Farthest South & Other Stories

by Ethan Rutherford

  “Right, right,” Soren heard her say. Her sister, Chloe, was going through a bitter divorce—that was who Hana was talking to—and she thought nothing of calling late to keep Hana on the phone for hours while Soren put the boys to bed. After these long conversations, Hana would hang up and come to bed glassy-eyed and defeated. Who isn’t depressed? she would say, and fall into a restless sleep. Who isn’t dispirited by the way things are going? Who isn’t unhappy?

  Because their lives were busy and stressful, full-time jobs, two growing kids, and because his own mild depression had returned, and because a feeling of helplessness about the state of the deteriorating world had numbed them into their own private corners, Soren both knew what she was talking about and had no idea what she was talking about all at once.

  “CAREFULLY,” SOREN CONTINUED, “the Diver opened the front door to their house, and they heard him walk upstairs. Then, his brass helmet lifted through the surface of the water, and, with seagrass coming off of him in cold, green strings, he stepped into the attic.

  “For a long time, he just stood there, dripping water, like he was some sort of ghost himself. He was taller than the boys had expected. But they knew it was him: iron shoes, brass helmet with four port lights, heavy gloves. There was something unusual about his appearance, however. His helmet was streaked and dented, not shiny but a dull, greenish color. It had long ago rusted to his corselet and could not be removed. His canvas diving suit was stained yellow. Barnacles had colonized his gloves. He looked very old, as if being in the water for all these years had finally caught up with him. This came as a bit of a shock to the boys, who had always imagined him to be a young man. While they couldn’t see his face through the helmet’s forelight, they could hear his breathing, and now he grew quiet. Finally, in a low, deep, patient voice, he explained what he was doing there.

  “As everyone knew, he followed Old Gr’mer and worked to free the souls he held in his pulsing grip,” Soren went on. “But this last wave had been so large, and Old Gr’mer, in his loneliness and fury, had grown so powerful that even he was having trouble keeping up. I am old, he said, and tired. Still, this is important work, and I need your help. What he meant by this wasn’t exactly clear to the boys. But it would be soon.”

  Soren heard Hana open and shut the refrigerator door and listened for her footsteps down the hall. The last time Chloe had called, Hana had told her: you have to stay attached to life somehow. Soren could’ve told her how that would be received. Why don’t you get a divorce, blow your own life up, and then tell me how I should feel? Chloe had said and hung up. He waited now for a sound from outside the boys’ room but heard nothing.

  “Anyway,” he said. “Where was I?”

  NEXT MORNING, THE DIVER woke them gently and presented each of them with a small, collapsible bathyscope, through which they could watch from the surface as he went about his underwater work. The boys tied them around their necks like binoculars. Once they left the attic, the Diver sat in the front of the canoe with his back to the boys, whispering directions as they quietly paddled across the blackish water. They passed a gas station, an antique store, a train-car diner. The tops of pine trees pushed through the water and stretched their dark and resting arms in ominous welcome. Eventually, the Diver held up a closed fist—meaning stop—and stood. Around his old, dented helmet a halo of blue electricity began to fritz and snap like a mosquito trap. He made a slight nod in their direction, indicated that they should use the bathyscopes he’d made, crossed his arms over his chest, and tipped over the side. Water swallowed him up.

  From the canoe, the boys watched his blue lantern glide through the murk. Then, peering through their bathyscopes, they saw he’d landed in the middle of a street—flooded cars lined the empty block, and large branches, which had been swept a great distance by the rushing water, now lay still on the sidewalk. They saw no people. How strange it was to see this neighborhood underwater, and so clearly; it was like peering into an empty aquarium. Now, the Diver’s light seemed to grow in strength, and with horror they saw the bodies of people who had been drowned by the wave strewn everywhere. Most had kelp caught in their hair, and many were without clothing; some had gaping, bloodless wounds. All were ghostly in the blue light of the Diver’s lantern.

  Wrapped around the torso of each was a dark red tentacle, which tethered each floating body to the ground.

  The Diver moved gracefully; he was slow and deliberate. When he reached the first body, an old man, the Diver took his drifting hand and gently lifted his arm; he unsheathed his knife, then, with care, slid the blade under the tentacle wrapped around the man’s ribs. It was difficult, sawing work—and with every cut and plunge of the Diver’s knife, the water became cloudy with jets of pus and decay.

  Once severed, the tentacle released its grip and fell to the Diver’s feet. For a minute, the old man remained suspended in the water, arms extended over his head as though stretching at the end of a very long nap. Then he stiffened, brought his hands to his face, and disappeared into a cone of golden, pulsing light. The boys looked away from their bathyscopes as this light lifted up and out of the water near their canoe, held its circular shape, then, with a sound like a thunderclap, disappeared. Then all was quiet, the Diver alone again in the putrid water as he made his way to the next tethered soul.

  “THEY CONTINUED THIS WORK for hours,” Soren said, “with the boys on the surface, in their canoe, watching and marking off their map every time the Diver cleared an area of drowned souls. They were making progress, for sure. But there was something else the Diver had told them: the more souls they discovered and cut loose, the angrier Old Gr’mer became. This often led to brutal, repetitive attacks on the Diver as he went about his work. One minute, he would be walking heavily across the seafloor as normal. The next, he would be set upon by angry tentacles—they wrapped around his ankles and wrists, tightened, and pulled—and he would be torn limb from limb.”

  “No,” said the younger boy.

  Soren took a sip of water. “It was awful, truly it was. It was a horrible shock to see the Diver ripped apart, and they hadn’t believed it would happen. But sure enough, near the end of the day, the Diver found himself overpowered by Old Gr’mer’s tentacles, and in terror they watched as he was torn at the joints—his arms and legs scattered while his torso and head were severed—and his pieces, flung widely, floated to the ground.”

  “That’s gross,” the older boy said.

  “The boys wanted to cry out,” Soren continued, “but kept quiet, for this is how they were supposed to be of help to him. Once everything had cleared—the tentacles no longer writhing and kicking up silt, the Diver’s lantern still emitting its blue light to guide them—they dove from their boat to gather his parts. It was exhausting, but the tentacles didn’t recognize them as any sort of threat and left them alone to collect their friend.”

  Hana walked down the hall past the boys’ room. She held the phone against her ear—Soren could tell by her tight shoulders she was upset—but when she saw they were watching, she flashed a thin smile and waved at the boys.

  “I forgot she was here for a second,” the older boy said.

  “What?” Soren said. “Where would she have gone?”

  She gave them a thumbs-up, then turned and walked to the kitchen. There was a long silence, in which, for reasons he did not understand, Soren felt a deep chill. “Do you think she saw all the bags?” the younger boy asked. He was talking about the Ziplocs they’d washed and hung to dry before she’d come home. “I’m sure she did,” Soren said.

  All three kept their eyes on the doorway as though Hana might return any minute to congratulate them. But she didn’t, so Soren began again.

  BACK IN THEIR NEIGHBORHOOD, the water was black and still. On the attic floor the boys arranged the Diver’s arms and legs and helmet in the shape of a man, as he’d told them to do. They watched for hours, but nothing changed—his various parts just lay there like an empty suit. They zipped their slee
ping bags together, to stay close as they slept. But they couldn’t sleep, having no idea what would happen next.

  He revived as dawn broke. Slowly, his arms scooted closer to his torso, then his legs. Blue light flickered from his helmet, and it too reattached. Then, with a sound like a great exhalation of air, the Diver sat up. He said nothing at first—methodically he moved each arm, his hand, his fingers; he stood and walked around the attic like a rusty old machine. He was certainly the worse for wear, but it was him. Thank you, he finally said. The boys were immensely relieved.

  From then on, each day they set out according to a grid the boys had drawn of the town. The Diver plunged into the depths, the boys guiding him, and they watched as he released the souls of the drowned. Each man, woman, or child they freed at first stiffened like the old man, then became a blinding, golden light, lifted out of the water, and was seen no more. Sometimes the tentacles attacked, sometimes they didn’t. It was no longer shocking. If the boys had to swim after pieces of the Diver, they didn’t mind. In fact, it made them feel useful, like they were working at a job only they could do.

  But as the days passed, the boys began to notice that with each excursion the Diver was growing more sluggish in his movements, less nimble, clumsy with his knife; he strode across the seafloor with less purpose, as though resigned to the monotony of his difficult work. His blue light began to dim, flicker, and only truly shine for a few minutes at a time. He’d started to repeat himself, when he spoke at all. If they didn’t tell him where to go, occasionally he would just stand under the water, still as a statue, as though puzzling through a serious problem in his mind. In the evening, when they’d returned to the attic, he’d slump in the corner and power down as if some old clock in his chest had become weary of keeping time. He never slept, exactly—his feet, in iron shoes, would kick and his arms swatted at things neither boy could see. If they spoke to him, he would not answer.

  One night, after he’d been still for a long time, the boys crept across the attic to get a closer look. They saw his canvas suit had frayed at the elbows, his dull knife appeared rusty and caked in tentacle gore. The rotten smell he’d begun to give off was intense, and they held their noses as they climbed over his legs. Careful not to disturb him, they stood on their toes and peered through the forelight in his helmet.

  What they saw startled them: the Diver seemed to have no face. Inside his helmet was only a thick, black mist.

  What had they expected to see? They didn’t know, but it wasn’t this. Periodically the mist in his helmet cleared and gave them a glimpse of something like unbounded space—a deep and shapeless darkness pricked with stars. In it, they saw themselves, and the work they had ahead of them. The mist was trying to tell them something. But they had no idea what.

  In the morning, the Diver stood slowly and stretched. They exchanged pleasantries, got into the canoe, and went about their work. But the boys had begun to worry, and they wished they’d never looked at all.

  “HOW BAD DID IT HURT when he got pulled apart? A lot?”

  “I’d imagine so,” said Soren. “Pain like you can’t really believe. The Diver didn’t like getting pulled to pieces, he’d just become used to it. Each time he wearily stitched himself back together, the boys saw little lightning bolts fritzing at the seams of his suit. At the end of each bolt now was tiny blue skull. He didn’t talk with the boys about what he was feeling or thinking, though.”

  The younger boy stirred as though he were about to speak, but his brother put his fingers to his lips. “He can ask a question,” Soren said. The younger boy thought for a second, and finally said, “It turns out I don’t have a question.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Soren said, and pointed to the Band-Aid on his son’s nose.

  “It makes him feel comfortable,” the older boy explained. “He’s not hurt. He just wears it.”

  “I’m okay,” the younger boy said.

  Soren nodded. “Anyway, while all this was happening, Old Gr’mer had been gathering strength. And he’d grown infuriated. After their last excursion, he’d followed them to the attic, so he knew where they stayed at night.” Soren cleared his throat. “And soon, in fact the night after the boys looked into the Diver’s helmet, he attacked.”

  “Were they ready?” asked the younger boy.

  “Not at all,” said Soren. “He caught them completely by surprise. For a giant squid, he was quite a subtle swimmer. He moved without sound and expanded like a large red stain across the water, changing colors whenever he wanted to. If it was night, there was no chance you’d see him. So it was without any warning that he pulled the roof off the attic and began his battle with the Diver. His tentacles were enormous: each was the size of a barge’s anchor line, and every sucker was like a giant pair of closing lips.

  “Old Gr’mer squeezed one of his limbs around the Diver and brought him to his gnashing beak, but the Diver plunged his knife deep into the tentacle until it released its hold and he fell to the slick attic floor. The boys were terrified, but the tentacles did not reach for them just yet, and from where they sat huddled in the corner of the attic, they could hear the Diver’s heavy breath as he cut and slashed at the attacking squid. They believed in the Diver—even though he was tired, he was doing well—but Old Gr’mer was determined and furious. He hissed and clicked his giant beak as his tentacles slapped the floor trying to hook the Diver’s legs, and in the process smashed most of the attic to pieces.”

  “Their house?” the older boy asked.

  Soren nodded. “Destroyed. At that point, though, the house was the last thing on their minds. This battle went on and on. They were fighting for their lives, and the tide seemed to turn on each of them over the course of an hour. Eventually, however, it was clear the Diver had become truly exhausted—and each time Old Gr’mer pulled him closer to his beak it took him longer to free himself. The boys froze. They had no idea what to do. Finally, Old Gr’mer’s remaining tentacles worked in tandem; they swept the Diver’s legs and, in one smooth, unfurling motion, wrenched him off the floor by his feet. He opened his great black beak and the boys closed their eyes—they knew this was it for the Diver, and probably for them as well. But,” Soren said, and coughed, “right at that moment, the Diver must’ve gotten Old Gr’mer with a lucky stab—because with a high-pitched scream, the mysterious squid fell back into the water around their house and swam away. The attic was destroyed, but they’d survived.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” the older boy said, and jumped off the bed. Soren moved his knees to let him by.

  In the low light of the bedroom, his younger son hugged, then flattened, then hugged his pillow again. He looked so much like Hana that people stopped them on the street to comment on it. For this reason, Soren loved him just a little more, though he would never say so. “What’s on your mind?” Soren asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, hesitating.

  “We can talk,” Soren said. It was late. The traffic sounds outside the window had gone almost completely away.

  “Where are their parents?”

  “Oh,” Soren said. “Right.” He clasped his hands together and looked to the window. He’d moved them offstage and really hadn’t thought about it, but of course it mattered. “Give me a second,” he said. He felt the answer coming, and didn’t want to lie, but before he could respond he heard the toilet flush and the older boy returned. “We’ll get there,” he said. He wiped at his nose. “Now, where was I?”

  “Old Gr’mer,” the older boy said.

  “Right. They’d survived the attack but no longer had a home, which made them sad. The Diver had been listening to what they were saying, and he sympathized. But now was not the time to think about that, he told them. Now was the time to follow Old Gr’mer and finish what they’d started. And so they did. They set out together to bring Old Gr’mer and his horrid quest to an end.”

  BY CANOE, THE TRIP TOOK most of the morning—they paddled past upturned cars, small rainbow slicks of
oil, the occasional fire. They paddled past the fifth floor of an office building whose windows were blown out. The blue corona of light around the Diver’s helmet flickered as he trailed one hand over the canoe’s side and signaled to the boys by pointing where he wanted to go. They understood he was following the squid by reading the water, but how he was doing that remained a mystery. Soon, they saw nothing familiar. The sea had risen again; it was gray and leaden, and stretched in an unbroken line all the way to the horizon. The sunken world was the sunken world, there didn’t seem to be anything anyone could do about it.

  No birds called. The air was heavy with salt. The Diver held up his hand and the boys stopped paddling. What they heard was a sound not unlike the absence of sound, followed by a distant inhalation. Then a tremendous howling wind ripped across the water. It was Old Gr’mer’s doing. He whipped up the waves, and everything became unrecognizable.

  “THE FIGHT WAS BRUTAL,” Soren said. “Old Gr’mer had lured them to his lair, and in the deep water The Diver was clearly at a disadvantage. Old Gr’mer’s lair was right on the edge of a huge, breathing fissure that opened like a jagged mouth in the earth; it sucked up large amounts of water then forcibly spat it out. The boys worried and watched uneasily; through their bathyscopes they saw their tired friend slash and cut and try to stay away from the fissure, while Old Gr’mer reached for him with a seemingly unlimited number of tentacles. It was impossible to say who was winning, and it seemed as though the fight would never end. The water became inky with Old Gr’mer’s blood, and the fissure sucked this up like a vacuum and expelled toward the boys. This bloody darkness then blossomed and moved for them like the mist they’d seen inside the Diver’s helmet, and soon the water grew so cloudy that the boys couldn’t see what was happening at all.