Inside the Worm Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  About the Author

  Also by Robert Swindells

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The worm was close now. So close Fliss could smell the putrid stench of its breath. Its slavering jaws gaped to engulf her …

  Everyone in Elsworth knows the local legend about the monstrous worm – or dragon – that once terrorised the village. But it never really happened. Or did it? For when Fliss and her friends are chosen to re-enact the legend for the village Festival, something very sinister begins to happen.

  Hidden within the framework of the worm costume, the four who are to play the part of the worm dance as one across the ground. They are the worm. And Fliss begins to feel real fear. Somehow the worm itself is returning – with a thousand-year hunger in its belly, and a burning desire for vengeance …

  Inside the Worm

  Robert Swindells

  Illustrated by Jon Riley

  For Nan

  fighting her dragon

  CHAPTER ONE

  FLISS STUCK HER hand up. ‘Why’s it called a worm if it was a dragon, Sir?’

  Mr Hepworth nodded. ‘Good point, Felicity. To us today, the word “worm” conjures up a picture of a small, pink, harmless creature, doesn’t it? But in Anglo-Saxon times, dragons and other reptilian monsters were often called worms, so the word would have had pretty dreadful connotations for them. The worm which terrorized Elsworth is said to have been a chain in length and five feet high at the shoulder.’

  ‘How long’s a chain, Sir?’ asked Grant Cooper.

  ‘Sixty-six feet. That’s roughly twenty-two metres.’

  ‘Phew – some worm!’

  ‘Well yes, exactly. And five feet at the shoulder – that’s like a fairly big horse, and then there’d be the neck and head, so we’re not talking about something you could chop in bits with a garden spade.’ The class tittered.

  ‘And Saint Ceridwen went out by herself to face it, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Marie, she did. She wasn’t a saint then, of course – just a village maiden – but she was devoutly religious and believed that God would empower her to overcome the worm, which she called an agent of Satan.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have gone, Sir.’

  ‘No, Marie, and neither would I. We don’t have Ceridwen’s faith, you see.’

  ‘Is it a true story, Sir? I mean, I thought there were no such things as dragons.’

  The teacher smiled. ‘There are no dragons now, Marie, but this was a thousand years ago, so who knows? Ceridwen certainly existed, and she must have done something pretty remarkable because we know she’d become the most important person in the district by the time she was martyred by the Danes in nine ninety-three.’

  David Trotter raised his hand. ‘How did she kill the worm, Sir?’

  ‘She didn’t. According to the legend, the moment the beast touched the hem of Ceridwen’s skirt it became docile, whereupon she commanded it to begone. It slunk away on to the fen and was never seen again.’

  Gary Bazzard grinned. ‘It might still be out there, Sir.’

  ‘I doubt it, Gary. Elsworth’s got you now – it doesn’t need another monster.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Fliss. ‘Why did the Danes kill Ceridwen?’

  The teacher shrugged. ‘The Danes were pagans, Felicity. When they overran this area they demanded that Ceridwen worship their gods and order her people to do the same. She refused, so they hacked off her limbs and beheaded her.’

  ‘Ugh! And this was exactly a thousand years ago, and that’s why the town’s having this Festival?’

  Mr Hepworth nodded. ‘That’s correct, and the vicar of St Ceridwen’s has invited our school to be involved in various ways, and Mrs Evans and I decided we’d ask Year Eight to perform a re-enactment of Ceridwen’s encounter with the worm, and of her martyrdom. It’s a great honour – the eyes of the whole town will be on us, so obviously we want to make a first-class job of it and it’s all got to be ready in three weeks.’

  ‘So it’ll be sort of like doing a play, Sir?’

  ‘That’s right, Maureen, and the idea is that you people take a lot of the responsibility yourselves for producing it. Mrs Evans and I will be around if you need us, of course, but we expect you to write a script, do the casting, see to props and costumes and so forth. I think you’ll enjoy the experience, but I want you to remember at all times that your finished effort will be seen by practically everybody in Elsworth, so the reputation of Bottomtop Middle is in your hands. That’s all, I think. You can go now, and start work as soon as you like.’

  ‘I’m playing the Boss Viking!’ cried Gary Bazzard, as Year Eight spilled on to the playground. ‘And I’ll hack the limbs off anyone who argues.’

  Fliss pulled a face at Lisa. ‘Old Hepworth must be mad, putting the school’s reputation in the hands of guys like him.’

  Lisa laughed. ‘Gary’s a loudmouth, but he’s OK. We can always gang up on him – tell him we’ve got him down to play Ceridwen in a blonde wig and a long white dress.’

  That night, Fliss had a dream. In her dream the worm came slithering out of the fenland mist with a thousand-year hunger in its belly and vengeance in its brain and she, cast as Ceridwen by the votes of all her friends, was sent to stand defenceless in its path.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THEY’D LEARNED ABOUT the play on Monday. Lunchtime Tuesday there was a class meeting to get the thing off the ground. No teachers were present, though Mrs Evans kept buzzing in and out because they were using her room.

  ‘Right. Now – first things first.’ Sarah-Jane Potts, who’d done some acting with a local amateur group, seemed to be chairing the meeting. ‘Where will this play be performed?’

  ‘On the Festival Field,’ said Tara Matejak. ‘Mr Hepworth said so.’

  ‘So the audience will be all round us and there’ll be some noise as well. That affects how we arrange ourselves on stage, and it means we’ll really have to speak up.’

  ‘I’ve got t
his very powerful voice,’ said Gary Bazzard. ‘It’s a Viking Chief’s voice, really.’

  Sarah-Jane had been tipped off by Lisa and was ready for him. ‘Ah well, you can just forget it, Bazzard. We’re having a girl for Viking Chief.’

  ‘A girl?’ cried Gary. ‘You can’t. Viking chiefs commanded hundreds of men. They fought and killed and everybody was scared of them. You name me one girl who could do all that.’

  ‘How about Boudicca?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Boudicca, queen of the Iceni. She led an army against the Romans. And then there’s Cartimandua, queen of the Brigante. She fought the Romans too.’

  ‘You’re making it up. You’ll be telling me next that Arnold Schwarzenegger never goes anywhere without his knitting.’

  ‘I’m not, and I won’t,’ retorted Sarah-Jane. ‘But the Viking Chief’s a girl, and that’s that.’

  ‘Which girl?’ Gary wasn’t about to give up.

  ‘We don’t know. We haven’t voted yet.’

  When they did vote, Gemma got the part. As the result was being announced, Mrs Evans walked in. ‘Don’t forget your understudies, Sarah-Jane,’ she said.

  ‘No way, Miss,’ said Sarah-Jane, though she had forgotten.

  ‘What’re understudies?’ asked Barry Tune.

  Mrs Evans smiled. ‘An understudy is someone who learns the part of a leading actor or actress, so that he or she can step in and play the part if the star falls ill. It’s important to have understudies for all your leading roles – any teacher will tell you that.’ She found the book she’d come for and left the room. The class then voted, and Maureen O’Connor was chosen as understudy.

  And so it went on. There was consolation for Gary when the class made him worm’s head. ‘You get to roar, bare your fangs and breathe fire,’ Lisa told him. ‘What more could anyone ask?’

  ‘If Gary’s part of the worm, I want to be in it too,’ said David Trotter. He and Gary were best friends. There would be four people in the worm, but there was no voting except for the head. Trot’s offer was accepted, and Ellie-May Sunderland and Lisa got the two remaining places. Fliss landed the best part of all, beating Samantha by one vote to play Ceridwen, with Samantha as understudy.

  After the allocation of supporting roles, Year Eight turned its attention to the problem of costume. It was decided that people would be responsible for designing and making their own costumes, though some children who were good at sewing would stand by to help if needed. The worm must be twenty-two metres long, and light enough for four people to operate. ‘Trouble is, it’ll have eight legs,’ said Gary. ‘Real dragons have four.’

  ‘How the heck do you know?’ demanded Fliss. ‘Have you seen one?’

  ‘I’ve seen pictures.’

  Fliss snorted. ‘I’ve seen pictures of women with six arms,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t mean women’re like that, does it?’

  By the time the meeting ended, everybody had something to do. They even had a title for their play: Ceridwen – Heroine-Saint of Elsworth. Robert Field had thought it up and everybody liked it. As she walked with Lisa to their own room for register, Fliss felt they’d made a really good start. She hadn’t forgotten her nightmare, but in the warm light of afternoon a dream is just a dream.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘HOW LONG DID old Hepworth say we’d got?’ asked Lisa, as she and Fliss walked home that afternoon.

  ‘Three weeks, wasn’t it?’ Fliss began calculating aloud. ‘We’re in the first week of April, right? Festival week starts on Saturday the twenty-fourth and our play’s the following Saturday, which is May the first. So we’ve got about three weeks by my reckoning. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering. There’s a lot to do, isn’t there?’

  Fliss shrugged. ‘Costume to make, lines to learn. It won’t take all that much doing. You don’t even need a costume – they’ll only see your legs.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve got to help with the worm, and I’m not looking forward to working with Gary Bazzard. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘You said he was OK.’

  ‘In small doses he’s OK, but I’m going to be with him for ages, making the worm and then rehearsing, and I won’t even have you to talk to.’

  ‘You’ll have Ellie-May.’ Fliss grinned. ‘And David Trotter. I thought you fancied Trot?’

  ‘Do I heck!’

  ‘Why are you blushing then?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were. Anyway, I’ll tell you what.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you like, and if the others’ll let me, I’ll help with the worm.’ She smiled. ‘My costume’s already made, you see.’

  Lisa looked at her. ‘How d’you manage that?’

  ‘Well, all I need is a long white dress, and I’ve got one from when I was bridesmaid to my cousin last year. I’ve been dying for an excuse to wear it.’

  ‘And you’ll really come and work on the worm with me?’

  ‘If it’s all right with the others, yes.’

  ‘That’ll be great, Fliss. We’re doing it at Trot’s place, in his dad’s garage. Apparently there’s loads of junk there we can use – wire and old curtains and stuff. Trot says the worm’s going to look like one of those dancing lions they have in Thailand – you’ll have seen ’em on telly.’

  ‘Yes, I have. I think it’s a good idea, but ours’ll need a fiercer head. Thai lions don’t look scary at all – they’re cute and cuddly.’ She grinned. ‘Like Trot.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Lisa kicked a stone into the verge as her cheeks flamed. ‘I can’t stand him, if you must know.’

  ‘Why did you volunteer for the worm, then?’

  ‘Shut up, Fliss, OK?’

  Her friend chuckled. ‘OK. When’s the first session, Lisa?’

  ‘Tonight. Half-six. You coming?’

  ‘Dunno, do I? Depends how Trot feels really – it’s his place. Phone him, then phone me. If he agrees, I’ll be there.’

  Their ways parted soon after that and Fliss hurried home. It’ll be great, she told herself, working with Lisa and the others: creating the monster I’ll face on the Festival Field.

  So why did I shiver just now?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LISA WAITED TILL her watch showed one minute past six, then picked up the phone. Her mum was always telling her it was cheaper after six. She punched in Trot’s number, feeling once more the slight tingle of excitement she always got when she did this. It’s not true what Fliss says, she told herself. About me and Trot. I like him, that’s all. We’re friends.

  There was a click and Trot’s voice said, ‘Elsworth four-six-four-two-six-two.’

  ‘Trot? It’s Lisa. Listen. Is it all right if Fliss comes tonight? She offered to help with the worm and I said I’d ask you.’

  ‘’Course it is. Many hands make light work, as my dad would say. Half-six, right?’

  ‘Half-six. See you.’ She broke contact and punched in Fliss’s number. ‘Fliss? Oh, sorry Mrs Morgan, it’s Lisa. May I speak to Fliss, please? Thanks. Fliss? Lisa. I called Trot. It’s OK for tonight.’

  ‘Great. See you in twenty-five minutes then.’

  ‘Right. ’Bye.’

  ‘I did a rough design,’ said Trot, unfolding a sheet of paper.

  The four gathered round to see. Mr Trotter had backed his car on to the driveway so they’d have plenty of space.

  Ellie-May frowned. ‘It looks like a ladder.’

  Trot nodded. ‘I know, except the rungs are too far apart. This is the basic framework, see? We’d stand in a line with our heads between the rungs and the shafts resting on our shoulders. These hoops,’ he pointed, ‘are made of wire. They’d run from one shaft to the other like a series of arches, supporting the fabric covering well above our heads and giving the worm’s back a nice rounded shape.’

  Lisa nodded. ‘You’re a genius, Trot. It’s brilliant.’

  Gary nodded. ‘Looks sound to me, man. Where do we get the stuff to make it?’


  ‘It’s all here.’ Trot nodded to where some lengths of timber stood propped in a corner. ‘There’re the shafts, and we can make rungs from that too. Dad got it to build a porch and never got round to it. And there’s a coil of wire for the hoops.’

  ‘What about nails?’ asked Fliss.

  ‘Drawerful in the chest there,’ Trot told her. ‘Staples too, for the hoops. We can have the framework done tonight if we get a move on.’

  They did better than that, working together smoothly so that by eight o’clock they had a sturdy framework four metres long and almost a metre in height. They stood, fists on hips, looking at it. ‘Four metres,’ grunted Gary. ‘The real worm was twenty-two.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ agreed Trot, ‘but a framework that length would be so unwieldy we wouldn’t be able to shift it. No, the rest’ll be made up of neck and head, and a tail of fabric stiffened with wire.’ He laughed. ‘What we’ll use for the head I don’t know.’

  ‘Papier-mâché,’ said Fliss. ‘It’s light, and you can mould it into any shape you want.’

  ‘Take a lot of paper,’ said Ellie-May.

  ‘Well, there’s five of us,’ said Lisa. ‘If we get all the newspapers from home and from relatives, we’ll have plenty.’

  Trot nodded. ‘Papier-mâché it is, then. Shall we meet here tomorrow, same time, to make a start?’

  Lisa hung around when the others left. It wasn’t fair to leave Trot with all the clearing away, and in any case she felt like walking home alone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE REST OF that week was a busy one for Year Eight. Every spare minute of the school day was spent in discussing the play, and in the evenings the children worked on their costumes. Everybody had a part, as either a villager or a Viking, and the homes of aunts and grandparents were ransacked for materials which might do for a tunic, a helmet or a long dress.

  On Thursday afternoon they gave up double games to stage a rough rehearsal on the school field. There were no written parts, so everybody had to make up their lines as they went along. Ad libbing, Sarah-Jane called it, but it wasn’t a success. It’s not easy thinking up the right words instantly, and when the Viking Grant Cooper yelled, ‘No way, man!’ in the middle of a fight, Sarah-Jane stopped the rehearsal.