Worm Story

by Morris Gleitzman

  ‘Perhaps they prefer a more personal approach,’ said Wilton. ’Like a visit.’

  The farm workers stared at him as if he was one think molecule short of an intelligent life­form. Wilton could see their squiz molecules overheating.

  ‘Are you bonkers?’said another worker. ‘Nobody has ever visited the sludge gods. Not in the history of the whole valley.’

  ‘I thought I might,’ said Wilton.

  ‘Have your think molecules gone for a stroll in that big fat body of yours and got lost?’ said a third worker. ‘The sludge gods are angry. They’re ropeable. You don’t want to go anywhere near them when they’re in this mood.’

  Wilton found himself hoping the workers weren’t sludge god experts after all.

  ‘How do you know they’re angry?’ said Wilton. ‘The storms might be caused by something else.’

  ‘Look at the sludge,’ said another worker. ‘The sludge only goes like this when the gods are angry.’

  Wilton peered at the huge lump of storm­tossed sludge the workers were clearing up. He had to admit it didn’t look too good. Its usual bright colours were dull and dingy. The jagged orange fragments that the ancient legends called carrot were more of a dirty yellow. The green chunks the legends called peas were closer to grey.

  Perhaps the workers are right, thought Wilton. Perhaps the sludge gods are angry.

  He pushed the thought out of his molecules and started back up the slope.

  ‘When I’ve asked the sludge gods why I’m different,’ Wilton called down to the workers, ‘I’ll also ask them why the sludge is crook.’

  ‘We can tell you why you’re different,’ yelled the first worker. ‘It’s because you’re fat.’

  ‘But you won’t be for much longer if you go pestering the sludge gods,’ yelled the second worker. ‘They’ll grind you into sludge.’

  Wilton had never wriggled this far in his life, not even when he was looking for parents.

  His whole body was sore. The skin on his belly was sorest. He tried rolling over and wriggling on his back, but that just made his back skin sore too.

  Oh well, thought Wilton. At least I’ve left the farm workers behind.

  Nobody had called him fatso for ages.

  That was one good thing.

  One not-so-good thing was that the valley down this end was more of a narrow chasm. The sludge flowed much faster here and the valley slopes were very steep. Wilton had to wriggle along the upper slopes very carefully in case he lost his balance and rolled down into the surging river of sludge.

  He didn’t fancy that. As well as flowing scarily fast, the river was giving off a musty sour smell. Wilton could just make out the enzymes that usually frolicked and played happily in the sludge. They were lying listlessly on the fast-moving surface with the faded lumps of carrot and peas.

  Wilton paused to rest his aching ectoplasm.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to a passing speck of fungus. ‘Do you know if any sludge gods live around here?’

  The fungus didn’t reply.

  ‘I thought if I followed the sludge it would lead me to them,’ said Wilton. ‘The ancient legends say that the sludge comes to us from the sludge gods and flows back to the sludge gods. I think it’s called the enchanted circle of sludge. But I haven’t seen a single god and I’ll probably be back where I started soon.’

  ‘Don’t tell me your problems, fatso,’ said the fungus, not even stopping. ‘I’ve got a migraine like you wouldn’t believe.’

  That’s strange, thought Wilton as he wriggled on. The farm workers and livestock have been getting headaches lately too. And at least one very grumpy farmer. That’s something else I’ll have to ask the sludge gods about if I ever find them.

  Wilton rounded a bend in the valley and stopped. All thoughts of headaches vanished from his think molecules. His squiz molecules struggled to take in what was in front of him.

  The end of the valley.

  This is impossibe, thought Wilton. The valley can’t just end.

  But it did. A few wriggles ahead of him the valley slopes vanished. So did the sludge river.

  And now Wilton’s noise molecules were picking up a distant roaring sound.

  He wriggled foward, dizzy, confused, trying to work out how the valley could just stop.

  Then he saw how.

  The valley dropped away in a sheer cliff.

  The sludge was flowing over the edge of the cliff, the thundering roar mingling with the alarmed squeaks of plummeting enzymes.

  Wilton lay trembling at the very edge of the cliff, at the very edge of the known world, and peered down at what he was pretty sure no microbe had ever seen before.

  Another valley.

  It couldn’t be.

  It was.

  As Wilton gazed down, his fear molecules gave a jolt and his think molecules snapped out of their shock.

  This had to be the sludge gods’ valley. That’s why it was protected by a huge sheer cliff. Important individuals like sludge gods wouldn’t want to be pestered by crowds of whingeing farmers queueing up to complain about the weather and herds of gossiping farm workers dropping in to ask advice about their holidays. They’d want peace and quiet to make wise decisions.

  Wilton’s fear molecules danced around inside him.

  He couldn’t see any sludge gods. But they could be anywhere. Down there. Or over there. Glaring angrily up at him. Getting ready to grind him into sludge.

  Suddenly Wilton wondered if going to see the sludge gods was such a good idea.

  He wriggled away from the edge of the cliff.

  Maybe I’ll just go back, he thought. Life on my ledge at home isn’t so bad. There are worse things than everyone calling me fatso and not wanting to be my friend.

  Being ground into sludge was one of them.

  But not knowing the truth was one of them too.

  Wilton went back to the edge of the cliff.

  ‘Excuse me, your sludge godlinesses,’ he yelled down into the depths of the valley. ‘Can I ask you a couple of questions?’

  Wilton waited for the sludge gods to reply.

  Nothing.

  Not even a little sludge storm to show they were listening but a bit irritated.

  Wilton didn’t give up.

  ‘I was just wondering, your sludge godlinesses,’ he yelled, ‘why I’m so huge and different and possibly fat. I’m also wondering if I’ll be like this for the rest of my life, or whether it’s just a stage I’m going through. If I’ll grow out of it and end up the same size as all the other microbes, please give me a sign now.’

  Wilton waited, hope molecules doing nervous cartwheels inside him.

  Nothing.

  Come on, thought Wilton. Fair go. At least answer my questions.

  ‘Please,’ he yelled down into the sludge gods’ valley. ‘I’m desperate.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Which question would you like me to answer first?’

  4

  Wilton spun round so quickly he almost fell off the cliff.

  He would have dropped to his knees if he had knees. If he had tendrils he would have dropped to those. As it was, his tummy was already on the ground, so he just sort of sagged a bit in reverence.

  Then he saw he didn’t have to.

  It wasn’t a sludge god revealing itself to him there on the clifftop, it was a microbe crawling out from under an upside-down boat.

  Wilton stared.

  Jeepers, he thought. What a tiny microbe. And what a weird round boat.

  The microbe didn’t seem the slightest bit worried by its lack of size, not judging by the way it was standing there cockily with its tendrils outstretched.

  ‘Forget those dopey sludge gods,’ said the microbe. ‘Because have I got some big answers for you.’

  Wilton wriggled back, careful not to flop over the cliff. It was tragic. He’d seen this sort of thing before. A microbe so tiny it didn’t have enough think molecules to keep a grip on reality.
r />   ‘No offence,’ said Wilton to the microbe. ‘But this is private.’

  He waited for the microbe to leave.

  It didn’t.

  ‘Don’t get your molecules in a knot, Wriggles,’ said the microbe. ‘You can trust me. I won’t tell a cell.’

  Wilton drew himself up to his full height, and width, and length, looming over the microbe.

  ‘When I say private,’ said Wilton sternly, ‘I mean just me.’

  The microbe took a step back and drew itself up to its full height, which wasn’t much different from before except its tendrils were trembling nervously.

  ‘You’re not scaring me,’ said the microbe.

  Wilton gave it an even sterner glare.

  ‘OK, you are a bit,’ said the microbe.

  It scurried back under its strange round boat, and started tottering down towards the river with it. The boat was many times larger than the microbe and only the microbe’s lower tendrils were visible.

  Wilton started to feel concerned.

  If the little tyke fell into the sludge torrent with that thing, both would be swept over the edge.

  ‘Wait,’ said Wilton wearily. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’

  The microbe stopped and scrambled out from under the boat.

  ‘OK,’ it said, spreading its tendrils. ‘Are you ready for this? It’s a biggie, so prepare yourself.’

  ‘Just say it,’ said Wilton.

  ‘You’re a worm,’ said the microbe.

  Wilton stared, wondering if the microbe was calling him names, which would have been a bit unfair seeing as he was trying to save the little dope’s ectoplasm.

  The microbe didn’t look like it was name-calling. It was grinning at Wilton with the expression of someone who’d just delivered very good news.

  ‘A worm?’ said Wilton. ‘What’s a worm?’

  ‘I.t’s a type of species,’ said the microbe. ‘Your species.

  Wilton digested this for a long time. His think molecules started to buzz with excitement.

  Of course.

  This explains everything.

  Why I’m so long and wriggly and heavily-built.

  Why I’ve always found it so hard to make friends with microbes.

  I’m a different species.

  I’m a worm.

  Wilton was trembling himself now, with emotion.

  Then he remembered there was every possibility this microbe didn’t have two think molecules to rub together and was spouting gibberish.

  Wilton turned away from the grinning microbe, confused. And saw, in the sludge river below, speeding towards the cliff, lots more long wriggly heavily built creatures just like him.

  ‘Hey,’ yelled Wilton as he slithered frantically down to the edge of the river. ‘Hang on, I want to talk to you.’

  Most of the worms had already disappeared over the cliff in the torrent of sludge. Wilton wrapped his tail round a small pimple, curved the rest of his body out over the river and managed to hook it under one of the worms. The creature was almost as big as him, and Wilton nearly sprained his back dragging the worm onto the riverbank.

  He didn’t care about the pain and the possible permanent injury.

  This was what he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember.

  A friend just like himself.

  Wilton gently scraped the sludge off the worm’s body. He decided to give it a few moments to recover before he introduced himself.

  Well, a couple of moments.

  ‘G’day,’ he said. ’I’m Wilton.’

  The worm didn’t reply. Or move.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ asked Wilton softly.

  Already he was planning all the fun things he and his new friend could do together once the new friend had rested and recovered.

  The worm still didn’t move. Or say anything.

  ‘Wriggles,’ said another voice nearby. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but . . .’

  It was the microbe, who’d staggered down the slope with the boat.

  ‘Not just now,’ said Wilton. ‘I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me, but I just want some time with my new friend if that’s OK.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to . . .’ squeaked the microbe.

  ‘Shhhh,’ said Wilton and turned back to the worm, who still wasn’t moving.

  Oh no.

  Wilton couldn’t see a flicker of life. Not a squiz twitch or an ectoplasm ripple or anything.

  ‘Don’t die,’ he whispered desperately to the worm. ‘Please don’t die. I’ve got a great ledge we can play on. Hang on. Please.’

  Wilton wished he knew how to do mouth-to­mouth. He’d seen it done on some half-drowned bacteria. Except this worm didn’t seem to have a food tube. Or, come to that, squiz molecules.

  ‘It’s not a worm,’ said the microbe.

  Wilton stopped staring at where the worm’s food tube should be, and stared at the microbe.

  ‘But it’s exactly the same shape as me,’ he said. ‘And you just told me I’m a worm.’

  ‘It’s a noodle,’ said the microbe.

  ‘A noodle?’ said Wilton.

  Disappointment molecules flooded through him in sickening waves. He remembered he’d heard an ancient legend about noodles once. Something about curry sauce, whatever that was. The legend had described how noodles were long and wriggly and heavily-built.

  A horrible thought hit Wilton.

  What if I’m a noodle too? Does that mean one day my food tube will grow over and my squiz molecules will shrink to nothing and I’ll end up flopped on the ground, lifeless and sauceless?

  Wilton pushed the thought out of his molecules.

  ‘I’m not listening to you any more,’ he said to the microbe. ‘You’re not a worm expert, you’re a loony.’

  ‘I never said I was an expert,’ said the microbe. ‘I just know that worms look like you and they hatch out of these.’

  The microbe tapped the hull of the round boat.

  ‘Worms hatch out of boats?’ said Wilton.

  He couldn’t believe he was still having this conversation.

  ‘Not boats,’ said the microbe. ‘Eggs.’

  The microbe flipped the boat over so Wilton could see inside it.

  ‘When your egg arrived at our place,’ continued the microbe, ‘and you hatched out, we were amazed. We’d never seen anything like it. When you nicked off so quickly I thought you knew you were a worm. Until I heard you yelling to the farm workers about visiting the sludge gods. Then I realised I’d better fill you in.’

  Wilton stared at the microbe.

  Could this be true?

  He remembered the microbe was a loony. A kind loony, but a loony.

  Wilton was about to thank the microbe and say a very firm goodbye when suddenly a strange feeling rippled through him and he found he couldn’t stop staring at the boat.

  The more he looked, the stronger the feeling became.

  Perhaps I’m the mental one, thought Wilton. I’ve got an overpowering urge to curl up inside a strange boat that’s about a hundred times too small for me.

  He wriggled closer.

  His whiff molecules were picking up a faint aroma among the smells of sludge and microbe. A forgotten, familiar aroma.

  Wilton trembled at the memory.

  The ground started trembling too, but Wilton hardly noticed it.

  He stared at the dried membrane on the interior of the egg shell. As he did, a wet breeze hit his skin. For a fleeting moment, the feeling of moisture all around him was as familiar as the smell.

  Then suddenly the breeze wasn’t a breeze any more, it was a wind.

  Wilton flung himself towards the microbe.

  ‘Storm,’ he yelled. ‘Take cover.’

  The microbe squeaked with alarm and pulled the egg on top of itself.

  Wilton curled around them both.

  The screaming wind slammed into them so hard that Wilton felt himself being blown out straight again. Worse, he was being blown towa
rds the edge of the cliff.

  ‘Hang on,’ he yelled at the microbe. But the egg was gone. So was the microbe.

  Desperately, Wilton pressed himself into the clifftop. His tail was out over the void, flapping from side to side in the gale. Near his shoulder he could hear the sludge thundering over the cliff, driven even faster by the wind.

  Wilton knew he had a very important decision to make.

  He could struggle with all his might and hang on till the storm was over. Then he could go back to his lonely ledge and forget he’d ever heard the words ‘egg’ and ‘worm’.

  That would be the safe and sensible thing to do.

  Or he could take a risk that the microbe was right. He could continue his journey into the unknown and if he was lucky and didn’t get mulched by the sludge gods he could meet some other worms and if he was even luckier he could make a friend his own size who wasn’t a noodle.

  That would be the dangerous and crazy thing to do.

  It was a hard decision.

  Once Wilton had made it, though, continuing his journey was easy. He just let go of the clifftop and the wind hurled him down into the valley of the sludge gods.

  5

  Wilton’s plan, when he let go of the clifftop, was to wrap himself around a big soft chunk of plummeting sludge and let that break his fall at the bottom.

  Bad plan, he soon realised.

  The wind was too strong. The sludge was too slippery.

  ‘Tendrils,’ wailed Wilton as he spun downwards.

  ‘Why wasn’t I born with tendrils?’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ said a plummeting enzyme clinging to a lump of sludge. ‘I always wanted bigger molecules.’

  Molecules.

  The word filled Wilton with terror.

  Because suddenly he found himself thinking about what would happen when he and the sludge got to the bottom of the cliff. He wasn’t sure of all the details, but it would probably involve the sludge slamming into the valley floor with such force that it would explode into its separate molecules.

  Him too.

  Wilton was very fond of his molecules. He liked them to be happy, but having them wandering off doing their own thing was not good.

  Wilton struggled to curl himself into a tight ball.

  He glanced fearfully down at the valley floor, bracing himself for the shattering impact.