Thunderhead

by Neal Shusterman

  “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

  * * *

  33

  High School with Murder

  “What were you thinking!”

  Scythe Curie accosted Constantine in the rotunda as soon as they were let out for lunch. And although he was a tall man, he seemed to shrink beneath the wrath of the Granddame of Death.

  “I was thinking that we now know the reason you were both attacked.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  But Anastasia caught on even before Marie did. “Someone knew!”

  “Yes,” said Constantine. “The choosing of a Grandslayer is supposed to be secret, but someone knew that Xenocrates would be leaving an opening for a High Blade. Whoever it was wanted to take you out of the running, Marie—and prevent your young protégé from rallying junior scythes to vote for a candidate who would uphold the old ways.”

  That took a bit of the wind out of Scythe Curie’s sails. She had to take a moment to let it sink in. “Do you think it’s Nietzsche?”

  “I don’t believe so,” said Constantine. “He might be new-order, but he’s not the type. Most new-order scythes bend the laws just shy of breaking them, and Scythe Nietzsche is no different.”

  “Then who?”

  Scythe Constantine had no answer. “But by nominating you first, it gives us an advantage. It allows us to see how others react, and maybe give themselves away.”

  “And if Constantine hadn’t nominated you,” said Scythe Mandela, coming up beside them, “I would have.”

  “As would I,” said Scythe Twain.

  “So you see,” said Constantine, with a satisfied smile, “your nomination was a given. I just wanted to make sure it was strategic.”

  “But I don’t want to be High Blade! I have successfully avoided it all my life!” Then she singled out Scythe Meir, who stood on the fringe of the conversation.

  “Golda!” she said. “Why not you? You always know precisely what to say to motivate people. You’d be a spectacular High Blade!”

  Scythe Meir put up her hands. “Heavens, no!” she said. “I’m good with words, but not with crowds. Just because my Patron Historic was a strong leader, don’t mistake me for one! I’d be happy to write your speeches, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

  Scythe Curie’s face, so stoic most of the time, now betrayed uncharacteristic anguish. “The things I did in my past—the very things that people laud me for—are the very things that should disqualify me from being High Blade!”

  At that, Scythe Constantine laughed. “Marie, if we were judged by the things we most regret, no human being would be worthy to sweep the floor. You are the most qualified, and it’s time you accepted the fact.”

  • • •

  The turmoil in the conclave chamber did not damage the scythes’ appetites. If anything, they ate more voraciously. Anastasia wandered the rotunda, trying to take the temperature of the room. The new-order scythes were buzzing with schemes and subterfuges—but so was the old guard. The day would not end until a new High Blade was chosen—because, if anything, the scythedom had learned from the abuses of political contests in the Age of Mortality. Best to get an election over as quickly as possible, before everyone became even more bitter and disgusted than they already were.

  “He won’t have the votes,” everyone was saying of Nietzsche. “Even those who support him only do so because he’s the best they’ve got.”

  “If Curie wins,” said Scythe Morrison, whom Anastasia could not seem to avoid, “you’ll be one of her underscythes. That’s a pretty powerful place to be.”

  “Well, I’m voting for her,” said Scythe Yamaguchi, still glowing from the praise she received earlier in the day. “She’ll
be a much better High Blade than Xenocrates.”

  “I heard that!” said Xenocrates, barging into their conversation like a dirigible. Scythe Yamaguchi was mortified, but Xenocrates was jovial. “Not to worry,” he said. “It’s not me you need to impress anymore!”

  The man was positively ecstatic to have finally been able to tell the scythedom of his appointment.

  “So, what do we call you now,  Your Excellency?” Morrison asked, ever the suck-up.

  “As a Grandslayer, I shall now be addressed as ‘Your Exalted Excellency,’ ” he said, seeming like a child who just came home with a perfect report card. Perhaps he had been transformed into a child after all.

  “Have you spoken to Scythe Constantine yet?” Anastasia asked, and that deflated him slightly.

  “I’ve been putting space between us, if you must know,” he said, speaking to Anastasia as if in confidence, but loud enough for others to hear. “I’m sure he wants to discuss the latest information on your old friend Rowan Damisch—but I have no interest in the discussion. He shall be the new High Blade’s concern.”

  The mention of Rowan hit her like a glancing blow, but she shook it off. “You should speak to Constantine,” she said. “It’s important.” And to make sure that he did, she waved to Constantine, who came right over.

  “Your Excellency,” Constantine said—because he was not exalted yet—“I need to know who you told about your appointment.”

  Xenocrates was offended by the insinuation. “No one, of course. It is a secret matter when one is chosen to succeed a Grandslayer.”

  “Yes—but is there anyone who might have overheard?”

  Xenocrates held his answer for a beat, and that was how they knew there was something he wasn’t saying. “No. No one.”

  Constantine said nothing; just waited for him to come clean.

  “Of course, the news did come during one of my dinner parties,” he said.

  The High Blade was known for his dinner parties. Always intimate, for no more than two or three scythes. It was an honor to be invited to break bread with the High Blade, and part of his diplomatic strategy was to always invite scythes who despised one another, with the hope of creating friendships, or, at the very least, meaningful détentes. Sometimes he was successful, sometimes not.