Scythe

by Neal Shusterman

  “I understand, Your Honor.”

  Then the scythe held up his ring, and the captain kissed it with such force, he cracked a tooth.

  • • •

  Rowan felt his skin crawling beneath Scythe Goddard’s blood-soaked robe, but as unpleasant as it was, he needed it to play the part. He was far more convincing than he thought he’d be. He frightened himself.

  The firefighters now directed all their attention to adjacent buildings, hosing down nearby roofs with fire retardant. Rowan found himself standing alone between the burning Tonist cloister and the crowds still held back by peace officers. He stayed until the steeple caved in and the giant fork at its apex plunged into the flames, resounding with a mournful clang as it hit the ground.

  I have become the monster of monsters, he thought as he watched it all burn. The butcher of lions. The executioner of eagles.

  Then, trying not to trip over the robe, Rowan strode away from the all-consuming inferno that would leave nothing behind of Scythe Goddard and his disciples but bones too charred to ever be revived.

  Part Five

  SCYTHEHOOD

  * * *

  Scythes Rand and Chomsky have these morbid conversations. They’re twisted, and the first to admit it, but I guess that’s part of their charm. Today they were talking about the method they might use to self-glean one day. Noam said he would climb to the top of an active volcano, and, surrounded by grand ceremony, hurl himself into the lava. Ayn said she would scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef until she either ran out of air or got eaten by a great white. They wanted me to join in their game and tell them how I’d want to go. Call me boring, but I didn’t want to play. Why talk about self-gleaning when it should be the furthest thing from our minds? It’s our job to end other people’s lives, not our own—and I intend to be doing it well into my thousands.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Volta

  * * *

  37

  Shaking the Tree

  “A tragedy. A terrible tragedy.” High Blade Xenocrates sat on a plush sofa in the grandiose mansion that had, until just two days ago, been occupied by the late Scythe Goddard. Now he faced the apprentice, who seemed much too calm for a young man who had been through such an ordeal.

  “Rest assured that the use of fire by any MidMerican scythe will be banned in conclave tomorrow,” he said.

  “That’s definitely long overdue,” Rowan told him—speaking not like an apprentice, but more like an equal, which irritated the High Blade. Xenocrates took a good look at Rowan. “You were very lucky to get out of there alive.”

  Rowan looked him square in the eye. “I was stationed by the outer gate,” he said. “By the time I saw that the fire had gotten out of control, there was nothing I could do; Scythe Goddard and the others were trapped. That place was a maze—they never stood a chance.” Then Rowan paused. He seemed to look as deeply into Xenocrates as Xenocrates was looking into him. “All the other scythes must see me as very bad luck. After all, I’ve gone through two scythes in one year. I suppose this nullifies my apprenticeship.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve come this far,” Xenocrates told him. “Out of respect for Scythe Goddard, you’ll take your final test tonight. I can’t speak for the bejeweling committee, but I have no doubt that, taking into consideration what you’ve been through, they will find in your favor.”

  “And Citra?”

  “If you receive the ring, I trust you’ll glean Miss Terranova, and thus put an end to this unpleasant chapter of our history.”

  A servant arrived with champagne and finger sandwiches. Xenocrates looked around. The mansion, which had been so full of servants in days past, now seemed to have only this one. The others must have fled the moment they heard that Scythe Goddard and his associates had succumbed to fire. Apparently, Xenocrates wasn’t the only one who felt freed by Goddard’s untimely end.

  “Why are you still here when the others have all left?” he asked the servant. “It certainly couldn’t be out of loyalty.”

  It was Rowan who answered him. “Actually, this estate belongs to him.”

  “Yes,” said the man. “But I’ll be putting it up for sale. My family and I couldn’t imagine living here anymore.” He put a champagne flute into Xenocrates hand. “But I’m always happy to serve a High Blade.”

  Apparently, the man had gone from servant to sycophant. Not a very far leap. Once he had left the room, Xenocrates got down to the real reason he had come: To shake the tree and see what, if anything, would fall out. He leaned a little closer to Rowan.

  “There are rumors that a scythe—or at least someone who looked like a scythe—came out to address the firefighters.”

  Rowan didn’t even blink. “I heard that too—there are even some phone videos that people uploaded. Very blurry from all the smoke. Can’t see much of anything.”

  “Yes, it just adds to the general confusion, I suppose.”

  “Will there be much more, Your Excellency? Because I’m pretty exhausted, and if I’m going to face my final test tonight, I’ll need to rest up for it.”

  “You do know that not everyone in the Scythedom is convinced that it was an accident. We’ve had to begin an investigation, just to be sure.”

  “Makes sense,” said Rowan.

  “So far we were able to identify Scythe Volta and Scythe Chomsky by their rings, and the gems from their robes, which were around their remains. Rubies for Chomsky, citrines for Volta. As for scythe Rand, we’re fairly certain she’s in the debris beneath the huge tuning fork that had fallen through the chapel roof.”

  “Makes sense,” Rowan said again.

  “But finding Scythe Goddard has proven to be a challenge. Of course there were so many Tonists gleaned in the chapel before the fire got out of control, it’s quite an ordeal trying to come up with a positive identification. One would assume that, like the others, Scythe Goddard’s remains would be surrounded by small diamonds, and the larger jewel of his scythe’s ring, even if the setting melted.”

  “Makes sense,” Rowan said for the third time.

  “What doesn’t make sense is that the skeleton we think is his doesn’t have any of those things,” said Xenocrates. “And it also has no skull.”

  “That’s weird,” said Rowan. “Well, I’m sure it must be there somewhere.”

  “One would think.”

  “Maybe they need to look a little harder.”

  Just then, Xenocrates noticed the girl standing at the threshold of the room, lingering there, not sure whether to enter or walk away. Xenocrates couldn’t be sure how much she had heard—or even if it mattered.

  “Esme,” said Rowan, “come in. You remember His Excellency, High Blade Xenocrates, don’t you?”

  “Yah,” she said. “He jumped in the pool. It was funny.”

  Xenocrates shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the ordeal. It was not something he cared to remember.

  “I’ve made arrangements for Esme to be returned to her mother,” Rowan said. “But maybe you’d like to take her there yourself.”

  “Me?” said Xenocrates, feigning indifference. “Why would I want to?”

  “Because you care about people,” Rowan said with a well-timed wink. “Some more than others.”

  As the High Blade regarded the daughter that he could never publicly or even privately acknowledge, he melted just the tiniest bit. The boy had planned this, hadn’t he? This Rowan Damisch was a sly one—an admirable trait when properly directed. Perhaps Rowan warranted more attention than the High Blade had given him in the past.

  Esme waited to see what would happen, and Xenocrates finally offered her a warm smile. “It would be my pleasure to take you home, Esme.”

  With that, Xenocrates rose to leave . . . but he couldn’t go just yet. There was still one more thing he had to do. One more decision that was in his power to make. He turned back to Rowan.

  “Perhaps I should use my influence to call off the investigation,” he said. “Out of respect for
our fallen comrades. Let their memory be untainted by clumsy forensics that might cast aspersions on their legacy.”

  “Let the dead be dead,” agreed Rowan.

  And so an unspoken agreement was reached. The High Blade would cease shaking the tree, and Rowan would keep the High Blade’s secret safe.

  “If you need a place to stay once leaving here, Rowan, please know that my door is always open for you.”

  “Thank you, Your Excellency.”

  “No, thank you, Rowan.”

  Then the High Blade took Esme’s hand and left to return her home.

  * * *

  The power of life and death cannot be handed out blithely, but only with stoic and weighty reserve. Ascension to scythehood should by no means be easy. We who have established the Scythedom have faced our own struggles in the process, and we must ensure that all those who join us in our mission face a trial that is not only instructive but transformative. Scythehood is humanity’s highest calling, and to achieve it should cut one’s soul to the very core, so that no scythe will ever forget the cost of the ring they bear.

  Of course, to those on the outside, our rite of passage might seem unthinkably cruel. Which is why it must forever remain a secret sacrament.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Prometheus, the first World Supreme Blade

  * * *

  38

  The Final Test

  On January second, Year of the Capybara, the day before Winter Conclave, Scythe Curie took Citra on the long drive to the MidMerica Capitol Building.

  “Your final test will be tonight, but you won’t know the results until tomorrow’s conclave,” she told Citra. But Citra already knew that. “It’s the same test, year to year, for every apprentice. And each apprentice must take the test alone.”

  That was something Citra didn’t know. It only made sense that the final test would be some sort of standard that all candidates had to pass, but somehow the thought of having to face that test alone, and not in the company of the others, was troubling. Because now it wouldn’t be a competition with Rowan and the others. She’d be competing against no one but herself.

  “You should tell me what the test is.”

  “I can’t,” said Scythe Curie.

  “You mean you won’t.”

  Scythe Curie thought about that. “You’re right. I won’t.”

  “If I may speak frankly, Your Honor . . .”

  “When have you ever not spoken frankly, Citra?”

  Citra cleared her throat and tried to be her most persuasive self. “You play too fair, and it puts me at a disadvantage. You wouldn’t want me to suffer just because you’re too honorable, would you?”

  “In our line of work we must hold on to every bit of honor we have.”

  “I’m sure other scythes tell their apprentices what the final test is.”

  “Perhaps,” said Scythe Curie, “but then again, perhaps not. There are some traditions not even the unscrupulous among us would dare break.”

  Citra crossed her arms and said nothing more. She knew she was pouting, she knew it was childish, but she didn’t care.

  “You trust Scythe Faraday, do you not?” asked Scythe Curie.

  “I do.”

  “Have you come to trust me at least as much?”

  “I have.”

  “Then trust me now and let the question go. I have faith in your ability to shine in the final test without knowing what the test is.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  • • •

  They arrived at eight that evening, and were told that, by the luck of the draw, Citra was to be tested last. Rowan and the two other candidates for Scythedom were to go first. She and Scythe Curie were put in a room to wait, and wait, and wait some more.

  “Was that a gunshot?” Citra said, perhaps an hour in. Citra didn’t know whether or not it had been her imagination.

  “Shhhh,” was Scythe Curie’s only response.

  Finally a guard came to get her. Scythe Curie did not wish her good luck—just gave her a serious nod. “I’ll be waiting for you when you’re done,” she said.

  Citra was brought to a long room that seemed unpleasantly cold. There were five scythes seated in comfortable chairs at one end. She recognized two of them: Scythe Mandela and Scythe Meir. The other three she did not. The bejeweling committee, she realized.

  Before her was a table covered with a clean white tablecloth. And on that tablecloth, evenly spaced, were weapons: a pistol, a shotgun, a scimitar, a bowie knife, and a vial with a poison pill.

  “What are these for?” Citra asked. Then she realized it was a stupid question. She knew what they were for. So she rephrased it. “What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?”

  “Look to the other end of the room,” Scythe Mandela told her, pointing. A spotlight came up on another chair at the far end of the long room that had been hidden in shadows; one not as comfortable as theirs. Someone sat in it, hands and legs bound, with a canvas hood covering his or her head.

  “We want to see how you might glean,” Scythe Meir said. “For this purpose we’ve prepared a unique subject for you to demonstrate.”

  “What do you mean, ‘unique?’”

  “See for yourself,” said Scythe Mandela.

  Citra approached the figure. She could hear faint snuffling from beneath the hood. She pulled it off.

  Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Now she understood why Scythe Curie did not tell her.

  Because bound to that chair, gagged, terrified, and tearful, was her brother, Ben.

  He tried to speak, but nothing but muffled grunts came from behind the gag.

  She backed away, then ran back to the five scythes.

  “No! You can’t do this! You can’t make me do it.”

  “We can’t make you do anything,” said one of the scythes she didn’t know, a woman in violet with PanAsian leanings. “If you do this, you do it by choice.” Then the woman stepped forward and held a small box out to Citra. “Your weapon will be random. Choose a slip of paper from the box.”

  Citra reached in and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She dared not open it. She turned to look at her brother, sitting so helpless in the chair.

  “How can you do this to people?” she screamed.

  “My dear,” said Scythe Meir with practiced patience, “it’s not a gleaning, because you are not yet a scythe. You merely have to render him deadish. An ambudrone will take him to be revived as soon as you complete the task we’ve put before you.”

  “But he’ll remember!”

  “Yes,” said Scythe Mandela. “And so will you.”

  One of the other scythes she did not know crossed his arms and huffed, much the way she had done on the drive here. “She’s too resistant,” he said. “Let her go. This night’s already gone on too long.”

  “Give her time,” said Scythe Mandela sternly.

  The fifth scythe, a short man with an odd frown about him, stood and read from a sheet of parchment that could have been hundreds of years old. “You may not be coerced into doing this. You may take all the time you need. You must use the weapon assigned. When you are done, you will leave the subject and approach the committee to be assessed on your performance. Is all of this clear to you?”

  Citra nodded.

  “A verbal response, please.”

  “Yes, it’s clear.”

  He sat back down, and she unfolded the slip of paper. On it was a single word.

  Knife.

  She dropped the paper to the floor. I can’t do this, she told herself, I can’t. But Scythe Curie’s voice came gently to her. Yes, Citra, you can.

  It was then it occurred to her that every scythe, since the Scythedom began, had to take this test. Every single one of them was forced to take the life of someone they loved. Yes, that person would be revived, but it didn’t change the cold-blooded act. A person’s subconscious mind can’t differentiate between permanent and temporary killings. Even after he’s reviv
ed, how could she bear to face her brother again? Because if she kills Ben, she will always have killed him.

  “Why?” she asked. “Why must I do this?”

  The irritable scythe gestured to the door. “There’s the exit. If it’s too much for you, then leave.”

  “I think she means it as a legitimate question,” said Scythe Meir.

  The irritable scythe scoffed, the short one shrugged. The PanAsian one tapped her foot, and Scythe Mandela leaned forward.

  “You must do this so that you can move forward as a scythe,” Scythe Mandela said, “knowing in your heart that the most difficult thing you’ll ever have to do . . . has already been done.”

  “If you can do this,” added Scythe Meir, “then you have the inner strength needed to be a scythe.”

  Even though a big part of Citra wanted to bolt through the door and run from this, she squared her shoulders, stood tall, reached down, and took the bowie knife. Concealing it in her waist, she approached her brother. Only when she was close to him did she pull it out.

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. She knelt down and used the knife to cut the bonds on his legs, then the ones that held his wrists to the chair. She tried to untie his gag, but couldn’t, so she cut that as well.

  “Can I go home now?” asked Ben with a helpless voice that was more than enough to break her heart.

  “Not yet,” she told him, still kneeling beside him. “Soon, though.”

  “Are you going to hurt me, Citra?”

  Citra couldn’t control her tears, and didn’t even try. What was the point? “Yes, Ben. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you going to glean me?” He could barely get the words out.

  “No,” she told him. “They’ll take you to a revival center. You’ll be good as new.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He seemed the tiniest bit relieved. She didn’t explain to him why she had to do this, and he didn’t ask. He trusted her. Trusted that whatever reason she had, it was a good one.