The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  Bolt leaned his head to the side to partly cover his birthmark, as he often did. He tried to ignore Frau Farfenugen’s continued glare, but it was hard since she pointed to his neck and kept mumbling, “The mark. The mark.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything,” muttered Bolt.

  The housekeeper bowed her head. “Of course not. People are born with hideous penguin-shaped birthmarks all the time. It’s as normal as your being born with exploding ears.”

  “I wasn’t born with exploding ears.”

  “Better that, than to have been born with your birthmark.”

  Bolt shifted uneasily while trying to keep his knees from their continued knocking. “So, will I meet the Baron tonight?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.

  “No, and for that, be thankful. You won’t have many other things to be thankful for, probably nothing else, actually, so don’t start getting used to being thankful for things. The Baron has business at night. Every night.” She squeezed a wart on her cheek.

  “Maybe tomorrow he and I will go on a picnic,” said Bolt with a forced smile. “Or have an ice cream social. Or maybe even play water polo.”

  The housekeeper scowled. “The Baron doesn’t play water polo. And you think he’ll throw you an ice cream party? You have a better chance of being churned into ice cream yourself.” Bolt waited for a smile, some indication Frau Farfenugen was joking, but none came. He tried to shake away images of being churned as the housekeeper grabbed his travel bag and marched toward the staircase. “Let me show you to your room.”

  Her combat boots clomped on the wooden floor. She walked bent over, so she seemed even shorter. Bolt followed. As they crossed the room, Bolt eyed a large portrait of a little man hanging above an unlit fireplace. He had a huge nose, so wide and long it reminded Bolt of a bird’s beak. Two tufts of gray hair stood up on the sides of his head, giving the impression of horns. As Bolt walked across the floor, he felt as if the man’s beady gray eyes followed him, watching. The man’s mouth was twisted into what might have been an attempt at a smile, but failed miserably. The man had very bushy eyebrows.

  “Who’s that?” Bolt whispered, fearing the answer. Please don’t let it be Baron Chordata!

  “Baron Chordata,” said Frau Farfenugen.

  Someone far away screamed and, Bolt assumed, fainted.

  Bolt groaned. “Th-that’s who summoned me here?” His voice trembled nearly as much as his legs. He stepped back, as if the portrait might reach out and grab him.

  “He? No, that man died long ago. We should be so lucky. Our master is his son. He’s far worse.”

  Bolt tried to imagine someone more disturbing than the man in the portrait, but failed. He also noticed a second painting next to it, a much smaller painting, of a man in a chef’s hat who appeared to be screaming in pain while caramel sauce was poured on his head. Bolt decided not to ask about that painting.

  “The Baron collects art and other things far less pleasant,” said Frau Farfenugen.

  “Like what?”

  “Misery, pain, and horror—and unfortunately he collects them in great abundance. Now, come. We must hurry. It is late.”

  Bolt followed the housekeeper. As they reached the first stair, Frau Farfenugen suddenly turned around and leaned into Bolt’s face until their noses bumped. “Did the Fish Man drive you here?”

  Bolt nodded.

  Frau Farfenugen’s eyes opened wide. “How is he? Is he well?” The sarcasm slid from her voice. “It’s chilly. Did he wear a jacket? He does not always wear enough layers.”

  “He seemed warm enough, I suppose.”

  “Good, good.” The housekeeper’s shoulders slumped forward as she let out a sigh. Before Bolt could ask why she was so concerned, the housekeeper resumed climbing the stairs and snapped, “Now! Do not dawdle! You must be upstairs before midnight.”

  “What happens at midnight?”

  “Nothing good. Now, stop talking and start hurrying.”

  Bolt glanced back at a grandfather clock against the wall. Tall and ornate, the clock’s tarnished silver face and rusted iron hands revealed it was only a few minutes before twelve.

  Bolt’s heart raced, and exhaustion spread across his body. Being scared was tiring, and he had been scared for most of his trip. He only now realized how fast his heart had been pounding all this time.

  As they ascended the staircase, each step creaked as if moaning in agony.

  The stairs ended on the next floor, and they turned left, then entered another stairwell, narrow, steep, and winding, that grew narrower and steeper the higher it twisted. They climbed up and up, round and round, in ever-tighter circles. They were going to the top of the tower Bolt had seen from the yard.

  Slam! Slam!

  Above them, again:

  Slam! Slam!

  Bolt stopped and stepped back, wondering if he could bolt downstairs. But remembering the warnings about midnight, he took a deep breath and continued his staircase climb. The smacking crashes grew louder the higher they went. Frau Farfenugen seemed undisturbed by the banging.

  Slam! Slam!

  Finally, the stairs ended at a door. The slamming came from the other side, from Bolt’s new room. The housekeeper turned the knob, threw open the door, switched on a light, and boldly stepped inside. Bolt expected a monster to jump out. He braced himself, ready to bolt.

  PART TWO

  The Transformation

  10.

  A Break in the Action

  “Ah-choo!” I wiped my nose after a particularly forceful penguin-allergy sneeze. The penguin caretaker and I were the only people near the penguin exhibit. We were perhaps the only ones left in the entire St. Aves Zoo.

  The night air grew chilly. I shivered.

  “Should I stop telling my story?” asked the storyteller. He looked up at the sky, clouds sweeping in front of the rising full moon. “You seem scared.”

  “Me? Never.”

  “Then why are you chewing on your jacket sleeve?”

  I spit out a few threads that had caught in my teeth. “For the fiber?” I ignored the man’s disbelieving stare. “The boy in your story—this Bolt Wattle. His adoption seems quite, well, irregular.”

  “And so it was,” agreed the man. “I heard that after the orphanage closed, years ago now, the only evidence the boy had lived at Oak Wilt was a coffee-stained piece of paper found under the carpet in the orphanage attic, next to a receipt for a pearl necklace. It seems the boy’s adoption had been, quite literally, swept under the rug.”

  The man looked away, lost in his thoughts. During the silence I glanced at the penguins. They watched us, leaning in, as if they were as eager to hear the story continued as I was. “I think I shall take the males for my zoo,” I mumbled. Males were bigger, and easier to see from afar. Zoo visitors with poor eyesight would appreciate my thoughtfulness.

  “They are a family. You should keep them together.”

  “They are birds,” I reminded him.

  The penguin caretaker sighed. “I have not yet finished my story. When I have, you may feel differently.”

  “Unlikely,” I said, picking a few more jacket threads from my teeth. “Continue with your tale.”

  “Very well. But let’s leave Bolt for a few minutes, and instead explore the history of the Brugarian Forest Bandits.”

  “History?” I scowled. “I hate history almost as much as I hate children’s stories.”

  “Knowing history is important. They say history repeats itself.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Can I buy your shoes?” I sneezed.

  11.

  The Story of Vigi Lambda

  One day, many years before Bolt traveled to Brugaria, a young flutist named Milo sat in the hayfields with his beloved, Marcella. The boy loved to blow the lush melodies of traditional Brugarian folk songs like “She’ll Be C
oming ’round the Fjord When She Comes” and “One, Two, Buckle My Lederhosen” on his flute. As he played, the notes soared up the hills and into the hearts of all who heard.

  Milo and Marcella had been secretly married. Marcella knew her parents would never approve. Her father played the violin, and the rivalry between flutists and violinists was just as fierce as it is today. Marcella knew her father’s heart would be broken when he discovered she was wed.

  Milo and Marcella did not notice the bandits riding up on their horses; the sweet, enchanting sounds of the flute obscured all other noise. By the time they heard them, it was too late to run.

  “Do you know who I am?” roared the largest man of the group from his perch atop a great black stallion. The man had a scar across one eye and a sour look. His black-and-white penguin lederhosen were torn and his hair was filled with clods of dirt. But it was the rifle slung across his back that alarmed the young flutist and his new bride the most.

  “I am Vigi Lambda, the famous bandit,” said the scar-eyed man. “I demand you feed me and my men goat milk, steak, and wine.”

  “We are poor farmers,” said Milo. “We have none of that. We have some lumpy oatmeal and an apple. We will gladly share them with you.”

  “You promised me the apple,” said Marcella, pouting.

  “I don’t want your apple or your oatmeal,” said the bandit. “But I will take your flute.”

  “No, not that!” wailed Milo. “Anything but that!”

  Vigi Lambda kicked the lad in the chest, grabbed the flute, and rode off, hooting with laughter. Milo lay on the ground, weeping.

  “Don’t cry, my beloved,” said Marcella. “I’ll tell my father. He will help us.”

  “But he plays the violin.”

  “I know. But I’m his daughter.”

  “No,” said Milo. “I couldn’t bear you leaving me now. We still have the apple.”

  “An apple is not a flute,” said Marcella wisely.

  “It will have to do.”

  All day long Milo blew into the apple, but it failed to make a flutelike noise. He tried to pretend it didn’t bother him, but he felt as if the ache in his heart would never heal. He stayed up half the night blowing into the apple. As a result, he slept in late.

  When he awoke, Marcella was gone.

  “My love!” he cried. “Where are you?”

  She did not answer. Milo searched the woods, but found no trace of her. She owned only one shoe, so Milo knew she could not go far, at least not without stepping on a rock or something sharp. He waited for weeks, and then months, for her to return. She never did. Every day he worried about her, and her feet most of all.

  “The bandits must have taken her,” said Milo to himself. When you live alone in a hayfield for a long time, you often talk to yourself. “They probably play my flute to her.”

  Milo vowed revenge. He practiced swordsmanship and boxing and gunplay. He wrestled wolves, shot slingshots, and learned to waltz. He wasn’t sure if waltzing would help him in a duel, but he left nothing to chance.

  Four years passed until the boy, now a man, was ready. With his slingshot, Milo could hit a worm from twenty paces with his eyes closed. He could wrestle wolves with one arm. He even mastered the Revolving Ronde, Progressive Twinkle, and Throwaway Oversway, which were all advanced waltzing steps.

  If any worm attacks, wolf fights, or ballroom dancing broke out, he would be prepared.

  Milo walked into the forest. He knew the robbers lived deep inside it because they had left behind a business card that read Robbers. Address: Forest, deep inside.

  He brought his apple. It was now four years old and a bit moldy, but it might come in handy.

  It was early morning when he entered the forest, and late afternoon by the time he found the bandits. He simply walked right into their campsite. There had been no guards or scouts, an oversight that surprised Milo. If he were in charge, there would always be a guard on duty.

  Standing in the middle of their tents, Milo yelled out, “Where is Vigi Lambda? I have come for revenge!”

  “Who are you?” spoke a deep, commanding voice. Vigi Lambda emerged from a tent, covered in dirt and grime. Goat milk stained his cheeks and crumbles of cheese crackers coated his beard. Milo was disgusted. If he were in charge, the men would take regular baths.

  “I was a farm boy,” Milo declared. “You stole my flute and my woman.”

  Vigi Lambda squinted. “Yes. I remember you now. I threw away the flute, and I don’t have your woman.”

  “You lie!” cried Milo.

  “I promise you I don’t. The Code of the Bandit quite clearly says that I must always keep my word, or at least I must keep it most of the time. I’m also not allowed to cheat at cards unless I’m losing. But why are you here?”

  Milo took a deep breath. “Vigi Lambda, I’ve come to fight you.”

  Vigi laughed, a spiteful laugh. Milo shook his head. If he were in charge, he would never laugh at threatening ex-flutists.

  They were now surrounded by dozens of bandits who had emerged from their tents after hearing Milo’s challenge. “I don’t enjoy killing poor former flutists,” said Vigi, still snickering at the sight of reedy Milo. “Go home and I’ll let you live.”

  The other bandits laughed. “Yes, go home. You don’t want to die.”

  “I could beat you,” said Milo. “I’ve been practicing. I’m pretty good. I can even waltz.”

  The men guffawed. They had no interest in dancing.

  “You have stolen my love,” said Milo. “You have left me bitter and broken. I shall kill you.”

  “I find that doubtful. But if you do kill me, you will become the head of this clan of bandits. The Code of the Bandit, Section Eight, states that anyone who kills the current Vigi Lambda in a fair fight will become the new leader and will also be called Vigi Lambda. By keeping the old name, we get to use the same stationery. That is our law.”

  “I was not aware of any of that, but I’m game.”

  Vigi held a dagger, but all Milo carried was his apple, still uneaten. Despite planning this challenge for years, he had accidentally left his gun, sword, and slingshot back at the farm. The two circled each other. Milo stepped forward with his left foot and then stepped forward with his other foot, sliding it to the right before setting it down. He shifted his weight to his right foot and put his feet together. He then mirrored the movements, backward. In his head he counted, One-two-three. One-two-three.

  “What are you doing?” asked Vigi.

  “Waltzing.”

  “Why are you waltzing? I thought you were joking about that.”

  As Milo stepped forward with his left foot again, Vigi lurched forward with his dagger. But Milo had already begun sliding to the right to complete his dance move and easily avoided the blade.

  Vigi’s lunge left him off balance. Milo stepped forward in seamless tempo with the music he softly hummed, and hurled his apple at his enemy.

  It struck Vigi in the head, and the villain crumpled to the ground. The apple had hit the cranial nerve that causes instant death, just as Milo had planned.

  “He’s been ballroom danced to death!” cried one of the other bandits.

  The young man who just a moment earlier had been called Milo strode forward, his hands on his hips. “According to the Code of the Bandit, I am now ruler of this clan. We shall move deeper into the forest and become even more ruthless and clever, but with guard duty and regular baths, and we will never laugh at flutists again. And I shall be known as the greatest Vigi Lambda that ever lived, at least until the next one comes along.”

  Milo, or rather Vigi, led the bandits to greater feats of banditry. The bandits, now better smelling because of their bathing, and safer because of regular guard duty, grew bolder. Soon, they were kidnapping one or two people a day, sometimes more. It was not always easy to kid
nap so many people. The bandits had to build an extra-large kidnapping hut to keep their prisoners, and always needed plenty of snacks for them to eat, but it was a good life.

  The new Vigi made it fun, too. Once he had all the bandits rob a carriage in their pajamas, and another time they had to kidnap someone using only a sock. Vigi always joined in. He never put any of his men at risk doing something he was not willing to do, too. His men loved him for it. And he loved his bandit clan back.

  One day, the bandits snuck into a house in a nearby village. They had heard a baby had been born, and kidnapping babies was quite lucrative. New parents were usually quick to pay ransoms, and babies didn’t eat too many snacks or take up too much room in the kidnapping hut.

  Back at the bandits’ camp, Vigi held the baby—a girl wrapped in freshly laundered swaddling clothes. He made funny faces and soft cooing sounds at the infant, but he was not happy. Between his fingers, Vigi held the ransom note he had forgotten to drop off.

  “Give this ransom note to house number 919,” said Vigi to Felipe, who was his right-hand man despite being left-handed. Vigi stared at the note. “Wait. Maybe we took this baby from house 616?” He turned the piece of paper upside down. He muttered a curse under his breath. “919. Yes, that must be it.”

  Felipe grabbed the ransom note and ran back to town.

  And then Vigi waited.

  The rules of kidnapping were quite simple and very strict. Ransom notes were left behind, and ransoms needed to be settled within twenty-four hours or the victim’s throat would be cut. After waiting twenty-four hours for the girl’s parents to pay, Vigi ignored protocol and waited another two hours. Nothing. Another two hours. Nothing. And then another two hours.

  “Are you going to slit that baby’s throat already?” asked Felipe. The man was shorter and rounder than the other bandits, and not much of a fighter, but he made a wonderful pumpkin strudel. It was always a big seller at the annual Forest Bandit Bake Sale.

  Vigi Lambda sighed and held the blade above the baby’s head. The infant looked up and drooled, but in a very delightful way. Vigi gripped the blade more tightly. The baby burped, but it was a very charming burp. Vigi pressed the blade against the baby’s skin. The tot spit-up, but the spit-up was exceptionally adorable.