Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)(75)

The curate gave a short speech. A sermon, Brother McCloud called it. He spoke of his many journeys through the world in search of the Great Fork. “The fact that we have not found it does not mean the search is a failure—for the search itself is every bit as valuable as the finding.” ?The congregation hummed their agreement. “Whether we find it today or tomorrow, or whether it is our sect or another that finds it, I believe to my very core that we will, one day, hear and feel the Great Resonance. And it will save us all.”

Then, when the sermon was over, the congregation rose and approached the curate in a line. Each one dipped a finger into the rancid primordial ooze, touched it to their forehead, and licked it off their finger. Greyson became nauseated just watching.

“You don’t have to partake of the earthly bowl yet,” Brother McCloud told him—which was only partially reassuring.

“Yet? How about not at all?”

To which Brother McCloud once more said, “That which comes can’t be avoided.”

? ? ?

That night, the wind howled with unusual ferocity, and sleet hissed as it pummeled the little window in Greyson’s room. The Thunderhead could influence the weather, but not entirely change it. Or if it could, it chose not to. It did try to make sure that when storms came, at least they came at more convenient times. He tried to convince himself that this storm was the Thunderhead crying icy tears for him. But who was he kidding? The Thunderhead had millions of more important things to do than lament his troubles. He was safe. He was protected. What more could he ask for? Everything.

Curate Mendoza came into his room that night at about nine or ten. Light spilled in from the hallway, but once he was inside, he closed the door, leaving them both in darkness again. Greyson heard the complaint of the chair as the curate sat in it.

“I came to see how you’re getting on,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“Adequacy is all that can be expected at this juncture, I suppose.” ?Then his face was illuminated with the harsh light of a tablet. ?The curate tapped and swiped.

“I thought you shunned electricity.”

“Not at all,” the curate told him. “We shun light in our ceremonies—and our sleeping quarters are dark to encourage our members to leave their rooms and seek communion with others in our public spaces.”

Then he turned the tablet so Greyson could see it. It showed images of the burning theater. Greyson tried not to grimace.

“This happened two days ago. It is my suspicion that you were involved, and that the scythedom is after you.”

Greyson neither confirmed nor denied the charge.

“If that is the case,” the curate said, “you need not mention it. You are safe here, because any enemy of the scythedom is a friend of ours.”

“So you condone violence?”

“We condone resistance to unnatural death. Scythes are bringers of unnatural death, so anything that frustrates their blades and bullets is fine with us.”

Then he reached out and touched one of the horn-like bumps on Greyson’s head. Greyson backed away at his touch.

“Those will have to be removed,” he said. “We do not allow body modifications. And your head will be shaved to allow your hair to grow in the color the universe intended.”

Greyson said nothing. Now that Purity was dead, he wasn’t going to miss being Slayd Bridger, because it just reminded him of her—but he did not like having no choice in the matter.

Mendoza rose. “I do hope you’ll come out to the library, or one of the recreation rooms, and get to know your fellow Tonists. I know they’d like to get to know you better—especially Sister Piper, who greeted you when you arrived.”

“I just lost someone close to me. I don’t feel like being social.”

“Then you must—especially if your loved one was lost to gleaning. We Tonists don’t acknowledge death by scythe, which means you are not allowed to mourn.”

So now he was being told what he was and was not allowed to feel? He wanted the last bit of Slayd Bridger that was still in him to tell the curate to go to hell, but instead he just said, “I won’t pretend to understand your ways.”

“But you will pretend,” said Mendoza. “If you wish to have sanctuary, you will find your new purpose among us, and pretend until our ways become yours.”

“And if they never do?”

“Then you’ll just have to keep on pretending,” the curate said. ?Then he added, “It has certainly worked for me.”

? ? ?

Six hundred twenty miles due south of Wichita, Rowan Damisch sparred with Tyger Salazar. Under different circumstances it would have been enjoyable for Rowan—competing with a friend in a martial art he’d come to love—but these forced confrontations toward an unknown end left Rowan increasingly unsettled.

They sparred twice a day for two weeks, and although Tyger got better with each match, Rowan always won. When they weren’t sparring, Rowan was consigned to his room.

Tyger, on the other hand, found himself even busier than before Rowan had arrived. More exhausting runs, more resistance training, repetitive Bokator drills, as well as maneuvers with every kind of blade from sword to dagger, until each one felt like a perfect extension of himself. Then, at the end of each day, just as his muscles were feeling the wear of his efforts, Tyger would receive a deep tissue massage to make his knotted flesh supple. Before Rowan arrived, the massages were maybe two or three times a week, but now he had them every day, and he was so exhausted that he often fell asleep on the table.