The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  “Where is your father?” he asked. “Or rather, our father?” It felt strange saying those words, but it also felt welcome.

  “Father? We don’t have a father, or any parent,” snarled the Baron, folding his arms and scowling.

  Bolt blinked. “We don’t? But why?”

  The Baron thumped his foot on the ground, and his mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. His eyes glowed red. As he spoke, his voice rose higher and higher in both pitch and volume. “I am Baron Chordata. I make my own rules. If I say we don’t have a parent, then we don’t have a parent. Don’t mention it again or I will hang you from a flagpole by your armpit hairs and raise you up and down for a week!”

  The Baron’s body shook, and steam shot from his ears. Bolt stepped back in surprise.

  Bolt had been so certain he would meet his real father that this news felt like someone had slapped him on the face with a brick, or perhaps with one of the orphanage’s brick-like fruitcakes. He thought back to the mysterious way he had been claimed—leaving the orphanage without notice and traveling across the world in the middle of the night. Had this boy-Baron arranged it all?

  “I don’t understand,” said Bolt. “Why am I here?”

  The Baron stomped forward. He stood maybe an inch from Bolt, staring into his eyes, eyebrows curved down and jaw tight. “Stop asking questions, Bolt. I have only one rule in this house—don’t ask questions!” The Baron’s face still burned purple with anger. He curled his hands into fists. Bolt stepped back. “The next time you ask a question, I might get very angry. You do not want to see me very angry.”

  Bolt had no doubt that he did not want to see the Baron very angry. He had a million and one questions he wanted to ask. He swallowed them all.

  The Baron twitched a few times, his eyelids fluttered, but then his red face turned back to its pure white state. The anger melted away like a Popsicle in a sauna.

  He ran his finger across the side of Bolt’s neck. “Yes. Good. Just as I thought.”

  Bolt tilted his head to the side, as he often did. “It’s just an ugly birthmark.”

  The Baron bristled. “Ugly? No! Be proud. It marks you as special. Oh, Bolt. You do not realize yet how special you are. I have been looking for you for a long time. Too long.”

  “But you’re just a kid.”

  The Baron laughed, an icy and cold laugh, so icy and cold that Bolt wished he were wearing a winter hat. “You’d be surprised.”

  A chill froze Bolt’s hatless head. He remembered the Fish Man’s words: “Not everything isss asss it appearsss.” Those words seemed important, although Bolt was not sure why.

  “Enough. Let us eat. I’m as hungry as a man-eating penguin.” Bolt’s mouth dropped. The Baron laughed. “It’s just a Brugarian expression. Penguins prefer eating fish to humans. Most of the time, at least.” The Baron led Bolt across the entryway. “Penguins have a rich history here, you know. The entire town was built on them. In fact, a fine layer of dead penguin blubber is built into the walls of this house. My cape is sewn from penguin feathers.”

  “It’s a nice cape,” muttered Bolt, managing to still his lips. They quivered with fear, just like the rest of him.

  If the Baron noticed Bolt’s nervousness, he did not show it.

  The Baron rubbed his fingers against the fabric, nestled his nose against it, and inhaled deeply. “We will get you your own cape. Soon. After.”

  Bolt wondered, After what? But he knew better than to ask a question.

  As they walked, Bolt stared at his feet, still wincing from the painful realization that his real family was not here. Why had he dared to hope? Why had he believed this home was truly his?

  The warnings Bolt had heard the night before all flooded back. The threats he faced had not vanished with the rising of the sun.

  If his father was out there, and his family, he would not find them inside this manor’s cracking gray walls.

  15.

  BFFs

  The Baron led Bolt into a grand dining room. The room had a reddish tint to it from dark, mahogany walls, a red oriental rug on the floor that was faded with age, and blood-red upholstery on the dining room chairs. Thick red drapes hung from the walls, but they didn’t cover any windows, as if someone had thought of building windows in the room, changed their mind, but decided to put up drapes anyway. A large wooden table took up most of the floor space with chairs for twenty people, although place settings were set for only two, at the end. Bolt wondered if there had been a time when great parties were thrown here. He doubted any were held now, despite his and the boy-Baron’s matching tuxedos.

  Bolt’s dreams of ice cream socials and water polo games had been ridiculous. He regretted his misguided hopes.

  On the table sat a golden candelabra, and a dozen silver plates holding an assortment of foods. Seafood. The room stank from its smell.

  As they came closer, Bolt saw one of the plates stacked with trout and lined with lemon wedges, a bowl filled with live goldfish, and a platter covered with marinated eel tails swimming in a thick red sauce. At least Bolt thought they were eel tails. It was hard to say for sure. Other plates were crammed with equally mysterious seafood dishes, although Bolt recognized sardines on one plate, and what appeared to be green octopus tentacles on another.

  The Baron sat at the head of the table, and Bolt took the seat beside him. The Baron piled seafood onto his plate—a handful of this, a spoonful of that. Bolt watched, but did not take any food.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the Baron, noticing Bolt’s hesitancy to join in on the feast. “Don’t you like our breakfast?” The Baron plunged his hand into the goldfish bowl, grabbed a fish, and tossed it into his mouth. He swallowed the creature whole. “They are best eaten fresh,” he explained, sliding the bowl closer to Bolt. “Try one.”

  Bolt fidgeted, but for once he did not fidget because his pants were too tight. His tuxedo pants were practically the only thing comfortable about this entire situation.

  “Eat one!” screamed the Baron, his eyes glowing red and his voice trembling. “I command you to eat! You do not want to see me—”

  “—very angry,” Bolt whispered to himself, and before the Baron could finish his sentence, Bolt dipped his hand into the water, grabbed a fish, and swallowed it.

  The goldfish slid down Bolt’s throat. It was quite tasty. Bolt licked his lips.

  Soon, Bolt had filled his plate with various foods, including a large helping of eel tails. “It’s delicious,” he admitted.

  “I’m so glad, Bolt. I knew you would like it. I just knew it.”

  Bolt had not realized how hungry he was. He had not eaten much the day before during his journey, and with each bite he craved more. He couldn’t stop eating. He grabbed a handful of goldfish, which was not easy because they tended to squirm away, and downed three in one swallow.

  “Watch this,” said the Baron. He lifted a large trout fillet between his fingers. He flipped it into the air and opened his mouth. The trout somersaulted twice before entering the Baron’s throat, sliding down without even a chew. “Now you try.”

  Bolt looked at the pile of trout uneasily. Swallowing a fillet in one gulp seemed difficult. Surely he would choke. But the Baron stared at Bolt with such intensity that he felt he had no choice.

  Grabbing the end of the trout, and with an uncertain smile, Bolt flipped it into the air. The fish turned once, twice, and then landed in Bolt’s mouth.

  It went down the hatch without even a hiccup.

  The Baron applauded. “Wonderfully done! I knew you could do it. And you said you had no talents. Oh, we shall be BFFs. Forever!”

  Bolt grinned. He had a talent. True, swallowing fish in one gulp was pretty lousy, talent-wise. But it was better than having no talent at all.

  Maybe he could make a home of this place? It might not be the coziest home, but maybe Ms. Blackensmear ha
d been right. Maybe purple pens almost out of ink couldn’t be too choosy.

  “So, what’s this about a festival?” Bolt asked, the food fueling his courage. “I heard it starts soon. I’d love to go.”

  The Baron raised his eyebrows. “Did you just ask a question?”

  “Sorry,” said Bolt. He gulped. “It’s just that, well, I’ve never been to a festival before. I thought it would be nice to meet people in town.”

  “Nice? Meet people? The town is filled with villagers!” The Baron’s face turned violet. Bolt cringed as the Baron crashed his fist down on the table. The silverware and platters rattled. “The townspeople are common. Vulgar. We are above their kind. You will not talk to them. You will not meet them. Do you understand? I have but one rule. Never to mix with the villagers! One rule!”

  Bolt’s jaw dropped open and he leaned back. “Sure. Sorry. But . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought not asking questions was the only rule.”

  “Fine. Two rules. You shall never mention anything that might break my rules again.”

  “But . . .”

  “Never!” The Baron’s eyes blazed red, and the tufts of hair that sprung out of his head looked more hornlike than ever. It took all of Bolt’s willpower not to bolt under the table.

  His next question, about picnics and water polo, went unspoken.

  But then the Baron laughed and, as suddenly as it had erupted, his anger subsided. The Baron smiled, showing his dimples. “Forgive me. I hate to argue. Besides, I have something far better than the festival to amuse you.” He stood and pushed in his chair.

  Bolt followed the Baron out of the dining room, careful not to do anything that might accidentally disturb his new guardian.

  He could not stay, not for anything in the world. He would yet be united with his real family—he could sense it. They were out there. Bolt just needed to find them.

  Any other future was something Bolt refused to swallow.

  16.

  Fun and Games

  “This is it,” said the Baron with an extravagant wave of his arms. “What do you think?”

  Bolt stood at the door of a large game room. Disco balls flung sparkles on the ceiling as they spun, the flashing lights dancing along mirrored walls. Colors bounced everywhere. Music hummed from hidden speakers, a continuous drone of guitars, along with a haunting organ and maybe an accordion. Arcade and vending machines were packed tightly together and included a Skee-Ball alley and a snack dispenser loaded with treats. Bolt wanted to try everything at once. There were no games at the Oak Wilt Home for Unwanted Boys, video or otherwise. He had only heard about such things from other boys.

  “This is yours?” he sputtered, surprised, his eyes glazed from the lights and sounds.

  “Was that a question?” asked the Baron.

  “I mean to say—this is yours!”

  “Better,” replied the Baron with a satisfied smirk. “But no. It’s yours. I had this made just for you. I have only one regret: the snack machine doesn’t have flounder chips.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Bolt, although flounder chips sounded tasty. Bolt ran into the room. His eyes blinked at the blasts of light saturating the walls. He pressed a button on the snack machine, and a chocolate-covered halibut bar fell out. Bolt greedily shredded its wrapper and plunged the confection into his mouth. It barely stayed there long enough for him to taste it, but what little he savored was beyond delightful.

  Without pausing for breath, Bolt stepped over to a video game with small birds on the screen—they might have been crudely animated penguins—shooting spaceships. The game leapt to life at his touch. Blasters blasted and stars exploded. Around him, machines beeped, tooted, and roared.

  The Baron placed his hand on Bolt’s shoulder, startling him. Somehow, in the few minutes he had played, Bolt had forgotten the Baron was next to him. It was as if all of Bolt’s worries and despair had been blasted away, like the spaceships on the screens. Bolt blinked to clear his brain, but his mind felt lost in a fog, a heavy mist floating in his head. But he did not care. All he wanted was to play, play, play. And snack.

  “Bolt, we are BFFs now,” said the Baron, his tone gentle, like a wet cotton swab carefully poking a scab. “I want you to be happy. After all, I expect you’ll be here for a long time. A very, very long time.”

  For a moment, Bolt was distracted by the Baron’s comment. But then the game before Bolt beeped, and the Baron’s words were flushed out of his brain. Bolt forgot about the boys back at Oak Wilt, and evil penguins, and terrible warnings, and the Baron’s temper. He forgot he was wearing a tuxedo. He forgot everything but the blips and beeps in front of him. Bolt only stopped playing to switch games, or cram his mouth with a mackerel-flavored macaroon or chocolate guppy worm.

  It was almost too good to be true. What had Ms. Blackensmear said about things that were too good to be true? Bolt couldn’t remember, but who cared?

  He had a vague concept of time passing. At one point, Bolt realized he hadn’t blinked in over an hour. He shrugged, and still didn’t blink. He didn’t want to waste time blinking, not with so many aliens to blast and fish treats demanding to be swallowed.

  The Baron leaned closely into Bolt. How long had he been there? Baron Chordata’s mouth rested only inches from Bolt’s neck, as if he was contemplating biting it. Bolt didn’t flinch. Bite away! He couldn’t stop playing the game before him, not with so many zombies surrounding his penguin army soldier. “Isn’t this wonderful?” the Baron whispered. “Would you like to stay here forever? Just say it, and you shall.”

  “Uh-huh.” But Bolt was too busy mauling monsters to listen carefully.

  “Good,” said the Baron, his voice flowing like a soft, soothing lullaby. “That can gladly be arranged.”

  “Sure, whatever,” said Bolt, blasting a sea lion.

  “Just think,” the Baron said slowly, deliberately, into Bolt’s ear. “A lifetime of playing video games. A lifetime as BFFs. And all you have to give up is something so minor, I hate to even mention it.”

  “Great,” said Bolt, splattering a sea lion on the screen.

  “You merely have to give up your human life.”

  “Yes!” screamed Bolt, detonating a minefield and completely annihilating an army of albatrosses.

  “So you agree to my terms?” asked the Baron. “Say it. You must say it of your own volition.”

  “BFFs, forever. Got it,” said Bolt blankly. “Whatever you want.”

  “I’m so glad we have an understanding.” The Baron stepped back.

  Bolt couldn’t be bothered to reply. He disintegrated a dozen krill on his screen.

  “Play, Bolt, play. All day and into the night. I will call for you when it is time.”

  Later, Bolt would revisit that conversation in his mind dozens of times, wishing he had paid more attention to the Baron’s words. Instead, he moved on to the next game, and the next. His thumb hurt. His misty brain grew more mystified. He was in heaven, although a scattered, increasingly confused heaven.

  “You should turn in. It is late.” Frau Farfenugen’s voice rasped from the doorway, shattering Bolt’s concentration. He looked over to her, momentarily confused.

  “What?”

  “It is almost midnight.”

  “Impossible,” said Bolt. “I just got here.” He looked around. The one small window showed the darkness outside. The Baron was no longer in the room. Bolt couldn’t remember when he had left. Several dozen candy fish wrappers lay by Bolt’s feet. His stomach felt queasy, although he hadn’t realized it until now.

  He stopped playing but couldn’t remove the game images from his head. Enemy creatures continued to fall, blasted, in his brain.

  “You must hurry and go upstairs,” groaned Frau Farfenugen.

  Bolt looked around the room, trying to get his bearings. “I think
the Baron said he would come for me.”

  “Do not fall into his trap. You must be in your room at midnight. You must!”

  “But why?”

  “Or stay here. I’m just a lowly housekeeper. What do I know? If your body is torn apart by man-eating penguins, then I guess I can say I told you so, not that you would be alive to hear me say it.”

  Bolt frowned. He wanted to play forever. He was the Baron’s BFF, and Frau Farfenugen was just a lowly housekeeper. She hadn’t even bought flounder chips!

  A solitary penguin bark from outside the manor blared over the haunting organ and accordion music that rang from the speakers.

  Those mad birds were out in the wild, lurking.

  Bolt’s mind pushed through the video game flurry still swirling in his head, like a snowplow pushing aside the drifts after a blizzard. He should stay. No, he should go. No, he should stay. The snowdrifts kept falling back into the path.

  “Hurry. Come,” pleaded Frau Farfenugen.

  Bolt blinked, something he had not done for hours. His thumb ached. His stomach bubbled. “OK,” he said, but it took all his willpower to mumble those two short syllables.

  As he followed the housekeeper out of the room, Bolt did not think about the promises he had made to the Baron earlier that day. If he had, he would not have walked so slowly. He would have raced to his room as fast as he could, barricaded the door, bolted under the bed, and refused to ever come out again.

  17.

  Nighttime Barking

  Bolt lay in bed. A long black nightshirt had been waiting for him on top of his bedcover when he entered his tower room. Before putting on the shirt, Bolt glanced under his bed. Penguin remained where he’d flung it. Bolt left his stuffed animal there, despite his yearning to grab it. He also fought the urge to hide under his bed, remembering the floor was cold and sticky.

  Instead, Bolt lay under his sheets, his thumbs twitching as if still pushing video game buttons. His eyes wouldn’t stop darting back and forth, lights flashing in his head and game sounds humming in his ears. He couldn’t shake the mist that had settled inside him.