The music was rich and pretty, until it became too much for Citra’s ears. And the story, while easy to follow even without a knowledge of Italian, had little resonance for either of them. It was, after all, a work from the Age of Mortality. War, vengeance, murder—all the themes on which the tale was strung—were so removed from modern reality, few could relate. Catharsis could only gather around the theme of love, which, considering that they were strangers trapped in an opera box, was far more uncomfortable than cathartic.
“So, who do you think invited us?” Citra asked as soon as the lights came up for the first act intermission. Rowan had no more clue than she did, so they shared whatever they could that might help them generate a theory. Aside from them both being sixteen, they had very little in common. She was from the city, he the suburbs. She had a small family, his was large, and their parents’ professions couldn’t have been further apart.
“What’s your genetic index?” he asked—a rather personal question, but perhaps it could have some relevance.
“22-37-12-14-15.”
He smiled. “Thirty-seven percent Afric descent. Good for you! That’s pretty high!”
“Thanks.”
He told her that his was 33-13-12-22-20. She thought to ask him if he knew the subindex of his “other” component, because 20 percent was pretty high, but if he didn’t know, the question would embarrass him.
“We both have 12 percent PanAsian ancestry,” he pointed out. “Could that have something to do with it?” But he was grasping at straws—it was merely coincidence.
Then, toward the end of intermission, the answer stepped into the box behind them.
“Good to see you’re getting acquainted.”
Although it had been a few months since their encounter, Citra recognized him immediately. Honorable Scythe Faraday was not a figure you soon forgot.
“You?” Rowan said with such severity, it was clear that he had a history with the scythe as well.
“I would have arrived sooner, but I had . . . other business.” He didn’t elaborate, for which Citra was glad. Still, his presence here could not be a good thing.
“You invited us here to glean us.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact, because Citra was convinced it was true—until Rowan said, “I don’t think that’s what this is about.”
Scythe Faraday did not make any move to end their lives. Instead, he grabbed an empty chair and sat beside them. “I was given this box by the theater director. People always think making offerings to scythes will prevent them from being gleaned. I had no intention of gleaning her, but now she thinks her gift played a part.”
“People believe what they want to believe,” Rowan said, with a sort of authority that told Citra he knew the truth of it.
Faraday gestured toward the stage. “Tonight we witness the spectacle of human folly and tragedy,” he said. “Tomorrow, we shall live it.”
The curtain went up on the second act before he could explain his meaning.
? ? ?
For two months, Rowan had been the school pariah—an outcast of the highest order. Although that sort of thing usually ran its course and diminished over time, it was not the case when it came to the gleaning of Kohl Whitlock. Every football game rubbed a healthy dose of salt in the communal wound—and since all of those games were lost, it doubled the pain. Rowan was never particularly popular, nor was he ever the target of derision before, but now he was cornered and beaten on a regular basis. He was shunned, and even his friends actively avoided him. Tyger was no exception.
“Guilt by association, man,” Tyger had said. “I feel your pain, but I don’t want to live it.”
“It’s an unfortunate situation,” the principal told Rowan when he turned up in the nurse’s office, waiting out during lunch for some newly inflicted bruises to heal. “You may want to consider switching schools.”
Then one day, Rowan gave in to the pressure. He stood on a table in the cafeteria and told everyone the lies they wanted to hear.
“That scythe was my uncle,” he proclaimed. “I told him to glean Kohl Whitlock.”
Of course they believed every word of it. Kids began to boo and throw food at him, until he said:
“I want you all to know that my uncle’s coming back—and he asked me to choose who gets gleaned next.”
Suddenly the food stopped flying, the glares ceased, and the beatings miraculously stopped. What filled the void was . . . well . . . a void. Not a single eye would meet his anymore. Not even his teachers would look at him—a few actually started giving him As when he was doing B and C work. He began to feel like a ghost in his own life, existing in a forced blind spot of the world.
At home things were normal. His stepfather stayed entirely out of his business, and his mother was preoccupied with too many other things to give much attention to his troubles. They knew what had happened at school, and what was happening now, but they dismissed it in that self-serving way parents often had of pretending anything they can’t solve is not really a problem.
“I want to transfer to a different high school,” he told his mother, finally taking his principal’s advice, and her response was achingly neutral.
“If you think that’s best.”
He was half convinced if he told her he was dropping out of society and joining a tone cult, she’d say, If you think that’s best.
So when the opera invitation arrived, he hadn’t cared who sent it. Whatever it meant, it was salvation—at least for an evening.
The girl he met in the box seat was nice enough. Pretty, confident—the kind of girl who probably already had a boyfriend, although she never mentioned one. Then the scythe showed up and Rowan’s world shifted back into a dark place. This was the man responsible for his misery. If he could have gotten away with it, Rowan would have pushed him over the railing—but attacks against scythes were not tolerated. The punishment was the gleaning of the offender’s entire family. It was a consequence that ensured the safety of the revered bringers of death.
At the close of the opera, Scythe Faraday gave them a card and very clear instructions.
“You will meet me at this address tomorrow morning, precisely at nine.”
“What should we tell our parents about tonight?” Citra asked. Apparently she had parents who might care.
“Tell them whatever you like. It doesn’t matter, as long as you’re there tomorrow morning.”
? ? ?
The address turned out to be the Museum of ?World Art, the finest museum in the city. It didn’t open until ten, but the moment the security guard saw a scythe coming up the steps of the main entrance, he unlocked the doors and let the three of them in without even having to be asked.
“More perks of the position,” Scythe Faraday told them.
They strolled through galleries of the old masters in silence, punctuated only by the sound of their footfalls and the scythe’s occasional commentaries. “See how El Greco uses contrast to evoke emotional yearning.” “Look at the fluidity of motion in this Raphael—how it brings intensity to the visual story he tells.” “Ah! Seurat! Prophetic pointillism a century before the pixel!”
Rowan was the first to ask the necessary question.
“What does any of this have to do with us?”
Scythe Faraday sighed in mild irritation, although he probably anticipated the question. “I am supplying you with lessons you won’t receive in school.”
“So,” said Citra, “you pulled us out of our lives for some random art lesson? Isn’t that a waste of your valuable time?”
The scythe laughed, and Rowan found himself wishing he had been the one to make him laugh.
“What have you learned so far?” Scythe Faraday asked.
Neither had a response, so he asked a different question.
“What do you think our conversation would have been like had I brought you to the post-mortality galleries instead of these older ones?”
Rowan ventured an answer. “Probably about how much easier on the eye post-mortal art is. “Easier and . . . untroubled.”
“How about uninspired?” prompted the scythe.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” said Citra.
“Perhaps. But now that you know what you’re looking for in this art of the dying, I want you to try to feel it.” And he led them to the next gallery.