The Toll (Arc of a Scythe) - Neal Shusterman Page 0,92

hell of a hunter.

In every city and town they passed through, people came out in droves to watch the motorcade go by, as if it were a holiday parade. The barred windows in the transport truck were at various heights, larger than ought to be on an armored vehicle, and the interior was brightly lit. Rowan soon came to realize the reason for this. The windows were placed so that no matter where he positioned himself in the truck, he could still be seen from the outside, and the bright interior ensured that he would not be hidden in darkness, no matter the time of day.

As he rolled down boulevards and main streets, there was always a view of him for the gauntlets of lookie-loos on either side. Occasionally he looked out of a window, and when he did, the crowd’s excitement peaked at his peeking. They pointed at him, took photos, and held up children to see the young man who had become a dark celebrity. A few times he waved to them, which got people tittering to one another. A few times he pointed back at them when they pointed at him, which always seemed to scare them – as if his angry restless ghost would come for them in the middle of the night once he was gleaned.

Through all this, Constantine’s bleak pronouncement kept coming back to him. The manner in which Rowan would be gleaned. Hadn’t gleaning by fire been outlawed? Goddard must have reinstated it. Or maybe he brought it back just for this one special gleaning. As much as Rowan tried to tell himself he didn’t fear it, he did. Not the gleaning, but the pain – and there would be quite a lot of it, because Goddard would most certainly turn off his pain nanites so that Rowan could feel every last measure of misery. He would suffer like the heretics and witches of more ignorant times.

The idea of his life ending was not much of a problem for him. In fact, it had become an oddly familiar theme. He had died so many times, and in so many ways, he was used to it. It held no more terror for him than falling asleep – which was often worse, because when he slept, he had nightmares. At least being deadish was a dreamless state, and the only difference between being deadish and being dead was the length of time involved. Perhaps, as some believed, true death ultimately brought people to a glorious new place, unimaginable to the living. In this way, Rowan tried to soften the prospect of his fate.

He also tried to soften it with thoughts of Citra. There had been no word of her, and he wasn’t foolish enough to ask Constantine, or anyone else for that matter, because he had no idea who knew that she was alive. Goddard certainly knew – he had sent the High Blade of WestMerica to retrieve them both. But if Citra had escaped, the best way to help her was to not speak of her in hostile company.

Considering where Rowan’s winding path was leading him, he could only hope she was in better circumstances.

29

The Obvious Bear

Three dates. That’s all that was within the folded swan. One in the Year of the Lynx, a second in the Year of the Bison, and a third in the Year of the Heron. All years before she was even born.

It didn’t take long for Anastasia to figure out why those dates were important. That was the easy part. Whether people knew the actual dates or not, the events they marked were part of everyone’s history curriculum. But on the other hand, those were the official accounts. The accepted ones. Nothing in history was a firsthand account, and things known really meant things that were allowed to be known. Ever since becoming a scythe, Anastasia had seen how the scythedom throttled back the flow of information when it felt the need, defining history any way it chose. Perhaps not falsify things, for the Thunderhead did have jurisdiction over facts and figures, but the scythedom could choose which facts were fed to the public.

But any information selectively ignored was not forgotten. It still existed in the backbrain for anyone to access. In the days of her apprenticeship, Citra had become an expert at sifting through the Thunderhead’s backbrain when trying to find Scythe Faraday’s “killer.” The algorithms of the Thunderhead’s filing system were much like the human brain; all