I watched Tess Harper step off the little boat that smelled of pine resin and river mud, and I knew straight away she wasnt going to turn back. The air here was different damp, heavy with the scent of fir, moss, fish and something else, as if it were pure life itself, untainted.
Welcome, said the guide, a young fellow in a fishingvest. This is Riverbank Haven. Pitch your tent wherever you like. The loos over there. If you want work, report to the shore at eight tomorrow; were clearing the site of rubbish.
Tess nodded. The word work didnt frighten her; the silence did. For the first time in months, nobody asked her how she was, whether shed managed, or if shed go back to teaching. No one looked at her with pity or worry.
She set her canvas tent on a rise right at the waters edge, sat on a log, slipped off her boots and let her feet dangle in the icy river. And for the first time in a long while she didnt cry.
Two weeks passed. Tess hauled buckets, dug ditches, washed pots. Her hands were scratched, her back ached from the heavy tools, but her mind was quiet. The people at the base were a motley crew: students, biologists, exIT guys, artists, volunteers from every corner of the country. All a little odd, all a little lost.
Who were you? asked Eve Morgan one evening, a girl with ginger dreadlocks and a voice that sounded like a folk singer.
A lecturer. Art history at the University of Oxford, Tess replied.
Why did you leave?
My son drowned a year ago. I couldnt find any words left.
Eve didnt gasp or wave her arms, she just nodded. I get it. My dad died of cancer in December. I came here, otherwise Id have gone mad.
Do people go mad here? Tess asked.
You can go mad anywhere. Here its not scary.
For the first time Tess smiled.
She began to draw on kraft paper made from old sacks quick sketches of the river, the birds, people around the fire, sometimes her son, now in a fishingvest with a paddle, grinning.
One day someone stringed her pictures up on a rope by the mess hall. That evening everyone brought something of their own photos, poems, bark crafts.
Im declaring a day of selfexpression, shouted Andrew Clarke, the tall, perpetually shaggy coordinator, laughing. Show who you were, who you are, who you want to be!
What about you? Tess asked.
I used to be a marketer. Now Im a man with an axe. And I like it, he said.
They both laughed, and the old scars stopped feeling like something to hide.
In the third month trouble arrived not from the woods but from the city. A motorboat pulled up with Tesss mother and sister. They looked like theyd stepped out of a fashion catalogue, huge suitcases in hand, faces tight with accusation.
Tess! Have you lost your mind? her mother, Margaret, shouted at the tent. Where on earth are you? These people are savages! Look at yourself! Good heavens, is this even legal?
Her sister Vera, eyes scanning for a complaint, added, Weve been terrified for you! Youve ignored calls, didnt answer messages, vanished like a teenager. And youre almost forty, still a lecturer!
Tess stayed silent. The firecircle fell quiet. Eve slipped behind her and gently touched her shoulder. Do you need help?
No. Ill manage.
Margaret went on, We thought you were depressed. Weve spoken to a therapist, he says you need rehabilitation.
This is my rehabilitation, Mum, Tess said.
Dont be foolish. You sleep in a tent, haul water, walk with strangers!
They arent strangers. And you you havent heard me in years.
Vera interjected, You dont hear us. Were your family!
Where were you when I lay under blankets for weeks, unable to get up? When I thought Id rather die than survive for him?
We tried to help! they replied.
No. You called and said, Pull yourself together, youre strong. Strength isnt help; its a excuse to stay away.
A hush settled, broken only by the rivers soft splash, as if agreeing.
Andrew came over with a mug of tea. Margaret snapped, Whos that? Hes brainwashing you?
Just a man who isnt frightened by my pain. Im not brainwashed. Im alive.
Youre mad, whispered Vera. Just plain mad.
Maybe. But its my choice.
They left the next day without farewells. Tess sat on the dock, barefoot, a jar of honey in her hand. Eve sat beside her.
How are you? she asked.
Like a tree thats been uprooted and suddenly sprouts new shoots.
Youre brilliant, lecturer.
Yes. But now Im just living.
By the end of September Tess was one of the last people left at the base. Some had gone, others stayed for winter. Andrew stayed too; he built a winter cabin, kept the stove alight and brewed mushroom soup.
One crisp morning they walked together to the river. Tess was quiet, then said, I think Ive fallen in love. Not with you, but with myself, with this place.
Andrew laughed, Thats the important part. The rest will sort itself out.
She took his hand. What if I want to stay here?
Then stay.
What if I want to build a workshop? Run an artist residency, invite others whove lost themselves?
Ill put up a porch so they know theyre welcome.
She knew the river remembered, the woods healed, and even a broken heart could learn to sing again if you listened.
The first winter at Riverbank Haven was long and still. The forest froze in a white hush, the river cloaked in thin crystal ice that chimed under the morning sun. Only five people stayed over the cold months: Andrew, Tess, Eve, and a photographer couple, Sam and Laura, whod fled city life.
Tess lived in a small cottage beside her workshop, its interior warmed by a castiron stove, homemade shelves, and a soft glow. She rose early, stoked the fire, brewed seabuckthorn tea, and watched foxes dash across the frozen water.
In the workshop she hung a map of the United Kingdom. Tiny flags marked the towns from which people wrote. Some sent thanks for the photos and stories she posted on the bases blog; others asked:
Could I come for a couple of weeks? Im a musician, tired of the stage.
Im a painter, fresh from a divorce, need quiet and trees. May I?
Im eighteen, lost. Can I just stay with you?
Andrew studied the map, nodding. Well need more huts, maybe a veranda. Spring will bring a rush. You feel it, right? Then youll lead.
Spring arrived not like the south slowly, with drizzles, the creak of thawing snow, the scent of damp moss. MidApril brought the first guests: Maya, a writer from Manchester; Anton, a former architect who quit his firm after burning out; and Nia, a teenage girl with huge eyes and a notebook full of sketches.
This place feels like a sigh, Maya said, perched by the fire. I cant remember the last time I just watched flames without thinking I had to be someone.
Here you simply are, Tess replied.
Day by day the base filled with life. Some trekked into the woods to collect bark for paint, some wrote music, some slept twelve hours, chasing back the silence theyd lost.
Andrew built a second hut, then a third. Guests helped where they could washing dishes, reading bedtime stories, hauling firewood. Living together became the norm, breathing as one, no masks needed.
One evening a woman in a crisp coat arrived at the riverbank. Her hair was neatly styled, eyes tense. She introduced herself as Dr
