The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  After finishing up the pancake batter for the next morning, he turned off the lights and waited in a corner, dozing in and out, when someone in satin pajamas came downstairs and opened the refrigerator. In the oblique light of the fridge, Morrison could see a young man who seemed no older than he, twenty-one or twenty-two at the most. He didn’t look like anything special. Certainly not the “holy man” that everyone whispered of, and was so intimidated by. Morrison expected the Toll to have a tangled beard, a wild mane, and crazy eyes. All this guy had was bed hair and eye crust. Morrison took a step out of the darkness.

  “Your Sonority,” he said.

  The Toll flinched, nearly dropping the plate of cheesecake in his hand. “Who’s there?”

  Morrison came forward into the light of the open refrigerator. “Just the pastry chef, Your Sonority. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “It’s okay,” the Toll said. “You just caught me by surprise. I’m actually glad to meet you. I’ve been wanting to tell you what a great job you’re doing. You sure are better than the last one.”

  “Well,” said Morrison, “I’ve been training for years.”

  It was hard to believe that the Thunderhead would choose this unremarkable, unassuming guy to be its voice on Earth. Maybe the naysayers were right, and it was just a scam. All the more reason to put him out of his misery.

  Morrison stepped closer, opened a drawer, and pulled out a fork. He held it out to the Toll. This, Morrison knew, would appear to be a sincere gesture. And it would put him close to the Toll. Close enough to grab him and break his neck.

  “I’m glad that you like my baking,” Morrison said, handing the fork to him. “It means a lot to me.”

  The Toll dipped the fork into the cheesecake, took a bite, and savored it.

  “I’m glad that you’re glad,” he said.

  Then the Toll raised the fork and jabbed it into Morrison’s eye.

  * * *

  Greyson knew.

  He knew without question—and not from anything that the Thunderhead had said. He knew because of the Thunderhead’s silence.

  It suddenly fell into place for Greyson. All this time the Thunderhead had been trying to warn him without actually warning him. The suggestions to leave… They were not about traveling—they were about escaping. And the bath! Being in “hot water.” Greyson cursed himself for being too literal a thinker to figure it out. The Thunderhead couldn’t directly warn him, because that would be blatant interference in scythe business, which was against the law. The Thunderhead could do countless things, but it was incapable of breaking the law. All it could do was helplessly watch as Greyson was gleaned.

  But the silence in his earpiece. That spoke louder than any alarm.

  When the chef had stepped out of the shadows and Greyson flinched, it was more than just a flinch. His heart leaped—his fight-or-flight response was nearly triggered. In the past, whenever that happened, the Thunderhead was always quick to soothe him. It’s only the pastry chef, the Thunderhead should have said in his ear. He was merely hoping to catch a glimpse of you; please treat him kindly.

  But the Thunderhead didn’t say that. It said nothing at all. Which meant the man before him was a scythe, and he was about to be gleaned.

  Greyson had never done anything as violent as what he had just done. Even during his days as Slayd Bridger he had never engaged in something so reprehensible as an attack with a sharp object. But he knew it was warranted. He knew the Thunderhead would understand.

  And so, with the deed done, he ran for his life from the kitchen without looking back.

  * * *

  Scythe Morrison would have screamed with volume to match the Great Resonance if he’d let himself. But he bit it back into a single yelp and, fighting the pain, pulled the fork from his eye. Unlike many of the new-order scythes, he had not dialed down his pain nanites, so they were already dousing him with megadoses of painkillers, making him woozy and dizzy. He had to fight that as much as the pain, because he needed to stay sharp if he was going to fix this mess.

  He had been so close! If only he had dispensed with the charade immediately and done what he’d come to do, the Toll would be dead now. How could Morrison have been so sloppy?

  The holy man knew the scythe’s intentions—knew his purpose there. Either he was clairvoyant, or the Thunderhead had told him, or something Morrison did had given him away. He should have anticipated the possibility of being exposed.

  With one hand on his damaged eye, he took off after the Toll, determined that there’d be no more mistakes. He would complete his mission. It wouldn’t be as clean as he wanted it to be—in fact, it would be messy. But it would get done.

  * * *

  “Scythe!” yelled Greyson as he ran from the kitchen. “Help! There’s a scythe!”

  Someone must have heard him—the stone walls echoed every sound—but they also sent sound bouncing in unexpected directions. All the guards were positioned on the outside, and on the rooftops, not in the residence. By the time they heard him and took action, it might be too late.

  “Scythe!”

  His slippers were slowing him down, so he got rid of them. The only advantage that Greyson had was that he knew the Cloisters better than his attacker did—and Greyson also had the Thunderhead.

  “I know you can’t help me,” he said to it. “I know it’s against the law, but there are things you can do.”

  Still the Thunderhead didn’t respond.

  Greyson heard a door open behind him. Someone screamed. He couldn’t turn around to see who it was or what had happened.

  I have to think like the Thunderhead. It can’t interfere. It can’t do anything of its own will to help me. So what can it do?

  The answer was simple when he thought of it that way. The Thunderhead was humanity’s servant. Which meant it could follow commands.

  “Thunderhead!” said Greyson. “I’m ready to take that journey now. Awaken the staff and tell them that we’ll be leaving immediately.”

  “Of course, Greyson,” it said. And all at once every bedside alarm in the complex began to blare. Every single light came on. The hallways were blinding; the courtyards were doused by floodlights.

  He heard someone else yell out behind him. He turned to see a man fall to the ground at the hands of the scythe, who was gaining on Greyson.

  “Thunderhead, it’s too bright,” said Greyson. “It’s hurting my eyes. Turn off the lights in the interior corridors.”

  “Of course,” the Thunderhead said calmly. “I’m sorry to have caused you discomfort.”

  The lights in the hallway went out again. Now he couldn’t see a thing, since his pupils had constricted against the bright light. And it would be the same for the scythe! Blinded by light, then blinded by darkness!

  Greyson came to a T where the hallway went left and right. Even in the dark he knew the scythe was coming and knew which way he needed to go.

  * * *

  As Morrison left the kitchen, he could see the Toll scrambling ahead of him, kicking off his slippers. The Toll called for help, but Morrison knew he’d reach the Toll before anyone would arrive.

  A door opened beside him, and a woman stepped out. No clue who she was. Didn’t care. Before she could say anything, he jammed the heel of his hand into her nose, breaking it and sending the bone deep into her brain; she screamed and crumbled to the ground, dead before her head hit the stone. It was his first gleaning of the night, and he was determined that it not be his last.

  Then the lights came on bright enough to illuminate the whole hallway. He squinted against the sudden brilliance. Another door opened. The sous chef came out of his room, his bedside alarm blaring inside.

  “What’s going on out here?”

  Morrison punched him in the chest with heart-stopping force, but with only one eye, his depth perception was off. It took a second punch to do the job—and as most Tonists had removed their nanites, there was nothing to restart his heart. He pushed the dying man ou
t of his way and continued after the Toll—but just as quickly as the lights came on, they went off, and when they did, he was in total darkness. Refusing to slow down, he barreled forward and slammed against a stone wall. A dead end? No—as his eyes began to readjust to the dark, he could see the hallway now went off to the left and right. But which passageway had the Toll taken?

  Behind him he heard the commotion of the complex waking up, guards being mobilized. They knew there was an intruder now. He had to move fast.

  Which way to go? Left or right? He chose left. He had a 50 percent chance of being correct. He’d faced worse odds.

  * * *

  Greyson threw himself down the stairs, then pushed open the door into the garage, where over a dozen cars were parked. “Thunderhead!” he said. “I’m ready for my journey. Open the door to the closest car.”

  “Door opening,” said the Thunderhead. “Enjoy your trip, Greyson.”

  A car door opened. The light came on inside. Greyson had no intention of leaving the garage—all he had to do was get into that car and close the door. Its glass was unbreakable. Its polycarbonate doors could stop a bullet. Once he was inside, he’d be like a turtle in its shell—the scythe would not be able to get at him no matter how hard he tried.

  He lunged for the door—

  And behind him, the scythe lurched for his leg, grabbing him and pulling him down just short of safety.

  “Nice try,” the scythe said. “Almost made it, too.”

  Greyson spun and squirmed. He knew that the moment the scythe had a good grip on him, it was over. Luckily, his pajamas were slippery satin, and the scythe couldn’t get him in a gleaning position.

  “You don’t want to do this!” Greyson said. “If you glean me, the Thunderhead will be lost to humanity. I’m its only link!”

  The scythe put his hand around Greyson’s neck. “I don’t care.”

  But there was enough hesitation in his voice that Greyson knew he did care, even only just a little, but that could mean the difference between life and death for Greyson.

  “It sees what you’re doing,” Greyson whispered through his rapidly closing windpipe. “It can’t stop you, or even hurt you, but it can punish everyone you’ve ever loved!”

  The pressure on his windpipe eased just a bit. The Thunderhead would never pursue vengeance, but the scythe didn’t know that. He’d figure out that it was a bluff, though—maybe just in a moment or two, but every instant won was a victory.

  “The Thunderhead has a glorious plan for you!” Greyson said. “It wants you to become High Blade!”

  “You don’t even know who I am.”

  “What if I do?”

  “You’re a liar!”

  And then suddenly music began to play in Greyson’s ear. A mortal-age song he didn’t know, but knew it was playing for a reason. The Thunderhead couldn’t help him, but it could lay before him the tools to help himself.

  “ ‘ You knew that it would be untrue!’ ” Greyson said, repeating the lyric, not sure if he was getting it entirely right. “ ‘ You knew that I would be a liar!’ ”

  And the scythe’s eyes went wide. He froze in disbelief as if those words were a magic spell.

  Then Tonist guards flooded the room and grabbed the scythe. He managed to glean two of them with his bare hands before they overwhelmed him and pinned him to the ground.

  * * *

  It was over. Scythe Morrison knew it. They were going to kill him—and the only fire they’d be lighting would be the one to burn his body before it could be revived. He was being ended today at the hands of Tonists. Could there be a more humiliating way to die?

  Perhaps it was better this way, he thought. Better than having to face Goddard after such a dismal failure.

  But then the Toll stepped forward.

  “Stop,” he said. “Don’t kill him.”

  “But, Your Sonority,” said a man with gray, thinning hair. Not a guard. Maybe one of the priests of their strange religion. “We have to kill him, and quickly. He must be made an example, so that they don’t attempt this again.”

  “Ending his life is just going to start a war we’re not ready to fight.”

  The man was clearly irritated. “Your Sonority, I must advise against—”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Curate Mendoza. This is my call.”

  Then the Toll turned to the guards. “Lock the scythe up somewhere until I decide what to do with him.”

  The curate tried once more to protest, but the Toll ignored him, and Morrison was dragged out. Funny, but suddenly the Toll, in his satin pajamas, didn’t seem as ridiculous as he had just moments ago. He seemed just a little bit like a holy man.

  * * *

  “What were you thinking?”

  Curate Mendoza paced the Toll’s suite, furious with him. There were guards at every door and window now, too late to make a difference. Foolish boy, thought Mendoza. He was warned not to go anywhere alone, much less at night. He brought this on himself.

  “And why did you let him live? Killing that scythe and burning him would have sent a clear message to Goddard!” Mendoza told him.

  “Yes,” the Toll agreed. “And that message would be that Tonists are getting too defiant and need to be wiped out.”

  “He already wants to wipe us out!”

  “Wanting to and actually mobilizing his scythes to do it are two different things,” the Toll insisted. “The longer we keep Goddard from boiling over, the more time it gives us to get ready to fight him off. Don’t you see that?”

  Mendoza crossed his arms. It was obvious to him what was going on here.

  “You’re a coward!” he said. “You’re just afraid to do something so audacious as kill a scythe!”

  The Toll stepped forward and squared his shoulders.

  “If you call me a coward again, you’ll be sent back to your monastery, and that will be the end of your service to me.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Guard,” the Toll said, gesturing to the closest one. “Please escort Curate Mendoza to his chambers and lock him in there until the noon bell for his disrespect.”

  Without hesitation the guard stepped forward and grabbed the curate, making it clear whose orders he, and all the guards, obeyed.

  Mendoza shook the guard off. “I’ll walk myself.”

  But before he left, Mendoza paused, took a deep breath, and turned back to the Toll. “Forgive me, Your Sonority,” he said. “I was out of line.”

  But even to him it sounded far more sycophantic than sincere.

  * * *

  Once Mendoza was gone, Greyson just about collapsed into a chair. It was the first time he had ever stood up to Mendoza like that. But the Toll could not allow himself to be intimidated. Even by the man who had made him. It should have felt good to put the curate in his place, but it didn’t. Perhaps that was why the Thunderhead had chosen him over all others; while others were corrupted by power, Greyson didn’t even like the taste of it.

  Well, maybe he could develop a taste. Perhaps he would need to.

  * * *

  The Cloisters did not have a dungeon. It was only designed to resemble a medieval structure, not actually function as one. Instead, Morrison was relegated to what must have been someone’s office in the days when the place had been a museum.

  The Tonist guards were not exactly trained for this sort of thing. They didn’t have shackles of any sort—such artifacts could only be found in museums today, and not this kind of museum. So they secured him with plastic garden ties that were used for training the bougainvilleas to the stone walls. There were way too many guards. One on each appendage would have done the job, but they put half a dozen on each arm and each leg, and pulled them so tight that Morrison’s hands were turning purple and his feet were ice cold. All Morrison could do was wait until his fate was decided.

  It must have been around dawn when he heard a conversation just outside the closed door.

  “But, Your Sonor
ity,” he heard one of the guards say. “You shouldn’t go in there; he’s dangerous.”

  “Do you have him tied up?” he heard the Toll ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Can he break free?”

  “No, we made sure he couldn’t.”

  “Then I don’t see the problem.”

  The door opened. The Toll stepped in. He closed the door behind him. His bed hair had been combed, and he was now wearing a ritualistic outfit. It looked uncomfortable.

  Scythe Morrison didn’t know whether to thank the Toll for saving him or curse him for leaving him like this, bested and humiliated.

  “So,” Morrison said sulkily. “The Thunderhead has a plan for me, huh?”

  “I was lying,” the Toll said. “You’re a scythe; the Thunderhead can’t have a plan for you. It can’t have anything to do with you.”

  “But it told you who I was.”

  “Not really. But I eventually figured it out. Scythe Morrison, right? Your Patron Historic wrote those lyrics I recited.”

  He didn’t respond, just waited for whatever came next.

  “Your eye looks like it’s healed already.”

  “Almost,” Morrison said. “Still blurry.”

  “Most Tonists remove their healing nanites—did you know that? I think it’s pretty stupid.”

  Morrison met his gaze, blinking his healing eye to get a gauge on the Toll. The Tonists’ spiritual leader calling their behavior stupid? Was this a test? Was he supposed to disagree? Agree?

  “Isn’t there a mortal-age word for what you’re saying?” Morrison said. “Blastony? Blasmony? Blasphemy—that’s it.”

  The Toll looked him over for a moment before he spoke again. “Do you believe that the Thunderhead speaks to me?”

  Morrison didn’t want to answer the question, but what did it matter now? “Yes, I believe it,” he admitted. “I wish I didn’t, but I do.”