My mouth opens and then closes. And then opens and closes once again. What on earth? Did I see what I think I just saw?
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, hoping to clear it. “But did a flower just fall out of your mouth?”
Cautiously, I reach out and touch one of the golden petals. The flower is about the size of my thumbnail, with spiky petals surrounding a raised conical center.
Yep, that’s a real flower, all right. A bulletwood, if I’m correct. It’s one of the flowers my parents and I used to worship the Buddha in the various wats we visited last week.
“I think so?” Lola says, just as dazed. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Like a piece of the sun, after all this rain.”
Another flower—the exact shape, size, and color as the first—tumbles out of her mouth.
My eyes widen. Again. Not a fluke, nor a figment of my imagination. This is real. This is happening.
Rae drops an armful of damp sticks in our makeshift firepit, where Bodin and Mateo are working on the fire, and approaches us. She plucks up the new flower, her brow furrowed with concern. “Have you been eating something strange?”
“No. I only had a bit of the granola bar. The beef jerky made me feel nauseated, so I gave it to Mateo.” Lola shoots me a hesitant glance. “I wouldn’t eat anything from this island, not after Alaia almost died yesterday.”
“What’s going on?” Mateo asks from the firepit, aka a circle of rocks, as Bodin strikes the machete against flint once more.
“Every time I talk, a flower falls out of my mouth,” Lola says.
A spark comes to life, but Bodin is so startled, he drops the flint and the fire goes out. He doesn’t seem too concerned, though, and he and Mateo abandon the project and edge closer to us.
There’s an expectant pause as all four of us stare at Lola’s mouth.
“A flower didn’t drop out just now,” I venture.
Rae shows Mateo the two flowers that have already fallen out. “Weird,” he mutters, turning the flowers over in her hand.
“Maybe it won’t happen again,” Bodin offers. “Can you say something else? What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get rescued?”
“Hug my dog, Blueberry,” Lola answers immediately. “I’ll pepper her with so many kisses, she’ll think she’s getting a shower. She’s the best dog in the world.”
Not one but three bulletwood flowers drift from her mouth in quick succession.
“There goes that theory.” Mateo settles on Lola’s side, a little closer than necessary.
Lola pounds each foot against the platform, a seated, teenage version of throwing a tantrum. “As if I didn’t have enough problems already. I hate my life and everything in it.”
“Even me?” Mateo asks impishly, picking up her hand.
“Watch it,” Rae says. “You just insulted your dear older sister.”
“Not to mention my poor, rickety shelter,” Bodin adds.
I don’t pay any attention to their banter. Because something glints inside Lola’s mouth. Similar in color to the flowers…but different. “Look!” I point.
We fall silent. As if in slow motion, a pink, segmented worm crawls its way from Lola’s lips, snaking down her chin, its slimy body curving and twisting.
I scream. Loud enough to reverberate to the other side of the island. Long enough to make every head on the beach turn in my direction.
Hell, I’m even more freaked out than Lola. Maybe she’s in shock, or my reaction stunned her, but she simply spits out the worm and frowns while I backward crab-crawl as fast as I can.
Next thing I know, I’m toppling over the edge of the platform, and my body goes rigid as I slam into the soft (but not that soft) ground.
When I manage to scrabble to my feet, the worm—or whatever that slimy segmented creature is—wriggles away on the sand, and I want to throw up on Lola’s behalf.
“Did that… Is that… You…” I begin several sentences, but they all get lost in the acid surging up my throat.
Lola wrinkles her nose, her first hint of distaste. “That’s so gross.”
“Gross?” I echo.
Gross? Just GROSS?! I can think of a million adjectives to describe this situation, the kindest of which is gross.
I want to run to every scientist in the world and beg them to eradicate the worms from the Earth. Yes, I understand their necessity to the balance of nature, blah, blah, blah. But the thought of that thing in my body…inside my mouth…just no.
If it ever happened to me, the world would stop spinning on its axis. That’s it. The end. Dead, dead, dead.
Sounds dramatic, I know. But that’s how it feels to me: that worms are—unironically—crawling under my skin, that I would never, ever recover from this state of shock.
Four deep breaths, I instruct myself. This is not about you. This super strange phenomenon is happening to Lola.
Mama, Khun Anita, and Kit run over, no doubt because of my scream. The others must still be deep in the woods, out of earshot. Mama comes immediately to my side, while Rae succinctly explains what’s happening.
“Maybe she ate a rapidly multiplying flower and it’s regenerating in her stomach,” Khun Anita suggests. Her perfectly black hair, long and loose yesterday, is now gathered neatly in a low bun.
“And she swallowed worm cocoons along with the flower,” Kit exclaims, the most excited I’ve ever seen him. He places his chin on his much shorter grandmother’s head, and Khun Anita shoos him off and sits down.
“It’s not a terrible explanation,” I say slowly, “except Lola’s already denied eating anything.”
“Besides, it’s doubtful that the flowers and worms would survive the acids in her stomach,” Mama says.
“I know!” Kit crows. “A worm crawled into her mouth while she was sleeping, bro. It’s been chilling there, tangled with her tonsils, waiting for its chance to emerge.”
My stomach flips. Good thing it’s been empty for the better part of the last twenty-four hours, or else its contents would definitely be splattered across the sand.
“Not likely.” Lola tilts her head as though considering the idea. “Like the rest of you, I haven’t slept all night.”
Am I seriously the only one who is put out by this worm? What is wrong with them?
“You are missing the point.” Rae shoves her hands into her short, bleached hair, like she might pull out the strands. “You’re all trying to approach this problem rationally, when there is nothing logical about this situation.”
“You might be right,” Mama says in a voice designed to calm us all down. “Which makes it more important than ever to hold on to our wits. Please explain what you mean.”
The soothing tone works, at least on Rae and me. My stomach unclenches, just a little, and Rae sinks down in the sand in front of Khun Anita, who places her hand on Rae’s shoulder. I’m not sure if they, too, bonded overnight, or if Khun Anita is just being maternal.
“Think about what we’ve been through,” Rae says tiredly. “The yacht of our dreams blows up, and we’re whisked away to this mysterious remote island. This place looks like paradise, but the fruit is poisonous, no fish swim in the waters, and there’s no trace of Captain Xander or the lifeboat. We’re hit with a storm nothing short of a typhoon, although last time I checked, the skies in the vicinity of Koh Samui were clear.”
“And believe me, she checked,” Lola chirps. “Every hour, on the hour, because she was paranoid about a yacht tour during the rainy season.”
Rae ignores her. “Now, my sister is coughing up flowers and worms. Does any of this sound logical? Or probable? Something else is at play here.” She looks at each of us in turn. “Something we have yet to deem possible. Something…paranormal.”
Bodin scoffs. “What are you saying? That we’re about to turn into werewolves and vampires?”
“No. Nothing as Western as that.” Rae turns to her sister. “Give us a list of facts. Your name, your age, your favorite color. Keep emotion out of it.”
“Why?” Lola asks.
“Just do it,” Rae says with the annoyed exasperation reserved for older siblings.
Mateo pats her hand encouragingly, and she begins, “Um, okay. My name is Lola. I’m sixteen years old, and my favorite color is pink. Good enough?”
Rae nods. “There! Do you see what I’m talking about?”
I exchange a confused look with Bodin. Kit sprints a few yards and leaps into the air. I don’t know if that’s supposed to relate to our conversation or if he’s just practicing his vertical.
“Er… I don’t see anything,” Mateo says.
“Precisely,” Rae says. “She didn’t cough up a flower or a worm.”
She’s right. I scan Lola, the platform around her, and the sand in front of her. No new flower. Definitely no second worm, thank goodness.
“What does that prove?” Bodin asks. “No object came from her mouth earlier.”
“I’m trying to establish a pattern,” Rae says impatiently. “When Lola speaks words of sympathy or kindness, the golden flowers of bulletwood fall from her mouth. When she speaks out of anger, worms crawl from her mouth. When her words are neutral, nothing happens. Here, watch. Say something sympathetic,” she commands Lola.
Lola blinks, as though not understanding.
Rae sighs. “Something kind, something generous. Honestly, it’s a pretty broad category. Anything positive will do.”
“Uh, I bet you’re really good at basketball,” Lola tells Kit, who’s moved on to under-the-leg, reverse layups with his imaginary ball. “Your grandmother must be so proud.”
“He’s already on an AAU team that competes up and down the East Coast of the United States,” Khun Anita says. “You should hear me in the stands. The ref threatened to give Kit’s team a tech if I didn’t quiet down.”
“I thought techs were just for players and their coaches,” Bodin remarks.
Khun Anita beams. “They made an exception, just for me.”
One…two…three… Flowers spill from Lola’s mouth, joining the ever-growing pile on the platform.
I gasp, but Rae holds out her hand. “We’re not done yet. Say something angry,” she instructs Lola. “Again, the worms aren’t picky, so long as you’re negative.”
“I was really pissed at you for making me come on this trip,” Lola blurts out. “So mad that I took all of your ripped jeans and sewed them up.”
“I did that, too!” Khun Anita chortles. “For my granddaughters. I never understood why they weren’t more grateful.”
Rae takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. If she’s anything like me, she’s counting to eleven.
The rest of us stare at Lola. Sure enough, a tiny pink head pokes out of her mouth, followed by the slimy white body.
I gag. I can’t help it. It’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever seen. I’ll have nightmares about the worms for years, if not the rest of my life. But this time, with Mama’s presence keeping me steady, I hold it together—barely.
“How did you know that?” Bodin gapes. Even Kit pauses his pump-fake, spin-around, fade-back moves.
Energized, Rae paces in front of us, her sneakered feet adding footprints to the churned-up sand. “I study Southeast Asian folktale and literature in college. That’s why we’re in Thailand—so that I could take a summer course at Chulalongkorn University.”
“Let me guess.” Lola sighs. “Another boring folktale? She’s talked about nothing else this entire trip.”
Another worm crawls out. Revulsion courses through me, but a magnitude less than before. Exposure therapy at work. Show me another million worms, and maybe I can react as nonchalantly as Lola.
“Pah Moh probably knows this one,” Rae says. I’m touched that she’s picked up on the name that Bodin uses for Mama, rather than calling her by her given name, Pacharee. “And you, Alaia. You’ve probably heard this folktale as a bedtime story.” I nod, although I can’t imagine which folktale she means. If I’d heard any story about worms, I would’ve immediately blocked it out.
“Hey, I never got any bedtime stories,” Kit says, nudging his grandma’s shoulder.
“That’s because you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow,” she retorts. “Now, hush.”
Rae clears her throat. “Phikul Tong was a kind maiden who gave water to an old woman she encountered, so that the woman could drink and wash up. The old woman, who was really an angel in disguise, rewarded Phikul Tong by granting her wish that the golden flowers of bulletwood would fall from her lips whenever she spoke words of sympathy.”
“That’s what she wished for?” Kit interrupts. “I’d wish for the ability to fly. Can you imagine me dunking the ball from half-court?”
“Shhh!” Khun Anita, Lola, and I say at the same time.
Bodin leans against a towering palm tree, arms crossed, face impassive.
“Unfortunately for Phikul Tong, she had a stepmother who abused her by making her speak all day, so that the stepmother could sell the flowers that fell from her mouth at the market,” Rae continues.
“As a result, Phikul Tong lost her voice and could no longer speak. The stepmother, consumed with greed, sent out her own daughter, Mali, to give water to the old woman. However, Mali encountered not an old woman but a beautiful girl in an elaborate dress. Jealousy led Mali to refuse to give the girl any water—and speak to her rudely, to boot. The girl, who—you guessed it—was an angel, put a curse on Mali so that worms would drop from her mouth when she spoke out of anger.”
Rae takes a breath. “And that is the story of Phikul Tong—the relevant portions, at least.”
Lola stands, the most perturbed I’ve seen her since objects started dropping from her lips. “What are you saying? That I’m both Phikul Tong and Mali?”
She backs away, as though getting away from us will also mean escaping the truth.
“No, Lola,” Rae says gently. “Obviously, your situation is not a replica of the folktale. I’m just pointing out the similarities…”
“That’s the same thing as saying I’m cursed.” Lola looks around wildly. “I can’t… I can’t be here anymore.” She takes off into the woods, hopping over gnarled tree roots and disappearing into the brush.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” I say.
“No kidding,” Bodin agrees.
By unspoken agreement, Bodin, Rae, Mateo, and I run after her, leaving Kit shuffling across the sand, hunched in a defensive position, as he boxes out his grandmother. Mama, on the other hand, remains sitting on the platform, content to let us healthy young people handle the situation.
Bodin leads the way, protecting us from most of the bramble with his muscular shoulders. However, thin branches whip into my face, and my side scrapes against the brush when the path narrows. Thankfully, we don’t have to run for long.
At the first break in the trees, we find Lola crouched in the middle of a puddle, rocking back and forth.
Rae sucks in a sharp breath. “The puddle. Tell me you see what I see.”
There, made prominent by last night’s heavy rainfall, lays a pool of water. The only thing weird about it is that Lola’s plopped in the center of it.
Oh, wait. The pond does possess some strange curves. Smaller pools fan across the top of it, almost in the shape of a…
“Footprint,” Mateo breathes.
“Buddha’s footprint, to be exact.” Rae presses the palms of her hands into her eyes. “Just like the puddle in the shape of an oversize footprint that a hunter found in the seventeenth century. A temple, Wat Phra Phutthabut, was built around it, and thousands of people visit every year.”
“What’s happening to me?” Lola cries. “What is this place?”
Rae kneels by her sister, soaking her jeans from the knee down. “Hate to say it, little sister,” she says grimly. “But it looks like we’ve stumbled onto an island where the old folktales come to life.”