On Friendship
No friends! A forest bandit must never make friends with anyone outside of his bandit clan. Why is this so important? First, bandits have to be mean and scary, and there’s nothing mean and scary about having friends. But, most of all, it’s because a bandit must only be loyal to his clan, and friendship outside the clan could lead to complicated choices. Let’s say you are supposed to rob a carriage one night, but a friend calls asking if you want to grab a pizza. You ask yourself: “What do I do?” If you didn’t have a non-bandit friend, you wouldn’t have to ask yourself anything. You would just rob the carriage. But because you had a friend, by the time you asked yourself what you should do, and made up your mind, the carriage would have driven away and the pizza place would have closed for the evening.
Here’s another example: let’s say you had a non-bandit friend who was about to be eaten by a giant bullfrog. Across the street, one of your fellow forest bandits sneezes. Should you rescue your friend, or give the bandit a handkerchief? Of course, you give the bandit your handkerchief, because you shouldn’t even have a non-bandit friend. Then, get as far away as possible. I mean, really? A giant bullfrog? How would you even fight that thing? Run!
The Code of the Bandit, Chapter 87, Subsection 14
On Friendship—amended by Annika Lambda
Hey, I’ve got nothing against being friends with your fellow forest bandits. Of course that’s important! But it’s also important to have as many friends as you can, and friends come in all shapes and sizes and kinds.
I mean, my best friends are a werepenguin and a pirate. Who would have thought that would happen?
Friends, even non-bandit friends, make you feel better when you’re sad, and make you happier when you are happy. They give you a hand up when you are down, a smile when you feel blue, and can make you un-lonely when you are feeling alone. I know bandits are mean and scary, and we have to be mean and scary to rob and kidnap, but we can be mean and scary and friendly, too.
I know that if your non-bandit friend really needs your help, and so does a bandit, you could be torn about who to help. But if you ask me, I’d rather have as many friends as possible and figure out the other things as I go. And I don’t need to be promised a treasure to help them either, unlike some people.
Also, if a giant bullfrog attacked my friend and another bandit sneezed? The bandit can wipe his own nose, thank you very much—I’m saving my friend. Maybe we should add a section about always carrying your own handkerchief. That would make a lot more sense than telling us we should let someone be eaten by a giant bullfrog.
Annika Lambda
Annika folded the piece of parchment and slipped it into the Code of the Bandit. The spine of her book was threadbare, so she had to be careful.
She put the book under her pillow so no one else would find it. The Code of the Bandit could only be read by bandits. While she wanted to change parts of the bandit code, she didn’t dare break section 14, which read:
Never let any non-bandit read your copy of the Code of the Bandit. Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye—the needle penetrating the iris and into the vitreous humor, but not so far as to damage the optic nerve.
The bandit code could be very descriptive.
Annika’s father didn’t agree that the Code of the Bandit needed updating, just like he hadn’t understood her insistence that she travel with Bolt to help him stop the Stranger and save the world. “Your responsibility lies with us,” he had said. “Why did you give your word to help that werepenguin boy anyway?”
“He’s my friend, Papa.”
“Bandits don’t have non-bandit friends!” snapped her father.
“We should! Besides, that werepenguin boy, as you call him, has saved us. Twice. First he freed Brugaria, and then he freed you from the Earl’s cage. We are in his debt. And bandits should always pay their debts.”
Her father couldn’t argue with that. Repaying debts was in the Code of the Bandit, section 44. Annika would not be rewriting that section either.
Although it was late, Annika didn’t feel tired. Her writing had energized her. So she opened the door to her cabin and walked up the steps to the main deck. Outside, the half-moon failed to make much of a dent in the darkness. She looked up and tried to find the constellation Pepe, but didn’t see any discernable shapes, just a random collection of stars—hundreds of them, like freckles in the sky.
“Yer up late.” Blackburn sat next to the steering wheel, drinking from a large leather canteen. A brown syrupy liquid dribbled down his cheeks.
“So are you.”
“Aye, and probably for the same reason ye are.” Annika raised her eyebrows. “Ye were wondering if dogs and cats are ever allergic to one another, aye?”
“Actually, I was thinking about my father and the Code of the Bandit.” Annika sat down next to Blackburn. “But I have wondered about dogs and cats before. How much longer to Pingvingrad?”
Blackburn belched. “Hard to say. But we’ll keep following the stars. Shouldn’t be more than a day more, I reckon. Right now we’re somewhere in the middle of the Blackest-Deadest Sea.”
“I’ve heard of the Black Sea, the Dead Sea, the Blacker Sea, and the Deader Sea.”
“This sea is the blackest and deadest of them all.”
The ship hit a small wave, and Annika’s stomach gurgled. She hated feeling so sick. She was a bandit—the greatest bandit in the world, or at least she would be someday, after a little seasoning—and bandits were tough. Being seasick wasn’t tough, it was weak.
“I haven’t been in these parts since I was a lad, ye know,” said the pirate, yawning, stretching, and taking another sip of his brownish syrup. “Aye, those were the days! Reminds me of me youth as an up-and-comin’ buccaneer. Have I ever told ye how I became a pirate, missy?”
Annika managed to spit out, “Don’t call me missy,” before taking in a big breath to ease her shaky stomach.
“Back then, it was me job to wax the gangplanks,” continued the pirate. “The trick was to not over-wax them, or they’d be too slippery. Can ye think of anything worse than bein’ forced to walk the plank and into crocodile-infested waters, but slippin’ off instead?”
Annika could think of many things worse, such as having to walk the plank into crocodile-infested waters in the first place. But she was too busy feeling sick to answer.
“Then one day our ship was attacked by another pirate crew wantin’ our treasures,” Blackburn continued. “The invaders fired their cannons and tried to board our vessel by scamperin’ over our gangplanks. But I figured that’s what they’d do, so I had over-waxed the planks! The invaders slipped right off them and into the sea. They had not expected that!” Blackburn pumped his fist with glee. “The captain was so grateful he named me assistant captain on the spot, and then was so impressed with me skillful Borscht that he retired, and I became captain that very evening. Borscht!”
“That’s a great story!” exclaimed Annika.
Blackburn smiled and nodded. “Aye. Life was simpler then, before treasures and werepenguins and such.”
At the mention of treasures Annika bristled. “Don’t worry. You’ll get yours. I made a promise.” She scowled. “I know it’s all you care about.”
“I also care about not being killed by monsters. I’ve been thinkin’ of settling down, ye know. I’m not the pirate I once was.” He straightened his tricorn hat, which had slipped to the side. “I’m no spring chicken. I’m not even a summer chicken, for that matter. See, even me cap is saggin’.” He primped up his tricorn hat.
Another large wave crashed against the boat, rocking it back and forth. Annika’s stomach rocked back and forth with it. She felt the food in her stomach sloshing around.
Blackburn held out his canteen. “Here. Have some grog. It’ll calm yer belly.”
Annika accepte
d the canteen, smelled the brown murky liquid, and made a face. “It smells like turkey juice, honey, bananas, and liniment oil. What’s in it?”
“Turkey juice, honey, bananas, and liniment oil. But no one drinks it for the taste. Grog makes ye groggy. It can be hard to sleep on the sea.” He gave a deep yawn and rubbed his eyes.
Annika put the canteen to her lips. She chugged it, hoping that if she downed the drink quickly, it wouldn’t taste as terrible as she feared.
Actually, it tasted worse. But she immediately fell asleep.
5.
The Power Inside
Bolt awoke early the next morning. He had dreams—bad dreams, as he often did—although he couldn’t remember much about them. He mostly remembered the voices speaking to him:
We will be together, you and I!
Werepenguins were meant to rule!
Can you roll over so your left arm doesn’t fall asleep?
Some of the voices were more alarming than others.
Mostly, the voices made Bolt want to raise a penguin army, or watch penguins poke one another in the eye. And then he’d wake up, shivering at the thought of those horrible yearnings, recoiling at the evil swirling inside his brain.
Fortunately, they were just dreams. Or so he told himself.
Bolt was the first one awake on the ship; he went upstairs, and the deck was deserted. He welcomed the quiet. It would allow him the chance to hone his penguin skills.
Standing near the railing of the ship, eyes closed, Bolt focused his thoughts over the water. He tried to sense penguins, or something remotely penguin-like. Penguins have an energy about them, like radio waves, and it’s all about tuning to the right station. Go too far one way and you get static. Go a little too far the opposite way and you get a commercial for fish sticks.
Yum, fish sticks.
Focus, Bolt told himself. Focus.
He continued to spread his mind out, over the waves. But it felt like he was doing nothing at all.
Wait.
He felt something, a damp wetness that smelled like spoiled fish. He could almost taste it, and it tasted awful. No, that was just some leftover vomit from when Annika got seasick yesterday. Ugh.
Wait, again.
Sea mist sprayed on his face, but it wasn’t actual sea mist. More like a virtual sea mist. This was different from what he had felt earlier when he was fighting with Annika. Deeper. It was as if his mind was free from his body and he was diving beneath the waves. He accidentally swallowed some not-really-there seawater and coughed.
Yes! He was the sea itself, or at least partially so, for he was still him. He could hear the seaweed waving, and that’s hard to do. He could taste a family of anchovy swimming by, two hundred yards away, but then groaned because he didn't particularly like anchovies.
He wasn’t sure if identifying fish two hundred yards away would be helpful when fighting werepenguins, but maybe it could help him get lunch.
This was the penguin-verse, in its infinite majesty.
He sensed penguins. A group, maybe two dozen of them, out for a swim miles away, heading in Bolt’s direction. Yet, despite their distance, he could see them as plain as the nose on his face, or even plainer, since you can’t see the nose on your face unless you have a mirror or an extremely large nose.
Bolt could speak to penguins, he could bury his mind into theirs; it was one of the gifts of being a werepenguin. But could he communicate with them from this far away? He let his mind float to them, bobbing within the waves. It was so easy! It felt so right!
Bolt spoke to them. Hello, my friends. Somersault.
And they somersaulted. He could see them as if they were swimming next to him, somersaulting over and over again. They were quite talented, actually. But they were getting dizzy, and it made Bolt dizzy, too.
Bolt had battled werepenguins who controlled penguins as if they were their own personal servants, and Bolt now understood, a little, how gratifying it felt to make penguins obey your every whim. This was fun! They would dance for him. Twirl for him. Attack for him!
No! Bolt broke the connection, twang!, like a broken guitar string.
Bolt grasped the railing, his legs weak, forehead sweaty, the penguin-shaped birthmark on his neck throbbing. What had he been doing, thinking of ordering penguins to attack? That’s not who Bolt was. Controlling penguins wasn’t fun. That’s what monsters did, what evil werepenguins did, and Bolt wasn’t a monster!
Well, he might technically be a monster, under pretty much any definition of a monster, but he would not be an evil one if he could help it.
The seer had chanted: Turn away the bloodlust. Bolt knew what that meant, and had from the start. But could Bolt turn it away? Could Bolt ignore the voice inside him calling for him to destroy and spill blood?
Bolt took a deep breath, but this time, instead of reaching outside himself, he reached inside himself, trying to feel his werepenguin blood stirring. It’s pretty much impossible for anyone to feel their own blood, as it just sort of does its thing under the skin, and he quickly gave that up and instead dipped into his brain. He could explore the minds of penguins, but he had never explored his own. Could he traverse its narrow, winding passageways?
Maybe. He felt . . . something . . . something buried deep like an itch you can’t scratch because it’s right in the middle of your back, which can be really annoying. It didn’t just itch, it wiggled like jelly. A wiggling itch was as annoying as it sounds. He couldn’t scratch it, though. That jelly was unnatural, planted like poison ivy, but with roots that were too deep to yank out.
Somehow, Bolt knew it had been planted by the Stranger. Bolt concentrated on the weed, but it was too firm to pull.
Hello, Bolt.
A voice popped into his head. Bolt gasped, hopped, and hit his ear, although none of those things did anything to dislodge the weed.
You can’t pull out the roots, Bolt. It’s there. Growing.
The voice was the Stranger’s. Bolt squeezed his eyelids closed. He clenched his fists. He concentrated on kicking the voice out, out, out, out.
I’m still here, you know.
Why can’t you leave me alone? Bolt thought back.
Because it is your destiny to join me, Bolt. You are wasting your time fighting it.
Never! I will stop you! The world will be free of your horror!
Says you. Don’t you feel the hate, Bolt? It is everywhere.
No! “Leave me alone!”
POP! Like a cork from a bottle, the voice was gone, but whether it was gone because Bolt forced it out or the voice flew away on its own, Bolt wasn’t sure.
“You’re awfully sweaty, Bolt,” said Annika. Bolt had not heard her come up on deck. “Are you OK? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“I’m fine,” said Bolt, trying to steady his wiggly, buckling knees.
Annika shrugged. “Well, Blackburn says we should be at Pingvingrad soon. In fact, he’s surprised we haven’t seen it yet. Although we can’t see much of anything.”
Bolt looked out into the sea. A thick, impenetrable mist had rolled in so quickly, he hadn’t even noticed it approaching.
The fog completely enveloped the ship. It seemed unnatural for fog to come in that fast. It felt unnatural, too—there was dread in that mist, as if someone had taken misery and despair and formed it into a cloud. “Do you feel the hate?”
“What are you talking about?”
She might not feel it, but Bolt did. This mist had been formed by the Stranger—Bolt smelled his breath in the breeze, although it was a very fishy smell and Bolt wished the man brushed his teeth more often. This mist was old—even older than a stale Pez candy—formed by one wispy gust of misery at a time.
It concealed this island from the rest of the world.
But why? What was happening on this island that was so importan
t it had to be hidden?
Loud scraping below the ship startled Bolt, the sound of wood rubbing against rock. The ship floated slowly now, and its hull bumped into something that nudged them to the left. The port side of the ship hit something else, and the ship nudged to the right. They could see nothing through the dense fog.
“We’re goin’ to be wrecked if this mist doesn’t lift!” bellowed Blackburn as the ship scraped against another unseen rock, wood chipping.
6.
Mists of Hate
Bolt’s feelings of distress were as thick as the fog, which seemed to take the shape of penguins, laughing penguins, beaks wide, taunting him.
He felt cold! So cold!
Meanwhile, more scrapes and crashes jolted the boat.
BANG! went the side of the boat as another invisible rock scraped the hull.
CRZZZTT! A jagged boulder’s edge carved a long rut into the starboard side of the ship.
Bolt needed to find a way out of this. But what could he do? He was just a kid unlucky enough to be born with an ugly birthmark the shape of a flightless bird. He was in over his head! Even this whole penguin-verse thing was ridiculous. Bolt wanted nothing more than to run away, close his eyes, and hide somewhere, like in a cave, alongside the great seer Omneseus.
The thought of the seer’s chant:
It’s love you must trust.
He mouthed those words over and over again, faster and faster: It’s love you must trust. It’s love you must trust. It’sloveyoumusttrust.
Bolt thought of togetherness. Of family and penguins. It made him less afraid. He shook his head, and with each shake, a bead of hate sweat flew off and seemed to evaporate in the air.
“There goes the grog!” Blackburn moaned as a large barrel toppled over the railing and into the sea.
Shake, shake went Bolt’s head—shaking with happy thoughts. The air around him felt lighter.
“Me timbers are shiverin’!” wailed Blackburn, a mast cracking.
The Battle of the Werepenguins Page 3