Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,30
coming with us now,” the scythe in blue said.
“But . . . but my mother.”
“Your mother knows. I’ve granted her immunity.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Then the girl scythe, in emerald green, handed Esme a plate. “I believe this was your pizza.
Esme took it. It was cool enough to eat now. “Thank you.”
“Come with us,” said the scythe in blue, “and I promise you from this moment on, your life will be everything you’ve ever dreamed it could be.”
And so Esme left with the four scythes, thankful to be alive, and trying not to think of the many around her who weren’t. This was certainly not the way she imagined her day would go—but who was she to fight against something that rang so clearly of destiny?
* * *
Was there ever a time when people weren’t plagued with boredom? A time when motivation wasn’t so hard to come by? When I look at news archives from the Age of Mortality, it seems people had more reasons to do the things they did. Life was about forging time, not just passing time.
And those news reports—how exciting they were. Filled with all nature of criminal activity. Your neighbor could be a salesperson of illegal chemicals of recreation. Ordinary people would take life without the permission of society. Angry individuals would take possession of vehicles they didn’t own, then lead law enforcement officers in dangerous pursuits on uncontrolled roadways.
We do have the unsavories nowadays, but they do little more than drop occasional pieces of litter and move shop items to places they don’t belong. No one rages against the system anymore. At most, they just glare at it a bit.
Perhaps this is why the Thunderhead still allows a measured amount of economic inequality. It could certainly make sure that everyone had equal wealth—but that would just add to the plague of boredom that afflicts the immortal. Although we all have what we need, we’re still allowed to strive for the things we want. Of course, no one strives like they did in mortal days, when the inequality was so great people would actually steal from one another—sometimes ending lives in the process.
I wouldn’t want the return of crime, but I do tire of we scythes being the sole purveyors of fear. It would be nice to have competition.
—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie
* * *
10
Forbidden Responses
“Dude, I’m telling you, it’s all anyone can talk about. Everyone thinks you’re becoming a scythe to take revenge on the school!”
On an mild day in March—on one of the rare afternoons that Scythe Faraday allowed Rowan downtime—Rowan had gone to visit his friend Tyger, who had not splatted once in the past three months. Now they shot hoops at a park just a few blocks away from Rowan’s home—where he wasn’t allowed to visit, and might not have even if he were allowed.
Rowan threw Tyger the ball. “That’s not why I accepted the apprenticeship.”
“I know that, and you know that, but people will believe whatever they want to believe.” He grinned. “Suddenly I got all sorts of game because I’m your friend. They think I can get them access to your ring. Immunity talks; death walks.”
The thought of Tyger playing intercessor on his behalf almost made Rowan laugh. He could see Tyger milking that for all it was worth. Probably charging people for the service.
Rowan stole the ball and took a shot. He hadn’t played since before moving in with the scythe, but he found his arm, if not his aim. He was stronger than ever—and had endless stamina, all thanks to his Bokator training.
“So when you get your ring, you are gonna give me immunity, right?” Tyger took a shot and missed. It was clearly intentional. He was letting Rowan win.
“First of all, I don’t know that he’ll choose me to get the ring. And secondly, I can’t give you immunity.”
Tyger looked genuinely shocked. “What? Why not?”
“That’s playing favorites.”
“Isn’t that what friends are for?”
A few other kids came to the court and asked if maybe they wanted to play a pick-up game—but the second they saw Rowan’s armband, they had a change of heart.
“No worries,” the oldest one said. “It’s all yours.”
It was exasperating. “No, we can all play. . . .”
“Naah . . . we’ll go somewhere else.”
“I said we can all play!” Rowan insisted—and he saw such fear in the other kid’s eyes, he felt ashamed for pushing.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” said the other kid. He turned to his friends “You heard the man! Play!”