The Battle of the Werepenguins

by Allan Woodrow

  A hundred happy, mind-freed penguins dashed toward the Baron. The Baron attempted to implant evil into their heads—Bolt could sense it—but those efforts failed as quickly as they started. Those thoughts could not survive in the new penguin-verse. Not anymore.

  The Baron whimpered to Bolt in a penguin squeal, “But I thought we were BFFs?”

  As the penguins raced toward the Baron, he turned tail, literally, and ran, penguins trailing after him, eager to get their wings on him and tackle him in a big hug. A few moments later they had all disappeared over the ridge.

  “What about him?” Annika asked, jabbing a thumb at the Stranger, who was slowly getting to his feet.

  Bolt eyed the werepenguin, still massively huge but also powerless. You will live here, ruling no one and nothing.

  Not even a couple of penguins? the Stranger asked, wings clasped.

  Nope.

  Pretty please?

  Never again. Penguins will live as penguins should, with families and love. So will you.

  Just as the Stranger had implanted a crusty nugget of hate into the world’s penguins, Bolt planted a fluffy crumb of love into the Stranger’s head. It would grow and blossom, and while it wouldn’t take hold overnight, it would eventually. You will find a family. You will finally be a true penguin.

  “I can make you a new kite,” said Annika. “It won’t be so bad.”

  The Stranger brightened, just a tiny little bit. One day the Stranger might even be happy.

  49.

  The Forest Bandits

  Annika beamed when the Bobbing Borscht landed off the shores of Volgelplatz. Bolt was glad Annika was home, but he also felt the distance between them. His mind wandered constantly. How could it not? He was in continual communication with the entire world of penguins. Some of them called him Master, but he quickly corrected them. No. I am your brother. He would not rule them. Mostly, he would leave them alone, but occasionally check in to make sure he hadn’t missed any crusty nuggets of hate hidden away.

  He almost felt like a ghost now. Here, but not here. Annika said he seemed sort of semitranslucent at times. He wondered if, given enough time, he might disappear into the penguin-verse entirely.

  They advanced through the Brugarian forest. Annika had no way of telling the bandits they were coming, which made their entrance awkward. Her father appeared, cloaked by the dark of the forest, dressed in tattered lederhosen and a penguin hat. “Stop. I am Vigi Lambda, the bandit. You are trespassing on our land. Since everyone knows this is bandit country, that makes you very stupid, very ignorant, or perhaps a friend who’s come for dessert?”

  “Papa? It’s me.”

  Their embrace was long, each clasping the other tightly, gentle sobs rising from the older bandit, soft purrs of contentment from Annika. Soon, other bandits emerged from the forest and hugged them both, a giant hugging ball that only broke up when someone in the middle farted.

  “Sorry, I ate too many beans at lunch,” said one of the bandits, but Bolt couldn’t tell whom.

  “And Bolt! What an honor!” Felipe, Vigi’s left-handed right-hand man rushed to Bolt and hugged him. From his faint smell, Bolt guessed it had been Felipe who had eaten too many beans. “What a delight to see you! You’re practically one of us, after all.”

  “Thank you.” After Bolt had defeated the Earl and freed Vigi and Felipe from the Earl’s dungeons, they had sworn a lifetime of bandit loyalty to him, an unexpected and rare honor.

  “Don’t forget we also promised you twenty percent off any item bought during our annual Forest Bandit Bake Sale, which starts next week,” Felipe added.

  Vigi joined Felipe in welcoming Bolt, and then he noticed Grom, who had remained quiet, off to the side, looking uncomfortable, as if he didn’t belong here. “And who is this? Another person who becomes a werepenguin during the full moon?”

  “Is it that obvious?” asked Grom, rubbing his bushy eyebrows.

  “Sort of,” said Vigi. “Still, any werepenguin friend of my daughter’s is a friend of mine, as long as you don’t peck any of us to death.”

  “Nah, I’m not that sort of werepenguin. I’m more of the ‘hey, why can’t we all just get along’ sort of werepenguin.”

  “Even better.” Vigi smiled and clasped Grom on the shoulder. Grom smiled back.

  That evening, a great feast was prepared. The pungent smell of burnt iguana permeated the air like a thousand stink bombs. If it weren’t for the competing scent of 276 vanilla-scented air fresheners hanging from the nearby trees, the stench would have been unbearable.

  Raw fish had been offered to Bolt and Grom, and they thanked the bandits for their thoughtfulness. Dancing soon broke out, and Grom proved himself a marvelous dancer, first doing an Irish jig and then wiggling on the ground and performing something he called “the worm.” Apparently, it was a very popular mole dance.

  Bolt wasn’t a dancer. So he found himself sitting alone near the great bonfire, its embers floating into the night as he felt the penguin-verse. Bolt enjoyed being alone now. The penguin-verse was so big! Being with people almost felt claustrophobic.

  “May I join you?” asked a woman, her voice raspy and ancient. “I know I am but a lowly former housekeeper, not deserving of sitting next to such a hero as you.”

  Bolt had not seen Frau Farfenugen since he had left Volgelplatz, and he eagerly motioned for her to sit. “How are you?” he asked. “And the Fish Man?”

  “He is well, at least as well as anyone can be who is married to a lowly former housekeeper like me, which is not as well as otherwise. He is not here tonight. He is in a bowling league with a group of penguins.” Bolt gasped. Bowling penguins? Had evil returned? He needed to get back to work! Save the world! “Lawn bowling,” Frau Farfenugen added.

  “Oh, that’s fine, then.”

  The former housekeeper soon excused herself and joined the dancing in the middle of the clearing. Bolt watched for a while but soon found himself wandering alone through the forest. The sounds of a party, mixed with the continuous penguin buzzing in his ears from the penguin-verse, was a bit much. As he walked, he came across three penguins, a mother and father and their chick. Bolt nodded to them.

  “That’s him! That’s him, Mommy!” squawked the chick.

  “Are you the one who saved us?” asked the mother penguin, eyes wide. “Are you the chosen one?” Bolt wondered if this was how celebrities felt.

  No, not anymore, Bolt thought back, bowing his head and continuing his stroll. He wasn’t who he used to be—not a penguin, not even really human, either. He was something else. Something new.

  That realization saddened Bolt. He had never wanted anything but to fit in. But it seemed like he never would, not anywhere.

  “Bolt?” It was Annika. She jogged up to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. “I saw you walk away. You’ve been so quiet. Is everything OK?”

  “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  “You’re one with the penguin-verse, aren’t you? We haven’t talked about it, but I can tell.” Bolt nodded and took Annika’s hand. “But it’s over now. The Stranger is defeated. The world’s werepenguins are surrendering. Which means you’ll stay with us, right? In the forest?”

  Bolt shook his head. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  Annika squeezed his hand. “Why? You still need a family. Everyone needs a family. You know that more than anyone. And you can have one now. Here. As a bandit. My father wants you to stay. So does Felipe. So does everyone. I know we’re not a penguin colony, but you can have a good life here. We can be like brother and sister.”

  “We already are.” It was tempting. After all, Bolt didn’t really have anywhere to go. He could talk to penguins anytime, from anywhere. Could he make his home here?

  No.

  He would never belong here. He would just feel more alone than he did when he was actually a
lone, which didn’t seem to make sense but it did to Bolt. “I can’t stay.”

  There was another reason, too. Werepenguins never aged if they lived in places with magical, always full moons like Brugaria. But in other places they aged normally. Or at least Bolt was pretty sure that was true.

  Some people might do almost anything to never grow old. But to Bolt, that thought revolted him. He wanted to grow up.

  “I lost Blackburn, and now I’m losing you,” said Annika, stifling a sob.

  “You’re not losing me. We’ll always be best friends, in the penguin-verse.”

  “It’s not exactly the same thing,” said Annika. “Where will you go?”

  Bolt hadn’t thought that far ahead. He could find a rookery somewhere and live with penguins. But that didn’t seem right either.

  No, he would travel the world, searching out the remaining evil in penguins and removing it. He wouldn’t be part of a family necessarily, but he would live his code and just be the best he could be.

  Tears ran down Annika’s face. “Will I ever see you again?”

  Bolt smiled. “Of course.” But in his heart, he knew he was lying to Annika once again.

  EPILOGUE

  Off the Docks

  The foghorn rang. It was evening now, and the last of the animals had been loaded. The penguin caretaker and I sat on the deck as the ship readied to leave port.

  “What happened next?” I asked.

  “All our heroes lived full lives. Blackburn grew old with his new mole family. Annika never saw Bolt again but became the greatest bandit that ever lived. She also became famous for killing a giant bullfrog, but I don’t know the whole story. And Grom? He went with Bolt, eager for a fresh start. America seemed as good as any place to go. Grom couldn’t really live underground with were-moles anymore, you see, and he didn’t know the forest bandits well enough to want to stay with them, either, although he was invited to. So Bolt and Grom went to a pier in Volgelplatz the very next day, where they found a ship boarding animals to take to a zoo in America.”

  I smiled. My standing here on a ship that was headed for a zoo seemed like a big coincidence. No, not a coincidence. Fate. Destiny had brought me to the St. Aves Zoo all those months before so that I could save the animals now.

  “The captain gave Bolt and Grom passage in exchange for their working as deckhands,” added the penguin caretaker.

  “And so Bolt came to America.”

  “Actually, he didn’t, at least not then. Bolt jumped off the boat in the middle of the ocean. He told Grom he would come to America eventually. But he had penguins to heal, and needed to make sure they treated one another with decency and love.”

  “Penguins have always seemed pretty nice to me,” I said. “So he must have succeeded.”

  “I think so. But it’s a lot of work. I have to take care of the penguins in a single zoo, and that’s difficult enough. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to take care of all the penguins in the world.”

  “And what came of Grom?”

  “He talked his way into a permanent job with the zoo, taking care of the penguins. He was like, ‘I’m good with penguins,’ and they were like, ‘You even look like one.’ ” The man winked and said no more.

  It was then that I noticed the ship was heading out into the great sea. Our own voyage had begun.

  “And what then?” I asked.

  The man clapped me on the back. “My story has ended, my friend. Our agreement is finished. I have told you the whole of my tale.”

  “And I will never forget any of it, not a word, as long as I shall live,” I answered. “Um, what was the name of the boy werepenguin again?”

  “Bolt?”

  “Right. Now I will never forget a word of it. Thank you, sir. Or should I call you Grom?”

  He did not respond, but perhaps that was an answer in itself.

  “Did Grom ever see Bolt again?”

  “Once. But that’s another story. And what a story it is.”

  “If you tell me that story, I will give you—”

  “My penguins now have a home, thanks to you,” he said, interrupting me. “There is nothing else you can barter with.” In the background we could hear penguins squawk. “I must be with them, to calm them during the voyage. Thank you again, my friend.” He bowed. “You have saved us, and for that, the penguins of the world will always be your friend.”

  “As long as they don’t expect to come over and stay for the weekend,” I said with a chuckle, imagining trying to find bath towels for twelve million penguins. And where would I find all the dead fish to feed them? “Wait. One last question,” I said as the man walked away from me. “Is it hard to be a werepenguin?”

  “No harder than being a were-raccoon or a were-sloth, I suppose.”

  “Are there really such things?”

  “Were-animals are everywhere. If you know where to look.”

  And with that, the man took his leave, and I stood there, thinking of his final words to me. I still do.

  Have you ever been outside, after midnight, and seen a creature with red glowing eyes? Or just an animal that is wearing a nightgown?

  If so, beware.

  For when the moon is full, evil lurks in unsuspecting places, if not in penguins, then in many creatures, big and small.

  Beware the penguins? Maybe not anymore.

  But beware the unknown?

  Always, always, always.

  Acknowledgments

  If you haven’t written a book—and if you haven’t, I highly recommend it—you might think the author writes a few things and then it gets magically printed and shows up on your doorstep or library or bookstore or even your eReader if you’re into that sort of thing.

  Oh, gentle reader (or the not-so-gentle reader to whom this book is dedicated), you would be as mistaken as a penguin thinking it can bowl, or at least bowl well. For books, and this book in particular, was created not just from my keyboard-weary fingers but with the assistance of a team of experts, pros, friends, supporters and zoologists (well, maybe not zoologists). They all have made me look good, unless there is a part of the book you didn’t enjoy, in which case it’s their fault. They failed us.

  But, despite some of these people potentially messing up that one part of the book you didn’t like, I’m going to thank them anyway. I sometimes get asked how I draw so well, and my reply is always “I don’t” and point out that the wonderfully talented Scott Brown is responsible for the illustrations in this book and not me. That’s good news for all of us, as this is an example of my drawing of a werepenguin:

  Not great, huh? So, three cheers for Scott (please join me: Hip, hip hurray! Hip, hip hurray! Hip, hip hurray!... you know, I am quite aware you are not joining me in cheering, and I’m a little disappointed in you).

  In addition to my lackluster drawing skills, my grammar is

  not always perfect. I repeat words or use too, too, too many words or repeat words or misspell wrods and frankly, do all the sorts of things you probably do when you write. If you’re in school, your teacher corrects you. If you’re a published author, copy editors do all that, except they seldom star, circle, and underline things, or even draw smiley faces next to the really good parts. A shame, really. Still, I can’t thank Abigail Powers and Kate Frentzel enough, although this one time will have to do.

  If the book wasn’t designed, you’d have words falling into the margins, pictures cropped poorly, pagination all mishandled and a book that looked like it was designed by, well, me.

  So, thank you to Kate Renner, who designed both the covers and everything inside them with superb skill, and right-side up.

  I am also fortunate enough to work with not just one wonderful editor for this book, but two wonderful editors: the magnificent Dana Leydig and the marvelous Aneeka Kalia. If Dana got us off to a fast and successful s
tart, Aneeka took the baton and led us to a rousing, crowd-cheering finish.

  Books don’t just need to be written, designed, illustrated and edited but marketed, so people know where and when they can buy them. Otherwise, books just sort of vanish into the vast netherworld of never-read things. So, if you’re reading this, our publicist probably had something to do with it. Thank you to Tessa Meischeid, who has been a vital part of Team Werepenguin since the beginning.

  Thank you also to Kendra Levin; to my agent, Hannah Mann; to Lauren, Emmy, and Madelyn (as always); to my friends and family, interested others, and that guy who gave me his parking space during holiday shopping season. You’re the best!

  About the Authors

  Allan Woodrow is the author of many books including The Pet War, Class Dismissed, Unschooled, Field Tripped, and now, inspired by Dracula, old werewolf movies, Young Frankenstein, and an odd affection for fish sticks, The Curse of the Werepenguin. When Allan isn't writing, or noshing on breading-coated seafood, he's often presenting to schools, libraries, and conferences. You can learn more about Allan at allanwoodrow.com.

  Scott has produced work for television commercials, magazines, toys and comics. He spends his free time at his drafting board working on creations of his own. Originally from the seaport of Gloucester, Massachusetts, Scott currently resides on the southwest gulf coast of Florida (he can't stand living too far from the ocean) with his wife, two daughters, and a rather affable pug named Linus Van Pelt.

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