The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  The idea of his life ending was not much of a problem for him. In fact, it had become an oddly familiar theme. He had died so many times, and in so many ways, he was used to it. It held no more terror for him than falling asleep—which was often worse, because when he slept, he had nightmares. At least being deadish was a dreamless state, and the only difference between being deadish and being dead was the length of time involved. Perhaps, as some believed, true death ultimately brought people to a glorious new place, unimaginable to the living. In this way, Rowan tried to soften the prospect of his fate.

  He also tried to soften it with thoughts of Citra. There had been no word of her, and he wasn’t foolish enough to ask Constantine, or anyone else for that matter, because he had no idea who knew that she was alive. Goddard certainly knew—he had sent the High Blade of WestMerica to retrieve them both. But if Citra had escaped, the best way to help her was to not speak of her in hostile company.

  Considering where Rowan’s winding path was leading him, he could only hope she was in better circumstances.

  29 The Obvious Bear

  Three dates. That’s all that was within the folded swan. One in the Year of the Lynx, a second in the Year of the Bison, and a third in the Year of the Heron. All years before she was even born.

  It didn’t take long for Anastasia to figure out why those dates were important. That was the easy part. Whether people knew the actual dates or not, the events they marked were part of everyone’s history curriculum. But on the other hand, those were the official accounts. The accepted ones. Nothing in history was a firsthand account, and things known really meant things that were allowed to be known. Ever since becoming a scythe, Anastasia had seen how the scythedom throttled back the flow of information when it felt the need, defining history any way it chose. Perhaps not falsify things, for the Thunderhead did have jurisdiction over facts and figures, but the scythedom could choose which facts were fed to the public.

  But any information selectively ignored was not forgotten. It still existed in the backbrain for anyone to access. In the days of her apprenticeship, Citra had become an expert at sifting through the Thunderhead’s backbrain when trying to find Scythe Faraday’s “killer.” The algorithms of the Thunderhead’s filing system were much like the human brain; all order was by association. Images weren’t organized by date, time, or even location. To find an ivory scythe standing on a corner, she had to sort through images of people in ivory standing on corners everywhere in the world, then narrow it down by other elements of the scene. A particular type of streetlamp. The length of shadows. The sounds and scents in the air, because the Thunderhead catalogued all sensory input. Finding anything was like finding a needle in a haystack on a planet of haystacks.

  It took ingenuity and inspiration to figure out what parameters would narrow down the near infinite field of information. Now Anastasia’s challenge was even greater than before, because then she knew what she was looking for. Now she knew nothing but the dates.

  First she studied all that was known about the disasters in question. Then she plunged into the backbrain to find original sources and information that had been conveniently left out of the official records.

  The biggest obstacle was her own lack of patience. She could already sense that the answers were in there, but they were buried beneath so many layers she feared she’d never find them.

  * * *

  As it turns out, Anastasia and Jeri had arrived just a few days before the Lunar Jubilee. On every full moon, High Blade Tenkamenin threw a huge party that lasted twenty-five hours, “because twenty-four simply isn’t enough.” There were all forms of entertainment, hordes of professional partiers, and food flown in from around the globe for his invited guests.

  “Dress for the event, but without your scythe’s robe, and stay by my side with a party person or two,” Tenka had advised her. “You’ll just be part of the scenery.”

  To Jeri, the High Blade just said, “Enjoy yourself within reason.”

  Anastasia was reluctant to even be there, for fear of being recognized, and much rather would have continued her search through the backbrain, but Tenkamenin insisted. “A break from the drudgery of dredging will do you good. I’ll provide you with a colorful wig, and no one will be the wiser.”

  At first Anastasia thought it was irresponsible and foolhardy to suggest a simple disguise could conceal her, but since the last thing anyone was expecting was a long-dead scythe to show up at the party—much less one wearing a neon-blue wig—she was remarkably hidden in plain sight.

  “A lesson for your research,” he told her. “That which hides in plain sight is the most difficult thing to find.”

  Tenka was the consummate host, greeting everyone personally and granting immunity left and right. It was all stunning and fun, but it didn’t sit well with Anastasia—and the High Blade read her disapproval.

  “Do I seem wastefully self-indulgent to you?” Tenka asked her. “Am I a horribly hedonistic High Blade?”

  “Goddard throws parties like this,” she pointed out.

  “Not like this,” said Tenka.

  “And he likes his homes larger than life, too.”

  “Is that so?”

  Then Tenka beckoned her closer so she could hear him more clearly amid the revelry. “I want you to take a look at the people before you and tell me what you see. Or—more to the point—what you don’t see.”

  Anastasia took in the view. People in a multilevel pool, others dancing on balconies. Everyone in bathing suits and bright party clothes. Then she realized…

  “There are no scythes.”

  “Not a one! Not even Makeda and Baba. Every guest is a family member of someone I gleaned since the last full moon. I invite them here to celebrate the lives of their lost loved ones, rather than to mourn, and to grant them their year of immunity. And when the celebration is over, and the grounds are cleared, I retreat to my glorious suite.” He indicated the largest window in the mansion… then winked and slid his finger to the right, until he wasn’t pointing at the palace anymore, but to a small shack at the edge of the property.

  “The tool shed?”

  “That’s not a tool shed,” he said. “It’s where I live. The palace suites are all reserved for honored guests like yourself, as well as guests who are less honored, but need to be impressed. As for my ‘tool shed,’ as you call it, it’s a replica of the home I grew up in. My parents believe in simplicity. And of course they had a son who enjoyed endless complication. Yet I still find comfort at night in the pleasantness of a plain dwelling.”

  “I’m sure they must be proud of you,” Anastasia said. “Your parents, I mean.”

  High Blade Tenkamenin sniffed at the suggestion. “Hardly,” he said. “They took simplicity to an extreme. They’re Tonists now—I haven’t spoken to them in years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did you hear the Tonists had a prophet?” Tenka said bitterly. “He appeared shortly after you took your deep dive. They claimed the Thunderhead still spoke to him.” Tenka gave a rueful chuckle at the thought. “Of course he got himself gleaned.”

  A waiter approached with a tray of shrimp that appeared too large to be real—no doubt a product of the Thunderhead’s experimental abundance farms. As always, the Thunderhead got it right; they tasted even better than they looked.

  “How are your efforts going?” Tenkamenin asked her.

  “They’re going,” she told him. “But the Thunderhead links things in confusing ways. I pull up an image of the Mars colony, and it takes me to a child’s drawing of the moon. A news report from the NewHope orbital station leads to a lunch order in Istanbul from a scythe I’ve never even heard of. Dante something-or-other.”

  “Alighieri?” said Tenka.

  “Yes, that’s it—do you know him?”

  “I know of him. From EuroScandia, I believe. He’s long gone. Must have self-gleaned maybe fifty, sixty years ago.”

  “It’s like every other link I’v
e found. None of them make sense.”

  “Go down every rabbit hole,” Tenka advised. “Because some of them might actually have rabbits.”

  “I still don’t understand why you can’t just tell me what I’m looking for.”

  Tenka sighed and leaned close to whisper. “The information we have came from another scythe before she self-gleaned—a clearing of her conscience, I imagine. Other than that, we have no actual evidence, and our own digging through the backbrain has been fruitless. We’re being hindered because we know what we’re looking for. While one searches for a man in a blue hat, one totally misses the woman in a blue wig.” He gave a little flip to one of her neon curls.

  Although it was counterintuitive, she had to admit it made sense. Hadn’t she seen Tenka walking toward the “tool shed” each day, but her own assumptions never allowed her to guess the reason? She recalled a mortal-age video a teacher had once shown her class. The objective was to count how many times a ball was passed between teammates shifting around the screen. She got the answer right, as did most people in class. But everyone completely missed the man in a bear suit who danced his way right through the middle of the scene. Sometimes finding the obvious means coming in with no expectations.

  * * *

  The next morning, she had a breakthrough and ran to Tenka’s cottage to let him know what she had uncovered.

  His home was modest in a way that even Scythe Faraday would have approved of. She found Tenka in the middle of something. Directly in front of him were two other people, not looking all that happy to be there. More than unhappy, they were miserable.

  “Come in, my friend,” Tenka said when he saw Anastasia. “Do you know who this is?” he asked his two other guests.

  “No, Your Excellency,” they said.

  “She is my florist,” he told them. “She fills the palace and my home with the most lovely arrangements.” Then he focused his attention on the more nervous of the two: a man who seemed to be nearing forty, perhaps ready to turn a corner. “Tell me your dearest dream,” said the High Blade. “What do you want to do more than anything in the world, but have not yet done?”

  The man hesitated.

  “Don’t hold back,” prompted Tenkamenin. “Don’t be modest. Tell me your dream in all of its garish glory!”

  “I… I want a sailing yacht,” he said like a little boy on Father Holiday’s lap. “I want to sail it around the world.”

  “Very well!” said the High Blade, clapping his hands once, as if that sealed the deal. “We’ll go shopping for sailing yachts tomorrow. My treat!”

  “Your… Excellency?” the man said, incredulous.

  “You’ll have your dream, sir. Six months of it. Then you’ll return here to tell me all about it. And then I will glean you.”

  The man was ecstatic. In spite of being told that he was going to be gleaned, he was happy as could be. “Thank you, Your Excellency! Thank you!”

  Once he had left, the other man—a bit younger and less frightened than he was before, turned to the High Blade. “What about me?” he asked. “Do you want to hear my dream?”

  “My friend, life can often be most brutal and unfair. Death is the same.”

  Tenkamenin swung his hand in a quick arc. Anastasia never even saw the blade, but in an instant the man was on the floor, clutching his neck, releasing his last breath. He had been gleaned.

  “I will alert his family personally,” Tenkamenin told Anastasia. “They will be invited to the next Lunar Jubilee.”

  Anastasia was surprised by the turn of events, but not shocked. Each scythe had to find his or her own way of doing things. To realize one random soul’s dream while denying another’s was as reasonable a method as any. She’d seen good scythes do a whole lot worse.

  The cleanup crew came in from another room, and Tenka escorted Anastasia out to the patio, where breakfast was waiting. “Did you know that you were my inspiration?” he told her.

  “Me?”

  “By your example. Actually allowing people to choose their own method of gleaning, and giving them notice ahead of time—unheard of! But brilliant! Such compassion is lacking among us—we’re all about efficiency. Getting the job done. After you were lost on Endura, to honor you, I decided to change my gleaning style. I would allow half of those I glean to first live their dream.”

  “Why just half?”

  “Because if we truly are to emulate death as it once was, it must be fickle and capricious,” he said. “One can only sugarcoat it so much.”

  Tenka filled a plate with eggs and fried plantains, and set it in front of Anastasia before making a plate for himself. How strange, thought Anastasia, that death has become so commonplace for us scythes that we can take life, and take breakfast in the next moment.

  Tenka took a bite of cassava fufu, chewing the dense bread as he spoke. “You’ve not gleaned once since you arrived. Understandable under the circumstances, but you must be itching for it.”

  She understood what he meant. Only new-order scythes truly enjoyed the act of gleaning, but others would feel a vague but persistent need if they went too long without it. Anastasia couldn’t deny that she’d come to feel that, too. She imagined it was the way one’s psyche adjusted to being a scythe in the first place.

  “What I’m doing in the backbrain is more important than gleaning,” she told him. “And I think I found something.”

  She told him what she had uncovered. A name. Carson Lusk. Not exactly the motherlode, but a starting point. “He’s listed as a survivor, but there’s no record of his life after that date. Of course it could be a mistake, and he actually died with the others.”

  Tenka smiled broadly. “The Thunderhead does not make mistakes,” he reminded her. “It’s a solid lead. Keep digging!”

  He eyed her plate, then scooped more plantains onto it like a parent concerned with their child’s skimpy eating habits. “We would like you to start making live broadcasts,” he told her. “Rather than us officially telling the world you’ve returned, we think you should do it yourself. Scythe Anastasia, in her own words.”

  “I’m… not much of a performer,” she told him, and thought back to her awful performance in Julius Caesar. She was only on stage to glean the lead actor, as per his wishes, but she still had to act the part. She was a terrible Roman senator, except for the stabbing part.

  “Did you speak your mind and your heart to the Grandslayers when you brought your inquest?” Tenka asked.

  “Yes…,” admitted Anastasia.

  “And our friend Scythe Possuelo tells me that, in spite of what the world believes, you convinced them to make Scythe Curie High Blade of MidMerica.”

  Anastasia grimaced involuntarily at the mention of Scythe Curie. “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, if you can stand before the seven Seats of Consideration and argue a case to the most intimidating elegy of scythes in the world, I think you’ll do fine.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, Tenkamenin took her off the compound to show her the city he was so proud off. Port Remembrance was bustling and full of life. But the High Blade did not want her to leave their car. “The Jubilee is one thing—it is a controlled environment—but out here, there’s no telling who might see you, and recognize you,” he said. But it turned out there was another reason he didn’t want her to leave their vehicle.

  As they neared the center of town, they began to encounter Tonists. First just a few, but soon they started to gather on either side of the road, glaring at the High Blade’s car.

  Anastasia had mixed feelings about Tonists. The less extreme ones were all right. Friendly, and often kind, if somewhat persistent in the pushing of their beliefs. Some, however, were insufferable. Judgmental, intolerant—the opposite of what Tonism claimed to be about—and Sibilants made other zealots seem tame. That was the brand of Tonism that had taken root in Tenkamenin’s region.

  “Ever since the Toll was gleaned, these splinter groups have become more and more extreme,” Tenk
amenin told her. As if to prove his point, when enough of them were gathered by the roadside, they began to throw stones.

  Anastasia gasped when the first stone hit the car, but Tenkamenin was unperturbed. “Don’t worry—they can’t do any damage, and they know it. I’m sorry you have to see this.”

  Another rock hit the windshield, split in two, and bounced off.

  Then, all at once, the attackers stopped throwing stones and began to “intone,” emitting a droning, wordless wailing… yet somehow this was different from other Tonists she had heard.

  Tenkamenin ordered the car to put on music, but even so, it didn’t entirely drown them out.

  “This entire sect has taken a vow of silence,” Tenkamenin told her, not hiding his disgust. “No speaking, just this blasted ugly noise. The Thunderhead had always frowned on delinguination, but when the Thunderhead fell silent, these Tonists decided they could do as they pleased—which is why their howling sounds even worse than usual.”

  “Delinguination?” asked Anastasia.

  “I’m sorry,” said Tenkamenin. “I thought you understood. They’ve cut out their tongues.”

  * * *

  Jeri was not invited on the tour of Port Remembrance. While the captain’s crew indulged in more free time than they’d had in years, Jeri remained in Tenkamenin’s compound, keeping an eye on Anastasia, making sure she was being treated well and was kept safe. Jeri was never a selfish person, always putting the crew of the Spence first—that was a good captain’s way. The desire to look out for Anastasia went beyond that.