Haven: Part One

The heat hits me the second I step off the plane. Not the gentle sort of warmth that occasionally graces Britain for three and a half minutes each July before retreating behind a cloud again. This is the kind of heat that wraps itself around your shoulders like a damp blanket and immediately starts rooting through your pores, searching for weaknesses. Within moments, my hair has achieved a level of freedom I can only aspire to. I stand blinking in the brilliant sunshine, squinting at a horizon so blue it almost looks painted. Palm trees sway lazily in the distance. The sea sparkles as though someone has scattered diamonds across its surface. Paradise, apparently. The trouble is, I have absolutely no idea why I’m here. I have no luggage. No itinerary. No recollection of booking a holiday. No reassuring confirmation email informing me that I’ve won an all-inclusive wellness retreat and definitely haven’t accidentally joined a cult. Just a small cream-coloured card tucked into my pocket. An address. Nothing else. No explanation. No instructions. No clue. Which, admittedly, is how many of my dreams begin. Curiosity has always been one of my more dangerous personality traits, so naturally I decide to follow the address. The taxi winds along coastal roads that cling to the cliffs above the ocean. Every bend reveals another impossibly beautiful view. White beaches. Turquoise water. Tiny islands scattered across the horizon like forgotten stepping stones. With every passing mile, England begins to feel increasingly fictional. Eventually we reach a set of wrought-iron gates. Beyond them sits the most beautiful building I have ever seen. White stone walls gleam in the afternoon sunlight. Flowering vines tumble from balconies. Gardens spill with colour in every direction. Behind it all, the sea stretches endlessly towards the horizon. A sign stands beside the entrance. One word. HAVEN I stare at it for a moment. Well. They’re certainly not underselling it. Before I can investigate further, a woman appears carrying enough keys to open a small medieval kingdom. They jangle loudly against one another as she walks. She’s somewhere in her sixties, with long silver-blonde hair flowing down her back and the sort of effortless grace usually associated with yoga instructors and woodland spirits. She’s dressed entirely in white. A loose kimono drifts around her ankles. Bare feet. Warm smile. Strong “owns seventeen crystals and treats every coincidence like a handwritten letter from the universe” energy. “Welcome,” she says. There’s something immediately familiar about her. Not familiar enough to place. Just enough to make my brain itch. “Thank you.” “You’ve arrived exactly when you were meant to.” I have no idea what that means. The fact she says it with complete confidence doesn’t help. “I’m Maya.” She unlocks the gate. “Come and meet the others.” The others. Excellent. Mysterious others. Nothing has ever gone wrong after somebody says, “Come and meet the others.” Maya leads me down winding pathways lined with tropical flowers. The scent hangs thick and sweet in the air. Somewhere nearby, water trickles over stone. Everything feels peaceful, as though somebody has taken reality and carefully smoothed down all its rough edges. We eventually arrive at the main building. Maya spreads her arms dramatically. “This is where the magic happens.” I stop walking. “Oh.” “No, no. Not that kind of magic.” She laughs. “The kind people pay considerably more money for.” The interior somehow manages to be even more impressive. Warm stone walls. Natural wood. Earthy colours. Soft lighting. If Zen itself sneezed, this is what would be left behind. In the centre of the structure, enormous glass panels reveal an actual Zen garden nestled within its heart. White sand. Perfectly placed stones. A small water feature trickling peacefully in the centre. Around it sit dozens of people. Meditating. Motionless. Serene. One woman appears so relaxed I’m not entirely convinced she’s still participating in this plane of existence. My room overlooks the sea. The balcony stretches across the entire width of the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame an uninterrupted ocean view. For a long moment, I simply stand there listening. Waves crashing below. Wind moving gently through the palms. The distant cries of seabirds. And for the first time in what feels like forever, my mind falls silent. Perhaps this place really is special. That evening, everyone gathers around a long dining table illuminated by candlelight. The food is fresh and colourful; fruit I’ve never seen before, vegetables I’ve definitely seen before but remain suspicious of, and enough kale to constitute a personal attack. Everyone is dressed in white. Every single guest. I make a mental note that if anyone starts discussing ascension, collective consciousness, or becoming one with the universe, I’m ordering a taxi. “So,” I say eventually. “Because I’m dying to know.” Several faces swivel towards me. “What exactly is this place?” Maya places down her fork. Smiles. “It’s still in its infancy.” “Right.” “But we’ve developed something extraordinary.” The room seems to quieten further. “This is where trauma dies.” Well. That’s subtle. Nobody speaks. Not even a cough. Not even a nervous shuffle. Just silence. Maya continues. “We’ve developed a meditation practice capable of taking people deeper than anyone has ever gone before.” “Deeper than what?” “Consciousness.” Naturally. Where else? “Once there,” she says, calmly spearing a piece of kale, “we can remove trauma completely.” I blink. “Remove it?” “Erase it.” “All of it?” “Every wound. Every grief. Every scar.” I laugh uncertainly. “That sounds a little too good to be true.” Maya smiles. “Why exist in pain when you can be free?” The irritating thing is that she has a point. But something feels wrong, not immediately wrong, just subtly so, like a picture hanging slightly crooked on a wall. The guests seem happy. Perhaps too happy. Whenever I try making conversation, it fizzles out almost immediately. “Where are you from?” “Here.” “Before here?” A pause. “I don’t remember.” Another woman tells me she might have children. “Might?” She shrugs pleasantly. “I think so.” “You don’t know?” “No.” “Doesn’t that bother you?” She smiles. The smile never reaches her eyes. “I don’t miss them.” The answer lands heavily somewhere inside my chest. The days settle into a routine. Yoga at sunrise. Meditation. Sound baths. Breakfast. Silent walks. More meditation. Even more meditation. Honestly, if somebody had told me beforehand that enlightenment involved this much sitting still, I’d have brought a crossword and a fidget spinner. We are encouraged to empty our minds. To let go of thoughts. To become observers rather than participants. As somebody whose brain treats every minor inconvenience like a six-part documentary series, this proves challenging. Still, eventually, even I begin adjusting. The silence becomes familiar. Comfortable, even. Which is perhaps the first truly alarming thing that happens. The second alarming thing is Maya’s chosen ones. The guests she considers success stories. They glide around the retreat smiling serenely. Always peaceful. Always content. Always calm. And somehow entirely absent. Like beautifully wrapped presents that sound hollow when shaken. A week later, Maya approaches me during breakfast. “It’s your turn.” I already know what she means. “Oh.” “Amanda.” “I don’t know.” Her smile flickers. Just for a second. The expression she gives me suggests I’ve just announced I intend to keep my trauma as a pet and name it Terrence. “What?” “I’ve grown quite attached to it.” “There is the problem.” Eventually, because I possess all the backbone of an overcooked noodle, I agree. That afternoon, Maya leads me into the sea. The water is warm. Crystal clear. Sunlight dances across the surface. “Float,” she instructs. I spread my arms and legs. Gentle waves rock my body. Above me, the sky stretches endlessly blue. “Good.” Maya smiles. “I’m going to count backwards.” Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Darkness. I’m underwater. Yet somehow breathing. There is no panic. No fear. Just a strange sense of certainty. Maya’s voice drifts through the darkness. “Now swim down.” I obey. Below me, the ocean stretches endlessly. Dark. Silent. Waiting. “Keep going.” I descend further. And further. The light gradually disappears. The darkness grows thicker around me until it feels almost solid. “Don’t panic.” Easy for her to say. She’s not voluntarily descending into what appears to be the Mariana Trench of the subconscious. “Just keep swimming.” Alright, Dory. I continue downward. Deeper. Deeper still. The darkness is now so complete that I can no longer tell whether my eyes are open or closed. “Can you see anything yet?” Maya asks. “Not yet.” “You need to go further.” There is an edge to her voice now. The warmth has gone. Something impatient has replaced it. I keep kicking. Harder. Deeper. Then I see it. A light. Small at first. Growing brighter as I approach. At its centre sits an old treasure chest. Ancient. Wooden. Open. Something spills from inside it. Wisps of light drift upwards through the darkness. Memories. Grief. Loss. Heartbreak. Regret. Or perhaps seaweed. It’s surprisingly difficult to tell. “There it is,” Maya says. Relief floods her voice. “Now shut it.” I stare at the chest. And immediately something feels wrong. Every instinct I possess tells me not to touch it. “Shut it,” Maya repeats. “I don’t know.” “Don’t hesitate.” Her voice cracks through the water. Sharp. Hard. Entirely unlike the woman who welcomed me through the gates. “Just shut the damn thing.” I continue staring. Because suddenly I find myself wondering if trauma is the wrong word entirely. What if the chest isn’t full of pain? What if it’s full of evidence? Evidence that I loved. Evidence that I lost. Evidence that I survived. Every heartbreak I’ve endured has shaped me. Every grief has taught me something. Every scar tells a story. Some of them admittedly terrible stories, but stories nonetheless. Remove enough pain and eventually what happens to the person who survived it? “Shut it.” Maya’s voice sounds almost desperate now. “Shut it. Shut it. Shut it.” The chest waits. Open. Silent. Patient. Do I? Don’t I? The answer feels impossibly important. And then — Everything disappears.