The Break-Up Retreat(57)

I’m almost on the other side of the pond. None of the pine trees look split; they all rise tall and proud from the soil, their roots digging deep into the earth, their branches stretching toward the sky.

I can hear the crowns rustling far above my head, and it sounds like whispering, hoarse and distant and horrifically amused. Like old gods, laughing at the very smallness of me.

For one long moment, in the space between heartbeats, I almost turn around and go back. Everything inside me is screaming that this is wrong. Pure, primal instinct, warning me away from the dark and lonely night, back toward the false safety of the familiar.

But . . . there.

I see it.

I take a few steps closer, and there, just as she said; a pine tree, slightly hidden by the sturdier trunk of another, split near down the middle. It’s twisted, the bark curling from the wound of whatever cleaved it. A lightning strike, most probably; when I look up, I think I can see the blackened, burned branches, bare of needles.

“Thanks, Sandra, that’s not ominous at all,” I say, to myself, trying to make a joke out of it.

I know what she’ll tell me, in just a few seconds.

You’re so superstitious. It doesn’t mean anything.

I’m not, though. Not usually.

But it’s difficult to be a sceptic in the dark.

I walk in through the trees, the cold, wet scent of pine and burnt wood fully enveloping me. The shrubbery on the ground is low, dense and tough, and there is no easily walkable path.

These are old woods. Not the well-trimmed greenery I’m used to from further south. No, these are woods that have been here since before the land was overtaken by people. These trees have stood since before I was born and will keep standing long after I’m gone.

A shiver runs through me.

“Sandra?” I call out, but my voice is swallowed by the wind.

I take another few cautionary steps, ducking under a low-hanging branch.

The shadows between the pines are pure black, ink drinking whatever little light there is. There is only so much my eyes can adjust.

The animal in me rears its head, cautioning me; some ancient instinct, screaming for light and warmth and the safety of the pack.

My mouth feels very dry. My fingers have gone numb from the cold. In here, between the trees, the sound of the wind is different, the force of it split up. Some of it catches my hair, tossing it around, like some unseen thing is tugging at it, taunting me.

“Sandra, are you here?” I call out. Louder, this time, but my voice is nary more than a squeak.

When I turn around, I can barely see the break in the tree line. The pond and the cabins are a distant memory.

I swallow hard, flexing my fingers, trying to get some warmth back in them. Breathing in through my nose, I push the air out through my mouth, trying to calm myself.

I walk in yet a little further, stepping around a gigantic tree, with branches as thick as my waist. Logically, I know that I’m not far from the pond, but it feels as though I’m just one wrong step away from getting lost.

I just have to keep walking in a straight line , I tell myself. That way, I’ll find my way back .

And Sandra will help me. Sandra knows her way around the wild. She takes Andrea camping all the time.

“Sandra, where are you?” I raise my voice properly this time. “Can you see me?”

My words echo out through the woods.

I stop, breathing hard. My sweater feels thin as paper; my ears hurt from the cold; and the still-damp strands of hair feel sharp when they hit my neck, as though on the verge of freezing.

I do a half-turn, straining to see through the shadows.

“Sandra,” I say, again, trying to sound like I’m joking. Like I’m finding this all funny.

“If you don’t come out, I’m going to head back.”

Nothing.

Only silence.

Where is she? Did something happen? Did she change her mind?

A disconcerting thought strikes me.

Maybe Clara told, after all. Maybe Martina and Belinda are staring her down, right now, questioning her about how she knows me.

But, no. If that was the case, surely they would have brought me in, too, to try to get to the bottom of it.

“Come on, Sandra,” I whisper to myself, sneaking my arms around myself, pretending that it’s to warm myself up and not because I’m scared.

“Where the hell are you?”

I look around.

There. A crunching sound, like a boot stepping on dead shrubbery.

It’s far away, but it’s clear.

“Sandra!” I call out, relief flooding through me. “I’m over here!”

I stand still, waiting for her to find me. She’s probably brought a flashlight. Sandra is always well prepared; she’s the kind of person to have a portable first aid kit in her car, something I know because she told me she does.

Nothing.

“Over here!” I call out again. “Sandra!”

I look in the direction of the sound, seeking for the light I’m sure I will see. But there is nothing.

Only the dark. Only the trees.

The image assaults me, again. The figure by the window. The amorphous, faceless shadow.

“Sandra?” I say, and my voice is smaller, now.

It’s not a question. It’s a prayer.

Even the wind seems to have died down, for a second. The silence is deafening. In the emptiness, I can hear my own breathing, short and shallow and strangled, feel the silvery thread of hope that Sandra will suddenly answer and that all my fears will have been for naught.