledging our objections. “I know,” she said. “Usually, were-critters show up where the real animal lives. Were-jaguars in South America, were-bears in Norway, were-mongooses—”

  “Were-mongooses?” said Benny.

  “Shouldn’t it be were-mongeese?” I asked.

  “—in India,” Mrs. Tamasese finished. “I don’t know why a supernatural creature from Africa would turn up here.”

  “Maybe it likes the weather?” said Benny.

  I raked my fingers through my hair. “Okay, so forget about the why. Our teacher is turning into a were-hyena. What can we do about it?”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Mrs. Tamasese with a tight grin. “Don’t back away from a fight.”

  Something told me she’d never backed away from one in her life.

  The former wrestler cracked open her book, which looked about two hundred years old, and paged through it until she found the right section. “Here we go. After a victim is bitten, the monster inside them grows stronger by the day—”

  “Wait,” I said. “Mr. Chu said he was bitten by a weird dog.”

  “There you go,” said Mrs. Tamasese. “Dogs don’t get much weirder than a were-hyena. Now, where was I? Ah. The monster inside them grows until…” She licked a finger and turned the page.

  “Until?” asked Benny, eyes wide.

  “…at the first full moon, it consumes them completely.”

  I grimaced. “What does that mean?”

  “They’re toast,” said Mrs. Tamasese. “They’re full-on monsters, and it’s too late to help them.”

  “So is Mr. Chu already a were-hyena?” asked Benny.

  “Not yet,” she said, consulting the book. “It says here that the person who’s bitten gets worse each day, but they don’t go one hundred percent monstroid until the full moon.”

  “There’s still hope?” I asked, standing up straighter.

  Mrs. T lifted a shoulder. “A little. Of course, after that first change, the person turns into a were-creature every moon cycle with no muss or fuss. So it’s not all bad.”

  “Forget that,” I said. “We’re not going to let it get that far.”

  Benny met my gaze. “No way, nohow,” he said.

  “When’s the next full moon?” I asked him.

  Benny shrugged. Mrs. Tamasese said, “The day after tomorrow.”

  It felt like someone had punched me in the gut. We only had two days to fix our teacher before he became a monster forever? The sheer size of the task overwhelmed me, and I braced myself on a Xena: Warrior Princess display.

  When I looked over at Benny, his pale face had gone ashy. “But how do we cure Mr. Chu in time?” he said.

  Mrs. Tamasese flipped a few more pages. “Ah, well, this book doesn’t have much on that.” She closed the dusty old thing.

  “Then what are we gonna do?” I’m not ashamed to say I was freaking a little.

  Laying a comforting hand on my arm, Mrs. Tamasese said, “First, don’t flip out. As we say in the Islands: cool head main thing.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I blurted. “It’s not your teacher turning into some giggling monster.” I took a deep breath, realized I was being a jerk, and said, “Sorry.”

  “No sweat,” said Mrs. Tamasese. “And believe me, as an ex-wrestler, I know about sweat. Anyhow, as I was saying, this one doesn’t have much on cures, but I did find something in another old book.” She withdrew a folded sheet of paper from the volume on her lap.

  “More books?” said Benny. “You couldn’t learn this stuff twenty times faster on the Internet?”

  She made a face. “Stuff like this? It’s ancient knowledge. It’s never on computers, only in the oldest books.” Clearing her throat, Mrs. Tamasese read aloud:

  “If the creature thou wouldst best

  Find its Maker—brave the test

  Hang the charm ’round Maker’s throat

  Or take its head, in one fell stroke.”

  Benny and I were silent for a moment after that. “Run that by me again?” he said. “I don’t speak thee-thou.”

  “I think it’s saying that the only way to cure Mr. Chu is to find the were-hyena that bit him?” I said.

  “That’s right,” said Mrs. Tamasese.

  “And then we hang some thingy-dingy around its neck?” I said.

  “Amulet.” She smiled. “Either that or chop off its head in one stroke.”

  I gulped.

  “Classic way to kill a monster,” chirped Mrs. Tamasese.

  Benny chuckled weakly. “Heh. Better than a silver bullet?”

  “For reals.” The store owner drew a finger across her neck. “It’s the most permanent solution.”

  My stomach gave a flutter. “There’s gotta be another way.”

  “Not that I could find,” said Mrs. Tama
sese.

  Dang. I sincerely hoped Benny and I could dig up some safer ideas for curing Mr. Chu, and soon. Otherwise there was an excellent chance that the both of us would end up as hyena chow.

  And I really didn’t want that. It’d be hard to grow up to be a famous cartoonist from inside a monster’s belly. Plus, the whole painful-death bit didn’t exactly make me feel like dancing the rumba.

  By the look on his face, Benny felt the same way. “I’m not the best one-stroke chopper-upper of things,” he said. “It took me a whole week to hack up that dead limb that fell in our yard.”

  “And that was with me helping,” I added.

  “Then if I were you, I’d go for the amulet,” said Mrs. Tamasese.

  I raised a hand. “Um, two questions.”

  “Shoot.”

  “First, how do we figure out what bit Mr. Chu?”

  “Or who,” said the store owner. “Remember, the were-hyena is a person when the moon isn’t full.”

  Benny threw up his hands. “Great. That’s even harder. How do we tell who the monster is when it doesn’t look like a monster?”

  Mrs. Tamasese shrugged her broad shoulders. “Beats me. It’s probably someone who’s new in town or who travels. Maybe Mr. Chu can give you some clues.”

  Not the answer I wanted, but oh, well. “Second, where do we find this amulet?”

  Benny gave a hopeful smile. “You got one stashed behind the counter?”

  “Sorry, boys,” said Mrs. Tamasese. “I’m a shopkeeper, not a witch. Comics sell way better than magic trinkets. Not that comics sell that well….”

  I waved my hands around. “So, what? We just look for an Amulets ’n’ Things store at the mall and pick out something we like?”

  She consulted her sheet of paper again. “Not quite. This book says that the talismans usually come from the same culture as the were-animal.”

  “So…Africa?” Benny’s shoulders slumped. “I haven’t checked my piggy bank in a while, but I’m pretty sure I can’t cover a plane ticket.”

  A nasal voice cut into our discussion. “Excuse me? I’d like to pay now, if that’s all right with you?” A Goth-looking older girl with enough rings in her face to start a jewelry store was tapping her foot impatiently.

  “Duty calls,” said Mrs. Tamasese. She spun her chair around, then cast a glance over her shoulder. “Good luck, guys. Keep me posted; I’ll help however I can.”

  And with three pumps of those mighty arms, she wheeled away.

  Benny and I stumbled out of the store into the weak afternoon sunlight. Cars passed with music blaring. Down the sidewalk, two old ladies laughed at some joke and clutched each other’s arm. Life went on around us, but it felt like we were under a giant bubble.

  “Maybe we should call the cops,” I mumbled. “But what would we tell them? They’d never believe us….”

  Plus we’d miss out on our chance to do something heroic for once.

  My comment went right past Benny. “What would you use to cut off a were-hyena’s head, anyway?” he said, in a dazed voice. “A chain saw? My dad won’t even let me stand near him when he’s using one.”

  A thought tickled my mind, but my mind was still too stunned to process it. We shuffled aimlessly down the sidewalk.

  “A hacksaw?” Benny asked. “Nah, it’d take too long. An ax?”

  The thought kept nagging, but I couldn’t hear it over Benny’s chatter.

  “Or maybe one of those samurai swords,” said Benny. “But we’d have to stand on something to get high enough to cut—”

  “Stop!” I snapped.

  Benny’s mouth closed, and his eyes got big. “What’d I say?”

  “Just be quiet for one minute and let me think, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” said Benny. “Sheesh.”

  I took a deep breath and let my thoughts roam. Africa…amulets…hyenas…culture of origin…Suddenly my brain fog cleared. I clapped a hand to my skull. “I’ve got it!” I cried.

  “What, a case of head lice?” said Benny.

  “No, the best place to find African amulets.”

  Benny frowned. But then, a grin burst out on his face as understanding dawned. “You don’t mean…?”

  “The museum,” we said together.

  “Jinx!” we said together.

  “Double jinx!”

  “Stop it,” we both said.

  “Triple jinx!”

  I put a finger to my lips and Benny echoed the gesture. Then, without another word, we went off to get some culture.

  AS GRAND and impressive as my great-aunt Yolanda, Monterrosa’s Museum of Arts and Culture stands at the other end of Main Street. It’s just across from the library and two doors down from a doctor who helps with cases of head lice. (Not that I knew anything about that.)

  My mom says it’s a pretty big museum for such a small town. Of course, she would say that; she volunteers there. Benny and I marched up the steps between two massive sculptures of griffins—those mythological creatures with a lion’s body and an eagle’s head and wings.

  Normally, I thought griffins were pretty cool. But that day, I shivered as we passed. It’s one thing to think of monsters as resting safely between the pages of a book or up on the TV screen.

  But it’s a whole other ball game when you learn that monsters are real.

  We pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped into a lobby that felt colder than an Eskimo’s icebox. Goose pimples sprouted on my arms and the musty smell of really old things filled my nose. The place was as hushed as a tomb.

  “Can I help you?” a disembodied voice asked.

  Benny and I jumped, looking around with alarm.

  “Over here,” the voice called.

  On the far side of the lobby, behind a curved counter, sat a pleasant-looking woman whose black hair was shot with gray. Her skin, like mine, was toasty brown. She seemed like somebody’s mom dressed up for a PTA meeting.

  “Uh, hi,” said Benny. “Can we talk to Mr. Sharky?”

  A dimple appeared in her cheek. “Sharkawy? You must be from the school he visited today.”

  “That’s right,” I said, “and it’s really important.”

  “Is this about our new exhibit?” asked the woman. Her clip-on name tag read MS. ICAZA.

  “Well…kinda,” I said. She seemed like a nice lady, and I didn’t want to spook her with the whole shapeshifter thing.

  “You know, we went all the way to Africa to select the pieces,” said Ms. Icaza.

  “That’s a lot of frequent flier miles,” said Benny. “So, can we see him?”

  Her soft face took on a sympathetic expression. “Sorry, boys; he’s awfully busy. But you can still check out the exhibit, even though it’s not quite finished.”

  Leaning on the desk, Benny worked his charm. “Pleeease?” he begged. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “And we only need five minutes,” I added. We both gave her the Bambi eyes.

  Ms. Icaza tilted back in her chair and scanned us up and down, chewing the eraser end of her pencil. “Well…okay, I’ll ask him.”

  “Thanks a bunch!” chirped Benny.

  “But I’m not promising anything.” She gestured for us to wait on a nearby bench, and then punched the buttons on her phone pad. Neither of us could relax enough to sit down, so we hovered about. After a brief, muted conversation, Ms. Icaza hung up the phone.

  “So?” asked Benny.

  “Since it’s a matter of life and death,” she said, making it clear she didn’t entirely believe us, “five minutes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “This means a lot. Really.”

  With another dimpled smile, Ms. Icaza rose and crooked a finger, inviting us to follow. We passed through an ebony side door and up a flight of stairs. All the way, she kept up light conversation, asking our names, our grade, and what we thought of the assembly.

  Our answers must have pleased her, because she led us down a short corridor and rapped on the door that read MUSEUM D
IRECTOR. “Mr. Sharkawy?” she called. A muffled voice answered, and Ms. Icaza opened the door, ushering us through.

  In the middle of a room decorated with exotic statues and carved masks squatted a gleaming wooden desk the size of a battleship. Behind that desk, his back as straight as an admiral, sat Mr. Helmet Hair himself—the man from our assembly, Mr. Sharkawy. If possible, his hair shone even more than his desktop.

  Now he turned his piercing eyes on us. “I’m not in the habit of granting random interviews,” he said. “Is this for your school newspaper?”

  “Not exactly,” I said.

  “We need your help,” blurted Benny, “with our teach—” I nudged him. “With a report for our teacher,” he said.

  “And you can’t get that by viewing our exhibits?” The man’s gaze dropped to some papers on his desk.

  “No!” Benny and I said together.

  “Please, sir, we need to ask you some questions about…” I faltered.

  His “Yes?” sounded bored. Mr. Sharkawy picked up a pen and jotted a note.

  We were losing him.

  Benny jumped in. “It’s about shapeshifters.”

  I winced, but I was glad Benny said it first. Even though I was seriously worried about Mr. Chu, I felt foolish discussing this supernatural stuff with any grown-up other than Mrs. Tamasese.

  The man’s eyebrows lifted.

  I braced for laughter, saying, “Not that we really believe in them, but…”

  The museum director put down his pen. “And why not? There used to be much less separation between humans and animals, between the normal and the numinous.”

  Benny’s forehead scrunched up. “Numinous?”

  “The world of spirit,” said Mr. Sharkawy with an elegant twist of his hand. “Our ancestors believed that people could change into animals; why do we find that so hard to swallow today?”

  Benny and I shrugged.

  “What’s your interest in shapeshifters?” asked Ms. Icaza from the doorway. I’d forgotten she was there.

  “Oh, uh…” I said, turning. “We…”

  “We think they’re cool,” said Benny.

  With a these-kids-are-cuckoo smile, Ms. Icaza closed the door and left us with Mr. Sharkawy. His dark eyes sparkled. “Well, I think they’re ‘cool,’ too,” he said. You got the feeling that the word had never crossed his lips before that moment. “What would you like to know?”