The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  “Even if you were freed from these walls, you would never escape,” rasped Frau Farfenugen. “The Baron will hunt you down and then chew you up like gum and blow you into a giant bubble. Or worse. Do you want to be bubbled? Of course you don’t. I have been trapped here for my entire life and now you will share my fate.”

  Bolt gasped but also scratched his head. “That’s impossible. The Baron is just a boy. How could he have kept you here your whole life?”

  “A boy? Don’t make me laugh!” The housekeeper laughed. It was really just a wheeze, although Bolt assumed it was supposed to be a laugh. “The Baron is over one hundred years old.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Why should you? The Baron transforms into a penguin every night. That makes perfect sense. But living for more than one hundred years? Sure, I just made that up.”

  “OK, I guess I believe it,” admitted Bolt.

  The housekeeper looked away, and then back at Bolt, and then away again. “They say the Brugarian moon makes him immortal. It is bigger here. More powerful and always full. You will be just like him, soon, sharing his unquenchable thirst for raw fish and power. But it could be worse for you. At least you get the nice bedroom, while I have to sleep in the kitchen. Then again, I’m just a lowly housekeeper.”

  “Do you have to keep calling yourself a lowly housekeeper?”

  “I could call myself a contemptible housekeeper, an undeserving housekeeper, or a loathsome housekeeper.”

  “No, let’s keep lowly.”

  Frau Farfenugen sighed. “Very well.”

  “But there’s a way to break the curse, right?” asked Bolt, biting his fingernails.

  “Probably not. But probably is not absolutely.” Frau Farfenugen closed her eyes and chanted,

  “When the moon is high, beware the mark,

  Where danger lurks and penguins bark.

  For you shall change, you shall transform,

  When penguin spirit inside is born.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” said Bolt.

  “It hit number one in the Brugarian pop charts a few years ago. It’s got a good beat and you can dance to it. But the second verse is less popular:

  “Three days, that is all you have until

  The penguin curse inside you will

  Never stop nor never decrease,

  Until your humanity’s deceased.”

  “But it’s just a song,” said Bolt.

  Frau Farfenugen frowned. She leaned over and whispered to Bolt, “It’s just a song in the same way cupcakes are just a bread. Don’t you understand? Three days. You only have three days to overcome the curse. Three days or you will never be human again. You spent one day in bed, sleeping, so you only have two days left.”

  “The Fortune Teller, Blazenda. She can help me, right?” asked Bolt quietly.

  “She is your only chance,” the housekeeper whispered back.

  “I knew it!”

  “Ssshh!” spat Frau Farfenugen, putting a finger to her lips. “We’re whispering.”

  “Sorry. Right. Why are we whispering?” Bolt whispered.

  “Because it makes our conversation feel extra creepy and suspenseful.”

  Bolt grabbed the housekeeper’s arm. “Will you help me escape?” he asked in a semi-whisper.

  “Me?” Frau Farfenugen shrieked, but quietly. “I cannot risk it. Not now. Not when I’m so close.”

  “Close to what?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Forget I mentioned it.” She yanked her arm from Bolt’s grasp. As she did, a piece of paper fell from her apron. She picked it up and stuffed it back into her apron pocket, but not before Bolt noticed writing and hand-drawn hearts on it.

  “What’s that?” asked Bolt.

  “What’s what?”

  “You were holding a note. With hearts.”

  “A note? I’m just a lowly housekeeper; why would someone give me a love letter?”

  “A love letter? I just said it was a note.”

  “Exactly. No one would give me a love letter or a note.”

  Bolt shook his head. He would never get a love letter. Not that he wanted one, but the thought of never getting one, ever, was a little depressing. Penguin monsters didn’t get love letters, just like Bolt would never have a family. Tears flowed down Bolt’s face like water from a broken faucet.

  The housekeeper stared at him. She sighed. “Stop that. I hate it when people get all sad and depressed about things. You need to be more optimistic, like me.” She leaned closer to Bolt, and her whisper became extra whispery. “I will help you. Don’t think this means we are friends. But if there’s hope for you, maybe there’s hope for me, too—hope for all of Brugaria. Legend has foretold a chosen one.”

  “That’s what Blazenda told me. But chosen for what? I’m not brave or mighty.”

  “How do I know what you’re chosen for? I’m just a lowly housekeeper. You could be chosen to fight the Baron. Or join him. Or do his laundry. I’m hardly an authority on these sorts of things.” Frau Farfenugen still held the tray of dead fish. Now she turned it upside down and dropped the food onto the floor. Bolt’s stomach growled as he watched. “The Baron cannot know I helped you or he might turn me into gum, or worse. Knock me out with this platter, and then you can escape down the staircase. The Baron is not home. It’s your best chance.”

  She handed the platter to Bolt. He frowned. “Won’t it hurt? I really don’t want to hit you.”

  “Do it!” she commanded.

  Bolt sighed, lifted the platter, and crashed it onto the housekeeper’s head.

  THUMP!

  The housekeeper winced and then frowned. “All you’ve given me is a lump on my head. Harder, fool!”

  “I’d rather not,” admitted Bolt.

  “Hit me!” she commanded.

  Bolt hit her on her head again, harder.

  THUMP!

  Again, she winced. “Now I’ll have two bumps.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never tried to knock anyone out before. Can’t we just pretend I knocked you out?”

  The housekeeper sighed and collapsed to the ground, amid the dead fish. As Bolt looked at her, she rasped. “Oh, look at me. I’m unconscious on the floor. I hope the prisoner doesn’t escape.” Bolt did not move. He looked down, feeling bad about the two lumps forming on the top of the housekeeper’s head. Frau Farfenugen shook her head and growled. “Stop standing there staring. Run! Go into town and find the Fortune Teller before the Baron finds you. Break the curse. Or heaven help us all.” She laid two cold fish atop her head. “And heaven help my head bumps.”

  25.

  Escape from Chordata Manor

  Dressed in his tuxedo, and with his black leather wingtip shoes laced tightly on his feet, Bolt darted across the lawn and toward the woods. The shoes were slippery on the snow-dusted grass. He almost fell, twice.

  Bolt ran into the forest and thought he saw a penguin. His heart jumped.

  But it was just a shadow.

  Bolt plunged farther into the woods and its concealing darkness. Despite the dim light, he kept running, fearing birds or other menaces might be chasing him.

  He saw a jackal about to leap out. No, it was a branch. He saw a cow monster ready to jump down. No, it was a nest.

  He stopped for a moment, his neck throbbing and his legs too weak to run. When the transformation was complete, Bolt would be stronger. Mightier. Penguin-er.

  The thought made him feel sick. He ran faster.

  Bolt heard noises in the woods up ahead and froze. Perhaps the Baron had followed him. Or maybe a band of penguins was hunting for Bolt. He stood, too afraid to even breathe. But when he stopped, so did the noises.

  Just my imagination, thought Bolt. The woods are perfectly safe.

  Bolt ran past a giant pit filled
with large animal bones. He jumped over a chasm filled with razor-sharp spikes. He slipped past a sign that read Warning: giant snakes ahead.

  Perfectly safe, he repeated to himself.

  Bolt constantly turned his head to see if anything followed. Nothing did, but by constantly turning his head, he almost smashed into fourteen different trees.

  Soon, he heard more noises up ahead. These were not the barking of violent birds or the howls of crazed banshees—but the sounds of people. Happy shouts. Singing. He must be near downtown Volgelplatz. Bolt’s heart leapt with joy. Bolt leapt for joy, too, although since he was still in the woods, he hit his head on a branch. He would need to remember not to leap again until safely away from trees.

  He peeked out onto the main road. It was filled with people. Mothers and fathers danced with their children. Teenagers ran hand in hand. Little kids skipped. Three people did cartwheels.

  Bolt stepped out of the forest, but then hopped back in. These weren’t people in the road—they were half-human and half-penguin mutants. What new horror was this? They were humanoid in form, but they had beaks and feathers. Some of these giant penguins wore shoes and lederhosen. There were tall ones and short ones, fat ones and thin ones. Had the Baron created these monstrosities in some sort of secret monstrosity lab?

  Bolt was about to turn and flee back into the woods when he heard a child laugh, an innocent giggle. Nothing evil could giggle like that. He craned his neck past the tree he hid behind for a closer look.

  A very tall penguin walked past him, so close Bolt could practically touch it. The creature held a giant banner in the air:

  The Day of the Penguin

  Of course! These weren’t penguins, but people in fake beaks and penguin costumes. They were just normal, joyful Volgelplatzians (Volgelplatzers?) heading to the festival. It must be today.

  Now Bolt could admire the penguin outfits without quaking. Unlike the tattered and meager costumes of the Brugarian Forest Bandits, these were carefully made, a kaleidoscope of bright and surprising colors. Some were furry and others were rubbery. One penguin costume was made out of seashells. A woman wore a costume built from what appeared to be orange seat cushions; she looked less like a penguin than a walking sofa.

  The houses alongside the road were small and rustic, as cozy and quaint as Chordata Manor was imposing and cold. Many featured penguin flags waving from their roofs. The penguins depicted were proud and heroic birds with their chins and beaks held high, but they also appeared to be kind. None had horns or bushy eyebrows.

  Many houses also had catapults on their roofs, although none as large as the Baron’s contraption.

  “Hey. You. Kid!” A finger tapped Bolt on the shoulder. Bolt turned and, when he saw the towering penguin next to him, screamed.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” said the man. He removed the fake penguin head he wore. “Going to the festival?” Bolt nodded. “I love your tuxedo. It’s very penguin-like. But I thought you’d want one of these, too.” The man handed Bolt a paper beak with a string around it. “Happy Penguin Day!” The man jogged off to join a woman and two young kids up ahead, all wearing fuzzy penguin suits. Bolt put on his beak. For one shining moment, he felt like he belonged here, just another penguin-costumed villager heading to the festival. Wasn’t a village just a large family?

  But the moment quickly dimmed. He wasn’t here to belong. He wasn’t even here to help anyone. He was here to save himself. To break the curse. So his family, the family he would someday find, would accept him.

  Bolt adjusted the beak and continued following the crowds into town. Everyone around him sang and laughed, pranced and danced, frolicked and scampered.

  But not Bolt. He was the only one without a smile on his lips, the only person muttering to himself with furrows of determination upon his brow.

  26.

  The Day of the Penguin

  As he entered the village, Bolt stared, wide-eyed. It was jam-packed. Everyone in town must have been there, and plenty more people, too. Bolt had never seen a celebration like this. Then again, the only parties he had ever attended were Mr. Smoof’s yearly birthday bashes, in which the boys had to watch Mr. Smoof eat cake (he never shared) and open his presents. Each unwanted orphan also had to write an original haiku, such as:

  Mr. Smoof’s birthday

  scarf is nice. May I wear it?

  The heater’s broken.

  The town looked like an old German village, or at least what Bolt imagined one looked like. Half-timbered buildings lined the narrow streets, with white plaster panels between dark wooden frames. An imposing church steeple, with stone walls and a tall rising spire, stood at the end of the block. Boisterous singing streamed from the many taverns and cafés.

  An open-air market crowded the road, filled with dozens of makeshift shops selling penguin key chains, penguin snow globes, penguin pens, delicate glass penguin figurines, and other penguin-related souvenirs and treats.

  And everywhere, people were dressed as penguins!

  Villagers smiled and laughed. On one corner, four tuba players tooted a melody while four women in flowing red aprons tossed a pineapple back and forth. Two men clapped and sang, “Let’s do the Penguin Pineapple Polka!” Little kids dressed like penguin chicks flitted about, playing tag and ducking in and around the grown-ups.

  As he walked, amazed at the energy and antics all around him, Bolt passed a group of four girls jumping rope. He thought it must have been difficult to jump wearing rubber penguin feet, but the girls did, and jumped well. While they played, they chanted a rhyme. Bolt fought the urge to scream and run when he heard their song.

  He was reminded that even here, among the joy, danger lurked.

  “When the moon is high, beware the mark,

  Where danger lurks and penguins bark.

  For you shall change, you shall transform,

  When penguin spirit inside is born.”

  They repeated the verse again, as if chanting a nursery rhyme. Bolt hurried past, cupping his hands over his ears and only lowering them once he was away from their song.

  Bolt wandered deeper into the throngs and passed a group of fishermen. Bolt knew they were fishermen because they held nets and wore shirts that read We Are Fishermen.

  “A killer whale was spotted off the coast,” said one of the fishermen. “Everyone knows killer whales are enemies of penguins.”

  “I heard the same,” said another. “Not a good sign during the festival.”

  “Plenty of bad signs recently,” said the first man. “Our beloved penguins are growing meaner. Penguins attacked Helga and Burt last night. The teenagers will recover, but Burt lost a brand-new shoe . . .”

  “Rubbish. They are just a few troublemaking penguins,” responded a third fisherman. “I can’t believe it means . . .”

  Bolt didn’t hear the rest of their conversation as the crowd pushed him forward. But their voices lingered. He remembered the night before. His memories. His dreams. A large, tarantula-size ball of shame crept into his stomach.

  As Bolt was propelled onward, he searched among the crowd. If the Fortune Teller was here, he didn’t know how he would find her. If the Old and Seedy Part of Town was close, he did not know where to look.

  Suddenly, Bolt stopped walking. His spine felt like it had been dipped in ice water. His mind sensed something—a roaring wind of anger and hate. He looked across the square in horror. The Baron! Although he was far away, it was as if the Baron’s brain and Bolt’s brain were wrapped together with string.

  The Baron wore a paper penguin beak just like Bolt did, but there was no mistaking the hornlike hair or black penguin feather–sewn cape. It was he.

  The Baron’s mind was dark, as gray as the walls in Bolt’s tower room. Such a craving for power! Such a deep, never-ending lust to rule!

  The Baron turned and looked
back. Had he sensed Bolt, just as Bolt had sensed the Baron? Bolt needed to run, to get out of sight. Anywhere. He squeezed through the crowd and ran to the first shelter he saw: the tall and imposing church now standing before him.

  Bolt stepped inside and closed the thick wooden door, hoping this would be a haven where he could hide until it was safe. As he entered, he heard murmurs.

  He was not alone.

  27.

  The Prince of Whales

  Bolt stood in a small lobby with nothing but drab wooden walls and a cactus in a pot. Meanwhile, a church service appeared to be in session. Bolt peeked around the corner into the sanctuary.

  About two dozen people sat in pews, heads bowed as if in prayer. Each congregant was dressed in a blue hooded fuzzy robe with a picture of a purple whale on the back. Each whale was happily swimming, giggling as if at a whale joke. In front, on the platform and behind a pulpit, stood a thin man, his back to the congregation. He wore the same uniform as the congregants, except his whale looked angrier, its mouth open to reveal sharp teeth, roaring and leaping from the sea.

  A stained-glass window above the sanctuary depicted the same menacing whale.

  Bolt slipped off his penguin beak and sat down in the back row, at the end, hidden by the shadows. He would stay until he was certain the Baron was no longer near. Fortunately, none of the others in the room paid attention to him.

  The leader on the platform looked at the stained-glass window above. “O whale, thou mighty mammal.” He waved a wooden club in the air. “Thou who art so very, very large, with such big teeth and an impressive blowhole.”

  “Blubber, blubber, blubber,” chanted the audience.

  “O hippo of the sea,” continued the congregation leader, “splash us with thy fins. Sing to us thy songs. Fill us with thy spout-shooting water.”