The man’s enormous stomach, and the bright red Christmas reindeer sweater that covered it (it was April, but Mr. Smoof only had so many sweaters), rose up and down as he snored, a grumbling rumble that would have kept the entire train car awake if there had been anyone else in it. But he and Bolt were the train car’s only passengers.
Another bark rang out from the darkness outside, savage and primal. Bolt could feel the bark in his bones, like one feels a fog hovering over a frog-infested swamp.
Something about the barks outside the train felt familiar. That was odd, since animals were strictly prohibited at the Oak Wilt Home for Unwanted Boys, with the exception of the spiders, the cockroaches, and the moles. And those creatures were not permitted, just tolerated—and none barked.
Still, it was as if Bolt had heard those barks before. But where? In his dreams?
In his nightmares?
The train hit a nasty bump and its walls shook. Bolt flew a good six inches in the air. This time, surely, the train would break apart, if not from disrepair, then out of spite. Bolt flopped back down on the bench. TWANG! A spring broke. The rest of the train held together.
Mr. Smoof continued to snore.
Bolt took a deep breath and told himself that he was fierce. Strong! Like his nickname, he was a thunderbolt crackling with bravery and power.
Bolt hoped that if he told himself those things enough, they might become true. He didn’t like to think about the real reason for his nickname, which one of the other orphan boys had given him because Bolt always bolted under his bed when faced with unpleasant things like scary movies or prospective parents coming to adopt someone.
Some of the boys had laughed at Bolt’s bolting habit, but he felt it was far better to run away than to stay and face possibly unfortunate consequences.
Just as it would be far better to run, now, back to the orphanage, and into the arms of his parents who might be waiting for him at that very moment. His parents wouldn’t care about his strange birthmark or his nose—a nose that Bolt always felt was a little too big—or his unruly hair that seemed to stick up in strange places for no good reason. They would just want Bolt for who he was.
Unless.
Bolt retraced his conversation with the headmistress. “It was almost as if you were meant to be together.” “Maybe you have some royal blood in you.”
As she’d said, it was all so strange. So mysterious.
Unless.
Unless this Baron, this unknown royalty, hadn’t plucked Bolt at random.
For why else would he have chosen Bolt, sight unseen, unless Bolt had royal blood? Unless this Baron was . . . Bolt’s father?
It was all so obvious now.
Bolt sat up straighter. Hope surged in his chest. It was a strange feeling. He had not felt the feeling of hope often, and at first he thought it was a bug that had crawled into his throat, before he realized the feeling was warm and welcoming. Bugs often crawled into his throat at the orphanage, especially when he slept with his mouth open, but they never left a warm or welcoming feeling.
His father might have reached out to Bolt sooner—unless he lived too far away to send for his son. Unless, as a Baron, he had been too busy with Baron-like things, whatever they might be, to invite Bolt home.
Unless.
Unless.
Bolt sprang up like the broken springs on his seat. It was as if Bolt’s new optimism fueled a hidden reservoir of bravery previously untapped, like a spigot run dry until the pipe is repaired. Which reminded Bolt that most of the bathtub pipes at the orphanage were broken, and he needed a bath.
Emboldened, Bolt no longer felt tethered to his seat. He would explore the train, perhaps find a bathroom where he could clean himself up. He would meet his new family soon. He needed to smell nice for them, look his best, and make a wonderful first impression.
He would not bolt, and perhaps he would never need to bolt again.
Bolt placed Penguin on his seat and strolled down the aisle. Boys with parents didn’t need stuffed animals. He pushed open the sliding doors from his car. The cold and roaring winds whipped around him, and he considered returning to the warmth of his seat. Instead, still fueled by his newfound hope, Bolt entered the next train car. It was the same as the last—filled with rows of ripped-vinyl benches and empty of passengers. Bolt continued forward, through the doors and the momentary discomfort of freezing outside winds, and into a third car. It looked exactly like the other two.
“Traveling to Brugaria?” The voice was high-pitched and squeaky, but drenched in an eerie sourness. A man sat up ahead. A wisp of gray hair peeked over the back of his seat at the end of the car.
Bolt froze.
“Come closer.”
Bolt approached, but slowly. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had a family now, and had no need to be afraid. I am a thunderbolt! I am fierce! he said to himself.
Bolt reached the end of the car. A thin man sat on the bench, his skin clinging to his skull like a plastic film wrapping. He wore a conductor’s hat and uniform, frayed and stained with blood, or maybe it was pizza sauce. Bolt didn’t want to ask which, but he didn’t see empty pizza boxes lying around.
“We don’t get many visitors to Brugaria,” said the man. His teeth were grayish black. “What brings you there?”
“Going to my new home,” Bolt said, forcing himself not to bolt away.
“Then you should learn the Brugarian national anthem.” The man sang, his high-pitched wail reminding Bolt of a cat scratching a dinner plate:
“We are Brugaria.
Brugaria are we.
We are—ARGGHH!”
After an awkward silence, Bolt blinked. “That’s it?”
“The songwriter died in the middle of writing it, eaten by giant scorpions. That’s the sort of thing that happens in Brugaria.” The man coughed, phlegm soaring from his lips. “It’s a horrible and dangerous place.”
Bolt took a deep breath. He reminded himself that he would soon have a family. He was no longer unwanted. He was brave. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to live with a Baron.”
The conductor’s eyes bulged. His vile breath hit Bolt’s nose; it smelled like rancid corned beef. Bolt was familiar with the smell, as the orphanage served corned beef, often rancid, every other Thursday. The man’s voice quaked. “Heed my warning—turn around. Go home, before it is too late.”
From outside, a chorus of barks rang out, angry, loud, and violent. They seemed to collide inside Bolt’s head, both frightening and familiar. It was as if a recurring dream, a nightmare he could not quite remember, had reawakened.
The conductor glanced out the window as the barks faded away. “Penguin barking. They are close. They are always close.” His hands shook. His mouth twitched. “Beware the penguins.”
“Beware the penguins?” Bolt imagined small, funny creatures with floppy, webbed feet. He thought of his stuffed animal. He rolled his eyes.
“Do not eye roll. Just beware!” The man leapt up, raised his hands, and howled, “Beware! Beware! Beware!”
Bolt screamed, turned, and bolted away. He no longer cared about feigned bravery. Behind him, the man continued to holler. “Beware Brugaria! Beware the always-full Brugarian moon! Beware the penguins!”
Bolt didn’t stop running until he was through the next two cars and sitting back in his seat, clutching his one-winged stuffed penguin. His heart pounded in his chest.
Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.
Mr. Smoof stirred and opened his eyes. Bolt wondered if his pounding heart had woken him. The assistant headmaster blinked twice and then looked around in a mild panic as if he had forgotten where he was. But once he saw Bolt, he relaxed, and scowled. “Oh, yes. You. The train. Right.” He checked his watch. “We must be almost there. Thankfully. It’s impossible to sleep on these cars.”
Bolt was abo
ut to point out that Mr. Smoof had been sleeping without any problems, but instead raised the more pressing concern. “Do you know why we should beware the penguins?”
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Smoof rubbed his chin and rolled his eyes.
“I heard the train conductor say it, and he also warned about eye rolling.”
“You must have misheard,” said Mr. Smoof, rolling his eyes again. “Perhaps he said, Behind the pengoes.”
“What does that mean?”
“How should I know? I’m not from Brugaria. We’re in a strange country, so people act strangely. Otherwise they wouldn’t call them strange countries, would they? Now, enough talking. Wake me when we arrive.”
Mr. Smoof leaned back and his snoring commenced almost immediately. Bolt wished he could fall asleep, too. Instead, he looked out the window. Twisted tree limbs once again scratched against it, reaching out with their ice-tipped claws. The car jiggled.
Outside, barks rang out. Penguins? Bolt tried his best to ignore them. But the words of the conductor stayed with him.
Beware the penguins.
Bolt hugged his stuffed animal despite being fully aware he was too old for such comforts, reminding himself he would soon be with his real family.
He tried to convince himself that his new life would be grand, despite the penguin barks chilling his spine with their terrorizing and nightmarish familiarity.
3.
Of Bushy Hair and Horns
The man on the train had said the Brugarian moon was always full. That seemed odd, if not impossible, but Bolt was thankful for it, as the bright globe splashed light—the only light—onto the vacant train station platform. A heavy mist covered the ground. Bolt could not see his shoes. He clutched his small bag so tightly, his fingers turned white.
Bolt didn’t have much inside his bag—some socks, two pairs of underwear, an old toothbrush missing half its bristles, and his stuffed penguin, the latter hurriedly crammed inside when the train had stopped.
A small drab wooden sign on the platform read Welcome to Volgelplatz.
Actually, it read elcome to Volgelplat. The first and last letters were missing along with chunks of wood, as if something had chewed on the sign.
A light dusting of snow spread over the ground. Bolt wished he had a hat and mittens, but the boys at the Oak Wilt Home for Unwanted Boys were not given such luxuries. Once, Bolt had been given a pair of wool socks, but that was before they were devoured during what became known as “the Night of the Thousand Moths.” Reporters had taken pictures of the unfortunate event, and Bolt’s face had even made the papers, although it was hard to see much of his face due to the thick coat of angry moths that covered it.
A lone dirt road rambled along the side of the platform. It emerged from a dark forest, past the platform and a small, rustic cottage—the only building within sight—and then disappeared back into the woods.
Not even a streetlamp shone, although light flowed from the small cottage’s downstairs windows, an oasis from the dark.
Mr. Smoof waved from the train. “This is where we part.”
“A-aren’t you coming with m-me?” asked Bolt, his voice shivering from both the cold and the idea of being alone. Bolt had no experience being alone. Even a grumpy companion who smelled like sausages was better than none at all.
Mr. Smoof shook his head. “I promised to accompany you to Brugaria. I have fulfilled my obligations.”
“But you can’t just leave me here.”
“Of course I can. The train comes just once a month, and I have no intention of staying here for even one more second. A carriage should pick you up shortly. At least that’s what I was told. You’re a Volgelplatzian now. Or maybe a Volgelplatzer? Good luck, Humboldt Wattle.” Barking erupted from far away. “You’ll need it.”
The train hurried forward, its wheels squealing over the rusting rails. Mr. Smoof disappeared back into the car. The train picked up speed rapidly, as if it were anxious to depart as quickly as possible. Black plumes of smog lingered in its wake, quickly blotting out the train.
Bolt fought the urge to rip open his bag and grab his stuffed penguin inside. He needed to be brave for his father.
Closing his eyes, Bolt imagined family beach vacations. He pictured a swing set in his backyard and picnics filled with family games of water polo.
Bolt wondered if families played water polo together; since he had never had a family, he didn’t know.
As Bolt stood on the dark and chilly platform, he thought of the boys at the orphanage. Did they miss him? Were they envious he would soon be with his father? When they were adopted, would they play water polo?
And what would Bolt’s father think of him? If he hoped Bolt would be cute or cuddly, like many of the other boys back at the orphanage, he would be disappointed. Unlike those boys, Bolt was untalented, too. Tenor could sing. Scholar was smart—he knew all the state capitals, even both Dakotas. Pseudonym was clever, and was particularly good at coming up with nicknames for all the boys.
But Bolt’s only talent was bolting from unfortunate circumstances. If he had another talent, he had not yet discovered it.
A twig cracked, and Bolt snapped open his eyes as something sprinted in the woods just past the platform, something small and quick.
A penguin stood near the tree line, staring back at Bolt, its eyes blazing red below stern, bushy eyebrows. Feet with orange webbing tapped on top of the snow-speckled ground. Tufts of white and black hair sprung out from its temples, and what looked like horns rose from its head.
As Bolt locked eyes with the creature, his head filled with frightening images. In his mind, Bolt could see penguins attacking humans. He saw penguins chasing cute bunny rabbits. He saw penguins burping without saying, “Excuse me.” The images were disturbing and discombobulating.
It was as if Bolt could read the animal’s thoughts, and those disturbing thoughts did not make for happy reading.
Grasping his bag tightly, Bolt rushed down the platform steps, nearly slipping on ice, and sprinted toward the glowing cottage. He did not look behind him. He could feel the penguin watching him, following him.
Beware the penguins!
Bolt reached the building’s porch. Laughter and music streamed out into the street. He smelled chocolate chip cookies. Over the door was painted in white letters The Dead Penguin Inn, along with a painting of a grim and determined penguin. The picture did not look welcoming— in fact, quite the opposite—but someone had taped a piece of paper below the picture that read All who seek protection are welcome inside. Encouraged, Bolt swung open the heavy wooden door and stepped through the doorway.
The door slammed shut behind him.
A dozen pairs of eyes stared at Bolt. No one moved. No one breathed. The place was silent and it smelled of burnt toast.
From the back of the room, a woman emitted a loud, harrowing scream. Bolt, filled with terror, froze to the spot just inside the entryway of the building, like a tongue on a chilled lamppost.
4.
The Dead Penguin Inn
Bolt stood inside a large, rustic tavern, the woman’s scream still bouncing off its walls. A fire burned in the hearth against the far wall, its flickering flames weakly lighting the room. A few lamps hung from the roof beams above.
The men wore lederhosen—classic Alpine leather breeches. To Bolt, the garments looked like shorts with suspenders. The women wore dirndls—dresses with laced bodices above the waists and white shirts with short, puffy sleeves underneath.
Their clothes reminded Bolt of images he had seen in a storybook long ago. Too bad that storybook had also been filled with pictures of trolls, horrid witches in candy houses, and people-eating ogres.
“Sorry about the screaming,” said a woman in the back. “I just got a paper cut.”
All the eyes in the room rested on Bolt. Each stare felt hos
tile and threatening. No one said a word as Bolt fidgeted in his too-small pants.
“I came inside because I thought I heard music,” croaked Bolt. “And smelled cookies.”
An old man stood up in the very back of the tavern, with skin as wrinkled as a raisin. “We have no cookies for you!” Under the man’s suspenders was a shirt with a picture of a whale, its mouth open as if emitting a mighty and menacing scream. “Who are you?” he demanded. His voice cracked, as weathered as his skin.
“I’m no one,” Bolt muttered, stepping back as if pushed by the man’s unwelcoming stare. “I just got off the train.”
“No one ever gets off that train,” said the man, staring at Bolt. His eyes narrowed. He waved a large stick. No, not a stick. It was a loaf of bread. The man thwacked the bread on a table, knocking over three mugs of ale.
“Watch it, Günter!” cried the bartender, a large man with forearms bigger than Bolt’s head. He yelled into the kitchen, “You’re overbaking the French bread again, Boris. It’s too crusty!”
“Sorry!” yelled a man from the kitchen.
When the boys had fought with one another at the orphanage, Bolt had often stepped in with a joke or a friendly comment. It would lighten the mood and they all would be friends again. “That’s a whale of a shirt,” he said to Günter, smiling.
The mood did not lighten. If anything, it darkened. Günter sneered. His lips trembled with fury. “You mock the whales?”
Bolt stepped back again, banging into the closed door behind him. “No. I have nothing against whales.”
“You lie!” bellowed Günter.
“Calm down. The lad must be here for the festival,” said a woman in the back, the same woman who had screamed from her paper cut. She seemed kind. She smiled and her bright rosy cheeks glowed. Other patrons smiled, too. The despair that had iced the room seemed to melt away. “Right? You’re here for the festival?”
The Curse of the Werepenguin Page 2