Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(101)

Curate Mendoza leaves, then returns a few minutes later. “Follow me,” he says.

Greyson Tolliver waits for the scythe in the smaller of two chapels on the cloister grounds. This is a chapel meant for personal reflection, with a smaller tuning fork and bowl of primordial water at the altar.

“We will be right outside the door, Brother Tolliver,” says the curate, “if at any time you need us.”

“Right, if I need you I’ll call,” says Greyson, who appears to be in a hurry to get on with this.

They leave, closing the door. I move my camera at the back of the chapel very slowly, so as to not disturb the encounter with the nuisance of a mechanical whir.

Cervantes approaches Greyson, who kneels in the second row of the small chapel. He doesn’t even turn to see the scythe. Greyson’s body modifications have been removed, and his artificially blackened hair shorn—although it has now grown in enough to cover his head in a trim style.

“If you’re here to glean me, make it quick,” he says. “And try to make it bloodless, so there’s less to clean up.”

“Are you so impatient to leave this world?”

Greyson doesn’t answer the question. Cervantes introduces himself, and sits beside him, but does not yet speak of why he’s here. Perhaps he wants to first see if Greyson Tolliver is worthy of his attention.

“I’ve done some research on you,” Cervantes said.

“Find anything interesting?”

“I know that Greyson Tolliver doesn’t exist. I know that your real name is Slayd Bridger, and that you sent a bus off of a bridge.”

Greyson laughs at that. “So you found my secret dark history,” he says, not bothering to disabuse Cervantes of his erroneous notions. “Good for you.”

“I know that you were somehow involved in the plot to end Scythes Anastasia and Curie,” Cervantes says, “and that Scythe Constantine is turning the region upside down looking for you.”

Greyson turns to him for the first time. “So you’re not working for him?”

“I work for no one,” Cervantes says. “I work for humanity, as all scythes do.” Then he turns to regard the silver tuning fork protruding from the altar before them. “In my native Barcelona, Tonists are much more troublesome than here. They have a tendency to attack scythes, which forces us to glean them. My quota kept getting clogged by Tonists I didn’t want to glean, preventing me from making my own choices. It was one of the reasons why I came to MidMerica—although lately, I’m wondering if it might be a decision I’ll come to regret.”

“Why are you here, Your Honor? If it’s to glean me, you could have done it by now.”

“I’m here,” Cervantes finally says, “at the request of Scythe Anastasia.”

At first Greyson seems pleased by this, but it quickly dissolves into bitterness. It seems so much about him is bitter now. It was never my intent to leave him thus.

“She’s too busy to check on me herself?”

“Actually, yes,” Cervantes tells him. “She’s up to her neck in rather serious scythe business,” but he does not offer any details.

“Well, I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m among people who actually care about my well-being.”

“I am here to offer you safe passage to Amazonia,” Cervantes tells him. “Apparently, Scythe Anastasia has a friend there who can offer you a far better life than you’ll find as a Tonist.”

Greyson looks around the chapel as he takes in the offer. Then he responds with the following rhetorical question: “Who says I want to go?”

This surprises Cervantes. “You mean you’d rather hum your life away here than escape to a place of greater safety?”

“The intoning is annoying,” Greyson admits, “but I’ve gotten used to the routine. And the people are nice.”

“Yes, the mindless can be pleasant.”

“The point is, they make me feel like I belong. I’ve never really felt that. So yes, I can hum their tone, and perform their silly rituals, because it’s worth what I get in return.”

Cervantes scoffs. “You would live a lie?”

“Only if it makes me happy.”

“And does it?”

Greyson considers it. I consider it as well. I can only live the truth. I wonder if living a lie would improve my emotional configuration.

“Curate Mendoza believes I can find happiness as one of them. After the terrible things I’ve done—the bus plunge and all—I think it’s worth a try.”

“Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?”

“Nothing,” Greyson says, with more certainty than he had a moment ago. “Consider your mission accomplished. ?You promised Scythe Anastasia that you would offer me passage to a place of greater safety. You’ve done that. You can go now.”

Cervantes stands, and smooths out his robe. “Then good day, Mr. Bridger.”

Cervantes leaves, making sure to push the heavy wooden doors open with a bang, thereby knocking the curate and Brother McCloud—who are listening at the door—off their feet.

Once Cervantes is gone, the curate comes in to check on Greyson, who sends him away, assuring him that all is well.

“I need some time to reflect,” he tells the curate, who smiles.