Scythe

by Neal Shusterman

  “Will it hurt?” he asked.

  Again, she found she couldn’t lie to him about it. “Yes, it will. But not for long.”

  He took a moment to think about that. Process it. Accept it. Then he said, “Can I see it?”

  For a moment she wasn’t sure what he was talking about, until he pointed to the knife. She carefully put it into his hands.

  “It’s heavy,” he said.

  “Did you know that Texan scythes only glean with bowie knives?”

  “Is that where you’ll be going when you’re a scythe? Texas?”

  “No, Ben. I’ll be right here.”

  He turned the knife in his hand, both of them watching as light glinted off the shiny blade. Then he gave it back to her.

  “I’m so scared, Citra,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I know. So am I. Scared is okay.”

  “Will I get ice cream?” he asked. “I hear they give you ice cream at revival centers.”

  Citra nodded, and wiped a tear from his cheek. “Close your eyes, Ben. Think of the ice cream you want. Then tell me.”

  Ben did as he was told. “I want a hot fudge sundae, three scoops, with chocolate chip—”

  Before he could finish, she pulled him close and thrust the blade just as she had seen Scythe Curie do it. She wanted to wail in agony, but wouldn’t let herself.

  Ben opened his eyes. He looked at her, and in a second it was done. Ben was gone. Citra hurled the blade away and cradled her brother. Then laid him gently on the floor. From a door behind them that she hadn’t even seen, two revival medics hurried in, put her deadish brother on a gurney, and went out the way they came.

  Lights came up on the scythes. They seemed so much farther away than before. It seemed like an impossibly long walk to cross the room to them, and they began a bruising barrage of comments.

  “Sloppy.”

  “Not at all; there’s barely any blood.”

  “She put the weapon in his hand. Do you know how risky that was?”

  “And all that unnecessary banter.”

  “She was preparing him—making sure he was ready.”

  “Why should that matter?”

  “She showed courage, but more importantly, she was compassionate. Isn’t that what we’re called upon to be?”

  “We’re called upon to be efficient.”

  “Efficiency must be in service to compassion!”

  “That’s a matter of opinion!”

  Then the scythes fell silent, apparently agreeing to disagree. She suspected that Scythes Mandela and Meir were on her side, and that the irritable one was not. As for the other two, she had no idea where they stood.

  “Thank you, Miss Terranova,” said Scythe Meir. “You may go now. The results will be announced at conclave tomorrow.”

  Scythe Curie was waiting for her in the hall. Citra found herself furious at the woman. “You should have told me!”

  “It would only have made it worse. And if they sensed that you knew before you went in that room, you would have been disqualified.” She looked at Citra’s hands. “Come, you need to wash up. There’s a bathroom just this way.”

  “How did it go with the other candidates?” Citra asked.

  “From what I heard, one young woman flatly refused and left the room. One boy began, but broke down and couldn’t complete what he started.”

  “What about Rowan?” Citra asked.

  Scythe Curie wouldn’t look at her. “He drew the pistol as his weapon.”

  “And?”

  Still Scythe Curie hesitated.

  “Tell me!”

  “He pulled the trigger even before they finished reading him the instructions.”

  Citra grimaced at the thought. Scythe Curie was right—he didn’t sound like the same Rowan she used to know. What had he been through to turn him so cold? She didn’t dare imagine.

  * * *

  I am the blade that is swung by your hand,

  Slicing a rainbow’s arc,

  I am the clapper, but you are the bell,

  Tolling the gathering dark.

  If you are the singer, then I am the song,

  A threnody, requiem, dirge.

  You’ve made me the answer for all the world’s need,

  Humanity’s undying urge.

  —“Threnody,”

  from the collected works of H.S. Socrates

  * * *

  39

  Winter Conclave

  At midnight, immunity for Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch expired. Either one could now be gleaned, and if the edict was followed—and the Scythedom would make certain that it was—one would glean the other.

  Around the world, scythes convened to discuss matters of life, but more to the point, matters of death. The first conclave of the year for MidMerica was to be a historic one. Never before had scythes permanently lost their lives in a gleaning event, and the controversial nature of that event made it even more significant—as well as the controversy surrounding one apprentice’s three-month absence, following a bogus accusation by the MidMerican High Blade. Even the World Scythe Council had their eye on Fulcrum City today, and although the names of apprentices are rarely known beyond their regional bejeweling committee, scythes from every corner of the globe now knew the names of Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch.

  Fulcrum City was blistering cold that morning. Ice layered the marble steps leading up to the Capitol, making the stairs treacherous. More than one scythe slipped, spraining an ankle or breaking an arm. Healing nanites were taxed that morning, to the delight of spectators, who were thrilled by anything that slowed the scythes’ ascent, allowing more photo ops.

  • • •

  Rowan arrived alone in a publicar, with no sponsor and no one to shepherd him in. He was dressed in the one color that scythes shunned—black. It made his green apprentice armband stand out and gave him a silent air of defiance. At Harvest Conclave he had been a footnote, if that. But now spectators jockeyed for position to take his picture. He ignored them, looking at no one as he climbed the stairs, making sure to keep his footing firm.

  One scythe next to him stumbled on the ice and fell. Scythe Emerson, Rowan thought it was, although they’d never been introduced. Rowan reached out his hand to help the man up, but Emerson just glared at him and refused his help.

  “I want no assistance from you,” he told Rowan, the emphasis on the word “you” filled with more vitriol than anyone had expressed to Rowan in all his seventeen years.

  But then, when he reached the top of the stairs, a scythe he didn’t even know greeted him, and said in a comforting voice, “You’ve endured more than any apprentice should, Mr. Damisch. I do hope you achieve scythehood. And once you do, I hope we might share a pot of tea.”

  The offer sounded genuine, and not the product of political posturing. This was the way of things as he entered the rotunda. Hard glares from some and comforting grins from others. It seemed few were undecided about him. He was either the victim of circumstance or a criminal the likes of whom had not been seen since the Age of Mortality. Rowan wished he knew which of the two it was.

  • • •

  Citra had arrived before Rowan. She stood with Scythe Curie in the rotunda, with no appetite to partake of the lavish breakfast spread. The conversation in the rotunda was, of course, all about the Tonist cloister tragedy. And as Citra listened to various snippets of conversation, she found herself angered that it was all about the four dead scythes. No one lamented that so many Tonists were gleaned. Some, in fact, callously joked about it.

  “In the wake of the Tonist tragedy, conclave takes on a certain . . . resonance, don’t you think?” she heard someone say. “No pun intended.” But of course it was.

  Scythe Curie was even more anxious than she had been at Harvest Conclave.

  “Scythe Mandela told me that you performed well last night,” she told Citra. “But even as he said it, he was guarded.”

  “What do you think that means?”r />
  “I don’t know. All I know is that if you lose today, Citra, I will never forgive myself.”

  It was absurd to think that the great Scythe Marie Curie, Grande Dame of Death, would care so much for her—and would even think there could be any failure on her own part. “I’ve had the benefit of being trained by the two greatest scythes who ever lived—you and Scythe Faraday. If that hasn’t prepared me for today, nothing could have.”

  Scythe Curie beamed with bittersweet pride. “When this is over and you are ordained, I hope you’ll do me the esteemed honor of staying on with me as a junior scythe. Others will make advances—perhaps even from distant regions. They’ll try to tell you there are things you can learn from them that you couldn’t learn from me. Perhaps that’s true, but I do hope you’ll choose to remain anyway.” Her eyes were on the brink of tears. If she blinked, they would fall—but Scythe Curie kept them pooled on her lower lashes, too proud to be seen weeping in conclave.

  Citra smiled. “I would have it no other way, Marie.” It was the first time Citra had ever called her by her first name. She was surprised at how natural it felt.

  As they waited for conclave to convene, other scythes came up to greet them. None spoke of Citra’s detainment, or her escape to the Chilargentine Region, but some did joke with Marie about that embarrassing journal entry.

  “In the Age of Mortality love and murder often went hand in hand,” quipped Scythe Twain. “Perhaps our dear Scythe Faraday might have pegged you perfectly.”

  “Oh, go glean yourself,” Curie said, only partially suppressing her grin.

  “Only if I can attend my own funeral, my dear.” Then he wished Citra good luck, and sauntered off.

  That’s when Citra saw Rowan enter the rotunda. It wasn’t exactly as if silence fell all over the room, but the volume did dip significantly, and then rose again. There was a presence about him now. Not like that of a scythe, but something else. A pariah, perhaps. But never had a pariah had such a chilling effect on bringers of death. There were those who were saying that Rowan had killed those scythes in cold blood, and set the fire to hide the evidence. Others said he was lucky to have survived and bore no guilt. Citra suspected that whatever the truth was, it was much more complicated than either of those things.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Scythe Curie said, when she saw her glancing in his direction. “Don’t even let him see you looking his way. It will just make things more difficult for both of you.”

  “I know,” Citra admitted, although she secretly hoped he would be brash enough to push through the crowd and come to her. And maybe say something—anything—that would prove to her he wasn’t the unthinkable criminal people were saying he was.

  If she was chosen today, Citra would not defy the edict to glean Rowan—but she did have a plan that might save both of them. It was far from foolproof—and to be brutally honest with herself, it was more like a desperate grasping at straws than a plan. But even the faintest glimmer of hope was better than no hope at all. If she was deluding herself, at least it would allow her to get through this awful day.

  • • •

  Rowan had played this day over in his mind many times from beginning to end. He had decided that he would not go up to Citra when he saw her. He did not need an advisor to tell him it was better this way. Let them stay separate and apart until that miserable moment of truth that would keep them apart forever.

  If she won, Rowan was certain she would glean him. She was duty bound to do it. It would tear her apart, but in the end, she would do what had to be done. He wondered how she might go about it. Perhaps she would break his neck, bringing everything full circle and wrapping up their doomed twin apprenticeship with a nice red bow.

  Admittedly, Rowan was afraid to die, but what he feared more than death were the depths that he now knew he was capable of reaching. The ease with which he had rendered his mother deadish during his test the night before spoke volumes about the person he’d become. He’d rather be gleaned than be that person.

  Of course, it was possible he’d be chosen instead of Citra. Then things would get interesting. He decided he wouldn’t glean himself—that would be too pointless and pathetic a gesture. If he was ordained, he would defy the edict, invoking the tenth commandment, which clearly said he was beholden to no laws beyond the ten—including any edicts levied by the Scythedom. He would refuse to glean Citra, and defend her life by taking out any scythes who tried to do it for him, with bullet, blade, and his own bare hands. He would turn conclave into a brutal and bloody battleground until they took him down—which wouldn’t be easy, considering how skilled he’d become at killcraft and how motivated he was to wreak as much havoc as possible. And the irony of it was that they couldn’t even glean him for it! Once he was ordained, their hands were tied by the seventh commandment.

  They could punish him, though.

  They could make him die a thousand deaths and then lock him away for eternity—and it would truly be eternity, because he would never give them the satisfaction of gleaning himself. Another reason why he would rather be gleaned by Citra. A single death at her capable hands sounded awfully good when compared with the alternative.

  The breakfast spread in the rotunda was an elaborate one. Slabs of real smoked salmon, hard-crusted artisan breads, and a waffle station with every conceivable topping. Only the best for the MidMerican scythes.

  Rowan ate with rare gluttony that morning, for once allowing himself to fully sate his appetite, and as he ate, he stole a few glances at Citra. Even now, she looked radiant to him. How ridiculous that he’d still be romanticizing her in these final hours. What could have once been love was now the resignation of a heart long broken. Luckily for Rowan, his heart had grown so cold, its fracturing could not hurt him anymore.

  • • •

  Once conclave convened, Citra found herself tuning out most of the morning’s ritual, choosing to fill her mind with memories of the life she was about to leave—because in one way or another, she would be leaving it. She focused on thoughts of her parents, and her brother—who was still in a revival center.

  If she was ordained today, the home where she grew up would never be home again. Her biggest consolation would be that Ben and her parents would have immunity from gleaning for as long as Citra lived.

  After the tolling of the names and the ritual washing, the entire morning was dedicated to a heated debate about whether or not fire should be banned as a method of gleaning.

  Usually High Blade Xenocrates did nothing but mediate and postpone discussions for a later date. The fact that he was advocating for the ban was something everyone in attendance took seriously. Even so, there were strong voices against it.

  “I will not have my rights to bear arms trampled upon!” railed one disgruntled scythe. “Every one of us should have the freedom to use flamethrowers, explosives, and any other incendiary device!”

  It was met with both boos and applause.

  “We need this ban to protect us from tragic accidents in the future,” insisted Xenocrates.

  “It was no accident!” someone shouted, and almost half the room voiced their bitter agreement. Citra looked to Rowan, who sat with two empty seats on either side of him, for they were still earmarked for the dead. He made no move to defend himself or to deny the claim.

  Scythe Curie leaned closer to Citra. “As terrible as that fire was, there are plenty of scythes happy to see Goddard and his disciples permanently removed from duty. Although they’d never admit it, they’re glad the fire happened, whether it was an accident or not.”

  “And there are a lot of others who admired Goddard,” Citra pointed out.

  “Indeed. The Scythedom seems evenly split on that matter.”

  Regardless, common sense finally prevailed, and fire was banned in MidMerica as a method of gleaning.

  At lunch, Citra—who still found she couldn’t eat—watched from a distance as Rowan stuffed himself just as he had at breakfast, as if he had no care in th
e world.

  “He knows it’s his last meal,” a scythe she didn’t know suggested. Although the woman was clearly showing her support for Citra, Citra found herself annoyed.

  “I can’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  The scythe walked away, confused by Citra’s hostility.

  • • •

  At six that evening, all other conclave business ceased and the day revolved into its final stage.

  “Candidates for scythehood, please rise,” commanded the Conclave Clerk.

  Citra and Rowan rose to a rumble of whispers in the assembly.

  “I thought there were four,” said the High Blade.

  “There were, Your Excellency,” said the clerk. “But the other two failed their final test and were dismissed.”

  “Very well then,” said Xenocrates, “let’s get on with it.”

  The clerk stood up, formally announcing them. “The MidMerican Scythedom calls Rowan Daniel Damisch and Citra Querida Terranova. Please come forward.”

  Then, keeping their eyes fixed on Scythe Mandela, who waited for them before the rostrum with a single ring, Citra and Rowan strode to the front of the assembly hall to meet their destiny, one way or another.

  * * *

  It is with bittersweet joy that I watch the bejeweling of new junior scythes at the end of each conclave. Joy, because they are our hope, and still kindle the idealism of the first scythes in their hearts. But bittersweet because I know that someday they will become so tired and jaded they will take their own lives, as all those first scythes eventually did.

  Yet each time the new scythes are bejeweled, I still rejoice, because it allows me, if only for a few glorious moments, to believe that we will all choose to live forever.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  40

  The Ordained

  “Hello, Citra. It’s good to see you.”