The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  “Hi, Topo!” squeaked a short woman styling someone’s hair with a blow-dryer. “I hope you're enjoying those rubber scissors you borrowed!”

  “Wait,” said Bolt. “Your scissors are made out of rubber?”

  “Yes, but I'm not afraid to use them!” Topo cried. Snip, snip, snip. They flopped over to the side. “Thanks for letting me borrow them!” Topo cried back.

  They continued walking. After two more twists and three short side tunnels, Zemya stopped in front of a wooden door. She withdrew a small key from her pocket, inserted it into the lock, and pushed it open. Bolt followed her inside.

  The room was cold, dirty, and barren of much furniture. There was a single wooden chair that was missing a leg and didn’t look safe to sit on, a standing lamp with a dull, flickering bulb, and a small table with a bucket of dirt on it.

  “You should be comfortable here,” said Zemya.

  “Um, not really,” said Bolt, nudging the chair with his foot, and it toppled over.

  “Leave us,” Zemya instructed the others. “I will speak to our prisoner. You two must awaken Barsuk.”

  “Who’s Barsuk?” asked Bolt.

  “I’ll ask the questions!” spat Topo. “What’s the capital of New Mexico? Why is the sky blue? Do you ever think you’re actually a robot?”

  “Don’t answer,” Zemya whispered. “You’ll just encourage him.” She turned to Topo. “Go.”

  “I don’t like leaving you alone with this boy,” said Topo. “It’s not safe. Do you want to borrow my floppy, rubber scissors?”

  “No, and I'll be fine . . . our tunnels are too confusing for the boy to escape. But send for Grom, please.”

  “Are you sure, Zemya? The prisoner could try funny stuff!” warned Topo. “I bet he hates whales, too. And you can never trust a whale-hater!”

  “You really are a lot like your brother,” said Bolt.

  “Leave us,” said Zemya.

  Topo glared at Bolt, but he and the other men left and closed the door behind them. Zemya bowed her head to Bolt. “I’m sorry that we cannot let you go. But I must uphold our traditions.”

  Her apology didn’t bring Bolt much relief. He pushed aside his urge to hide under a bed, not that there were any beds to hide under, and stood tall. He would take this test. He would pass. And he would save the world. “If I ace this test, whatever it is, then you will let me go?”

  “You have my word. And if you pass the test, you will have the same rights and benefits as one of us.”

  “Which are?”

  “Free manicures every Tuesday. All the earthworms you can eat. And tunnels. Lots of tunnels.” Bolt failed to feel much enthusiasm for any of those perks. “The test will take place soon. But while you’re waiting, can I get you something to eat? You could have a bowl of a hearty soup made out of beets, cabbage, onions, and potatoes. It’s quite tasty.”

  “Borscht?” asked Bolt. Zemya nodded. “No thanks. But I have a friend who would be really excited to be down here right now.”

  Bolt had so many questions! Who were these strange underground folk? Where were his friends now—had they escaped? If Bolt died, could anyone defeat the Stranger and free the world’s penguins without him?

  But one specific question had been bugging him ever since Topo had asked it: What was the capital of New Mexico anyway? Albuquerque or Santa Fe? He wanted answers.

  “Who are you people?” he asked, deciding the New Mexico question was not the best one to start with. “Before I take your test, I deserve to at least know that much.”

  “That seems fair.” Zemya leaned in closer and removed her plastic goggles, revealing tiny gray eyes. She blinked rapidly, her pink nose twitched, and her buckteeth chattered. It all made her creepy appearance feel even creepier. “Listen closely to my story. For my story is the story of the Clan of the Moles!”

  Bolt thought he heard scary organ music, but quickly realized it was just his imagination.

  11.

  The Story of Zemya

  We come from lands near and far,” Zemya began. “Word has spread that our kind is safe here.”

  “What do you mean by our kind?” Bolt asked. “You mentioned earlier something about people hurting you?”

  “Yes, but perhaps I should start with my own story. I grew up far away, across the sea, with my mother and younger brother, Grom. We were poor. On birthdays the only cakes we could afford were mud cakes. Although one year I was given a dirt bike.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Bolt. “I’ve never had a bike.”

  “No, not a bike. A dirt bike, which is just a small bike made out of dirt. But I didn’t mind. I loved the dirt, you see. Whenever I went out to play, I would come home covered in it. Mom would always complain: ‘Zemya, you’re filthy! You’ll catch worms!’ I told her she was being silly, and would then quickly release the worms I had stuffed into my pockets earlier in the day. But we never went hungry. For my mother kept a small garden where she grew onions and garlic. That’s all we ate.”

  “I’m guessing you didn’t get a lot of visitors,” said Bolt.

  “No, not many. But I was a normal child, except for two things. First, I was exceptional at Whack-a-Mole. I always had terrible eyesight, so my skill at Whack-a-Mole was surprising. And the second was this.” She lifted her robe to reveal a large animal-shaped mark on her ankle. Bolt sat up straighter.

  “A birthmark!” exclaimed Bolt. “And it’s shaped like a mouse. Are you . . .” He gasped. “Are you a were-mouse?”

  “No, and this is a mole, actually. A mole-shaped mole. My mother had one that was similar, although it was the shape of a sloth. Animal-shaped birthmarks are hereditary. Children seldom have the same animal mark as their parents, though.”

  Bolt had never known his own parents, as they had been killed when he was an infant. Did they have birthmarks? If so, what animals? Maybe his father had a leopard. Leopards were cool. And maybe his mom had a sweet, cuddly rabbit? He would have been disappointed if they had birthmarks of, say, a warthog and a skunk.

  “Then, one day,” Zemya continued, “we discovered abnormally large animal tunnels under our garden. All our onions were ruined. My mother cried because she was so upset, and she usually only cried when slicing the onions, not losing them. My mother was well aware of my Whack-a-Mole skills, so she gave me a shovel and told me to stand in the garden and bop any moles that peeked out of a hole.”

  “How long did you stand there?”

  “Fourteen hours. Finally, at midnight under the full moon, I sensed something. A mole! I leapt up with my shovel!”

  “Did you whack it?”

  “Oh no,” said Zemya. “This creature was three times the size of an ordinary mole. I knew instantly it was a were-mole. I had seen pictures in storybooks.”

  “Were-mole pictures are in storybooks?”

  “Some.”

  Bolt gasped, and not just because he had never seen a were-mole in a storybook. No, he gasped because he was surprised to learn about were-moles at all. He had met a were-gull, so he knew there were other were-creatures out there, but had no idea how many different kinds.

  “The creature felt endearing, despite its red eyes and long fangs. I gave it a hug,” said Zemya.

  While some people may think hugging a mysterious and extraordinarily large mole creature at midnight was strange, Bolt didn’t think that. He would enjoy hugging werepenguins if they weren’t all so evil.

  “The creature spoke, in my head,” said Zemya. “It said, You can be like me. Just let me bite you, and then you will have a new family. A family of moles! I clapped with joy. It was like a dream come true.”

  “You have strange dreams,” said Bolt.

  “I was excited to have a new family—I mean, what sort of mother sends their daughter out to hit moles in a garden for fourteen hours? I agreed to the creature’s bargain and
became what I am today.”

  “So, you are a were-mole.”

  She nodded. “We all are were-moles here. Well, all except for my brother. He does not have the proper birthmark.”

  It made sense—why these people lived underground, and why they all had odd, mole-like faces and larger-than-normal hands and feet.

  “My mother thought I was a monster,” Zemya continued. “She couldn’t understand why I insisted on sleeping in a hole, or ate five pounds of earthworms a day. She kicked me out of the house.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Bolt didn’t know which was worse—to never know your parents, like Bolt, or to have yours turn away when you needed them most.

  Zemya bowed her head and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Most of us here have similar stories, I’m afraid.”

  Bolt understood all too well. He had spent most of his life as an unwanted orphan. And while turning into a penguin had mostly been a curse, at least now he had a family, sort of.

  “My brother, Grom, insisted on accompanying me wherever I was heading; we were always close. He and I soon found other were-moles—there is a bustling mole underground, you know. But it’s a hard life, always on the lookout for mole traps and extremely large raccoons.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “A group of us were-moles boarded a ship—Grom is an excellent sailor—and set out to find a new home, far away from civilization. We followed the constellation Talpa the Mole. His tail points to this island.”

  “The constellation Pepe the Penguin points here, too.”

  “So do the constellations Skippy the Squirrel and Boris the Badminton Net, although I have never seen a were-squirrel or any were-badminton equipment.” She shivered, as if imagining such horrors. “Anyway, we thought we were close to the island when heavy fog rolled in. Our ship was wrecked. Moles are excellent swimmers, so we made it ashore. And our labour built our home.”

  “Labour?”

  “A group of moles is called a labour, just like a group of lions is called a pride, a group of rats is called a mischief, and a group of lion-sized rats is called terribly frightening.” She made a sweeping hand gesture. “And this is where we have lived ever since, buried below the earth, unknown to the world. Safe. And that is why we devised a test to ensure only moles, or those with the heart of a mole, would ever leave our burrow.”

  The door opened and a teenage boy entered the room. He didn’t have any of the markings of a mole. His nose was thin and pointy and not short and squat. His hair was dark and straight, although he had quite a bit of it, and it desperately needed brushing. He had normal-sized hands and fingernails, too. His voice was deep, which stood in stark contrast to the high-pitched squeals from the mole creatures. “Zemya, I rushed here as soon as I heard. Topo said you caught a trespasser—some horrible whale-hating spy. I said to him, ‘Really?’—you know how much he exaggerates—and . . .” His voice trailed off. He held a bucket filled with dirt and, upon seeing Bolt, dropped it unconsciously. Dirt spilled everywhere. “It’s true!”

  “I’m not a spy,” said Bolt. “And I don’t hate whales. I have no idea where he got that idea.”

  “Bolt, this is my brother, Grom,” said Zemya. “Grom, please pick up our dinner.” Bolt noticed earthworms wiggling in the freshly fallen dirt. Grumbling, Grom knelt down and scooped them back into the pail. “Grom sneaks onto the fortress lawn to collect worms for us. The soil there is rich with nutrients. He also steals supplies for us when we need them.”

  “So, you’re a bandit!” declared Bolt. “My best friend is a bandit!”

  “Just because I steal worms and supplies don’t mean I’m a bandit,” Grom grumbled.

  “Actually, it sort of does,” said Bolt.

  Grom shot Bolt a dirty look. “Why are you alone with him, Zemya? It’s not safe. You coulda been hurt! Maimed! Worse! Do you at least have rubber scissors, or a hammer, or a banana?”

  “I have none of those. Yet I am unharmed. The boy says he came here by boat and fell into one of our holes by mistake. I believe him.”

  “A likely story,” said Grom. He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like him. How did he get past the fog? Hmm?”

  “Because I’m a werepenguin,” said Bolt. What was the point of denying it? If anyone would understand the extraordinary but alienating powers of a were-creature, it would be these people. “But I’m not an evil one.” At least he hoped that was true.

  “Only an evil werepenguin would claim he wasn’t an evil werepenguin,” snapped Grom.

  “An un-evil one would say the same thing, so I guess that would be confusing,” admitted Bolt. Grom growled. “Look, I mean no harm. I just need to break into PEWD, steal the silver tooth of a prehistoric seal, take the tooth to the South Pole, and use it to end the reign of the world’s mightiest werepenguin.”

  Grom’s jaw dropped. He stared at Bolt, and then at his sister, and then back at Bolt. “I gotta admit, if you’re a spy, you’re not a good one. Not with a tale like that.”

  “It’s the truth,” said Bolt.

  “I dunno about that, but I know about that tooth,” said Grom. “The tooth of the Ilversay Oothtay Ealsay, right?” Bolt nodded. Had everyone heard of this tooth except Bolt? “You’ll never get past the PEWD guards. You’d be like, ‘Gimmee the tooth,’ and then they’d be like, ‘How about if we pull all your teeth out instead?’ ” He stepped closer to Bolt and glared at him. “But we can’t let him go, Zemya. He’ll tell everyone we’re here and . . .”

  “Settle down, Grom. Of course not,” agreed Zemya. “The boy will be put to the test. That will decide his fate.”

  Grom buried his fists into his pockets. His nostrils flared as he breathed out, frowning, glaring, and looking just generally displeased. “It’s a waste of time. He’ll never pass.”

  “But I could,” said Bolt. “Especially if it’s a true-or-false test. I’m not good at essays, though.”

  “It’s not that sort of test,” said Grom.

  Bolt took a deep breath. “Whatever it is, I’m an honorary mole if I pass it, right? And moles help one another, right?

  “Yes,” said Zemya.

  “Grom, you must know the fortress really well if you’re a bandit. If I pass, will you help me break into the fortress and find that tooth?”

  “I am not a bandit,” protested Grom. “I’m not gonna help you do nothing, either. You’ll be like, ‘Help me,’ and I’ll be all ‘Not gonna happen’ and—”

  “Grom!” shouted Zemya. “He is right. Moles help one another. If he passes the test, you will help him do this thing.”

  Bolt smiled, just a little. Grom spat on the ground. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. No one has ever passed that test who wasn’t a mole. Zemya, you should help the others prepare. I’ll watch the prisoner.” He crooked a thumb at Bolt and made a fist. “And no funny business.”

  “I’m not funny,” Bolt promised.

  Zemya nodded. “Thank you, Grom.” As she stepped toward the door, she turned to Bolt. “I owe my brother everything. He gave up his life to help me. It’s a debt I can never repay.”

  “Speaking of which, do you have that five dollars you borrowed from me?” asked Grom.

  “No. That’s also a debt I can never repay.”

  Grom waved goodbye to Zemya. When he did, the sleeve of his shirt lifted, just a little. Bolt gasped. Zemya said birthmarks were hereditary, so it made sense that Grom might have one, too. But did Bolt really see what he thought he saw? His glimpse had been quick, so he could have been mistaken.

  Zemya closed the door behind her. Grom turned to Bolt, curling his hands into fists. He cracked his knuckles and smiled.

  Bolt backed away. “Are you going to hurt me?”

  “I don’t like you, so I should. But it depends,” Grom said. “You want outta here, right? I can help you do that. But you gotta help me first.”

/>   12.

  Refusals and Repercussions

  As Grom rubbed his fists together, Bolt fidgeted. “What do you mean?” Bolt asked. He bit his lips despite how chapped they were from his earlier lip-biting.

  “I’ll help you get outta here and into that fortress. And you don’t have to pass no mole test, either.”

  Bolt’s eyes opened wide. Grom didn’t seem like the type that would help Bolt. The way he was cracking his knuckles, he seemed more like the type that would hurt Bolt.

  “Earthworms are getting scarce,” continued Grom. “I found less than two dozen yesterday, and you can’t feed an entire burrow of were-moles with twenty-two earthworms. They’d be all ‘We want more,’ and I’d be all ‘Got none, sorry.’ But I could find more if I had some help.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “You want me to help you find earthworms? Sure!” How hard could that be?

  “No, I don’t want you to help me find worms,” said Grom, rolling his eyes.

  Bolt’s excitement faded to confusion. “I’ll do anything.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that.” Grom stared at Bolt, and the more he stared, the more Bolt stared back. Was this a staring contest? Bolt’s eyes watered, but he refused to blink, to blink, to blink. OK, he blinked.

  Grom didn’t seem to care, so perhaps Bolt had been mistaken about the staring contest. Bolt took in the boy’s long, thin nose and bushy eyebrows. His hair that sprung up sort of like horns. Grom rested his chin on his hand, and his shirtsleeve lifted again, revealing the birthmark that Bolt had seen before. It was exactly what he thought it was.

  A penguin birthmark.

  “No,” said Bolt.

  “You said you’d do anything.”

  “Anything but that.”

  Grom frowned and cracked his knuckles again. “Even if Topo hadn’t told me you were a werepenguin, it’s pretty obvious with that big birthmark on your neck. I know how it works. You bite me at midnight, and I say, ‘Yay, I’m a werepenguin,’ and you say, ‘Welcome to the club, Grom,’ and then I break you outta here.”