The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,102

come to realize, a matter of evolution. Not natural selection, because nature had become weak and toothless. Intelligent selection was more like it, with Goddard and his acolytes at the helm of the intelligentsia.

As the hour neared seven, and the sky became dark, Goddard cracked his knuckles repeatedly and bounced his knees, his body expressing a youthful impatience that didn’t show on his face.

Ayn put a hand on his knee to stop the motion. Goddard resented it, but obliged. Then the lights in the stands dimmed and brightened on the field, as the pyre began to roll out from the bull pen.

The anticipation of the crowd was palpable. Not so much cheers and whoops as gasps and a building rumble. Even unlit, the pyre was a sight to behold – the way its branches caught the light, a dead forest woven for an artist’s eye. A lit torch waited at a safe distance, ready to be touched to the corner of the pyre by Goddard at the proper moment.

As the other speeches began, Goddard ran his own speech through his mind. He had studied the greatest addresses in history: those of Roosevelt, King, Demosthenes, Churchill. His would be short and sweet, but full of quotable moments. The kind that would be engraved in stone. The kind that would become iconic and timeless, like those he had studied. He would then take the torch, light the fire, and, as the flames grew, he would recite Scythe Socrates’s poem “Ode to the Ageless,” a world anthem if ever there was one.

Hammerstein’s speech began. He was perfectly mournful and lugubrious. Pickford was regal and eloquent; Tizoc, direct and incisive; and MacPhail’s gratitude for those who made this day possible felt honest and real.

Goddard rose and approached the pyre. He wondered if Rowan knew the honor that Goddard was bestowing on him today. Cementing his place in history. From now until the end of all things, the world would know his name. He’d be studied by schoolchildren everywhere. Today he would die, yet in a very real sense, he would also become immortal, belonging to the ages in a way that few are.

Goddard touched the button, and the lift raised Rowan from within the pyre to its peak. The rumble of the crowd grew. People stood. Hands pointed. Goddard began.

“Honorable scythes and respected citizens, today we commit humanity’s last criminal to the cleansing fire of history. Rowan Damisch, who called himself Scythe Lucifer, stole the light of so many. But today we take that light back, and use it as a clear and ever-present beacon of our future—”

There was a tap on his shoulder. He almost didn’t feel it.

“A new age where scythes, with measured joy, shape our great society, gleaning those who have no place in our glorious tomorrow—”

Again, a tap at his shoulder, more insistent this time. Could it be that someone was interrupting his address? Who would dare do such a thing? He turned to see Constantine behind him, upstaging him with that eye-assaulting crimson robe, even more gaudy now that it bore rubies.

“Your Excellency,” he whispered. “There appears to be a problem…”

“A problem? In the middle of my speech, Constantine?”

“You should look for yourself.” Then Constantine drew his attention to the pyre.

Rowan squirmed and strained against his bonds. He tried to scream through the gag, but the screams would not be fully realized until the gag burned off. And then Goddard realized…

The figure atop the unlit pyre was not Rowan.

The face was familiar, but it wasn’t until Goddard looked to the giant screens placed around the stadium, which showed the man’s anguished expression close up, that he realized who this was.

It was the technician. The one in charge of preparing Rowan for his execution.

Ten minutes earlier, before the pyre was rolled out, Rowan tried to relish the moments remaining in his life. Then a trio of scythes approached him, weaving through the forest of branches. None of their robes were familiar. Nor were their faces.

This visit was not on the program – and, all things considered, Rowan was relieved to see them. Because if they were here to exact personal revenge on him, unwilling to wait for him to burn, it would be an easier end. Sure enough, one of them pulled out a knife and swung it toward him. He braced for the sharp pain and the quick extinguishing of consciousness, but it didn’t come.

And it was only after the blade cut the bonds on his hands that he