“No one conquers the forest,” he said. “We only borrow from it.”

She touched his forehead. Instantly, Lalthangvela’s legs became heavy as stone. He could not move. His tongue turned to bark. He stood rooted to the ground — not dead, but not alive — a human tree. Meanwhile, Chawngmawii killed a small boar. He divided the meat evenly with the village, keeping only the liver for his aging mother. That night, he dreamed of the white mithun. In the dream, the spirit said: “Your cousin is trapped in the forbidden valley. Come with salt, not a weapon.”

By noon, Lalthangvela found fresh mithun tracks — enormous, like those of a spirit-beast. He followed them into a hidden clearing. In the center stood a massive white mithun with eyes like glowing amber. Around its neck hung a small brass bell that chimed without wind.

Lalthangvela sharpened his dah (machete) and tied a tiger tooth around his neck. “I will kill a wild mithun (gayal) or even a leopard!” he declared.