Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,118
it wasn’t an office. Or a storeroom. It was a classroom.”
He broke down in sobs again as he spoke. “There had to be at least a dozen little kids in there. Cowering. They were cowering from me, Rowan. But there was this one boy. He stepped forward. His teacher tried to stop him, but he stepped forward. He wasn’t afraid. And he held up one of their stupid tuning forks. He held it up like it would ward me off. ‘You won’t hurt us,’ he said. Then he struck it against a desk to make it ring, and held it up to me. ‘By the power of the tone, you won’t hurt us,’ he said. And he believed it, Rowan. He believed in its power. He believed it would protect him.”
“What did you do?”
Volta closed his eyes, and his words came out in a horrible squeal.
“I gleaned him . . . I gleaned them all. . . .”
Then he opened his bloody hand, revealing that he held the boy’s little tuning fork. It tumbled to the ground with a tiny atonal clank.
“What are we, Rowan? What the hell are we? It can’t be what we’re supposed to be.”
“It’s not. It never was. Goddard isn’t a scythe. He may have the ring, he may have license to glean, but he’s not a scythe. He’s a killer, and he has to be stopped. We can find a way to stop him, both of us!”
Volta shook his head and looked at the blood pooling in his palms. “It’s over,” he said again. And then took a deep, shuddering breath and became very, very calm. “It’s over, and I’m glad.”
That’s when Rowan realized that the blood on Volta’s hands was not from his victims. It was from Volta’s own wrists. The gashes were jagged and long. They were made with very clear intent.
“Alessandro, no! You don’t have to do this! We have to call an ambudrone. It’s not too late.”
But they both knew that it was.
“Self-gleaning is every scythe’s last prerogative. You can’t rob that from me, Rowan. Don’t even try.”
His blood was everywhere now, staining the snow of the courtyard. Rowan wailed—never had he felt so helpless. “I’m sorry, Alessandro. I’m so sorry. . . .”
“My real name is Shawn Dobson. Will you call me that, Rowan? Will you call me by my real name?”
Rowan could barely speak through his own tears. “It’s . . . it’s been an honor to know you, Shawn Dobson.”
He leaned on Rowan, barely able to hold up his head, his voice getting weaker. “Promise me you’ll be a better scythe than I was.”
“I promise, Shawn.”
“And then maybe . . . maybe . . .”
But whatever he was going to say, it leaked away with the last of his life. His head came to rest on Rowan’s shoulder, while all around them distant cries of agony filled the icy air.
* * *
Each day I pray as my ancestors did. They once prayed to gods that were fallible and fickle. Then to one God who stood in harsh and terrifying judgment. Then to a loving, forgiving God. And then finally to a power with no name.
But to whom can the immortal pray? I have no answer to that, but still I cast my voice out into the void, hoping to reach something beyond distance and deeper than the depths of my own soul. I ask for guidance. And for courage. And I beg—oh, how I beg—that I never become so desensitized to the death I must deliver that it feels normal. Commonplace.
My greatest wish for humanity is not for peace or comfort or joy. It is that we all still die a little inside every time we witness the death of another. For only the pain of empathy will keep us human. There’s no version of God that can help us if we ever lose that.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Faraday
* * *
36
The Thirteenth Kill
Goddard was in the chapel sanctuary finishing the last of his terrible business. Outside the wails began to fade as Rand and Chomsky finished what they had begun. A building was burning across the courtyard. Smoke and cold air poured in through the broken stained glass windows of the chapel. Goddard stood at the front, by an altar that featured a shining two-pronged fork and a stone bowl of dirty water.
There was only one Tonist left alive in the chapel. He was a balding man, wearing a frock that was slightly different from the