The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  As his vision continued to focus, Bolt more clearly made out the faces of the penguin bandits near him. Annika stood closest. Vigi Lambda stood by her side.

  Annika turned to her father. “You have to release him.”

  Vigi shook his head. His lips curled into a horrible grin—big lips that seemed built for flute playing. In another life, perhaps he would have reached elite flutist heights. But here, he was merely a bandit in a crude penguin hat. “Can’t do that. Sorry.”

  “Let me go,” pleaded Bolt. “I haven’t done anything to you! I need to save Brugaria. The Baron is evil!”

  “He’s the only one who can save us, Papa,” pleaded Annika.

  “He’s just a kid,” said Vigi, shaking his head. “I’d rather put my trust in the Baron than this boy.”

  “He’s Brugaria’s only chance,” said Annika.

  “No!” shouted Vigi. “The Baron won’t be pleased his lowly housekeeper has left him to live with us. But if I return the boy to him, maybe we can avoid his wrath.” Vigi sighed and looked at Bolt. “I appreciate your willingness to fight for Brugaria. It’s very admirable. To show my gratitude, I will do anything you ask, except release you, spare your life, or be kind in any way.”

  “Will you and your crew perform a variety show with juggling, a magician, and hula dancing?”

  “OK, we won’t do that either.”

  “But we are to be married,” hissed a deep, raspy, and familiar voice. Frau Farfenugen emerged from behind the group of penguin-capped bandits, holding hands with the Fish Man. The dim light of the moon, peeking through thick clouds, made her warts shine brighter, and made her look more elderly. The Fish Man wore his all-black attire and white sneakers. He stood as tall as Brutus.

  “It isss true,” said the Fish Man. “We are engaged.”

  Vigi smiled and clapped. “I have a new daughter and, soon, a new son? This is a very happy day. That is, it’s a happy day for me.” He looked at Bolt. “For you, this day sort of stinks.”

  “Brugarian tradition demands a father grant his daughter’s requests on her engagement day,” said Frau Farfenugen. “Even if that daughter is a lowly former housekeeper.”

  “I will not perform a variety show!” shouted the bandit.

  “No. Free the boy. Annika is right. He is our only hope.”

  Vigi furrowed his brow and stared at Bolt, as if lost in thought.

  “If you set me free, I will find the Baron,” Bolt promised. “I can stab him with the tooth of a killer whale while we are both being transformed into werepenguins, and end his reign of terror-to-be.”

  Vigi’s eyes continued to stare at Bolt. “You’re kidding, right? That’s the plan? Is that even possible?”

  “I’m not sure,” admitted Bolt. “But people aren’t transformed into werepenguins every day, you know.”

  In the distance, penguins barked. A band of them wandered nearby. Bolt could feel their presence patrolling the woods.

  “Guard the fish sticks!” exclaimed Vigi. Brutus marched off.

  “Remember the young flutist who dared challenge the previous Vigi Lambda?” asked Annika. “No one believed he could win that fight. But he did. Fate works in mysterious ways, does it not? Aren’t I proof of that—a kidnapped infant finding a loving home with a ruthless clan of bandits?” She held her father’s hand. “Where is that brave soul who fought against the odds for what he believed in? Where is that man who knows that it’s not enough to love your family—you must be willing to fight for them, too?”

  As Annika spoke, Bolt’s mind drifted and joined the barking penguins. They were the same group of penguin ruffians he had seen earlier rummaging through the bowling-ball bag. The group was larger now, but among them was the younger penguin, the one that had called Bolt “brother.” Now its brain felt angrier. Harder. Bolt knew that feeling: the Baron’s control had tightened.

  “Let Bolt go, Papa!” pleaded Annika. She grabbed on to her father’s leg. “If not for Frau Farfenugen, release him for me.”

  Felipe, who had been standing near them, also approached Vigi. He grabbed on to the bandit leader’s other leg. “I agree with your daughters. The Baron can’t be trusted. I bet he even cheats at cards, especially when he’s losing.”

  Vigi’s face turned red and he coughed. “Um, that’s sort of allowed by the Code of the Bandit, you know.” Felipe narrowed his eyes. “Not that I would do that,” he added.

  Felipe gripped Vigi’s leg harder. “Release the boy,” he pleaded.

  “Release Bolt!” begged Annika, squeezing her father’s leg.

  “Release him,” agreed Frau Farfenugen, nudging Annika over so she could grab part of Vigi’s leg, too.

  “Releassse him,” echoed the Fish Man, who tried to grab one of Vigi’s legs, but there was no room left for him. He stood off to the side and sulked.

  “Let go of my legs!” shouted Vigi Lambda, shaking Annika, Frau Farfenugen, and Felipe off. He stomped his foot twice, but whether it was with grim determination or because his legs had fallen asleep from being squeezed so hard, it was difficult to tell. “I will not free the boy, and that is final.”

  Again, Bolt heard the penguins approaching. In his mind Bolt saw them, clear as he could see his feet in front of him, or even more clearly, because his feet were mostly buried in snow.

  Bolt closed his eyes. He reached inside himself, and sowed his thoughts deep inside the waddle’s cloudy bird minds, hoping his commands would take root. He called to them:

  We are family. Family looks out for each other. Help me.

  The penguin barks grew louder, closer. The bandits murmured and exchanged worried glances.

  “They’re just penguins, boys,” said Vigi, smiling, although his smile revealed a sliver of concern. “As long as we guard our fish sticks, we’ll be fine.”

  “They sound vexed,” said one of his bandits. “And I don’t really like fish sticks all that much, anyway. Why don’t we ever eat hot dogs?”

  The penguins emerged from the trees, snarling.

  “They look angry,” said Annika.

  “Very angry,” agreed Frau Farfenugen. “You don’t want to see penguins very angry.”

  The penguins rushed forward. Vigi and the bandits crouched, prepared to battle an onslaught of wet, blubbery power dashing toward them.

  At that instant the winds seemed to pick up force and the snow fell in larger flakes, obscuring the scene in front of Bolt. Screams mingled with penguin yelps and, in between flakes, Bolt spied the flashing of knives, and maybe the glint of a bobby pin.

  “The penguinsss have gone mad!” bellowed the Fish Man from nearby.

  Bolt struggled against his ropes. Up above, the moon was invisible behind the clouds, but Bolt’s blood tingled. Midnight was so close!

  A hand brushed against Bolt’s. He felt his ropes untwisting.

  “Will you save Brugaria?” asked Annika, slicing the rope around Bolt’s wrists.

  “I’ll try,” said Bolt. He stood up, rubbing his sore, rope-burned wrists.

  Annika clutched his hands. For a moment Bolt forgot he had ever been an unwanted boy. For a moment he thought only one thing:

  I have a friend. I am the chosen one. Also, I’m really hungry.

  Or rather, he thought three things.

  Annika released Bolt’s hands and pointed to her left. “That is the way back to the manor. Maybe you’ll find the Baron there. And thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For helping me understand that my place is here, with my family.” She leaned over and gave him a quick hug. “Find the Baron. And save us all.”

  All around them, the penguin-bandit battle raged. They rolled and fought, bit and stabbed in the falling snow. Vigi screamed to his men, “Don’t give up!” and “Protect the fish sticks!” Annika ran to join the battle.

  The youn
g penguin, Bolt’s brother, emerged from the white. The bird stared at Bolt, its mind racing with feelings of viciousness but also of family, and of peace. Its eyes rolled around and then blinked over and over again. Apparently, small bird brains were not adept at thinking lots of different thoughts at once.

  “Let me go,” said Bolt. “We are brothers.”

  The penguin bowed, turned, and rushed back to join the fight. Bolt could not see who was winning and who was losing in the battle, not through the thick, falling snow.

  The deafening sounds of barking and fighting echoed through the wintry night. Bolt dared not look back. The sounds grew fainter as he ran.

  Midnight loomed.

  46.

  Fire and Ice

  Bolt hurried through the forest in the direction Annika had pointed, or hurried as best he could. He kept turning to avoid trees, and then was unsure if he was still heading in the right direction or some other, random one. Meanwhile, the forest grew blacker. If total darkness could become even more total in its darkness, then that’s what it did.

  As Bolt ran, night-tearing flashes of lightning momentarily lit the way, but only for a blink of the eye.

  The crisscrossing lightning cracked, a deafening boom followed, and a tree branch fell a few feet to Bolt’s left, flames crackling. Another flash followed and a tree split in half to Bolt’s right.

  Lightning exploded in all directions, as if it wanted him—a bolt for Bolt. Pop. Crackle. Snap. It was like running in a bowl of cereal.

  Because of the fires, Bolt could now see his way, but he preferred the previous blackness to the fiery terror around him. Ashes blew. Heat scorched.

  Finally, through the flickering flashes, the flaming branches, and the thunder-booming dark, Bolt reached the end of the forest. He stepped out of the woods and onto the Baron’s lawn. The manor was unlit, covered by a gloominess that seemed to swallow the darkness around it.

  As he ran, any remaining fragments of uncertainty withered away like old lettuce. He didn’t even feel a flicker of temptation to run away.

  Bolt was stronger now. He would never bolt from trouble again.

  Bolt ran toward the manor. Above, snow tumbled down and, way above that, the moon, hidden behind clouds, snuck out. Bolt felt the skin on his arms tingle, and his hairs rise up.

  Then the moon resumed its hiding place and, just as suddenly as it had started, the tingling ceased.

  From the yard, Bolt heard the grandfather clock chime, on and on and on. Twelve times. When it finished, Bolt had not transformed.

  He was still human. Had the curse somehow been lifted?

  He remembered the Fortune Teller’s final words to him. She’d said they didn’t mean much. But they meant everything.

  “The curse comes from the moon. You can only transform when it shines.”

  The moon changed Bolt. While the clouds covered its glow, Bolt’s transformation was delayed.

  And so must be the Baron’s.

  Bolt needed to stab the Baron while they were both turning into werepenguins. Bolt had a chance, if only the clouds would stay still.

  He ran faster, sprinting across the manor lawn. He reached the house and slammed open the door, thankful it wasn’t locked. Maybe luck was on his side. If he got lucky, he would find the Baron waiting. If he got really, really lucky, he’d find the Baron and stab him before they completed their penguin transformations. “Baron? Where are you? Come out!” There was no answer.

  Apparently, this was not his lucky day after all. The Baron was not home.

  Shouting from outside jarred Bolt’s disappointment. He dashed to the window, peeled back the curtain, and peered out. A line of people marched toward the house holding torches. They all wore fuzzy blue robes.

  They shouted: “We’ll get you! . . . You’re surrounded! . . . I can’t believe I postponed my vacation for this!”

  It was the Mystical Brotherhood, or Sisterhood, or something else of Whales, united.

  At their head stood Günter. He wagged his French bread. Franz stood by his side.

  “Come out, Baron!” screamed the whale prince. The horde behind him clapped and cheered and raised their flames high.

  “We’ve got torches!” yelled Franz.

  “And I’ve got my French bread!” yelled Günter.

  “Yes, but torches are better,” said Franz.

  “Bread!”

  “Torches!”

  “Bread!”

  “How about if you hit the Baron with your bread and then we use our torches?” suggested Franz.

  Günter shrugged. “I can live with that.”

  Bolt shrank back into the shadows of the house, wondering if he could sneak out and escape. He needed to find the Baron. He couldn’t linger here, wasting time fighting the outside throng.

  “The house is surrounded. You have no choice but to surrender,” yelled Günter. On the lawn, he was bathed in light. The moon had peeked out from the clouds.

  Bolt’s nose twitched and expanded, growing rapidly. He kicked off his shoes, as his feet grew larger and orange. It was too late. He had lost, and was doomed to be a penguin for eternity.

  Or was he? The tingling stopped. His nose stopped expanding. He wasn’t changing. Not anymore, anyway.

  Through the window, Bolt saw the clouds hovering over the moon, blocking it from view. The glow around the Prince of Whales had ceased.

  “The Baron’s not here!” Bolt shouted out the open door.

  “It’s the Baron’s boy. The whale hater!” shouted Günter, waving his bread loaf high in the air. “Or something boyish,” he added, squinting at Bolt’s part-penguin head.

  “Leave me alone!” Bolt cried. “We are on the same side. I need to fight the Baron. I can stop him. And honestly, I don’t hate whales.”

  “Do you think we were born yesterday?” demanded Günter.

  “I was born on a Saturday,” said Franz.

  A window shattered and a large loaf of French bread landed near Bolt’s feet.

  “Take that!” yelled Günter from outside. After a pause he yelled, “Anyone have more French bread I can borrow?”

  “Let’s smoke him out!” cried Franz.

  A few members of the Brotherhood, or Sisterhood, or whatever, hurled their torches at the manor. Flames licked the manor’s walls. The winds howled and lightning crashed again, searing part of the manor.

  Smoke blew into the house through the broken glass. Bolt choked on its fumes. He needed to reach higher ground, away from the smoldering walls and the billowing black soot.

  He scaled the staircase steps, two at a time, up to the landing, and then up and up and around and around again to the top of the tower. The smoke chased him, spreading up the stairwell after him, only inches behind him. Flames quickly engulfed the lower floors. Bolt couldn’t go back down even if he wanted to.

  Bolt reached the top of the stairs and burst into his room as smoke streamed in from the secret tunnel entrance. Down below, on the lawn, the townspeople shouted, their voices rising up with the air-choking smoke. Out the window, flames scaled the walls. The fire was spreading fast, surprisingly so, as if the house were made from paper. It wasn’t, of course. It was made of wood and penguin blubber, but penguin blubber burns quickly.

  Bolt couldn’t give up. Not now, not with so many depending on him. Villagers! Penguins! Annika! Maybe even warty children-to-be!

  Bolt closed his eyes, and he could sense the penguins, hundreds huddled together on the Blacker Sea shore. Although they gathered far away, Bolt could now feel the birds’ thoughts, muddled and frightened and filled with the Baron’s ruthless commands.

  That was where Bolt would find the Baron.

  He flung open the window, took a deep breath, and leapt.

  Penguins were good jumpers. The moon had changed Bolt already, somewhat. He hoped it had chang
ed him enough. If not, his life would end now, splattered onto the ground below.

  THUMP! His feet landed at the edge of the roof. Then they slipped back, slipping, slipping, and slipping down, down, down the slanted shingles, many broken and crumbling. Bolt dug his webbed feet into the roof to get a grip. But his feet slipped, not gripped.

  The clouds parted for a brief moment, a split second really, but in that moment, the moon’s rays shone and Bolt’s feet grew an inch, maybe less, but just enough to stick onto the roof’s shingles a tad more.

  Bolt stopped sliding with half of his webbed foot dangling over the side of the roof.

  He scrambled up toward the catapult, where the roof flattened.

  The faraway shore lit up from the lightning strikes. The waves whipped against the rocks. Meanwhile, the flames danced over the side of the house and rose into the sky, carrying cinders up against the falling snow.

  Once more, a cloud shifted. One of his arms became a small wing. His stomach expanded, ripping through his shirt, and a big blubbery white mass protruded over his pants. And then, again, the transformation stopped as the moon disappeared behind a cloud.

  Every time the moon peeked out, Bolt grew closer to penguin-hood and an eternal curse, while Brugaria and the penguins and bandits all grew closer to doom. Much of Bolt had changed, but his mind was still his. That would be the last to transform.

  “He’s trapped!” cried Günter from the lawn below. The Brotherhood, or Sisterhood, or whatever they were called, had spotted Bolt on the roof. The whale folk shouted in celebration. They raised their torches and exchanged high fives. They thought all was lost for Bolt, and that he had no way to escape.

  They were wrong.

  Bolt had never fired a catapult before. It wasn’t something he’d thought he would ever need to do, but it didn’t seem difficult. He stepped into the basket connected to the end of the throwing arm, a basket large enough for boulders, just wide enough for Bolt.