The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  But Annika knew that being the greatest bandit who ever lived took more than knife throwing and cruel-voice speaking. She needed to be tough. Fierce. And also honorable. The gang lived by the Code of the Bandit, and the code clearly mentioned the need to be honorable, right after paragraphs on toughness and fierceness. That’s why bandits always kept their word, at least usually, and they seldom cheated at cards, unless they were losing. Also, they never littered.

  Annika hid up in her tree for a long time, waiting for a carriage to approach and the bandits to rob it. She would learn so much! Her first robbery, and maybe—if she got lucky—even a kidnapping! But possibly the only thing more boring, and uncomfortable, than sitting in a tree waiting for a carriage to approach in order to rob it was sitting in a tree watching other people waiting for a carriage to approach in order to rob it.

  Finally the other bandits had grown restless, climbed down from their trees, and trudged back toward camp.

  But not Annika. She waited. She would rob a carriage, kidnap the occupants, and prove to everyone she could do this, all by herself.

  Also her belt snagged on a branch, and by the time she wiggled herself free, everyone had left. And then she heard a carriage approaching.

  The carriage halted because of the tree in the road, and a large man, perhaps as large as Brutus, jumped off the front bench to move it. Meanwhile, a boy, who looked to be about the same age as Annika, sat alone in the seat. He was thin and maybe even shorter than Annika.

  Annika pumped her fist. Her first kidnapping might be an easy one.

  A moment later, after she bounded silently from her perch, she scrambled along the side of the carriage, up to the front, and snuck behind the boy, where she pressed her knife against his throat. He gulped. She grinned.

  “What are you doing?” the large man in the road growled. It was a low, menacing growl. His face was scarred, and his manner powerful and frightening. He stepped toward the carriage.

  “Don’t take another step, large frightening man in the road,” Annika said, firmly and cruelly. She took a deep breath. She was more nervous than she had ever been in her life, but a bandit never showed nerves. The Code of the Bandit clearly stated that a bandit should never appear nervous when kidnapping someone. There was an entire chapter about it. That was easier written than done, however. Still, when Annika spoke, she tried to keep her voice steady as the code suggested. “I’m kidnapping this boy. If you take another step closer, you’ll be sorry. Or really, the boy will be sorry, since he’ll be the one with a slit throat.”

  The giant of a man stopped. The boy quivered with fright, but otherwise did not move, although he silently gulped a few times.

  “You do not know whom you are dealing with,” hissed the man.

  “You don’t know whom you are dealing with,” Annika hissed right back. She was rather proud of her cruel and firm hissing. “I am Annika, the fiercest bandit of them all.” Just saying those words made her feel braver.

  “If you’re so fierce, how come I’ve never heard of you?” asked the frightening giant.

  Annika sighed. “I’m just starting out. It takes time to build a reputation, you know.” She had slackened the grip on her weapon as she sighed, but now she tightened her hold and pressed it once again against the boy’s neck. “But soon I’ll be known as the fiercest bandit ever, just you wait. Step back. This boy comes with me.”

  “Are you all right, Bolt?” the giant man asked.

  The boy, Bolt, didn’t answer, no doubt too scared to make a noise. Annika smiled to herself. She was doing quite well.

  A loud penguin bark erupted close by, to their left. Soon other barks joined and then, without warning, an enormous penguin emerged from the forest. Annika frowned. “Good evening,” the penguin said, bowing. “Put the knife down, Annika.”

  Annika scowled but lowered her knife. It was not a penguin talking, but her father wearing an orange bill on his head—a disguise meant to surprise in the dark. He wore old and tattered lederhosen in drab black-and-white. That was the uniform of the Brugarian Forest Bandits.

  With an angry growl, Annika jumped down from the carriage. Looking at her father’s outfit only reminded her how much she hated wearing her own torn lederhosen.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” snapped her father.

  “I was only robbing a carriage and kidnapping someone, Papa,” whined Annika. She kicked the ground. “You never let me have any fun.”

  “How many times have I told you that you’re too young to kidnap or rob anyone? What would your mother say?”

  “I don’t have a mother.”

  “Yes, but if you did, what would she say?” As he scolded her, Annika crossed her arms and spat on the ground. “You could have gotten hurt.”

  “I would have been fine. I have some tricks up my sleeve, you know. Want to see one?” She held out a deck of playing cards. “Pick a card, any card.”

  “Silence,” said her father. “This is no time for games. You are in enough trouble as it is.” Annika put the deck back in her pocket. Her father turned to the boy and the giant on the road. “I am Vigi Lambda, the leader of the Brugarian Forest Bandits.” Penguin barking, which had subsided during the kidnapping, now echoed anew. Vigi Lambda stood rigid, worry sweeping across his brow. The look was fleeting. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, but as long as we’ve started, we might as well kidnap you. We make most of our money from ransoming kidnapping victims, you know. We also hold an annual bake sale.”

  “What if no one pays our ransom?” asked Bolt.

  The bandit mimed a slit across his throat. The boy shivered and touched his neck where Annika’s blade had pressed against his flesh.

  “You are making a mistake,” warned the giant man on the road. “If you know what’sss good for you, you will send usss on our way.”

  Vigi Lambda sneered. “Not another word from you.” He pointed to the forest behind him. “And I’m quite aware what’s good for me.”

  A rustle came from the forest, and a dozen forest bandits emerged, all wearing identical penguin caps. Some held rifles. They stood in the dark, hidden by the trees and the night.

  One of the bandits, shorter and heavier than the others but with a surprising lightness to his step, trotted out from the darkness and approached Vigi Lambda. In the night, his dark skin made his face almost invisible except for the bright white of his eyes. He nodded to Annika.

  “Felipe, we’re in the middle of a kidnapping,” Vigi snapped at the round bandit. “You know I hate it when you interrupt a kidnapping.”

  Felipe whispered into Vigi’s ear. Annika couldn’t hear much of what he said, only the words “danger,” “death,” and maybe “sponge cake.” She might have misheard those last words.

  Vigi turned back to the carriage. “If you’re to be kidnapped, we must be quick.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s go. Lickety-split.”

  Penguin barking roared louder. Felipe whispered again into Vigi’s ear. Again, Annika heard the words “danger” and “death.” And maybe “prune danish.”

  “I know!” said Vigi.

  “You do not want to kidnap usss,” said the large man. “The boy isss property of the Baron.”

  “The Baron!” Worry flashed across the bandit’s face. This time, his look of fear was not fleeting. “But this is not his regular carriage.”

  “That carriage isss in the shop. Thisss isss a rental.”

  Penguin barks again rang out, even louder and closer. Annika quivered, as did her father.

  The boy who was seated in front of the carriage looked even more frightened. He covered his ears and rocked his head, as if trying to keep the sounds from burrowing inside it.

  “Please accept my apologies for stopping you,” said Vigi, bowing and taking a step toward the forest. “We meant no harm. Go, and may the penguins be merciful.” To Annika he said, “And
you’re grounded.”

  “It’s not fair,” she complained, stomping her foot. As the giant-size man in the road climbed back aboard the carriage’s driver’s seat, Annika glared at her two would-be prisoners. She lifted her chin and spoke as firmly and as cruelly as she could. “You’re lucky we’re letting you go. But next time, you’d better watch out for Annika Lambda. The fiercest bandit of them all!”

  “Very firm and cruel. Nicely done,” remarked Felipe, but Vigi Lambda frowned.

  The driver of the carriage shouted, “C’mon, you nagsss! Midnight loomsss!” He snapped the reins, and the horses sped forward. Barking rang again through the countryside as the carriage disappeared down the path.

  “We should hurry back. The penguins sound like they are up to no good tonight,” said Vigi Lambda. He turned to Annika. “And you! Sneaking around. Robbing carriages. Why do you do such things?”

  “Because I’m the daughter of the head of the bandits?”

  Her father harrumphed. “Harrumph,” he said, and shook his head. “I’ll deal with you when we get home.”

  “But I only wanted to—”

  “Silence. We’re having sponge cake for dessert. And prune danish. But none for you!”

  Her head hanging low, Annika followed the bandits into the darkness beneath the concealing forest trees.

  “I don’t even like prune danish,” she mumbled.

  8.

  Midnight Loomsss

  After a few minutes of manic galloping, the carriage broke through the densely packed trees and into a wide and open meadow. The moon, bigger and brighter than a moon had the right to be, bathed them in light. They were high on a hill, and Bolt could see far off into the distance where powerful waves of a seemingly endless sea rumbled against rocks and crashed onto the shore. The water shone with a strange phosphorescent glow.

  “The Blacker Sea,” said the Fish Man. “Home to the penguinsss.”

  “I’ve heard of the Black Sea,” said Bolt, remembering geography lessons at the orphanage.

  “Our sea is blacker.”

  The barks were silent now. Here, out in the open, things did not seem as bleak as they had earlier. Bolt breathed a little easier.

  The path forked ahead, with the main path continuing straight and winding along a series of cheerful grassy knolls, and a second, smaller path slithering back into the dark forest.

  “We’re going through the cheerful knolls, right?” asked Bolt.

  “What do you think?” The Fish Man led the horses to the smaller and dreary trail, and they were soon inside the dense woods again.

  Although the penguins were silent now, Bolt couldn’t shake the feeling they were hiding, and watching.

  The carriage continued on, traveling upon a seemingly invisible path that wove through a dense thicket of trees. Then it emerged into a clearing and the moon glowed upon Bolt and the Fish Man once again.

  The horses clip-clopped toward an ancient manor that stood in the middle of a vast, open lawn. Dozens of tiny windows stared out from the mansion like small, threatening eyes. Chipped and cracking gray walls rose high. A crumbling battlement rimmed a tall and dark tower that emerged from the disturbing building.

  The manor stood upon the lawn, as cheerful as a gray, festering wound. If ever a place was haunted, it was this one. Actually, Bolt thought ghosts would be too afraid to haunt it.

  “You are home,” said the giant.

  “I was hoping you weren’t going to say that.”

  On the crumbling roof sat a large wooden contraption. Bolt couldn’t be sure what it was, but it looked like a—

  “Is that a catapult?” Bolt asked.

  “Yesss. Most homesss in Volgelplatz have them. Many are used at the festival. But the Baron hasss not launched hisss for a long time.”

  “Someone mentioned the festival at the tavern.”

  “The Day of the Penguin startsss in only three daysss—a day of rejoicing and celebration. People come from asss far away asss Walross-Stadt and Alabtrosdorf to dance and to honor the penguinsss.”

  “Sounds like fun. Maybe I can go,” said Bolt, quietly to himself but with a small trace of excitement. How bad could a place be that held festivals?

  “The Baron is more likely to yank each hair out of your head, one at a time, wait for them to grow back, and then yank them out again than to allow you to leave the manor and enjoy a festival.”

  “He w-wouldn’t really do that, w-would h-he?” asked Bolt, his voice shaking.

  “No. He would probably do far, far worssse.”

  Bolt shrank farther into his seat.

  The horses stopped in front of the manor, and the driver pointed toward the door. “We are here. It isss late. Go. And remember, not everything isss asss it appearsss.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If something appearsss, it may not be what it isss.”

  “That’s not very helpful.”

  The Fish Man shrugged.

  As soon as Bolt stepped down from the bench, the giant tossed him his small bag and snapped the reins. The horses flew away in full gallop.

  “Hey, wait!” cried Bolt, catching his travel bag. “You can’t just leave me here alone!”

  The Fish Man did not look back. The carriage soon disappeared into the woods. An owl flew high above the treetops.

  “Whooo?” it asked.

  “Just me,” whispered Bolt. He looked up at the manor. “Here. My home.”

  If a bed had been visible, Bolt might have bolted under it. But bolting into the dark woods was not much of an option. Bolt reminded himself that he needed to be brave, that he was no longer a scared orphan boy. He had a father waiting on the other side of those cracked manor walls.

  Bolt strode toward the door, whispering to himself, “I am wanted. I have a family now. My father is Baron Chordata.”

  Somewhere in the distance someone screamed, and the thud that followed meant they had probably fainted.

  Bolt bit his tongue to stop its shaking as he stood in front of the manor’s front door.

  9.

  Chordata Manor

  On the manor’s door was a large, tarnished copper knocker in the shape of a penguin’s head. It reminded Bolt of the penguin he had seen beside the train tracks. It had the same bushy eyebrows and horns. Bolt was both drawn to the knocker—he had an odd urge to caress its eyebrows—and terrified of it. His thoughts were interrupted by a series of clicks, clacks, and thuds from inside the manor. Bolt stiffened.

  The door swung open.

  An old woman stood in the doorframe. She was a little shorter than Bolt. Her wrinkled face had a dull greenish hue and was covered in warts. She wiped her hands on a dirty apron that might have once been white but was now multicolored with grease stains, worn over a simple dress the color of mud and the shape of a sack. She stomped her combat boots on the floor as she rasped, “I am Frau Farfenugen. Welcome to Chordata Manor. You must be Mr. Wattle.”

  “Call me Bolt.” He gave an uncertain smile.

  “Oh, lucky me. The lowly housekeeper gets to call the new boy by a nickname.”

  “Well, you don’t have to, I guess,” mumbled Bolt.

  “So now I have permission to not call you by your nickname. Of course not, I’m just a lowly housekeeper. Why should I get to call you by your nickname? Put me in my place, didn’t you?”

  Bolt thought about making a joke to lighten the mood, but remembered how poorly his attempt at humor had worked at the tavern, and so instead said nothing.

  Frau Farfenugen moved aside to allow Bolt to enter the house. As soon as he crossed the entryway, she slammed the door, locking all thirteen bolts and latches behind her. Click. Clack. Clunk. Thud.

  “A lot of locks,” said Bolt. “To keep danger out?”

  “Or to keep it in,” Frau Farfenugen wheezed.

&
nbsp; She glared at Bolt with a look of mistrust, or maybe hate, or maybe indigestion. Or perhaps all three.

  Bolt frowned as he stared at the gloom around him. The place smelled like dread, if dread had a smell.

  He stood in an enormous foyer with a timbered ceiling rising three stories high. From it hung an iron chandelier, dark, rusty, and as big as a sedan. Although hundreds of lights were nestled in the chandelier’s clawlike holders, the room was dim, as if a heavy fog kept the light from reaching the wooden floor.

  The staircase in the back of the foyer, although tall and grand, rose up into a cloud of thick dust.

  “Take off your coat,” said the housekeeper. “Our home is your home. And for that, I am truly sorry.”

  A wooden coat rack carved to look like a crying penguin, with small hooks sticking out of its beak, stood next to the door. Bolt put his small bag on the ground and tried to unbutton his coat. His hands shook from nerves, which made the button difficult to grip. But he eventually succeeded.

  Bolt thought, If only I had bolted away earlier!

  Then he thought, No, I am home now. I must be brave. For my father.

  “Are you tired?” asked the housekeeper.

  “Yes. It was a long trip.”

  “Woe is you. I am sure traveling is more exhausting than cleaning an entire manor until your fingers bleed every day, like mine do. But I shouldn’t complain. I’m just a lowly housekeeper, friendless and miserable, never to be loved.” She looked away and wiped her cheek. Were those tears? Bolt couldn’t be sure.

  Bolt watched the woman for a moment, wondering why she was so miserable. Maybe she and Bolt could be friends. Perhaps Bolt could cheer her up.

  “In case you were wondering, we will never be friends and you will never cheer me up,” said the housekeeper. She stared at Bolt, her eyes scanning him until they rested on his neck. “The mark!”