But it didn’t happen.
That’s a relief, thought Wilton.
Then he realised why the impact hadn’t happened.
He and the sludge were plummeting into the dark gaping mouth of a huge tunnel in the valley floor.
The tunnel was already half full of sludge, and the force of the plummet flung Wilton deep into its sludgy depths. He bumped against what felt like lumps of carrot and chunks of peas and other things he half-remembered hearing about in ancient sludge legends.
Popcorn and pizza and watermelon and sausages and possibly custard.
He wasn’t sure exactly what custard was, but he was pretty sure it was sharp, which meant this could be custard now, jabbing him in the neck.
Wilton wriggled back to the surface just in time for more arriving splodges of sludge to bury him again. Bruised and battered, he struggled out of the sludge torrent and flopped exhausted against the tunnel wall.
This was the darkest place he’d ever been in. For some reason his squiz molecules weren’t working properly.
Perhaps, thought Wilton, my squiz molecules were stunned by the fall. Perhaps now they think they’re taste molecules.
He did have a very strong taste of sludge in his food tube.
Wilton ignored it. He had something much more important to think about.
Meeting worms.
‘Hello,’ he called as he wriggled along the tunnel wall in the darkness. ‘Is anyone here?’
He paused and listened. He knew his noise molecules were working because he could hear the sludge torrent thundering down in the distance behind him and the moaning of dazed enzymes as they slid slowly past him on what must be the sludge river.
But nothing else.
‘Hello,’ he called again. ‘If you’re a worm, I’d very much like to meet you. Or if you’re a sludge god. Don’t trouble yourself if you’re a noodle.’
Nobody replied.
Wilton remembered how moody the sludge gods could be.
‘Actually,’ called Wilton, wriggling nervously on into the darkness, ‘if you’re a sludge god and you’re busy, don’t stop what you’re doing for me. It’s worms I really want to meet.’
Silence.
Wilton wriggled on.
‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Newly arrived worm here hoping to meet long-lost family members.’
Not a single voice replied.
Wilton kept on hoping.
When you were in a scary dark sludge tunnel a long way from home, it was all you could do.
‘This is hopeless,’ said Wilton.
He rolled over onto his back. He’d been wriggling along the tunnel so long his tummy was raw and he’d been calling out so much his chat molecules were aching.
And still he was alone in the darkness.
Wilton felt despairing about something else too. The memory of the microbe being blown away by the storm.
A real worm would probably have been able to protect the poor little dope, thought Wilton. Accept it, you’re just an oversized microbe with too many fat molecules. One thing you’re definitely not is a worm.
‘Strewth,’ said a voice in the darkness. ‘Check this out everyone, it’s a worm.’
Wilton tried to see where the voice was coming from.
He couldn’t. But he could feel a large number of tendrils and plasma strands tickling his tummy. And his squiz molecules.
‘Bit of a rough head,’ said another voice. ’But it’s definitely a worm.’
Then suddenly Wilton could see again.
The first thing he saw was a group of microbes on his squiz molecules wiping sludge off their tendrils. The second thing he saw was that the boat microbe wasn’t among them.
‘G’day,’ said one of the microbes. ‘That sludge build-up on your viewing area was pretty crook. I think we got most of it off.’
‘Thank you,’ said Wilton.
But he was finding it hard to concentrate on gratitude. Or on relief at being able to see again.
‘When you say worm,’ asked Wilton, ‘you don’t mean noodle?’
‘No way,’ said the microbe. ’What’s a noodle?’
Wilton saw there wasn’t a single noodle in the sludge river flowing along the tunnel. They must have all been pulped at the bottom of the drop. When these microbes said worm, they meant worm.
Wilton felt excitement molecules fizzing inside him.
‘I don’t suppose there are any other worms around here?’ he asked.
The microbes all shook their ectoplasms.
‘There were once,’ said another microbe. ‘Yonks ago. Our myths and legends reckon worms used to visit this part of the intestine heaps.’
‘This part of the what?’ said Wilton.
The microbes pointed at the sludge tunnel.
‘Intestine,’ they said. ‘It’s just another name for the world.’
Wilton decided not to get into a discussion about how the world was a bit bigger than the microbes thought. Not now he’d realised that if he continued travelling along the intestine, chances were he’d probably meet some worms.
He turned to go. Then he remembered his manners.
‘Thanks very much for helping me squiz again,’ he said to the microbes. ’If there’s ever anything I can do to repay the favour . . .’
He realised the microbes weren’t looking at him. They were peering anxiously along the intestine.
‘Actually, there is,’ said the one of the microbes, turning back to him. ‘Over here.’
The microbes all rushed over to where, Wilton saw, an acid spill covered the intestine wall.
‘You turned up just in time,’ said the microbes. ‘We can’t get across.’
Wilton saw the problem. Slowly moving sludge filled the rest of the intestine. Wilton knew some microbes were allergic to sludge. It gave them tendril rash and sore ectoplasms. And most microbes had an even worse reaction to acid. It made them shrivel up and melt. From all the frantic tendril waving going on now, he guessed this lot were shrivellers and melters.
‘No problem,’ said Wilton. ‘I’ll make a bridge.’
As he wriggled into the puddle, a thought hit him. He’d often wondered why, unlike most microbes, his skin was acid-proof. Now he knew.
It’s because I’m a worm.
Wilton lay across the acid puddle, glowing with happiness as well as the tingle of the acid on his skin. Luckily he was just long enough.
‘Thanks, fatso,’ yelled the microbes as they scampered across his back.
Wilton was curious. He’d never seen microbes in such a wild rush.
‘What’s the hurry?’ he said.
‘Behind you,’ said the last of the microbes as it disappeared down the tunnel.
Wilton peered back along the length of his body. What he saw made him go so rigid with fear his whole body went into cramp.
Fungus.
Not the individual specks of floating fungus he was familiar with at home.
An evil boiling writhing cascade of furiously multiplying fungus spores advancing towards him along the intestine wall.
Wilton had never actually seen the horror of it close up, but he’d heard the terrifying legends the slime patch liked to tell.
And now it was almost on him.
Killer fungus.
6
Wilton tried desperately to stop being a bridge.
He couldn’t.
He wanted to curl up in the middle of the acid puddle, safe from the frenzied mob advancing along the intestine wall. They wouldn’t be able to get him when he was surrounded by acid. Wilton was pretty sure fungus wasn’t acid-proof, even killer fungus.
But the cramp spasms were keeping him rigid.
He couldn’t move.
The tip of his tail was poking out beyond the edge of the acid. The millions of specks of pure evil had almost reached it and Wilton could see they only had one thing on their mind.
Killing.
This is tragic, thought Wilton. Just when I’ve finally discov
ered I’m a worm, I’m going to be a dead worm.
He tried not to think about all the other worms he could have met. And made friends with. And had fun doing worm things with.
He wondered whether, if he explained he was on a mission to find a friend, the killer fungus would take pity on him.
Just this once.
Probably not.
Plus, he saw glancing back, it was too late. The first fungus spores were on his tail. He gritted his food tube and waited for the end.
Pain, the slime patch had reckoned.
Incredible pain.
‘Arghhh,’ giggled Wilton. ‘Stop it. That tickles.’
It wasn’t pain, it was very intense tickling.
Wilton’s whole body writhed and twisted.
‘Please,’ he giggled. ‘Stop. I can’t bear it.’
His tail was writhing and twisting too, whacking into the acid puddle again and again.
‘Hey, fatso,’ yelled the fungus spores indignantly as they started to shrivel. ‘Go easy on the whacking.’
The tickling was excruciating. Wilton couldn’t have controlled his tail if he’d wanted to. The specks of fungus were flung off into the acid, swearing loudly as they melted.
The tickling stopped.
Weak with relief, the spasms gone, Wilton pulled his tail towards him and curled into a tight ball in the middle of the acid. The fungus army, seething with fury, started to surround the puddle.
‘Won’t do you any good,’ muttered Wilton. ‘You won’t get me now, you vicious little mongrels.’
He felt like giving a gloating laugh. He didn’t, partly because his laugh molecules were still a bit cramped, but mostly because he saw that the fungus was mounting an attack from above.
Oh no.
He’d forgotten that fungus spores could fly. Quite a few of them were doing it now, floating high over the acid puddle.
Wilton rolled in the acid, trying to cover his whole body with the stuff. But he knew it probably wouldn’t work. If he missed one little patch, the floating fungus would zero in and he’d be history.
‘The gland,’ said a muffled voice. ‘Wriggle into the gland.’
Wilton was startled. Where had that voice come from? Then he realised. It must be his think molecules frantically trying to find a way to escape.
Funny, he thought. They’ve never spoken to me like that before.
Above Wilton the mighty walls of the intestine curved upwards as high as he could see. He peered at them, looking for a gland.
He wished he knew what one looked like.
Then he saw, not too far up the wall, a small opening. Acid was dribbling out of it and down into the puddle.
‘Don’t just lie there,’ said the voice. ‘Get a wriggle on.’
The voice wasn’t muffled this time. Wilton saw why. Standing on his shoulder, waving its tendrils frantically, trying desperately to keep its feet on a dry patch, was the tiny microbe he’d last seen under the egg boat.
‘Go,’ said the microbe, waving wildly towards the gland.
Wilton didn’t stop to ask questions.
The fungus hadn’t quite surrounded the puddle. Wilton wriggled faster than he ever had before, through the rapidly shrinking gap in the fungus and towards the entrance to the gland.
As he powered up the intestine wall, Wilton glanced again at the microbe on his back. The little maniac was swatting at the descending fungus spores with what looked to Wilton like a jagged piece of the egg boat.
‘What happened to your boat?’ asked Wilton.
‘Don’t talk, Wriggles,’ said the microbe. ‘Just get into that gland.’
Wilton tried to get into the gland.
He wouldn’t fit.
He tried again, ramming his shoulders against the narrow entrance.
It was no good.
‘I’m too fat,’ said Wilton miserably. ‘Too fat and blubbery. You go. I’ll squash as many spores as I can before they tickle me to death.’
‘You’re not too fat,’ panted the microbe, still swatting. ‘You’re too tense and your molecules are all bunched up. Think of something relaxing.’
‘I can’t,’ said Wilton.
‘You can,’ said the microbe. ‘What relaxes you?’
‘Gazing at sludge paddocks,’ said Wilton. ‘Sludge paddocks covered with enzymes getting lots of exercise so their drumsticks are low-fat.’
‘Good,’ said the microbe. ‘What else?’
‘I like to watch white blood cells rounding up viruses,’ said Wilton. ‘I love the delicate patterns the flocks of viruses make as they try to scamper away.’
‘See?’ said the microbe. ‘It’s working.’
You’re right, thought Wilton. I am feeling more relaxed.
Wilton could feel his outer molecules getting less tense. As they relaxed, his body was feeling longer. And thinner.
‘Get in there,’ said the microbe.
Wilton wriggled into the gland. It was still a tight fit, but he was able to slither forward without too much difficulty. The slippery acid oozing out of the gland walls helped.
That microbe is a genius, thought Wilton once he was snugly inside. No way can the fungus get me in here.
Wilton sent some squiz molecules and chat molecules down to his rear end. The squiz molecules were to make sure the acid had covered the small part of his tail still visible to the fungus. The chat molecules were to send the fungus a message.
‘Tough luck, you mongrels. Try and squeeze in here and you’ll get fried.’
Then Wilton had a horrible thought.
The microbe probably didn’t have acid-proof skin either. Was it getting fried too?
‘Are you OK?’ Wilton asked anxiously.
No answer. The microbe wasn’t on his shoulder. Wilton didn’t know where it was. He hoped it wasn’t out in the intestine, trying to swat as many spores as it could before they tickled it to death.
Relax, Wilton said to himself. Anyone that brave and smart and well-organised knows how to look after itself.
He tried to feel convinced.
Then he remembered how easily the microbe had been blown off the cliff.
Suddenly Wilton couldn’t stand the thought of one tiny microbe trying to hold off millions of killer fungus spores with a piece of broken eggshell. He wriggled backwards out of the gland, hoping his anxiety wouldn’t make his molecules bunch up again.
He flopped out into the intestine, ready to fight.
The fungus had gone.
He couldn’t see the microbe either.
‘Hello,’ said Wilton. ‘Anyone here?’
No reply.
There was something eerie and lonely and sad about the vastness of the intestine. The huge tunnel was silent except for the soft squelch of moving sludge and the squeak of listless enzymes.
Wilton felt empty and listless himself as he rubbed against the intestine wall to get the acid off his skin.
That little microbe was the first friend he’d ever had.
Perhaps the only friend.
‘Hey, Wriggles,’ said a voice. ‘Why the long food tube? We made it.’
Wilton turned round.
The little microbe was standing behind him, tendrils out wide.
Wilton was so delighted he forgot to ask the microbe how it had survived in the acid gland.
‘Actually,’ said Wilton, ‘my name’s Wilton.’
‘G’day,’ said the microbe. ‘I’m Algy.’
‘Thank you, Algy,’ said Wilton. ‘You saved my life.’
‘That might only be temporary,’ said the microbe, clambering onto Wilton’s shoulder. ‘We’ll probably run into more fungus on our journey, so we’d better keep a squiz out.’
7
Wilton wriggled round a bend in the intestine and felt Algy stiffen on his shoulder.
‘Over there,’ hissed Algy, waving his tendrils. ‘A whole bunch of them.’
‘Where?’ said Wilton, peering at the spongy caves and slimy crevices that covered the
walls of the intestine. The thought of finally meeting other worms made his food tube tingle with excitement.
‘Do they look friendly?’ he said, still trying to see them.
Algy didn’t answer. Wilton realised that was because the little microbe had disappeared.
The worms seemed to have disappeared too. Wilton twisted around in circles but he couldn’t see them anywhere.
Finally Algy reappeared on his shoulder.
‘Sorry,’ said Algy. ‘False alarm. From a distance bits of dead microbe can look very like killer fungus spores.’
Wilton saw where Algy was pointing. Inside a cave were piles of microbe body parts. The tragic remains, Wilton guessed, of an old killer fungus raiding party.
Poor things, thought Wilton. And poor Algy, having to see other microbes in bits like that.
‘I’m sorry too, Algy,’ he said as they set off along the intestine again. ‘I was looking for worms and forgetting to keep a squiz out for killer fungus.’
Algy patted him on the shoulder.
‘Don’t feel bad,Wriggles,’ said Algy. ‘I understand how much you want to meet your lot. But the whole world’s in a mess. We’re up to our tendrils in sick sludge and killer fungus and wild storms and headache epidemics. We’ve got to find out what’s causing all this bad stuff.’
Wilton wanted to suggest that as there were two of them, perhaps they could do both things at once.
Meet worms and save the world.
He didn’t.
Algy obviously felt very strongly about this.
Wilton knew friends were meant to support each other as much as possible, and even though being a friend was a very new experience for him, he wanted to do it right.
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Good on you, Wilton,’ said Algy. ‘You’re the biggest and strongest friend I’ve got. I need you.’
Wilton glowed.
This felt much better than being called fat and useless.
It was a long journey down the intestine, but Wilton didn’t mind. Having a friend on his shoulder made all the difference.
They kept a careful squiz out for killer fungus and made a plan to save the world.
‘If we keep following the enchanted circle of sludge,’ said Algy, ‘we’re bound to find the problem sooner or later.’
Worm Story Page 3