Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(58)

“Excuse me,” Citra said. Her voice was much louder than she meant it to be. A trick of the chapel’s acoustics.

The man wasn’t startled by her. He put out one more candle, then set down his silver snuffer and hobbled toward her with a pronounced limp. She wondered if it was affected, or if his religious freedom allowed him to retain whatever scarring caused the limp. By the wrinkles on his face she could tell that he was long overdue to turn a corner.

“I am Curate Beauregard,” he said. “Have you come for atonement?”

“No,” she told him, showing her armband that bore the seal of scythes. “I need to speak to Robert Ferguson.”

“Brother Ferguson is in afternoon repose. I shouldn’t disturb him.”

“It’s important,” she told him.

The curate sighed. “Very well. That which comes can’t be avoided.” Then he hobbled off, leaving Citra alone.

She looked around, taking in the strange surroundings. The altar in the front contained a granite basin filled with water—but the water was cloudy and foul-smelling. Just behind that was the focal point of the entire church: a steel two-pronged fork similar to the one on the roof outside. This bident was six feet tall and protruded from an obsidian base. Beside it, on its own little platform, sat a rubber mallet resting on a black velvet pillow. But it was the bident that held her attention. The huge tuning fork was cylindrical, silvery smooth, and cold to the touch.

“You want to strike it, don’t you? Go on—it’s not forbidden.”

Citra jumped and silently chided herself for being caught off guard.

“I am Brother Ferguson,” said the man as he approached. “You wanted to see me?”

“I’m the apprentice of Honorable Scythe Marie Curie,” Citra told him.

“I’ve heard of her.”

“I’m here on a bereavement mission.”

“Go on.”

“I’m afraid that your sister, Marissa Ferguson, was gleaned by Scythe Curie today at one fifteen p.m. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

The man didn’t seem upset or shocked, merely resigned. “Is that all?”

“Is that all? Didn’t you hear me? I just told you that your sister was gleaned today.”

The man sighed. “That which comes can’t be avoided.”

If she didn’t already dislike the Tonists, she certainly did now. “Is that it?” she asked. “Is that your people’s ‘holy’ line?”

“It’s not a line; it’s just a simple truth we live by.”

“Yeah, whatever you say. You’ll need to make arrangements for your sister’s body—because that’s coming and can’t be avoided either.”

“But if I don’t step forward, won’t the Thunderhead provide a funeral?”

“Don’t you care at all?”

The man took a moment before answering. “Death by scythe is not a natural death. We Tonists do not acknowledge it.”

Citra cleared her throat, biting back the verbal reaming she wanted to give him, and did her best to remain professional. “There’s one more thing. ?Although you didn’t live with her, you are her only documented relative. That entitles you to a year of immunity from gleaning.”

“I don’t want immunity,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised.” This was the first time she had ever encountered anyone who refused immunity. Even the most downhearted would kiss the ring.

“You’ve done your job. ?You may go now,” Brother Ferguson said.

There was only so long Citra could restrain her frustration. She couldn’t yell at the man. She couldn’t use her Bokator moves to kick him in the neck or take him down with an elbow slam. So she did the only thing she could do. She picked up the mallet and put all of her anger into a single, powerful strike at the tuning fork.

The fork resounded so powerfully, she could feel it in her teeth and her bones. It rang not like a bell, which was a hollow sound. This tone was full and dense. It shocked the anger right out of her. Diffused it. It made her muscles loosen, her jaw unclench. It echoed in her brain, her gut, and her spine. The tone rang much longer than such a thing should, then slowly began to fade. She had never experienced anything that was quite so jarring and soothing at the same time. All she could say was, “What was that?”

“F-sharp,” said Brother Ferguson. “Although there’s a standing argument among the brethren that it’s actually A-flat.”

The fork was still ringing faintly. Citra could see it vibrating, making its edge look blurry. She touched it, and the moment she did it fell silent.

“You have questions,” said Brother Ferguson. “I’ll answer what I can.”

Citra wanted to deny that she had any questions whatsoever, but suddenly she found that she did.

“What do you people believe?”

“We believe many things.”

“Tell me one.”

“We believe that flames were not meant to burn forever.”

Citra looked to the candles by the altar. “Is that why the curate was dousing candles?”

“Part of our ritual, yes.”

“So you worship darkness.”

“No,” he said. “That’s a common misconception. People use that to vilify us. What we worship are the wavelengths and vibrations that are beyond the limits of human sight. We believe in the Great Vibration, and that it will free us from being stagnant.”