The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  Another swat from the penguin’s wing collided against Annika’s leg. She stumbled and twisted awkwardly. She fell and her head banged against the ground.

  Annika lay still, unmoving.

  Bolt hadn’t moved since he had shot the Baron’s orders out his ear. He stared at Annika, wondering if it would be possible to grab her and bolt. Or if he could somehow fight the Baron himself. Or if, better yet, he should continue standing where he was, too scared to do much of anything, and maybe the Baron would forget he was there.

  Bolt’s ear twisted painfully. The Baron held Bolt’s lobe. “Did you think I’d forget about you? Let’s go home, Bolt. Chordata Manor is your home, forever.” To the Penguin King, he said, “Bring that girl. The dungeon hasn’t had a prisoner in ages. The rats could use someone to nibble on.”

  Bolt lurched, his legs ready to bolt. Or fight. Or do nothing.

  The Baron pinched Bolt’s ear tighter. “Oh, I wouldn’t try to do anything except obey me, or I’ll be very angry,” he said. “And you don’t want to see me very angry.” He twisted Bolt’s ear even more, forcing him down one of the tunnels. “I will need to keep a closer eye on you, it seems. But we will be BFFs for eternity—whether you like it or not.”

  32.

  The True Story of the Baron and the Great Bird Battle

  Bolt stood next to his bed in the tower while the Baron blocked the doorway, arms crossed.

  “Why so glum?” asked the Baron with a smug grin.

  “Soon I’ll be a power-hungry were-creature for eternity,” Bolt moaned. “If you can’t be glum about something like that, when can you be glum?”

  “Did you ask a question?”

  “Just a rhetorical one. It hardly counts.”

  The Baron raised his arms and pumped his fists “Oh, Bolt. You should be excited. You’re a leader. An emperor. An emperor penguin, in a way.”

  “I’m cursed,” Bolt groaned softly.

  “No!” the Baron shouted, pounding his fist against the palm of his other hand. “You are not cursed, but blessed! You are no longer one of them.” He spat when he said them as if the word was distasteful. “One of the commoners, like that bandit girl wallowing in my dungeon below. Don’t you see? You were once just an unwanted boy. But now you’re a ruler.”

  “I don’t want to rule.”

  “Tough noogies.”

  Bolt slumped.

  The Baron stepped closer and clapped Bolt on the back. Bolt’s entire body shivered with disgust at the Baron’s touch, but the Baron didn’t seem to notice. “As you grow into your powers, you will see the truth. Look!” The Baron tore open his tuxedo jacket, ripping off three buttons. Bolt stared in horror at the Baron’s bare stomach.

  Right over the Baron’s belly button was a large penguin birthmark, identical to the one on Bolt’s neck.

  “Yes, I have it, too!” cried the Baron. “The mark! Don’t you wonder why you can understand the penguins? Why you can talk to them? You think everyone has these talents? Oh, they are talents—the greatest of them all. The talents to be a penguin.”

  Bolt stared at the Baron’s stomach. Then he glanced at his own mark, or at least tried to glance at it, but he couldn’t because the mark was on his neck. As he stared at the Baron, and tried to stare, unsuccessfully, at his own mark, despair flooded into Bolt’s head so fast, he felt as if it might pour out of his mouth. Instead, a piece of spittle flung from his lips as he spoke. “I d-don’t want to be a p-penguin.”

  The Baron stepped slightly to the left to avoid the spit. “Too late now.”

  Bolt wrapped his arms around his body and rocked in place, filled with hopelessness. Quietly he groaned, “I just want my real family.”

  “Real family?” repeated the Baron, his voice booming. “Families are overrated. You think I need a family? Of course not. I haven’t had a family for one hundred years, next Wednesday. I had one long ago. Once, I was like everyone else. Weak. Worthless. But then a Stranger came to town. He’d heard of my mark, you see—the mark we share, you and I. A mark of greatness! And because of it, the Stranger plucked me from my drab and lackluster life. Just like I plucked you from yours.”

  “You were rich and living in a manor,” Bolt pointed out.

  “Well, maybe my life wasn’t all that drab. But still, he rescued me from a life of mediocrity. A werepenguin can’t just bite anyone and turn them into an immortal penguin ruler, you know. Oh, if only we could! Can you imagine anything more wonderfully perfect than a world with thousands of werepenguins running around?”

  “Actually, I can think of quite a few things more wonderfully perfect. Like, just about anything else.”

  The Baron ignored the comment. “All I needed to do was agree to be bitten, one simple bite on the neck, and I would become a werepenguin for eternity. I readily agreed to his bargain. A werepenguin is powerful, but two werepenguins, side by side? We would be unstoppable.”

  “So, that’s why you bit me.”

  “I didn’t bite you for the fun of it, although admittedly it is sort of fun biting people. But your neck was a little grimy. I had to brush my teeth twice afterward.”

  “Sorry. The bathtub pipes were broken at the orphanage.”

  “The sea will clean you so you’ll never have to bathe again. That’s one of the perks of being a werepenguin.” He paused and scratched his chin. “Where was I in my story?”

  “You agreed to the Stranger’s bargain and were bitten.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course. My parents didn’t understand. They wanted me to see a doctor. Or a vet. Or maybe even a marine biologist. As if they could cure me. As if I wanted to be cured! I ordered my parents to leave Brugaria or I would stuff them with treats and beat them like piñatas. They fled, which was a shame since I’ve always wanted to play with a piñata.” He sighed. “Maybe someday.” Bolt stepped back, recoiling from the Baron’s words.

  Bolt couldn’t imagine ever turning away from his real family. If he didn’t stop his transformation, would he truly be like the Baron? Would he never want a family? The mere thought made Bolt shudder.

  “But I don’t understand something,” said Bolt. “You said two werepenguins fighting side by side could never be stopped. But you were stopped. By the Brotherhood of Whales, or Sisterhood, or whatever they are calling themselves.”

  The Baron had been walking back and forth, preening like a peacock showing off its feathers. Upon hearing Bolt’s question he stopped and let loose a loud, ferocious penguin bark that made Bolt jump back, his legs hitting his bed frame, and he fell on top of its covers.

  “You refer to those whale lovers?” ranted the Baron. “They are fakes! Charlatans! Phonies! I know they take credit for winning the Great Bird Battle. They fought us with those silly catapults. But we were winning the war and had stockpiled a year’s supply of fish sticks. Meanwhile, the Brotherhood had almost run out of boulders. I was certain victory would soon be ours! The Stranger was so convinced he even began a victory dance, and it’s not easy to dance with webbed feet. He was quite impressive. Then a villager flung a slice of lasagna. Apparently it was dinnertime and someone made a mistake.”

  “I’ve never had lasagna,” Bolt said to himself. The closest he’d come was spaghetti, although Bolt always suspected the yellow noodles served at the orphanage were actually old shoelaces. He doubted real spaghetti had aglets.

  “The pasta dish missed us,” continued the Baron, “but the Stranger was too busy dancing to notice. He stepped on the lasagna and banged his head. When he awoke, he had amnesia. His link to the penguins was broken. The birds lost their will to fight. I had only been a werepenguin for a few days, and did not yet know how to control them alone. As I was yelling at the birds to come back and fight, a catapult-launched boulder landed on me. It nearly killed me! If a band of loyal penguins hadn’t dragged me back to the manor, who knows what might have happened? But eventually I he
aled. They say the Brugarian moon makes our kind immortal. They also say, ‘Poor kid poured curd pulled cod,’ although that is better left unsaid.”

  “I’ve heard that,” agreed Bolt.

  “Now I am stronger than ever, and my shoes are slip-resistant.” He lifted one of his boots to show its rubber sole. “Lasagna doesn’t frighten me.”

  “What happened to the Stranger?”

  “During that final battle he wandered off, confused, looking for somewhere to lay an egg. I’m not sure what happened after that. I waited for him to return, hoping his head would clear and he would fight anew. But he never did. I have heard of a penguin colony at the South Pole that follow an odd, abnormally large penguin with thick eyebrows. But those may be only rumors. No matter. I don’t need him. With your help, all of Brugaria will obey me.”

  “The people will fight you.”

  “Then they will lose.” The Baron chuckled, although it soon turned into a boisterous laugh, and Bolt quivered. “After I recovered, I decided I needed an heir. I discovered a girl with a bird birthmark, but it was the shape of a flamingo. I heard of a boy and went to great lengths to bring him to me, but his birthmark turned out to be shaped like a goose. There were others, like a set of triplets with identical ostrich-shaped freckles on their feet. I had nearly given up hope of ever finding someone who could join me. But then I saw your picture in a small hospital newsletter from America—a funny infant born with a strange birthmark on his neck. There was no doubt you were the one.”

  “But if you found me as an infant, why did you wait—?”

  “—twelve years to claim you?” Bolt nodded. “Do you think I wanted to? Of course not! Finally, I had found someone to fight with me! Or do my laundry! Or both!”

  “I could fight against you,” said Bolt.

  The Baron waved his hand, as if the idea was worthless. He continued his story, only stopping to add some disturbing laughter. “I offered your parents riches if they gave you to me. They declined my offer.” Disturbing laughter. “I offered them power—‘Rule with me!’ I cried—but they said, ‘Thank you, but no thank you.’ They were very polite.” More disturbing laughter. “Finally, I demanded they hand you over, or I would get very angry, boil them into caramel, and pour them over ice cream, and maybe strawberries and other treats.” Lots and lots of disturbing laughter.

  “They wanted me?” asked Bolt, the words barely croaking from his throat. “They loved me?”

  The Baron did not seem to hear Bolt, as he was still laughing in a disturbing way. “Your parents still refused. So I sent a dessert chef to their house to prepare the caramel sauce. Your parents fought, the caramel sauce caught fire, and the house was burnt to a crisp, as was everyone inside it. Or so I believed. I discovered years later that the chef fled with you in his arms, then dropped you at an orphanage in the middle of the night. Don’t worry, the chef received his just desserts.” More laughter, and this laughter was so disturbing, Bolt shrieked.

  Bolt thought of the picture of the chef on the wall near the fireplace below, and shrieked even louder.

  The Baron only smiled. “Meanwhile, I continued planning my rule, slowly warping the minds of all the Brugarian penguins. It took many years and lots of raw fish. But then, just when my schemes were complete and the penguins ready for battle, I stumbled across a news story about a moth infestation in the town of Oak Wilt. There you were, in a photo. While I couldn’t make out your face, since it was covered by moths, your birthmark was as plain as day. I sent for you immediately. And now you’re here! Isn’t that joyful?”

  Bolt was filled with conflicting emotions, but none of them was joy.

  He would never meet his parents, because they were dead. The evil Baron was evil in all sorts of ways Bolt hadn’t realized. And Bolt would soon be just like him.

  All of Bolt’s dreams spilled out of him like he was a ripped bag of groceries, jars of hope smashed, boxes of promise emptied, cartons of longing shaken, poured out, and crushed.

  “My parents are dead.” He repeated those words over and over. “Myparentsaredeadmyparentsaredeadmyparentsaredeadmyparentsaredead.”

  The Baron clapped his hands. If he had any sympathy for Bolt’s grief, he did not show it. “You and I are together at last. Let the villagers fight. Let them fire the catapults. They will not stop us. No one can! Mwah-ha-ha . . . Ergh . . .” He coughed while laughing evilly. “Sorry, choked on a fish bone.” He then let loose another evil laugh that was even more evil than all the others. “I will leave you with your thoughts.” He strode toward the door. “I have but one rule, Humboldt. That you remain in this tower.”

  “You already have three other rules,” Bolt reminded him, wiping the wet from his eyes. “There’s the question rule and the villager rule, and also the stay-in-bed rule, but I’m guessing that’s not really a rule anymore.”

  “Well, OK, so I have a few rules. Sue me.” The Baron flicked the small cape on his back and it cracked like a whip. “I will see you tonight, Bolt. Soon, we celebrate.”

  The Baron marched through the door and slammed it behind him. Bolt heard the lock click, and when he rushed toward the door and tried to turn the knob, it didn’t move.

  Bolt rattled and banged the door, but it did no good. He crumpled to the floor and whimpered.

  He had always insisted his parents had not abandoned him to an orphanage, even when no one would believe him. He had felt their love all the way down to his too-small-to-cover-his-ankles orphanage socks. But it didn’t matter. They were not looking for him. He would never have a real family.

  He was the chosen one—chosen to be unhappy, unwanted, and unloved.

  Meanwhile, brave Annika was a prisoner in the dungeon, soon to be eaten by rats. All of Brugaria would soon be enslaved. Things couldn’t get any worse.

  A drop of water fell on Bolt’s nose. Bolt looked up. Water dripped from the ceiling, possibly from a burst water pipe. Drip, drip, drip. Onto Bolt’s nose.

  OK, now things couldn’t get any worse.

  Bolt crawled off his bed, reached under his mattress, and grabbed the stuffed penguin that he had discarded two days before. The charcoaled fur around the missing wing took on a new, terrifying meaning. Bolt tore off the bird’s head and then its one remaining wing, stuffing falling on the floor like fresh snow. Bolt tore out more of the penguin’s cotton guts. He ripped the fabric and pounded his fist on the fluff around him, screaming as loud as he could.

  Bolt stopped and stared at the shredded remains of Penguin. He grabbed fluff, cramming cotton into the torn spaces of the penguin, but it was like trying to put air back into a ripped balloon.

  “I’m sorry, Penguin. I’m sorry,” he muttered. Bolt stayed on the ground, sobbing, now more alone than ever.

  33.

  Another Penguin Night

  Eventually, Bolt stopped sobbing. He sat on the bed trying to smooth his hornlike hair. The tufts wouldn’t lie flat no matter how hard he licked his palms first. A cockroach hurried across the floor. If this were a fairy tale, the cockroach would talk. Maybe he and Bolt would sing a song about working and whistling. The bug would find a door key and free Bolt, who would discover his parents were alive.

  This was no fairy tale. Bolt raised his foot to squash the insect, but then hesitated and watched it disappear behind the bookcase.

  It wasn’t the cockroach he wanted to smash, but the wretched Baron and his wicked plans and the empty feeling of helplessness that sat inside him under sooty layers of gloom.

  Bolt walked to the window, his hands wrapped into fists and his fingers white from clenching. He stared out at the large, immaculate manor lawn, the forest surrounding it, and the waves, so far away. The penguin part of Bolt wanted to run along the shore and swim.

  The human part of Bolt just wanted to smash these gray tower walls and find somewhere to wallow in his misery.

  As he stared out the wind
ow, Bolt’s eyes rested on the catapult. It sat on the roof beneath him, too far away to jump. Bolt wished he were a boulder, flung into space by that rooftop contraption.

  If only he had never been sent here! If only he could sprout wings and fly away. He would sprout wings that evening, but he knew penguins could not fly.

  As Bolt lingered at the window, he spied movement on the lawn. Bolt peered harder.

  Frau Farfenugen hurried across the lawn in her combat boots, toward the tree line. The housekeeper twisted her head to the right and the left, but didn’t think to look up to the tower. Another person emerged from the forest, a person almost twice her size.

  The Fish Man.

  The scar-faced giant held out his hands. The warty and wrinkled Frau Farfenugen grabbed them. He pulled her close. They rubbed their noses together. And then, still holding hands, they dashed into the woods.

  Bolt stepped back from the window, remembering the heart-covered letter Frau Farfenugen had dropped that morning. If the Baron discovered her romance, he would be very angry. He would probably turn his housekeeper into gum or caramel sauce, or hang her from a flagpole by her armpit hairs, or something else just as terrible.

  Bolt grinned when he thought of armpit-hair hanging, and then shrank in terror. That momentary glee had been pure Baron: his evil thoughts still lingered inside Bolt.

  Would Bolt soon be as evil as the beast that was responsible for his parents’ deaths?

  Bolt glanced at the penguin books on the shelf. He walked over and grabbed a book. Perhaps it would keep his mind from dwelling on his hopelessness and his Baron-influenced anger.

  Bolt scanned through Volume I of the penguin encyclopedia. He read how penguins lived in colonies, called rookeries, which could number ten thousand penguins strong. He read how their feathers kept them warm. He learned how, despite not having visible ears, penguins had excellent hearing.

  But what he found the most fascinating was what he learned about penguin families. Unlike most other animals, many penguin species mated with each other for life. When an egg was laid, both penguins cared for it, and raised the chick together. These penguin chicks were never abandoned.