Wilf the Mighty Worrier--Battles a Pirate

by Georgia Pritchett

  He went to his backpack and got out some rubber gloves because they would be grippy and that would be good for climbing the mast (he carries his rubber gloves EVERYWHERE). He also borrowed the cone from around Kevin Phillips’s neck because that would stop him from looking down and seeing how high up he was. (Kevin Phillips was delighted about this because that meant his teeth could be reunited with his bottom.) Then, in case the worst came to the worst and Wilf actually died of fright, he wrote a will, which said:

  Then he walked toward the mast and started climbing in a trembly scrambly way.

  With each scrambly scramble, he scraped a knee. And he only has two knees (which I believe is the typical number) so that meant each knee had a lot of scrapes.

  As he scrambled and scrabbled, he did quick little panicky gaspy breaths—and because his head was in a cone, these suddenly sounded very LOUD and ECHOEY.

  Gaspy gasp, gaspy gasp, gaspy gasp, gasp.

  Then he heard a different noise. Not a gaspy noise. Not a knee being scraped kind of noise. Not a rubber-glove-squeaking kind of noise. More a kind of . . . caw.

  Caw.

  There it was again! Did you hear that?

  Caw.

  There! What was it?

  Caw.

  It was getting louder.

  Caw!

  It sounded like a bird. Maybe a . . .

  CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW CAW!

  . . . crow.

  “Aaaaah!” said Wilf, as he reached the top of the mast and arrived at the crow’s nest.

  “Caw!” said the crows.

  “What is it?” shouted Alan from far below.

  “You do seem to have crows up here after all!” shouted Wilf.

  “What do you mean? They’ve made a nest in my crow’s nest?” shouted Alan.

  “No,” said Wilf.

  Before he could say any more, one of the crows plucked the cone from Wilf’s head and the other plucked the will from Wilf’s hand and then shredded it.

  They plunked the shredded paper into the cone and then climbed in, looking very comfy indeed.

  “Actually, yes,” said Wilf. “Yes, they have made a nest.”

  At that moment, Nigel flew up and landed on Wilf’s head.

  “Would you like me to translate?” said Nigel.

  “Yes, please!” said Wilf. “Can you tell them that Alan doesn’t want them in his crow’s nest?”

  “Of course,” said Nigel. “ALAN DOESN’T WANT YOU IN HIS CROW’S NEST!” he shouted.

  “You just said what I said only more loudly,” Wilf pointed out.

  “That’s how you speak foreign languages,” explained Nigel.

  “I was hoping you spoke Bird,” said Wilf, “because you’re a bird.”

  “Oh, I do. Yes. Absolutely. I mean, I’m a bit rusty. But I’ll give it a go.”

  “Thank you,” said Wilf.

  “Caw caw Alan caw caw no wanty you caw caw in crow’s nest. Caw,” said Nigel.

  The crows stared at Nigel blankly.

  “I don’t think they understood,” said Wilf.

  “Caw caw you caw caw leavey now caw caw.”

  The crows continued to stare.

  “Caw caw you bye bye caw caw,” said Nigel.

  The crows looked at each other and did little crowy shrugs.

  “Are you definitely speaking Bird?” asked Wilf.

  “Yes, yes. I mean, I understand more than I can speak, but—”

  “Caw caw caw,” said one of the crows.

  “What did she say?” asked Wilf.

  “Um . . . something about a badger. Or possibly kedgeree. Or maybe a forklift truck. She’s speaking awfully quickly.”

  “Caw caw caw!” said the crow more urgently.

  “Um, I think she wants to buy a stamp. Or rent a car. Or maybe go to a museum.”

  “CAW CAW CAW!” squawked the crow.

  “She’s saying I’m very handsome. And clever. And she’d like to spend more time with me—”

  “CAW CAW CAW!” squawked the crow, flapping her wings angrily so that Wilf and Nigel ducked back and wobbled precariously at the top of the mast.

  “Do you think that maybe she’s saying she’s not leaving and she wants us to go away?” asked Wilf.

  “Yes, it could be that,” admitted Nigel.

  Wilf quickly made his way back down the mast in a slippy scrambly breathless way with Nigel wobbling around on his head.

  “The thing is,” explained Wilf to Alan, “it is actually called a crow’s nest and they are crows so you can see where the misunderstanding might have arisen . . .”

  “No. Sorry. It’s not good enough. I’m going to evict them,” said Alan and he started huffing and puffing up the mast. He hadn’t gotten more than a meter when there was a distant “caw” and a nearby splat. Alan stopped.

  “Has the crow made a poo on my head?” asked Alan in a measured voice.

  “No, no,” said Wilf reassuringly. “Well, maybe a little bit. But not so you’d notice.”

  “Poo head, poo head, poo head, poo head,” sang Dot delightedly.

  “Just a tiny bit,” admitted Wilf.

  “Poo head, poo head, great big poo head,” continued Dot.

  “Would you like a hanky?” offered Wilf.

  “Yes, please,” said Alan.

  “I’ll go and get one. They’re in my backpack,” said Wilf and he trotted off to get it.

  Suddenly Alan stopped and stared into the distance.

  “Wait a minute! Do you see what I see?” asked Alan excitedly.

  “Pooey on your he-ad, pooey on your he-ad,” sang Dot in response.

  “Not that, not that,” said Alan. “That!” He pointed into the distance. “A volcano!”

  Wilf returned with his hanky and Alan wiped his head clean.

  “A volcano, a volcano! We must be in Hawaii after all!”

  “Or possibly Iceland,” said Mrs. Heartie. “They have one there too. Do I get a bonus point for that?”

  “No, you don’t. You get to watch me build the biggest cannonball in the world and then fire it and sink the world and everyone on it. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!” said Alan.

  “I don’t get it,” said Dave Everyone.

  “That wasn’t a joke, it was an evil laugh. For I am the baddest, the baddest, the biddly boddly baddest man in the whole wide worlderoony! And soon you will all be DESTROYED!”

  Oh noooooooooooooo! Heeeeeeeelp! We’re all going to be destroyed! Run for the hills! I’m scared!

  I can’t bear to see what happens next!

  I know. I won’t look. I’ll just stare at this lovely flower instead. Look at the lovely flower. What a lovely flower. I do like a lovely flower.

  What’s that? I’m the narrator and I’m supposed to tell you what’s happening? It’s my job?

  Can’t I just tell you about the flower?

  Tut.

  All right.

  I’ll just peep between my fingers.

  OK, I’ve peeped and I couldn’t see much. Just a big metal thingy. So probably everything’s fine.

  What?

  I have to look properly??

  Gosh, it’s really hard, this whole being a narrator thing. The whole looking thing and the whole telling thing and the whole having to describe things all the blinking time.

  All right then. I’ll look properly.

  Wait there . . .

  Aaaaaaargh!

  I’ve looked properly and it’s hideous! Are you sure you want me to tell you? OK, if you insist. Well, while you were making me look at that stupid flower, Alan went and stole a bridge. Yes, a flipping bridge. He stole a big metal bridge because he wanted to it all up in the volcano to make the world’s biggest cannonball.

  “Dash it all to hell, Delilah, you can’t just go around smushing bridges,” said Captain Bailey. “You’re worse than the chinchillas when they were playing tiddlywinks.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Alan.

  “To be honest,
neither do I anymore,” admitted Captain Bailey.

  “Right, me hearties,” said Alan. “Let’s drag this bridge up to that volcano. Then we can melt it and make a cannonball.”

  “But Salty Sam said we were going to learn flower arranging,” said Mr. and Mrs. Heartie.

  “Flower arranging is canceled. Smushing bridges is this afternoon’s activity.”

  “Is there a—” started Mrs. Heartie.

  “Yes! There is a prize!” said Alan impatiently. “The prize is . . .” He looked around for inspiration. “Um . . . the prize is . . . Um . . . Let me think, a prize, a prize . . .”

  “Did you say French fries?” said Nigel.

  “A prize,” said Alan.

  “Some pies?” asked Nigel.

  “I need a prize,” repeated Alan.

  “You have fat thighs?” asked Nigel.

  “The prize is my parrot!” said Alan.

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted a parrot,” said Mrs. Heartie.

  “Oh, I’ve always wanted a parrot,” parroted Nigel.

  “Ha ha, he’s saying what I say,” laughed Mrs. Heartie.

  “Ha ha, he’s saying what I say,” repeated Nigel.

  “That’s brilliant! Let me try!” said Mr. Heartie.

  “That’s brilliant! Let me try!” echoed Nigel.

  “Hang on!” said Alan. “So you do it for those two?”

  “You threw it at goat poo?” said Nigel.

  “I said, you do it for those two,” repeated Alan.

  “You glue it to crows’ shoes?” exclaimed Nigel.

  “I said, you do it for those two,” repeated Alan angrily.

  “You chew on some nose goo?” asked Nigel.

  “Shut up!” screamed Alan.

  “But it’s hilarious!” said Mrs. Heartie.

  “It’s hilarious!” repeated Nigel.

  “Come on, let’s smush the bridge! I really want that parrot,” said Mrs. Heartie excitedly.

  So Mr. and Mrs. Heartie and Dave Everyone and also everyone else dragged the bridge up the side of the volcano because they all wanted to win Nigel the parrot.

  Now, I don’t know how often you’ve tried to stop a group of pirates dragging a bridge up a volcano in order to smush it—but no doubt you know that it isn’t easy. Wilf tried to stop them, he tried to reason with them, he tried to argue with them—but they wouldn’t listen. They really wanted that parrot.

  Wilf stood in front of them as determined as a washing machine and he shouted,

  in a very serious voice with his eyebrows all frowny—but no sooner had he done so than Alan was beside him.

  “Oh no you don’t. We’re not having any of that saving-the-world nonsense we had last time. You stay out of it,” said Alan. “In fact, I’m going to make sure you stay out of it, by marooning you.”

  “But maroon would clash with my T-shirt and—”

  “Not marooning you. Not painting you maroon!” shouted Alan. “I’m going to set you adrift on an ice floe and you will be all alone at the mercy of wild animals and eventually you will sink to the bottom of the icy sea!” said Alan, delighted with himself. “And then you will be dead.

  he added, even more delighted with himself.

  “Let’s go back to the whole idea of painting me maroon,” suggested Wilf.

  “Nope. My mind is made up,” said Alan.

  Wilf’s cheeks went all burny and his ears felt all blurry and his knees tried to go the wrong way.

  He didn’t want to sit on an ice floe. He was scared of fish sucking his toes. And he was scared of abominable snowmen eating him. Or even ominable snowmen eating him. Actually any snowman eating him was a scary thought.

  What was he going to do? He wanted to knit a big blanky and hide under it for a very long time.

  But he didn’t have time for knitting. And he didn’t have time for hiding. So instead he had a great big old worry and then a great big think and he thought so hard his brain needed a sit-down. And then he had an idea.

  Wilf went to his treasure chest and he got out the fishing rod—to catch the fish before they sucked his toes—and he got out the cricket bat, so that he could bop any snowmen on the head. Then he looked at his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet. Number seven said “It can help to make the thing you’re worried about more manageable if you turn it into a song.”

  “Right, put down that stupid leaflet and come with me!” barked Alan, shoving Wilf onto an ice floe and tying him up in a chain with a big padlock for good measure. As he did so, Wilf sang his song.

  I don’t want to sit

  On a cold ice floe.

  I don’t want a fish

  To come and suck my toe.

  I don’t want to be

  Food for hungry fish.

  I don’t want my toes

  To be their favorite dish.

  Hey hee fiddly dee,

  I worry and I fret.

  Hee hee fiddly dee,

  ‘Cuz I don’t like getting wet.

  I don’t want to be

  Eaten up for lunch

  By a scary snowman

  Going crunch crunch munch.

  I don’t want to be

  Eaten up for tea

  By a nasty snowman

  Who wants to chew on me.

  Hey hee fiddly dee,

  I fret and I worry.

  Hey hee fiddly dee,

  I need help in a hurry.

  But no help arrived. And Wilf was drifting farther and farther away.

  He could see Alan, getting smaller and smaller.

  He could see Dot, waving her spade, getting smaller and smaller until Dot was just a (with a small “d”).

  Would he ever see Dot again? Would he ever see Stuart again? Would he ever see the world again? Wilf realized somebody had to do something and that someone was him and that something had to be done right

  Wilf got the fishing rod and he flicked it as hard as he could. The hook went flying toward land, flying toward Alan, flying toward Alan’s belt—where the keys were hanging.

  He hooked the keys and he reeled them back in. Then he unlocked the padlock and his hands were free.

  Wilf grabbed the cricket bat and used it to paddle himself back to shore. He paddled and he paddled and he paddled until he felt as if his shoulder blades would catch on fire. Then as soon as he got close to land, he did a great big magnificent hop onto it. He could see the pirates nearing the top of the volcano and he scrambled up after them as fast as he could. He scrambled and he climbed and he slid and he scrambled, and he was almost at the top when suddenly he heard a loud rumbling noise.

  He looked up and saw the biggest cannonball rolling down the side of the volcano toward him. It was getting bigger and bigger, it was bearing down on him . . .

  Wilf leapt out of the way and hurled himself to the ground and watched while the ball rolled down the rest of the volcano and landed back on the ship, next to the submarine/cannon.

  He was too late. Alan had made the biggest cannonball in the world and now he was going to fire it out of the biggest cannon in the world.

  Oh well, he’d given it his best shot, but the whole world was going to sink any second now.

  Sorry about that.

  So this is . . .

  THE END

  Good-bye.

  Tum ti tum.

  Any minute now.

  Brace yourselves.

  Sinking about to commence.

  So this is it.

  Bye then.

  Cough.

  Hang on a minute. Wilf wasn’t going to give up that easily.

  He rushed back to the ship and went straight to his treasure chest. He got out his “How to Stop Worrying” leaflet. But as he turned to number eight, the leaflet crumbled beneath his fingers as a dozen woodworms chomped it up for their breakfast.

  “Oh no!” gasped Wilf.

  Then, before his very eyes, the whole treasure chest was reduced to a pile of crumbs as a couple of hundred woodworms chomped it up for their br
eakfast.

  “No, no, no, no!” cried Wilf.

  His leaflet was gone. His treasure was gone. Wilf was horrified. What was he going to do now? He didn’t have anything to help him. He didn’t have a plan. Most of all, he didn’t have time to worry. And there was nothing he would have liked more than to have a big old worry. But he couldn’t. It was just Wilf. Wilf against Alan. The future of the whole world depended on it. He looked over at Alan, who had taken out a big box of matches and was just about to light the fuse.

  Wilf rushed toward Alan and grabbed the box of matches. He ran toward the rigging and, even though he didn’t like heights, he climbed. He climbed like a monkey with its tail on fire, he climbed like a spider with its bottom on fire, he climbed and he climbed and he climbed until his arms ached and his knees screamed and his heart badoomphed in his ears.

  Wilf looked down and saw Alan looking up at him. He was so far below, he looked like a tiny angry ant.

  Alan was shouting and shaking his fist at Wilf.

  Then Alan went and got something—from high up it looked like a little cocktail stick. The little angry ant started waving the cocktail stick at the rigging.

  Suddenly Wilf felt the ropes he was holding on to judder and jolt, and then he . . .

  FELL.

  About three meters.

  He was dangling from the rigging.

  He looked down again. He could see Alan more clearly now. He was holding a huge cutlass. He took another almighty swipe at the rigging.