Scythe

by Neal Shusterman

  “I mean to say that . . . that I chose you for gleaning.”

  Bradford looked between the two of them, suddenly deeply relieved, because this was clearly some sort of joke. “Okay, who the hell are you? Who put you up to this?”

  Then the scythe held up his hand, showing his ring. And Bradford’s spirits fell again like the second drop of a roller coaster. That was no fake—it was the real thing “The boy is one of my apprentices,” the scythe said.

  “I’m sorry,” said the boy. “It’s not personal—you just fit a certain profile. Back in the Age of Mortality lots of people died trying to perform rescues. A lot of them were people who jumped into flooded rivers to save their pets. Most of them were good swimmers, but that doesn’t matter in a flood.”

  The dogs! thought Bradford. That’s right, the dogs! “You can’t hurt me!” he said. “You do, and my dogs’ll rip you to pieces.” But where were they?

  Then a girl came out of his bedroom, wearing the same armband as the boy. “I sedated all three,” she said. “They’ll be fine, but they won’t be bothering anyone.” There was blood on her arm. Not the dogs’ but her own. They had bitten her. Good for them.

  “It’s not personal,” the boy said again. “I’m sorry.”

  “One apology is enough,” the scythe told the boy. “Especially when it’s genuine.”

  Bradford guffawed, even though he knew this was real. He just somehow found this funny. His knees weak, he settled onto the sofa and his laughter resolved into misery. How was this fair? How was any of this fair?”

  But then the boy knelt down before him, and when Bradford looked up, he was caught by the boy’s gaze. It was as if he were looking into the eyes of a much older soul.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Ziller,” the boy said. “I know you saved your sister from a fire when you were my age. I know how hard you struggled to save your marriage. And I know you think that your daughter doesn’t love you, but she does.”

  Bradford stared at him, incredulous. “How do you know all this?”

  The boy pursed his lips. “It’s our job to know. Your gleaning won’t change any of that. You lived a good life. Scythe Faraday is here to complete it for you.”

  Bradford begged to make a phone call, pleaded for just one more day, but of course, those things were not granted. They said he could write a note, but he couldn’t bring himself to find anything to write.

  “I know how that feels,” the boy told him.

  “How will you do it?” he finally asked them.

  The scythe responded. ‘“I have chosen for you a traditional drowning. We shall take you to the river. I shall submerge you until your life leaves you.”

  Bradford clenched his eyes. “I’ve heard that drowning is a bad way to go.”

  “Can I give him some of the stuff I gave the dogs?” the girl asked. “Knock him out so that he’ll already be unconscious?”

  The scythe considered it and nodded. “If you choose, we can spare you the suffering.”

  But Bradford shook his head, realizing he wanted every second he had left. “No, I want to be awake.” If drowning was to be his last experience, then let him experience it. He could feel his heart beating faster, his body trembling with the surge of adrenaline. He was afraid, but fear meant he was still alive.

  “Come then,” the scythe told him gently. “We’ll all go down to the river together.”

  • • •

  Citra was awed by how Rowan handled himself. Although he began a little shaky when he first spoke to the man, he took charge. He took the reigns of that man’s fear and gave him peace. Citra only hoped that when it came her turn to make a choice, she could keep her composure as well as Rowan had. All she had done today was tranquilize a few dogs. Sure, she got bitten in the process, but it was nothing, really. She tried to convince Faraday to take the dogs to a shelter, but he wouldn’t have it. He did allow her to call the shelter to come for the dogs. And the coroner to come for the man. The scythe offered to take her to a hospital for some speedhealing of the dog bite on her arm, but she declined. Her own nanites would heal it by morning, and besides, there was something compelling about the discomfort. She owed it to the dead man to hurt a little for him.

  “That was impressive,” she told Rowan on the long ride home.

  “Yeah, right until I puked on the riverbank.”

  “But that was only after he was gleaned,” Citra pointed out. “You gave that man strength to face death.”

  Rowan shrugged. “I guess.”

  Citra found it both maddening and endearing how modest he could be.

  * * *

  There’s a poem by Honorable Scythe Socrates—one of the first scythes. He wrote many poems, but this one has grown to be my personal favorite.

  Have not a hand in the blade with abandon,

  Cull from the fold all the brazen and bold,

  For a dog who just might,

  Love the bark and the bite,

  Is a carrion raven, the craven of old.

  It reminds me that in spite of our lofty ideals and the many safeguards to protect the Scythedom from corruption and depravity, we must always be vigilant, because power comes infected with the only disease left to us: the virus called human nature. I fear for us all if scythes begin to love what they do.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  9

  Esme

  Esme ate far too much pizza. Her mother told her pizza would be the death of her. She never imagined it might actually be true.

  The scythe attack came less than a minute after she was given her slice, piping hot from the oven. It was the end of the school day, and the daily trials of fourth grade had exhausted her. Lunch had sucked. The tuna salad her mother had given her was warm and mildly fermented by the time lunch rolled around. Not exactly appetizing. In fact, none of the food her mother packed for her hit high on the flavor scale. She was trying to get Esme to eat healthier, because Esme had a bit of a weight problem. And although her nanites could be programmed to speed up her metabolism, her mother wouldn’t hear of it. She claimed it would be treating the symptom, not the problem.

  “You can’t solve everything by tweaking your nanites,” her mother told her. “You need to learn self-control.”

  Well, she could learn self-control tomorrow. Today she wanted pizza.

  Her favorite pizza place, Luigi’s, was in the food court of the Fulcrum City Galleria—which was on her way home from school. Sort of. She was negotiating the cheese, trying to figure out how to take that first bite without burning the roof of her mouth, when the scythes arrived. Her back was to them, so she didn’t see them at first. But she heard them—or at least one of them.

  “Good afternoon, good people,” he said. “Your lives are about to change in a fundamental way.”

  Esme turned to see them. Four of them. They were clad in bright robes that glittered. They looked like no one Esme had ever seen. She had never met a scythe. She was fascinated. Until three of them pulled out weapons that glistened even more than their bejeweled robes, and the fourth pulled out a flamethrower.

  “This food court has been selected for gleaning,” their leader said. And they began their terrible mission.

  Esme knew what she had to do. Forgetting her pizza, she dropped beneath the table and crawled away. But she wasn’t the only one. It seemed everyone had dropped and was scrambling on the floor. It didn’t seem to faze the scythes. She could see their feet through the crawling crowd. The fact that their victims were on all fours did not slow them down in the least.

  Now Esme began to panic. She had heard stories of scythes who did mass gleanings, but until now she thought they were nothing but stories.

  Before her she could see the robes of the scythe in yellow, so she doubled back, only to find the scythe in green closing in. Esme crawled through a gap in the tables and between two potted palms that the scythe in orange had set on fire, and when she emerged on the other side of the large
pots, she found herself with no cover.

  She was at the food concessions now. The man who had served her pizza was slumped over the counter, dead. There was a gap between a trash can and the wall. She was not a slim girl, so she thought the skinniest thoughts she could, and squeezed her way into the gap. It was not much of a hiding space, but if she left it, she would be right in the line of fire. She had already seen two people trying to dart across the walkway and both were taken down by steel crossbow arrows. She didn’t dare move. So instead, she buried her face in her hands. She stayed that way, sobbing, listening to the terrible sounds around her, until silence fell. Still she refused to open her eyes until she heard a man say, “Hello there.”

  Esme opened her eyes to see the lead scythe—the one in blue—standing over her.

  “Please . . .” she begged, “please, don’t glean me.”

  The man held out his hand to her. “The gleaning is over,” he said. “There’s no one left but you. Now, take my hand.”

  Afraid to refuse, Esme reached out and placed her hand in his, and rose from her hiding place.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Esme,” he said.

  Esme gasped when she heard him say her name. Why would a scythe be looking for her?

  The other three scythes gathered round. None of them raised a weapon at her.

  “You’ll be coming with us now,” the scythe in blue said.

  “But . . . but my mother.”

  “Your mother knows. I’ve granted her immunity.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  Then the girl scythe, in emerald green, handed Esme a plate. “I believe this was your pizza.

  Esme took it. It was cool enough to eat now. “Thank you.”

  “Come with us,” said the scythe in blue, “and I promise you from this moment on, your life will be everything you’ve ever dreamed it could be.”

  And so Esme left with the four scythes, thankful to be alive, and trying not to think of the many around her who weren’t. This was certainly not the way she imagined her day would go—but who was she to fight against something that rang so clearly of destiny?

  * * *

  Was there ever a time when people weren’t plagued with boredom? A time when motivation wasn’t so hard to come by? When I look at news archives from the Age of Mortality, it seems people had more reasons to do the things they did. Life was about forging time, not just passing time.

  And those news reports—how exciting they were. Filled with all nature of criminal activity. Your neighbor could be a salesperson of illegal chemicals of recreation. Ordinary people would take life without the permission of society. Angry individuals would take possession of vehicles they didn’t own, then lead law enforcement officers in dangerous pursuits on uncontrolled roadways.

  We do have the unsavories nowadays, but they do little more than drop occasional pieces of litter and move shop items to places they don’t belong. No one rages against the system anymore. At most, they just glare at it a bit.

  Perhaps this is why the Thunderhead still allows a measured amount of economic inequality. It could certainly make sure that everyone had equal wealth—but that would just add to the plague of boredom that afflicts the immortal. Although we all have what we need, we’re still allowed to strive for the things we want. Of course, no one strives like they did in mortal days, when the inequality was so great people would actually steal from one another—sometimes ending lives in the process.

  I wouldn’t want the return of crime, but I do tire of we scythes being the sole purveyors of fear. It would be nice to have competition.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  10

  Forbidden Responses

  “Dude, I’m telling you, it’s all anyone can talk about. Everyone thinks you’re becoming a scythe to take revenge on the school!”

  On an mild day in March—on one of the rare afternoons that Scythe Faraday allowed Rowan downtime—Rowan had gone to visit his friend Tyger, who had not splatted once in the past three months. Now they shot hoops at a park just a few blocks away from Rowan’s home—where he wasn’t allowed to visit, and might not have even if he were allowed.

  Rowan threw Tyger the ball. “That’s not why I accepted the apprenticeship.”

  “I know that, and you know that, but people will believe whatever they want to believe.” He grinned. “Suddenly I got all sorts of game because I’m your friend. They think I can get them access to your ring. Immunity talks; death walks.”

  The thought of Tyger playing intercessor on his behalf almost made Rowan laugh. He could see Tyger milking that for all it was worth. Probably charging people for the service.

  Rowan stole the ball and took a shot. He hadn’t played since before moving in with the scythe, but he found his arm, if not his aim. He was stronger than ever—and had endless stamina, all thanks to his Bokator training.

  “So when you get your ring, you are gonna give me immunity, right?” Tyger took a shot and missed. It was clearly intentional. He was letting Rowan win.

  “First of all, I don’t know that he’ll choose me to get the ring. And secondly, I can’t give you immunity.”

  Tyger looked genuinely shocked. “What? Why not?”

  “That’s playing favorites.”

  “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

  A few other kids came to the court and asked if maybe they wanted to play a pick-up game—but the second they saw Rowan’s armband, they had a change of heart.

  “No worries,” the oldest one said. “It’s all yours.”

  It was exasperating. “No, we can all play. . . .”

  “Naah . . . we’ll go somewhere else.”

  “I said we can all play!” Rowan insisted—and he saw such fear in the other kid’s eyes, he felt ashamed for pushing.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure,” said the other kid. He turned to his friends “You heard the man! Play!”

  They took to the court in earnest, and in earnest played to lose, just as Tyger had. Was this how it would always be? Was he now such an intimidating presence that even his own friends would be afraid to truly challenge him? The only one who ever challenged him in any way now was Citra.

  Rowan quickly lost interest in the game and left with Tyger, who found it all amusing. “Dude, you’re not lettuce anymore, you’re deadly nightshade. You’re the mean greens now!”

  Tyger was right. If Rowan had told those other kids to get down on all fours and lick the pavement, they would have. It was heady, and horrible, and he didn’t want to think about it.

  Rowan didn’t know what possessed him to do what he did next. Frustration at his isolation maybe—or maybe just wanting to bring a sliver of his old life into his new one.

  “Wanna come over and see the scythe’s place?”

  Tyger was a little dubious. “Will he mind?”

  “He’s not there,” Rowan told him. “He’s gleaning in another city today. He won’t be home till late.” He knew that Scythe Faraday would blow a brainstem if he found out Rowan had someone over. It made the desire to do it even more enticing. He had been so good, so obedient; it was about time he did something that he wanted to do.

  When they arrived, the house was empty. Citra, who also was granted a free afternoon by Scythe Faraday, was out. He had wanted Tyger to meet her, but then thought, What if they happen to like each other? What if Tyger charms her? He always had a way with girls. He had even convinced a girl to splat with him once, just so he could say, “Girls fall for me—literally.”

  “It’ll be like Romeo and Juliet,” he had told her. “Except we get to come back.”

  Needless to say, the girl’s parents were livid, and after she was revived, they forbade her to see Tyger ever again.

  Tyger shrugged it off. “What can I say? Her life is a tale told by idiots,” which, Rowan believed, was a very bad Shakespeare misquote.

  The thought of Citra falling for Tyger—even just figu
ratively—made Rowan a bit nauseated.

  “This is it?” Tyger said as he looked around the place. “It’s just a house.”

  “What did you expect? A secret underground lair?”

  “Actually, yeah. Or something like it. I mean, look at this furniture—I can’t believe he makes you live in this hell hole.”

  “It’s not so bad. C’mon, I’ll show you something cool.”

  He took Tyger to the weapons den, which, as expected, Tyger found truly impressive.

  “This is so edge! I’ve never seen so many knives—and are those guns? I’ve only seen pictures!” He took a pistol off the wall and looked in the barrel.

  “Don’t do that!”

  “Calm down—I’m a splatter, not a blaster.”

  Rowan took it away from him anyway, and in the time it took to put it back on the wall, Tyger had taken down a machete and was swishing it through the air.

  “Think I could borrow this?”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “C’mon—he’s got so many, he’ll never miss it.”

  Tyger, Rowan knew, was the very definition of “bad idea.” That had always been part of the fun of being his friend. But now that was a major liability. Rowan grabbed Tyger’s arm, kicked him behind the knee to buckle his leg, and spun him to the ground—all in a single Bokator move. Then he held Tyger’s arm at an unnatural angle, with just enough leverage for it to hurt.

  “What the hell!” Tyger said through gritted teeth.

  “Drop the machete. Now!”

  Tyger did—and just then, they heard the front door being opened. Rowan let go. “Be quiet,” he said in a power-whisper.

  He peeked out the door, but couldn’t see who had come in. “Stay here,” he told Tyger, then he slipped out to find Citra closing the front door behind her. She must have been running, because she wore a workout outfit that was much more revealing than Rowan needed at the moment—it drained far too much blood from his brain. So he focused on her apprentice armband to remind himself that hormonal responses were strictly forbidden. Citra looked up and gave him an obligatory greeting.