Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
The cold wind turns freezing as we finish our hike to the ashram. Despite my previous expedition conditioning me to the harsh terrain, today’s pace leaves me panting in the thin air as we try to outrun the snow-laced sky.
Once we arrive, we are met with disappointment more bitter than the weather. After much cajoling and heartfelt pleas from Sita, one of the yogis admits he has heard a story of the plant I am looking for, but it is in a holy place he cannot, or will not, reveal.
No matter. I know it's across the river in the forbidden woods. Just as I know, despite the legends of the Migoi and the other dangers Sita warned me about, I must go there.
“Let’s head back so I can update my notes,” I tell Sita. I’m not lying, but the real reason to return is my plan to sneak into the forest at first light. Alone.
I’m not scared of the terrain, the weather, or even the Migoi, who is probably nothing more than the stories of Bigfoot back home—a tuft of fur, a misread footprint, a legend born of shadows.
Sita had never actually seen one, and as for the firewood? It must have been some neighbors who helped her family.
If I sneak out early every morning, I’ll have a few hours to explore and get back before it gets too dark or cold. It’s a desperate plan, but it’s the only one I have.
Sita begs me to spend the night at the ashram with the threatening weather, but I’m desperate to start my search tomorrow. If we stay here tonight, it'll be another day wasted.
“It’s all downhill from here,” I remind her. “We have plenty of time to get back. Please, Sita.”
At last she agrees, and we thank our hosts and depart for home. After the warmth of the ashram, the mountain air seems even colder. The normally expansive sky is a threatening gray that sends us scurrying down the trail.
Just as we lose sight of the building, fat, fluffy flakes begin falling. White blankets the ground, crunching under our boots as we pick up our pace.
“Dahlia, we’re halfway between the ashram and home. I think we should keep going, since downhill will be easier,” Sita says as the snow coalesces around us.
“I’m so sorry I pushed us to go,” I say.
“No need to apologize. I agreed. Let’s just focus on getting home as quickly and safely as possible.”
She squeezes my arm with a smile, but I see the worry in her eyes. She’s lived in these mountains all of her life, and I can tell she's trying not to scare me.
Eyes locked on the trail ahead, I push forward as fast as I dare, carefully planting each step. The once whimsical snowflakes now swirl with a menacing urgency.
As the temperature continues to plummet, I keep my eyes laser focused on Sita’s vibrant jacket—my only beacon in the sea of white.
The wind bites at any exposed skin and my fingers and toes throb with encroaching numbness.
Each step becomes a battle. I stumble, my foot skidding off a hidden rock, and let out a startled yelp.
The second it takes to regain my balance is all it takes for Sita to vanish into the storm.
“Sita?” I call.
No answer.
I hurry forward a few steps, thinking she’ll reappear, but she doesn’t. I spin in a circle, blinking against the white out.
“Sita!” I yell, again and again.
Shivering, I remember my mother’s childhood advice. If you get lost, stay where you are. Someone will find you.
I stand still, calling out every few seconds. But within minutes, my voice is hoarse, and I can no longer force it through my chattering teeth. I have to move or I’ll freeze.
I test my footing to see which way slopes downward and start in that direction with slow, cautious steps. Disoriented, I try to map the trail in my head, but I’m well and truly lost. I can’t see a thing.
Too late, I realize my next step lands on nothing but thin air.
On instinct, I cover my face and head, curling tight as I tumble. Snow and debris churn around me as I freefall until a violent thud knocks the breath from my lungs. Time stretches as I lay stunned, until I finally cough, dragging in air.
I try to move my arms and legs, but it’s impossible. I’m trapped. Buried alive.
Focusing on just one limb, I start wiggling my right arm where it’s still curled protectively around my face. Slowly, I create a tiny pocket.
Panic rises, but I fight it back. Think, Dahlia. Think.
The urge to yell for Sita wars with the need to conserve oxygen.
I slow my breathing, trying to protect what little air I have.
All too soon my limbs grow heavier and a tingling creeps up my legs.
If I don’t suffocate, I’ll freeze to death.
Using every ounce of willpower I possess, I slow my breathing even more.
I can’t blindly fight my way out of this. I need to figure out which direction I am facing. I work up what little saliva is in my mouth and spit. It falls straight down.
Digging upward isn’t an option, so I’ll need to somehow back myself out. The thought brings wildly inappropriate lyrics to mind as a bizarre soundtrack to the grim situation. I start nodding my head to the beat and try to wriggle my body, booty end first, muttering, “Back that ass up.”
Between the freezing cold sapping my energy and the weight of the snow dragging me towards exhaustion, I debate giving up. Maybe freezing to death won’t be that bad.
But the song plays on in my mind, and somehow it gives me the strength to dig deeper, tap into some hidden well of strength, and just keep shaking that ass. Every gyration confirming I’m not ready to die yet. Every thrust of my hips declaring I haven’t come all this way to give up now.
Suddenly, something shifts, and an icy blast hits my bottom, sneaking tendrils up the back of my parka.
“No, shit, nineties rap for the win,” I chatter out.
Delicious icy air flows past my body and floods my lungs, but no matter how much I tell my body that I need just a few more seconds of energy, it will not listen. The wind whispers to just rest, and I nod. That twerking was a lot of work, I think as my eyes drift closed.
“Something, something, back that ass up,” I mumble, slower now, even my lips too cold and tired to move.
And then someone grabs said ass and pulls. Sita must have found me. That was way too close. I flop onto my back, staring at the sky. Snowflakes land on my face, but I barely feel them.
“Thank you,” I whisper, almost too exhausted to speak.
A dark shape looms over me, but the eyes that meet mine aren’t Sita’s. Instead I find the familiar swirling silver that has plagued my dreams.
And they belong to a Migoi.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
This is bad. Really, really bad. I wonder if staying buried alive would have been safer. And yet, I could swear amusement flickers in its gaze at my curse.
Its deep set eyes are large and luminescent, laced with the frost and misty grey. They are full of secrets and heavy with the weight of time. I close my own, willing the shock-induced hallucination away, but when I reopen them—it’s still there, staring down at me.
“Uh, hi. Thanks. Thank you for saving me,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to enter your territory. I mean you no harm.”
The Migoi blinks slowly. I can’t stop staring at the immense shaggy head, the wild white fur, and those mesmerizing eyes.
I should be terrified, but I’m mostly just… cold. Another shiver overtakes me, my teeth chattering so loudly I can’t control it.
The Migoi’s gaze sharpens. It tilts its head, then with a huff, scoops me up against its massive body.
A yelp escapes me but I collect myself and stammer out, “Thank you.”
It comes out as more of a question than a statement.
I think I hear a grunt in reply as it pulls me closer, so much heat radiating off its body that it permeates through my clothes.
My fingers and toes tingle painfully at the return of circulation, but I let out a soft moan at the lifesaving warmth that cushions me against the howling storm around us.
After a particularly brutal gust of wind, the creature pulls me even closer, and its fur somehow seems to grow longer, wrapping around me like the softest blanket. Between its body heat and my unexpected cocoon, I give in to the post near death exhaustion and sleep.