Chapter Twelve
Dahlia
The cold wind turns brutal as we make our way up the winding trail to the ashram, cutting through my thick layers like a blade.
Even with my coat zipped to my chin and my scarf wrapped tight, the chill seeps in, numbing my fingers inside my gloves.
My breath fogs in the thin air, each exhale stolen away by the wind before it can crystallize in the air.
Despite the endurance I have built hiking in these mountains, the altitude still burns my lungs.
My thighs ache with exertion as I push to keep pace with Sita, who moves ahead of me with effortless grace, sure-footed as ever.
She barely seems winded, but even she keeps glancing toward the thickening clouds above us.
A storm is coming. And we’re running out of time.
When we finally arrive, I barely register the relief of being indoors before disappointment more bitter than the weather crushes it.
The ashram is quiet, its stone walls heavy with the weight of old knowledge and prayers. Smoke curls lazily from the wood stove as the warm incense perfumed air wraps around me, but none of it thaws the icy knot in my chest.
After much cajoling from Sita—and my own desperate pleas—one of the yogis finally speaks.
“Yes, we have heard of the plant you seek,” he admits at last, his voice carrying the weight of something more than secrecy.
My pulse leaps.
“But it grows in a place that cannot be disturbed.”
The words fall like a stone into my stomach. I glance at Sita, but she only lowers her eyes. There will be no arguing this point. No convincing them. I’m surprised they have admitted this much.
No matter, I already know where it is. Fate is pulling me across the river to the forbidden woods like a compass points north.
I press my lips together to keep from shouting my frustration. I knew it. Every instinct in my body tells me the plant is there. And despite the warnings, despite the stories of the Migoi and the dangers that lurk in those untouched forests—I must go.
There’s no other choice.
I inhale slowly, forcing calm into my voice. “Let’s head back so I can update my notes.”
Sita hesitates, glancing toward the window, where the clouds have thickened to an ominous grey, swallowing the last hints of daylight.
“The storm—”
“We’ll make it,” I cut in, forcing a reassuring smile.
I’m not lying—I do need to update my notes. But the real reason I want to get back tonight is so I can slip away at first light. If the yogis won’t tell me the location, and if Sita refuses to cross the river, then I’ll have no choice but to do it alone.
And I will.
I refuse to leave these mountains without that plant.
I’m not scared of the weather or the terrain.
And the stories about the Migoi are just that—stories.
The same kind of legend as Bigfoot back home.
A bear print stretched in melting snow, a tuft of fur caught on a branch that could belong to anything.
The woodpile outside Sita’s house? Probably the work of a neighbor, someone who didn’t want to draw attention to their charity.
Nothing more than superstition or folklore, I reassure myself.
If I sneak out early, I’ll have a few hours to explore before needing to return.
It’s definitely reckless. Probably dangerous.
But it’s the only plan I have, cobbled together from desperation and the small flickering flame of hope that refuses to die.
Once I get my hands on that plant, everything else will fall into place. I’ll worry about anything else after that. After all, it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.
I mentally run through what I’ll need: my collection kit, some food, my first aid kit, extra layers. I can do this. I have to do this.
Sita interrupts my silent checklist, again urging me to stay the night at the ashram, but I shake my head. If we stay, I’ll lose another day.
“We’ll make it back before the worst of the storm,” I insist. “It’s all downhill from here, so it will be faster. We have plenty of time to get back. Please, Sita.”
I stare at her with imploring eyes, the sting of tears pricking behind my lids. I blink past the shimmer, and one lone tear falls down my cheek.
She studies me for a long moment, her gaze tracking the pitiful drop, then nods with a sigh.
We thank our hosts, and by the time we step outside, the mountain is even colder. The sky has shifted from vast and endless to low and oppressive, a heavy gray shroud hanging over the peaks. The quiet is eerie, a hush that presses in around us like the whole world is holding its breath.
We descend as fast as we can, our boots crunching over frost-hardened earth. But despite our hurry, halfway down the trail, the first flakes begin to fall. My desperation has turned me reckless. Just as we lose sight of the ashram behind us, the snow starts falling in earnest.
At first, it seems harmless—delicate flurries dancing in the wind. But within minutes, the snowfall thickens, transforming the landscape into an eerie, shifting blur of white.
This isn’t like the snowstorms I know. This falls like monsoon rain. Thick. Heavy. Consuming.
The path quickly vanishes beneath the rapidly accumulating snow. I push forward faster, heart hammering. We have to make it back before this storm buries us. I match her steps, watching the way she moves. Planting my feet in the footsteps she leaves.
Sita stops and faces me. “Dahlia, we’re more than halfway between the ashram and home. I think we should keep going, since downhill will be easier in the snow.”
I have never seen her hesitate before. Never seen her uncertain. That chills me even more than the cold surrounding us.
“I’m so sorry I pushed us to go,” I apologize.
“No need to apologize, I agreed. Let’s focus on getting home as quickly and safely as we can,” she says.
She squeezes my arms and gives me a reassuring smile, but I see the concern lining her face. She’s lived in these mountains all of her life. She knows we are going to have a hard time, but I can tell she is trying not to scare me.
Eyes locked on the trail ahead, I push forward as fast as I dare, carefully planting each step to avoid twisting an ankle or tumbling on the steep, slippery descent.
Within the hour, the temperature plummets. I stick close to Sita, her vibrant jacket a beacon of color in an otherwise blinding sea of white. The wind bites at my face, forcing me to pull my hood lower in a futile attempt to shield myself from the freezing assault.
My fingers and toes throb with the sharp sting of encroaching numbness. I curl my hands into fists and open them over and over, trying to keep the blood flowing, but every movement seems to happen just a little slower than the last.
The snow swirls so thickly I can barely make out Sita’s form just ahead of me.
I’m so focused on staring intently at her jacket that my numb foot stumbles, skidding off a hidden rock.
I let out a startled yelp and look down as I fight to steady myself.
The second it takes to regain my balance is enough—I look back up and realize Sita has vanished into the storm.
She’s gone. There’s nothing but a shifting, swirling void of white. I blink hard, stepping forward, scanning for any sign of her. But there is nothing but a snowglobe world.
I stop dead, breath freezing in my lungs.
“Sita?” I call out. She was right there. Right there!
But there’s no response.
My heart stutters, panic rising, but I force it down, thinking she must be ahead by just a few steps. I hurry forward, expecting her to reappear. But she doesn’t.
A sickening realization crashes over me. Not only can I not see Sita, but even the trail has disappeared. The storm has swallowed the world whole.
“Sita!” I yell, my voice carried away instantly by the wind.
I hurry another few feet on where I think the trial should be, but all I find is endless snow. No Sita. I spin in a circle, blinking against the swirling flakes as I search out a flash of color, anything other than this blinding white.
“Sita!” I yell, over and over again.
No answer comes, and now I have myself completely turned around. I have no idea which direction I'm facing, much less if I'm anywhere near the trail.
I’m lost.
The thought slams into me like a blow to the gut. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think through the rising panic. My mother’s words filter back to me from when I was a little girl.
If you get lost, stay where you are, someone will come to find you.
Not wanting to get any more turned around than I already am, I stand in one spot, yelling for Sita every few seconds. Within minutes I have to force my hoarse voice through my chattering teeth.
Shivers wrack my body, and I realize I need to get my blood circulating. I simply cannot wait here to be found. At this rate I’ll be here until the Spring thaw.
But which way?
I take a few tentative steps, trying to determine if they are going uphill or downhill but the complete whiteout causes an eerie sense of disorientation.
I could be heading upside down for all I can tell.
In the end, I pick the direction that feels like it slopes down the most, and take slow, cautious steps.
I try to map in my head where on the trail we could be, since I have walked it several times before. But it’s impossible—I am well and truly lost. Rubbing my hands together to keep my circulation going, I continue walking—it's my only chance.
Too late, I realize my next step lands on nothing but air. Mom was right. I should have stayed put.
I fall—
And the world falls with me.
A deafening crack splits the silence, followed by a roar that drowns out my scream.
The mountain shifts, collapsing in a surge of snow and ice.
I tumble with it, battered by an unstoppable tide.
I try to shield my head, arms curling over my face, but I’m weightless, helpless, freefalling until a violent thud knocks the air from my lungs.
Silence.
Darkness.