The Retreat

by Elisabeth de Mariaffi

  Karolina either doesn’t find this strange or hides it if she does.

  “We’ll have dinner this evening, all of us,” she says. “There’s only a small group here; no sense in keeping the kitchen open for four hours every night. Seven o’clock? That’s not too late?” She opens the door.

  Maeve steps forward as though this is her house now, as though she is showing Karo out. “I never would have quit if I’d had the choice,” she says. The words trip out of her, awkward and sudden.

  Karolina simply looks at her, surprised. Maeve pulls away and brushes again at the back of her neck.

  “It’s wonderful, I mean. That’s what I mean—I’m glad to be out here. I’m here to work.” Her hands drop to her sides. “So it’s fine with me that there’ll only be a handful of us,” she says. “The fewer people, the better.”

  She finds the installation artist by accident. On her way back through the shadowland in the evening; a difficult first day of work, but Maeve forced herself to stick it out. It’s already heavy twilight by the time she finally pulls her jeans back on, tucks them down inside her boots against the wet.

  Beyond twilight. Later than she thought. She bundles her coat under one arm, despite the snow coming down. She’s warm, hot even, from practice—her first extended workout in what feels like forever. It’s important to remember what that’s like, rehearsing and dancing all day.

  When was dinner again? She’s likely missed it.

  She rummages in her bag as she moves along, finds a granola bar she snagged from the cupboard, and unwraps it. There’s an odd pleasure, a delicious feeling, from the emptiness inside her. Familiar. You can get away with a little more in modern companies, but all Maeve’s formal training was in the ballet, where size is everything—a blur of cigarettes and Diet Coke.

  The path hasn’t been cleared since morning, but there’s a wide enough swath cut through the brush that she can determine where it would be in summertime, and there’s a rough trail, someone else’s footsteps, to follow through the snow. Pine and spruce grow up on either side of her, their needles blackening in the dark. A few dim, solar-powered fixtures, well spaced, guide the way.

  She’s dawdling, lost in her own thoughts. The snap of a twig somewhere close brings her back, and she looks down at the food in her hand, suddenly nervous. Far off, down in the valley, something cries out—an animal cry, it must be—and Maeve jumps a little despite herself.

  Remember to bring a flashlight tomorrow, she’s thinking when a beam flips on behind her. For a second Maeve freezes, her clothes sweat-damp against her skin.

  “Or you could use this one right now.” A man’s voice.

  It’s cold and dry and dark, the trail washed out in the new glare, a layer of fresh snow sparkling ahead of her. When she turns to face the light, there’s someone there, a silhouette. But no orange hunter’s cap, no camouflage. It’s not Dan, the woodcutter they saw in the morning.

  She brings a hand up to shield her eyes. “I said that out loud?” she says—out loud. “About the flashlight?”

  “You did.”

  “I didn’t see you. I didn’t know you were there.”

  He’s tall and lean-looking, the shadows catching the contours of his face. She steps out of the light and her eyes adjust. Blond—she can see that much. Hair cropped close at the sides, a full beard. Instead of a jacket, he’s wearing a lined flannel shirt, red and black plaid, with snaps.

  The light dips a little, and she sees that it’s only the torch app from his phone. He tries to catch her eye.

  “I didn’t expect to hear a voice in the trees,” he says. “So we’re even.”

  The cry comes again—a cry and a whistle all at once, dilating—and Maeve spins as though the thing might be right there behind her. Something about it makes her anxious, pulls some cord at her center. She thinks of the deer the night before, but this is different. More piercing. A whittled yelp. High and urgent.

  “Elk,” the man says, tipping his chin toward the dark. She can see him better now: mid-thirties and good-looking in a groomed way. Like an image out of a mountaineering catalog, at home in his skin. “It’s the rut, this time of year. You know what that means?”

  “It sounds like a wraith.”

  He steps closer. “City girl, hey?”

  He has an easy smile, a voice that pulls you in. Maeve leans into her hip, and he stays put, just holding the beam on her. Not quite in her eyes; as though she is a thing he is examining. A specimen found in the woods. In his other hand he’s holding something, a machine or tool.

  Not a tool. An antler?

  “It looks like an antler,” he says. “Or a piece of one. Doesn’t it?”

  Maeve steps back. She almost jumps.

  “No, you didn’t say it out loud, but you were staring. And that is what it looks like, I guess. Plus we’re in the woods, you find them lying around sometimes. An antler, right? Deductive reasoning.” He holds the thing up and briefly shines the light on it.

  Whatever it is—not an antler—it’s long and curved and white.

  Maeve thinks: Oh no.

  It’s a spear. He’s one of those forest guys. Like some kind of medievalist who runs around in the woods pretending to be Robin Hood.

  A trickle of sweat runs down her back, and she shifts, uncomfortable. Wondering how she herself must look after her long day. She spent the first hour pacing and staring at herself in the studio mirrors—Work, damn you! You can’t waste a whole day!—then tentative starts, falling again and again into old traps. Small gestures, the compact sequences that can ghettoize women’s work. One eye on the mirror, Iain’s voice in her ear: You have no aggression! You could never direct, Maeve. All you can do is what you’re told.

  She gave up, hauled a mat out of the closet, lay down flat, and went to sleep, exhausted by her own anxiety. When she woke, she thought of nothing at all, just stripped down to her underwear and went through a Lester Horton class by memory and on from there, hours of it, worked herself till her hair was slick against her face and the back of her neck. Worked herself better, sore and down to the bone.

  She’s tired and dirty and standing in the woods without her coat, and now there’s a guessing game. “It’s bone,” she says. “Your whatever you have there. Made of bone, yes? What is it? A spear or something?” She stops short, catching herself, a hint of impatience in her voice shining through. “Sorry, it’s just—”

  “Don’t apologize.” He nods and drops the light so that they can really see each other. “I’ve interrupted you, that’s irritating.”

  That smile again; the more she pushes back, the more he likes her. “It’s a rib,” he says. “So not made of bone. Bone! Just a piece of the rib, the very smallest one. The smallest piece of the smallest rib of a great blue whale. It’s what I’m building with: a whale skeleton. These mountains used to be under the ocean, too, you know. That’s why I’m out here. Looking for a piece of antler the same shape, to match.” The bone flips playfully in his hand, and he gestures to the forest all around them. “Everything,” he says, “is in our service.”

  He aims the light ahead for her, and the pathway reveals itself. “You’re the dancer. Is that right?”

  “You’re Sim,” she says.

  There’s another snap in the trees, and he turns his face to it, deliberate and serious. Something else out there in the shadows. But when he looks back to her, he’s more thoughtful than alarmed. Cool. Sure of himself.

  Maeve knows she should be wary, but somehow she is rooted in place. Her hair freezing in little tendrils at her temples, the back of her neck. The elk cry comes again, farther away now, lonely and echoed.

  He moves closer. A shy gesture, a small step, but his eyes are fixed on Maeve.

  “It’s the female that makes that call.”

  His gaze draws her, his eyes blue-black in the dim light. Maeve is mesmerized. In his hand, the bone flips again and turns, an extension of himself, a limb casting forward. She has an impulse to reach for
it, take hold.

  As though he might use it to reel her in.

  Day 2

  IN THE MORNING, Maeve is surprised by the silence. There’s no one chattering in the front entrance or sitting around the open-pit fireplace, which is clean and cold, although there’s plenty of wood stacked nearby. On the other side of the vacant lobby, a massive set of oak doors stand firmly shut. There is no one at the desk. No one will leave or need welcoming for weeks.

  Not weeks, she reminds herself. Days. Thirteen more days, at which point someone will need to call the shuttle for Maeve and send her on her merry way. Exit, tiny dancer.

  In the dining hall, Maeve tries to imagine what the place must be like in full swing: musicians with their violin cases tucked beneath their chairs, tables full of actors drinking late into the night. She lingers over a small dessert display, looking down at the neat wedges of pecan pie set out on plates, her hands clasped behind her back. Then she drops her shoulders, a little heart-opening stretch.

  Her stomach is empty; the stretch makes her feel taut and strong.

  “Do you suppose they’ll keep the buffet going just for little old us?”

  Maeve startles, surprised to find she’s not alone after all.

  The woman hands her a cup of coffee. “We missed you at dinner last night,” she says. “You must be Maeve. I’m Anna.”

  She’s tall and striking—broad shoulders, a deep, tawny complexion, with green eyes and the barest brush of freckles across her nose. Perhaps not quite forty, although she’s the sort of woman who probably always looks a little younger than she really is.

  “Anna the activist,” Maeve says, remembering.

  “Ha! Well. Anna Barthelmy.”

  “I think they’ll keep feeding us. They must feel lucky to have us here at all.” Maeve wraps her hands around the mug, grateful for it. “When it’s off-season.”

  Anna turns and pops the lever to check progress on a piece of toast, then, impatient, jams it down again. Her fingers are noticeably stained, the nailbeds sallow and the fingertips cracked and dark, almost inky. Maeve wonders if it’s actual ink or something else. Karolina said she was working on . . . what, film? So a reaction to developer or some other chemical.

  She turns back to Maeve. “You met the others yet?”

  “Just Karolina. Oh, and Sadie.” For some reason, she keeps Sim to herself.

  Anna nods as though they’re agreeing on something and leans to grab a napkin. She seems at home in the space; Maeve remembers that this is Anna’s second time at High Water.

  “Karo can be cool. And Sadie—you know. She’s a kid. She’ll be all right.”

  She turns to the window, and Maeve follows her gaze. Outside, snow is falling in a concentrated way, straight down. In the back field, there’s a man navigating some kind of obstacle course. Exercising. In the snow.

  “You met Dan?” Anna says without turning away from the view.

  Maeve looks a little closer. She hadn’t recognized him without the camo gear. “No,” she says. “I mean—sort of, yesterday. We weren’t introduced.”

  Outside, Dan is dragging a chain weighted with heavy tires down the field. A military-style workout.

  “You’ll bump into him if you’re out on the grounds—” Anna pauses, lips pursed, as though she means to say something further, but then she changes her mind and just turns and checks the toaster again.

  Maeve keeps watching as another man comes into view, a little younger, more compact in build. No coat, but he’s shrugged a blazer on over a hoodie, and he’s wearing a fine-looking red scarf. She can’t hear what he’s saying, but it’s easy to tell his tone just by the way he holds his body and by Dan’s reaction. The younger man is clowning, trying to crack Dan up, make him laugh, and it’s almost working.

  But then the little guy shifts to one side, and she sees he has a camera. Filming, Maeve realizes, as Dan continues his feats of strength. She watches him close in on Dan and wonders if this is a thing they do, the way she sometimes films herself dancing to see her form later, to see what worked.

  Anna looks over again.

  “Justin Doyle. You heard of him? He used to do a lot of stuff for Interview, New York magazine. But . . . he was having too much fun. You know what I mean? Took a job in the mountains to clean up. Not sure it’s working for him, though.” Her nose wrinkles. “Fancies himself a hot little ticket.”

  Justin glances over his shoulder as though he’s heard his name.

  “Careful, now,” Maeve says. “His ears are burning.”

  The toast pops up, half black, and Anna takes a knife to it, buttering savagely. “Gay,” she says, licking a finger.

  Maeve picks a green apple from the buffet. “Got it. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  But when she looks back, something’s gone wrong outside. Dan strides forward and almost rips the camera from Justin’s hands. Maybe he didn’t realize he was being filmed after all? Maeve stiffens. She can hear him yelling, even through the glass.

  Beside her, Anna shakes her head, but she doesn’t seem bothered. “Oooooooh, he got in trou-ble!”

  Maeve shines her apple thoughtfully on her sweater. Maybe she’s too sensitive to conflict after living with Iain for so long. Out in the yard, Dan goes back to what he was doing and Justin composes himself, flexing his shoulders, smoothing his jacket against his chest. He’s a stylish kid. Seems a shame for him to be stuck out here in the middle of nowhere.

  She’s pulling away from the window when Karo walks in, efficient and businesslike in a pom-pom hat.

  “So,” she says. “And then there were seven.”

  “That’s it? No more arrivals?” Anna says. “All by our lonesome?”

  “Skeleton staff will still come in a few days a week. All part of the charm of being here off-season, my dear. Think of it this way: we have an excellent opportunity for ghost stories.”

  “The shadowy trees outside my studio are an A-plus location if you’re looking to be spooked,” Maeve says.

  “You didn’t come to dinner! I wanted to introduce you around.” Karo steps to the coffee urn, fills her cup. Then, turning to Anna, her tone conspiratorial: “Did you get your footage?”

  Anna shakes her toast.

  “I’m hoping it’ll turn into a performance piece. I have to sneak up on him.” She turns to Maeve. “Her artiste—Sim Nielssen. I’m trying to get a peek at his installation.” Anna points her thumb out to the lobby, toward the heavy oak doors Maeve noticed on her way in. “He won’t let anyone in there to see.”

  “You have to wait for the surprise,” Karo singsongs. She sips her coffee, and her face changes. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? To have a secret project.” A fleeting sadness to her tone, before she recovers almost as quickly, leaning out to the lobby. “Ah! Here’s my boy.”

  Maeve swivels despite herself, but it’s Justin at the front doors, meticulously brushing the snow from his sleeves. He has a skier’s sun-bleached streak through his hair. She watches him navigate the ring of chairs in the lobby, heading in their direction. He doesn’t look any worse for wear after whatever strange argument just occurred. He’s still got the camera in his hands, at chest level.

  Then Maeve realizes he’s filming—capturing the three women as he walks.

  A deep sigh from Anna. “Justin’s working on a little doc project,” she says. “You should know that, just in case you’re shy—”

  “Don’t make her worry.” Karo mugs for the camera now that Justin is within earshot. “It’s about the center—our anniversary. We’re almost at one hundred years. Most of what he’s using, he has to dig up in the archives. But I wanted a little something else. Flavor of the place.”

  Maeve nods to Anna. “You work in film too. Don’t you?”

  “We’re all fancy filmmakers here—” Justin arrives beside them and the camera drops to his hip. “But Anna’s work is more . . . hands-on. Isn’t it, my darling?”

  There’s a friction to the comment that Maeve doesn’t understa
nd, but she’s beginning to see that they’ve all got their loyalties established already—and their tensions too. Anna simply turns and holds up her stained fingers.

  “He means I’m actually fancy,” she says. “Experimental horror; I get my hands dirty.” She turns back to Justin, offering him a pointed smile. “That is what you meant, right? My darling?”

  “No fighting,” Karo says, cutting them off. Then, to Maeve: “And no more skipping meals! We’re very secluded here; your social time is important—” She steps away, buttoning her coat. “I think this evening, we’ll go for a little soak downstairs. After dinner, yes? You know we’re sitting on top of a natural spa, right? Shake off your work goals. It’s good for you.”

  Maeve feels a stitch tighten in her stomach.

  “I bet Justin’ll come,” Anna says. “Won’t you, Justin?”

  “Beauty bar? Hell yes.”

  “You’ll have to strip down to your skivvies,” Anna says, fussing over him. “But—keep the scarf, I think. You know, so we can identify the body in case of . . . accident.”

  He turns to Maeve. “Don’t worry: Anna only pretends to be queen bitch. She’s actually in love with me.”

  Justin winks. He’s a little bit full of himself, Maeve can see that. He’s also young. Thirty at the outside, if she had to guess. So maybe he’s full of himself and rightly so?

  “And?” He’s still looking at her, at Maeve.

  “Maeve Martin,” she says. “Here for thirteen more days, less for the spa and—” She wants to wink back, but it doesn’t feel natural. Instead, she just shrugs. “More to reinvent my career completely, whichever comes first.”

  “No, you can’t talk like this!” Karo stamps her foot playfully. “A steam will be good for your muscles, you’ll see.”

  “Balance, baby.” Justin pulls out a hat and adjusts it on his head. It’s a beanie, but in a distinguished charcoal. He gestures to Maeve’s apple. “What is that, dancer’s rations? The Bolshoi breakfast special.”