Worm Sybil
By
K. Thompson
The year I turned seventeen my father invited the Worm Brothers to winter on our land. That’s how little faith he had in me, his daughter, born with the cord looped around my throat as though I resented the idea of living. My parents exhausted themselves finding names for my shortcomings, but I understood before I knew the word. Resentment. For my eyes which transform birds into vague smudges in the sky. For my hands which cannot thread a needle. For my brain which cannot differentiate mockery, pity, and affection.
Unmarriageable was the word they landed on. They whispered it as though I couldn’t hear them, knowing it condemned them to a lifetime in my useless presence, consumption without compensation.
And these were lean times for us. My triplet brothers ate so much food in their march to adolescence the rest of us halved our servings. My lack of a dowry mitigated the strain on our resources, but there was no way for me to earn my keep.
Unless.
We called them the Worm Brothers because we thought they ate worms. They were from somewhere down south, by the sea, where they lived together in large compounds. But they wandered all over the island in groups of five or six, clad uniformly in thick cloaks the color of congealed blood.
How my father found the men who came to stay with us will always be a mystery to me. I imagine him whispering among his friends, casting his net wide, so when those rust red figures were spotted two counties over, my father knew before anyone else. He left abruptly one day on his horse and returned the next evening with five Worm Brothers in tow, each of them emaciated and with an unsettling habit of looking above your head when speaking to you. In the rare event they spoke at all.
The leader of the band was a compact old man perpetually leaning on the fallen bough of a tree. My mother pushed me forward, presumably so he could see me better. A small tremor in the recesses of my mind alerted me that this man was measuring me even as he avoided my face.
“Yes,” he said at length. “She will do nicely.”
My mother laid out a relative feast for the visitors. Only the triplets took advantage of the excess. I watched the old man who found me adequate and wondered what use he could have for me. It was an exciting prospect, finding a place in the world, exciting enough to override the deep cynicism my parents’ disregard nurtured in me.
When they were finished, another of the Brothers stood and spoke for the group, “We are ready to induct the girl.”
Obediently, I left with them, thinking only of the frosted grass crunching beneath my feet. My limbs were tight with fear and anticipation, because I believed anything could happen to me then and regardless of the consequences that was more exciting than the nothing I had experienced all my life.
Their makeshift compound was a large tent flanked by several smaller ones, all deep red. Silently, the Brothers worked to make me comfortable inside the big tent, proffering me cushions and blankets and some smooth, warm beverage I’d never tasted before and didn’t particularly like.
The leader sat, finally looking me in the eyes, and the others placed themselves around us. He nodded at one of the Brothers, almost a boy, who shuffled closer to me on the trampled earth. His cheeks were covered in pox scars, his eyes green as summer.
“What do you know of us, child?” The old man asked.
“Nothing.” I amended, “You eat worms.”
An amused murmur traveled around the tent. “Not quite. We allow them to live inside us.”
My stomach turned. “Why?”
“They allow us to see past the scaffolding of this reality. They are tiny refugees out of time and space, not of this plane.” He smiled faintly. “You will carry one, too.”
My eyes widened, face paling with fear, but my new companions soothed me. They explained that I would be touched like them, that I would live as a sibyl, a woman of great power and wealth. A boon to my family. They explained that I would see things no one I knew could fathom, things my parents could scarce comprehend. And though it was chosen for me, and though it was repulsive, nothing had ever sounded so attractive to me.
The young Brother pulled a thin, purplish worm from a pouch he carried. I marveled at its strange, frilled body, its tiny teeth.
“It goes up your nose,” he whispered.
I felt like none of this was real. I let him gently take my chin and tilt it upwards. I let him bring the worm to my nostril. It fussed in his hand as I exhaled onto it, then it lunged all at once up into my nasal cavity.
Through the pain, I left myself, falling inwards all the way to the seafloor of some distant place. I felt myself pressed almost unbearably, my organs squelching against my skin. I felt myself boiled in seething acid but thriving all the same, one among trillions and more at home than any human has ever felt. The world turned to light, to colors so vibrant I could not name them. I perceived a pattern, and in that pattern was truth itself. I understood only for a moment, but that was its own kind of gift. I’d never experienced such tenderness, such consideration
When I woke, human but somehow less fragile, I laid swaddled and bleeding from the nose. The Brothers stared down at me.
Someone asked, “Did you see?”
Of course, all I could do was grin.
K. Thompson lives with her cat in Philadelphia. She enjoys staring forlornly at her unread book pile and eating pad thai. Her work has been published in Crow & Cross Keys and Horrific Scribes. You can follow her @thompsinator.bsky.social
By
K. Thompson
The year I turned seventeen my father invited the Worm Brothers to winter on our land. That’s how little faith he had in me, his daughter, born with the cord looped around my throat as though I resented the idea of living. My parents exhausted themselves finding names for my shortcomings, but I understood before I knew the word. Resentment. For my eyes which transform birds into vague smudges in the sky. For my hands which cannot thread a needle. For my brain which cannot differentiate mockery, pity, and affection.
Unmarriageable was the word they landed on. They whispered it as though I couldn’t hear them, knowing it condemned them to a lifetime in my useless presence, consumption without compensation.
And these were lean times for us. My triplet brothers ate so much food in their march to adolescence the rest of us halved our servings. My lack of a dowry mitigated the strain on our resources, but there was no way for me to earn my keep.
Unless.
We called them the Worm Brothers because we thought they ate worms. They were from somewhere down south, by the sea, where they lived together in large compounds. But they wandered all over the island in groups of five or six, clad uniformly in thick cloaks the color of congealed blood.
How my father found the men who came to stay with us will always be a mystery to me. I imagine him whispering among his friends, casting his net wide, so when those rust red figures were spotted two counties over, my father knew before anyone else. He left abruptly one day on his horse and returned the next evening with five Worm Brothers in tow, each of them emaciated and with an unsettling habit of looking above your head when speaking to you. In the rare event they spoke at all.
The leader of the band was a compact old man perpetually leaning on the fallen bough of a tree. My mother pushed me forward, presumably so he could see me better. A small tremor in the recesses of my mind alerted me that this man was measuring me even as he avoided my face.
“Yes,” he said at length. “She will do nicely.”
My mother laid out a relative feast for the visitors. Only the triplets took advantage of the excess. I watched the old man who found me adequate and wondered what use he could have for me. It was an exciting prospect, finding a place in the world, exciting enough to override the deep cynicism my parents’ disregard nurtured in me.
When they were finished, another of the Brothers stood and spoke for the group, “We are ready to induct the girl.”
Obediently, I left with them, thinking only of the frosted grass crunching beneath my feet. My limbs were tight with fear and anticipation, because I believed anything could happen to me then and regardless of the consequences that was more exciting than the nothing I had experienced all my life.
Their makeshift compound was a large tent flanked by several smaller ones, all deep red. Silently, the Brothers worked to make me comfortable inside the big tent, proffering me cushions and blankets and some smooth, warm beverage I’d never tasted before and didn’t particularly like.
The leader sat, finally looking me in the eyes, and the others placed themselves around us. He nodded at one of the Brothers, almost a boy, who shuffled closer to me on the trampled earth. His cheeks were covered in pox scars, his eyes green as summer.
“What do you know of us, child?” The old man asked.
“Nothing.” I amended, “You eat worms.”
An amused murmur traveled around the tent. “Not quite. We allow them to live inside us.”
My stomach turned. “Why?”
“They allow us to see past the scaffolding of this reality. They are tiny refugees out of time and space, not of this plane.” He smiled faintly. “You will carry one, too.”
My eyes widened, face paling with fear, but my new companions soothed me. They explained that I would be touched like them, that I would live as a sibyl, a woman of great power and wealth. A boon to my family. They explained that I would see things no one I knew could fathom, things my parents could scarce comprehend. And though it was chosen for me, and though it was repulsive, nothing had ever sounded so attractive to me.
The young Brother pulled a thin, purplish worm from a pouch he carried. I marveled at its strange, frilled body, its tiny teeth.
“It goes up your nose,” he whispered.
I felt like none of this was real. I let him gently take my chin and tilt it upwards. I let him bring the worm to my nostril. It fussed in his hand as I exhaled onto it, then it lunged all at once up into my nasal cavity.
Through the pain, I left myself, falling inwards all the way to the seafloor of some distant place. I felt myself pressed almost unbearably, my organs squelching against my skin. I felt myself boiled in seething acid but thriving all the same, one among trillions and more at home than any human has ever felt. The world turned to light, to colors so vibrant I could not name them. I perceived a pattern, and in that pattern was truth itself. I understood only for a moment, but that was its own kind of gift. I’d never experienced such tenderness, such consideration
When I woke, human but somehow less fragile, I laid swaddled and bleeding from the nose. The Brothers stared down at me.
Someone asked, “Did you see?”
Of course, all I could do was grin.
K. Thompson lives with her cat in Philadelphia. She enjoys staring forlornly at her unread book pile and eating pad thai. Her work has been published in Crow & Cross Keys and Horrific Scribes. You can follow her @thompsinator.bsky.social
