The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

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

  The man on the platform turned and bowed. “Thank you for coming today.” His voice—raspy and hoarse—echoed through the barren room.

  Where had Bolt heard that voice before? It sounded familiar.

  “As you know, this is the Day of the Penguin,” said the speaker. “It is a day of celebration, but also a day of dread. For today we are reminded of our great victory, but also of the threats that still exist. For we are the sworn protectors of all of Brugaria. We are the Mystical Brotherhood of Whales.”

  The room became silent, until a woman sitting directly in front of Bolt cleared her throat. “Why do we call it the Mystical Brotherhood of Whales when the group includes men and women?” she asked “It’s sexist, if you ask me. How about we call it the ‘Mystical Sisterhood of Whales’?”

  “Or the ‘Mystical People-hood of Whales’?” asked another robed woman.

  “Neighborhood of Whales?” suggested one of the male congregants. “That’s sort of inclusive.”

  Others piped in. “Childhood of Whales . . . Robin Hood of Whales . . . Little Red Riding Hood of Whales? No, that doesn’t work . . .”

  “Enough!” the leader shouted. “It matters not what we are called. What’s important is that the penguins are no longer acting like the joyful, happy creatures everyone loves. Must I remind you, it was the Brotherhood that fought the Great Bird Battle all those years ago? We built the catapults. We led the resistance. We have bided our time all these years, but now we must fight again!”

  “Blubber, blubber,” said one large man in the audience, but no one else joined in his blubbering.

  “Why now?” asked the woman sitting in front of Bolt. “I’m supposed to go on vacation next week.” Bolt ducked down, to avoid being seen.

  “Then cancel your plans! Have you not seen the signs?” The speaker thrust his wooden club in the air. No, it wasn’t a club. It was a loaf of bread—a loaf of crusty French bread.

  The man’s hood inched off his head. It was the elderly Günter, whom Bolt had met in the Dead Penguin Inn.

  “You are wrong!” shouted one of the robed men.

  “The penguins are our friends!” shouted another.

  “I really want to go on vacation and I’ve already paid for a hotel room,” protested the woman in front of Bolt. Bolt squirmed and shrank lower in the pew, thankful the room was dimly lit.

  “Blubber!” said the man who had blubbered alone a moment before. He stood up and pointed a finger at their leader. He was twice as wide as anyone else in the room. He had only two teeth.

  “Yes, Franz?” asked Günter, lowering his loaf of bread.

  “I know that you are the anointed prince of our Brotherhood. Or Sisterhood. Or whatever. But we have lived in peace with the penguins for years.”

  “So we have,” agreed Günter. “But let us not forget the dark days when the Stranger came, one hundred years ago. No one cared that he waddled or walked around with a penguin egg. No one suspected he was secretly twisting the minds of the penguins and readying them for war. People ignored the signs. They dismissed the ransacking of fish shacks and the penguin tracks found in butter.”

  “That’s how you can tell if a penguin is in your refrigerator,” said someone in the audience. Others nodded their heads.

  “The Stranger declared penguins were meant to rule. He demanded the people sit on penguin eggs until they hatched. He commanded our ancestors to bake fish sticks for them. He insisted we dress only in tuxedos.”

  Bolt looked at his tuxedo, and shrank farther into his seat.

  “I know the tale,” Franz said.

  “Do you?” shouted their leader with a sudden French-bread jab. “Then you know of the storm, a winter squall unlike any the town had seen. You know of the endless lightning that crackled, and the dense, hazardous snowflakes as big as onions.”

  “Red onions or yellow onions?” asked someone in the audience.

  “Vidalia onions!” shouted Günter. The crowd gasped. “The clouds turned purple, and thunder cried out in fury. Thunder snow, they called it. Everyone agreed they had never seen a storm so fearsome.”

  “Blubber, blubber, blubber,” chanted a few in the audience.

  Bolt looked around the room, still thankful no one paid any attention to him.

  As he spoke, Günter’s voice grew louder and more forceful. “Then, as if the thunder trumpeted the start of war, the penguins came. The Stranger led them, crying, ‘Penguins were meant to rule!’ and ‘Beware the penguins!’ and ‘Has anyone seen my keys?’ because he had misplaced them. His army wrecked homes and looted fisheries. They didn’t return library books they checked out. They tore tags from mattresses. But the Brotherhood refused to bow to the penguins. We led the fight.”

  “We led the fight,” echoed a few voices in the crowd.

  “Blubber, blubber, blubber,” chanted others.

  “The storm lasted for days,” continued the prince. “Feet of snow piled high on the ground, and an endless volley of lightning lit the sky like flames. The penguins came every night, destroying then romping. And sometimes romping then destroying. Or even worse, both at the same time.” He shivered.

  “But the Brotherhood refused to surrender. We rained boulders from our rooftop catapults onto the evil creatures. Many birds were beaten back, but still more came. Boulders flew through the nighttime sky, and the penguins barked and fought.”

  “Blubber, blubber, blubber,” said a couple of people in the crowd.

  “Blubber, blubber,” echoed Bolt, carried away by the group’s enthusiasm.

  “Finally, the Brotherhood drove the Stranger away. They thought the Baron, the Stranger’s evil assistant, was dead—although apparently they were misinformed. But since then we have lived in peace. Until now. The penguins grow bolder. Hordes of cruel penguins roam the countryside. Evil has risen again! Baron Chordata prepares for war!”

  Upon the mention of his name, two men in the room screamed and fainted.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Günter.

  “Yes, we know the Baron is evil and disturbing,” said the woman in front of Bolt. “But . . .”

  “And rotten,” added another congregant.

  “And rotten,” agreed the woman.

  “And deranged,” said another person. “Don’t forget deranged.”

  “OK. He’s evil, disturbing, rotten, and deranged,” agreed the woman. “Anything else?”

  “Stinky?” suggested a man.

  “Petulant?” said someone else.

  Others piped in:

  “Vile . . . Contemptible . . . Loathsome . . . Impolite . . . Vicious . . . Fun-loving, um, never mind that one . . . Menacing . . .”

  “Fine! Enough!” cried the woman in front of Bolt. “Yes, the Baron—I won’t speak his name to avoid any screaming and fainting—is all those things. But would he lead the penguins and start a war? Ridiculous. I don’t believe it. I’m going on vacation.”

  The woman marched toward the main door. As all eyes watched her, Bolt sank farther in his pew.

  “Come back!” cried Günter. He held up his French bread. “We must fight!”

  The others stood and filed out, too. “You are wrong,” they proclaimed. “We are at peace . . . I have nonrefundable hotel reservations . . .”

  As the congregants left, Günter shouted to them, “Come back! Join me! Blubber, blubber, blubber!”

  But they did not blubber back. Soon only Bolt, Franz, and Günter were left. Bolt was thankful for the shadows in the dim room, which continued to conceal him.

  “Do you believe me, Franz?” Günter asked. “Something has changed, I tell you. Something bad, and the Baron is behind it. We need to arm the catapults. Or do you want to be attacked next?”

  “I run the bowling alley,” said Franz. “Penguins don’
t bowl.”

  “Not yet,” warned Günter. “Do you want to take the chance they never will?”

  “Bowling penguins,” muttered Franz with a shiver. “Yes, that would be awful. The shoes wouldn’t fit their webbed feet. Fine. I am ready to fight.”

  Günter clasped the larger man on his shoulder. At the same moment, his eyes shot across the room and rested on Bolt’s pew-peeking head.

  “You, there. Who are you?” He took a step forward, squinting. “Wait. Is that the Baron’s boy?” Bolt stood up, staring at the loaf of French bread waving dangerously over Günter’s head. “He’s a spy! He hates whales!”

  “I don’t hate whales,” said Bolt, stepping back. “To be honest, I don’t really have an opinion about whales, good or bad.”

  “Get him!” yelled Günter to Franz.

  Both Franz and Günter rushed forward.

  28.

  Sack of Rice

  Bolt took a step toward the aisle. Günter neared, as did Franz, one coming from Bolt’s right, the other his left.

  “The Baron will regret this,” rasped the Prince of Whales. “You will regret it.”

  “Blubber, blubber, blubber,” agreed Franz, his mouth stretched into a mad two-toothed grin. He looked like a hockey player who refused to wear a mouth guard.

  Bolt held out his hands. “You have it all wrong. I’m the Baron’s prisoner.”

  “I don’t see shackles,” said Günter. “Or handcuffs. Or even very tight rubber bands.”

  “I escaped,” said Bolt.

  “Well, you won’t escape us so easily.” To Franz he shouted, “Now!”

  They both lunged, but Bolt had already turned and jumped. He leapt higher than he thought possible, easily clearing the pew. Günter and Franz crashed into each other, their heads colliding with a painful BANG!

  “The whale hater is escaping,” groaned Günter as he crumpled to the floor.

  “I’m telling you, I really don’t hate whales,” yelled Bolt as he dashed outside and into the thick crowd filling the streets. He slipped his paper penguin beak back into place.

  It was easy to get lost in such a throng. Being a kid, and short, helped. Bolt pushed his way deeper within the masses. He ping-ponged between bellies and rear ends. It was quite unpleasant to shimmy and squirm among so many people, but Bolt felt certain his pursuers were falling farther and farther behind.

  TOOT!

  Bolt’s head rang with the sound of a giant horn filling the streets. At first, Bolt thought the horn was for him, perhaps the Brotherhood sounding an ancient alarm. But the crowd surged toward the center of town, paying no attention to Bolt. The horn blared again, and the people swept forward even faster. Bolt was carried along with the rabble. He couldn’t have fought against the crowd even if he tried.

  Fortunately Bolt did not see the Baron, or feel his presence. Nor did he see anyone from the Brotherhood, or Sisterhood, or whatever it was called. For now, he felt safe. But he had not forgotten his curse, and his need to find the Fortune Teller.

  The hordes, carrying Bolt along, turned the corner and poured into a large town square—an enormous open space with a tall wooden stage erected in the center. On the stage sat an elaborately carved silver throne with plush red velvet upholstery. Next to that stood a scaffold with a noose.

  A noose for hanging.

  Bolt wiggled closer to the stage until he was right in front of it. The noose must be a prop—it wasn’t meant for an actual hanging. Nothing so horrible could be part of such a joyous celebration.

  Somewhere a bugle blasted, loud and long, and all eyes turned to the far side of the square. A group of people, both men and women, emerged from a cobblestone path that curved between the buildings, all dressed in large matching penguin costumes. Some of the people danced and others played horns or drums. The group of penguin musicians and dancers wiggled through the crowd like a serpent, its tail expanding as others joined the snakelike weaving. The line was soon fifty people long, then one hundred, then more.

  The music was odd, if it could be called music—random beeps and burps, a menagerie of awfulness. Bolt covered his ears. It sounded like terrible musical barking.

  Of course. The band’s tune mimicked the barking of penguins. The sound became more and more captivating, and Bolt found himself barking along.

  A woman in a floppy gray hat and a long black wedding dress with spiderweb-like lace led the procession. Even from far away Bolt knew it was Blazenda, the Fortune Teller. If only Bolt could talk to her! But there was no way to get her attention amid the crowd.

  Blazenda and the penguin dancers spun and barked. With each stomp of the drum or toot of a horn, they yelled the same chant:

  “Sack of rice!”

  Everyone yelled the chant now, thousands of people. Even Bolt shouted, although he had no idea why a sack of rice was so important. The crowd’s voice grew louder and louder, the drumming fiercer and fiercer, the horn playing barkier and barkier, and the group snaked closer and closer.

  As they reached the stage, Blazenda ascended the steps. She was only a few feet away from Bolt, and he yelled her name and jumped up and down, but she did not see nor hear him among the crowd, which was filled with people also jumping and screaming. The dancers and musicians backed away, leaving only two short men dressed as penguins to follow Blazenda up the stairs. The other dancers and musicians blended in with the crowd.

  The two men held a billowy purple cushion. A penguin sat atop it. The bird wore a golden crown dotted with jewels.

  “Sack of rice!” screamed the crowd.

  “Sack of rice!” echoed Bolt.

  The penguin looked around from its perch, its eyes darting back and forth. As the men placed the penguin on the silver throne on the stage, Bolt could sense its nervousness. He could read the penguin’s thoughts: What’s going on? I want to go home. Who has fish sticks?

  Bolt could feel the bird’s breathing, hear its beak creaking, and detect its webbed feet shaking.

  “All hail the Penguin King!” shouted Blazenda.

  The throngs cheered, a deafening roar, and then someone from the crowd screamed, “Let loose the fish!”

  “Let ’em fly!” screamed another.

  Led by the Fortune Teller onstage, the crowd began counting down. “Ten, nine, eight, seven . . .”

  The excitement was as thick as a walrus’s belly.

  “Three, two, one . . .”

  A bugle blasted and a multitude of catapults, one on nearly every building, flung their arms up into the sky. Bolt cringed, expecting to be smashed by rocks or boulders, until he realized the catapults had heaved fish, millions of them flying in a majestic and beautiful arc. They clouded the sky with their gray bodies, and then fell and splattered everywhere: on the street, on benches, on other buildings, on the stage, and on people. Two flopped on Bolt’s head, nearly dislodging his paper beak.

  “We toss fish in memory of the great battle!” yelled Blazenda from atop the stage. The crowd erupted in applause and screams.

  The smell of dead fish rose up from the ground. Fish bits stuck in Bolt’s hair and he pulled the wet, slimy nuggets off and plopped them into his mouth.

  His stomach yearned to eat more. He thought people might become suspicious if he started inhaling fish carcasses, so he fought the urge to get down on his knees and nosh.

  The crowd was silent. No one moved. They were waiting for something.

  Blazenda pointed to the middle of the crowd. The crowd turned, following her finger.

  Three people approached the stage. The villagers stepped aside to give them room to pass. Bolt assumed two of the people were prison guards, because they wore dull gray uniforms and their caps read We Are Prison Guards. The third person was a girl in a tattered outfit that looked vaguely penguin-like. She trudged forward, one of the guards holding her arm to keep her from running. The
guard led her up the steps and toward the scaffold and its noose.

  Bolt blinked. Their prisoner was Annika, the girl bandit. Her long blonde hair flowed freely, no longer constrained by a penguin cap, although part of it appeared to be held up by a bobby pin.

  As Bolt watched, a lump formed in his throat and his heart beat like a bongo drum. They were going to hang her? No, it must all be an act. Make-believe.

  “Today is the Day of the Penguin!” Blazenda bellowed as the guards slipped the noose over Annika’s neck. “Today we honor our penguin ancestors. As in the days of yore, the penguins demand a sacrifice.”

  “Sacrifice!” yelled the crowd, which Bolt realized was what they had been saying all along, and made a lot more sense than “sack of rice.” He blushed a little.

  Annika stood straight, staring ahead, defiant.

  The Fortune Teller returned Annika’s stony glare. “This girl is a criminal, one of the evil forest bandits. She is guilty of crimes against us. And crimes against us are crimes against the penguins.”

  The crowd roared. Annika glowered at the mob, and while her eyes did not tear up, the look of terror was impossible to miss. Those terror-filled but dry eyes rested on Bolt.

  Sure, she had tried to kidnap him. Yes, she was a vicious bandit. Also, she had been rather unpleasant in the forest the other night. But she was just a kid, like Bolt. Annika hadn’t slit Bolt’s throat, even after he had gulped loudly, and didn’t one good turn deserve another? Bolt couldn’t let her die.

  “The penguins demand a sacrifice!” the Fortune Teller howled.

  The crowd chanted, “Yes! Yes!”

  “The penguins demand a life!”

  “Penguins! Penguins!”

  Blazenda put her arm on the lever to release the bottom of the scaffold. If Bolt didn’t do something, the floor would open, Annika would fall, and the noose would snap her neck. The hairs on the back of Bolt’s neck stood up. He looked at the Penguin King; he felt the feathers on the back of its neck standing up, too.

  Bolt sensed the penguin’s fear and its confusion.