فصل 9

There’s a poem by Honorable Scythe Socrates—one of the first scythes. He wrote many poems, but this one has grown to be my personal favorite.

Have not a hand in the blade with abandon,

Cull from the fold all the brazen and bold,

For a dog who just might,

Love the bark and the bite,

Is a carrion raven, the craven of old.

It reminds me that in spite of our lofty ideals and the many safeguards to protect the Scythedom from corruption and depravity, we must always be vigilant, because power comes infected with the only disease left to us: the virus called human nature. I fear for us all if scythes begin to love what they do.

—From the gleaning journal of H.S. Curie

9

Esme

Esme ate far too much pizza. Her mother told her pizza would be the death of her. She never imagined it might actually be true.

The scythe attack came less than a minute after she was given her slice, piping hot from the oven. It was the end of the school day, and the daily trials of fourth grade had exhausted her. Lunch had sucked. The tuna salad her mother had given her was warm and mildly fermented by the time lunch rolled around. Not exactly appetizing. In fact, none of the food her mother packed for her hit high on the flavor scale. She was trying to get Esme to eat healthier, because Esme had a bit of a weight problem. And although her nanites could be programmed to speed up her metabolism, her mother wouldn’t hear of it. She claimed it would be treating the symptom, not the problem.

“You can’t solve everything by tweaking your nanites,” her mother told her. “You need to learn self-control.” Well, she could learn self-control tomorrow. Today she wanted pizza.

Her favorite pizza place, Luigi’s, was in the food court of the Fulcrum City Galleria—which was on her way home from school. Sort of. She was negotiating the cheese, trying to figure out how to take that first bite without burning the roof of her mouth, when the scythes arrived. Her back was to them, so she didn’t see them at first. But she heard them—or at least one of them.

“Good afternoon, good people,” he said. “Your lives are about to change in a fundamental way.” Esme turned to see them. Four of them. They were clad in bright robes that glittered. They looked like no one Esme had ever seen. She had never met a scythe. She was fascinated. Until three of them pulled out weapons that glistened even more than their bejeweled robes, and the fourth pulled out a flamethrower.

“This food court has been selected for gleaning,” their leader said. And they began their terrible mission.

Esme knew what she had to do. Forgetting her pizza, she dropped beneath the table and crawled away. But she wasn’t the only one. It seemed everyone had dropped and was scrambling on the floor. It didn’t seem to faze the scythes. She could see their feet through the crawling crowd. The fact that their victims were on all fours did not slow them down in the least.

Now Esme began to panic. She had heard stories of scythes who did mass gleanings, but until now she thought they were nothing but stories.

Before her she could see the robes of the scythe in yellow, so she doubled back, only to find the scythe in green closing in. Esme crawled through a gap in the tables and between two potted palms that the scythe in orange had set on fire, and when she emerged on the other side of the large pots, she found herself with no cover.

She was at the food concessions now. The man who had served her pizza was slumped over the counter, dead. There was a gap between a trash can and the wall. She was not a slim girl, so she thought the skinniest thoughts she could, and squeezed her way into the gap. It was not much of a hiding space, but if she left it, she would be right in the line of fire. She had already seen two people trying to dart across the walkway and both were taken down by steel crossbow arrows. She didn’t dare move. So instead, she buried her face in her hands. She stayed that way, sobbing, listening to the terrible sounds around her, until silence fell. Still she refused to open her eyes until she heard a man say, “Hello there.” Esme opened her eyes to see the lead scythe—the one in blue—standing over her.

“Please . . .” she begged, “please, don’t glean me.”

The man held out his hand to her. “The gleaning is over,” he said. “There’s no one left but you. Now, take my hand.” Afraid to refuse, Esme reached out and placed her hand in his, and rose from her hiding place.

“I’ve been looking for you, Esme,” he said.

Esme gasped when she heard him say her name. Why would a scythe be looking for her?

The other three scythes gathered round. None of them raised a weapon at her.

“You’ll be 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?