“That’s good,” said the scythe, “because I require nothing special.” ?Then he sat on the sofa and waited patiently for dinner.
Was it too much to believe that the man was here for a meal and nothing more? After all, scythes had to eat somewhere. Customarily, restaurants never charged them for food, but that didn’t mean a home-cooked meal was not more desirable. There were rumors of scythes who required their victims to prepare them a meal before being gleaned. Is that what was happening here?
Whatever his intentions, he kept them to himself, and they had no choice but to give him whatever he wanted. Will he spare a life here today if the food is to his taste, Citra wondered? No surprise that people bent over backwards to please scythes in every possible way. Hope in the shadow of fear is the world’s most powerful motivator.
Citra’s mother brought him something to drink at his request, and now labored to make sure tonight’s dinner was the finest she had ever served. Cooking was not her specialty. Usually she would return home from work just in time to throw something quick together for them. Tonight their lives might just rest on her questionable culinary skills. And their father? Would he be home in time, or would a gleaning in his family take place in his absence?
As terrified as Citra was, she did not want to leave the scythe alone with his own thoughts, so she went into the living room with him. Ben, who was clearly as fascinated as he was fearful, sat with her.
The man finally introduced himself as Honorable Scythe Faraday.
“I . . . uh . . . did a report on Faraday for school once,” Ben said, his voice cracking only once. “You picked a pretty cool scientist to name yourself after.”
Scythe Faraday smiled. “I like to think I chose an appropriate Patron Historic. Like many scientists, Michael Faraday was underappreciated in his life, yet our world would not be what it is without him.”
“I think I have you in my scythe card collection,” Ben went on. “I have almost all the MidMerican scythes—but you were younger in the picture.”
The man seemed perhaps sixty, and although his hair had gone gray, his goatee was still salt-and-pepper. It was rare for a person to let themselves reach such an age before resetting back to a more youthful self. Citra wondered how old he truly was. How long had he been charged with ending lives?
“Do you look your true age, or are you at the far end of time by choice?” Citra asked.
“Citra!” Her mother nearly dropped the casserole she had just taken out of the oven. “What a question to ask!”
“I like direct questions,” the scythe said. “They show an honesty of spirit, so I will give an honest answer. I admit to having turned the corner four times. My natural age is somewhere near one hundred eighty, although I forget the exact number. Of late I’ve chosen this venerable appearance because I find that those I glean take more comfort from it.” Then he laughed. “They think me wise.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Ben blurted “To glean one of us?”
Scythe Faraday offered an unreadable smile.
“I’m here for dinner.”
? ? ?
Citra’s father arrived just as dinner was about to be served. Her mom had apparently informed him of the situation, so he was much more emotionally prepared than the rest of them had been. As soon as he entered, he went straight over to Scythe Faraday to shake his hand, and pretended to be far more jovial and inviting than he truly must have been.
The meal was awkward—mostly silence punctuated by the occasional comment by the scythe. “You have a lovely home.” “What flavorful lemonade!” “This may be the best baked ziti in all of MidMerica!” Even though everything he said was complimentary, his voice registered like a seismic shock down everyone’s spine.
“I haven’t seen you in the neighborhood,” Citra’s father finally said.
“I don’t suppose you would have,” he answered. “I am not the public figure that some other scythes choose to be. Some scythes prefer the spotlight, but to truly do the job right, it requires a level of anonymity.”
“Right?” Citra bristled at the very idea. “There’s a right way to glean?”
“Well,” he answered, “there are certainly wrong ways,” and said nothing more about it. He just ate his ziti.
As the meal neared its close, he said, “Tell me about yourselves.” It wasn’t a question or a request. It could only be read as a demand. Citra wasn’t sure whether this was part of his little dance of death, or if he was genuinely interested. He knew their names before he entered the apartment, so he probably already knew all the things they could tell him. Then why ask?
“I work in historical research,” her father said.
“I’m a food synthesis engineer,” said her mother.
The scythe raised his eyebrows. “And yet you cooked this from scratch.”
She put down her fork. “All from synthesized ingredients.”
“Yes, but if we can synthesize anything,” he offered, “why do we still need food synthesis engineers?”
Citra could practically see the blood drain from her mother’s face. It was her father who rose to defend his wife’s existence. “There’s always room for improvement.”
“Yeah—and Dad’s work is important, too!” Ben said.
“What, historical research?” The scythe waved his fork dismissing the notion. “The past never changes—and from what I can see, neither does the future.”
While her parents and brother were perplexed and troubled by his comments, Citra understood the point he was making. The growth of civilization was complete. Everyone knew it. When it came to the human race, there was no more left to learn. Nothing about our own existence to decipher. Which meant that no one person was more important than any other. In fact, in the grand scheme of things, everyone was equally useless. That’s what he was saying, and it infuriated Citra, because on a certain level, she knew he was right.
Citra was well known for her temper. It often arrived before reason, and left only after the damage was done. Tonight would be no exception.
“Why are you doing this? If you’re here to glean one of us, just get it over with and stop torturing us!”
Her mother gasped, and her father pushed back his chair as if ready to get up and physically remove her from the room.
“Citra, what are you doing!” Now her mother’s voice was quivering. “Show respect!”
“No! He’s here, he’s going to do it, so let him do it. It’s not like he hasn’t decided; I’ve heard that scythes always make up their mind before they enter a home, isn’t that right?”
The scythe was unperturbed by her outburst. “Some do, some don’t,” he said gently. “We each have our own way of doing things.”
By now Ben was crying. Dad put his arm around him, but the boy was inconsolable.
“Yes, scythes must glean,” Faraday said, “but we also must eat, and sleep, and have simple conversation.”
Citra grabbed his empty plate away from him. “Well, the meal’s done, so you can leave.”
Then her father approached him. He fell to his knees. Her father was actually on his knees to this man! “Please, ?Your Honor, forgive her. I take full responsibility for her behavior.”
The scythe stood. “An apology isn’t necessary. It’s refreshing to be challenged. You have no idea how tedious it gets; the pandering, the obsequious flattery, the endless parade of sycophants. A slap in the face is bracing. It reminds me that I’m human.”
Then he went to the kitchen and grabbed the largest, sharpest knife he could find. He swished it back and forth, getting a feel for how it cut through the air.
Ben’s wails grew, and his father’s grip tightened on him. The scythe approached their mother. Citra was ready to hurl herself in front of her to block the blade, but instead of swinging the knife, the man held out his other hand.
“Kiss my ring.”
No one was expecting this, least of all Citra.
Citra’s mother stared at him, shaking her head, not willing to believe. “You’re . . . you’re granting me immunity?”