Scythe

  “Citra Terranova and Rowan Damisch?” one of the guardsmen asked.

  “Yes?” answered Rowan. He stepped slightly forward, putting a shoulder in front of Citra in a sort of protective stance. He felt it gallant, but Citra found it irritating.

  “You’ll need to come with us.”

  “Why?” asked Rowan. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s not our place to say,” the second guardsman told them.

  Citra pushed Rowan’s protective shoulder to the side. “We’re scythe’s apprentices,” she said, “which means the BladeGuard serves us, and not the other way around. You have no right to take us against our will.” Which was probably untrue, but it gave the guards pause.

  And then came a voice from the shadows.

  “I’ll handle this.”

  Out of the darkness swelled a familiar figure, wholly out of place in Faraday’s neighborhood. The High Blade’s gilded robe did not shine in the dimness of the doorstep. It seemed dull, almost brown.

  “Please . . . you must come with me immediately. Someone will be sent for your things.”

  As Rowan was in pajamas and Citra a bathrobe, neither was too keen to obey, but they both sensed that their nightclothes were the least of their concerns.

  “Where’s Scythe Faraday?” Rowan asked.

  The High Blade took a deep breath in, and sighed. “He invoked the seventh commandment,” Xenocrates said. “Scythe Faraday has gleaned himself.”

  • • •

  High Blade Xenocrates was a bloated bundle of contradictions. He wore a robe of rich baroque brocades, yet on his feet were frayed, treadworn slippers. He lived in a simple log cabin—yet the cabin had been reassembled on the rooftop of Fulcrum City’s tallest building. His furniture was mismatched and thrift-store shabby, yet on the floor beneath them were museum-quality tapestries that could have been priceless.

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he told Rowan and Citra, who were still too shell-shocked to wrap their minds around what had happened. It was morning now, the three of them having ridden in a private hypertrain to Fulcrum City, and they were now out on a small wooden deck that overlooked a well-tended lawn that ended in a sheer ledge and a seventy-story drop. The High Blade did not want anything to obstruct his view—and anyone stupid enough to trip over the edge would deserve the time and cost of revival.

  “It’s always a terrible thing when a scythe leaves us,” the High Blade lamented, “especially one as well-respected as Scythe Faraday.”

  Xenocrates had a full retinue of assistants and flunkies in the outside world to help him go about his business, but here in his home, he didn’t have as much as a single servant. Yet another contradiction. He had brewed them tea, and now poured it for them, offering cream but no sugar.

  Rowan sipped his, but Citra refused the slightest kindness from the man.

  “He was a fine scythe and a good friend,” Xenocrates said. “He will be sorely missed.”

  It was impossible to guess at Xenocrates’ sincerity. Like everything else about him, his words seemed both sincere—and not—at the same time.

  He had told them the details of Scythe Faraday’s demise on the way here. At about ten fifteen the evening before, Faraday was on a local train platform. Then, as a train approached, he hurled himself in front of it. There were several witnesses—all probably relieved that the scythe had gleaned himself and not any of them.

  Had it been anyone but a scythe, his broken body would have been rushed to the nearest revival center, but rules for scythes were very clear. There would be no revival.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” Citra said, fighting tears with little success. “He wasn’t the kind of man who would do something like that. He took his responsibility as a scythe—and training us—very seriously. I can’t believe he would just give up like that. . . .”

  Rowan held his silence on the subject, waiting for the High Blade’s response.

  “Actually,” Xenocrates said, “it makes perfect sense.” He took an excruciatingly long sip of tea before he spoke again. “Traditionally, when a mentor scythe self-gleans, anyone bound to an apprenticeship is unbound.”

  Citra gasped, realizing the implication.

  “He did it,” said Xenocrates, “to spare one of you from having to glean the other.”

  “Which means,” said Rowan, “that this is your fault.” And then he added with a little bit of derision, “Your Excellency.”

  Xenocrates stiffened. “If you are referring to the decision to set the two of you in mortal competition, that was not my suggestion. I was merely carrying out the will of the Scythedom, and frankly, I find your insinuation offensive.”

  “We never heard the will of the Scythedom,” Rowan reminded him, “because there was never a vote.”

  Xenocrates stood, ending the conversation with, “I’m sorry for your loss.” It was more than just Rowan’s and Citra’s loss, though; it was a loss to the entire Scythedom, and Xenocrates knew it, whether he said so or not.

  “So . . . that’s it then?” said Citra. “We go home now?”

  “Not exactly,” said Xenocrates, this time not looking either of them in the eye. “While it’s traditional for the apprentices of dead scythes to go free, another scythe can come forward and take over the training. It’s rare, but it does happen.

  “You?” Citra asked. “You’ve volunteered to train us now?”

  It was Rowan who saw the truth of it in his eyes. “No, it’s not him,” Rowan said. “It’s someone else. . . .”

  “My responsibilities as High Blade would make it far too difficult to take on apprentices. You should be flattered, however; not just one, but two scythes have come forward—one for each of you.”

  Citra shook her head. “No! We were pledged to Scythe Faraday and no one else! He died to free us, so we should be freed!”

  “I’m afraid I’ve already given my blessing, so the matter is settled.” Then he turned to each of them in turn. “You, Citra, will now be the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Curie. . . .”

  Rowan closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next, even before Xenocrates said the words.

  “And you, Rowan, will complete your training in the capable hands of Honorable Scythe Goddard.”

  Part Three

  THE OLD GUARD AND THE NEW ORDER

  * * *

  I have never taken an apprentice. I simply never felt compelled to subject another human being to our way of life. I often wonder what motivates other scythes to do so. For some it is a form of vanity: “Learn from me and be awed because I am so wise.” For others perhaps it is compensation for not being allowed to have children: “Be my son or my daughter for a year, and I will give you power over life and death.” Yet for others, I imagine it is to prepare for their own self-gleaning. “Be the new me, so that the old me can leave this world satisfied.”

  I suspect, however, if I ever take on an apprentice, it will be for a different reason entirely.

  —From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

  * * *

  18

  Falling Water

  At the far eastern edge of MidMerica, near the EastMerica border, was a home with a river running beneath it, spilling from its foundations into a waterfall.

  “It was designed by a very well-known mortal age architect,” Scythe Curie told Citra as she led the way across a footbridge to the front door. “The place had fallen into disrepair; as you can imagine, a home such as this couldn’t survive without constant attention. It was in a horrible state, and no one cared enough to preserve it. Only the presence of a scythe would bring forth the kind of donations required to save it. Now it’s been returned to its former glory.”

  The Scythe opened the door and let Citra step in first. “Welcome to Falling Water,” Scythe Curie said.

  The main floor was a huge open room with a polished stone floor, wooden furniture, a large fireplace, and windows. Lots and lots of windows. The waterfall was right beneath an expansive terrac
e. The sound of the river running beneath the home and over the falls was a constant but calming white noise.

  “I’ve never been in a house with a name,” Citra said as she looked around, doing her best to be unimpressed. “But it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Especially for a scythe. Aren’t you all supposed to live simple lives?”

  Citra knew such a comment could bring forth the scythe’s temper, but she didn’t care. Her presence here meant that Scythe Faraday died for nothing. A beautiful home was no consolation.

  Scythe Curie did not respond in anger. She just said, “I live here not because of its extravagance, but because my presence here is the only way to preserve it.”

  The decor seemed to be frozen in the twentieth century, when the place was built. The only hints of modernization were a few simple computer interfaces in unobtrusive corners. Even the kitchen was a throwback to an earlier time.

  “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

  They climbed a staircase that was lined on the left by layered sheets of granite and echoed on the right by rows and rows of shelved books. The second floor was the scythe’s bedroom suite. The third floor held a smaller bedroom and a study. The bedroom was simply furnished, and, like the rest of the home, had huge windows framed in polished cedar, wrapping around two entire walls. The view of the forest made Citra feel as if she were perched in a treehouse. She liked it. And she hated that she did.

  “You know that I don’t want to be here,” Citra said.

  “At last some honesty from you,” Scythe Curie said with the slightest of grins.

  “And,” added Citra, “I know you don’t like me—so why did you take me on?”

  The scythe looked at her with those cold, inscrutable gray eyes. “Whether or not I like you is irrelevant,” she said. “I have my reasons.”

  Then she left Citra alone in her room without as much as a good-bye.

  • • •

  Citra didn’t remember falling asleep. She hadn’t even considered how exhausted she was. She recalled lying down on the comforter, looking out at the trees, listening to the river roaring endlessly below, wondering if the noise would eventually go from soothing to unbearable. And then she opened her eyes to stark incandescence, squinting at Scythe Curie who was standing in the doorway, by the light switch. It was dark outside now. Not just dark but lightless, like space. She could still hear the river, but couldn’t see even a hint of the trees.

  “Did you forget about dinner?” Scythe Curie asked.

  Citra rose, ignoring the sudden vertigo when she stood. “You could have woken me.”

  Scythe Curie smirked. “I thought I just did.”

  Citra made her way down toward the kitchen—but the scythe let her go first, and she couldn’t quite remember the way. The house was a maze. She took a few wrong turns, and Scythe Curie didn’t correct her. She just waited for Citra to find her way.

  What, Citra wondered, would this woman want to eat? Would she silently accept anything that Citra prepared, as Scythe Faraday had? The thought of the man brought a wave of sorrow chased by anger, but she didn’t know who exactly to be angry at, so it just festered.

  Citra arrived on the main floor ready to assess the contents of the pantry and refrigerator, but to her surprise she found the dinner table set for two, and steaming plates of food already there.

  “I had a hankering for hasenpfeffer,” the scythe said. “I think you’ll like it.”

  “I don’t even know what hasenpfeffer is.”

  “Best if you don’t.” Scythe Curie sat down, and bade Citra to do the same. But Citra wasn’t quite ready, still wondering if this might be a trick.

  Scythe Curie dug a spoon into the rich stew, but paused when she saw Citra still standing. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation?” she asked.

  Citra couldn’t tell if she was irritated or amused. “I’m an apprentice. Why would you cook for me?”

  “I didn’t. I cooked for me. Your grumbling stomach just happened to be in the vicinity.”

  Finally Citra sat and tasted the stew. Flavorful. A little gamey, but not bad. The sweetness of honey-glazed carrots cut the gaminess.

  “The life of a scythe would be dreadful if we didn’t allow ourselves the guilty pleasure of a hobby. Mine is cooking.”

  “This is good,” Citra admitted. Then added, “Thank you.”

  They ate mostly in silence. Citra felt odd not being of service at the table, so she got up to refill the scythe’s glass of water. Scythe Faraday did not have any hobbies—or at least none that he shared with Citra and Rowan.

  The thought of Rowan made her hand tremble as she poured, and she sloshed some water on the table.

  “I’m sorry, Scythe Curie.” She grabbed her own napkin and blotted the spill before it could spread.

  “You’ll need a steadier hand than that if you’re going to be a scythe.” Again, Citra couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sardonic. The woman was even harder for Citra to read than Faraday—and reading people was not her forte by any means. Of course, she never realized that until she spent time with Rowan, who, in his own unobtrusive way, was a master of observation. Citra had to remind herself that she had other skills. Speed and decisiveness of action. Coordination. Those things would have to come into play if she was going to . . .

  She couldn’t finish the thought—wouldn’t allow herself to. The territory where that thought led was still too terrible to consider.

  • • •

  In the morning, Scythe Curie made blueberry pancakes, and then they went out gleaning.

  While Scythe Faraday always reviewed his notes on his chosen subject and used public transportation, Scythe Curie had an old-school sports car that required substantial skill to drive—especially on a winding mountain road.

  “This Porsche was a gift from an antique car dealer,” Scythe Curie explained to her.

  “He wanted immunity?” Citra asked, assuming the man’s motive.

  “On the contrary. I had just gleaned his father, so he already had immunity.”

  “Wait,” said Citra. “You gleaned his father, and he gave you a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he hated his father?”

  “No, he loved his father very much.”

  “Am I missing something?”

  The road ahead of them straightened out, Scythe Curie shifted gears, and they accelerated. “He appreciated the solace I afforded him in the aftermath of the gleaning,” she told Citra. “True solace can be worth its weight in gold.”

  Still, Citra didn’t quite understand—and wouldn’t until much later that evening.

  They went to a town that was hundreds of miles away, arriving around lunchtime. “Some scythes prefer big cities; I prefer smaller towns,” Scythe Curie said. “Towns that perhaps haven’t seen a gleaning in over a year.”

  “Who are we gleaning?” Citra asked as they looked for a parking place—one of the liabilities of taking a car that was off-grid.

  “You’ll find out when it’s time to know.”

  They parked on a main street, then walked—no, strolled—down the street, which was busy but not bustling. Scythe Curie’s leisurely pace made Citra uncomfortable, and she wasn’t sure why.  Then it occurred to her that when she went gleaning with Scythe Faraday, his focus was always on the destination, and that destination wasn’t a place, but a person. The subject. The soul to be gleaned. As awful as that was, it had somehow made Citra feel more secure. With Scythe Faraday, there was always a tangible end to their endeavor. But nothing about Scythe Curie’s manner suggested premeditation at all. And there was a reason for that.

  “Be a student of observation,” Curie told Citra.

  “If you want a student of observation, you should have chosen Rowan.”

  Scythe Curie ignored that. “Look at people’s faces, their eyes, the way they move.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “A sense that they’ve been here too long. A sense that they’re ready to .
. . conclude, whether they know it or not.”

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to discriminate by age.”

  “It’s not about age, it’s about stagnation. Some people grow stagnant before they turn their first corner. For others it could take hundreds of years.”

  Citra looked at the people moving around them—all trying to avoid eye contact and get away from the scythe and her apprentice as quickly as possible, all the while trying not to be obvious about it. A couple stepping out of a café; a businessman on his phone; a woman beginning to cross the street against the light, then coming back, perhaps fearing that jaywalking would get her gleaned.

  “I don’t see anything in anyone,” Citra said, irritated at both the task and her inability to rise to it.

  A group of people came out of an office building—perhaps the tallest one in town at about ten stories. Scythe Curie zeroed in on one man. Her eyes looked almost predatory as she and Citra began to follow him at a distance.

  “Do you see how he holds his shoulders, as if there is an invisible weight upon them?”

  “No.”

  “Can you see how he walks—a little less intently than those around him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you notice how scuffed his shoes are, as if he doesn’t care anymore?”

  “Maybe he’s just having a bad day,” suggested Citra.

  “Yes, maybe,” admitted Scythe Curie, “but I choose to believe otherwise.”

  They closed in on the man, who never seemed to be aware that he was being stalked.

  “All that remains is to see his eyes,” the scythe said. “To be sure.”

  Scythe Curie touched him on the shoulder, he turned, and their eyes met, but only for the slightest moment. Then he suddenly gasped—

  —because Scythe Curie’s blade had already been thrust up beneath his rib cage and into his heart. So quick was Scythe Curie that Citra never saw her do it. She never even saw the scythe pull out her blade.

  The scythe offered no response to the man’s awful surprise; she said nothing to him at all. She just withdrew the blade, and the man fell. He was dead before he hit the pavement. Around them people gasped and hurried away, but not so far away that they couldn’t watch the aftermath. Death was unfamiliar to most of them. It needed to exist in its own bubble, as long as they could stay just beyond its outer edge, peering in.