She survives because she is made visible.
When the earth is pulled down, she is there, in the thick of it. When the monkeys screech and the hippos roar, she runs through the jungle as if it is coming alive, as if it is after her. The vines loop around her ankles. The thorns pull at her hair, tear out bits of her tail. It would be fine to run. It would be fine to be a coward and leave the Sisters behind in order to save herself. But somewhere along her guiltless path, Eila becomes visible. She knows, because someone cries out. And it is the exact tune of their cry that freezes her in place. They aren’t surprised by her sudden appearance in the middle of chaos. They say, “look out!” And she does. Eila watches as an ancient kapok tree uproots itself in the hot air just in front of her. The crash it makes is lessened by the loamy, jungle earth.
She survives, but the world goes black, anyway.
When she wakes on the Mountain with the wind whipping her patchy mane around her face, she is possibly the least surprised of all of them.
The forest becomes her sanctuary when she finds she cannot live on the slopes. It calls to her at the cellular level. The shadows become her cloak when she is left raw and exposed for the world to see. Like a nerve, she feels the rush of electricity every time someone finds her. She can’t escape their stares, can’t blink out of existence when her gift is no longer in reach. But she pulls into the shadows every time instead. Steps back until the stagger of trees becomes too thick to spot her through.
It isn’t enough, but it has to be.
Winter brings a new set of challenges. She has to adapt all over, but so much quicker than before, she does. She is a pioneer at the edge of the wild, alone. Blessedly alone. She strips the bark from her guardian trees to survive. She grows fat with contentment even as her body grows dangerously thin. When the few horses come to her, she looks like a savage, all jutting hips and happy eyes. Eila sees one of them poking into her space. And for the first time in almost a year, she thinks maybe she won’t fade away. She thinks maybe she’ll have them stay here, with her. Maybe she’ll follow them instead.
“Hey you,” she says, her voice as soft as the snow that starts to flutter down between the branches above.
Eila