‘Send the worm up,’ Sam said. His voice had an edge to it. Although he was a people pleaser, he’d had enough of the apple tree’s company for now.
He concentrated on relaxing as his airway reduced in capacity almost imperceptibly. He breathed slowly and deeply, forcing himself not to panic. He started to feel slight movements up his gullet. He made a tiny, low gargle.
‘No gagging!’ came the instruction, with an echoing giggle. After some minutes of this yogalike performance, Sam reached into his mouth and pulled out a curling, stretching, pale pink invertebrate.
‘Let’s go left shoulder today, fella,’ the worm requested. ‘I spy a spot of sunshine for us’.
‘Want any Factor 50?’
‘Wa, ha, hoh – bleurgh,’ Worm spewed then cleared their throat. ‘That’s better’. They tilted their head upwards. ‘None of our avian comrades around?’
‘Nope.’
‘Perfect.’ And Worm stretched out on their back, giving small grunts of satisfaction as they flexed each segment in turn like a salsa dancer. There was a loud CRUNCH and they sat up. ‘You’re never eating an apple, are you?’ The irony made them chuckle.
Sam was a chomper. Always had been. He ate the skin and the flesh of all fruit and veg where possible. He’d eat right down to the anus. Chomp, chomp, chomp. He said it made him healthier and for a while it seemed he was right: he hardly aged at all. Instead he’d gotten fitter and slimmer, and it was declared a minor miracle when the optician told him he no longer needed glasses. But how many times had he found miniscule twigs irritating his auricles? It left him perplexed in the midst of his concrete surroundings.
Then the itching started. He itched for months. First it was prickly nostrils and ears. Then his teeth started to feel sensitive, right along the gumline. His armpits developed a severe reaction to deodorant. Next thing he knew, his arsehole itched like a bastard. Scrubbing bloody fingernails became part of his bedtime ritual, after absentmindedly scratching his scalp raw while bingewatching tv. For the first time since puberty he contemplated buying dandruff shampoo. Then, feeling like his mother, he reluctantly purchased medicated talc (online).
He knew for sure that something was really off when he found strange, thin strands in the toilet bowl, reminiscent of corn silk.
‘Shit. Oh god. What the hell is that?’
When tendrils were unmistakeably extruding from every one of his orifices, Sam plucked up some courage. He looked himself sternly in the mirror and selected one that looked like the longest nosehair. Wrapped it carefully around his forefinger and pulled, gently. He could feel tugging somewhere behind the back of his throat. It was a curious sensation, and not unpleasant. He did it again, harder.
Each strand felt somehow attached to a nerve ending in a different part of his anatomy. After much exploration it turned out that if he concentrated, with the merest squeeze he could identify its bodily link: this one was connected to his inner thigh, this one to somewhere in his lower gut, this one along his left jaw. Some were connected to places he didn’t want to reach. He left those well alone.
If he pulled more insistently at the thicker, hardier ones, Sam knew he’d be ripping his insides out. He began to wake from sweaty visions of his liquefied brain being dragged through his nose by a hook as the ancient Egyptians did their worst. One night he awakened fearing he’d been castrated while playing with himself. The next he dreamt of his guts spilling out and woke to find he’d been clawing at his now red raw belly button.
He tried to keep it in check at first through new bathroom-based rituals: trimming his beard, pruning nosehair, scrubbing at his brown stained fingernails. He dug out a nail buffer left by an ex to smooth his undulating nail ridges. He used cotton buds to mop up orifice ooze while holding his breath.
‘Watch it!’ wailed a pleading voice when he tried to pluck baby leaves emerging from his ears. ‘Would you mind? Please. I need those to survive’.
Sam looked around the bathroom, went over to the window that was slightly ajar. Peered down the empty street. He went back to the mirror, and raised his hand to his ears.
‘Honestly, I can’t make any food unless my leaves are intact.’
This went on every time he tried to remove any leaves. Sam thought he was hallucinating. Had he become schizophrenic? He rang the NHS helpline about voices in his head, but he didn’t meet all the criteria for a diagnosis. Was the Devil torturing him?
One anxious evening, Sam opened a red wine. After a couple of glasses, he went back to the bathroom mirror and shakily introduced himself.
‘I think it’s time we met.’ He drew another breath. ‘I’m Sam.’ And waited.
He got a reply. It was softly spoken, like a butler.
‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you Sam. My name is Malus. Malus domesticus. Mal for short.’
‘What are you? Where are you?’
‘It seems our fates have become entwined sir. I found myself sharing your rather luxurious body, for which I am most grateful.’
‘You’re, you’re INSIDE me?’
‘Well yes. You know that. Do you not.’
Sam needed to sit down. He covered his face. What fresh horror was this? Mal broke the silence.
‘I’m truly sorry for your predicament, sir. It must be a lot to take in.’
‘I just don’t understand. Oh god. What the fuck does this mean?’
‘I don’t fully comprehend it myself.’
Sam reverted to his lockdown joggers and XL t-shirts and barely left the house. His days were filled with remote working and online shopping, with intermittent root tugging. He systematically identified which root was connected where. He took to sitting in a shallow bath of an evening, devising his own horrific adaptation of a Vitruvian man map.
He felt parched all the time. His throat began to feel striated to his touch and his voice became raspy. His hearing became muffled. Once the site for teenage spots, pores had darkened and enlarged. Here and there they oozed yellow, stinking liquid as new branches broke the surface then the pore’s circumference crusted over. He smelt sweaty and earthy, having minimised his cleaning rituals to lessen new discomforts, since silky roots had become entangled in his body hair.
Soon Sam and the apple tree incubating inside him were having regular conversations. They became friendly, like siblings. Mal regularly apologised for their collective situation, he worried about Sam’s fate and, after a few whiskies, would hesitantly suggest they get out the weedkiller and do shots.
Mal’s knowledge of natural remedies did wonders for any ailment, even those that don’t appear in any medical textbooks. They’d seek out calendula and rosemary, chamomile and dock leaves. They both feared aphids the most, after a terrible few weeks of infestation. Sam still dreamed of aphids in his hair, on his scalp, nibbling, burrowing, laying their eggs on his pink skin.
Sam started to understand the tree’s needs for healthy growth, and Mal seemed to understand Sam – even when he couldn’t express himself, the tree knew how he was feeling and what comforting things to say. As their trust built, Mal even volunteered for haircuts.
‘Now sir, I’m feeling a little lopsided. Can we talk about a little selective, careful pruning?’
‘Here?’ Sam tugged gently at a few leaves.
‘Not so fast! No fingers, please. We need the pruners, otherwise I’ll be exposed to infection. Now, don’t go mad. Just where I tell you. Up a bit, to the left a little, up, no down, left, LEFT, LEFT!’
‘I can’t reach that Mal. Can’t you move the branch a bit closer?’
‘I’m not so flexible as you imagine.’
‘Well what can we do then? Shall I get the neighbours out?’
‘No. No! Don’t even joke about it. They’ll chop us both down if they see us now.’
He realised later that along with the tree taking root inside his torso, a host of small organisms were along for the ride. He slowly got used to the strange shifting sensations inside himself. He liked the worm the most, who liked to come out for a breath of fresh air from time to time. Worm had a passable sense of humour, while Mal was preoccupied with getting enough nutrition or the right conditions to nurture his fruit.
‘What do you call a man with a tree growing inside him? The perfect host!’ Worm guffawed, spewing soil over Sam’s jacket. Sam brushed it off, laughing along.
Once, in a panicky drunken state, Sam started clawing all over his body, sobbing and scratching ‘til he bled and fell asleep in a mess on the sofa. The next day he felt like death, and poured away all the alcohol in the house. Nobody mentioned it.
By the time he faced the truth of it, it was too late. The sneaky roots had penetrated his whole body seeking space and nutrition. They ran the length and width of his extremities. They wrapped around his organs. His muscles felt permanently taut and his kidneys bruised. His curves became rounder. His joints became more pronounced as they accommodated the growth.
With disgusted fascination he examined his naked, matted body before the full length mirror. He despaired at his dry, greying skin and angry stretchmarks without a baby to blame. He looked like a cartoon version of himself. He was a beast. There was no way to eradicate the apple tree he was hosting without killing himself at the same time. Then oh! He was momentarily distracted by the discovery that he now had an outie.
Sam continued to modify his behaviour to protect the apple tree, torn between getting through the day without negotiation, and perilous, unimaginable long term consequences. He took care with how often he moved his body while developing fruit was delicate and easily damaged. He developed a taste for earthier flavours, he stopped shaving or cutting his (increasingly sensitive) hair, and wore a beanie hat to protect his hairy roots.
As Sam withdrew from his limited social networks, his dependence on Mal grew for companionship. Their conversations revolved a lot around food, and what combinations they might both find palatable. Sam found himself on the garden bench lining up different brands of organic feed from the garden centre.
‘Go on, move a bit closer. Come on. Oh, I can smell it. It’s going to be delicious. Lick it. Now just a little sip. Ooh my sap is running amok here Sam! That’s it, load it up – ah – nearly – you can do it, quickly now, you’ll barely taste it, I promise.’
Sam paused, smiled wryly and put the spoon down.
‘I can’t do it with a running commentary.’
‘Of course, apologies. It just looks – so – good. Do take your time.’
Sam raised the spoon and held it at the back of his mouth. His facial muscles contracted.
‘Happy now?’ he winced.
‘Wooooop! Wa-hey! Tomorite City! Oh very good sir, it feels wonderful. Delectable. Did you get a taste for it? How about a smidge more?’
‘It’s utterly revolting, Mal.’
‘Oh. Yes. Imagine if you threw up. How about we soak your feet instead? Like a foot spa!’
‘Send the worm up.’
Sam wondered how long he’d got, and who would expire first. He feared the deterioration more than he resented an early death. He tortured himself with an exponential list of possible side effects of being a growbag for an apple tree. Worm obliged in ramping up the scenarios. Would his ear canals explode? Would his branching ears become too heavy to carry? Would his belly harden into bark or burst open like the Glutton in Seven – or more like Ripley’s Alien? This debate precipitated a film night to get Mal on the same page.
He talked himself around to reasoning that environmental justice demanded he support as much life as possible – one man for the multitude that lived in and fed on him. Mal concurred – maybe subconsciously Sam had devoured those fruit cores for a reason? Worm carried out an unreliable census, visiting every nook and cranny of Sam’s inner vivarium. Despite himself, Sam was keen to know the results: how many species, how many of each species? Were they evenly distributed? Did they live in social groups?
Over time, compromises and negotiations turned into an aligning of preferences for quiet, sunny places, a diet dominated by pesto pasta and green tea, and a slower pace of life. Sometimes they would rise before dawn and take a slow walk, delighting Worm (‘Chuffing marvellous! Wait til I tell the kiddies about it, they won’t sleep in their beds tonight’). They wandered in the local nature reserve where Mal felt close to his own kind and Sam could dodge any dog walkers. It brought a fascinated terror out in Worm (‘Are you keeping an eye out for the winged terrors? The deadly death grippers? The tweeting manics? The scourge of my species?’).
It was the breathing that ended it. Sam could tell the leaves were breathing a little for him, and it felt cleaner, healthier air somehow, purified by the greenery first. It wasn’t enough though. He was struggling to take deep enough breaths through the multitude of leaves blocking his nostrils. His lung capacity had diminished since roots had eventually spread to his alveoli, seeking every possible space. The conditions needed tweaking.
One afternoon he collapsed into an old garden bench where he spent most of his time these days, and never got up again. As roots made their way through the soles then shoe seams, his feet soon literally rooted him to the ground. Not long afterwards, the rotting seat collapsed and the roots that had circumnavigated this plant pot were happier that gravity had brought them closer to a more natural position directly on the ground. One day, years from now, passers-by remarking on an unusual specimen in the orchard would never know a man had provided this shady spot. Maybe man’s best friend would notice when visiting.
…
At some distance, General M swivelled to face the junior officer and barked an evaluation: ‘Befriender variant shows more promise than the hostage model. Particularly with solitary males in middle life. Pursue this sampling strategy.’ The biologist soldier nodded furiously and scuttled off to implement the orders.
…
After the Great Fall Worm emerged in the dappled sunlight, more quickly than usual.
‘It’s done then?’ they asked.
‘Indeed.’
‘Well there’s a whole load of one-liners I’ve been storing up for this moment,’ Worm began. ‘Have you heard the one about – ’
SQUISH! Mal brought up his branch and inspected the mess underneath.
He quickly adjusted to this new stage of life, a celebrity, reminiscing about the adventures he’d had roaming the lands carried by his human host. Worm’s descendants thrived for infinite generations, and Pippin folklore was passed on by the natural world for a thousand.
…
Enjoy your dinner. Go about your day as usual. No need to peer down the toilet bowl next time you go. Don’t lose sleep over all those apples you’ve chomped yourself. Each with what, half a dozen pips? Sam was just unlucky. And don’t scratch! I mean, it’s probably nothing.
Pip Tyler aches under the weight of middle management by day, but by night she loves to craft unsettling short stories. Pip lives in a beguiling corner of North Yorkshire, UK, with a mischievous man and three hilarious black cats: Saffy, Shadow and Spot.