Farthest South & Other Stories

by Ethan Rutherford

  “Meanwhile,” Soren continued, “the waves were really kicking up. The boys abandoned their bathyscopes and lay on their backs in the canoe so they wouldn’t tip over. The sky had grown dark, and the low clouds above them were like great, twisting leaves. As they went up one wave and down another, they held hands and closed their eyes—and they pictured the Diver, exhausted, piercing Old Gr’mer’s tentacles with his knife. They saw him make slow slashing motions through the heavy water. Then, they imagined his suit coming apart in the blue light of his helmet, imagined him being pulled closer and closer to Old Gr’mer’s enormous chomping beak. They were afraid for their friend, afraid for their lives.

  “But just as they were beginning to lose all hope, the waves churning around them settled and stopped and they heard a great shushing sound. All at once columns of golden light broke through the surface of the water and lifted toward the night sky.

  “Soon, everything was quiet again, and when the water cleared, they looked over the canoe’s side. They saw that the battle had in fact been very brutal and had been fought to the last. Old Gr’mer’s foul tentacles were scattered everywhere. The fissure had ceased its exhalations. They scanned the seafloor until they saw the Diver’s helmet. Though no longer connected to his body, it still gave off its faint blue light and called the boys quietly to their work. Without a word, they stripped down to their underwear, and dove. They found every piece of the Diver except for one of his feet, which must’ve been swallowed during the battle. They loaded his arms and torso and helmet into the front of their canoe. Each piece was heavy, and it sometimes took both of them to lift it from the water over the side. But eventually they did it. And then they put their shirts back on, turned, and, just as the sun was coming up, began to paddle in the direction of home, though they had no home to return to.”

  “Was Old Gr’mer gone?” the older boy asked.

  Soren nodded. “The Diver had won only by feigning death and allowing himself to be swallowed whole. Once in that squid’s rancid stomach, he’d kicked and cut his way out. However, before succumbing, Old Gr’mer had managed one final time to pull the Diver apart—and that’s why he was in pieces. After that, Old Gr’mer crumpled into himself as though he were trying to fit somewhere small, and died. The fissure sucked him up.”

  “Good riddance,” the younger boy said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Soren. “And that brings us almost to the end of the story.”

  THEY DRIFTED AND DRIFTED. Every day, the boys woke with the hope that on the horizon they’d see land, or another boat, or … anything at all. But every day, they woke, hungry and thirsty, and saw nothing except brown, waveless water. The days grew infernally hot and the nights were frigid. They waited for the Diver to reconfigure himself, but the light was gone from his helmet, and he never did. His canvas suit dried out in the sun and baked until it no longer gave off any smell. After a week of paddling, they understood that the Diver wasn’t coming back and that they were all alone. They had no home but their canoe, no idea what would happen next, and that made them afraid.

  Then one night, after two aimless weeks on the water, they woke to a sharp buzzing sound. It came from the front of the canoe, where the Diver’s parts lay in a heap. The boys held each other as the pieces of his body began to hum and glow with the blue light they thought they’d never see again.

  For a long time, they watched the front of the canoe with excitement and caught their breath at every flash of light. But soon it became clear that something was very wrong. For one thing, the Diver’s parts would not stitch together. For another, when he finally did talk his voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a deep well, and they could not understand a single thing he said. Saddened, they lifted his helmet and placed it on the seat like a lantern. Through the forelight, they could see the mist had returned. His corselet began to glow. They wanted to make sense out of what he was trying to tell them, but they could not—it seemed as though he spoke of things they’d never seen and never would see. But as the night went on, they found they didn’t mind so much that they couldn’t understand what he was saying. It was reassuring simply to hear his voice again. For hours they listened, and asked questions, and enjoyed being together. They told him what it felt like to be lonely, and what they missed about their old lives. And then in the morning, his light went out for good.

  IN THE ROOM, THE BOYS were quiet. “What happened after that?” the younger one finally asked.

  “Well,” Soren said. “Next day, they saw an island in the distance, and figured the Diver had somehow led them to it. They began paddling for those dark hills.” He wiped his hands on the legs of his pants. He saw that the boys were watching him closely, but he didn’t know what else to say. “The world was new. That’s all,” Soren finally said. “It was theirs to start.” In his mind’s eye, he saw the island exactly—a steep, volcanic ledge, climbing out of the sea. He saw the canoe heading for it, then the story slipped away.

  “Were their parents there?” the younger boy asked.

  “Oh,” Soren said. “No. Not physically. But they visited them in their dreams. They’d been waiting there. And they missed them so much.”

  The air in the bedroom felt suddenly thick. Soren could tell that neither boy was satisfied with the story—they sensed when things had gone off the rails and knew when he was just trying to wrap things up—but it was late and he could think of nothing else to say.

  “Good night,” he finally announced, and stood. He gently pressed the back of his hand to each of their cheeks, walked across the room, and shut the door.

  IN THE KITCHEN, Soren poured himself a drink and began to straighten the counter. There wasn’t much to do; Hana had gotten there first. Suddenly, he felt as though he might be sick. It quickly passed, but his knees kept the sensation. What had gone wrong? He’d wanted to tell them a story about brothers, one that pushed against despair. But why had it pulsed with such loneliness? He rinsed his cup and set it on the rack. As he’d told the story, images of Hana, photos from her childhood he’d seen years ago, had popped into his mind. And then, another old friend, who’d been dead for years. He had no idea why. He swept some crumbs from the toaster into his hand and dumped them into the sink. Then he turned out the lights and stood in the darkness.

  He found Hana in their bedroom. She was stretched out and lying perfectly still on the floor. “It’s my back,” she said. She had her eyes closed to concentrate on the pain. “How’d it go today?” Soren asked.

  “Oh, you know. Knock knock. Not interested. I must’ve walked ten miles. Say ‘climate’ and watch the door close. It’s depressing. The world’s ending and nobody cares.”

  Soren took off his shoes and lay down next to her. Through the thin carpet he felt the hard, wooden floor. Hana opened her eyes. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen the ghost of Christmas past.”

  “No,” Soren said. “I’m just thinking about something.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. This was the time they had together, and she was ready to talk. But whatever it was he wanted to say kept moving away from him like a silver, glinting fish. He closed his eyes. Relaxing music was playing from Hana’s phone on a low volume. He imagined a small, blue light, pulsing. He imagined diving into his wife’s body, crawling down her spine, and looking at the painful spot in her back with a powerful underwater lamp.

  “It really does feel like the world is ending,” he finally said. “But it can’t be.”

  “Well,” Hana said. “Let me tell you about an important election coming up in your district …” She stretched and sighed.

  Their apartment was small, and from his vantage on the floor Soren could see down the dark hallway. From under the boys’ bedroom door he saw that one of them had left his bed and was now flicking the light on and off to make his brother laugh.

  “Go to sleep,” Hana called from the floor, not unkindly. He heard a sharp yelp and scampering and one more stifled laugh. Then
they were quiet.

  “I hung up on Chloe,” Hana finally said. “She called me hypocritical for bringing children into the world. She said it was selfish, and she could see right through it, and see right through my causes, that they amount to zero in the scheme of things and do nothing except make me feel better about myself.” Hana sighed. “I’ve been thinking about this and it’s made me feel like I’m orbiting some planet I don’t recognize, as though I’m some sort of space rover. I’ve been distant. I’ve been cruel. I’m the terrible, busy mother, and the callous, neglectful sister.” She squeezed his hand and let go. “But where have you been? Where you’ve been is no better. When you’re angry you stay quiet, but the whole apartment feels it, and you’re not happy until everyone is as angry as you.”

  “That’s true,” Soren said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t know what to tell her,” Hana said, “because I do think of my children, but they’re not the only thing I think about. And I have been selfish: there’s so much I want to preserve for them, and one day it’s all going to be gone. I love this life. I regret none of it. I just want everything to last a little longer.”

  OUTSIDE, STREETS WERE WET, and the temperature was dropping. Soren closed his eyes. You would hear the wave, he thought, before you saw it. But was that true? He tried to make his body as still as possible. It was an old trick, and soon he felt the hard surface beneath his shoulders expand to curl around him like a boat. From down the hall, he heard one of the boys leave his bed again and step quietly, cross his room, to find the light switch. On, off, on again. The light flashed under their closed bedroom door like a message from a signal lamp. The story was over. But of course, it would also start again, and maybe this time be different.

  “I love you so much,” Soren said, and Hana laughed—a sudden bark, hard and full. He reached for her hand, found it. She curled her fingers around his thumb. On the carpet next to them, her phone began to quake and vibrate like a robot’s heart.

  “Don’t pick it up,” Soren said.

  “I won’t,” Hana said. She stretched and yawned. Her eyes were closed, too. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  These stories could not have been written without support from the Ucross Foundation and the New York Community Trust, which granted an early version of this manuscript the Ellen Levine Award. That unexpected support during the generative phase of this project was crucial, and meant the world to me. I’d also like to acknowledge and thank the other voices that wandered through these stories as they were being drafted. The poem partially recited in “Fable” is “On Pain” by Kahlil Gibran. In “Holiday,” the line “all life exists at the expense of other life” comes from the “The Third Hour of the Night” by Frank Bidart (who is, thankfully, very much alive). That story also owes a debt to the poem “[The day, with all its pain ahead, is yours],” by Derek Walcott.

  Thank you to the early readers of these stories for their patience, good cheer, and gentle guidance and to the incredible editors of the various journals where versions of these stories first appeared: Sarah Bilston, Sheila Fisher, Matt Burgess, Paul Yoon, Libby Flores, Raluca Albu, Emma Komlos-Hrobsky, Rob Spillman, Chris Boucher, and Brad Morrow. I’m also grateful for the support and encouragement from colleagues, teachers, family, and friends these last few years: Chloe Wheatley, Ciaran Berry, Clare Rossini, Amity Gaige, Julie Schumacher, Sloane Crosley, Jim Shepard, Charles Baxter, Toby Cox, Nick Manheim, and Calder Gillin. My parents, Dave and Debby Rutherford. Anne Hanley.

  With this book I got to work with some of my favorite people in the world: Nayon Cho, Anders Nilsen, Jill Meyers, and Sarah Burnes. What good luck! I feel so fortunate—proud—to have collaborated with such amazing people on this project. Thank you, as well, to everyone at A Strange Object and Deep Vellum.

  Finally, to my family: LL & AW, I could not name the boys in these stories, for they would hold no names but yours. This means, of course, that we dreamed them together and they are written for you. Maryhope: again, always, and with love—but deeper and with more miles on the tires this time—thank you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ethan Rutherford’s fiction has appeared in BOMB, Tin House, Ploughshares, One Story, American Short Fiction, Post Road, Esopus, Conjunctions, and The Best American Short Stories. His first book, The Peripatetic Coffin and Other Stories, was a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Art Seidenbaum Award for First Fiction, a finalist for the John Leonard Award, received honorable mention for the PEN/Hemingway Award, was a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection, and was the winner of a Minnesota Book Award. Born in Seattle, Washington, Rutherford received his MFA in creative writing from the University of Minnesota and now teaches creative writing at Trinity College. He lives in Hartford, Connecticut, with his wife and two children.

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Anders Nilsen is the author and artist of Big Questions, Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow, Poetry Is Useless, and several other graphic novels and books of comics in a variety of modes. His work has appeared in Kramers Ergot, the New York Times, Poetry magazine, The Believer, the New Yorker, and elsewhere and been translated widely. He is the recipient of three Ignatz awards as well as the Lynd Ward Graphic Novel Prize for Big Questions. Nilsen is currently serializing a long-form, full-color graphic novel retelling the myth of Prometheus, set in present-day Central Asia, called Tongues. He lives in Los Angeles.

  ABOUT A STRANGE OBJECT

  Founded in 2012 in Austin, Texas, A Strange Object champions debuts, daring writing, and striking design across all platforms. The press became part of Deep Vellum in 2019, where it carries on its editorial vision via its eponymous imprint. A Strange Object’s titles are distributed by Consortium.

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  Support for this publication has been provided in part by grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Texas Commission on the Arts, the City of Dallas Office of Arts and Culture’s ArtsActivate program, and the Moody Fund for the Arts:

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