A man in a crimson tunic and floppy jester’s hat with bells dangling from it stepped forward. He held an old-fashioned lute and began to strum and then sing. His voice, as high-pitched as the others in the mole clan, was also quite lovely.
The Test of the Mole! Right here in our hole!
Will now determine your worth.
Fail and you’ll wail, be snipped and then flailed,
Here in our home in the earth.
But if you should ace the test that takes place,
And so your mole heart’s confirmed—
Strike up the band! Welcome to our clan!
We’ll celebrate and eat worms.
Everyone clapped, including Bolt. The singer bowed and resumed his place among the others. Apparently, his part in the ritual was over.
“Are you ready to take the test, Bolt?” Zemya asked.
Feel the penguin-verse, Bolt thought. But all he felt was panic. “I guess so. But do I need some paper first? Or a pen? How about a number-two pencil?” He was still uncertain of the sort of test he was taking.
Zemya shook her head and pointed to the tall mound of earth to the side. “A single grub has been buried inside that mound. Your task is to find the grub.”
That was not what Bolt had been expecting. He stared at the mound. It was big. Very big. Finding a grub in there seemed to be pretty much impossible, and much harder than even an essay test. Bolt nibbled on his lips. “Is there a time limit?” he asked. His heart slowed a couple of beats when Zemya shook her head. “Are my hands and legs tied?” Bolt’s heart slowed even more when Zemya shook her head again. “Is there some sort of trick?”
“There are no tricks, although those are all good ideas,” said Zemya, lifting her palms out, as if to show she had no tricks up her sleeves, either. Bolt felt hopeful. “You just need to find the grub before Barsuk does.”
Bolt scratched his head. “Who’s Barsuk?”
“He is coming now. He is attracted by lute playing.”
The room grew silent. The clan members stared at the far wall, which Bolt now noticed had a large crack in it. Rumbling shook the ground underfoot. Bolt’s heart regained its frenzied beating.
“Holy Moley!” shouted the lute player, who was then joined by Topo, and soon the entire group was shouting, “Holy Moley! Holy Moley!” as the small crack widened. Soil shifted and crumbled from the wall while it spread farther apart, as if on hinges. Pebbles sprinkled the ground, and then from the dark recesses of whatever was behind that wall, a furry claw emerged, a claw the size of a full-grown bear’s, followed by a gigantic furry brown head. The dirt continued to cascade down the tunnel’s wall as the animal crawled into the chamber. It shook off its skin, like a dog after a bath.
“Barsuk!” cried Zemya. “The Holy Moley himself!”
It was, quite simply, the largest and most terrible mole Bolt could ever imagine. Bolt’s legs felt weak from terror, and his head spun. He almost fainted, but found a small amount of inner strength to keep standing. This beast must have been ten feet long. It let out a loud screech, sort of like a monkey with sinus congestion. Its nose wrinkled, and it rubbed its feet on the ground.
A million things ran through Bolt’s mind, and none of them were good. How can I find a grub faster than this monstrosity? Do moles eat people and, if they don’t, will this creature eat me by mistake? Does this place have a bed I can hide under?
“They say it is hard to find a needle in a haystack,” said Zemya. “But finding a grub in a giant pile of dirt is much harder, unless you have the heart of a mole inside you.”
Bolt heard a single lute strum and the jester sing out: “The Test of the Mole! Right here in our hole!”
“But how am I supposed to find a grub before the . . . the . . . Holy Moley?” Bolt asked, pointing at the beast with a shaking finger.
Zemya shrugged. “I didn’t say the test would be easy.”
The giant mole growled at Bolt, its mouth opening and closing, revealing a long row of sharp teeth. Bolt clutched his hands into fists at his sides to keep them from twitching.
Bolt gazed at the creature’s long snout as it sniffed the ground and snorted. He wasn’t sure how moles found food, but that sniffer would seem to be a good place to start.
Penguins don’t have a particularly strong sense of smell, unfortunately for Bolt.
“We shall begin on the count of ten,” said Zemya. “Ten . . . nine . . .”
The mole shifted on its paws, waiting for the countdown to end, and it made Bolt wonder. If he could control penguins with his mind, did that mean Zemya or one of the others was communicating to Barsuk? It seemed likely, since he doubted the beast could count.
“Eight . . . seven . . .”
Bolt had never even seen a grub before, although he knew they were beetle larvae, which meant they were very small, probably less than an inch long. How was he supposed to—
“One . . . go!”
“Hey, what happened to six through two?” Bolt complained.
Zemya shrugged. “Moles can’t count.”
Bolt didn’t have time to think. The monster charged into the mound of earth, burrowing itself inside with its claws. Bolt took a deep breath and dove in on the opposite side.
It was pitch black, of course. Bolt dug himself inside, deeper.
Fully submerged in the middle of the pile, Bolt heard nothing but his own heart. It was quiet in the dirt. Peaceful, almost. He reached out into the penguin-verse. Maybe, if he cleared his head and focused on the surrounding penguin energy, he could sense the grub. He forced himself to relax. Be the grub. Be the dirt.
All he felt was stupid. He could connect with penguins, not grubs.
He thought back to his days at the Oak Wilt orphanage, where toe-nibbling moles used to crawl out from under the floorboards while the kids slept. Once, Bolt had awoken in the dead of night to discover not one, not two, but three moles nibbling his toes at the same time. Bolt didn’t sleep for weeks afterward.
The memory of that moment jarred Bolt now. He had come so far and faced so many monstrous threats. But of all the ways Bolt had imagined dying—and there had been so, so many—being snipped and flailed after losing a mole test hadn't even made his list. He took a breath, which was a mistake since all he did was suck in the powdery dirt. He had to control himself. He could do this. He had to do this. The world was depending on him.
But no. His mind traveled back to the orphanage again; he could practically feel moles sucking on his toes. His mind swelled with panic. He was going to scream!
Wait.
Barsuk!
It was sucking on Bolt’s toes.
I guess my feet are sort of grubby, thought Bolt, kicking the beast’s snout. He felt his mind drifting inside Barsuk. Somehow, he was becoming one with the mole. Was Bolt imagining it, or was he now part of some odd mole-verse? No, it was Barsuk—part of Barsuk was in the penguin-verse. The spirit of a dead penguin, long ago eaten, lingered in Barsuk’s bowels.
Maybe Bolt could still ace this test! He could feel the penguin’s blubbery remains inside Barsuk and, as a result, could almost smell what the mole smelled, feel what it felt.
And Barsuk felt a desire to lick Bolt’s toes, which was not helpful.
The creature stopped licking and darted to Bolt’s left. It sensed a grub, and grubs were more delicious than grubby toes. Bolt could feel ravenous hunger filling the colossal mole monster.
Bolt had no idea where the grub was, but he raced forward because Barsuk did. Or rather, he tried to race. Bolt swam with his legs and his feet through the dirt, but it was a very slow crawl.
Bolt was still ahead of Barsuk, but the creature was faster and quickly gaining, its razor-like claws slicing through the soil. Bolt wanted to scream, to cry out: “No! It can’t end like this!” And he did open his mouth to scream, and regretted
it instantly because his mouth filled with dirt and at the same time Barsuk rammed into Bolt’s chin. Bolt flew six inches forward, his mouth filling up with more and more chalky dirt as he went, and he gagged and swallowed a disgusting mouthful of it, and something else. Something slimy and wriggly that slipped down his throat.
The grub.
Bolt feared he was going to have a horrible stomachache later.
16.
The Voice in Bolt’s Head
Bolt stood in the large chamber, his stomach unsettled from eating dirt and a grub, but he was relieved he had passed the test, even if he owed his victory to a stroke of luck. Or not. The penguin cosmos was vast, and Bolt was the chosen one. Perhaps he had been destined to pass the test all along.
Zemya smiled at Bolt, her buckteeth appearing more pronounced than usual, although Bolt knew it was just a trick of the light. “Congratulations, Bolt. You have passed the Test of the Mole. You are now one of us. Which means you get all the benefits of being a mole. Care for a snack?” She held out a few worms on her palm.
“No thanks,” said Bolt, clutching his stomach.
A few others in the room ran up to Zemya and grabbed the worms from her hand, shouting, “Congratulations, Bolt!” and “Welcome to the labour!” and “Are you sure you don’t want any worms?”
But not everyone seemed happy. Topo shook his fist at Barsuk and grumbled, “I can’t believe you lost to this spy.” The mole hung its head, dejected, and crawled back to its hole. Topo sneered at Bolt and snipped his scissors a few times. “Can’t I snip him, Zemya? Just a little bit?”
“We cannot harm him,” said Zemya. “We are mole creatures. If we do not keep our word, what are we?”
“Mole creatures who don’t keep their word?” Topo guessed. He snipped his shears twice and then slipped them into his pocket. “Very well.”
“Grom promised he would take me inside the fortress,” Bolt reminded Zemya. His temporary relief faded at the thought of the immense task still in front of him.
Bolt also thought of his friends. They were probably worried about him, wondering where he was or whether he was OK. He was anxious to join them again and just hoped they didn’t do something foolish, like go back to the fortress and try to steal that tooth without him.
“Of course. As I promised, moles always help one another,” said Zemya. “Grom will happily escort you inside.”
“Happily?” asked Bolt, more than a little dubious.
“Well, maybe not happily,” she admitted. “But he will. First, we’ll celebrate your victory with a party. It’s quite an honor to pass the test, and moles are famous for our parties. They are quite fun: we dig holes, we sniff each other, and we dig more holes.”
“That sounds like a great time,” said Bolt, faking a smile to be polite. “But I really need to get going. And I’m not much of a hole digger, to be honest.”
Zemya looked down at Bolt’s hands and nodded. “I guess not. Everyone will be disappointed, though. Party’s off!” she cried out.
The others in the room mumbled unhappily. The lute player strummed a miserable-sounding note.
“First no snipping, and now no party?” asked Topo, frowning and kicking a rock in frustration. “This entire day has been a waste.”
Bolt threw all of them an apologetic shrug, but finding his friends and grabbing that tooth were more important than partying. Zemya instructed Bolt to follow her, and soon they were winding through the dimly lit mole tunnels. They passed an enormous room filled with industrial-sized washing machines. People held large laundry baskets with bundles of black cloth, and every machine seemed to be running.
“It’s a lot of work keeping our robes clean while living in a hole underground,” Zemya explained. “But at least we don’t have to separate out any whites or brights.”
As they continued past the laundromat and down the next tunnel, Bolt felt a sudden buzzing in his skull. It filled his head suddenly, without warning. He stopped and gripped his ears.
What do you want? Bolt thought.
There was a moment of silence and then a burst of static, as if from a walkie-talkie, vibrating in Bolt’s head, followed by a voice. Hello, Bolt, my boy.
I am not your boy, Bolt thought back.
There was another burst of static, and after a few moments the voice emerged through the noise. Are you underground or something? We’re getting terrible reception.
Leave me alone.
Oh, I can’t do that. After all, we are meant to be together, are we not? Me, here in my ice cave. You in search of a tooth to fight with. As if a tooth could defeat me!
If you’re so confident, why don’t you come here and get me?
No, no, no. That’s not how this works. You will come to me. And then we will work together to conquer the world. If you survive your little trip to Pingvingrad, that is.
Bolt found himself growing angry. Who did the Stranger think he was, assuming Bolt would join his army? I will fight you. And I will win.
Bolt, my boy. My poor, deluded boy. You will join me. It is what you were chosen to do. The fates have foretold it. We will rule as one!
“I will never rule! I was chosen to free the world’s penguins!”
“Are you all right?” Zemya asked Bolt, looking at him with a concerned expression. “What are you talking about?”
“I said that last part out loud?” The voice inside his head vanished, and Bolt rubbed his temples to remove any lingering intrusions. “I was just daydreaming,” he said, forcing a grin. “Can I ask you something, Zemya? Do were-moles ever feel like it would be fun to form a giant army and rule the world?”
She scrunched up her already wrinkled face. “Of course not!”
“Yeah, me neither,” said Bolt, hoping the dimly lit tunnel hid the beads of sweat on his forehead and ignoring the part of him that was tempted to welcome the Stranger’s evil words.
17.
Mission Implausible
The sun was half buried in the horizon by the time Blackburn and Annika trekked up to the fortress. As they had earlier, the two halted just before the tree line and peeked out. There were now hundreds of penguins standing around. PEWD appeared to be on high alert. A large group of birds marched back and forth in front of the main gate. Other penguins were positioned every few hundred feet along the entire fence, as far as the eye could see. Some stared steely-eyed, waiting for trouble. Others ran about barking orders.
The side of the fence that had crashed down had already been repaired, and the hole underneath it had been filled in. There would be no sneaking into PEWD this time, at least not that way.
To make things even worse, every penguin held one of those jumbo-sized toothbrushes over a shoulder. Annika imagined being scrubbed by one. She bristled at the thought of its steel-like bristles.
Then her mind went to Bolt. If one of those toothbrushes had been used to scrub him . . . she pushed the thought away. He is fine, she told herself. She wanted to save the world, but she wanted to save Bolt more. Sure, her friend had become more distant over the last week as he explored his powers and the penguin universe thing. But deep inside he was still Bolt, and he still needed Annika.
Annika tapped Blackburn on the shoulder. “Shh,” she said, and pointed to her eyes, gestured toward the main entrance, and then wiggled her fingers to mimic walking. She started to mime the “Little Bunny Foo Foo” rhyme, but stopped. Now was not the time for singing.
Blackburn nodded and followed Annika, tiptoeing behind the trees until they came to a stop near the main entrance. Annika had hoped to see an opportunity to sneak in, but those hopes were quickly dashed; there were simply too many toothbrush-toting penguins at the gate. Then she spotted a nearby tree with low branches, perfect for climbing. It was also one of the few trees with leaves, so it provided some coverage. They couldn’t risk being seen. Annika scampered up limb by limb to get a be
tter view of the grounds as Blackburn lumbered up behind her, scraping his hands and nearly falling twice. “Borscht,” he exclaimed. “I’m glad there are no trees to climb on pirate ships.” He shook a thumb at the guards. “If these birds brush their teeth with those things, I’d hate to see their dental floss.”
Annika nodded, and an image of Bolt being angrily flossed filled her head. No. She had to stop thinking these kinds of things. If she was going to get into PEWD, she needed to concentrate on the job ahead.
She and Blackburn kept completely still as a group of penguin guards approached them, marching in formation down the dirt road. The guards passed just underneath Annika and Blackburn. One of the penguins paused for a moment, and Annika was convinced she and Blackburn had been noticed. She reached for her knife and grabbed its handle; she wouldn’t go down without a fight. But then the penguin continued marching past.
“Who knew penguins could march so well?” marveled Blackburn.
“Penguins do all sorts of things I never thought they could do,” admitted Annika.
“Aye,” said Blackburn. “But we can’t stay up in this tree all day. I’m going to take a closer look.”
“Let me do it,” said Annika. Blackburn didn’t have her clandestine banditry skills.
“Nah, I need to get down. This hard branch is hurting me bum.” Before Annika could object, Blackburn dropped to the ground beside the tree with a loud thud!
“Shh!” hissed Annika. Fortunately, the patrolling penguins were now quite a bit past them and hadn’t heard the pirate. None of the penguin guards positioned along the fence looked in their direction either. Hopefully, Blackburn could sneak closer without making his presence obvious. He took a quick step forward around the tree and . . .
Snap!
His foot broke a twig in half.
“Quiet!” whispered Annika in alarm, looking left and right. Still, no one paid attention to them. But that didn’t mean they were in the clear.
The Battle of the Werepenguins Page 8
