Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,57

me about your husband,” Scythe Curie asked, her voice gentle and sincere.

The woman was reluctant to say much at first, but soon she couldn’t stop telling the tale of her husband’s life. Soon the kids joined in with their memories. The man quickly went from an anonymous subject on the street to an individual whose life even Citra now missed, although she had never known him.

And Scythe Curie listened—truly listened—as if she were intent on memorizing everything they said. More than once her eyes moistened, reflecting the tears of the family.

And then the scythe did the oddest thing. She produced from her robe the blade that had taken the man’s life, and set it down on the table.

“You may take my life, if you like,” she told the woman.

The woman just stared at her, not understanding.

“It’s only fair,” the scythe said. “I’ve taken away your husband, robbed your children of their father. You must despise me for it.”

The woman looked to Citra, as if she might know what to do, but Citra only shrugged, equally surprised by the offer.

“But . . . attacking a scythe is punishable by gleaning.”

“Not if you have the scythe’s permission. Besides, you’ve already received immunity. I promise there will be no retribution.”

The knife lay on the table between them, and Citra suddenly felt like the pedestrians at the gleaning: frozen just on the other side of some unthinkable event horizon.

Scythe Curie smiled at the woman with genuine warmth. “It’s all right. If you strike me down, my apprentice will simply bring me to the nearest revival center, and in a day or two I’ll be as good as new.”

The woman contemplated the blade, the children contemplated their mother. Finally the woman said, “No, that won’t be necessary.”

Scythe Curie removed the blade from sight. “Well, in that case, on to dessert.”

And the family devoured the chocolate cake with a passion they hadn’t shown for the rest of the meal, as if a great pall had been lifted.

• • •

After they were gone, Scythe Curie helped Citra with the dishes. “When you’re a scythe,” she told Citra, “I’m sure you won’t do things my way.  You won’t do things the way Scythe Faraday did, either.  You’ll find your own path. It may not bring you redemption, it might not even bring you peace, but it will keep you from despising yourself.”

Then Citra asked a question she had asked before—but this time she suspected she might get an answer.

“Why did you take me on, Your Honor?”

The scythe washed a dish, Citra dried it, and finally Scythe Curie said the oddest thing. “Have you ever heard of a ‘sport’ called cock fighting?”

Citra shook her head.

“Back in the mortal age, unsavories would take two roosters, put them in a small arena, and watch them battle to the death, wagering on the outcome.”

“That was legal?”

“No, but people did it anyway. Life before the Thunderhead was a blend of bizarre atrocities. You weren’t told this—but Scythe Goddard had offered to take both you and Rowan on.”

“He offered to take both of us?”

“Yes. And I knew it would be only so he could pit the two of you against each other day after day for his own amusement, like a cock fight. So I intervened and offered to take you, in order to spare you both Scythe Goddard’s bloody arena.”

Citra nodded in understanding. She chose not to point out that they hadn’t been spared the arena at all. They were still facing a mortal struggle. Nothing could change that.

She tried to imagine what it might have been like had Scythe Curie not stepped forward. The thought of not being separated from Rowan was tempered by the knowledge of whose hand they’d be under. She didn’t even want to imagine how he was faring with Goddard.

As this had turned into an evening of answers, Citra dared to ask the question she had asked so inappropriately on the street, before the man’s body had even gone cold.

“Why did you glean that man today without warning? Didn’t he deserve at least a moment of understanding before your blade?”

This time Scythe Curie was not offended by the question. “Every scythe has his or her method. That happens to be mine. In the Age of Mortality, death would often come with no warning. It is our task to mimic what we’ve stolen from nature—and so that is the face of death I’ve chosen to recreate. My gleanings are always instantaneous and always public, lest people forget what we