The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  “Then why do you sit there as if you have?” Ezra was done with ceremony and etiquette. At this point, he didn’t care if they threw him out—or for that matter threw him off the broken bridge.

  The Toll didn’t seem offended by his rudeness. He just shrugged. “Sitting here and listening to people is what’s expected of me. After all, I do have the Thunderhead’s ear.”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  He expected the Toll to slough off the question with more smoke and mirrors. Platitudes about leaps of faith and the like. But instead he got serious and cocked his head to one side as if listening to something in his earpiece. Then he spoke with absolute certainty.

  “Ezra Elliot Van Otterloo, although you never use your middle name. When you were seven and got angry at your father, you drew a picture of a scythe coming for him, but got scared that it might actually come true, so you tore it up and flushed it down the toilet. When you were fifteen, you put a particularly awful-smelling cheese in your brother’s pocket, because he was going on a date with a girl you had a crush on. You never told anyone, and your brother was never able to identify the source of the smell. And just last month, alone in your room, you drank enough absinthe to put a mortal-age man into the hospital, but your nanites protected you from the worst of it. You woke up with nothing more than a fading headache.”

  Ezra found himself weak all over. He trembled, and it was not from the cold. These weren’t things the curates could be feeding him. These were things that only the Thunderhead could know.

  “Is that enough proof for you?” the Toll asked. “Or do you want me to tell you what happened with Tessa Collins on the night of senior prom?”

  Ezra dropped to his knees. Not because he was told to by some officious curate, but because he now knew that the Toll was what he claimed him to be. The one true link to the Thunderhead.

  “Forgive me,” Ezra begged. “Please forgive me for doubting you.”

  The Toll approached him. “Get up,” he said. “I hate when people kneel.”

  Ezra stood up. He found that he wanted to look into the Toll’s eyes, to see if they held the infinite depths of the Thunderhead, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Because what if the Toll saw all the way though him, to places Ezra didn’t even know existed? He had to remind himself that the Toll wasn’t all knowing. He only knew what the Thunderhead let him know. Still, access to all that knowledge was intimidating—especially when no one else had it.

  “Make your request, and the Thunderhead will respond through me.”

  “I want direction,” Ezra said. “The direction it once promised it would give me, before we were all marked unsavory. I want it to help me find purpose.”

  The Toll listened, considered, and then said, “The Thunderhead says you can find fulfillment by painting unsavory art.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Paint murals of the things you’re truly feeling in places that you’re not supposed to paint them.”

  “The Thunderhead wants me to break the law?”

  “Even when the Thunderhead spoke to people, it was happy to support an unsavory lifestyle for those who chose it. Being an unsavory artist might be the purpose you’re looking for. Spray-paint a publicar in the middle of the night. Paint an angry mural on your local peace officer headquarters. Yes, break the rules.”

  Ezra found himself beginning to breathe so quickly he was hyperventilating. No one had ever suggested that he might find fulfillment by breaking the rules. Ever since the Thunderhead went silent, people were falling over one another to follow rules. It was as if a stone had been lifted from his soul.

  “Thank you!” Ezra said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  And he left to begin his new life as an unrepentant artist.

  A Testament of the Toll

  His seat of mercy rested at the mouth of Lenape, and there he would proclaim the truth of the Tone. Awesome was he in his splendor, such that even the slightest whisper from his lips would peal like thunder. Those who experienced his presence were changed forever and went out into the world with new purpose, and to those who doubted, he offered forgiveness. Forgiveness even for a bringer of death, for whom he did sacrifice his life, in his youth, only to rise again.  All rejoice.

  Commentary of Curate Symphonius

  There is no question that the Toll had a grand and glorious throne, most likely made of gold, although some have posited that it was made of the gold-plated bones of the vanquished wicked of Lenape, a mythical city. Speaking of which, it is important to note that le nappe, in the French language spoken by some in ancient times, means “the tablecloth,” thus implying that the Toll set a table before his enemies. The mention here of a bringer of death refers to supernatural demons called scythes, who he redeemed from darkness. Like the Tone itself, the Toll could not die, so a life-sacrifice would always lead to the Toll’s resurrection, making him unique among the people of his day.

  Coda’s Analysis of Symphonius

  The key insight that Symphonius misses here is that the mention of his seat resting “at the mouth of Lenape” clearly means that the Toll waited at the entrance to the city, catching those that the seething metropolis would otherwise devour.  As for the death bringer, there is evidence to suggest that such individuals did exist, supernatural or not, and that they were indeed called scythes. Therefore, it is not far-fetched to think that the Toll might have saved a scythe from his or her evil ways. And in this instance, I do, for once, agree with Symphonius that the Toll was unique in the ability to return from death. For if everyone could return from death, why would we need the Toll at all?

  13 The Quality of Being Resonant

  If Greyson had anyone to thank—or blame—for becoming the Toll, it was Curate Mendoza. He had been key in shaping Greyson’s new image. Yes, it had been Greyson’s idea to “go public” and let the world know he still had a connection to the Thunderhead—but it was Mendoza who finessed the reveal.

  The man was a skilled strategist. Before souring on eternal life and becoming a Tonist curate, he had worked in marketing for a soft drink company.

  “I came up with the blue polar bear for AntarctiCool Soda,” he had once told Greyson. “There weren’t even polar bears in Antarctica, much less blue ones, so we engineered some. Now you can’t even think of Antarctica without thinking of their blue bears, can you?”

  There were many who thought that the Thunderhead was dead—that what the Tonists called the Great Resonance was the sound of it dying. Mendoza, however, offered an alternate explanation to the Tonists.

  “The Thunderhead has been visited by the resonant spirit,” he posited. “The Living Tone has breathed life into what had once been artificial thought.”

  It made sense if you looked at it through the lens of Tonist beliefs; the Thunderhead—all cold, hard science—had been transformed into something greater by the Living Tone. And, as such things often fell into groups of three, there needed to be a human element to complete the triad. And there he was, Greyson Tolliver, the one human being who spoke to the living Thunder.

  Mendoza began by dropping rumors in key trigger points about the existence of a mystical figure who conversed with the Thunderhead. A Tonist prophet who was the link between the spiritual and the scientific. Greyson was dubious, but Mendoza was passionate and persuasive.

  “Imagine it, Greyson: The Thunderhead will speak through you, and in time the world will hang on your every word. Isn’t that what the Thunderhead wants? For you to be its voice in the world?”

  “I don’t exactly have a voice of thunder,” Greyson pointed out.

  “You can whisper, and people will still hear thunder,” Mendoza told him. “Trust me.”

  Then Mendoza set out to create a more organized hierarchy to the Tonist calling that might bring together the various divergent factions—which was easier with an individual to rally around.

  Mendoza—who had, for many years, led a quiet, unexamined life as the head of the monas
tery in Wichita—was now back in his element as a master of public relations and branding. The Toll was his new product, and there was nothing more exciting to him than the thrill of the sale—especially when it was a one-of-a-kind item in a global market.

  “All you need now is a title,” Mendoza had told Greyson. “One that fits with Tonist beliefs… or at least can be made to fit.”

  It was Greyson who came up with “the Toll,” and, as it was actually part of his last name, it almost felt preordained. He was rather proud of himself, until people actually started calling him that. And to make it worse, Mendoza invented a pompous honorific, referring to him as “Your Sonority.” Greyson actually had to ask the Thunderhead what it meant.

  “From the Latin sonoritas, meaning ‘the quality of being resonant,’ ” it told him. “It has a certain… ring.” Which made Greyson groan.

  People took to it, and before long everything was “Yes, Your Sonority,” “No, Your Sonority,” “How might I please you today, Your Sonority?” It all felt so strange. After all, he was no different than he had been. And yet here he was posing as some sort of divine sage.

  Next, Mendoza arranged the dramatic spot for his audiences, only one supplicant at a time, because it kept him from being overexposed, and limiting access nurtured the growing mystique.

  Greyson tried to draw the line at the formal ceremonial clothing that Mendoza had commissioned from some famous designer, but by then the train had already left the station.

  “Throughout history the most powerful religious figures have always had distinctive clothing, so why shouldn’t you?” Mendoza argued. “You need to look elevated and otherworldly, because, in a way, you are. You are unique among human beings now, Greyson—you need to dress the part.”

  “This is all a little theatrical, don’t you think?” Greyson commented.

  “Ah, but theater is the hallmark of ritual, and ritual is the touchstone of religion,” Mendoza responded.

  Greyson thought the scapular that hung over his purple tunic, with all its embroidered waves, was a bit much, but no one was laughing—and when he first began giving formal audiences to people, he was shocked by how awestruck they were. The supplicants fell to their knees, speechless before him. They trembled just to be in his presence. It turned out that Mendoza was right; looking the part sold it—and people bought it just as thoroughly as they bought blue polar bears.

  And so, with his legend growing, Greyson Tolliver spent his days as His Sonority, the Toll, consoling desperate, starstruck people and passing along wise advice from the Thunderhead.

  Except, of course, when he made shit up.

  * * *

  “You lied to him,” the Thunderhead said to Greyson after his audience with the artist. “I never suggested that he paint in unsanctioned places, or that he would find fulfillment in doing so.”

  Greyson shrugged. “You never said he wouldn’t.”

  “The information I gave you about his life was to prove your authenticity, but lying to him undermines that.”

  “I wasn’t lying; I was giving him advice.”

  “Yet you didn’t wait for my input. Why?”

  Greyson leaned back in his chair. “You know me better than anyone. In fact, you know everyone better than anyone, and you can’t figure out why I did it?”

  “I can,” the Thunderhead said a bit pedantically. “But you may want to clarify it for yourself.”

  Greyson laughed. “Okay, then. The curates see themselves as my handlers, you see me as your mouthpiece in the world—”

  “I see you as much more than that, Greyson.”

  “Do you? Because if you did, you’d allow me to have an opinion. You’d allow me to contribute. And the advice I gave today was my way of contributing.”

  “I see.”

  “Have I clarified that for myself sufficiently?”

  “Indeed, you have.”

  “And was my suggestion to him a good one?”

  The Thunderhead paused. “I will concede that giving him freedom and artistic license outside of structured boundaries may help him find fulfillment. So, yes, your suggestion was a good one.”

  “So there you go! Maybe you’ll start allowing me to contribute a little bit more.”

  “Greyson…,” said the Thunderhead.

  He sighed, certain that the Thunderhead was going to give him some sort of patient, long-suffering lecture for daring to have opinions. But instead, what the Thunderhead said surprised him.

  “I know this hasn’t been easy. I marvel at how you’ve grown into this position you’ve been thrust into. I marvel at how you’ve grown, period. Choosing you could not have been a more correct choice.”

  Greyson found himself moved. “Thank you, Thunderhead.”

  “I’m not sure you realize the significance of what you’ve accomplished, Greyson. You have taken a cult that despised technology and have caused them to embrace it. To embrace me.”

  “The Tonists never hated you,” Greyson pointed out. “They hate scythes. They were on the fence about you—but now you fit within their dogma. ‘The Tone, the Toll, and the Thunder.’ ”

  “Yes, the Tonists do so love alliteration.”

  “Be careful,” Greyson warned, “or they’ll start building temples to you and cutting out hearts in your name.” Greyson almost laughed imagining it. How frustrating it would be to make human sacrifices, only to have your sacrifices return the next day with brand-new hearts.

  “There is power to their beliefs,” the Thunderhead said. “Yes, those beliefs could be dangerous if not properly directed and shaped—and so we shall shape them. We shall mold the Tonists into a force that can benefit humanity.”

  “Are you sure that can be done?” Greyson asked.

  “I can say with 72.4% certainty that we can wield the Tonists toward a positive end.”

  “And what about the rest?”

  “There is a 19% chance that the Tonists will do nothing of any value,” the Thunderhead told him, “and an 8.6% chance that they will damage the world in an unpredictable way.”

  * * *

  The Toll’s next audience was not a pleasant one. At first there were just a few extremist zealots coming to him for an audience, but now it seemed to be a daily occurrence. They found ways of twisting Tonist teachings, as well as misinterpreting every little thing Greyson said or did.

  The Toll rising early did not mean people should be punished for sleeping late.

  His eating eggs did not imply a fertility rite was called for.

  And a day of quiet brooding did not mean a permanent vow of silence was required.

  Tonists wanted so desperately to believe in something that the things they chose to believe were sometimes absurd, other times naive, and, when it came to zealots, downright terrifying.

  Today’s extreme believer was emaciated, as if he had been on a hunger strike, and had a crazed look in his eyes. He spoke about ridding the world of almonds—and all because Greyson once mentioned in passing that he didn’t care for them. Apparently the wrong ears heard and spread the word. It turns out that wasn’t the only scheme the man had.

  “We must strike terror into the cold hearts of scythes, so they submit to you,” the zealot said. “With your blessing, I will burn them one by one, just as their rebel, Scythe Lucifer, did.”

  “No! Absolutely not!” The last thing Greyson wanted to do was antagonize scythes. As long as he didn’t get in their way, they didn’t bother him, and it needed to stay that way. Greyson rose from his chair and stared the man down. “There won’t be any killing in my name!”

  “But there must be! The Tone sings to my heart and tells me so!”

  “Get out of here!” Greyson demanded. “You don’t serve the Tone, or the Thunder, and you definitely don’t serve me!”

  The man’s shock turned to contrition. He folded as if under some heavy weight. “I’m sorry if I have offended you, Your Sonority. What can I do to earn your favor?”

  “Nothing,”
Greyson said. “Do nothing. That will make me happy.”

  The zealot retreated, bowing as he walked backward. As far as Greyson was concerned, he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  The Thunderhead approved of how he had dealt with the zealot. “There have always been, and will always be, those who exist on the fringe of reason,” the Thunderhead told Greyson. “They must be set straight early and often.”

  “If you started speaking to people again, maybe they wouldn’t behave so desperately,” Greyson dared to suggest.

  “I realize that,” the Thunderhead said. “But a modicum of desperation is not a bad thing if it leads to productive soul-searching.”

  “Yeah, I know: ‘The human race must face the consequences of its collective actions.’ ” It’s what the Thunderhead always told him about its silence.

  “More than that, Greyson. Humankind must be pushed out of the nest if it is ever to grow beyond its current state.”

  “Some birds that get pushed out of the nest just die,” Greyson pointed out.

  “Yes, but for humankind, I have engineered a soft landing. It will be painful for a while, but it will build global character.”

  “Painful for them, or for you?”

  “Both,” the Thunderhead replied. “But my pain must not prevent me from doing the right thing.”

  And although Greyson trusted the Thunderhead, he kept finding himself coming back to those odds: an 8.6 percent chance that Tonists would damage the world. Maybe the Thunderhead was okay with those odds, but Greyson found them troubling.

  * * *

  After a full day of monotonous audiences, mostly with devout Tonists who wanted simplistic answers about mundane matters, he was carried off by a nondescript speedboat that had been stripped of every comfortable amenity to make its extravagance feel suitably austere. It was flanked by two other boats, both of which bore burly Tonists armed with mortal-age weapons, to defend the Toll should someone try to abduct him or end him while in transit.