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32

Humble in Our Arrogance

The morning was icy but windless on the day of  Winter Conclave, January 7th, Year of the Raptor. It was a natural chill—the Thunderhead did not finesse weather systems for scythes. There were times that scythes would complain about inconvenient weather and insist it was the Thunderhead’s spite, which was ridiculous—but some people could not help but ascribe human failings to it.

The BladeGuard had a much larger presence than usual at Winter Conclave. Its primary purpose had always been to police the crowds and make sure the scythes had a clear path up the stone steps to the statehouse. This time, however, the stairs were flanked by a full gauntlet of guards, shoulder to shoulder, behind which the disappointed crowd could barely glimpse the scythes as they passed.

Some people forced their way through to take a picture or dare to touch a scythe’s robe. In the past, these overenthusiastic citizens were pulled back and returned to the crowd with a glare or a reprimand. Today, the guards were instructed to dispatch them by bullet. It took only a few deadish people being rushed to revival centers for the rest to get the message. Thus, order was maintained.

As with everything else, the scythes had polarized feelings about the added security measures. “I don’t like it,” grumbled Scythe Salk. “Shouldn’t these good people have, at the very least, the opportunity to see us in our glory and not just holding the blade that gleans them?” Scythe Brahms offered a counterpoint to the sentiment. “I applaud our High Blade’s wisdom in providing better security,” he proclaimed. “Our safety is paramount.” Scythe O’Keefe commented that they should just build a tunnel and bring the scythes in underground—and although she meant it to be bitterly facetious, Scythe Carnegie noted it was the first good idea O’Keefe had had in years.

Dissent fomented and hackles were raised even before the scythes entered the building.

“Once Scythe Lucifer is taken down, all this will settle and things will return to the way they’ve always been,” more than one of the scythes said—as if taking down the black-robed vigilante was a cure-all.

The scythe in turquoise tried to stand as proud as Scythe Curie as she climbed the steps, doing her best to dismiss Citra Terranova from the day, allowing herself to be Scythe Anastasia both inside and out. She heard the grumbles about Scythe Lucifer as they climbed the stairs, but was heartened rather than troubled by them. Not only was Rowan still out there, but they were actually calling him Scythe Lucifer—accepting him as one of their own, even if it was unintentional.

“Do they actually believe that stopping Rowan will solve everything that’s wrong with the scythedom?” she asked Scythe Curie.

“Some choose not to see anything wrong,” Marie responded.

Anastasia found that hard to believe . . . but on the other hand, finding easy scapegoats for complicated problems had been a human pastime since the first mob of cavemen struck someone down with a rock.

The uneasy truth was that the division in the scythedom was as deep as a gleaning wound. There was the new order, with platitudes to justify its sadistic appetites, and the old guard, which blustered about how things were supposed to be but was unable to take action to do anything about it. The two factions were locked in a death grip now, but neither could die.

As always, there was a lavish spread of donated breakfast foods in the rotunda, where the scythes gathered informally before conclave began. Today’s morning feast was a seafood buffet, designed with staggering artistic skill. Slabs of smoked salmon and kippered herring; bushels of shrimp and oysters on ice; artisan breads and countless varieties of cheese.

Anastasia thought she had no appetite, but seeing such a spread could entice the dead to rise for one last meal. Still, she hesitated at first to partake, because it felt like defacing a sculpture. But the rest of the scythes, the good and the bad, attacked it like piranha, so Anastasia gave in and did the same.

“It is an unofficial rite that dates back to the old days,” Scythe Curie once told her, “when the most austere and reserved of scythes would, just thrice a year, give in to gluttony without regret.” Marie drew Anastasia’s attention to the groups of scythes and how they huddled in social cliques. Nowhere was the division clearer than here in the rotunda. The new-order Scythes gave forth a vibe that was palpable—filled with a brazen egotism that was markedly different from the more subdued self-importance of the rest of the scythedom.

“We’re all arrogant,” Marie had once told her. “After all, we are chosen because we are the brightest and the wisest. The best we can hope for is to be humble in our arrogance.” As Anastasia took in the crowd, it chilled her to see how many scythes had altered their robes to include embedded jewels—which, thanks to Goddard, their martyr, had become a symbol of the new order. When Citra first came to conclave as an apprentice, there were far more independent scythes who did not align themselves with either faction—but it seemed there were fewer and fewer, as the line in the sand became a fissure that threatened to swallow those who did not choose a side. She was horrified to find that Honorable Scythe Nehru had added amethyst gems to his pewter-gray robe.

“Volta had been my apprentice,” Nehru explained. “When he sided with the new order, I took it as a personal insult . . . but then when he died in the fire at that Tonist monastery, I felt I owed him an open mind. I now find joy in gleaning, and surprisingly, it’s not a terrible thing.” Anastasia respected the venerable scythe too much to put forward her opinion, but Marie was not one to hold her tongue.

“I know you cared for Volta,” Scythe Curie said, “but grief is not an excuse for depravity.” It left Nehru speechless, as it was intended to.

They stood eating among like-minded scythes, all of whom lamented the trajectory of the scythedom.

“We should never have allowed them to brand themselves the ‘new order,’ ” Scythe Mandela said. “There’s nothing new about what they do. And casting those of us who hold onto the integrity of the founders as ‘old guard’ diminishes us. We are far more forward thinking than those who serve their primal appetites.” “You can’t say that while eating a pound of shrimp, Nelson,” quipped Scythe Twain. Which made some of the others chuckle, but Mandela was not amused.

“The conclave meals were intended to make up for a life of self-denial,” Mandela said. “But they mean nothing when there are scythes who deny themselves nothing.” “Change is fine as long as it serves the greater good,” Scythe Curie said, “but the new-order scythes don’t even serve a lesser good.” “We must continue to fight the good fight, Marie,” said Scythe Meir. “We must maintain and exalt the virtues of the scythedom; stick to the highest ethical ground. We must always glean with wisdom and compassion, for it is at the core of what we are—and we must never take the ending of life for granted. It is a burden, not a delight. It is a privilege, not a pastime.” “Well said!” agreed Scythe Twain. “I must believe virtue will triumph over the selfishness of the new order.” But then he smirked at Scythe Meir. “Of course, Golda, it does sound as if you are campaigning for High Blade.” She laughed heartily at that. “A job I wouldn’t want.”

“But you have heard the rumblings, haven’t you?” Twain asked.

She shrugged. “Rumblings are just that. I leave gossip to scythes who have not yet turned a corner. Me, I’m too old to waste my time with petty speculation.” Anastasia turned to Scythe Curie. “What rumblings?” she asked.

But Scythe Curie was blasé about it. “Every couple of years there are rumors that Xenocrates will step down as High Blade, but he never does. I think he starts those rumors himself to make sure he’s the center of everyone’s conversation.” And, as she eavesdropped on several other discussions, Anastasia could see that he had succeeded. What discussions weren’t about Scythe Lucifer featured all sorts of rumors about Xenocrates. That he had already self-gleaned; that he had fathered a child; that he had a tragic accident while setting his age back that left him with the body of a three-year-old. Speculation was rampant, and nobody seemed to care that some of the rumors were ridiculous. That was part of the fun.

Anastasia, in her own scythely arrogance, had thought there’d be much more conversation about the attempts on her and Marie’s lives, but it was barely on most scythe’s radars.

“Didn’t I hear something about you both going into hiding?” Scythe Sequoyah asked. “Was it about this Scythe Lucifer business?” “Absolutely not,” Anastasia said, far more adamantly than she had intended to. Marie intervened to stop her from digging a deeper hole.

“It was just a group of unsavories. It behooved us to be nomadic until they were ferreted out.” “Well, I’m glad it’s all resolved,” said Scythe Sequoyah, and he went back to the buffet for seconds.

“Resolved?” said Anastasia, incredulous. “We still have no idea who’s behind it.” “Yes,” said Marie, calmly, “and whoever it is could be right here in the rotunda. Best to feign nonchalance.” Constantine had informed them of his suspicion that a scythe might be behind the attacks, and now he was working that angle. Anastasia looked around the crowded rotunda for him. He was not difficult to spot, as his crimson robe stood out—although, mercifully, it had no jewels upon it. Constantine was still holding his position of neutrality, for whatever it was worth.

“I’m glad you have your eyes back,” Anastasia told him as she approached.

“They’re still a bit sensitive to light,” he said. “I suppose they must be worked in.” “Any more leads?”

“No,” he told her honestly, “but I have a suspicion that fecal matter will be floating to the surface during this conclave. We’ll see how badly it stinks of conspiracy.” • • •

“So how would you rate your first year?”

Anastasia turned to see another junior scythe in a robe of worn and intentionally frayed denim. This was Scythe Morrison. He had been ordained one conclave before she was. He was good-looking, and tried to negotiate the scythedom using high school rules, which, amazingly, got him much further than Anastasia thought it would.

“The year was . . . eventful,” she said, not really wanting to get into it with him.

He smiled at her. “I’ll bet!”

She tried to slip away, but found herself engulfed by an elegy of junior scythes that had seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“I love the way you give people a month’s notice,” said one girl, whose name she couldn’t remember. “I might try that.” “So, what’s it like gleaning with Scythe Curie?” another young scythe asked.

Anastasia tried to be polite and patient, but being the center of their attention felt awkward. She did want to have friends closer to her own age within the scythedom—but many of the junior scythes vied too hard to curry favor with her.

“Careful,” Marie had said after Harvest Conclave, “or you’ll find yourself with an entourage.” Anastasia had no desire for an entourage, or to associate with the kind of scythes who did.

“We should go gleaning together,” Scythe Morrison suggested with a wink, which just annoyed her. “It’d be fun.” “Fun?” she asked. “So you’re going new-order?”

“I go both ways,” he said, then did a quick course correction. “I mean, I’m undecided.” “Well, when you decide, let me know.”

And she let that be her parting shot. When Scythe Morrison was first ordained, Anastasia thought it was admirable that he had chosen a female historical figure to name himself after, and asked if she should call him Toni. He had gone on to tell her, with a fair amount of distaste at the idea, that it was Jim Morrison he had named himself after—a songwriter and performer from the mortal age who had overdosed. Citra recalled some of his music, and had told Scythe Morrison that his Patron Historic got at least one thing right when he wrote “People Are Strange.” Meaning people like Scythe Morrison. Ever since then, he seemed to have made it his personal mission to win her over with his charm.

“Morrison must hate it that more of us junior scythes want to hang out with you than with him,” Scythe Beyoncé said to her a few minutes later, and Anastasia nearly bit her head off.

“Hang out? Scythes don’t hang out. We glean, and we support each other.” That shut Scythe Beyoncé up, but seemed to put Anastasia on an even higher pedestal. It made her think back to what Scythe Constantine had said before the last attack. That she was as much a target as Marie, because Anastasia was influential among the junior scythes. She didn’t want that influence, but she couldn’t deny it was there. Perhaps some day she’d grow into it and find a way to properly make use of it.

At 6:59 a.m.—right before the brass doors opened to admit the MidMerican scythes to conclave—High Blade Xenocrates arrived, putting to bed the rumors that he had self-gleaned, or was a toddler.

“It’s odd for Xenocrates to arrive so late,” Marie pondered aloud. “Usually he’s among the first ones here, and spends as much time as he can talking up the other scythes.” “Maybe he just doesn’t want to answer questions about Scythe Lucifer,” Anastasia suggested.

“Maybe.”

For whatever reason, Xenocrates avoided conversation in the few moments that he had—then the big brass doors swung open, and the scythes filed into the semicircular conclave chamber.

• • •

The opening session of conclave was typical, moving with the glacial pace of its rituals. First was the tolling of the names, where every single scythe chose ten of his or her recent gleaning victims to memorialize with the solemn toll of an iron bell. Then came the washing of hands, where the scythes symbolically cleansed themselves of four months of blood. As an apprentice, Citra found it pointless, but now, as Scythe Anastasia, she understood the deep emotional and psychological power a communal cleansing could have, when your days were spent taking life.

The midmorning break had everyone back in the rotunda, where the breakfast spread had been replaced by an artful array of cupcakes, all of which were frosted to match the robes of every MidMerican scythe. It was one of those things that must have seemed like a good idea at the time, and was impressive to look at, but it all fell apart as scythes crowded the table, trying to locate their particular cupcake, quite often finding that someone else with less patience had already eaten it. While the breakfast conversation had been more about greeting and small talk, the midmorning discussions were meatier. Scythe Cervantes, who had administered the Bokator challenge during Anastasia’s apprenticeship, approached her to discuss the social status she had been trying to avoid.

“With so many junior scythes being enticed to align with the new order, several of us think it would be a good idea to begin a traditions committee, to study the teachings—but more importantly, the intentions—of the founding scythes.” Anastasia gave him her honest appraisal. “Sounds like a good idea, if you can get enough junior scythes to be a part of it.” “That’s where you would come in,” Cervantes said. “We’d like you to propose it. We think it would go a long way to creating a solid foundation among the younger scythes to oppose the new order.” “The rest of us would be behind you one hundred percent,” said Scythe Angelou, who had joined the conversation.

“And as you’d be proposing it, it would only make sense that you be the committee chair,” Cervantes said.

Anastasia had never thought she’d have the opportunity to be on a committee this soon into her scythehood, much less chair one. “I’m honored that you would consider me capable of leading a committee. . . .” “Oh, more than capable,” said Scythe Angelou.

“Maya’s right,” Cervantes said. “You’re probably the only one among us who could make such a committee relevant.” It was heady to think that such seasoned scythes as Cervantes and Angelou would put so much stock in her. She thought back to the other young scythes who gravitated toward her. Could she effectively turn their energies to honoring the intentions of the founding scythes? She wouldn’t know until she tried. Perhaps she needed to stop avoiding the other junior scythes, and actually engage them.

When they returned to the conclave chamber, Anastasia told Scythe Curie about the idea. She was pleased that her protégé had been tapped for such an important role. “It’s about time we found a way to give the junior scythes some meaningful direction,” she said. “Lately, they seem far too listless.” Anastasia was prepared to propose the committee later that day—but the table on which the scythedom played was effectively overturned just before they broke for lunch.

After Scythe Rockwell was disciplined for gleaning too many unsavories, and Scythe Yamaguchi was praised for the artistry of her gleanings, High Blade Xenocrates made an announcement.

“This concerns all of you,” he began. “As you know, I’ve been High Blade of MidMerica since the Year of the Lemur. . . .” The room suddenly became very quiet. He took his time, allowing that silence to take root before he spoke again. “While forty-three years is a mere drop in the bucket, it is a long time to be doing the same thing day after day.” Anastasia turned to Marie and whispered, “Who does he think he’s talking to? We ALL do the same thing day after day.” Marie didn’t shush her, but didn’t respond either.

“These are trying times,” said the High Blade, “and I feel that I can best serve the scythedom in a different capacity.” And then he finally got to the point.

“I am pleased to inform you all that I have been chosen to succeed Grandslayer Hemingway on the World Scythe Council, when he self-gleans tomorrow morning.” Now the chamber erupted in chatter, and Xenocrates began banging his gavel to bring order—but after such an announcement, order was slow in coming.

Anastasia turned to Scythe Curie, but Marie stood so stiffly and was so taciturn, Anastasia didn’t dare to ask her a question. Instead she turned to Scythe Al-Farabi on her other side. “So, what happens now?” she asked. “Will he appoint the next High Blade?” “Didn’t you study the parliamentary procedures of the scythedom during your apprenticeship?” Scythe Al-Farabi chided. “We will vote upon a new High Blade by the end of the day.” The room smoldered with whispered conversation as scythes hurried to position themselves, creating and confirming alliances in the wake of Xenocrates’s announcement. Then a voice called out from the far side of the room.

“I nominate Honorable Scythe Marie Curie for the position of High Blade of MidMerica.” It was a voice that Anastasia recognized right away, although even if she hadn’t, Scythe Constantine was hard to miss in his crimson robe as he stood to make his nomination.

Anastasia snapped her eyes to Marie, who had shut her eyes tightly, and Anastasia knew this was why she had been so stiff, so silent before. She was steeling herself for this. She knew someone would nominate her. That it was Constantine, however, must have surprised even her.

“I second the nomination!” shouted another scythe. It was Morrison—who threw a quick glance in Anastasia’s direction, as if being the first to second Scythe Curie’s nomination would win her over.

Marie opened her eyes and began shaking her head. “I’m going to have to decline,” she said—more to herself than to Anastasia, but as she began to stand up to announce it, Anastasia touched her arm ever so gently to stop her, just as Marie had always done for her when she was about to make a rash decision.

“Don’t,” said Citra. “Not yet, anyway. Let’s see where this goes.”

Scythe Curie considered it, and heaved a sigh. “I can guarantee you it won’t go anywhere good,” but still she held her tongue, accepting the nomination. For now.

Then a scythe in a coral pink robe studded with tourmaline gemstones rose and said, “I nominate Scythe Nietzsche.” “Of course she does,” said Scythe Al-Farabi in disgust. “The new order never misses an opportunity to grab at power.” There were shouts of support and anger that made the walls shake, and all the banging of Xenocrates’s gavel could do was add rhythm to the rancor. Scythe Nietzsche’s nomination was seconded by another jewel-studded scythe.

“Are there any other nominations before we break for lunch?” shouted the High Blade.

And although Scythe Truman, a noted independent, was nominated, it was too late. The battle lines had already been drawn, and his nomination was not even seconded.

I am fascinated by the concept of ritual.  Those things that human beings do that serve no practical purpose, and yet deliver great comfort and continuity. The scythedom might berate the Tonists for their practices, but their own rituals are no different.

The scythedom’s traditions are steeped in pomp and great ceremony. Take, for instance, the installation of a new Grandslayer. There are seven of them on the World Scythe Council—one representing each continent—and once appointed, they are appointed for life. The only way out is to self-glean—but they don’t just self-glean, their entire staff of underscythes must voluntarily self-glean with them. If any of the underscythes refuse, the Grandslayer must remain alive, and retain his or her position. Not surprisingly, it’s very rare for a Grandslayer to gain consensus enough among his or her underlings to self-glean.  All it takes is one defiant individual to prevent it.

The affair takes months of preparation, and all in absolute secrecy. The new Grandslayer must be present, because, according to tradition, the diamond amulet must be removed from the dead Grandslayer and placed around the new one’s shoulders while still warm.

I have never seen the ritual, of course. But stories abound.

—The Thunderhead