Worm Story Read online

  Contents

  About the author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the author

  Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he was sixteen. After university he worked for ten years as a screenwriter. Then he had a wonderful experience. He wrote a novel for young people. Now, after 36 books, he’s one of Australia’s most popular children’s authors.

  Visit Morris at his website:

  www.morrisgleitzman.com

  Also by Morris Gleitzman

  The Other Facts of Life

  Second Childhood

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Misery Guts

  Worry Warts

  Puppy Fat

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Gift of the Gab

  Belly Flop

  Water Wings

  Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)

  Deadly! (with Paul Jennings)

  Bumface

  Adults Only

  Teacher’s Pet

  Toad Rage

  Toad Heaven

  Toad Away

  Toad Surprise

  Boy Overboard

  Girl Underground

  Aristotle’s Nostril

  Doubting Thomas

  Grace

  Too Small to Fail

  Give Peas a Chance

  Pizza Cake

  Once

  Then

  After

  Soon

  Now

  Extra Time

  Loyal Creatures

  For Jean McFadyen

  1

  Just before the huge storm rolled down the valley, Wilton did.

  It wasn’t his fault.

  He was on a ledge high over the valley doing his exercises. Or trying to.

  ‘One push-up,’ Wilton grunted. ‘Two push-ups. Three push-ups.’

  It was no good. He wasn’t moving.

  Wilton flopped forward onto his tummy.

  This is hopeless, he thought. I’ll never lose weight this way.

  ‘You’ll never lose weight that way,’ said a nearby patch of slime, looking up at Wilton with the know-it-all expression patches of slime are famous for. ‘Push-ups don’t work when you haven’t got any tendrils to push yourself up with.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Wilton.

  ‘What you need,’ said the patch of slime, ‘is to find the right exercise for your particular physique.’

  The slime’s right, thought Wilton. There must be one workout suitable for a very large tube­shaped limbless microbe like me. Something that doesn’t involve push-ups, jogging or cartwheels.

  He tried to think of it.

  All he could come up with was wriggling.

  OK, thought Wilton. If all I can do is wriggle, I’m going to wriggle like I’ve never wriggled before.

  He gave it a go.

  ‘Wow,’ said the patch of slime. ‘Great wriggling.’

  Wilton’s wriggles were so powerful and determined that before he knew it he’d done a complete lap of the ledge and was back where he started. Skidding, he saw to his horror, onto the patch of slime.

  ‘Oof,’ grunted the patch of slime. ‘You haven’t lost any weight so far.’

  Before he could apologise, Wilton found himself skidding off the patch of slime, off the entire ledge, and falling, bouncing, rolling down into the valley.

  Oh no, he thought. Now I’m in big trouble.

  ‘Look out,’ he yelled.

  Farm-worker microbes flung themselves out of his path, waving their plasma strands in panic. So did livestock. Flocks of viruses bolted. Herds of enzymes cowered together.

  Somehow, as Wilton rolled and bounced his way through them, he managed not to crush a single one. The only things he squashed were some of his own front molecules when he came to a sudden stop in a paddock of sludge.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled to the livestock and the farm workers and his front molecules as he wriggled backwards out of the sludge.

  ‘I should hope you are,’ said a gruff voice.

  Wilton winced.

  Glaring up at him, tendrils on hips, was a tiny frowning blob, wrinkled all over with age and indignation.

  Oh no, a farmer.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ growled the farmer.

  Wilton resisted the temptation to say anything smarty cells like ‘trying to lose weight.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded the farmer.

  ‘Um,’ said Wilton. ‘I slipped.’

  The ancient farmer scowled. ‘Stop me if there’s anything you don’t understand about the following,’ he said. ‘Our world consists of a valley bottom, where we are now, and the valley slopes up there, where you are meant to stay. Sound familiar?’

  Wilton nodded sadly.

  ‘Good,’ continued the farmer. ‘Because there are very important reasons why you’re not allowed down here, aren’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilton quietly. ‘When I come down here it terrifies the livestock and gives them headaches.’

  In the sludge paddocks and along the banks of the sludge river, the viruses and enzymes were still whimpering nervously and some were rubbing their ectoplasms.

  ‘That’s one reason,’ said the farmer.

  ‘They’re only frightened of me because they don’t know me,’ said Wilton. ‘Let me stay down here and help out for a while. Do a bit of sludge grooming. Fence a few sludge paddocks. I can make friends down here, I know I can.’

  The farmer narrowed his squiz molecules and scratched his grizzled ectoplasm with a work­calloused tendril.

  ‘Please,’ begged Wilton. ‘I’m lonely up there on the slopes. Let me be a farm worker.’

  Wilton’s hope molecules were buzzing. So were his fear molecules. Blurting out his life’s ambition to the gruffest farmer in the valley was one of the scariest things he’d ever done.

  The farmer squinted up at him in silence.

  Wilton knew this wasn’t a good sign. He hoped the farmer was just pausing to digest his lunch, but when Wilton peeked into the farmer’s protoplasm he couldn’t make out a single virus kebab or enzyme nugget.

  ‘You’ve already got one big problem, lad,’ growled the farmer at last. ‘Don’t be an idiot as well. You know why we can’t have you down here.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Wilton, even though he was pretty sure he knew.

  ‘Because,’ said the farmer wearily, ‘you’re too fat.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said several muffled voices. ‘Way too fat.’

  Indignation molecules vibrated inside Wilton. It was a painful feeling because, as Wilton was the first to admit, he had a lot of indignation molecules. He had a lot of every type of molecule. That was the problem.

  ‘I’m not fat,’ said Wilton to the farmer. ‘I’m just big.’

  ‘Way too big,’ said the muffled voices.

  ‘Fat, big, whatever,’ said the farmer. ‘Modern sludge farming is an exact and demanding science. I can’t have great lumps like you flobbing around the place squashing crops and workers.’

  ‘I haven’t squashed any workers for ages,’ protested Wilton.

  ‘You’re doing it now,’ said the farmer.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the muffled voices.

  Wilton felt something tickling under h
is tummy. He wriggled backwards. A few hundred flattened microbes picked themselves up and tried to push their ectoplasms back into shape. Wilton felt awful. The round ones were sort of oval now, and most of the stick-shaped ones were crinkled.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Wilton, wishing he had tendrils so he could help straighten them out.

  ‘We don’t want to hear sorry, fatso,’ said one of the squashed workers. ‘We just want to hear you’re on a diet.’

  Wilton felt shame molecules burning inside him.

  ‘I am on a diet,’ he replied. ‘All I’ve eaten for ages is a bit of water membrane and a few dried viruses with the skin off.’

  ‘Well,’ grunted the farmer, peering up at Wilton, ‘it’s not working.’

  Wilton wanted to let the farmer know that he was also doing an exercise programme. But before he could get the words out, he felt more tickling under his tummy. For a moment he thought more workers were still under there, flapping desperately.

  Then he realised it was something else.

  The ground was vibrating.

  Wilton knew what that meant.

  ‘A storm’s coming,’ he said urgently to the farmer.

  Already Wilton could feel a wet breeze against his skin. The farmer peered down the valley and Wilton saw his ancient tendrils stiffen with alarm.

  ‘Storm,’ yelled the farmer. ‘Take cover.’

  Chaos broke out.

  Workers flung themselves in all directions. Livestock stampeded. Enzymes desperately clung to the backs of viruses while the viruses tried to hide behind the enzymes.

  Wilton did what he always did when he was caught out in a storm. He curled into a circle, partly to brace himself against the impact of the wind, partly to give some of the farm workers and livestock a place in the middle to shelter.

  The storm hit with a roaring squelch.

  It was the worst one Wilton could remember. The rain was lashing harder than ever before. It stung Wilton even more than the squashed workers’ unkind comments.

  The ground heaved under Wilton’s belly as if the whole valley floor had been infected with a puke fungus.

  The howling wind was so savage it tore lumps of sludge from the rippling sludge fields and flung them about like . . . Wilton didn’t know what they were like. He’d never seen anything as big as the lumps that were splodging onto the ground all around him.

  ‘Fat boy,’ yelled the farmer, huddled under an old raincoat made of dead plasma strands and matted whiskers.

  Wilton knew the farmer was yelling at him.

  ‘When this is over,’ continued the farmer, ‘get back up that slope and stay there. If I see you down here again, making the sludge gods angry like this, you’ll be a very sorry microbe.’

  Wilton didn’t reply.

  He just stayed curled up.

  The storm was bad, but it was nothing compared to how miserable he felt inside.

  2

  ‘Be honest with me,’ Wilton said to the neighbours.

  ‘Am I fat?’

  The neighbours didn’t reply.

  Wilton knew why. The neighbours always found it hard to speak when they were jammed between their cave wall and his bottom.

  He shifted to give them a bit of space. It wasn’t easy. Less than half a wriggle and now Wilton was squashed against the ceiling.

  ‘Fat?’ said one of the neighbours as soon as she had room for her chat molecules to vibrate. ‘Don’t be silly, you’re not fat, not really. Our cave’s a bit small, that’s all.’

  ‘More of a crevice than a cave,’ said the other neighbour.

  Wilton gave them both a grateful squiz.

  He was lucky to have such nice blood cells as neighbours, but he knew they weren’t being completely honest with him. Their cave wasn’t small. Compared to other places Wilton had seen, it was massive. Without him here clogging it up, the neighbours could be holding an afternoon tea for a very large number of corpuscles.

  It’s me, thought Wilton sadly. I’m too big.

  And getting bigger.

  That was the really worrying thing. One more growth spurt and even his friendly neighbours wouldn’t want him to visit.

  ‘Did you pop in for a reason?’ said the first neighbour. ‘If you’re hoping to borrow some cleaning products to mop up after the storm, I’m afraid our enzymes are all busy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Wilton, ‘but I’ve already cleaned up my ledge.’

  ‘What is it, then?’ said the other neighbour. ‘We don’t want to rush you but we’re a bit busy too.’

  Wilton fired up every one of his courage molecules.

  ‘You know how I haven’t got any parents?’ he said.

  The neighbours nodded.

  ‘You’ve told us several times,’ said one. ‘You’ve never had any and you’ve searched the whole valley and you haven’t found a single sign of any.’

  ‘Very sad,’ said the other.

  ‘Extremely sad,’ said the first. ‘Was that all?’

  Wilton’s chat molecules were so tense he could hardly get the words out.

  ‘I was wondering,’ he said, ‘if you’d adopt me.’

  The neighbours stared at him, their squiz molecules bulging.

  ‘It’s OK,’ continued Wilton hurriedly. ‘I’d stay up the slope on my ledge. I wouldn’t bother you or squash you. It’s just that I wouldn’t feel so lonely if I knew I had a mum and dad. And if the folk down in the valley knew I was a member of a respectable family, they might be a bit friendlier to me.’

  The neighbours were staring at each other and Wilton had a horrible feeling he could see panic in their squiz molecules. They were both looking very red, even for red blood cells.

  ‘Trouble is,’ said the first neighbour, ‘we’re just so busy. I’m doing shift work in the spleen.’

  ‘And I’ve got clients I have to visit in the kidneys,’ said the other neighbour. ‘And the liver.’

  ‘It’s a mess in that spleen,’ said the first neighbour. ‘We’re all on overtime.’

  Wilton didn’t know where these places were, but he knew what the neighbours were saying.

  No.

  There was an awkward silence.

  Wilton gave it one more try.

  ‘Could you be my aunty and uncle then?’

  From the neighbours’ grim expressions, Wilton saw they didn’t like that idea either. His hope molecules sagged.

  ‘Wouldn’t work,’ said the first neighbour, her chat molecules vibrating with fake regret. ‘We’re blood corpuscles and you’re a microbe.’

  ‘Not only that,’ said the other neighbour. ‘You’re a very fat microbe.’

  Wilton lay on his ledge, staring down into the valley.

  Far below, the vast sludge river glowed as it moved slowly through the paddocks. Wilton’s whiff molecules could just pick up its faint but fragrant perfume.

  The folk down in the valley were too far away for Wilton to see what they were doing, but if he strained his noise molecules he could hear faint but happy voices and the occasional popping sound.

  ‘Whatever they’re doing,’ murmured Wilton, ‘it sounds like fun.’

  Microbes being friendly.

  Caring about each other.

  ‘Don’t torture yourself,’ said the patch of slime next to Wilton on the ledge. ‘We’re outcasts. Accept it.’

  Wilton turned away from the valley.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  Oh well, at least he had the patch of slime to keep him company.

  ‘And now you’ve accepted it,’ said the patch of slime, ‘get back over to your side of the ledge. I don’t want you squashing me again. Just my luck to be sharing a ledge with the bulgiest wriggliest heaviest microbe in the whole world.’

  ‘It’s not my fault,’ said Wilton. ‘I wish I was like the others. Tiny and popular.’

  ‘Well you’re not,’ said the patch of slime. ‘So nick off.’

  Wilton didn’t nick off. His loneliness molecules were aching and he needed to
talk.

  ‘I just wish I knew why I’m so different,’ he said. ‘Apart from being too big, I haven’t got any tendrils or plasma strands. All the other microbes have. Everyone in the valley’s got something they can do push-ups with except me.’

  ‘Hey,’ snapped the patch of slime. ‘If you think you’ve got it bad, take a squiz at me. Those sludge gods really dudded me. When I was a little patch of slime I dreamed of being a patrol officer in the immune system. Whizzing around the valley blasting fungus and handing out parking tickets. Look at me. I can’t even wriggle.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Wilton quietly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not the only one with problems.’

  ‘Those sludge gods,’ said the patch of slime bitterly. ‘OK, they give us the precious sludge that nourishes our valley, but in their infinite wisdom they really give some of us the rough end of the enzyme.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wilton. ‘They do.’

  ‘Now go away,’ said the patch of slime. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’

  Wilton wriggled over to the other side of the ledge.

  He felt so lonely he wished he could hug himself, but he couldn’t, not until he grew some hugging equipment.

  Will that ever happen? he wondered sadly as he gazed up at the vast pink vein-threaded sky.

  Will I ever know why I’m so different?

  Suddenly Wilton realised what he had to do.

  The thought sent his fear molecules into a frenzy, but then his determination molecules took over.

  It was clear as blood plasma.

  There was only one way to discover the truth about himself.

  3

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Wilton, wriggling out from behind a pimple. ‘Do you know where I can find the sludge gods?’

  He felt pretty confident asking farm workers. They’d probably know because they worked with sludge all the time.

  On the valley slope the farm workers looked up, startled to see him, their plasma strands flapping.

  ‘Actually,’ said Wilton. ‘Just one sludge god would do.’

  ‘Don’t waste your energy, fatso,’ replied one of the workers. ‘We’ve been waiting for a sign from the sludge gods ever since the storm, to find out why they’re punishing us. We’ve been grovelling, wailing, beseeching, sacrificing enzymes, you name it. Nothing.’