What Came With Them

As the SS Theseus was scheduled to return to port in the biting chill of mid-October, there had been twenty-two people waiting for it. Hester had counted—once out of curiosity, then again out of boredom, and then five more times to soothe her fraying nerves. 

As the fog rolled in over the expansive sea, darkening the night to near-black, she was surprised to see several people leaving. It was absurd to her; they had waited four months for the return of their loved ones, but couldn’t wait four hours to welcome them home. 

Twenty-two became nineteen. As the fog thickened, it became fifteen. 

Small groups of two or three dotted the wharf, lingering at the seaside until the cold of the ocean breeze drove them further inland. Each of them was there for the same purpose, yet they did not speak to one another. Hester couldn’t judge; she was not speaking to anyone either. 

She soon found herself the only person still standing near the water, watching the tide slowly roll in. Even through the thick wool of her jacket, the metal railing she braced against was frigid, cold enough to leave sections of her arms and hands numb. She breathed deeply, savoring the familiar smell of salt and smog. 

With the light from the stars and moon blocked by heavy clouds, Hester wasn’t confident she’d even be able to see the ship approaching. She was wrong. 

It appeared as a blue-black smudge on the horizon, dotted with the hazy squares of orange light emanating from the windows. It didn’t grow more defined as it approached, only grew bigger. 

She straightened, pulling the flaps of her coat closed against the breeze. Glancing back at the others, she saw that they were still separated, still removed from one another. None of them had yet noticed the ship. 

Casting her gaze once more out to sea, she was startled to find the ship even closer—very close, in fact. It seemed improbable for it to have been able to cross that much distance in that amount of time. 

She fell a step back in the face of the ship’s sheer size, head tipped up to it. It was so tall that the top was shrouded in that thick fog; it was impossible to gauge how high it rose. 

Her lungs were filled with smog. 

At the sound of a shuffling footstep, Hester glanced behind her to find that the others had finally spotted the ship and had once more approached the wharf. They moved wordlessly and silently, quiet as the dead. They were surrounding her now. 

A great metal grinding cut through the silence of the night as the ship prepared for docking. The stabilizers rose into position with a groan and a torrent of water. 

Dock workers appeared as though from thin air, moving forward to assist as the ship finally slowed to a full stop. It felt like a dream as they moved about the wharf and dock, a gruff man Hester recognized as the ship’s captain speaking to the weary dock manager, the crew members finally descending from the ship and emerging from the fog onto the wharf. 

Hester had spent three and a half months imagining what she would do in this moment. Would she shove carelessly through the crowds, searching desperately for the only one of them she truly cared about? Would they spot each other over the distance and smile? Would they hug? They never used to hug. 

In all of those fantasies, though, the sun was shining and the sky was clear. In those fantasies, she recognized her brother immediately. 

The group was small, only a portion of the crew; perhaps seven or eight people in total. A few broke off as they spotted their friends and family. They embraced or kissed or cried. Some looked around briefly before slowing to a stop, alone—perhaps expecting one of the seven people who had long abandoned the vigil. 

One of them—Hester thought her name was Sabine—did not look surprised to be alone. She turned her face to the sea spray and closed her eyes as she drew in deep breaths, as though wishing she could go back. 

It was such an arresting sight that Hester had taken a step towards her without noticing, before she was stopped with a firm grip on her elbow. 

She turned immediately, and, for the first time in years, came face to face with her father. 

No, it was her brother. 

“Henry?” 

He smiled at her, his other hand coming to clasp her other arm. His eyes were tired, his skin was tanner, and a shaggy, untrimmed beard now shadowed his jaw. 

When he didn’t speak, she prompted again, “Henry?”

The smile faded, though a shadow remained. He only watched her with his dark eyes, as though searching for something. No, it was as though he was waiting for something. 

But Hester had no idea what he wanted. She didn’t know what more she could have done for him. Being there was already a lot.

It could have been seconds or minutes that passed as they regarded each other, the only sound that of waves lapping at the side of the ship. 

People still milled around them, but Hester could not hear any conversation, not even the murmur of voices. She may as well have been alone with Henry. Just the two of them. Just like always. 

Finally, he spoke. “I can’t believe you’re here.” 

His voice, too, was not how she remembered it. It was gruffer and deeper, almost toneless in a way she had never heard from him. Perhaps he had inhaled too much of that smoke. 

She tried for a smile, hoping that Henry would not see her unease. “Isn’t that my line?” 

Without another word, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly to his chest, his hands pressing hard into her back. 

Hester neither pulled away nor returned the embrace. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and her face was buried in her brother’s coat. He smelled of coal. 

“Are you okay?” she asked. 

Finally, he released her. “I’m perfect. This is perfect.” He turned his face towards the sea and drew in a deep breath of salt and smog. 

She followed his gaze, but could see nothing beyond the mass of the ship. When she looked back at him, she found him already looking at her. 

He sighed again, deeper, and said, “Let’s go home.” 

The first thing Henry did when they returned to their small seaside apartment was pour himself a glass of whiskey. He moved through the space with complete familiarity. Hester could almost believe he had never left. 

She watched him from the doorway, standing just outside the glow of the kitchen lights. She observed his movements with mingled interest and disquiet. Of all the scenarios she had imagined would come to pass when finally she would see him again, this fulfilled none of them. 

Even as she was dissatisfied, though, she wasn’t sure what exactly she wished was different. 

A dull thrum of anticipation had been building deep inside of her, since she had first seen the boat on the water. The feeling was one she knew intimately: waiting. She had been waiting for months. This was supposed to have been the end of that. 

Henry held the tumbler in his hand; the liquid inside sloshed as he idly tipped it back and forth. He was standing before an old family photograph, back when the apartment had been home to four. 

With the overhead lights on, all that was visible on the glass surface was a harsh white glare. 

Hester, who saw the photograph every day of her life, already knew what it depicted: a family of four standing on a dock, the ocean stretching calm and serene behind them—mother, father, son, daughter. Hester no longer recognized anyone in the photograph. She had left it hanging up not out of any sentimental value, but because it was a sentimental item. It felt like a tribute to a girl who no longer lived there, a girl who would look upon it with fond reminiscence. 

She wondered what Henry felt when he looked at it. That man in the photograph—did he see his own face in that one? 

When she could no longer stand the silence, she asked, “Can you finally tell me now?” 

He tipped his head only slightly, gaze sliding to peer at her from the corner of his eye. “Tell you?” 

Her mouth opened, but she said nothing for several long seconds. The absurdity of the question made her think that it was a joke—Henry did enjoy a good joke—but there was no humor in the weathered lines of his face. “What you were looking for,” she finally answered. When he still said nothing, she added, “You found it, right?” 

It. The entire reason for the voyage in the first place. She did not know exactly what it was—no one did—but it was apparently something that could only be found in the unforgiving Arctic, something important enough to risk his own life and his crewmates’. 

“Oh.” A smile twitched his face, showing a bare glimpse of his teeth. He turned to the photograph once more, but his eyes had gone distant. His voice, when he spoke, did indeed sound as if he were reminiscing, thinking back on some cherished childhood memory. “Oh, yeah. We found it.” 

Hester couldn’t tell, at first, if he was being obtuse on purpose, dragging it out for the suspense. If that was the case, she was not entertained. “What is it? Where is it?” 

Tipping back his glass and emptying it in one drag, he set it with a clink onto the counter before approaching her. 

Her shoulders tightened, though she refused to back away. It was absurd to be wary of a man she had known her entire life. 

But he just paused a step from her and, with another conspiratorial smile, tapped his temple slowly. “It’s right here, Hes.” 

She leaned away, both at the statement—nonsense—and the name. He said it with their father’s voice—that was where she recognized his voice from, she realized. “What?” she asked, unaware of how sharp her tone was until Henry tilted his head at her, smile fading. 

“I told you it would surprise you.” He finally turned away from her to retrieve the bottle of whiskey. 

Hester followed after him, deeper into the kitchen. She smelled the alcohol; it mingled with that heavy, dark scent that still clung to his skin and hair. “Surprise, sure, but . . .” She clenched her fist, willing him to look at her again. “You didn’t say it was nothing.” 

He turned to her once more, frowning deeply. “Hester.” 

Without even noticing it, Hester fell a step back, every muscle in her back tightening. That tone—why did he sound like that? She had almost forgotten that tone. 

“It’s not nothing,” he said, chastising, as he refilled his glass. “Would you say knowledge is nothing?” 

“Knowledge? What is your knowledge? Why . . .”

He didn’t seem to comprehend how generous she was being. Not only had she delayed the question this long, but she had still not asked how he even knew about it in the first place. 

“Oh, sweetie,” he said, and she couldn’t help but bare her teeth. “I can’t tell you.” 

“What?” 

“I could try, but you wouldn’t get it. You have to hear it, directly from the source.” 

“Source? Henry . . .” 

This apartment had been home to four, once. And then for a long time, it was home to two. And finally, it had been home to one. She felt no more or less comfortable in it after she had been left alone. It was neither her prison nor her sanctuary; it was just hers. 

Now, though, peering at her—brother? Could she still call him brother?—she felt like an alien, an interloper. 

Henry was looking at her again—tired eyes, sun-baked skin, frown lines, beard—and she wondered what he was thinking. Could he see her unease? 

Her voice was shamefully weak when she finally asked quietly, “What the hell are you talking about?” 

Tone thick with disapproval, he said, “You should’ve come with me, Hes.” 

“Don’t—” She bit the tip of her tongue, deliberately focusing on his glass and not his face. The light filtered through the amber liquid, the color of honey. “Henry,” she said again, softer. “Why did you go, if you didn’t bring anything back?” 

Back then, as the nights grew longer and longer and the weather grew harsher and harsher, she tried to put herself in her brother’s shoes, tried to imagine wanting to go. It would be hard to organize, to prepare, but she had always thought the hardest part would be to say goodbye. 

Now, as she stared at the honey-colored light through his glass, she was considering for the first time that maybe it had not been hard for him at all. 

“I did,” he said, a new edge to his voice. “I did bring it back. I’m sorry you can’t see it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.” 

“Why did you go,” she asked again, “if this was the only reward?” 

“Hes—” 

“Don’t call me that!” 

“Hes.” He set his glass on the counter with a clink. She flinched. He smiled at her. “I’m happy.” 

She opened her mouth, but could say nothing for a long moment. Finally, she managed, “I don’t care.” 

Sighing, the smile once more abandoned his face. Maybe this coldness was what he had brought back from the Arctic. “Alright. Fine.” 

She clenched her teeth. 

“I can try and show you. I’ll try to help you . . . understand.” 

She wanted to ask him, Understand why you left, or why you came back? But she said nothing, and Henry went on, “Not tonight, though. You should get some rest. You’ve been out in the cold all night, haven’t you?” 

“You’ve been out in the cold too, Henry. For four months.” 

Taking up his glass once more, he tipped it back and drained it. He reached for the bottle again. “Go to sleep.” 

She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to leave him, but she didn’t want to be with him. She tried to soften her voice. “Are you going to bed too? I can stay up with you, if you want.” 

“No, that’s okay. I think I’m going to go outside for a while. Stargaze. Watch the moon.” 

Hester chewed her lip, debating, before finally relenting. “Okay.” Without another word, she left. 

Hester did not sleep. She did not want to dream. Instead, she lay on her worn mattress, curled tight under the many layers she had amassed to block out the cold. 

Her eyes were open, but she could see nothing under the darkness of the covers. She was cocooned, breathing the same thick, warm air again and again. 

Eventually, she pressed her hands over her ears tightly, ducking even closer into herself. It did not drown out the footsteps. 

Heavy. Slow. Rhythmic. Incessant. Heavy boots on hardwood. Each one reverberated. 

They meandered. Hester could track their progress. She could see the map in her mind. There was no end-goal. There was only progress. 

Heavy. Slow. 

Ten minutes became thirty. Thirty minutes became an hour. An hour became two. And then three. And then four. 

Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined it was her roaming the hallways and rooms. 

Heavy steps. Slow steps. Each one pounded in the back of her skull. 

She was sure that dawn was coming soon. She didn’t check the time. She didn’t want to put a number to the experience. Every five minutes, her exhausted mind told her, It’s almost over. 

Even as it did nothing, she kept her hands over her ears. The entirety of her existence was narrowed to those heavy, slow footsteps. 

She closed her eyes, and she was the one walking. She passed darkened doorways and darkened windows. She roved long hallways that had no end. She turned corners she had no memory of. Her footsteps grew louder, more defined. 

Heavy boots, hardwood. 

They stopped. 

She realized only when she blinked her bleary eyes open and stared, sightless, that they had stopped directly outside of her door. 

She could not move from under the blanket, even as she was suffocated by the moist air. Though the steps had stopped, they echoed in her mind. 

The doors in the apartment could not be opened without a creak. And just as it always did, her door creaked as it opened. 

She remained perfectly, completely still, not daring to draw in a single breath. 

There was a heavy, slow footstep. She both felt and heard it. Another came, closer to her. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her mouth formed the words Go away again and again and again, but no sound escaped her. 

One more footstep came, directly beside her bed, and then they were silent once more. 

There was no sound. 

Her chest ached, and she realized that she was still not breathing. Helpless, she exhaled and then drew in a deep gasp as silently as she could, hands shifting to clasp over her mouth. 

She felt as though she could sense a weight hovering above her, an encompassing shadow that she could not escape. 

Her pulse pounded in her head, the only thing she could hear. It was so loud that it almost drowned out the next—

Footstep. Heavy. Slow. Rhythmic. Incessant. 

They crossed gradually to the door. They paused for barely a breath. The door creaked loudly and then shut with a gentle click. 

Still, Hester did not dare move.

She knew with complete, unshakable certainty that what her brother had said was true: He had indeed brought something back with him.