Yeti or Knot

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Icradle the clay cup, warmth seeping into my fingers as I edge closer to the fire. I tell myself I should go to bed and rest before tomorrow’s long, grueling trip. But the pull of this bittersweet night keeps me rooted, savoring the final moments of an incredible, if fruitless, journey.

I take the final sip of my chai—the rich, creamy drink that is the essence of this place—its flavor lingering on my tongue as I half-listen to the other travelers swapping tales. Their voices melt into the background as my gaze drifts toward the woods across the Migaia river.

Moonlight pools like silver on the water, dappling trees in sharp relief against the night. Below the canopy, the forest floor vanishes into inky shadows, breathing secrets.

I don’t know why I can’t look away. I’ve seen this same view every night since I arrived, but tonight, something’s alive in the air, crackling over my skin like electricity. I scan the riverbank, searching for the source until…there.

Two luminous eyes lock onto mine, glittering under the moonlight like the icy blue heart of Migshira, the holy glacier at the headwaters of this river.

Too high for any local animal. Higher than a man’s gaze would reach.

Too large, too fierce and knowing to belong to the monkeys that call the trees home.

Their gleam cuts through the dark with an intensity that steals my breath.

Who, or what, is watching me from the shadows?

A thrill courses through me, sharp and jagged, mingling fear with something darker. Hotter. My instincts scream at me to run, but my body won’t move.

It’s not just fear keeping me rooted; there’s a pull in those eyes. A wordless promise of danger. And something else. Something primal and fierce I want to chase me down, and as crazy as it sounds, claim me.

Adrift in a sea of loss from my failed expedition and an uncertain future without the plant I so desperately need, the idea of belonging to something calls to my soul. An anchor.

I blink hard. When I open my eyes, the ones that were watching me are gone. Or maybe they were never there to begin with. My mind must be playing tricks on me. Exhaustion, or perhaps desperation.

The past few days were brutal as I pushed myself to find the Silene vitalis—the tiny, elusive flower that could save lives. Including my own.

A sudden snap of the fire pulls me from my thoughts. The travelers come back into focus, their laughter rising like sparks into the night. For a moment, I let the cozy scene wash over me, until a question cuts through.

“Have you ever seen one?” someone asks.

“Seen what?” My voice is steady, even as my pulse thrums beneath my skin as if those eyes were still sliding over me.

“A Migoi,” the man replies, voice dropping low, as if one might be just beyond the ring of firelight. “They say their eyes catch the light, like stars in the night. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, or unlucky, you might spot them watching.”

Another traveler scoffs, waving the comment away, but the words claw their way into my mind. The locals spoke of such creatures, what I’d call a Yeti, with quiet reverence. I’d dismissed it as folklore woven from the mystique of these mountains.

But as an ethnobotanist, I’ve built my life around the places where science and stories intersect. It’s not just the flora I study, but how people turn it into something sacred: meals, ceremonies, medicine, or maybe, just maybe, even the cure I need.

Now I can’t help but wonder if the guardians of the mountains and forests might exist. After all, myths often hide a kernel of truth.

The man beside me claps a hand on my shoulder, jolting me from my thoughts. My face must’ve given me away—again.

“Don’t let those guys spook you,” he chuckles. “I’ve traveled all around the world and every culture has tales of watchers. But I’ve yet to see one myself.”

I force a laugh, but my pulse keeps pounding. The others barely notice as I stand and say goodnight, the shadows pushing me toward the safety of my room.

Beyond the fire’s glow, the cold bites harder, and the darkness presses close, heavy on my shoulders. I quicken my steps, the memory of those luminous eyes haunting me—piercing and inescapable.

What was it someone had said? “Eyes like stars in the dark?” That image gnaws at me. Could there really be Migoi in these mountains, watching from the forest beyond the river?

A rustle to my right snaps my nerves taut, every instinct screaming move. I realize how foolish I’d been, romanticizing the idea of something chasing me. Out here, alone in the dark, it feels less erotic, and far more terrifying.

Another sharp noise breaks the quiet, and I break into a run. I don’t dare look back. By the time I reach my door, my hands are shaking, the key slipping against the lock. After a few tries, I get it open and slam the door shut behind me, breathing hard.

From the safety of my locked room, a nervous giggle escapes. I roll my eyes at my own foolishness of letting myself get spooked by a fireside tale.

The thick quilt on the bed promises comfort, its weight a soothing barrier against whatever lies outside. But even after I climb under it, unease clings to me—the eyes, the pull, the dark promise. Was it just exhaustion?

Three months of chasing that flower. Three months away from home. Away from Ben.

I wonder if he’ll be as disappointed as I am. Or worse, what if he’s not? But he loves me. Of course he will be just as upset as I am.

This foreboding must be the lingering thought of those damn eyes. But even if something is out there, it’s not like it can follow me home tomorrow and I doubt I’ll be back here anytime soon, if ever.

With my heart pounding like the death knell that awaits me without the damned Silene vitalis, sleep claims me.

The next morning, I make my way down the mountain, leaving behind the crisp, clean air of the Himalayas for the congested chaos of the city. At the airport, I tuck myself into a corner near my gate and type a quick message to Ben.

My thumbs hover over the phone. There’s so much I’m not saying. We didn’t talk much while I was away, but I blamed it on time zones and packed schedules. Instead of hitting send, I lock the home screen. I’ll be home soon, and we’ll have time then to reconnect.

I open my laptop, thinking I might work, but the blank screen mocks me. Without the plant, there’s nothing to do. Disappointment can wait until later.

Sighing, I stow the computer and scroll through photos on my phone instead. Smiling as faces and landscapes flick by: Sita, my guide-turned-friend, laughing; her father, Tenzig, ever the gracious host; the jagged peaks of the Himalayas piercing endless blue sky; and, of course, the plants.

I love India. The warmth of the people. The spicy food. The chai in clay cups. Somehow this vibrant land felt more like home than I expected. But reality is calling now. And more than anything, I miss Ben.

We’ve been so focused on our careers that we promised to prioritize us when I got back.

Ben’s has taken off while I stayed in the background.

He landed a tenure-track position in our shared department of botany.

I helped him grade papers, plan lessons—supporting him so we could build something together.

By mutual agreement, we pushed his career first.

Now it’s my turn. But I’m not sure how my failure will affect my degree or my future. Disappointment burns in my throat, along with the now-familiar tightening in my chest.

I’m older than most other doctoral candidates. Supporting Ben was a choice made with love, but I can’t help wondering if I gambled too much?

No. We followed our plan. He’s brilliant. Together, we’ll figure this out. I just need to get home to him, back to our little house near the university, and everything will be okay.

When boarding is announced, I close the pictures and this chapter of my life. A grand adventure before settling into marriage.

But as I join the others in the boarding line, that hollow ache lingers. A whisper of everything I’ve left undiscovered—not just the plant, but also those damn silver eyes.

The hours of travel, customs, and jostling baggage claims leave me jetlagged, but as the taxi pulls up in front of my house, a tired smile curls my lips. Home sweet home.

I was disappointed when Ben texted me a few weeks ago he wouldn't be able to pick me up at the airport. But I understood how busy he was, and after all, what’s one more hour after months apart?

Surprised to find the door locked, I frown. I imagined him throwing it open, sweeping me into his arms. We’d kiss our way to the shower, shedding our clothes until we were skin to skin again. Or at least that was my romanticized dream.

“Hello?” I call, stepping inside. No answer.

He knew I was coming home today. At least I think he did. The international date line always screws me up.

I kick off my shoes and shrug out of my jacket as I walk. The sound of running water makes me smile. He must be in the shower already, just as eager as I am to be together again.

I pause at the faint murmur of voices but dismiss it as one of the podcasts he always listens to. Stripping out of my travel-wrinkled clothes, I grab my robe and open the door to the bathroom. Just as I’m about to pull back the curtain and surprise him, a voice cuts through the steam.

“Oh, fuck yeah, just like that,” Ben moans.

My stomach drops. That’s no podcast. I back away, robe in hand, my mind casting for any possibility other than I didn’t just come home to find Ben cheating on me. I jerk the robe on and frantically search the bedroom for proof that I’m wrong.

The photos of us on the dresser are gone. The slippers beside the bed aren’t mine. I cross to his side and glance into the trash to find condom wrappers. I didn’t want to be right, but here we are. The irrefutable evidence is staring me in the face.

Rage hits as fast and furious as the monsoon rains. I storm to the kitchen, grab the cleaning bucket from under the sink, and fill it with nugget ice from the machine he had to have, then top it off with cold water.

Balancing the bucket, I head back down the hall. Steam billows out from the bathroom, carrying the sound of a woman’s voice.

I'm exhausted from traveling, in desperate need of a shower, and heartbroken from both my failed research expedition and being blindsided by Ben’s cheating.

But her breathy moan gives me the energy to climb up on the toilet, and lift the heavy bucket up as high as I can at the edge of the shower curtain.

I hear him again, the spicy words I had always wanted him to use with me spilling from his cheating lips for another. Betrayal pulses through me, sharp and raw, urging my arms up high enough to dump the whole damn thing over their heads.

The shriek from the mystery woman and the bellow from Ben of, "What the fuck!" brings a maniacal giggle from my lips. He rips back the curtain to reveal a woman kneeling at his feet with his now limp dick in her hand.

The empty bucket clatters to the floor and I say, "You're right, that nugget ice is where it's at."