Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,14
to become his apprentice and that he’d be dropping out of school to accept the position.
“If you think that’s best,” she said.
* * *
I had my cultural audit today. It happens only once a year, but it’s never any less stressful. This year, when they crunched each cultural index from those I gleaned over the past twelve months, I, thankfully, came up well within accepted parameters:
20 percent Caucasoid
18 percent Afric
20 percent PanAsian
19 percent Mesolatino
23 percent Other
Sometimes it’s hard to know. A person’s index is considered private, so we can only go by visible traits, which are no longer as obvious as they had been in past generations. When scythes’ numbers become lopsided, they are disciplined by the High Blade, and are assigned their gleanings for the next year rather than being allowed to choose for themselves. It is a sign of shame.
The index is supposed to keep the world free from cultural and genetic bias, but aren’t there underlying factors that we can’t escape? For instance, who decided that the first number of one’s genetic index would be Caucasoid?
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
4
Learner’s Permit to Kill
Forget what you think you know about scythes. Leave behind your preconceived notions. Your education begins today.
Citra could not believe she was actually going through with this. What secret, self-destructive part of herself had asserted its will over her? What had possessed her to accept the apprenticeship? Now there was no backing out. Yesterday—on the third day of the new year—Scythe Faraday had come to her apartment and had given a year’s immunity to her father and brother. He added several months to her mother’s so their immunity would all expire at the same time. Of course, if Citra was chosen to be a full scythe, their immunity would become permanent.
Her parents were tearful when she left. Citra wondered whether they were tears of sorrow, joy, or relief. Perhaps a combination of all three.
“We know you’ll do great things in this world,” her father had said. And she wondered what about bringing death could be considered great.
Do not be so arrogant as to think you have a license to glean. The license is mine and mine alone. At most you have . . . shall we say . . . a learner’s permit. I will, however, require at least one of you to be present at each of my gleanings. And if I ask you to assist, you will.
Citra unceremoniously withdrew from school and said good-bye to friends in awkward little conversations.
“It’s not like I won’t be around, I just won’t be at school anymore.” But who was she kidding? Accepting this apprenticeship put her on the outside of an impenetrable wall. It was both demoralizing yet heartening to know that life would go on without her. And it occurred to her that being a scythe was like being the living dead. In the world, but apart from it. Just a witness to the comings and goings of others.
We are above the law, but that does not mean we live in defiance of it. Our position demands a level of morality beyond the rule of law. We must strive for incorruptibility, and must assess our motives on a daily basis.
While she did not wear a ring, Citra was given an armband to identify her as a scythe’s apprentice. Rowan had one, too—bright green bands bearing the curved blade of a farmer’s scythe above an unblinking eye—the double symbol of the scythehood. That symbol would become a tattoo on the arm of the chosen apprentice. Not that anyone would ever see the tattoo, for scythes are never seen in public without their robes.
Citra had to tell herself that there was an out. She could fail to perform. She could be a lousy apprentice. She could sabotage herself so completely that Honorable Scythe Faraday would be forced to choose Rowan and return her to her family at the end of the year. The problem was that Citra was very bad at doing things half-fast. It would be much harder for her to fail than to succeed.
I will not tolerate any romantic notions between the two of you, so banish the thought from your mind now.
Citra had looked over at Rowan when the scythe said that, and Rowan had shrugged.
“Not a problem,” he said, which irritated Citra. At the very least he could have voiced some minor disappointment.
“Yeah,” Citra said. “No hope of that, with or without the rule.”