Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,11

a ghost in his own life, existing in a forced blind spot of the world.

At home things were normal. His stepfather stayed entirely out of his business, and his mother was preoccupied with too many other things to give much attention to his troubles. They knew what had happened at school, and what was happening now, but they dismissed it in that self-serving way parents often had of pretending anything they can’t solve is not really a problem.

“I want to transfer to a different high school,” he told his mother, finally taking his principal’s advice, and her response was achingly neutral.

“If you think that’s best.”

He was half convinced if he told her he was dropping out of society and joining a tone cult, she’d say, If you think that’s best.

So when the opera invitation arrived, he hadn’t cared who sent it. Whatever it meant, it was salvation—at least for an evening.

The girl he met in the box seat was nice enough. Pretty, confident—the kind of girl who probably already had a boyfriend, although she never mentioned one. Then the scythe showed up and Rowan’s world shifted back into a dark place. This was the man responsible for his misery. If he could have gotten away with it, Rowan would have pushed him over the railing—but attacks against scythes were not tolerated. The punishment was the gleaning of the offender’s entire family. It was a consequence that ensured the safety of the revered bringers of death.

At the close of the opera, Scythe Faraday gave them a card and very clear instructions.

“You will meet me at this address tomorrow morning, precisely at nine.”

“What should we tell our parents about tonight?” Citra asked. Apparently she had parents who might care.

“Tell them whatever you like. It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re there tomorrow morning.”

• • •

The address turned out to be the Museum of  World Art, the finest museum in the city. It didn’t open until ten, but the moment the security guard saw a scythe coming up the steps of the main entrance, he unlocked the doors and let the three of them in without even having to be asked.

“More perks of the position,” Scythe Faraday told them.

They strolled through galleries of the old masters in silence, punctuated only by the sound of their footfalls and the scythe’s occasional commentaries. “See how El Greco uses contrast to evoke emotional yearning.” “Look at the fluidity of motion in this Raphael—how it brings intensity to the visual story he tells.” “Ah! Seurat! Prophetic pointillism a century before the pixel!”

Rowan was the first to ask the necessary question.

“What does any of this have to do with us?”

Scythe Faraday sighed in mild irritation, although he probably anticipated the question. “I am supplying you with lessons you won’t receive in school.”

“So,” said Citra, “you pulled us out of our lives for some random art lesson? Isn’t that a waste of your valuable time?”

The scythe laughed, and Rowan found himself wishing he had been the one to make him laugh.

“What have you learned so far?” Scythe Faraday asked.

Neither had a response, so he asked a different question.

“What do you think our conversation would have been like had I brought you to the post-mortality galleries instead of these older ones?”

Rowan ventured an answer. “Probably about how much easier on the eye post-mortal art is. “Easier and . . . untroubled.”

“How about uninspired?” prompted the scythe.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Citra.

“Perhaps. But now that you know what you’re looking for in this art of the dying, I want you to try to feel it.” And he led them to the next gallery.

Although Rowan was sure he’d feel nothing, he was wrong.

The next room was a large gallery with paintings hanging floor to ceiling. He didn’t recognize the artists, but that didn’t matter. There was a coherence to the work, as if it had been painted by the same soul, if not the same hand. Some works had a religious theme, others were portraits, and others simply captured the elusive light of daily life with a vibrancy that was missing in post-mortal art. Longing and elation, anguish and joy—they were all there, sometimes commingling in the same canvas. It was in some ways unsettling, but compelling as well.

“Can we stay in this room a little longer?” Rowan asked, which made the scythe smile.

“Of course we can.”

The museum had opened by the time they were done. Other patrons gave them a wide berth. It reminded Rowan of the way they treated