Worm Story

by Morris Gleitzman

  Eat.

  Wilton slumped back into the tooth cavity, tingling with relief.

  ‘Take your time,’ he called to his tummy. ‘Both of you.’

  The brain cell finished dismissing the troops and turned to Wilton.

  ‘Mission accomplished, young worm,’ she said. ‘Fungus engaged and destroyed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Wilton. ‘I’m very grateful to you and your troops.’

  ‘You should also be grateful to your friend,’ said the brain cell. ‘He’s a hero.’

  ‘I know,’ said Wilton. ‘I’m very lucky to have a friend like Algy.’ He raised his voice to a cheery yell. ‘Even if both the guzzle-guts are eating me out of house and home.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said the brain cell, ‘he can’t hear you.’

  Oh no, thought Wilton. I hope his noise molecules weren’t damaged in the battle.

  ‘Your friend didn’t make it,’ said the brain cell.

  Wilton stared at her, think molecules scrambled, desperately hoping he’d misunderstood.

  ‘Didn’t make . . . what?’ said Wilton.

  ‘He was killed,’ said the brain cell.

  Wilton tried to speak for a long time, but he couldn’t.

  ‘Both . . . both of him?’ he whispered finally.

  ‘Yes,’ said the brain cell. ‘They both fought hard and bravely, and I don’t think we’d have achieved victory without them. At the height of the battle the fungus attacked us from behind. Your friend held them off until we could regroup. He went down fighting. And, if I remember correctly, arguing.’

  Wilton wished the nausea and migraine and painful skin would come back, a hundred times as strong, to blot out what he was feeling now.

  ‘There is some good news,’ said the brain cell.

  Wilton barely heard her.

  How could any news be good?

  ‘I’m getting reports from our optical division,’ said the brain cell. ‘They’re saying that our host organism, Janet, has made friends with a stray dog. This is reducing her stress levels wonderfully. Already our weather division is monitoring far fewer storms and food processing disruptions.’

  Dimly, painfully, Wilton realised this must be a good thing.

  But he didn’t really care.

  The brain cell turned to go.

  ‘I’ll leave you with your thoughts,’ she said.

  Wilton curled up in the tooth cavity and thought about Algy.

  His generosity.

  His bravery.

  His kindness and considerateness in only choosing non-essential bits of Wilton to eat.

  The thought of not having Algy around was more than Wilton could bear. No more Algy grinning on his shoulder. No more Algy scampering down to his rear entrance. No more Algy coming up with very brilliant slightly muffled suggestions from his tummy.

  Please, begged Wilton, please don’t let him be dead.

  But he was.

  Huge fat worm sobs shuddered through Wilton. Misery molecules filled every part of him, including his food tube.

  Anyone who doesn’t have a parasite like Algy living inside them, thought Wilton, is a sad person indeed.

  Then, much later, Wilton slowly started thinking about other things.

  He was glad the janet had made friends with the dog. He was glad she was getting better. He hoped she carried on getting better after he left.

  Which he planned to do as soon as he could.

  Wilton knew it was the only way the misery of losing Algy would ever get less painful.

  He had to leave the janet.

  When the brain cell came back, Wilton was still in the tooth cavity trying to get directions from passers-by.

  ‘If I can find my way to an eye-socket,’ he was saying to a group of bacteria, ‘I can get back onto a finger when the janet rubs her eye and back to the worms when she pats the dog.’

  ‘Eye-socket?’ said one of the bacteria. It turned to the others. ‘Anyone know how this dopey napisan can get to an eye-socket?’

  The other bacteria all shrugged.

  ‘I can point you to the tonsils,’ said the first bacte.ria, ‘but after that your jiffing guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ said Wilton.

  This is hopeless, he thought as the bacteria swirled away. No one seems to know.

  ‘Young worm,’ said a voice.

  Wilton looked up and saw the brain cell regarding him coolly.

  ‘Regarding our earlier conversation,’ she said.

  ‘There is one more piece of bad news I didn’t mention.’

  Wilton could see she was going to mention it now, even though what he really wanted to talk about was the shortest route to an eye-socket as the worm wriggles.

  ‘Our host organism is recovering,’ continued the brain cell, ‘but she has a long way to go. There are still areas of fungus infestation in the stomach and small intestine. Including your home valley.’

  Wilton looked at her.

  He could tell she was trying to make a point, but his grieving think molecules didn’t want to grasp it.

  ‘The killer fungus armies get their nutrition from stress toxins,’ the brain cell went on. ‘The microbes in the stomach and intestine are capable of neutralising the toxins and starving the fungus, but the trouble is they don’t know the toxins are there.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell them?’ said Wilton.

  ‘We can’t get a message through,’ said the brain cell. ‘The fungus is hampering our communication systems.’

  ‘Why don’t you go down and tell the stomach microbes yourself?’ said Wilton.

  ‘We intelligence operatives can’t function in digestive juices,’ said the brain cell. ‘Only organisms with acid-proof skin can do that. Skin like yours.’

  Now Wilton understood.

  ‘Is this why you saved me?’ he asked quietly. ‘When Algy asked for your help, is this why you agreed?’

  The brain cell’s expression didn’t change.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  Wilton looked at her, squiz molecules to squiz molecules.

  ‘My best friend has just died,’ he said. ‘I’m not really in the mood for intelligence work.’

  The brain cell’s expression still didn’t change.

  ‘The fate of our world depends on you,’ she said.

  She doesn’t get it, thought Wilton.

  ‘I’m a worm,’ said Wilton. ‘I don’t belong in this janet. They hate me here, they always have. They call me names and make me stay on a ledge with a grumpy patch of slime.’

  The brain cell didn’t say anything.

  She still doesn’t get it, thought Wilton.

  He wished Algy was around to help explain it to her.

  Except Algy wouldn’t be hanging around explaining stuff. He’d be inside Wilton’s food tube, pleading with Wilton to get a wriggle on so they could save the janet.

  Muffled and hungry and indignant, but prepared to risk everything.

  Wilton suddenly felt such a huge pang of love for Algy, even a big body like his couldn’t keep it all inside.

  ‘OK,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll do it.’

  19

  The worst part was waiting for the janet to eat another sandwich.

  Finally, she did.

  Wilton wriggled out of the tooth cavity, tunnelled into a soggy ball of bread and cheese and lettuce and waited for the janet’s tongue to send him plummeting down her throat.

  He peeked out.

  ‘Here it comes,’ he said to himself, struggling to control his panic as the tongue headed for him.

  He thought of Algy. The memory made Wilton’s food tube feel painfully empty, but it also helped him feel less scared.

  Just a bit.

  The writhing tongue monster seemed to fill the entire mouth for a moment, sending a tidal wave of saliva and food chunks and partying enzymes sluicing into the dark hole of the throat tunnel.

  And Wilton.

  He huddled deeper into the mashed sa
ndwich and prayed the brain cell was right. She’d told him that food didn’t just drop down the throat tunnel and smash into the stomach in an explosion of startled molecules. She’d promised that he and his sandwich sludge would be carried gently down the tunnel by rippling muscular movements and that he’d arrive in the stomach relaxed and refreshed.

  She was partly right.

  Wilton peeked out again and saw he wasn’t plummeting, which was refreshing and slightly relaxing.

  But he wasn’t able to relax too much because of what else he saw. Armies of white blood cells on the throat muscles locked in desperate battle with armies of frenzied fungus.

  Wilton wriggled inside the sludge again and tried not to think about what might be waiting for him at home.

  A valley crawling with fungus.

  Algy’s family all dead and in pieces.

  The neighbours so bloated with fungus spores living inside them that they couldn’t even fit into their cave.

  Please let me be in time, thought Wilton.

  The sandwich sludge gave a sudden violent jolt and Wilton slid out.

  He saw he’d arrived.

  This had to be the stomach because of its sheer size. It was more of a cave than a valley, but its vastness made every other cave Wilton had ever seen look smaller than a dimple on an amoeba’s bum.

  Wilton realised he was swimming in acid.

  He felt his skin starting to burn.

  Jeepers, he thought, this is strong stuff.

  He wriggled up onto a nodule, which gave him an acid-free vantage point to look out across the stomach.

  It was an incredible squiz. On countless other nodules, groups of microbes were on duty at natural springs, aiming squirts of acid at lumps of food sludge dropping down from the delivery tunnel.

  Not many of the microbes were concentrating completely on their work.

  Most were throwing anxious glances at the walls of the stomach where, despite the valiant efforts of the white blood cell armies, the fungus hordes were relentlessly advancing.

  Wilton saw another tunnel running out of the back of the stomach.

  From the colour and texture of the sludge running into it, and the familiar weary expression on the faces of the enzymes sprawled on the sludge, Wilton guessed what was at the other end of the tunnel.

  His valley.

  Oh no.

  Platoons of white blood cells were only just from the tunnel entrance.

  Wilton could see they wouldn’t be able to for much longer.

  He had to act now.

  ‘Excuse me everyone,’ he said.

  Nobody so much as paused or looked up.

  Wilton realized what the problem was. Nervousness was making his chat molecules seize up. In the clamour of everything that was going on, not a single microbe had heard his feeble squeak.

  Come on, Wilton told himself sternly. There’s nothing to be nervous about.

  But there was.

  Everyone probably calling him names, for a start, and perhaps getting angry that he was back, and maybe even jeering at him for being such a pathetic public speaker.

  Wilton thought of Algy, and how brave one of the smallest microbes in the whole janet had been.

  He pulled himself together.

  ‘Excuse me everyone,’ he shouted in a voice so loud he surprised even himself. ‘I’ve got something important to tell you.’

  This time he had almost everyone’s attention. Not the armies, but the workers and the supervisors and most of the bacteria.

  ‘Slithering sludge,’ muttered a worker. ‘That is the fattest microbe I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I’m not a microbe,’ said Wilton. ‘I’m a worm.’

  ‘You’re still fat,’ said the worker.

  Wilton ignored this and carried on.

  ‘I know what’s causing the fungus invasions,’ he said. ‘And the storms and the sick sludge and the tunnel blockages.’

  ‘So do we, you big ajax,’ said a bacteria. ‘The sludge gods are angry. Everyone jiffing knows that.’

  ‘It’s not the sludge gods,’ said Wilton.

  The workers and supervisors and bacteria stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  ‘Listen to me,’ pleaded Wilton. ‘I’ve been to outer space and I’ve seen the truth. We live in a giant janet and she’s a bit plump and the other kids are cruel to her and she’s very stressed. But don’t worry. She’s made friends with a dog and things are looking better as long as we do our bit.’

  The entire stomach went silent, except for the distant sound of fungus gobbling up white blood cells.

  Then the laughter started again, much louder.

  ‘Poor harpic,’ shouted another bacteria. ‘Not only is he a worm, he’s an idiot.’

  ‘Get lost, lardboy,’ growled a supervisor, waving his tendrils threateningly. ‘We’ve got too many problems here to waste time listening to a loony.’

  ‘Outer space,’ scoffed the workers and supervisors and bacteria as they went back to work. ‘There’s no such jiffing thing.’

  ‘Wait,’ yelled Wilton. ‘I can prove there is.’

  A few of the microbes glanced back at him.

  Wilton pointed to the lumps of sludge dropping out of the delivery tunnel.

  ‘See how the incoming sludge is green and yellow and white?’ he said. ‘That’s because it’s a cheese and lettuce sandwich. It’s what janets eat.’

  The microbes turned away again, muttering things like ‘fatso’ and ‘nutso’.

  ‘In a while,’ yelled Wilton, ‘the incoming sludge will be pink with white bits in it. They’ll look like dead worms, but they’ll actually be coconut.’

  Most of the microbes ignored him.

  ‘You’re the coconut,’ muttered one.

  Wilton waited, praying that when the janet finished her sandwich she’d move on to the lamington.

  He remembered how Algy always used to put his tendrils on his hips when he was making a point. Wilton wished he had tendrils, and hips, so he could do the same.

  He didn’t, so he just waited.

  And waited.

  The fungus hordes, he saw, were about to pour down the exit tunnel into his valley.

  Then a cry went up from the other side of the stomach.

  ‘Look. Pink sludge. With jiffing white bits in it.’

  Wilton peered up at the delivery tunnel, weak with relief.

  Soggy lumps of pink lamington were plopping into the stomach.

  It was only when Wilton stopped gazing at the lamington that he realised every worker, every supervisor and every microbe in the entire stomach was gazing at him.

  Awe-struck.

  Those whose tendrils had knee-joints were kneeling.

  ‘Forgive us,’ cried one. ‘Oh wise and mighty worm god. Show us what we must do to save the world.’

  ‘Yes,’ they all cried. ‘We beg you, oh worshipful worm god. Tell us how to save the janet.’

  Wilton stared at them, stunned.

  He started to explain that he wasn’t a god, just a worm trying to help.

  Then he changed his mind.

  It felt quite nice being worshipped for a change, plus it meant everyone would pay attention when he explained to them about the stress toxins and how to give the fungus the flick.

  20

  After Wilton explained to everyone about the stress toxins and how to give the fungus the flick, and they did, he got fed up with being worshipped.

  He decided to go home.

  Let’s hope, thought Wilton as he wriggled down the tunnel to his valley, they don’t carry on like that there as well.

  They did.

  A mighty roar went up as Wilton emerged from the tunnel.

  ‘Good on you, Wilton,’ yelled countless voices. ‘You’re a legend.’

  The gleaming healthy sludge paddocks and the verdant valley slopes were covered with workers and farmers and viruses and enzymes, all waving and cheering.

  ‘Welcome home, Wilton,’ they yelled.r />
  The ancient farmer came forward and clasped Wilton with trembling tendrils.

  ‘Wilton,’ he said. ‘We used to think you were a fat dope. We were wrong, lad. You’re a hero and a credit to worms everywhere. To show our everlasting gratitude to you for saving us from the fungus, I have the proud honour to hereby bestow on you the freedom of the valley.’

  ‘Wil-ton,’ roared the crowds and flocks in fervent delight. ‘Wil-ton, Wil-ton, Wil-ton.’

  Wilton looked at them all.

  He knew he should be grateful and delighted. But he felt too sad, seeing the valley again.

  This is Algy’s home as well, thought Wilton. He saved it just as much as me. I wish he was here to get thanked too.

  To be hailed as a hero.

  To be given the freedom of the valley.

  To be my friend.

  Wilton struggled with his feelings. This wasn’t the time for worm sobs. Blubbing here would just make everyone else upset.

  Wilton realised the cheers were dying away. The crowds and flocks were going silent.

  I’m spoiling their party, thought Wilton.

  But he couldn’t help it. They might as well get used to seeing him like this because this was how he’d always be.

  The saddest worm in the world.

  ‘Hey, Wriggles,’ said a familiar voice.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say g’day?’ said another familiar voice.

  ‘Too big and important for us, eh?’ said a third familiar voice.

  Wilton wriggled around.

  Staring at him, tendrils on hips, ectoplasm beaming, was Algy.

  Two Algys.

  A crowd of Algys.

  Wilton stared in shock and amazement.

  ‘But,’ he stammered, ‘aren’t you . . . aren’t you . . .?’

  ‘Dead?’ said one of the Algys.

  ‘Only a couple of us,’ said another.

  ‘Remember our motto?’ said another. ‘About never going into dangerous situations without a spare? Well the first Algy was pretty sure hanging around inside you wasn’t going to be a tea party all the time, so before he left home to join you on the journey, he made a few copies.’

  Wilton curled himself into a big delighted circle, hugging his best friend in the whole janet.

  Or rather, he thought happily, his best friends.