I’M FEELING CLAUSTROPHOBIC as the thicket once again threatens me from all sides. The vines—which for a stretch seemed to be tapering off—now coil long tendrils into the path, further constricting my already limited space. I’m forced to jump over them, stoop under them, and then turn sideways and inch forward shoulder-first.
At its tightest, the thorns dig into my suit jacket and hang me suspended like a marionette. I don’t struggle too much, lest I impale myself. Instead, I wriggle free of my suit jacket. I leave my clothing crucified on the vines behind me and escape with only superficial scratches.
The vines—now thick and hoary as old trees—send spiky black fingers across the sky above me. Each thorny fruit has swelled to the size of a large pumpkin, and they sway ominously from their branches overhead. Should one fall on me, I’m dead. All I can do is press on and hope they remain in place.
Concentrated as I am on the dangers around me, I don’t even notice the ceiling’s disappearance until I feel the first cold fingers of rain-water trickle down my neck. The soupy grey sky is only visible through the sparsest break in the canopy, but it’s enough to send icy droplets splashing into my eyes.
The wood around me whispers with the sound of dripping water. I don’t have space enough to lift my arms and cover my head, so I endure every frozen rivulet that slides onto my hair and down my shirt. My lower lip quivers from cold and—as I’m forced to crawl through a muddy puddle to escape a low-hanging vine—I wonder if I might die of hypothermia, here in this godless place. Or maybe I’ll accidentally impale myself with an ill-timed sneeze.
The vines criss-crossing the path now droop so low that any hope of standing up is gone. I wriggle underneath them on my belly, narrowly avoiding the plant’s cruel nails. I feel black leaves brush wet trails down my back, even as wet mud slicks my front.
Bumpy roots underneath scrape into my belly and force me upward. The vines, an omnipresent threat, force me downward. There’s not enough room to turn around now, even if I wanted to. Damn it all, this was supposed to be the easier path.
I’m an idiot. I always did have a problem with authority.
Abrupt laughter bubbles to my lips. I lie there, face pressed against the wet roots, quivering with laughter for long minutes. It sounds panicked and maniacal, even to my cold and water-clogged ears.
When the laughter finally dries up, I remain cold, wet, and lonely.
I miss Willow.
I crawl forward. I move maybe a metre. I’m still crawling five metres later. And ten. Twenty. Progress is agonizingly slow. I heave my sodden limbs along and keep my cheek pressed down into the mud to avoid scalping myself.
Then, suddenly, I can lift my head. The vines are lifting. Soon I can crawl—the space is still narrow, but I’m granted room enough to lift myself up on my hands and knees.
When the ceiling lifts high enough to allow me to stand again, I breathe a sigh of relief. The worst is over. Maybe I’m finally on my way out.
And just as I’m thinking how lucky it was that even in the tightest situation I always had a path to follow, I round a corner and come face-to-face with a wall of vines. I look around, but see no other way forward. There’s no end to the vines that hem me in on all sides.
How appropriate, to find a dead end in the forest that’s going to kill me.