The Curse of the Werepenguin

by Allan Woodrow

  Annika stopped bouncing. Bandits did not flee from someone hitting a branch with their head.

  Brutus and Felipe vanished into the forest, their years of banditry letting them step lightly and soundlessly. The forest was dark, so Annika could not see the commotion that followed, only hear it. There was a scream of surprise, a mild scuffle, a “Come now!” from Felipe, and a moment later they returned, Brutus’s hand wrapped around the arm of Frau Farfenugen.

  “Who are you?” Vigi demanded.

  “Just a lowly housekeeper,” she said, falling to her knees.

  “She works for the Baron, or at least she did,” said Annika, stepping forward.

  Frau Farfenugen shook her head and scowled, deeply. “I never worked for him. I was his prisoner. Have mercy on me.”

  Vigi stared at her, his lips pursed. “We’ll return you to the Baron. If the rumors are true”—he glanced at Annika—“then we need to do whatever we can to be on the Baron’s good side. What better way to seal our pact than to return his runaway housekeeper?”

  Frau Farfenugen recoiled at the words. A look of dismal despair cast a shadow over her face. “Return me? You mustn’t! You couldn’t! You shouldn’t!”

  “Why notn’t?”

  Annika grabbed her father’s arm. “She helped me escape, Papa. We should let her go.”

  Vigi frowned. “Bandits never show mercy.”

  “You’re right. Never mind.” To herself, Annika muttered, “I have so much to learn before I can be the greatest bandit who ever lived.”

  The housekeeper wept, and the tears rolled down her wart-dotted face and dripped off into the dirt beneath her. “Let me tell you my story,” she begged. “Perhaps then you will decide to spare me.”

  “That seems unlikely,” said Vigi. “But go ahead. I’ve never minded a nice story every now and then.” From up above lightning flashed and thunder boomed. “But be quick. A storm’s coming.”

  “Thank you,” said the housekeeper. “I only hope a lowly housekeeper like me can deliver such a tale. It’s a love story, of sorts. My mother fell in love, you see. Often, that is the start of a happy tale. Other times it is not, such as when a princess falls in love with a frog, but instead of it transforming into a prince with a kiss, it is merely a frog, and the princess has to marry a frog.”

  “So this is a story about a frog?” asked Vigi Lambda. He looked unimpressed.

  “No, it is merely my introduction. May I continue?” When Vigi did not object, the lowly housekeeper told her story.

  42.

  The Final Break in the Action, We Promise

  It was late, too late. The penguins in the exhibit here at the St. Aves Zoo looked as annoyed as I. They kept rocking back and forth, their webbed feet squeaking like a handful of cat toys.

  “These constant stories within a story are bothersome,” I said.

  The penguin caretaker at the St. Aves Zoo sighed. “Some rugs are woven from one end to the other in a straight path, but others are woven in different pieces and then assembled. I’m afraid our tale is a rug like that. Let us take a moment to hear the housekeeper’s story.”

  “Must we?”

  “Let’s. It’s an interesting yarn.”

  I took a deep breath. “Hurry on with it, then. But it’s late. I hope your story is almost done.” The man nodded. “About time.”

  “Perhaps. But when we reach the end, you may wish we had never arrived.”

  43.

  The Story of the Lowly Housekeeper’s Mother

  Frau Farfenugen’s mother, before she became Frau Farfenugen’s mother, was a bright and spirited eighteen-year-old. Some said she was the most beautiful girl in all of Volgelplatz. At the annual Day of the Penguin Ball, forty-four young men asked her to be their penguin. There were only thirty-eight young men in town. A few asked her twice.

  But her heart belonged to another. He was poor, with few earthly possessions. But he had one important one: he owned Frau Farfenugen’s mother’s heart. Some said that made him the richest person in Brugaria. Most wouldn’t say that, but some people did. The two decided to run away. Elope. It was the only way they could be together. Her father disapproved of their marriage.

  Although she loved the boy, the new bride also missed her home. She wished she had told her father the truth. She had married a flutist, even though her parents always hoped she would marry someone who played a stringed instrument.

  Then, one day, her beloved’s flute was stolen. She traveled late into the night to reach her parents’ cottage so she could ask her father for help. Maybe he would take them in, teach her beloved to play another musical instrument, and then she wouldn’t have to sleep in dirt every night or own just one shoe. She didn’t tell her new husband she was leaving. Although poor, he was proud and would not want her father’s help. So she went alone while her husband slept.

  The reception was not a happy one.

  “A flutist? Have you gone mad?” her father bellowed, his face turning red. “I will never let him set foot in this house.”

  “You’ll feel differently when you meet him,” the new bride insisted. “He’s poor and has no schooling, but he’s polite. We have an apple, too.”

  “Silence!” her father shouted. “You could have married a cello player. Get out!”

  “But, Father, I’m still your daughter. It’s not like he plays the trumpet.”

  “Don’t ever say that word in this house.” Her father’s eyes bugged so far, they almost popped completely out of his head. “I never want to see you again. Go to your flutist. You’ve made your bed—now lie in it.”

  “Actually, we’re poor and don’t own a bed, which is one of our problems. Mother, surely you won’t turn me away.”

  Frau Farfenugen’s mother faced the woman who had stood silent all this time, her arms crossed. “Your father has spoken. Even a banjo-playing husband would have made us proud. Leave now. But stay on the main road. There are evil things that roam the woods at night. We may disown you, and never see or speak to you again, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care.”

  “It sounds like you don’t care.”

  “Well, stay on the main road anyway, if you know what’s good for you.”

  The new bride ran out of the house, tears of sadness and distress spraying from her like water from a lawn sprinkler. She didn’t pay attention to where she fled—she merely ran and ran some more, which was impressive since she wore only one shoe. She didn’t heed her mother’s warnings about staying on the road, and soon found herself deep within the forest.

  She saw light. She stepped through the trees and onto the vast lawn of Chordata Manor. She thought of the stories she had heard about it—terrifying tales of the supposed birdmen and monsters that lurked within. Rumors, probably, since no one ever dared visit the place. Still, she knew to keep away. She turned to head back into the forest and continue her crying and aimless running somewhere else.

  “Wait.” A boy, about twelve years old, stood only a few feet away. He was dressed in tuxedo pants, a white shirt, and a black cape sewn from penguin feathers. “You seem upset. Is everything OK?” He smiled and had dimples. Despite a disturbing, nearly pure white face, he appeared to be friendly, as dimpled people often are.

  “My father has disinherited me. Our flute has been stolen. I only have one shoe. And I forgot to take money out of my dirndl pocket before I did the wash last week.” She held up a small ball of crumpled paper. “See? Ruined.”

  “I have a flute. Would you like it?” asked the boy, smiling. “Perhaps some tea would perk you up, too. Care to go inside?”

  The woman laughed. So this was the place everyone was so scared of—with a boy in a cape who made tea? And he had a flute, too! Relieved, she followed him inside. But once there, he slammed the door shut and locked all thirteen bolts and latches.

  “I need a housekeeper,” he said.
“You shall be mine.”

  “You promised me a flute.”

  “I have none. I only have a banjo and a cello.”

  “Oh, if only I had fallen in love with someone like you,” the new bride said softly. She shrugged. “Never mind. But I need to leave. My beloved is waiting for me.”

  “Never! I have only one rule. That you are my housekeeper and that you never leave.”

  “That’s two rules.”

  “Fine, whatever. I am your master now.”

  “Give me a break!” she exclaimed, laughing. The new bride wasn’t a naturally fearful woman. Someone doesn’t sleep in dirt with a flute player and run around wearing one shoe if they are easily scared. “You’re only a boy.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. I know the truth. I know that you eloped and that your father is not happy.”

  “How did you learn all that?”

  “The penguins tell me everything.”

  The woman scoffed. “Penguins? Ha!” She laughed again for emphasis. “Ha! I’m leaving and you can’t stop me.”

  “If you leave, I will hunt you down and fry your spleen in a sauté pan, as well as that of your family, your friends, and your husband.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me. I have a brand-new sauté pan, too.”

  She could see in his glowing red eyes that he spoke the truth. She would soon learn of his temper, and his insatiable appetite for power and for fish. She stayed—what other choice did she have?

  After a month, the woman discovered she was pregnant, a lasting reminder of her brief but happy marriage. And so a child was born, raised by her mother in between waiting hand and foot on the Baron, and sometimes wing and foot.

  But one night, Frau Farfenugen’s young mother decided she needed to try to escape, if not for her own sake, then for her child’s. With her daughter by her side, she packed their things in a large brown sack. She crept out of the house, hoping to find her betrothed, whom she still loved, and maybe even her long-lost shoe.

  But she didn’t get far. She had not even made it into the forest when a band of penguins spotted her. The Baron appeared—not as a boy, but as a penguin. An evil penguin with horns and bushy eyebrows.

  The woman and her daughter were trapped, and the Baron was angry. Very angry.

  The woman begged for the Baron to spare her daughter’s life. The Baron laughed and then ate the woman, or at least all of her except her bones, which he spat out.

  But he spared the child. He said he needed a new housekeeper. So he buried the mother’s skeleton in an unmarked penguin grave, and her daughter became the Baron’s only servant.

  44.

  Reunited

  While she told her story, Frau Farfenugen had not looked up. Her eyes had remained fixed on her gnarled, warty hands. And so she did not notice Vigi’s face growing paler and paler, his arms and legs trembling, and his teeth nibbling his lips. Annika noticed these things, but she did not understand why they were happening.

  When Vigi spoke, his voice quivered as much as his limbs. “Was—was your mother’s name Marcella?”

  The housekeeper looked up then, and her eyes locked with Vigi’s, and a light seemed to shine in the dismal forest. Someone farted, but that only interrupted the mood for a moment. Vigi swooped Frau Farfenugen into his arms. “My daughter!” he cried, and he wept, and Frau Farfenugen wept and so did the bandits, Felipe loudest of all. No one cared that crying was forbidden by the Code of the Bandit except during a hanging, because only Vigi and Annika had actually read the code.

  “Annika, meet your sister,” said Vigi, choking on the tears that rained down his cheeks. “She looks just like her mother.”

  “But Frau Farfenugen is greenish, wart-covered, and half your height,” said Annika.

  “She has her mother’s elbows.”

  Annika embraced her sister, and the three of them embraced one another, and soon Felipe and Brutus and all the other bandits were hugging them, too, creating a very large huddle of ten people until Frau Farfenugen piped, “I can’t breathe!” and the group eased off.

  The adopted daughter of Vigi Lambda looked at the slightly green, warty face of her newly discovered sister. She looked at her father. She looked back at the housekeeper’s wrinkled cheeks. “Wait. How old are you?”

  “Nineteen,” wheezed Frau Farfenugen. She fluffed her hair. “But I’ve always looked mature for my age.”

  “Just a little,” Annika agreed.

  Vigi took his oldest daughter’s hands in his. “You will live with us, of course. I will protect you. Nothing is more important than family. Although kidnapping and robbing carriages are only slightly less important.”

  “A lowly housekeeper like me does not deserve such happiness.”

  “You will never again be known as a lowly housekeeper,” promised Vigi, staring into his daughter’s eyes. “Instead, you will be known as a lowly former housekeeper.”

  “Oh, thank you, Daddy!” she cried.

  “But what of the Baron?” asked Felipe. “He won’t be pleased his housekeeper has escaped his manor to come live with you.”

  Vigi scowled. “I’ll think of something.”

  “There’s nothing to think about,” said Annika. “We need to fight the Baron. Now more than ever.”

  Vigi stomped his foot. “No. I’ve already told you, we can’t risk it. He’s too powerful. I need to keep my daughters safe.”

  “But he already captured me once. He even imprisoned and ate your wife,” protested Annika.

  “No one’s perfect,” admitted Vigi Lambda.

  “But you just told me that nothing is more important than family.”

  “Don’t forget kidnapping and carriage robbing are important, too,” Vigi noted. “But you are right. Family is everything: you, my new wart-covered daughter, and even the bandits. I love you all.”

  Felipe, Brutus, and many of the other bandits blushed. “We love you, too,” Felipe blurted.

  “That’s why I can’t fight him,” continued the bandit leader. “Revenge is only sweet if you win—otherwise the taste is very sour.” The words were wise, although Annika noticed her father was sucking on a lime cough drop at that very moment. “My fighting him will not bring back my beloved Marcella. What’s done is done.”

  Up above, thunder shook the air, and the first signs of snowfall fell above them, with a few flakes sneaking down from the canopy of tree branches overhead. “Let’s head back to camp,” Vigi added. “There’s a storm coming.”

  Annika stepped in front of her father. If she was to be the greatest bandit who ever lived, she needed to do more than pick locks and rob carriages. She needed to lead and argue for what she believed in. She took a deep breath.

  “There is someone who can stop the Baron. Bolt, the boy from the carriage. He saved me from hanging. Blazenda foretold he was the chosen one, although she was a little murky on what exactly he was chosen to do, but we’re pretty sure he was chosen to fight the Baron and possibly save all of us. We need to help him.” She took another deep breath and added, “He’s my friend.”

  Her father grimaced. “A friend? Bandits don’t have friends.”

  “I know,” said Annika. “It just sort of happened.” She sunk her head, mad at herself for allowing herself to care about someone other than a fellow bandit, although she had to admit that having a friend felt good.

  “Annika is right,” said Frau Farfenugen. “He is our only hope.”

  Vigi looked away, frowning, but when he lifted his head back up, the frown had turned into a small, wry smile. “Then we should find this boy.” Annika looked at her father with uncertainty. She had seen that smile before, after he cheated at cards. She didn’t trust that smile. Bandits never cheated at cards unless they were losing, but Vigi wasn’t a very good card player, so he cheated often.

  The group r
eversed course, heading back to town. They walked silently, like wind upon grass. Only Frau Farfenugen’s clumsy and untrained-as-a-bandit footsteps, even louder because she wore combat boots, betrayed their movements.

  “Can we visit my mother’s grave on the way?” asked the housekeeper. “It’s in the penguin cemetery.”

  “I’d like to see it,” said Vigi. “But we’ll hide while you visit and give you some privacy. Then we’ll find the boy.” He tossed an apple in the air. “If we run into any problems, I’m ready.”

  45.

  The Bandit’s Daughters

  Bolt woke up. His head throbbed, his wrists hurt because they were tied tightly behind his back and to a tree, and his elbow itched but he couldn’t scratch it, which was the most frustrating part of it all.

  The storm had continued. Snow covered him like a firm white blanket and fell in huge flakes, each as big as a chestnut.

  Bolt fought to free himself, but without success. He felt his face flush, and anger swirled inside him. He opened his mouth and let loose a loud . . .

  BARK!

  He clamped his mouth shut. His fury was the Baron’s fury and he needed to force it out. The thought of the Baron angered him—how the monster had twisted the penguins’ minds, how he had murdered Bolt’s family. There was quite a lot to be angry about, actually. But anger was the enemy. Bolt could not let himself be like the Baron. He needed to calm himself.

  “Nice barking,” said a man’s voice. “I must admit you not only look vaguely penguin-ish, but you sound like one, too.”

  Five giant penguins surrounded Bolt. At least they looked like penguins, the snow obscuring them, until Bolt realized that they were men in tattered clothing and penguin hats. He wiggled the flakes off his head, although more instantly replaced them.

  They were in a large clearing, deep in the middle of the Brugarian forest, surrounded by dozens of tents. The place smelled like an old bathroom, despite the many air fresheners hanging from the trees. A scattering of fires kept the area warm, although not warm enough to melt the snow. It was late, and moon glow peeked out from behind a dark storm cloud but was quickly swallowed up again. In that brief instant, Bolt felt his skin tingling. It was not midnight yet, but the hour grew close.