The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  “Bolt? Annika? Hello?”

  No one answered.

  “Guys? Stop fooling around.”

  He was met with silence.

  “Guys?”

  They had left.

  Without Grom.

  Maybe they ran off because they didn’t like him. Grom knew he scowled a lot. He wasn’t a people person. He wasn’t really a mole person either, and he was barely a penguin person, at least not yet. If Grom thought about it, he wasn’t really much of anything.

  He had felt that way for a while but kept it inside. What good would it do to complain or feel sorry for himself? But those feelings returned now. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere.

  Annika suggested that Grom wanted to be a werepenguin so he wouldn’t feel like an outsider anymore. He didn’t say anything back to her then, but he knew she had been exactly right. Every midnight, Zemya and the others had transformed into mole creatures, but not Grom. They ate grubs and worms while Grom sat by himself eating hot dogs. The moles had fleas, and their whiskers got tangled, and of course they couldn’t see all that well. Grom sometimes pretended he had fleas to fit in, and grew his hair long, and partook in the occasional grub or two—but all those things made him feel more alone. Also, grubs sometimes stuck in his teeth.

  And now here he was: alone. Again. He kicked a small ice stone by his feet.

  Grom stood, stewing and heating up so much that the ground under him began to melt. He would leave the island. He would swim far away, find a rookery that would take him in, and live with penguins. This whole adventure was way harder than he thought it would be anyway. Only an idiot would fight the world’s mightiest werepenguin with nothing but a tooth for a weapon.

  Let Bolt and Annika be killed or whatever. Let the world’s penguins remain evil. What did it matter to Grom?

  Unfortunately, Grom didn’t believe anything he was telling himself.

  He didn’t regret risking his life for years to dig up worms. He did it for his family, and nothing was more important than family. Penguins were his family now. Bolt and Annika were his family. What sort of person would Grom be if he just left them high and dry?

  He loved them. Odd, that word. Sappy. But it was the truth.

  Bolt’s and Annika’s footprints in the snow were easy to follow. Actually, Bolt’s footprints were easy to follow; Annika had left none. Grom didn’t need to follow their path anyway; penguins have an excellent sense of direction. They sometimes travel a hundred miles just to breed, without needing a map or street signs or anything.

  As Grom walked, he passed clusters of penguins. He sent out thoughts to distract them, thoughts like Look away! and Your shoelaces are untied! as he had been taught. Penguins don’t even wear shoes, so it was amazing that they always fell for that trick.

  Then, along the way, Grom felt like his head was swimming, and his legs buckled. He glanced up at the full moon. It was midnight. He hadn’t turned into a werepenguin many times, but he knew the feeling.

  He gasped for air, although his lungs cleared almost instantly. They had changed into penguin lungs, and his spleen changed into a penguin spleen, although Grom wasn’t sure if penguins even had spleens, or even what spleens did, but the point was that all his internal organs changed, and it was both painful and uncomfortable although it happened very, very fast.

  And then he was standing there. A full-fledged penguin. His clothing shredded on the ground beneath him.

  His mind was fuzzy. He knew he was both penguin and human but had a hard time remembering his name or why he was here.

  He knew he had to follow the footprints in front of him but wasn’t completely sure why. And he knew he wanted to eat fish, lots and lots of raw fish. Were these footsteps leading to a fishery? He didn’t think so.

  He followed the prints anyway.

  Penguins saw him and quivered in fright. He felt their confusion—Who are you? Don’t hurt us!—but he also sensed a change in them. It was as if some giant bowl of evil stew had been tipped, and their hostility spilled out.

  They were still hostile, but less so.

  When he approached the next ridge, he saw a puzzling scene.

  There was a werepenguin. Grom recognized him. Yes, he was a friend, although Grom couldn’t quite place his name. Blot?

  A girl lay on the ground clutching her foot and grimacing. She was familiar, too. Hanukkah was her name. No, Annika. Grom was proud he remembered that.

  On the ground, a short distance away, lay something else. An armored penguin. Grom looked at her enviously. He would have liked his own armor. The penguin was dazed, but certainly not dead or even badly injured.

  One more figure lay on the ground, unmoving. Something large and ferocious, some werepenguin beast, and Grom was glad it was still.

  What was this thing? The Stranger? Yes, that was his name. He was alive, but the rottenness that emanated from him was now more of a trickle than a spray.

  While Grom walked closer, he felt a new horror. Another werepenguin. This one wore a cape. Rottenness filled the air around him with such tightly packed cruelty that Grom had to catch his breath.

  Baron Chordata? I thought you were dead! Blot said. No, it was Bolt, not Blot. And he didn’t say those words, he thought them. Grom could hear them in his head.

  I’m not dead, nope. Sorry to disappoint, the creature answered silently. I wasn’t comfortable living inside the belly of an orca. It was extremely cramped. But what could I do? I was weak. Nearly dead. So I sat there until, eventually, the whale burped me out. I hid for a while, regaining my strength. But every fish I ate I imagined was you, Bolt. Every fish bone that I snapped I pretended was your neck. The Stranger sensed I was alive and invited me here. He told me that the three of us would raise our army of penguins. But I knew he was a fool. I knew the only way you’d help us is if you were dead.

  How would I help you if I were dead? Bolt asked.

  It was a bad plan, the Baron admitted. But I see you’ve defeated the Stranger. A shame. I didn’t see that coming. But you are mine, Bolt! You were born from my hate! Nothing can help you!

  Not true, thought Grom. I can. He strode forward, his wings clenched at his sides. He squawked.

  The Baron glared at him, and Grom felt a thump, thump, thump in his mind, like someone was banging against it with foam blocks. It didn’t really hurt, but if someone hits you repeatedly with a foam block, you’ll eventually get pretty annoyed, and that’s what happened here as the thumping continued. With each thump echoed the words: You are mine to control, you are mine, you are mine . . .

  Stop that, Grom thought. I’m getting really annoyed now . . . Stop . . . Annoyed . . . Yes, master.

  That last thought jarred Grom enough that he staggered. He couldn’t make out everything that was happening through his penguin-addled mind, but he understood he was not a creature born from hate, and that was all he really needed to know. I am not a monster. I am not a monster.

  He continued to stride forward, shaking his head to clear it. You can’t touch me. The Baron looked frightened even as thoughts continued to bounce off Grom’s head. Destruction. Chaos. Rule.

  The Baron stood between them, Grom nearing the Baron, and Bolt a little farther away. This would have been a perfect time for a game of Monkey in the Middle.

  You are all making me angry, thought the Baron. Very, very angry. And you don’t want to see me very, very angry.

  And then the ground shook and the Baron’s head vibrated from side to side, so fast his features blurred. His head did three complete turns on his neck. Steam erupted from his ears. His beak expanded, and razor-sharp twin fangs sprouted from them. His body stretched, and so did his legs. His eyes blazed red.

  The Baron had been short, about the same height as Bolt, but the Baron-penguin now stood seven feet tall.

  Grom didn’t know much about this creat
ure, but he knew it was bad news. Grom needed to fight this monstrosity. He waddled forward—Grom could waddle quickly, quicker than ordinary penguins, anyway. Grom thrust out his beak, but the Baron slapped it away and rammed his shoulder into Grom’s head. Grom fell backward, and everything felt even more jumbled than before.

  He thought he saw Blot, or rather Bolt, rushing toward the Baron-penguin. I will protect my friends! I will protect the world! Bolt thought—it was amazing how Grom could hear his thoughts so clearly—until smack!—the Baron’s wing smashed against Bolt’s head, and Bolt flew into the air. Odd, thought Grom. Penguins don’t fly.

  Then Bolt crashed to the ground. Oh, that’s more like it, thought Grom.

  48.

  Born from Love

  Bolt got to his feet, woozy from the Baron’s blow. He regretted rushing at the monster; Bolt had been so surprised to see Grom and the Baron that he had acted impulsively. But being part of the penguin-verse was intuition, not impulse. He would never beat this monster with his muscles. So, although he stood only a few feet from the Baron, Bolt stayed where he was. Holding out his wing (just to look cool), Bolt bent his mind forward, sending blue shockwaves of love hurtling through the frigid air.

  The Baron ducked, and the energy blob grazed his shoulder. Ooh, my shoulder feels all lovey-dovey, he mocked. But they were so close that he simply took a step forward and kicked Bolt in the shin. Bolt slipped on the ice and fell.

  You cannot defeat me, Bolt, thought the Baron. You are a part of me and my hate. You don’t have an orca to save you this time. I should have beaten you then. Now I’ll hurt you twice as badly. Yes, that’ll be nice. For me, at least.

  Bolt tried to form another ice-blue love blob, but the Baron slammed into him with his massive belly, sending Bolt rolling down the slippery slope, where he landed on Grom’s blubbery penguin body, which was splayed across the snow.

  “Watch it,” Grom muttered.

  But Bolt was too distracted by the Baron’s last words: Twice as badly. Yes, that’ll be nice.

  Bolt still remembered every word of the seer’s chant. For example, the chant had sixty-seven syllables; the meter had been off by one. And there was still one couplet that Bolt thought he had deciphered but wasn’t completely sure:

  But you won’t win unless you take this advice—

  Born from love may entice, but a bite’s twice as nice.

  He looked over at Grom, born from love. That was the answer! Bolt needed to be born from love, too.

  Bite me, Bolt ordered Grom.

  Grom was blinking, regaining his senses. What’d you just say to me?

  Bite me! Literally, I mean. I wasn’t insulting you or anything. Bolt held his neck toward Grom’s beak. Just do it quick, OK?

  Why would I bite you?

  I can get rid of most of the hate inside the penguins of the world, but I’ll never be able to remove it entirely. And I won’t be able to fight the Baron. Not the way I am now. Because I was born from the Baron’s hate. But if I’m reborn from love, from the goodness inside you, I think I’ll have a chance.

  He needed to be bitten twice—once by the Baron, and now again by Grom. Bolt really didn’t know if that would work. Had a werepenguin ever been bitten twice?

  I don’t want to bite you, thought Grom.

  Meanwhile, the Baron was stomping toward them, his thoughts hammering into them like an overactive woodpecker. I will destroy you!

  Come on, Grom. I need your help. This could be the only way. Bolt could have forced Grom to do it, controlling Grom’s mind and making him lower his fangs. But that would have sort of defeated the purpose of being bitten by love. Please? What’s the worst that could happen?

  Then, without another word (spoken or otherwise), Grom opened his beak, leaned over, and sunk his teeth into Bolt’s neck.

  The pain was incredible, and Bolt’s eyes blinked violet and red. He thought he might pass out. But just as soon as the pain arrived, it was gone. As the first drop of Grom’s saliva penetrated Bolt’s veins, he felt his body grow numb, like it was being pumped with antifreeze. The feeling surged down his shoulders and up his wings and then down into the rest of his body. He quaked as if he were having a fit. For a brief moment he thought he was going to explode and that his last words would be, “What’s the worst that could happen?” which was sort of funny.

  But he didn’t explode. Instead, he grew. His neck stretched, his legs extended, his feathers elongated, and so did the rest of him. Even his head expanded. It was as if he were being inflated with air. The world spun around him, and he heard someone gasp, and he also heard someone belch, but the gasping was louder.

  And when the world cleared, Bolt looked down at Grom, and down at the Baron, and down at everything. He must have stood twenty feet tall. He opened his beak, and the bark that rang out could probably be heard clear across the South Pole.

  “Wow, Bolt,” said Grom. “You’re big.”

  The Baron smiled, and it was the broadest penguin smile Bolt had ever imagined. It distorted his entire face so he looked less like a werepenguin and more like some sort of were-demon. “Yes, Bolt!” he cried. “Look at you! You can rule the world!”

  “Uh, yeah. About that? No thanks.” Bolt now had twice the capacity for love, twice as much as anyone ever had before, and that love filled the penguin-verse like an expanding balloon, crowding out the evil, actually devouring the hate cells that floated inside it like a penguin at an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet.

  Mmm. Bolt could really go for a meal right now. He was so big he could eat a lot, too.

  But dining would need to wait for later. Saytana, the armored penguin, had recovered her wits and waddled up to face him. He peered down at her, her silver not even a nuisance anymore. You can stop fighting now. You are good. You are family.

  “Sure,” Saytana yapped happily. Her hate nugget was instantly gone, dissolved with the remaining negativity in the air.

  Bolt grabbed the Baron between his wings, lifted him up to eye level, and roared in his face. The Baron winced as the hot air breezed through his penguin feathers. Maybe Bolt had bad breath? Well, it hardly mattered. Bolt was so big he could do anything. Conquer all! Rule the world!

  But neither sounded fun. Bolt had thought such things before and always had to tamp down those emotions, reminding himself that ruling the world was very bad. But now the thought of hurting and controlling people, or fighting and battling, disgusted him.

  He was big enough to hurt anyone but had no desire to. Not even the Baron.

  He put the evil werepenguin gently back on the ground. Stay there.

  The Baron stood in place, unable to move, as if he were a mannequin in a department store window.

  Bolt looked behind him, where Annika and Grom were now huddling together, watching. Both seemed nearly petrified with fear as they gazed at the giant Bolt. Annika’s eyes were teary. Was she crying? Well, her eyes were wet, anyway. Bandits didn’t cry. “You’re my best friend,” she said quietly. “You won’t hurt us, right?”

  Grom stood in front of her, as if to protect her. From Bolt? But Bolt wouldn’t harm them! He loved them!

  Bolt looked down at his webbed feet. Being twenty feet tall was a problem. Monsters were twenty feet tall, and Bolt wasn’t a monster. He was just an orphan boy with a birthmark who was sent to Brugaria and became best friends with a bandit.

  I’m just Bolt.

  That was his code now. The Code of Bolt. The first line of the seer’s chant had been: Discover your code—and embrace it you must. In a way, it was the most important line.

  Because it was a code not only for Bolt but for everyone: regular people, pirates, bandits, and penguins. Be yourself, because it’s the only thing you can be. Everyone is chosen for something, whether it’s being a werepenguin fighter or being a good friend or member of a family or part of a community. What’s important
is to be the best you that you can be.

  For Bolt, that meant to love, and to allow himself to be loved. That was why he could defeat monsters. That’s why he was chosen.

  It was like someone punctured a tire just then, and the tire was Bolt. Air seemed to leak out in one sudden breath. He grew thinner so he looked almost flat, and then shorter, one after another, thinner, shorter, thinner, and then he was his normal werepenguin height and his normal werepenguin width. He looked at Annika, blinking.

  He looked at Grom, too. Grom’s werepenguin body pulsed with feelings of caring and of family. Born from love. Just like Bolt.

  But while Bolt’s physical size was that of a normal werepenguin again, his mind felt twice as big: twice as smart and twice as aware. He glanced across the snow to the Baron, who was still frozen in place. Bolt flicked a wingtip at him, just slightly, and the air curdled around his hand. The Baron fell to his knees but was no longer immobilized. “We will rule . . .” he began, but Bolt pinched his fingers and the Baron’s beak snapped shut.

  He was so easy to control now, although controlling the Baron brought Bolt no pleasure.

  Whatever hate the Stranger had stuffed inside Bolt once and whatever claim the Baron had on Bolt’s brain were gone. Bolt waved his hand across the snow. There were penguins nearby, and their minds were cleared instantly, freed of all their crusty nuggets of hate. With time, he would do the same for every penguin in the world.

  He turned back to look at the Baron, who was standing and trying to speak through his clamped beak, and the Stranger, who was now twitching a little, injured but not dead. Their time was over. Bolt would not kill them. He was not a killer and never had been. Besides, Bolt was far more powerful than both of them put together. Get him out of here, he thought, jabbing his wing toward the Baron. It was the last time Bolt would ever order the penguins to do anything for anyone. But something told him they’d be happy to carry out this particular task.